CHAP. I.
An old fashioned Widow.

IT was about the middle of the fifteenth century that the lovely and amiable Isabelle found herself a widow, reduced from ease and affluence to a very con­fined income. Though her circumstances were altered; her mind elevated, her spirit noble and independent, was still the same. Isabelle was a native of Spain, of noble parentage, expanded heart, superior sense, and highly finished education. The beauty and elegance of her person, though striking, were but secondary ob­jects of the esteem and admiration she was sure to ex­cite wherever she was seen or known.

In the prime of life, having scarcely reached her 35th year, suddenly deprived of a valuable and be­loved husband, she retired from a court of which she had been a principal ornament, to a castle romanti­cally situated on the borders of Wales. Amongst her husband's vast possessions, this only had escaped the rapacious hand of his enemies. It was an antique castle which formerly had been designed for defence, as well as a habitation; but the fortress had been for many years totally neglected, and the castle itself, in many places, was fallen to decay. The ground be­longing to it consisted of but a few acres, and those few were uncultivated and rude; a few clumps of old [...]aks were here and there scattered on the sides of the hill, on the summit of which the castle stood; and im­mediately surrounding it, was a small patch which once [Page 2] had been used as a kitchen garden. The very trifling value annexed to this small demesne and its retired soli­tary situation, made it no object to the enemies of Arundel; and thither Isabelle, with her only child Columbia, retired.

An old female servant, a native of South-America, whose name was Cora, and Matthias, a veteran soldier who had grown old in the service of her husband's father, with a lively little girl particularly attached to Columbia, comprised the whole of her household.

Mina was the daughter of a peasant in the neigh­bourhood of London. The little Columbia, when quite a child, walking with her maid on the banks of the Thames, saw Mina gathering some dry sticks, which she carefully tied in a bundle, and, dropping a curtesy as Columbia passed, cried, "Bless you, sweet little lady." Mina was just nine years of age, her complex­ion clear olive, a profusion of jetty hair waved in glos­sy ringlets over her neck, and partly shaded her expres­sive countenance; her full black eyes beamed unuttera­ble softness, as taking up her bundle of sticks she gazed after Columbia, and cried, "Bless you, my sweet little lady!" And "bless you, my pretty girl," said Colum­bia; "why do you carry that heavy bundle?" "'Tis wood to make a fire for mammy who is sick." "Where does your mammy live?" "There, in that little cot­tage by the road side." Columbia, though not eigh [...] years old, possessed a heart glowing with the stronges [...] feelings of humanity; she darted forward, and in a mo­ment was at the door of Mina's cottage. "You must not go in, Miss," said the servant; "if the woman should be sick of any contagious disorder, and you should catch it, what would my lady say?" "What would she say (replied the child) if I passed by the house without inquiring what ailed the poor woman? I will go in, and then I can tell my mother, who will, I am sure, give me some money to bring to her to-marrow." Op­position was useless; the benevolent child entered the cottage, and beheld a scene of misery, which, though she did not fully comprehend, she on her return home sufficiently explained to her mother, to obtain immedi­ate [Page 3] relief for the poor cottager; and Mina was taken in­to the family and promoted to the honour of waiting entirely on her little benefactress.

When the lady Isabelle retired to Austenbury Castle, Columbia was eleven years old. It was her mother's chief amusement to cultivate an understanding naturally good, but where sometimes the shoots of fe­male vanity impeded the progress of those virtues, which nature with a liberal hand had implanted in her heart. Remarkably lovely in her person, she would frequently decorate her hair with field flowers, at the same time placing garlands of them in fantastic drapery about her dress; and then, having admired herself in the natural bason, which ornamented their little garden, fly to her mother, and exclaim with transport, "Only see how beautiful!" When Mina, who thought her young mistress almost a divinity, would rapturously cry, "Don't she, my lady, look like an angel?"

Isabelle, though delighted to observe the unbounded vivacity of her daughter, and the grateful affection of her little dependant, was fully sensible of the necessity there was for checking those ebullitions of vanity, which, if suffered to pass unnoticed, would effectually throw a shade over the really valuable qualities of good sense, good nature, and benevolence, with which the soul of her daughter was amply stored. Her reflec­tions on this subject were often painful in the extreme. Secluded from the world, she had no friend with whom she could advise. Severity (she would say within her­self) will but teach my child to consider me as a frigid monitress, her heart will contract and hide its thoughts from an eye that beams only with reproach! No; I must watch the favourable moment, and effectually eradicate this error, by convincing her understanding of its folly. I would be the guardian of my child's morals; I would be her friend, and direct her in the way most likely to secure her present and future hap­piness; but for the universe I would not forfeit the exquisite pleasure of participating every thought, every wish of her innocent heart.—No; let me not, by ill timed▪ harshness, drive her guileless and unsuspecting nature [Page 4] to mean subterfuge and artifice; had she a thousand errors, she is still my child, and though it is my duty to correct, it is also my duty to conceal and palliate faults, which reflection tells me, are but the offspring of human nature.

It was ever the care of Isabelle to impress on the mind of her daughter a proper sense of a wise, benig­nant, overruling Power; to whom she was indebted for her being, and to whom she was accountable for her words and actions; but this was done more by ex­ample than precept. Calumny was a stranger to her lips; to perform every good work of peace and mercy was the delight of her heart. She worshipped her Creator with sincerity and fervor; no appointed hour, no set form of prayer; every blessing was received with thankfulness, every correction submitted to with patience. Amongst the most heinous offences she rec­koned the misuse or neglect of time, and the total abuse or perversion of God's good gifts. Every hour of her life was usefully employed, and she dealt by every hu­man being, as she wished them to deal by her.

It was a fine evening in the middle of September, when Columbia asked her mother to partake of some fruit in a neat arbour Matthias had dressed by the side of the pond. "You forget, my dear mother, (said she) that this is the day I always devote to joy and playful­ness. This is the day on which you relieved poor Mina's mother, and brought that good girl home to live with me; and she has been so affectionate, so grate­ful, that to-day I am determined she shall be queen of the feast. You do not know how charming it will be! Matthias has got us some peaches, and Cora has pro­vided cream, with baked apples and wheat cakes; and whilst you refresh yourself, Mina and I will sing and dance to divert you." Isabelle clasped the interesting child in her arms, and repaired to the appointed scene of infantile festivity.

After the collation was over, at which Mina was made to preside, Columbia told her mother, that she could never repay the pleasure her first acquaintance with that little girl had given her; "For," said she, [Page 5] "before I saw her distress, and you, my beloved moth­er, gave me the means to relieve it, I had no idea of happiness beyond myself; but that blessed day taught me, that to confer happiness on another, gave the mind sensations a thousand times more exquisite than any other enjoyment the world affords." She then, with the swiftness and light bound of an antelope, sprang from her mother's embrace, and ran toward the castle; but soon returned with Mina, decorated in all the finery they could put together. The jetty hair of Mina hung loose and unadorned about her neck and shoulders, whilst her little white jacket and petticoat were richly ornamented with orange lilies, poppies and blue iris.

The fine auburn tresses of Columbia were bound up with a garland of corn flowers, and autumnal daisies, whose glowing tints vied with the colour, whilst the consciousness of their becoming effect gave an addi­tional brilliancy to her eyes. Her dress, which was composed of light grey satin, she had lightly and ele­gantly ornamented with festoons of oak leaves, whose dark native green was at this period of the year enliv­ened by the bright yellow, and glowing scarlet hue, they had caught from the chilly breath of autumn. Light as the gossamer they bound over the turf, danc­ing to the notes of their own harmonious voices. The evening was serene; the glowing sun just touched with his broad disk the western ocean, whilst as he sunk be­neath the shades of night, the moon, emerging from her watry bed, reflected his departing beams, and tinged the cold eastern sky with saffron hue, whilst here and there a scattered cloud, dark in itself, caught her pale rays, and brightened by degrees to high-wrought silver.

Fatigued with the exercise of dancing, Columbia paused upon the margin of the stream; its surface was smooth and even as the polished mirror;—her elegant form, becoming dress, and angel countenance were re­flected in the water. She stopped and gazed. A beam of exultation shot from her eyes. It was the moment Isabelle had so long wished for.

[Page 6] "And what does my child so intently gaze at?" (said she, approaching her daughter.)

Mina stood at a little distance; her own beauty was to herself unknown, her whole soul was wrapt in ad­miring the beauty of her young lady. When the lady Isabelle spoke, she drew near and listened with atten­tion. She loved her with grateful affection, and in­struction from her lips sunk directly to her heart.

"And what does my child so intently gaze at?" said Isabelle, "is it the lovely form with which na­ture has bountifully endowed her; and which the un­ruffled surface of the water so beautifully reflects to her admiring eyes? Alas, my child, if that is the object of your admiration, how fragile is the pleasure you re­ceive! What is it you contemplate? A shadow; nay, less than a shadow; for beauty itself is but a shadow, scarce seen before it is gone; and that fair semblance you there behold is but the shadow of a shade. Be­hold, my child," continued she, throwing something into the water, "see that beauteous figure, how de­formed, how disgusting; every trait of loveliness is gone." Columbia turned from the stream with an in­voluntary shudder. Isabelle continued—"Or see, my love, these flowers, with which but a few hours since you decorated your hair; they were then fresh-bloom­ing and beautiful beyond description; behold them now! their sweets are all exhaled, their vivid tints are flown, and no longer valuable, you would throw them from you with neglect and abhorrence. Even so, my dear Columbia, is it with the frail beauty which you so ardently admire. One breath from the creative Power that gave you being, might level you with the dust. Sickness, misfortune, poverty, might deprive your eyes of their lustre, your skin of its glossy hue, and steal the luxuriant tresses from your head. Nay, even at this moment, the cold hand of death might sink you into nothing; and those who to-day looked at you with admiration, would to-marrow turn from you with disgust and terror. Like these poor flowers you would be thrown upon the earth, be trod under foot and forgotten."

[Page 7] Mina, dropping her garland on the ground, seized her young lady by the arm, as though she would save her from so disgraceful an end. Columbia looked at her with affection, gently freed herself from her grasp, and, looking at the faded flowers, with eyes streaming with tears asked her mother, "Am I, then, of no more consequence than these flowers, and may I be as easily destroyed? Shall I be as soon reduced to nothing?" "No, my beloved girl, (said [...]abelle) you are of a thousand times more value than the fairest flower tha [...] ever bloomed, or the richest gem that ever decked the brow of royalty. Look round, my love, behold this vast, this glorious universe; what beauty, what order! How does the mind expand with wonder and delight as we contemplate the fields of ripened grain, the load­ed fruit trees, verdant plains and majestic mountains, whose summits seem to kiss the face of heaven. Ob­serve how grand, how strikingly sublime, appears the orb of day, just sinking in the western sky, which flames with crimson, burnished gold and purple; and see, as he retires, the placid moon assumes her silent reign, whilst millions of stars compose her splendid train, and glitter in the vast expanse of ether. Stupendous, great and wonderful as these appear, believe me, my child, one pure, virtuous human soul is of more value in the sight of the Creator, than all that you behold. They shall fade away, shall vanish as a dream, and be no more remembered; but the soul, studious to perform its duty, beneficent to its fellow creatures, and glowing with grateful, humble affection to the great First Cause of all, shall stand secure amid the general ruin, and rise triumphant from a sinking world."

Thus did Isabelle endeavour to inspire her daughter with a thorough contempt for all frivolous pursuits, and to give her a just sense of the value of mental acquire­ments. From this time she fully comprehended of how much more consequence was the embellishing of the mind, than the trifling decorations of the per­son. Besides, having been informed of the immortal­ity of the soul, she was anxious in inquiry for the means by which so invaluable a blessing might be preserved; [Page 8] and to hint to her the danger of forfeiting so great a privilege, was always sufficient to deter her from any thing that was wrong.

It cannot be imagined that a woman like Isabelle could pass at once from the court to the cottage, and be suffered to glide unnoticed into obscurity. Amongst the friends and intimates of her days of splendor, were some, tenderly attached to her from principle, and oth­ers, whom the united beauties of her mind and person had inspired with a wish, to lead her again to the altar of Hymen. But Isabelle had drank too deeply of the bitter cup of affliction to suffer love ever again to enter her bosom. Faithful to the memory of her regretted lord, her heart could receive no second impression. "Our love," she would say, "was unfortunate, but he has left me an inestimable pledge behind; shall I give the daughter of my adored Arundel another father, or by extending my family duties have less time to bestow in rendering my child worthy of the name she bears? No; the sincerest proof I can give of my affection to her father, is to live a widow for her sake."

This resolve of Isabelle being once known, and she still persisting in secluding herself from the world, she was soon forgotten, almost as much as if she had been dead; for love cannot long exist without hope, and the gay and thoughtless soon forget those on whom the sun of prosperity no longer shines. She was left in peace to enjoy her retirement, and to cultivate un­molested the mind of her lovely daughter.

CHAP. II.
The Dangers of Greatness.

AS Columbia increased in years, her affection for her mother daily strengthened. It was an affec­tion actuated by the enthusiastic fervor of youth, yet sweetly tempered by a friendship which might have be­come maturer years. Isabelle was to her daughter, [Page 9] mother, sister, friend; every tender connexion combined in one. Never did child more love or fear a parent; yet her fear did not proceed from the apprehension of pun­ishment or severe correction. But to see her mother frown, to be told she had offended her, and to be spoken to with coldness, gave her such inexpressible an­guish, that the thought at any time was sufficient to fill her eyes with tears.

As she advanced towards womanhood, she could not but observe the extreme pensiveness of her mother's disposition; the pursuits and pleasures of childhood gradually lost their charms, she more frequently sought the society of Isabelle, and when sometimes she surpris­ed her in tears, she would sink on her knees before her, and, folding her arms round her waist, cry, "Why, my beloved mother, will you confine your sorrows to your own breast, why not repose them in the bosom of your child? Let me share them, my mother, and in sharing soothe them." Isabelle would faintly smile at these effusions of her daughter's tenderness, and as she kissed the affectionate girl tell her, it was too early in life for her to be acquainted with sorrow, though she could feel it only from the tenderness of her nature, leading her to compassionate the sufferings of others.

"I am not so happy as I formerly was, my dear Mina," said Columbia to her attendant one evening as they were walking in the garden; "I see my mother daily sinking under the weight of afflictions I can nei­ther comprehend or alleviate. Yesterday I tremblingly asked her, if I was the cause of her sorrow; she pressed me to her heart and said, in some measure I was. Alarmed, I inquired what I had done to offend her. Nothing, she replied; you are my only comfort, m [...] greatest blessing, and I cannot but lament—Her tears at that moment impeded her words, and when she re­covered her voice, she bade me leave her. I obeyed; but still I have a weight upon my heart, an anxious, restless wish to know, how without offending I can cause her so much affliction."

Mina could not satisfy her young lady's curiosity; she could only kiss her hands, and in a voice rendered [Page 10] exquisitely soft by grateful affection, declare it was im­possible her dear little benefactress could offend any one!

But though Mina was ignorant of the cause of Isa­belle's tears, Cora, the Indian servant, was not equally so. She saw Columbia partook of her mother's depres­sion, without understanding the cause; and the loquaci­ty naturally prevalent in persons of an advanced age, made her eagerly watch for an opportunity to inform the innocent girl of all she knew. The moment long sought at length arrived. Columbia had frequently ob­served her mother weeping over papers which she took from a private drawer in an escritoire which stood in her bed-chamber, and which in no other part was lock­ed, except that which she most wished to explore. One day coming suddenly into the room, she saw her gazing at a portrait which she pressed to her lips, raising her eyes toward heaven with a sort of reverential awe. "May I not, my dear mother," said she, "behold the object that seems at once to excite both grief and exulta­tion." Isabelle turned the portrait towards her; it was an Indian maid habited in the manner of her country; but in habiliments that bespoke her of elevated rank. Her jetty hair, which flowed in profusion round her face and over her neck, was ornamented with a coronet of pearl and gold; her thin white robe was clasped at the bosom with studs of the same valuable materials, and her arms, which were naked to the shoulders, were in several places bound with bands of silver and coral.

"This," said Isabelle, as she presented it to her daugh­ter, "is the portrait of your grandmother; by birth a queen, the only child of a monarch whose wealth had no bounds, and who, far from the haunts of those who call themselves civilized people, reigned unmolested, till the adventurous spirit of your great ancestor Columbus prompted him to seek in distant seas for unknown worlds. Oh, sublime and too daring spirit," she continued, whilst her raised eyes glistened with the tear of extorted re­membrance, "why wert thou endowed with qualities, which served but to stir up in the breasts of thine enemies the malignant fiend Envy. Why! whilst thou wert la­bouring [Page 11] to benefit and enlighten posterity, wert thou sealing thy own ruin!"

The portrait dropped from her hand, and her head rested on the shoulder of her child. "Oh! my daugh­ter," cried she enthusiastically, as her tears subsided, "whilst I glory in the qualities with which it has pleased Heaven to endow your mind and person, I cannot but tremble for your future fate; for to possess superior beauty, sense or genius, is but to excite the wonder of the ignorant, and the envy of little minds, whilst those who are wise, or great in their own conceit, will wound your feelings with contempt or ridicule, which your own good nature and sensibility will not permit you to retaliate. I cannot proceed, my child; my powers are not at present adequate to the task of recounting the misfortunes of your family." Isabelle paused for a mo­ment, then tenderly kissed Columbia, and leaving the portrait in the hands of her child, passed from the apart­ment.

Sinking upon the seat her mother had left unoccupi­ed, one hand supporting her head as her elbow rested on the escritoire, the other which held the portrait fell on her knees, her eyes immoveably fixed o [...] those of the inanimate face she contemplated, Columbia sat im­moveable as a statue, till roused by the voice of Cora. "Look there," said she, putting the miniature towards the aged servant; "see! my mother says it is the pic­ture of my grandmother." "It is, it is," cried Cora, dropping on her knees and kissing the picture with rap­ture; "it is the figure of my queen, my mistress, in the dress she wore on the day she was espoused by Don Ferdinando. Oh fatal day! unhappy hour! by that union she sealed her own wretchedness, the ruin of her father, the slavery of his people, and brought destruc­tion on the heads of her adored husband and his respect­ed parent! Ah! my sweet young mistress, I can no longer forbear; I must tell you the fatal story of your father's wrongs."

"Do so," said Isabelle, who at that moment returned to her apartment; "do so, my good Cora; and let it be a warning to my child how she quits the quiet paths of [Page 12] retirement to enter on the gay or busy scenes of life. Here, take this key; what your memory cannot furnish toward the recital, the papers you will find in that drawer will assist. Listen with attention, my dear child, and learn that content builds her dwelling in solitude, and peace spreads her pinions over the cottage of the humble; whilst the paths of ambition are strewed with thorns, and the dwellings of the great are the habita­tions of misery."

CHAP. III.
An Old Woman's Tale Interrupted.

"IT is many years ago," said Cora, seating herself in an easy chair, her right hand spread out, as commanding attention, and every feature of her aged countenance beaming with the satisfaction which the liberty of repeating tales of old times gave her; "it is a great many years ago, I was then scarcely eight years old, when your great-grandfather Columbus ar­rived in our country; I never shall forget it: for I can remember things which happened when I was a child much better than those which pass now daily. Time steals away our memory, but those things which either frightened, or surprised us when we were young, are the last which we forget. So as I was saying"—

"Stay, my good Cora," said Columbia, "let us exam­ine the papers; there may be letters which may serve to elucidate your relation, and explain events which hap­pened antecedent to the time of your remembrance."—" I do not think you will find any worth reading," said Cora, impatiently. "We will see," replied Columbia, mildly, as she opened the drawer. "You may look," cried Cora somewhat pettishly, "but I am sure there is nothing worth attending to, till the time of Don Ferdi­nando's arrival in Peru and becoming enamoured of my royal mistress Orra [...]ella." "Hush, hush, my kind friend," said Columbia. "Here is a letter signed Columbus; [Page 13] there are several in the same hand writing; they must contain facts necessary for me to know, or they would not be thus carefully preserved. Be silent, and I will read them to you. Cora sat herself back in the easy chair, and shutting her eyes in token of attention, re­mained silent. Columbia opened the letter.

"That letter was written before my remembrance," said Cora. "Very likely," replied Columbia, scarce­ly noticing the date, in her eagerness to open another.

After this, several letters were perused by Columbia, which contained little more than a repetition of his at­tachment to Beatina, and accounts of his unsuccessful applications to Ferdinand, the then reigning king of Spain. At length the following called up all her attention.

"Undaunted spirit of my ancestor," cried Colum­bia, as she closed the letter, "may you ever inhabit the bosoms of his descendants." "But what is the next letter?" said Cora. She opened it, but it was only a farewel to Beatina, when he was ready to sail from Cadiz; and by it Columbia disovered that lady and her son were retained in the Spanish court under the im­mediate protection of Isabelle. The next was a large packet, and of such a nature as could not be hastily or slightly passed over.

Inclosed in the foregoing.

"Noble, brave commander," cried Columbia, giving way to a flood of tears; "and was this thy untimely [Page 21] end?" "No, no," said Cora interrupting her; "he made several voyages after that, or else how should he carry Don Ferdinando to Peru? He did not die till after the birth of Christopher and a sister of your mother, who was christened Isabelle, after the queen of Spain. He lived to a good old age, and was hearty and well till mis­fortune overtook him; then he moped and pined; nay, I have seen him weep like a baby, and he died at last broken hearted." "More shame for those who could wound a heart so noble," said Columbia, whilst resent­ment, a [...] it crimsoned her cheek, dried up her tears; and she proceeded to the next letter. It contained an ac­count of Columbus's safe return. After having encoun­tered innumerable perils, he landed at Palos, in Spain, on the 15th of March, [...]. After which, several other letters announce [...] voyage, in which he was more successful than the [...] returning laden with in­gots of gold, with pearls with diamonds, and immense plates of silver.

But his success and the [...] the populace seemed inclined to pay him, awakened a spirit of envy in those who had at first opposed, or treated as the chimeras of a disordered fancy, his plans for the discovery of a dis­tant continent. They had not time to bring their plots to ripen, before he again embarked for America, with a large company if volunteers, gentlemen of the first rank in Spain; amongst which was his own son, Don Ferdinando. A farewel letter from this young gentleman to his mother, was the first that awakened Cora's attention. It was dated in June, 1498. "That was the time," said she, "that was the very voyage, which I so well remember." "Were you eight years old then, Cora?" said Columbia. "Yes, I was indeed," replied Cora, "but I remember every circumstance, as well as if it had passed but yesterday!" "Then do tell me, dear Cora," said Columbia, "tell me all; for in listening to the recital of a person who was present whilst the events they relate happened, it seems as if you were transported to the very scene, and witness to the inci­dents recited."

CHAP. IV.
New Scenes, new Men, new Manners.

"IT was on the first of August," said Cora, draw­ing herself forward, whilst memory seemed upon the stretch to recal events so long past; "it was, as near as I can recollect, about the beginning of August, when my mother, who was chief attendant about the royal chil­dren of Orrozombo, king of Peru, was ordered to at­tend the queen and her children to a palace newly built on the sea-coast, a great distance from the capital. I shall never forget it; it was as fine a morning as ever shone. The princess Orrabella was the oldest of five daughters; for my royal master never had a son, and she was look­ed upon as our future queen. I was then, as I told you, but eight years old, quite delighted with our new habitation. I followed the princess, with whom I was a great favourite, from one apartment to another, till we reached the top. There, as we stood looking to­ward the sea, we saw a monstrous fish or bird, for it was impossible to tell which it was; its body was black, its wings white; it was coming quick toward the shore. The princess shrieked. The king and queen had, from a lower apartment, observed the same monster hastily approaching; and ordering forth the guards, bade them draw up on the beach, and as it drew near discharge their arrows at it. But, Oh terrible, if I was to live a thousand years, I never shall forget how frightened ev­ery creature was, when the huge monster, drawing quite near, stopped on a sudden, and dropping all its wings, a burst of fire and smoke issued from its side, with tre­mendous noise. Many fell to the earth with terror, as this dreadful phenomena was repeated three times. When our fears were in some measure abated, we plainly saw living creatures move upon it, and soon a smaller fish of the same kind, only without wings, came from its side, and several men were borne by it quite to the shore. The guards affrighted, dared not discharge their arrows, but let their bows fall, and gaz­ed in silent wonder. The king, the queen, and all the [Page 23] royal children were standing on the shore. The prin­cess Orrabella was ever brave and undaunted; she stood leaning on my mother's arm, the foremost of them all. I had hid my face in her robe; but though afraid to look long on the terrifying object, I now and then drew it aside to peep at a creature so wonderful.

"But, my good Cora," cried Columbia, rather im­patient at the old woman's prolixity, "if you are thus particular, you will never get to the end of your story. This monster, as you describe it, I suppose was the ship that bore the great Columbus to the Peruvian coast; and the little fish you mention was the boat in which he landed."

"Well, I know that," replied Cora, angrily; "but I like to tell a story my own way. If I am not allow­ed to tell all the particulars, I shall never be able to tell it at all." Columbia smiled and was silent.

Cora again began, but she so often interrupted herself telling the same incidents several times over, and dwell­ing on each with a tiresome minuteness, that Columbia, though anxious, could scarcely command her atten­tion to the end of the story. From it she gathered the following circumstances.

Columbus, though he had made two voyages before, one when he discovered St. Salvadora, and another with relief and supplies for the colony he had left there, had not discovered the part of the American continent of which Cora was a native, till his third voyage; when many noblemen and cavaliers from the court of Spain accompanied him in his expedition, in hopes of sharing at once the glory and emolument the discoveries were likely to produce. Amongst the gallant group of gen­tlemen was Ferdinando, only son of Columbus. He landed with his father, both richly habited and followed by a train of cavaliers equally gay. With white flags waving, and their drawn swords pointed towards the earth, they advanced to the party described by Cora to be assembled on the shore. Orrabella, struck with the majestic yet conciliating mien of Columbus, perhaps more with the personal beauty and elegant deportment of Ferdinando, who advanced at his right hand, pressed [Page 24] forward to meet them; and with a countenance at once expressive of wonder, admiration and timidity, her right arm extended seemed a barrier to prevent their approaching her parents and sisters, whilst laying her left hand on her breast she knelt to the ground, raising her fine eyes in token of supplication. Ferdi­nando raised her, laid his sword at her feet, and throw­ing a string of beads about her neck, told her, in the language of nature, which is alike understood in all nations, that she had nothing to fear.

Orrozombo, assured of their friendly intentions, re­ceived them cordially, and shewed them every mark of hospitality. They resided on the continent many months, collecting ingots of pure gold, bars of silver, with pearls, diamonds and coral, forming the most wealthy cargo ever borne into a Spanish port.

During the time Columbus and his followers tarried at the Peruvian court, Ferdinando had numberless oppor­tunities of improving the favourable impression his first appearance made on the lovely Orrabella. He soon in­structed her in the Spanish tongue; and with equal facility, became himself a proficient in her native lan­guage. He found her possessed of strong powers of mind, quick perception, ready wit; in short, an under­standing capable of the highest improvement. The mutual passion that subsisted between them was early discovered, and encouraged by their parents. Colum­bus looked forward to the union as a mean of insuring wealth and power to his posterity, and Orrozombo im­agined, by resigning his daughter to this young stranger, he secured to himself a powerful friend and ally in Co­lumbus. For the Spaniards had taught his subjects many of the useful arts; and Science, by their means, began to unfold her beauties to the delighted monarch and his court.

Upon their marriage, Orrozombo gave up part of his territories to Columbus, as a portion for his daughter; and a colony was begun, where every thing was regu­lated according to the Spanish form of government.

This being settled to the satisfaction of all parties, the adventurers prepared to revisit their native land; [Page 25] and the royal bride of Ferdinando determined to go with her husband. Several of her attendants were ap­pointed to accompany her; amongst whom was the mother of Cora, who at the princess's request took her daughter with her. With many tears did Orrabella quit her parents and sisters; tears which seemed to forebode they would never meet again. Alas! Avarice had discovered this new world was an inexhaustible mine of wealth; and, not content to share its blessings in common with the natives, came with rapine, war and devastation in her train: And as she tore open the bowels of the earth to gratify her insatiate thirst for gold, her steps were marked with blood.

CHAP. V.
Ingratitude and Perfidy.

THE ship in which Ferdinando and his bride em­barked was destined to proceed immediately to Spain; but Columbus himself, in a small caravel, deter­mined to cross over to Hispaniola, and visit a colony which now began to wear a very flourishing appearance. Many families had emigrated from Spain, some of con­siderable distinction; and Columbus had, previous to his embarkation, solicited the government of this colo­ny for an indigent friend, hoping he might in the new world retrieve his ruined fortunes. It was partly a wish to see how his intention succeeded, that prompted him to visit Hispaniola at this time. The reception he met with, and the manner of his return to Spain, Co­lumbia found in the following letter.

CHAP. VI.
Retribution.

COLUMBIA could only pause for a moment to wipe off the tears which, spite of her endeavours to suppress them, would rush to her eyes. She then proceeded to the next letter.

The next paper Columbia opened had the appear­ance more of a manuscript than a letter. It consister of several sheets of paper wrote on all sides; it was from the wife of Columbus, addressed to her grand daughter Isabelle.

CHAP. VII.
Return to the new World.

"ALAS," said Columbia, laying down the paper, "I now see the source from whence sprang all my dear mother's sorrow. She was bred in the Cath­olic persuasion, and my father tempted her to disobey the rigid commands of her guardian, forfeit her for­tune, embrace his faith, and, leaving all her connex­ions [Page 41] in Spain, follow him to England. Poor, bigot­ed Beatina, little did you think, when making your will, that you signed the mandate for your grandchild's misery. For what might not avarice tempt the son of the marquis Guidova to do? Might not he wink at a marriage that was to invest him with all the vast wealth of the unfortunate Isabelle? But perhaps I injure him; he may be innocent of such an intention; my misguided parents themselves may be alone to blame. Yet knowing and adoring them as I do, how can I believe that possible?" Thus was Columbia bewildered with conjecture. At length, thinking the manuscript might satisfy her curiosity, and remove her doubts, she again addressed herself to the perusal of it.

"It was the beginning of the year 1500, that the great Columbus embarked on board the fleet which Ferdinand had ordered to be equipped for his service, (with all the attendance, ceremonies, &c. customary on such occasions,) as viceroy of the new-discovered continent. Ferdinando was appointed governor of the settlements in Peru. Myself, the princess Orrabella, and her son Christopher, embarked with them. The king, queen, and all the court at­tended us to the water side; a vast concourse of peo­ple crowded the shore, wearying Heaven with prayers for our happiness whilst absent, and our safe return. At parting from his august patroness, Columbus knelt to kiss her hand. She raised him, and throwing a gold chain over his neck, by which her own portrait was suspended, "Go, my invincible hero," said she, "go, and enjoy the reward of your labours. And if we never meet again on this side eternity, let my memory ever be dear to you; for whilst you live, Columbus, you will never find a truer friend than you have found in Isabelle." As she finished speaking, she inclined her head towards him; he respectfully saluted her cheek. "Heaven ever bless and defend my royal mistress and her august consort," said Co­lumbus. "And protect my hero," added the queen. Then turning hastily to hide her tears, she rushed into [Page 42] the midst of her attendants, and retired. Yes, my child, the good, the noble-hearted, royal Isabelle re­tired; and we saw her no more. Before we returned, she slept in peace; but her name shall be revered to after ages. The brave and worthy will remember it with gratitude; and the pious tears of millions yet unborn, shall sanctify her memory to all eternity.

"It was determined at our departure, that the whole fleet should accompany Ferdinando and Orra­bella to her native coast; and having seen him safely settled in his government, proceed to Hispaniola, and send Roldan and his licentious associates home in the same disgraceful circumstances in which he had before ungratefully involved Columbus. A fine season fa­voured our voyage; and in less than two months from our embarkation, we saw the fertile shores of Peru rise upon our sight. The joy of Orrabella as she beheld her native land was beyond all bounds. "I shall see my father and mother," said she, "and embrace my dear sisters; I shall sit beside them for hours, and relate to them the wonders I have seen in your world; and on­ly that they know my lips abhor falsehood, they would think some of the strange things I have to relate were nothing more than fictions. Then caressing her child, she would talk of the joy of her father's subjects when they should behold her offspring, whom she fully be­lieved was born to sway the sceptre of Peru.

"It was on the second day after we had discovered land, that we reached the desired harbour. But as we drew near to shouts of joy welcomed our approach; no king, no guards, no exulting subjects appeared to greet us. All was silent, all was desolate. Our hearts sunk within us. "They are at Quito," said Orrabel­la; but her pallid countenance and tremulous voice betrayed that she hardly dared hope what she asserted. "We will land, however," said Columbus; accordingly the boat was hoisted out, and we proceeded to the shore. When within a few yards of the beach, a party of arm­ed men appeared. Their dress, their arms, bespoke them Spaniards. Our fleet bore the standard of Spain, we could not fear our countrymen as foes. Columbus [Page 43] addressed them from the boat in terms of amity; they returned a haughty answer. However, they permitted us to land. But Oh! Isabelle, what were our feelings, when we discovered this beautiful continent had been invaded by a party of freebooters; its hospitable inhabitants rifled of all their treasures, many of them massacred, and the remainder driven in­to the interior parts of the country. The palace of Orrozombo was converted into a den for these robbers, where riot and intemperance reigned without control. The settlers left by Columbus, ad­hering to the interest of the king and natives, were driven with them to seek an asylum in the woods and mountains.

The chief of these banditti was named Garcias, fierce, cruel and vindictive. He received Columbus with a gloomy haughtiness of demeanor, and when questioned as to his right in these dominions, he scorn­fully replied, "By the right of conquest; not by a ridiculous family compact with a savage." Orrabella was present when Garcias thus insulted her family. "Insolent Spaniard," said she, her eyes darting light­ning, her fine face and person uncommonly animated by the fire of resentment; "insolent Spaniard, the king my father, though you term him a savage, was your superior in every virtue! What though unpolish­ed, he had but nature for his guide? that nature taught him humanity, honour, patience, fortitude, and Orro­zombo would have died rather than deceive a friend, or insult a fallen foe. Oh my father! my father!" continued she, bursting into an agony of tears, "where are you now? Where is my revered mother, my poor defenceless sisters? Tell me, barbarian, have you entirely extirpated the race of the children of the sun, or do you hold the lawful king of this territory in bondage, whilst you usurp his rights, and riot in the spoils of his de­voted subjects? If so, Oh lead me to the dungeon where you have confined him, that I may weep in his arms, and die with grief to see my king, my father, a slave to the nation he had vainly hoped to have held in eternal bonds of friendship, and gave his child as a [Page 44] hostage of his faith towards them. Alas! what hostage did he require to insure their faith to him? None; his noble heart harboured not deceit, nor could suspect it in another."

From these pathetic remonstrances and lamentations of Orrabella, we perceived she suspected Columbus and Ferdinando were knowing to the voyage and con­sequent invasion of Garcias and his lawless band; but in this she was soon undeceived. For Columbus, ir­ritated by the insolence of Garcias, threatened him with speedy vengeance unless he informed him where Orro­zombo and the royal family were. Garcias laughed at his menaces, but on being informed that Columbus was deputed viceroy of all the new-discovered lands on that side the globe, and being requested to do homage to him as the representative of his royal master Ferdinand, or expect the punishment due to a pirate, a traitor and a robber, he became more humble, and many of his followers, understanding the dangerous predica­ment in which they stood, declared themselves ready to support the new viceroy in the discharge of his duty as the king's delegate, and as such swore allegiance to him.

It was then we learnt that Garcias Du Ponty, a Cas­tilian by birth, young, dissolute and ambitious, having heard of the success of Columbus, and the vast treasures himself and followers had brought from the new world, resolved to make an experiment himself; and having, by promises of large future reward, and some rich pres­ents artfully bestowed, won over an experienced mar­in [...]r (who had been the last voyage with your grand­father, and returned in the ship with Orrabella) to undertake to navigate his vessel, and give directions to the pilots of the rest of the fleet how to follow him; Garcias prevailed on a number of young Castilian noblemen and gentlemen to embark on the expedition. They applied for no letters of leave from Ferdinand; for had they, it is most probable they would have been prevented pursuing this (in the end) ruinous voyage.

A large fleet collected from the different ports of Spain, met in the Mediterranean sea many other mar­iners [Page 45] who wished to pursue their good fortune, and, not being content to wait till another fleet should be sent out by the king's orders, were eager to embark with these licentious noblemen, and direct their course to the land where they imagined they were to become petty princes, and revel in all the luxuries which na­ture could afford, or unbounded wealth supply.

This fleet was on the ocean at the time Columbus returned from Hispaniola. They had a more speedy voyage than their inhuman designs deserved; but Heaven often permits the wicked for a while to pros­per, that the success of their lawless plans may be­come their punishment, and the reverse of fortune coming unexpected, may fall the heavier on them. And thus it proved with Garcias Du Ponty and his followers.

On their arrival on the coast of Peru, they found the king with his family, as was their custom, spend­ing the summer at their palace on the banks of a river that mingles its waters with the ocean. Garcias and his party landed. Orrozombo, and indeed the Span­ish settlers, believed them to be a party sent by Co­lumbus to bring supplies to the colony, and received them with open arms and every mark of affection. But alas, they were too fatally undeceived, when these invaders of the rights of nature and the law of nations assumed the authority of masters, exacting enormous sums as tribute from the king, and forcing his subjects to labour in the mines, often rewarding those labours (when the produce of them was not equal to the in­ordinate avarice of their desires) with death.

Orrozombo, wearied by their repeated insolence, and terrified by their rapacity, entreated them to leave the continent, offering them immense treasures. But they were not thus to be satisfied. They proceeded from one step to another, till neither age nor sex be­came a safeguard from their cruelties. The chaste wife and the pure virgin were violated in the presence of their parents and protectors, who, confined by these inhuman monsters, had not the power to rescue or avenge them.

[Page 46] Human nature, however patient, could not tamely endure such enormities. The natives and the Span­iards united their forces to endeavour to expel the in­vaders; but it was too late. They had sent a part of their company to search the interior country for mines. These returned, boasting of the ravages they had committed, and displaying the spoils they had gleaned. They had plundered every village through which they passed, and then set fire to it. Thousands of innocent families, thus deprived of their homes and all means of support, fled into the mountains, where many perished through famine, and the rest dragged on a wretched life, living on wild fruit, and what game their bows and arrows produced, sleeping in caves or recesses of the rocks, and too often their miserable ex­istence was terminated by the fangs of the tyger or the lion. Flushed with success, the Castilians meditated on­ly how to make an entire conquest of the country.

Undisciplined in the arts of war, and though experi­encing its effect every hour, still unsuspecting of treach­ery,—the Peruvians were at this time, by the art of the Spaniards, induced to throw aside their arms, and agree to terms of peace with Garcias, who assumed a graver demeanor, and made some slight concessions to Orrozombo for the misconduct of his companions, who by a few weeks of quiet regular behaviour lulled him into security; then, when in full confidence of the faith of their enemies, the Peruvians, who had been celebra­ting the annual feast of the sun at which these strangers had been admitted to participate; then, when parting from them in amity they tranquilly sunk to rest; then did the blood-thirsty Garcias and his detested crew rush on the defenceless victims, and massacre them without mercy and without remorse.

Oh thou Power eternal, whose name is a tower of strength, and whose mercy is as infinite as thy wisdom! what shall we say, that these barbarians should call themselves thy servants, and bear the glorious appella­tion of Christians? Alas, mistaken men, the God you serve delighteth not in blood; his precept and example taught peace, mercy and good will to all mankind. [Page 47] But the Peruvians were idolaters! cries the misguided enthusiast; and so was Garcias and his followers; their idols were avarice, ambition, luxury, and lawless pas­sion; to them they bent the knee, and on their altars did they sacrifice millions of innocent people.—But I digress.

Du Ponty, though the wretch his actions proclaim him, was handsome in his person, gay, lively and gal­lant; his fair outside attracted the notice of Alzira, the youngest sister of Orrabella. Alzira was equally lovely as her sister, but she possessed not that greatness of soul, that intrepid firmness which characterized your mother. By nature soft, gentle and complying, when the subtle Castilian, who read her passion in her admir­ing eyes, sued for some token of her favour, she hesita­ted not to own her love, and confess, could her father be brought to approve it, to be the wife of Du Ponty would constitute her chief felicity.

But Garcias had not an idea of an honourable union; he meant to conquer her father's kingdom; and had it in contemplation to degrade the fair Alzira to the station of a slave, for the amusement of his looser hours. On the night of the horrid massacre, Garcias was purposely in the apartment of the princess, where he was frequently privately admitted after her parents were retired to rest. Alzira, who was listening to the adulating voice of her lover, did not at first attend to the confused murmur that ran through the palace on the entrance of the Spaniards; but a sudden shriek, that seemed to come from the apartment of her mother, roused her dormant senses. She started, and would have run to the assistance of her parents, whom she imagined were suddenly taken ill, but reiterated shrieks which now issued from every room in the palace, made her pause, and she became a motionless statue of horror.

"The palace is beset," cried Garcias, "let me bear you, lovely Alzira, to a place of safety; I will then re­turn to the assistance of your father," "Oh no! now, now rescue him, or let me die with him," was all she could say, before Du Ponty bore her in his arms, out of the chamber, and down the stairs. At the foot of these [Page 48] stairs she saw (by the light of torches which were every where flaming round) her father dragged by the hair of his head; whilst an inhuman wretch, regardless of his grey hairs and defenceless state, plunged a poniard in his bosom. Alzira, driven almost to madness at the sight, sprang from the arms of Garcias, and threw her­self into those of the dying monarch. He knew his child, pressed her to his bosom, faintly articulated a bless­ing on her, and expired.

Alzira's senses forsook her. In that state she was borne to the tent of her betrayer. The scene that fol­lowed is too horrid for repetition! Morning dawned, and the ill-fated princess awoke to a perfect sense of all the miseries of her situation. She wished for death, but all means of accelerating that period was removed from her. She once conceived the thought of refusing all food, but had not resolution to persist. Garcias was atten­tive and kind; pretended to mourn with her the fate of her parents: She, not fully acquainted with his treachery, listened to his soothings, was consoled, and endured life for his sake. But uninterrupted possession brought on satiety, and at length indifference and dis­gust. Du Ponty neglected and treated her harshly. She felt her situation, but she was now a mother, and more than ever attached to the father of her child; she dragged on a wretched existence, without joy, with­out hope, without even a dawn of comfort.

The natives of Peru who had escaped the swords of the Castilians on that memorable night, failed not to attribute their misfortunes to their unhappy sovereign Orrozombo; he had been slack in the observance of some of the ceremonious devotions directed to be paid to their deity, the Sun; he had even doubted whether their religion was the true religion; he had refused to dedicate one of his daughters to the service of their god; he had married the heiress of his crown and kingdom to a stranger, who absolutely denied the di­vinity of the power they worshipped, and called their rites and ceremonies, absurdities and superstitions; and had suffered this stranger to carry her with him to a distant land. These, in the eyes of the unenlight­ened [Page 49] Peruvians, were heinous offences, and had drawn down the wrath of their deity upon them; and thus, for the crimes of an individual, did they foolishly im­agine a whole nation was punished.

It was at this period our fleet arrived, but the name of Spaniard and of Christian had become hateful to the ears of the natives; not one therefore appeared to es­pouse the cause of Columbus, imagining no doubt that they should but expel one tyrant to make room for another. Some few ventured by stealth to come and see their princess; but their spirits were depressed, and their expressions of love and duty consequently cold and languid. When she presented her son to them as their rightful king, they would shake their heads, and cry emphatically, "He is a Christian and a Spaniard."

Whilst Columbus was ardently labouring to reduce the Spaniards to some degree of subjection and order, at the same time striving to draw the natives back to the duty and allegiance they owed the princess, the treach­erous Du Ponty, who had for some time worn the mask of friendship in combination with some of the leaders of the banditti, had laid an infernal plot to burn our fleet, and then, having the few that might at the time be on shore entirely in their power, oblige them to submit to whatever terms they pleased to offer.

But this plot was providentially discovered by a young Peruvian maid, who, detained in the palace by Garcias to attend on Alzira, though too young to become a prey to any of his officers or associates, was yet old enough to detest their actions, weep over the ruin of her native country, and pray for some propitious hour to arrive, when its enemies might be punished. She had overheard Du Ponty discoursing with one of his comrades on their intended plan, on the very night before it was to be put in execution; and, waiting till all was wrapt in silence, she stole from her apartment, and came to our tent. Having disclosed what knowledge she had obtained of their designs, Or­rabella told her she should stay with us, and become one of her attendants; but she laid her hand on her heart and cried, "No! I cannot;" then looking ear­nestly [Page 50] in the face of the princess, she cried, "Poor Al­zira! she is alive; she is miserable! I will live or die with her." "Alive! my sister alive!" said Orra­bella, starting from her seat; lead me to her; I will deliver her, or share her fate."

The impatience of the princess was only to be stayed by the remonstrance of her husband and his father. "Your precipitancy, my love," cried Ferdinando, "may ruin all. Our enemies are now wrapt in sleep; the time is favourable; we must repay treachery with treachery; fall upon them whilst they are unprepared, and make them prisoners."

This resolution taken, Ferdinando took a small boat, and, going to the ships, ordered from them a number of men, who were landed at different times, in several boats. The officers were informed of Gar­cias's intended treachery; the private soldiers and sailors were not told of it, lest the spirit of revenge might be more powerful than the respect they bore their commander, and tempt them in the first moment of passion to commit outrages at which they would have cause to blush hereafter. Columbus dispatched parties to the dwellings of the principal officers; these parties he took the command of himself. Ferdinando was appointed with a strong guard to invest the pal­ace, which Du Ponty had made his own residence ever since the night, when he put its unoffending in­mates to the sword. Ferdinando knew every apart­ment, every secret room in it; and the private entrance by which the ill-fated Alzira used to admit her lover, was pointed out by the Indian girl.

No persuasions, however urgent, could prevail on Orrabella not to accompany her husband, who, anx­ious for her safety, and more so on account of her situation, (for she almost daily expected to present him with another pledge of mutual affection) earnestly entreated her not to go, promising to conduct her sis­ter in safety to her—but in vain. Orrabella was not easily to be persuaded from doing what she conceived a duty. As I found her determined to go, I resolv­ed to accompany her.

[Page 51] Through a small gate, at the utmost extent of the garden, we were all admitted, and about twenty yards from the house entered a door that appeared to be fix­ed in the side of a green sloping bank; this opened in­to an arched passage, which led to the cellars of the palace, which we traversed with no little perturbation; and, ascending a flight of stairs, found ourselves in a spacious hall; when the young Indian, taking hold of Orrabella's hand, led her to the left, placing her finger on her mouth, in token of silence. I followed; and, entering a room in the midst of which glimmered a pale lamp, perceived by its feeble beams, and elegant female habited in the [...]eruvian dress, kneeling on the floor beside a bed, on which lay a sleeping infant. Her long hair hung negligently over her neck and shoulders; her arms were crossed on the bed, and her head rested between them. At the moment we en­tered, her sorrows were lulled into forgetfulness. At the noise we made, (though it would have been scarcely perceptible to another ear, yet misery is wake­ful, and starts at every sound) she raised her languid head, gazed earnestly at Orrabella, who sunk on her knees beside her. "Sister! sister!" said she; and, throwing herself into her arms, fainted on her bosom.

Whilst we were busied with Alzira, Ferdinando and his followers made good use of their time. The in­habitants of the castle were in a deep sleep, partly the effects of intemperance; so profound were their slum­bers, that many of them felt the chains on their hands and feet, before they could recover sense sufficient to know who had put them on. Some few made a faint resistance; but these were soon intimidated into si­lence; and in such quiet did every party proceed, that before the dawn of day all the leaders, and a great number of their followers, were in confinement, and at the mercy of Columbus.

In the morning, the incidents of the night spread terror and consternation through all the Castilian par­ty; and those who were still at liberty, readily vowed submission to the viceroy, in hopes by so doing to se­cure their lives and fortunes, as they imagined Du [Page 52] Ponty and his officers would be immediately execut­ed, and their treasures seized on as public property. But in this they were mistaken; Columbus wished to secure his own and followers lives and properties, but he did not arrogate to himself the right of plunging a multitude of human beings into eternity, because they opposed his plans, or had been blindly led by an unprincipled commander to perpetrate actions their better reason would have shuddered at.

During the remainder of this eventful night, Alzira informed her sister of the circumstances I have already related to you. Orrabella's soul was in a flame at the thought of her sister's dishonour. She finished her melancholy recital in these words; "When I heard of your arrival, my dear sister, a gleam of joy shot through my bosom; but reflection told me I had little reason to rejoice, for I was dishonoured, stained! and could I hope to be pressed to the [...] bosom of Orrabella? Oh no! I knew I had forfeited all right to your affection, and I resolved sedulously to seclude myself from your sight, suffering you to believe I had been sacrificed on the same night with my parents and sisters." "Would to Heaven you had," said Orrabella, fervently; "for it is a thousand times more afflicting to my heart to see you thus, dragging on a miserable life, with public loss of honour, than to see you covered with wounds, and breathing out your soul in agony. Oh! my poor ruined Alzira, where was the spirit that was wont to animate the children of the sun when the wretch first disclosed his impious proposal? Why had not my sister raised her arm, and struck the monster dead?" "Alas!" replied the weeping princess, "I loved him with such enthusiastic fervour, that I would have given my own life to preserve his. And pity me, Orrabella; for cruel as he has been to me and mine, I will [...]o love him almost to madness. I struggle with my passion, I strive to teach my heart obedience to the dictates of reason; but in vain." "Weak, unhappy girl," cried Orrabella, wi [...]h a [...]tern look, "if your heart is so re­fractory, [...] its obedience with this;" presenting her with a dagger, which she always wore in her girdle. [Page 53] "Rash woman," said I, snatching the dagger from her, just as the trembling Alzira had extended her hand to receive it; "rash woman, what is it you do? Have you forgot that the precepts of the Christian religion forbid self-destruction?" "So, (she replied haughtily) does it forbid murder, rapine, fraud, perjury, and op­pression. Du Ponty, I think, professes Christianity. Oh! madam! madam! the professors of your religion must practise themselves what they would teach others, before you can hope to make sincere converts." The arguments was unanswerable, and I remained silent.

Tranquillity was now in a great measure restored; it was resolved the leaders of this lawless expedition should be sent immediately home to Spain. Those of their fol­lowers, who chose to submit to the laws put in force by the viceroy and governor, were to be permitted to stay; and when all was established with some degree of permanency, your grandfather was to depart for Hispaniola. But whilst we were laying these plans, it pleased Heaven, by an awful and unexpected visita­tion, to break our measures, and hasten our departure from a coast, where, from our first landing, we had been surrounded only by terror, vexation and disap­pointment.

CHAP. VIII.
Beatina's Narrative continued.

[Page 61] Your chief attendant was your mother's favour­ite Indian servant, Cora. Should she live till you reach the years of maturity, be to her a firm friend; her attachment to your parents, and affection for yourself, has been unbounded; let your gratitude be the same.

Columbia had read, and paused, and wept, and read again, till, in her anxiety for the fate of Orra­bella, she had forgot what she so earnestly had wished to know, concerning the marriage of her mother. The conclusion of the manuscript, however, brought it fresh to her memory. She turned the paper on all sides; no farther intelligence was to be gleaned from that. But Cora, Cora had been particularly mention­ed, as strongly attached to the lady Isabelle. No doubt she could inform her of all she wished to know. She had no sooner conceived the idea, than, folding the papers which she replaced in the escritoire, she locked the drawer, and hastily sought the apartment of her aged servant.

CHAP. IX.
Supplication, Rejection, Compliance.

"I HAVE read all the papers," said Columbia, seat­ing herself beside Cora, who was taking her even­ing's repast; "I have read them all, but they do not give me any account of my father, or how he became acquainted with the lady Isabelle." "I did not sup­pose they would," replied Cora, sipping with affected unconcern some milk which stood before her, and then breaking into it the remainder of a slice of brown bread, which lay beside it.

"Well, but dear Cora," said Columbia, laying her right arm over her old servant's shoulder, and looking with smiling earnestness in her face; "but dear Cora, I dare say you could tell me all about it." "Oh! [Page 62] not I," she replied, putting from her with a rejecting motion the lovely arm that encircled her neck; "not I, indeed. I tell a story so badly, and make so many repetitions, and am so tedious and minute, you would have no patience to listen; so you and Mina may go and walk, and I'll go to bed, and then, you know, we shall both be satisfied."

"Nay but, dear, dear Cora, now don't be angry. Pray forgive me if I was a naughty girl, and impa­tiently would not give you leave to tell the story your own way. Only inform me how my mother became acquainted with, and afterwards married to, an En­glishman, and a Protestant, and I will promise not to interrupt you from the beginning of your story to the end."

"Aye, to be sure," said Cora, "we are mighty con­descending now. O my conscience, there is nothing like curiosity to make a young lady gentle and com­plying. This morning it was, Be quiet, Cora, and pray hold your tongue. Hold my tongue indeed; why I warrant I could have told you every thing that happened, as well as those letters. But you liked reading the letters best then, and so mayhap you may find some more to-morrow that will tell you every thing you wish to know."

"'Tis well," said Columbia, somewhat haughtily, "I will go to my mother. She referred me to you; but since you do not choose to comply with her desires, I will from her mouth request a recital of events, which, however the recollection of them may make her own heart bleed afresh, she will, I am sure, re­count, to gratify the laudable curiosity of her child. You, Cora, may go to bed and rest; your lady, the daughter of the princess Orrabella, and her unfortunate offspring, will pass the night in sorrow. She in tears of bitter remembrance, and I in lamenting af­flictions I cannot but feel, though I have not the pow­er to alleviate."

This was attacking Cora in the most vulnerable part. "Stay," said she, catching hold of Columbia's robe, "stay, my dear young lady, but a few mo­ments, [Page 63] and I will tell you all." "That's my good Cora," said she, kissing her cheek with affection; "I will now go and take leave of my mother for the night. You shall go to bed, Mina, and I will come and sit beside you. We will put out the candle. For you know the moon shines full into your chamber, and I always think a story doubly interesting when it is told by moonlight.

This arrangement made, Columbia went to the apartment of her mother, and partook of a slight repast. But little conversation passed between them. Isabelle was buried in reflection, and the mind of her daughter fully occupied by the events she had been so lately made acquainted with, mixed with a restless im­patience to repair to the chamber of Cora. Supper finished, she requested leave to retire; and Mina, being dismissed from her attendance on the lady Isabelle, they seated themselves on the side of Cora's bed, who eagerly began the promised recital.

"Your lady is angel, Cora," said he; "and I should think myself but too happy to be permitted to wear out my life in her service. I mean to ask her of her guardian; but as I would first be assured, that by so doing I offer no violence to her heart, I have written to her. Take this letter, then, my good Cora, and deliver it into the hands of your divine mistress. To­morrow I will expect an answer, and my future con­duct shall be regulated by her commands. Be not alarmed, (for I drew back as he offered me the letter) be not alarmed; I swear to you, I have nothing but honour in my thoughts." He then forced the letter into my hand, and with it his purse, containing about twenty ducats; and at that moment hearing the Mar­quis's voice in the garden inquiring for Arundel, I could neither return his present, nor tell him of how little effect his letter would be; since my lady was restricted from marrying a Protestant. But the exact terms of the restriction I did not then know. So, as I said, hearing the Marquis coming, I was glad to avoid meeting him; so turned into another walk, and made the best of my way to the house.

"At length she told me one evening, that she had promised to give him an interview. "He sups here to-night," said she, "and after supper will retire to the alcove on the east side of the garden, and thither I have promised to go to meet him; and you, Cora, must go with me."

"I felt as though it would be right to persuade her not to go, but did not know how to begin; nor could I rightly comprehend how (as they both worshipped the same God) the differing in a few trifling forms and ceremonies could make it such a crime for them to marry. I thought perhaps the Marquis and his lady might be angry at first, but that they loved her so well they would soon be reconciled. After this interview, the whole of which I did not hear, and what I did hear I did not fully understand, only this I know, that Sir Thomas Arundel spoke so finely, that he made me cry more than once; the lady Isabelle told him, that by marrying a Protestant she should for­feit her whole fortune. "And what of that, my love­ly Isabelle," said he, "I have fortune enough for us both, it is your invaluable self I adore; you flatter me; I am not indifferent to your generous heart; why then does my charmer hesitate? Let me call this dear hand mine; and my wealth, which is more than enough for all the comforts, nay, even the ele­gancies of life, will be happily employed, if it can pro­cure a moment's satisfaction for the idol of my soul."

"Take me not thus by surprise," replied your moth­er; "give me a few days to reflect seriously, and your generous proposal shall have an ingenuous and candid answer. Believe me, Arundel, I will examine my heart with the minutest scrutiny; and if I find its at­tachment to you unconquerable, I will not insult the majesty of Heaven by making professions with my lips [Page 69] which my soul would refuse to ratify. I will them openly, in the face of the world, avow my choice; and if I do so, we will not have different interests in so se­rious a concern as our everlasting peace in futurity. No, Arundel, if I become your wife, I embrace your religion. Your faith shall be my faith, your God my God."

"It was about ten days from this time, that my lady asked me if I would go with her to England. "For I am resolved, Cora," said she, "to share the fate of Arundel. This day I mean to avow my designs to my guardian, and relinquish my estates to my cousin. Will you, then, follow the ruined fortunes of your poor mistress?"

"Will I?" said I, throwing my arms round her; "can any thing but death ever separate me from you?"

"It was towards the evening of this day, that the lady Isabelle sent me to request the Marquis, his lady, and their eldest son, would grant her half an hour's conversation. They returned for answer, that they were perfectly at liberty, and awaited her presence in the saloon. She then bade me go into the garden, where she knew Arundel was waiting, and bid him come to her. He obeyed the summons, and they entered the saloon together. It was then your noble mother de­clared to her guardian and his family the resolution she had taken. "Had you entrusted me," said she, "earlier with the contents of my grandmother's will, I might have been upon my guard; but my heart was ir­revocably gone before I knew it was a crime to love a Protestant. Having made my election, I do not scru­ple to confess, that, deprived of Arundel, I would nev­er unite with any other man. Seclusion from the world would have been my next choice; but reason [Page 70] and religion told me, that a heart throbbing with all the anxieties of a disappointed passion, is not a fit sa­crifice to be offered to a Being of infinite purity. My fortune I resign to my cousin, and wish him as much happiness in the enjoyment of it as I feel in relinquish­ing it. My personal ornaments I imagine are my own. To-morrow I shall bestow them and myself on Arundel; and in becoming his wife, I embrace the Protestant persuasion."

Well, sure enough the next morning she was mar­ried, and in a few days they set off for England. On our arrival in London, she publickly abjured the Ro­mish religion, and would have had me do the same; but I thought changing my religion once in my life was enough. I was taught by th [...] good lady [...], to worship one God, and to look for eternal [...] through the meri [...]s of a Re [...]eemer; to be [...] and charitable to all mankind; and to the extent of my weak power, I have endeavoured [...] what she taught. And I hope I shall, when I die, go to heaven as well as if I had changed my religion twen­ty times."

"You cannot change for the better, my good Co­ra," said Columbia; "yet your must not blame my mother."

"Blame," cried Cora, hastily; "no indeed; the [...] Isabelle never did any thing that deserved blame. [Page 71] She had sense and education to understand what she was doing; but I was weak and ignorant, and feared by renouncing one error, I might perhaps fall into a greater."

"Well but, Cora, what was the cause of my father's ruin? He was a man of family and fortune, and though I perfectly remember him, and recollect that I had not seen him for some months before, I lost him forever, I shall never forget the day on which I was told he died. My dear mother, who had been absent some days, was brought home in a state almost bordering on distraction. She embraced me, called me her dear orphan girl, wept, wrung her hands, and then clasping them, cried, Oh! my Arundel, you are lost to me, but I trust you are reaping the heavenly reward of your faith, constancy and fidelity. She then sent me from her, and a few weeks after we came to this old Castle. I did not half life it, Cora, nor am I quite reconciled to it now. Those old ruins at the west end, the long gallery that leads to it, the great arched gate-way that looks ready to fall down, and the nasty moat full of green water, fill me with terror and dis­gust; and if it was not for the little garden that Mat­thias has done up so cleverly, and the pond where we go to fish, I should be ready to die with melancholy."

"And so should I," said Mina, "and with fear too; for they people about here."

"Now do be quiet, Mina," said Columbia, "for it grows late, and I want Cora to finish telling about my [...]ather."

Mina was silent, and Cora continued. "Ah! my dear Miss, those were sad times indeed; it was then your dear mother was plunged into poverty; for you know your father was a Protestant. Well, he was a favourite with our young King Edward the VIth. And greatly beloved by the Protector Duke of Somerset. They favoured the reformers very much. And there was that wicked Bishop Gardiner, who was for burn­ing and hanging every body that did not say their prayers just as he did. He hated your father; and so he, and several others as wicked as himself, laid a [Page 72] plan to take away the life of the good Duke of Som­erset. They said he had laid a plan to murder the young King, and accused my worthy master, Sir Thomas Arundel, of being an accomplice; and they threw them into prison, and a great many more good men were confined. And then Gardiner, and the Duke of Northumberland, and others of his enemies, pretended to have a regular trial. But what sort of a trial was that, when the men that accused them were the judges? So they condemned them all to suffer death, and all their substance was forfeit to the crown, as they called it; but I warrant these righteous judges had pretty pickings out of them. So your dear father was beheaded on Tower Hill, and all his estates seized on by these robbers. For I am sure they deserve no better name; for Northumberland only took away the life of the good Duke of Somerset, that he might supply his place about the person of the King, and lay a plan for his own advantage. For he persuaded the King to make a will, and appoint the lady Jane Grey, daughter to the Marchioness of Dorset, his successor; and this he pretended to do out of love to the re­formed religion; but it was only because she was mar­ried to his son, the Lord Guilford Dudley. But Heaven punished him for his wickedness, in the ruin and death of those beloved and charming children.

"Oh! what a heavenly creature lady Jane was; your mother loved her dearly. She, sweet soul, did not wish to be a queen; and when, on the death of King Edward, they offered her the crown, "I pray you pardon me, my friends," said she, "and suffer me to decline this honour; it is too much for me, frail mortal that I am. I would seek an eternal, not a tem­poral crown; and much I fear the cares and anxieties attendant on the one, will prove a hindrance to my do­ing my duty necessary for the obtaining of the other;" and when urged to comply, she bowed her head in to­ken of assent. She said to those who knelt to do her homage, "Pray rise, my friends, this is mockery. You think I am ascending a throne; but I see clearer, and perceive it is a scaffold. Heaven pardon me this [Page 73] usurpation, for I feel I have no right to these honours, and shall be ready, when called upon, to resign them to my rightful queen."

When Northumberland told her it was for the good of the Protestant cause that she should assume the reins of government, she replied, "The God of the Protestants is all-sufficient for their protection; he will not suffer them to be punished or persecuted, unless it be for his own wise purposes, to prove their faith, and bring home more to the fold. He needs not the as­sistance of my feeble arm. However, my good lord Duke, if you think you are in the way of your duty in heaping these unrequired honours upon me, I submit; and Heaven forgive us both."

"I have heard Matthias, who was in London at the time, repeat her words so often, that I cannot be mistaken in repeating them again. So the sweet, good lady was proclaimed queen, and nine days after, she was seized, with her husband and her father-in-law, and sent to the tower, and soon after they were all be­headed. And so I have no doubt but the wicked Duke repented, before he died, of his malice to the good lord Protector and your dear father; and when he came to lay his own head upon the block, I dare say he wished he never had been the means of bringing so many innocent people there. The lady Jane left one son by lord Dudley; he was christened Henry; but he bears neither the title, nor inherits the fortune of his father, more shame for them that have wronged him of it."

Here Cora ceased speaking; but Columbia was un­able to thank her, or articulate a single word. The unmerited accusation and ignominious death of her father, the untimely fate of the lovely and pious lady Jane, had so oppressed her heart, that it was only by the indulgence of tears she could save herself from fainting. At length she recovered some degree of composure, kissed Cora, bade her good night, and ta­king Mina's hand, retired to her own apartment.

CHAP. X.
An Adventure.

IT was now near midnight. The moon, which had shone so bright on the beginning of the evening, was now enveloped in black clouds. The wind whist­led hollow through the branches of the half-naked trees, and the turrets of the old Castle echoed its mel­ancholy notes. A cold rain beat against the case­ments, that shook in their frames from the violence of the rising tempest, and every thing wore a dreary, sombre appearance.

"I declare," said Columbia, shuddering, "my spir­its are so depressed, and the apartment looks so gloo­my, I almost wish I had not put out the candle."

"And I'm sure so do I," said Mina, "for I can't get those stories out of my head, that the people, who live round about, tell of this old Castle; for I do assure you they wonder how we can live in it, and often ask if we never hear or see any thing."

"What should we hear or see," said Columbia, "more than our own family?" But she shuddered involuntarily, and drew nearer to Mina, casting a fear­ful glance round the room.

"Nay, I don't know," replied Mina, "I never give much ear to such stories; but they do say the Castle is haunted; and that a great Baron, who owned it a good many years ago, killed his brother here, that he might win the love of his lady, whom he afterwards seduced, and then sent her beyond sea, where she was never more heard of. And they say the young Bar­on's ghost often is seen about the western ruins; and that he walks round the garden, and even sometimes through the long gallery and up the winding stair­case that leads to the turret that joins this range of apartments."

"I dare say it is all fancy," said Columbia, getting into bed, and covering her face with the bed-clothes."

[Page 75] "Very likely," said Mina; "for you know we nev­er saw or heard any thing."

"No, nor, I will answer for it, never shall," replied her young lady, "so good night, Mina, for I'm sleepy."

Mina began to say, "Good night;" but stopping short, was seized with a universal shivering; her heart beat violently, and she trembled so that the bed shook under her.

"Oh heavens," said Columbia, "what's the mat­ter?"

"Hush," replied Mina, "listen." In trembling si­lence they both raised their heads from the pillow, and distinctly heard human steps ascend the stairs, which led to the turret, and which winded on the side of their apartment immediately against the head of the bed.

"Perhaps Matthias is not gone to bed," said Co­lumbia. "Oh! but I'm sure he is," replied Mina, "I saw him take the candle and go into his own room. Besides, what should he do up in the old turret at this hour, on such a dismal stormy night?"

"Well, I do believe," said Columbia, "it was only imagination." Just as she spoke, they heard the same noise repeated, but it was the sound of a person de­scending; and presently a man's voice was heard, but not loud enough to distinguish what he said.

At the same instant they both sprang out of bed, and rushed into Cora's apartment; there, as they stood trembling and trying to awake her, they discerned through a window, that looked towards the entrance that led to the long gallery, two figures come from the door; and by the pale glimmer of the moon per­ceived that one, by his beaver which appeared orna­mented with feathers, was a gentleman of rank, the other seemed habited like a servant.

"There, there," said Mina, "do you see?" "Yes," said Columbia; "but there are two figures." "Aye, to be sure," replied Mina; "I dare say that was his faithful servant, who was killed endeavouring to pre­serve his master."

[Page 76] Columbia, terrified as she was, could scarcely help smiling at the readiness of her young attendant in thus explaining every thing according to her own fancy. They followed the two figures with their eyes, till they seemed to vanish amongst the western ruins; and then waking the old servant, and creeping into her bed, one on one side and one on the other, related the wonderful ap­pearance they had seen, and the sounds they had heard.

Cora was strongly tinctured with the superstition so prevalent at that period in almost every rank. She fully believed that they had seen supernatural beings, and related, as she lay trembling between them, so many horrible stories, that the terrified girls were afraid to open their eyes, lest some ghastly spectre should meet their view.

At length the clock in the great hall chimed three; and Cora, believing that at that hour spirits of every kind returned to their graves, composed herself to sleep, as did her young companions.

But the spirits of Columbia had been so harassed, that her sleep was disturbed by frightful visions, and she awoke before the sun had cheered the face of day. Glad to behold returning light, she arose, dejected and unrefreshed; and throwing a mantle over her shoulders, walked into the garden, in hopes the morning air would revive her, and take off the appearance of lan­guor which the want of rest had given her, and which she was sure would alarm her mother. There, as she wandered through a walk of filbert trees which had been planted by Matthias near the margin of the pond, she endeavoured to persuade herself, that the terrors they had experienced in the night, were merely the effects of an imagination previously weakened by mel­ancholy recitals, and tinctured by the gloominess of the weather. The storm was now past; the sun was above the horizon; the sky was serene; the air just sharp enough to brace the nerves, and give elasticity to the spirits. Columbia, enlivened by its vivifying power, had nearly assumed her usual cheerfulness and serenity, when turning out of the walk towards the house, from an arch-way in the ruins she saw, advanc­ing [Page 77] towards her, the same figures she had faintly per­ceived cross the court yard in the night. She shrieked, drew her mantle over her face, and fell fainting to the earth.

When she recovered, she found herself supported in her mother's arms, the stranger standing beside her. The alarming mystery was now soon dissolved. This phantom, who had so alarmed Columbia and her at­tendant, was a material substance, Sir Egbert Gor­ges by name; who, with his servant, flying from the persecution of Mary (that cruel oppressor and tyrant of her Protestant subjects) to the coast of Wales, in hopes to seek in some foreign land that liberty of con­science denied him in his own, was benighted, and had lost his way.

Sir Egbert, thus weary and disconsolate, wandering over the dreary heath, drenched by the storm, fatigued, cold and hungry, made up to Austenbury Castle, which he perceived at a small distance. The ruinous appearance of the western wing, which, being next the path he had taken, he first entered, gave him little hope to find inhabitants in it. He made his way through the mouldering apartments into the court yard, which he crossed; and in the hope of finding some room more habitable than any through which he had passed, he ascended the stairs which lead to the turret. But disappointed in his wishes, he said to his servant as he come down, "This is certainly a desola­ted ruin, and we had better return to the most com­fortable place we can find on the other side the court yard. For this old turret is more dismal and shatter­ed than any thing we have yet seen." These were the footsteps and voices that had so alarmed Columbia. And according to this resolution, they were returning to the western wing, when the terrified lady and her servant saw them from the window.

Sir Egbert, and his man Rawlins, having led their horses into a place of comparative shelter, sought for a room that might be best calculated to guard themselves from the damp nocturnal air. Finding one less shatter­ed by the hand of time than the rest, they stretched [Page 78] themselves on the floor, and resting their heads on their saddles, composed themselves to rest. Hard as the bed was, Sir Egbert, worn out with fatigue and anxiety, soon dropped into a profound slumber; nor was Rawlins long in following his master's example. From this state of insensibility they did not awake till day light stared them in the face, and the all-cheering sun darted his beams through the high-arched win­dows.

Having seen that their horses were safe, they were preparing to explore the whole of the Castle, which they now perceived contained some apartments which wore a face of comfort, and seemed as though lately repaired; when as they came from the ruin, the first object that met their eyes was Columbia. Surprise riveted them to the spot. But her terror on beholding them, her shriek, and consequent fall, made them hur­ry to her assistance; when just as they had raised her from the ground, Matthias appeared at the farther end of the garden. He hastened towards them, help­ed to support his dear young lady, and by his loud cries soon alarmed Mina and Cora. The fainting Columbia was borne into the hall, and the lady Isa­belle, hurrying to her assistance, had just taken her in her maternal arms, when she recovered sense and re­collection. The confusion of this scene had been too great to allow of any explanations on one side, or questions on the other; but Sir Egbert seeing the young lady now free from alarm, related, in as con­cise a manner as possible, the foregoing circumstances, entreating leave to rest for a few days in the Castle, whilst he sent Rawlins to the nearest sea-port to inquire for a vessel bound for Holland or Germany.

To this Isabelle assented; and in the course of the day Columbia, half ashamed of her terrors, related to her mother and her guest the adventures of the night. Cheerful and unrestrained conversation begets confi­dence; and before the hour of rest arrived, Sir Egbert had informed his fair hostess of the real cause of his hasty flight from London, and his resolution to quit the kingdom. Isabelle was astonished at the account he [Page 79] gave of the dreadful persecutions under which the Protestants suffered, from the bigotry and cruelty of Mary, and those tools of her power, Gardiner and Bonner. Secluded as she was from the world, though she knew they had great difficulties to struggle with, yet she had no idea to what height they carried their barbarity, and that burning, starving, hanging, and sometimes drawing the victims of their misguided zeal in quarters, was the method taken to bring back the heretics (as they were called) to the ceremonies and superstitions of the church of Rome.

"Ah! my dear child," said she to Columbia, "how much gratitude ought we to feel toward the divine Disposer of all events, that it has pleased him, with a correcting hand, to lead us into this happy obscurity, where we can enjoy that liberty of conscience which calms and fortifies the soul, and fits it for all events. Alas! Columbia, had your dear father lived to this day, we might all have suffered at the stake together. Then let us be humble and submissive to the judg­ments of our Creator, since followed by the invaluable blessings of peace, life, and the liberty of worshipping him in security, according to the dictates of our con­sciences."

Sir Egbert was charmed with the polished manners and unaffected piety of the lady Isabelle. But the youth, beauty, innocence and vivacity of Columbia had fascinated his senses. The harmonious trio parted for the night, mutually pleased with each other; Isabelle reflecting, in pious gratitude, on her present happy seclusion from a court which seemed a scene of murder, and where, perhaps, the morals and principles of her darling child might have been tainted by the bigotry and superstition of the times, Sir Egbert to ru­minate on the interesting figure, and sweet simplicity of manner that characterized Columbia, and Columbia herself to chat with Mina about the handsome Sir Egbert Gorges.

CHAP. XI.
Girlish Chat, Maternal Advice, Departure of a Lover.

"Do you not think our visitor very handsome?" said Columbia. "Yes, indeed I do," said Mina; "and his man is a clever kind of body." "And you think him very handsome too, Mina?" "No, not very handsome; but he has a great deal to say; and Cora says he must have travelled, for he knows all about her country as well as if he had been there." "But that may be from reading, Mina; for my mother told me to-day, that her father, Ferdi­nando Columbus, wrote a full account of her grand­father's voyages, during the two years they lived re­tired at Valladolid. And that at the time my father's papers were seized by his enemies, the manuscript was found, and it has since been printed."

"And so, madam, this fine stranger, this Sir Egbert, is going away to live amongst the Dutch people, Raw­lins tells me. I'm sure, if I was as him, I would stay where I was." "But that would be improper, Mina; my mother could not possibly entertain a strange knight here above a day or two, as she has neither husband or son to bear him company."

"Well, if she has no son of husband, she has a daughter; and I warrant Sir Egbert would excuse the deficiency of the one for the sake of the other." "How wildly you talk, Mina; I shall be angry with you presently." "What, madam, for supposing the handsome young knight is pleased with you; nay, now, I don't think you would be very much out of humour if a storm was to detain him at the Castle a week or so; for then you know there would be some excuse for his staying." "Pho! you talk like a simpleton, Mina; I wish you would go to sleep."

"Well, I wonder how some folks can be so insensible; for my part, as soon as I saw him this morning, and found he was real flesh and blood, I said to myself, Well, he is a charming cavalier, and if he would but [Page 81] fall in love with my lady Columbia, and she with him, we should have a wedding, and there is always rare doings at a wedding; and then we should go away from this old Castle. And now, if you won't be angry, I'll tell you the truth. I never do say my prayers, but what I pray that we may soon go away from this shocking old place. Why the arch, at the entrance of the great gate, looks as if it would fall whenever the gate is opened; but to be sure that a'nt very often, we are not much troubled with horsemen, ex­cept when Matthias comes from market, with the old blind crippled creature that brings home our provi­sions. And then one never sees a young man. I declare, I blessed my eye-sight when I saw Mr. Raw­lins: for what with Matthias's stories about the wars, and Cora's earthquakes, and shipwrecks, and storms, and so forth, I am heart sick."

"And I'm sure, so am I, Mina, to hear you talk such a parcel of nonsense. However, if you are tired of staying in the Castle, you are at liberty to leave it whenever you please."

"Me leave it, madam? No indeed, madam; if it was ten times more frightful than it is, I would not leave it without you, and my dear lady your mother, for the whole world. No; I meant that if you were married to this handsome Sir Egbert, we should go to London again, and have fine dressing and balls and feasting."

"You don't know what you wish for, Mina. Lon­don is no place for Protestants. London is now the seat of every enormity which is practised under the mask of religion. Queen Mary is determined that every one of her subjects shall think as she thinks, and those who hesitate to obey her, are burnt at the stake."

"And pray, madam, why don't the people burn her? She is but one, and she has multitudes of sub­jects."

"She is their queen, Mina, and they dare not lift the hand against her."

"Queen indeed! Well, I am but an ignorant girl, to be sure; but I can't see why a queen should com­mit [Page 82] murder without being punished for it, any more than other people."

"But it is not called murder, when a person is executed for acting contrary to a queen's commands."

"They may call it what they please; but if a per­son is innocent of any real crime, and is only accused of not thinking as the queen does, or perhaps they don't preach and pray just as she would have them; I do say, and will stand to it, if she orders them to be hanged or burnt, it is murder. Aye, and I fancy her cruel queenship will find that out, when she dies."

"You are a strange girl, Mina, and are now talk­ing on a subject we neither of us are competent to speak upon; therefore let me beg you to say no more. Let us say our prayers, and be thankful we are, by our seclusion from society, and our distance from the metropolis, secure from any fear of her power. And so, Mina, good night."

Columbia spoke this in so reserved a tone, that Mina did not dare to proceed, though she never felt less in­clined to sleep. Yet she endeavoured to obey her young lady, said her prayers, and addressed herself to sleep.

The next morning, Rawlins was dispatched to the nearest sea-port, to inquire for a vessel, and from some unforeseen accidents, he was detained nearly a week.

During this interval, the daily, nay, almost hourly opportunities Sir Egbert had of conversing with Co­lumbia, and observing her mildness, modesty, and understanding, which had been highly cultivated by the tender and careful hand of maternal affection, in­spired him with a passion ardent as it was sincere; and he could not repel the rising wishes of his heart, that this lovely creature might be ordained his part­ner, to smooth the rugged path of life.

Columbia had not been insensible to the many vir­tues and graces of Sir Egbert; but she had not learnt to disguise her thoughts from her best and only friend. She considered it no crime to love a worthy and ac­complished man, and her mother became the confi­dant [Page 83] of her passion almost as soon as she discovered it herself.

"I cannot blame you▪ my child," said this indulgent parent, "for the admiration and esteem you feel for Sir Egbert Gorges; but I would wi [...]h my dear Columbia had seen a little more of the world, before the selected a partner for life. You are [...] scarcely eighteen, and Sir Egbert is almost the first man you have seen above the rank of a clown. It is to be hoped, my love, we shall not always be secluded in this solitary Castle. I understand from Sir Egbert, that queen Mary's health is in a declining state. Should she die without issue, her sister Elizabeth is next heir to the throne. Eliza­beth is herself a Protestant, and will no doubt encour­age all the professors of that religion. I shall in that case, for your sake, my child, repair to court, and pe­tition for a restitution of your father's lands. I have also another duty to fulfil. A dear friend of mine, who suffered death a few years after your father, in her last moments recommended her infant son to my care. Should so fortunate an event take place as the princess Elizabeth's accession to the throne, I shall to her protecting care recommend this last branch of an unfortunate family, the innocent part of which have been the sufferers for the guilty ambition of the rest."

"I apprehend madam," said Columbia, "that you mean the offspring of the Lord Guilford Dudley and lady Jane. Cora informed me of their unfortunate exaltation and consequent death; and I have no doubt but the royal Elizabeth will, should she ever have the power, restore to him his rank and the fortunes of his ancestors."

"Heaven grant that I may see the day," said Isabelle. "And now, my dear child, though I would not put any restraint on your inclinations, I could wish you to decline a union with Sir Egbert Gorges, till quieter and more prosperous times. Enter into no serious engagements with him, which hereafter may cause you much uneasiness. Mix first with the world. The heart is apt to be deceived in its first emotions, when little knowledge of the world, and seclusion from [Page 84] society, prevents a free election; and the object who, when the only one, appeared to have every attraction, to possess every virtue, when compared with others of more shining talents, loses the charm that had at first engaged the affections. The disappointment then be­comes intolerable, and the unfortunate victim of inex­perience passes a life of unceasing regret and fruitless repining. I will confess to you, that Sir Egbert has spoken to me on this subject, and I then advised him, as I now advise you; and I hope my dear child will not find a difficulty in following advice, that can have no other end in view than her happiness."

"I cannot hesitate a moment, my dear mother," said Columbia, "to promise that your wishes, which to me are commands, will ever be observed as laws. Think not, beloved parent, that your child was so wea­ry of your society, as to renounce it for that of a stranger, whom she had scarcely known a week. Oh no! however partial my heart may be, I could wish to be better assured of the merits of the object, before I gave my future happiness into his keeping. Let Sir Egbert pursue his intended voyage; if at some future period he should return still constant to me, I think I can answer for the stability of my affections."

"Make no rash promises, my dear child," said Isabelle. Columbia bowed her head assentingly, and remained silent.

Rawlins now returned, with intelligence that a ves­sel for Amsterdam would be ready to sail in the course of three days. On the morning of the second day, therefore, Sir Egbert, and his faithful Rawlins, de­parted; the former having, with many thanks for her hospitality, taken leave of his fair hostess, and entreat­ed her permission for Columbia to accept a small dia­mond ring in remembrance of him; which, as it was of trifling value, she allowed, at the same time pre­senting him with a plain gold one from her own fin­ger, saying, "I know you will condescend to accept this in token of amity, for trifles become valuable when we esteem the giver."

[Page 85] Mina had, at parting from Rawlins, received from him a small silver coin, on which with his knife he had marked the initials of his name, and over the let­ters were two hearts. A puncture was made near the extremity, and a string being passed through it, Mina suspended this pledge of affection round her neck.

But Mina, though she fancied herself in love past cure, and that she should be constant through long absence and trials of every kind, was a stranger to her own heart. She was by nature a coquette, fond of admiration, and pleased with those who gave it. She loved Rawlins, because he had professed to love her. But, alas! poor Mina, when she used daily pathetical­ly to lament the absence of her lover, had she but searched her heart thoroughly, she would have discov­ered that it was the flattery she missed; and that food of female vanity, artfully administered by any other person, would soon have effectually banished the re­membrance of Rawlins, and dried up her tears for his departure.

For differently affected was the heart of Columbia. Her partiality to Sir Egbert was sanctioned by the voice of reason. She felt that, was she his wife, she could brave every hardship with him without repin­ing. For his sake she would then have faced persecu­tion, poverty, famine, nay, death itself. But at the same time she forcibly felt, that to descend in the smallest degree from the respect she owed herself, from that necessary pride and dignity of manner which is the safeguard of female honour, would be no longer to deserve him. When engaged in studies that enrich­ed her mind and expanded her understanding, she thought such employment would render her a more pleasing companion to Sir Egbert. He was seldom from her thoughts in her waking hours, and frequent­ly visited her dreams; and in her daily devotions were mingled constant prayers or his safety.

Yet Columbia was not totally divested of that vani­ty, which in her childish years had formed so striking a trait in her character; but it had been so judicious­ly repelled and corrected by her mother, tha [...] [...] [Page 86] more of it remained than served as a foil to her virtues. She knew she was handsome, and she studied to set off that beauty by humility, benevolence, simplicity and candour.

CHAP. XII.
Confusion, Distress, unexpected Journey.

ABOVE eighteen months after the departure of Sir Egbert passed in the usual way, in which time Rawlins had twice been to Austenbury Castle with letters from his master. But the enemies of Gor­ges, encouraged by Mary, pursued him with such un­relenting fury, that he dared not himself venture to England.

It was in the summer of 1558, that an event took place which had nearly put a period to the life of lady Isabelle, and involved her daughter in accumu­lated misery. A report had been circulated, that the child of lady Jane and lord Guilford Dudley was in existence, and in the protection of a Protestant family.

The furious zeal of Mary inspired her with the idea, that by getting this infant into her power, and having him educated in the Catholic religion, she should render Heaven an acceptable piece of service, and entirely atone to the child for the death of his parents, the signing of whose death-warrant sometimes lay hea­vy on her conscience; and in those fits of gloomy re­morse, she always had recourse to her ghostly confes­sor for spiritual advice and comfort, who upon these occasions did not fail to inflame her mind, and render her bigotry more obstinate.

This man, who was in the confidence of Gardiner, bishop of Winchester, encouraged the queen in her de­sire to get young Dudley into her power; and accord­ingly, diligent inquiry was made after the place of his seclusion. At length, accident discovered what they had begun to despair of. Sir James Howard, a [Page 87] younger branch of the house of Norfolk, (a family re­nowned for their attachment to the Catholic persua­sion,) a man in high favour with the queen, and in habits of strict intimacy with Gardiner, Bonner, and the rest of the persecuting party, having received an invitation to spend the decline of the summer in Wales, at the seat of Sir Owen Langwylling, and partake of the diversions of hunting and shooting, in the begin­ning of August, repaired to the antique mansion of his friend.

Sir Owen was young, gay, and fond of dissipation and expensive pleasures, which the smallness of his pa­ternal inheritance would not permit him to enjoy to the extent he wished. Howard was rich in money, as well as in court favour; and Sir Owen invited him into Wales, in hopes the youth and beauty of his only sister, Winifreda, might catch his affections, and at once secure on honourable alliance for herself, and a powerful friend for him.

It was during this visit, that Howard, tired one evening with the rude and turbulent mirth of his host and his Welsh associates, left them to finish their usual libations to Bacchus; and mounting his horse, on whose neck he suffered the reins to rest, giving a loose to reflection, and intending only to escape from dis­gusting society, and enjoy the pleasures of retirement and contemplation, he permitted the animal to take what course he pleased. Nor was his attention arous­ed as to the time he had been absent, till, coming sud­denly out of a wood into a wide-extended heath, he perceived the sun was drawing near the western hori­zon; and turning his horse with a design to measure back the path he had trod, on the summit of a hill, he saw Austenbury Castle. The parting beams of the sun shone full on the venerable ruin, and his rays gave an uncommon richness to the surrounding prospect. Curiosity urged him on, and once more turning his steed, he proceeded at a good pace up the hill.

It has been observed, that the most ruinous part of this Castle was that which fronted the heath; and Howard, having led his horse over a broken draw­bridge, [Page 88] bridge, which appeared as though it had not been rais­ed for more than a century past, fastened his bridle to a ring which had formerly supported a swing gate, or private entrance to the fortified part of the Castle, and proceeded through an aperture in the wall immediately into the garden, the neatness and cultivation of which convinced him there were inhabitants in the Castle. He went forward, and at the extremity of the garden, in the arbour before mentioned as the scene of Colum­bia's childish sports and festivity, he saw a female, ty­ing up a bunch of reeds in the form of a wheat sheaf, and a boy standing beside her, apparently about five years of age. As he approached nearer, the beauty of Mina struck him with surprise. For it was she who had been walking with young Dudley, who was now become an inmate at the Castle, and who wanted to go into the water after the reeds, that he might play at reaping. She had gathered a few to divert him, and was employed in binding them up, when How­ard approached them. He spoke before she saw him. She started from her seat, and the blood mounted to her cheeks. But Howard was young, handsome, and addressed her with such an air of gallantry, that she soon recovered herself, and felt more inclined to be pleased than alarmed at his intrusion.

Night was now rapidly approaching, and our knight was chagrined at it. He wished to have entertained the pretty, blushing Mina with expressions of his ad­miration and wonder, to see so much loveliness thus buried in solitude; but time would not permit. He asked, however, a few trifling questions, ventured to take her hand and kiss it, caressed the child, and pre­senting Mina with a jewel which he took from his beaver, and which he had observed she eyed with at­tention, requested her to meet him there again early the next morning.

"But be sure, pretty creature," said he, "you do not mention having seen me to your father and moth­er." "I have no father and mother, Sir," said Mina.

"Well, then, to your uncle, or aunt, or grandmoth­er." "La! Sir," said Mina, with simple earnestness, [Page 89] "I have no relations; I am only poor Mina, and live here in the old Castle with my lady." "And who is your lady?" "The lady Isabelle Arundel."

"Well, you need not tell her, or any body, that you have seen me; I have a particular reason for it. I will be here by six o'clock to-morrow morning."

Mina promised silence, and dropping a curtesy, wish­ed him a good night.

The thoughts of this simple girl were agitated and confused, as she proceeded towards the house. She was resolved not to mention the stranger; but then Henry, he might tell the lady Isabelle. But to prevent this, immediately on her entering the Castle, she put the child to bed, and then repairing to her lady, gave as a reason for having done so, that he was tired with his walk.

The usual avocations of the evening so entirely oc­cupied Mina, that she had no time to think, till the hour of retirement. No sooner was she in her own apartment, than, drawing the jewel from her pocket, she compared it with the silver token of Rawlins' hon­est love. "It is much finer," said she, delighted with its lustre; "but then what will poor Rawlins say, if I should prove false-hearted?" A deep sigh, as this re­flection passed through her mind, seemed to tell her, the assignation she had made with the gallant stranger was improper. But Mina possessed that unfortunate flexibility of disposition, that unfits its possessor for op­position of any kind. Her inclination to keep her appointment was strong, and the courtly manner, handsome person, and rich present of Howard, had such an effect upon her deluded senses, as to lead her to imagine she had never loved Rawlins half so well, as she found she was inclined to love him.

Had the lady Columbia been present, she would no doubt, notwithstanding her promise to the contrary, have confided to her the intrusion of the stranger, and her promise to see him again in the morning. Indeed, full of her own praises which she had heard from his lips, and occupied entirely in reflecting on his [...] person and rich dress, she wished for nothing [...] [...] ­dently [Page 90] than an opportunity to repeat it all to her young lady. But Columbia now slept in an apartment by herself, and the young Dudley partook of Mina's bed; so the secret was of necessity confined to her own bo­som. Its importance in her ideas, was sufficient to banish sleep from her eyes; and she impatiently count­ed the clock till it struck four. "Well, two hours will be soon past," said she, and immediately began to dress herself. But quick as her impatient wishes led her to imagine they might pass, when she was anxious­ly counting every minute, she thought the period an eternity.

Having dressed herself, she descended to the great hall, and thought to be sure it must be near five; but poor Mina was deceived in her calculation, and found it but a quarter past four. She listened, she watched the hand, she could scarcely perceive it move; it had certainly stopped; her lady would be up, she should be prevented meeting the stranger. Impelled by this idea, she had walked more than a dozen times from the hall to the arbour and back again, and still it was scarcely half-past five.

At length the long expected stranger was seen ap­proaching; for he had been impelled by a curiosity, as restless as the new born passion of Mina, to repair early to the place of assignation.

As he had leisurely walked his horse homeward the evening before, he had reflected on the name of Mina's lady. Arundel! It was surely the widow of Sir Thom­as Arundel; if so, the intimate friend of lady Jane Grey. Might not that boy be the long-sought off­spring of Dudley? If so, how would it elevate him in the queen's favour, to inform her where the boy might be sound! Let no one blame Howard; he thought it right to endeavour to snatch the child from the dangers of what he termed an heretical education; he acted from principle; and it were well for every one, who courts the favour of the great, if they could lay their hands on their hearts, and with truth assert the same.

[Page 91] In his conversation with the artless and infatuated Mina, he drew from her every circumstance he wished to know. Her inexperienced heart, fascinated with his flattery, and thinking him all that was amiable on earth, could not imagine him a Catholic. She thought he professed the same religion with her lady and her­self. He perceived her error, and suffered it to con­tinue, till he made himself acquainted with every par­ticular within the knowledge of Mina; and in the end triumphed in the spoils of her innocence.

For three weeks, an illicit intercourse was carried on between them; during which period Howard had sent intelligence to his friend Gardiner, that the object of their hitherto fruitless search was now within their reach. At the name of Arundel, Gardiner felt all his hatred revive towards the widow and child of his departed enemy; and, glad of an opportunity to wreak on them the vengeance which the blood of the husband and father had not sated, eagerly flew to the queen, and obtained from her an order to oblige the lady Isa­belle, and her daughter Columbia, with their young charge Henry Dudley, to repair immediately to Lon­don; and in case of hesitation and reluctance, to bring them away by force.

It was morning; breakfast had been removed; Isa­belle and Columbia were employed at their needles. Mina was reading (as was the custom of that lady to make either her daughter or her attendant do every morning) some extracts from a book of devotion. A violent knocking at the gate alarmed them. Matthi­as, with all the haste his advanced age would permit, went to open it. In a moment the court was filled with horsemen, soldiers and friars, and at their head was Sir James Howard, who was appointed to com­mand the party, and conduct the prisoners to London. Mina's heart leaped within her. She thought her lov­er was come with this noble train, to claim her as his bride, (as he had frequently promised he would) and take her with him to London. Lady Isabelle turned pale. Lost! ruined! undone! were all the words she [Page 92] could articulate, and she sunk almost lifeless on the nearest seat.

The little Dudley was playing in the hall, when Howard and Sir Owen entered. Unused to danger, unacquainted with fear, he ran to the brave gen­tlemen, as he called them, admired their waving plumes and laced doublets; and hanging on the hilt of Howard's sword, told him he remembered when he came through the broken wall into the garden. This circumstance, which a variety of other childish amuse­ments had contributed to efface, had lain dormant in his youthful mind, till the appearance of Howard; who happening to wear the same dress then, as when the child first saw him, brought it fresh to his memory.

Howard took the child in his arms; and, followed by Sir Owen and a number of other gentlemen, enter­ed the apartment of lady Isabelle. Though nearly overcome by her fears, the widow of Arundel had still a dignity of manner, a chaste severity of countenance, that awed even the most ferocious. Sir Owen Lang­wylling, a man neither celebrated for his politeness or sensibility, was a proof of this. He met the glances of her penetrating eyes, and sunk abashed behind How­ard, mingling in the thickest of the crowd, his beaver off, and his eyes bent to the earth.

Isabelle arose from her seat at their entrance, and bowing gracefully, requested to be informed of the cause of their visit. Howard was confused; he hesi­tated as he attempted to speak, and at that moment catching the eye of Mina, who stood trembling behind Co­lumbia, he bowed low, to conceal the agitation that pre­vented his articulating a single sentence. At length recovering, and obstinately fixing his eyes in such a manner as not to be able to catch a glimpse of Mina, he thus addressed the lady Isabelle.

"Our august sovereign Mary, queen of England, hearing that Henry Dudley, son and heir to the lord Guilford Dudley, (who suffered with his unfortunate lady for their attempt upon the British crown) is un­der your ladyship's protection, and wishing to compen­sate to the child for the enforced rigour with which she [Page 93] was obliged to treat his parents, has commissioned me, James Howard, in conjunction with these noblemen and ecclesiastics, to bring the boy to her court, that she may restore to him the title and estates of his fath­er, and have him educated in the principles of that holy religion, which alone leads to salvation."

The full conviction of the imprudence she had been guilty of, and the duplicity Howard had practised, now flashed on the mind of Mina. She gave a faint scream, and sunk lifeless to the floor.

Cora, whom the general confusion had brought to the apartment, assisted to raise her, and she was borne into the open air. It was not till she was quite out of the room, that the lovely form of Columbia attracted the notice of Howard. He beheld her following, with looks of the tenderest sensibility, the apparently lifeless form of her servant and in a moment every other ob­ject was obliterated from his mind. He seemed at­tentive to the lady Isabelle as she spoke, but his ears drank not one word of what she uttered; nor was he awakened from his trance of admiration, till she ceas­ed speaking, and prepared to lead her daughter from the room. He then endeavoured to recollect himself, and asked, "If she would not accompany her young charge to London?"

"I thought I had expressed my intention so to do," replied Isabelle, with a look of surprise; "if you, Sir James, did not understand me, I here repeat that I will go with him. Not to resign my precious charge to the queen, but to assert my prior right, the right of friendship, sealed by a most solemn vow, that Hen­ry Dudley should be educated in the religion of his pa­rents. I know you will tell me there are tortures to en­force obedience to the queen's will; but I have learnt to despise them. Happiness and I have long been sep­arated, nor do I hope ever to taste it more, till, in the realms of bliss, I am again united to my martyred friends and husband. Think not, then, the threats of death can terrify me. Death is the only period I can look forward to with camlness, hope and comfort."

[Page 94] She then slightly bowed her head, and taking young Dudley in her right hand, and leaning on her daughter with her left, she passed into an inner apartment.

In half an hour's time, she sent a message, intimat­ing that she would be ready to attend their orders by four o'clock the ensuing morning. In the mean time, she requested they would make themselves welcome to whatever her poor habitation afforded.

It was late in the day before Mina was sufficiently recovered to be able to quit her apartment. The weather had been sultry, the anxiety of her mind had contributed to enervate her frame; and as she at­tempted to walk, the universal debility and weakness which she experienced alarmed her. She thought the air might refresh her. Passing from her chamber through the hall into the garden, the first object that met her view as she descended the steps, was Rawlins. She trembled, she gasped for breath; but she recalled her fleeting senses, and hastily gliding down the steps, catching his hand, in silence hurried him to an obscure part of the garden. There, as soon as the tumultu­ous throbbings of her heart would permit her to speak, in a few words she unfolded to him the unhappy situ­ation of her lady and family; but shame prevented her revealing the unfortunate part she had uninten­tionally had in their ruin.

"If you have any letters," said she, "give them me quick, and then fly and conceal yourself in the western ruins till I can bring you answers, which you must with all speed convey to your master."

Rawlins gave her the letters, and would have em­braced her; but conscious guilt made her shrink from him, and covering her face with her hand, she waved him toward the place of concealment, and returned to the house. She passed unobserved to the apartment of her lady, and delivered the packet to the hands of Columbia.

Fortunately Rawlins had not been seen by any of Howard's party; and Isabelle, having assured herself of this, determined by his means to send Henry Dud­ley [Page 95] into Holland, to Sir Egbert Gorges. She even urged Columbia to fly with the child from the perse­cution that awaited them. But that heroic girl refus­ed to desert her mother in the hour of distress. "Be­sides," said she, "the safety of Henry will be more certain, when Rawlins has no woman with him, with her fears and her weakness, to impede his journey."

Isabelle, anxious to put her plan in execution, at night-fall sent a message to Howard and his followers, craving their excuse, that the preparations for the morning's journey would not permit her to see them again that night; but that she hoped they would not spare her poor provisions, and as early in the morning as they pleased, she would commence her journey.

Mina, who delivered this message to them as they were taking their repast in the great hall, led young Dudley by the hand round to bid them all good-night; then through an apartment, which by a private door communicated with the western wing, she conveyed him immediately to Rawlins, who waited till mid­night; and then mounting his horse, with the child before him, proceeded with all possible speed to the nearest sea-port, where the bark he had come over in laying ready, he went immediately on board, and pre­vailed on the master, by promises of a large reward, to put directly to sea.

The fortitude Mina had been obliged to exert in the execution of this plan was almost too much for her frame to support. The facing the perjured Howard, and delivering to him a message from her lady, the taking what she firmly believed to be a last farewel of Rawlins, were excruciating trials. But she thought the severest sufferings were too little to atone for the mischief she had brought on the house of Arundel; and the consolatory reflection that she had been the means of saving one innocent victim from the power of Mary, having shed a temporary calm over her soul, she enjoyed a few hours repose, which in some degree enabled her to support the confusion of the ensuing day.

[Page 96] By three o'clock, Howard and his followers were in motion. Isabelle heard them, and awaking Colum­bia and Mina, who that night both slept in her chamber, they equipped themselves for their journey. Their clothes had been previously packed the night before, and sent down stairs.

As the clock struck four, the widow of Arundel, with her daughter and attendant, descended the great stair-case into the hall. Howard received them at the foot of the stairs; but not perceiving the child, eager­ly inquired for him. "He is gone," said Isabelle, with a dignified composure; "but that he has escaped is not your fault. I have sent him out of the reach of bigotry and cruelty, and am now ready to go and an­swer to the queen for my crime. It is I, I only, that am guilty, if guilt it can be termed. And I do en­treat you, Sir James Howard, and you, holy fathers, whose profession is peace and mercy, suffer not these children to be insulted or punished for my faults. To you, Sir James, I solemnly commit the safety of my daughter; that young woman is her attendant. At­tached to her from almost infancy, I do beseech you let them not be separated. Your family is noble, you wear the badge of a soldier; I should hope you would neither disgrace the one or the other by injuring un­protected women, whom ill fortune only has thrown into your power. Now I am ready to set forward, and Heaven be my support."

The majesty of her manner as she spoke, awed them into silence. Sir James Howard, confounded by the pointed rebuke she had innocently given him, when she recommended her daughter to his protection, had not power to answer; nor was it till they had pro­ceeded a considerable way on their journey, that they began to consider the very foolish appearance they should make at the court of Mary without Henry Dudley, who had been the chief object of their ex­cursion.

During the journey, which the badness of the roads and the heat of the weather rendered fatiguing and tedious in the extreme, Howard let no opportunity [Page 97] pass in which he thought he could effectually pay his court to Columbia. But the confession of Mina (who on the first night after their departure from Austen­bury Castle, had on her knees to her astonished ladies revealed the whole of her imprudence, and Howard's seductive arts) would have effectually steeled her heart against him, had there been no other motive for her rejection. But with such a woman as Columbia, the levity and unmeaning gallantry of Sir James Howard could make no impression on her heart; especially when it is remembered she had been previously awa­kened to sensibility by the intrinsic merit of Sir Egbert Gorges.

Isabelle and her daughter bore the journey better than could have been expected, and on the tenth day from the commencement of it, they arrived in Lon­don. Mina had drooped from the beginning, and was on their arrival so ill, from fatigue and grief, that there seemed but little hopes of her recovery.

The old servants, Cora and Matthias, were left in the Castle, heart-broken for the departure of their kind and beloved mistress. Their solitary days were pass­ed in enumerating her virtues, and in offering up pray­ers for her safe and speedy return.

CHAP. XIII.
Revolution—Tranquillity restored.

ON the arrival of Isabelle and her daughter in London, they were committed to close confine­ment; though by the care of Howard, whose power kept the ecclesiastics at a distance, they were treated with respect.

The ensuing morning Isabelle was ordered to attend the queen. With a most threatening aspect did Mary interrogate her on the subject of Henry Dudley's es­cape, and demanded to know where she had sent him. The widow of Arundel was inflexible. She only re­plied, [Page 98] that she had sent him to a place of safety; that in so doing she only conceived she had performed her duty, since, being herself convinced of the errors of the Catholic persuasion, she had given by letter a sol­emn promise to his dying mother, that whilst she lived, Henry should be carefully instructed in the tenets of the reformed religion.

Irritated beyond expression by the noble firmness, which she termed obstinacy, of the lady Isabelle, Mary commanded her from her presence; at the same time giving orders for her to be put to the torture, to force a confession from her. But Gardiner, who was pres­ent, and conceived this would be an impolitic measure of the queen's, humbly entreated a few days might be allowed for reflection. "Perhaps, most gracious sove­reign," said the designing prelate, "your royal clem­ency may have a more powerful effect on the gen­erous mind of lady Arundel, than rigour; and the power of gratitude may draw from her a secret, which the most cruel tortures might not effect.

Isabelle was preparing to speak again, but How­ard, who feared she might too far irritate the queen, and trembling for the fate of Columbia, hurried her out of the presence. Having committed her to the guards, who waited to re-conduct her to prison, he returned to the queen, and informed her of his passion for the daughter of the haughty Isabelle. "She is young, royal madam," said he, "and if I can judge of her disposition by her countenance, might be easily converted to the true religion; for she appears all compliance, affability [...]nd gentleness. Permit me to try to bring her over to our party. When once convinced of the errors of the faith she now pro­fesses, it will become a point of conscience with her to retrieve young Dudley from his present lost state."

"I suppose this girl is handsome?" said Mary. "I should call her superlatively so, had I never seen your majesty," replied Howard, bowing profoundly.

Mary, though at this period past her fortieth year, naturally plain in her person, and now more than ever [...] from the ravages of a disease which daily gained [Page 99] ground and began to give some very alarming symp­toms, was still open to the voice of flattery. The compliment of Howard had an instantaneous effect on her temper. She smiled, and told him she would see this paragon. "I will converse with her myself," said she, "and endeavour to draw her by persuasive arguments to the true faith. But if I fail, let her and her proud mother beware. Her beauty shall not save them; they shall submit to the punishment appointed for obstinate heretics."

Columbia had suffered almost a martyrdom in the absence of her mother; a thousand fears had distract­ed her. Sometimes she imagined she should never see her again; that the furious queen, provoked by her refusal to discover the retreat of Henry Dudley, would doom her immediately to the stake; then would she wring her hands, and utter the most piercing lamentation, in which she was joined by Mina, whose distress was the more poignant, as it was mingled with self-accusation. At length she beheld her return, and her joy was for a few moments as wild as had been her sorrow.

Isabelle was convinced within her own mind, that the hour drew near in which she would be called upon to seal her faith with her blood, and endeavoured to arm herself with patience and fortitude for the ex­pected trial. Every hasty step she heard, every unu­sual noise that issued from the street, she imagined was the messenger of her fate. But she carefully concealed these thoughts from her daughter, thinking to save her the misery of hourly expecting an event that would leave her an unprotected orphan, and which, however she might lament, she had no power either to prevent or retard.

They partook but sparingly of a repast that was brought them, when Isabelle endeavoured to divert her own and Columbia's melancholy by conversation; at the same time selecting those subjects which might tend to strengthen and fortify their minds against im­pending misfortune.

[Page 100] The afternoon was not more than half worn, when Howard arrived with the queen's mandate for Colum­bia to repair forthwith to the palace. It was then the tender mother had need of all her fortitude. In vain she pleaded to be permitted to go with her child; it was contrary to the commands of Mary.

Finding entreaty fruitless, she embraced her with tenderness, and said, "Remember, my child, thy moth­er's happiness depends on thee. Oh beware! Suffer no temptation, however great, to draw thee from thy du­ty to thy Creator. No, Columbia, not even to save the life of thy mother, let thy faith be shaken. If I must suffer, let me at least have the consolation of re­flecting, in my last hours, that my child preferred mis­ery to apostacy."

"Fear me not, beloved parent," replied Columbia, re­turning her embrace, "I can never forget the noble examples of firmness and resolution set me by my an­cestors; and if the remembrance of those should fail to animate me, I will think that my failure in so impor­tant a point would call a blush into the face of my mother; and that would give me strength to with­stand all temptation, however alluring, and defy all threats, all tortures, however terrible to human nature. Pray for me, my mother, pray for your poor child." She fell on her mother's neck, and sobbed aloud. How­ard re-assured them, by pledging his solemn word, that no evil was intended; and taking her reluctant hand, led her from her mother into the presence of the queen.

Columbia, though endowed with all the rigid vir­tues that so eminently adorned her mother, yet had an appearance of more softness; and the awe a young person, totally unacquainted with the forms of courts, as well as of the world in general, might be supposed to feel on finding herself in the presence of her sove­reign, and that sovereign incensed against her, gave her an air of timidity and humility highly gratifying to the pride of Mary.

The queen questioned her concerning the departure of young Dudley. "He went away with a servant [Page 101] belonging to a particular friend of my mother's," said she, "who wished me to have gone too, but my love for the best of parents, and my conscience, which told me I should be wanting in filial duty, prevented my embracing the proposal."

"Conscience?" said Mary, fiercely, "the conscience of a heretic cannot be supposed very tender; tell me, are you not a heretic?"

"I do not understand the meaning of the appella­tion," replied Columbia mildly.

"I will endeavour to explain it to you," said the queen; "come, child, be not alarmed. I will talk with you a little on religious matters. Your igno­rance is really pitiable, but it is more your misfortune than your fault."

"I humbly pray your majesty to pardon me," re­plied Columbia; "I am a weak girl, and totally in­adequate to the task of speaking on so reverend a sub­ject, especially before a person of your majesty's supe­rior understanding and extensive erudition. I [...]ave hitherto lived a peaceful, happy life, unknowing and unknown; where, to the extent of my abilities, I have endeavoured, strengthened as I was by the example of a respectable mother, to discharge my duty both to my Creator and my fellow creatures. I beseech your majesty, suffer me to return to that calm retirement, where the remainder of my days may glide on in ob­scurity, and my name pass quietly into oblivion."

"I fear," said Mary, "you entertain erroneous ideas of your duties, both moral and religious. Your faith and mine are different." Columbia was silent. "I will appoint some holy men to visit your mother in her retirement," continued the queen, "and they shall also instruct you in the tenets of our holy church. Are you willing to be instructed and converted?"

"I am willing to be instructed by wise and good persons," replied Columbia; "I will listen to them with patience; and if my reason is convinced—"

"It must, it will be convinced," said the queen, eagerly, "unless you wilfully shut your eyes and ears."

[Page 102] "And that I hope I never shall do," said Colum­bia, fervently, "against the light of truth."

Mary was satisfied, and dismissed her, and she was conveyed by the guards to the arms of her impatient and anxious mother.

Both Howard and the queen from this interview en­tertained sanguine hopes of converting Columbia. They did not perceive that all her answers were am­biguous, and might have been explained in a very dif­ferent sense than the one they took them in.

Howard seized the favourable moment of the queen's good humour, to request the charge of the prisoners might devolve on him. "I have a house, most gracious sovereign," said he, "not far from Lon­don; some of the apartments have heretofore been used as a state prison. Suffer me to convey the widow of Arundel and her daughter thither; I will answer for their being kept in safe custody, with my life. In the mean time, my confessor, with whatever other ec­clesiastic your majesty may please to appoint, can visit them every day."

"I see," said the queen with a half smile, "you wish to have an opportunity of prosecuting your suit to the fair daughter of Arundel without interruption. Well, be it as you desire; into your charge I commit them, and at the hazard of your head," continued she, stern­ly, "be they forth coming whenever I demand them. For by the crown of my ancestors I swear, they shall not escape my vengeance, unless they renounce their heretical opinions, and give up young Dudley to my power."

Howard, pleased that by this manoeuvre he had got the person of Columbia entirely in his power, thanked the queen for her condescension, reiterated promises of not permitting them to escape, and hastened to the place of their confinement, where he informed the lady Isabelle and her daughter, that he had prevailed on the queen to let him remove them to a mansion of his own, not far from London. "You will there," said he, "have the benefit of the air, and the indulgence of sometimes exercising yourself in the garden. But I [Page 103] have obtained this favour at the hazard of your dis­pleasure; for I have promised the queen that you will daily converse with ecclesiastics of the Catholic persua­sion. Your patience one moment, dear lady," seeing Isabelle was about to reply, "it is what you must submit to if you remain here. Let me on my knees entreat you, then, to suffer me to convey you, and this angel your daughter, out of the reach of the ty­ranny of Mary. Whilst you remain secluded in her palace, the instruments of her power may, in the dead of night, rush in and sacrifice you to her vengeance; but under my roof you will at least be secure from sudden insult and surprise, and should she menace your precious lives, I will preserve them at the hazard of my own."

"Howard," said Isabelle, "I would fain believe your professions are sincere; but when I remember who betrayed us into the power of the queen, how can I?"

This was the first moment Howard had suspected that Mina had discovered his frequent visits at Aus­tenbury Castle. He had strove several times, during their journey, to draw her apart from her ladies, but in vain. She had always carefully avoided him. But this he thought proceeded from her fears of awakening suspicion; nor did he once imagine she would confide an intercourse, that would appear so much to her dis­advantage, to the ear of a woman so rigidly virtuous as Isabelle. It is true, Isabelle was rigid in her own practice; but she always made a just distinction be­tween the errors incident to human nature, and pre­meditated guilt. For the folly of Mina, she found an excuse in her simplicity, and ignorance of the world; but for the art and seduction practised by Howard, she felt only contempt and horror.

"What reliance," continued she, stedfastly fixing her eyes on his face, "what reliance can I place on the word of a man, who by flattering promises dr [...]w an artless, innocent girl to her ruin, whilst from the open­ness of her unsuspecting nature, he learnt secrets, the divulging of which has plunged her only friends and benefactors in unavoidable destruction?"

[Page 104] The cheek of Howard glowed with the crimson tint of shame. The penetrating eye, the forcible voice of Isabelle, sunk to his heart.

"I have been to blame," said he, in accents scarce­ly audible, "but do not too hastily condemn me. Allow something to the impetuosity of youthful pas­sion; and if, betrayed by an enthusiastic partiality to the religion in which I was educated, I hastened to in­form my sovereign where she might find the offspring of Dudley and lady Jane, let it be some expiation of my error, that I am severely punished in having unin­tentionally involved two ladies in misfortune, who, to every grace that can excite admiration, unite every virtue that should command esteem. Let not, I be­seech you, the discovery of my errors blind you to what is absolutely necessary to your own interest and safety, nor, by obstinately refusing the asylum I offer, heap fresh guilt upon me, by making me in a manner accessory to your death, and that of your lovely daughter. The beauty and innocence of the fair Co­lumbia have already awakened in the breast of Mary a malignant spirit, which she will be glad to gratify by sacrificing her to her pretended zeal; for your daughter has already expressed her attachment to the reformed religion, in terms too pointed to be over­looked. Another interview with the queen, and she will be lost beyond recovery."

Howard paused for an answer. The mind of Isa­belle was in a state of agony. Her own life would have been nothing; she would have despised the pro­tection of Howard, and undauntedly braved the pow­er of the queen; but her child, her darling Columbia, her fate, perhaps, hung on her answer. She was with­in the reach of the bigotted queen, Howard might pro­tect, might save her. What mother, in such a case, could hesitate?

Isabelle bowed her head, and, in a voice tremulous through fear and stifled indignation, assented to his proposal. A short time sufficed for preparation, and that very night they slept in the house of Howard, at Hamstead, if sleep it could be called, when to their [Page 105] other anxiety was added the disappearance of Mina. She came with them to the house, retired after they had taken some refreshment, and when the hour of rest arrived, was not to be found. Howard was suspected by Isabelle, but Howard had departed with the setting sun, and could not be questioned.

At the first appearance of day, Columbia arose; and for the first time, eagerly counted the hours that would most probably intervene before she could hope to see Howard. The morning wore heavily away; Isabelle was dejected and uneasy; her daughter endeavoured to hide her own painful sensations, that she might di­vert the anxiety of her mother.

About noon, their attention was aroused by the en­trance of two ecclesiastics, who were appointed by the queen to visit, exhort, and endeavour to convert the two prisoners. Isabelle heard them in silence. Columbia was several times on the point of replying; but a reproving look from her mother repressed her thoughts before her lips could give them utterance.

At the conclusion of the conference, the widow of Arundel ventured to inquire of these religious men if they had any knowledge of the fate of Mina; but she received from them a stern reproof, and was bid to think more of eternal and less of temporal things, as her destiny was as yet undetermined, and it remain­ed solely with herself whether a few days would rein­state her in her late husband's forfeited estates and property, or sign the mandate for her death.

When the priests left her, the fortitude of Isabelle seemed entirely to forsake her. She threw her arms round the neck of her daughter, and gave way to an involuntary gush of tears. Columbia, unprotected, dependent on the bounty, and liable to be ensnared by the artifice of Howard, was pictured to her imagina­tion in colours so strong, that she could not support the idea.

Thus miserably did day after day wear on, diversi­fied only by the tedious exhortations of the monks, and the agonizing feelings of suspense and apprehen­sion. A fortnight was now past, and they had not [Page 106] once seen Howard. They were attended with re­spectful assiduity; they had but to name a wish, and it was instantly complied with. And only that they were not permitted to pass the boundaries of the gar­den wall, their situation might have been thought en­viable.

The charms of autumn were now beginning to fade, and winter was rapidly approaching, when one even­ing, after a chilly walk to the extremity of the ave­nue of ancient elms that fronted the house, as Isabelle and her daughter were sitting down to their repast, experiencing some small degree of comfort, in the neatness of their apartment, and the cheerful blaze of a wood fire that glowed on the hearth, they were startled by a loud knocking at the gate, and in less than two minutes Howard stood before them. Spite of the reasons they had for disliking him, yet their long seclusion from all society, (except the persecut­ing zealots who daily visited and tormented them) the many comforts they had through his means enjoyed, and the earnest wish they had to inquire after the fate of Mina, gave to their countenances an air of pleasure that was not altogether foreign to their hearts. Isa­belle arose from her seat as he entered; Columbia ad­vanced two or three steps towards him, and half ex­tended her hand to welcome him. These tokens of joy at his appearance, thrilled to the enraptured heart of Howard. He eagerly sprang forward, caught the half-reluctant hand, and, dropping on one knee, im­printed on it a fervent kiss. The action recalled their momentarily forgotten dignity; the features of Isabelle assumed their usual frigidity. Columbia blushed scar­let deep, and putting him from her with a rejecting motion, "Rise, Sir," said she, "nor, by affected hu­mility, insult your prisoners."

Howard now hastened to inform them, that, anx­ious only for their safety, he had been assiduous in his court to the queen, and, bribing the priests to conceal the ill success of their endeavours, he had persuaded Mary that there was more than probable hopes of their conversion. "But I fear," continued he, [Page 107] "I shall not long be able to elude her suspicious vigilance. She this afternoon hinted something of recalling you to London, examining you herself, and accordingly as she found you inclined, either receive you into the bosom of the church, or give orders for your immedi­ate execution."

"Then our fate is inevitable," said Isabelle, with as much firmness as she could assume. Columbia cast a look of unutterable tenderness at her mother, and, gasping to suppress the anguish of her heart, cried, "Yes, my mother, we will die together."

"Not so," said Howard, struck with the magna­nimity of the two charming women; "not so. My employment at court, which places me almost imme­diately about the person of the queen, gives me an opportunity of knowing her designs almost as soon as she conceives them. I will attentively watch her; not a command shall be issued forth of which I will not learn the motive and intent; and should I find her aim at the lives of my lovely, my esteemed prison­ers, I will deliver them from her power, or die in their defence."

Isabelle ejaculated an expression of gratitude, and Columbia, in tremulous accents, ventured to inquire after Mina. But Howard, with a look of surprise, protested his entire ignorance of her absence in terms so positive, that it appeared impossible any longer to doubt his veracity.

The remainder of the evening was spent in social converse. He inquired if they had all the accommo­dations they wished, and if their commands had been readily obeyed by their attendants? On taking leave, he requested them to be constantly ready for a remov­al, as he should take care to give them early notice of impending danger, and provide them with horses and attendants to facilitate their escape.

After this visit, their time was passed in the usual way, till the morning of the seventh of November; when, just before day, Howard arrived, attended by a numerous retinue, and, hurrying Isabelle and Colum­bia from their beds, told them the moment so long [Page 108] dreaded was at hand, and nothing but immediate flight could save them. They arose with precipita­tion, and mounting the horses that stood ready for them, proceeded, with all the expedition their strength would permit, to the borders of the kingdom next the sea on the coast of Suffolk, where, in a mutilated for­tress, (a very small part of which was habitable) How­ard requested them to repose, till, as he said, a vessel should arrive, the master of which had orders to meet them there, to convey them in safety to Holland, Ger­many, or some place of security.

Fatigued, dispirited, and ill, Isabelle attended but little to the desolate appearance of their habitation, or the few accommodations they were likely to meet with in this solitary place. A numerous assemblage of male domestics had attended them on their journey; but they saw only one female throughout the whole dreary mansion, and she was almost insensible through age and infirmity, being quite deaf and nearly blind. However, she performed the most menial offices, and Isabelle was too intent on the miseries of her situation, and the danger to which Columbia would be exposed, should they be discovered and forced back to the court of Mary, to feel any of those inconveniencies, which in her more prosperous days would have appeared in­tolerable.

All hope of a departure from England during the winter season soon vanished; the weather became un­commonly tempestuous, the snow fell in great quan­tities, and the frost was intense. Howard was the constant inmate of their gloomy mansion; for, under pretence that his life was in danger on account of his having aided their escape, he secluded himself with them, and declared his intention to accompany them, whenever the weather would permit them to depart.

During the dreary months of December and Janua­ry, he endeavoured, by amusing conversation, and a display of the various accomplishments of which he was master, at once to divert the melancholy of the lady Isabelle, and awaken the attention of Columbia. But he presently perceived his endeavours were inef­fectual; [Page 109] the despondency of the mother daily in­creased, till it almost bordered on despair, and every tender emotion of the daughter's heart was excited by hope, fear, and constant anxiety for the fate of the ab­sent Sir Egbert Gorges.

This discovery once made, it became the business of Howard to undermine a passion which militated so powerfully against his success. To this end, he fre­quently pretended to receive private news from Lon­don, and amongst other incidents, related one day, in a seemingly careless manner, that a number of heretics had been executed, naming several, and at last Sir Egbert.

Columbia was present; he eyed her attentively. She did not shriek, she did not faint; but the blood forsook her lips and cheeks, her heart beat violently, she raised her sweet eyes mournfully to his face, and attempted to ask a confirmation of the fatal tidings. But the words died upon her tongue; she struggled in vain to give them utterance; her voice was inarticu­late. She clasped her hands, leaned her head on her mother's shoulder, and large tears rolled in slow and silent succession down her cold cheeks. Such mute grief, such signs of real anguish, moved the heart of Howard. He attempted to comfort her; but Isabelle waved him from the apartment; when taking her daughter tenderly in her arms, she soothed, consoled, and sympathized with her, till her tears flowed more freely, and by degrees she became composed.

Howard had always been open in his declaration of love for Columbia; it was therefore not surprising that he continued his suit, or that, being thus constantly in her society, he should plead his passion with more than common fervour. She in general heard him in si­lence; but if pressed to answer, her reply was always that her heart was dead to affection.

He applied to Isabelle; she urged the difference of their religions, even was Columbia inclined to favour him. He promised she should never be disturbed in the free exercise of her religious duties, according to what she thought right; and Isabelle, worn out by [Page 110] constant anxiety, feeling her health daily decline, firmly believing Sir Egbert Gorges dead, and wishing to secure for her child a noble and powerful protector, at length seemed inclined to listen to him, and to plead his cause with Columbia.

The advice and reasonings of her mother ever had due weight with this amiable girl; and though when­ever her parent mentioned, that in all human proba­bility, a few months would put a period to her exist­ence, she would mentally offer up a prayer, that her own life might terminate in the very same moment with that of her maternal friend. Yet as she saw her mother secretly wished to see her united to Howard, she endeavoured to dispose her mind for such a union, tacitly consented to listen to his suit, and at the com­mencement of the ensuing summer, to give him her hand.

With slow and tardy steps winter receded; and spring began to show her smiling face, and wreath her modest brows with snow-drops, crocuses, and prim­roses. All nature seemed to wear a cheerful aspect; but the heart of Columbia partook not of the hilarity the vernal season was ever wont to inspire. If at any time she seemed to enjoy a gleam of satisfaction, it was when she was wandering through the woods, re­marking the daily increase of the foliage, or seated on a rock by the sea-shore, listening to the sullen murmur of the waves, or watching them as they constantly succeeded each other, dashing against the rude crags that hung frowning over their source.

It was about the middle of May; the lady Isabelle had declined walking, though the evening was re­markably fine. Howard had been absent from the Castle two days; his absence was a relief to the de­jected spirits of Columbia. She took her solitary ramble through the wood. The fragrance of the evening air, the serenity of the sky, the melody of the feathered race who were chanting their vesper song of thankfulness, awakened in her bosom something like cheerfulness. She strayed to her usual seat by the sea [...], and indulged in the pleasurable sensations the sur­rounding [Page 111] prospect inspired. Pleasure had long been a stranger to her heart, and she welcomed her return, though in so slight a degree, with an emanation of gratitude to the benignant Power, who had ordained that time should weaken and meliorate the severest affliction.

Entirely occupied by her own reflections, she did not observe any person near her till a young woman addressed her, and inquired the way to the Castle. "I want to see our master," said she "for the young lady he put to live with mother be very sick, and mother says she do think she will die."

"I am going to the Castle," said Columbia, rising, "and will shew you the way."

"Where does your mother live?" continued she; "and how does it happen, that as you call Sir James Howard your master, you do not know the way to his dwelling?"

"Why daisy me," replied the young woman; "no­body never lived in that there old place since I can remember, till master cum'd here last winter; and to be sure, mother said, seeing as how Sir James was a single man, and wildish or so, it was best for brother to go when the lady wanted to send for him; but brother never went only into the kitching, and so never know­ed whether there was any ladies there; but mayhap you be cum'd here lately."

"How far from the Castle do you live, my dear?" said Columbia, planning in her mind a visit to the sick lady.

"About two miles," replied her companion, "down in a valley near the sea; it be but a poor place, full of rocks, and nobody lives there but fishermen. But father was afear'd to stay in town, cause as how queen Mary had ordered all the heretics to be burnt; and father and mother be both heretics, and so we cum'd and lived here; and we had like to a gotten into trou­ble there. For Sir James be one of Mary's folks; but that's no matter now, seeing that she be dead, and I hope she repented of all her cruelty before she died."

[Page 112] "Before who died?" said Columbia; "who are you talking about, my good girl?"

"Why about queen Mary, madam."

"Is queen Marry dead?"

"Laws daisy, yes; she died last November; and then we should have gone home, only father was took sick and died, an so mother—"

The girl might have run on for an hour. Colum­bia would not have interrupted her. Mary dead—dead so long, and Howard still detaining her mother and self in that solitary place, gave her an idea that his designs were not laudable or honourable; and then a ray of hope darted into her mind, that he had de­ceived her in reporting the death of Gorges. She quickened her st [...]ps; she longed to cheer her mother with this new-born hope. Besides, if Mary was dead, no doubt her sister Elizabeth filled the throne. She asked the question, and was answered in the affirma­tive. Her heart bounded at the tidings; she scarcely touched the ground, so light and swiftly did she pass over it. She left her young companion below with the old servant, and flying to her mother, imparted to her all she had heard, all she suspected, and all she fondly hoped.

CHAP. XIV.
Change of Scene, Weddings, Burials, and Christenings.

ISABELLE joined her daughter in severely cen­suring the conduct of Howard, by comparing the time of their departure from Hamstead with that of the late queen's death. They found they were re­moved on the morning following the night she died.

"We are, I fear, in the power of a villain," said Isabelle, "but we must exert ourselves to shake off this bondage in which he, contrary to the laws of his country, detains us. I will seek the protection of my sovereign, nor longer persuade my child to give her [Page 113] hand opposed against her heart. Howard is still ab­sent, nor do I think he will return to-night. We will leave his dreary prison, and, conducted by the young woman you mention, seek an asylum amongst the poor fishermen; they may perhaps procure us a con­veyance to some neighbouring town from whence we may get to London."

"Alas! my dear mother," said Columbia, "you forget that we have no money."

"I have a trifle, my child," she replied, "and we must summon all our fortitude to brave even hard­ship and danger without shrinking. We are women, it is true, and ought never to forget the delicacy of our sex; but real delicacy consists in purity of thought, and chastity of words and actions; not in shuddering at an accidental blast of wind, or increasing the una­voidable evils of life by affected weakness and timidi­ty. How many of our sex are obliged by hard and daily labour, to procure for themselves and children the bare means of existence! How many brave the severities of the most inclement seasons, with hardly covering sufficient to keep them from perishing! I allow that you and I, my beloved child, have been accustomed to tenderer usage; but we are particular­ly called upon at this time, to exert the strength and faculties of both mind and body, with which nature has bountifully endowed us."

"Oh! my adored mother," said Columbia, "taught by your bright precept and example, I feel myself equal to almost any trial. But ill as you are, to un­dertake so long, so fatiguing a journey, without the means of procuring either comforts or conveniencies, if you should sink under it, who then would advise, console and direct your orphan Columbia?"

"Courage, my love," replied Isabelle; "I am not so ill as your tender anxiety leads you to think I am. Believe me, the agitation of the mind weakens and enervates the whole system. The heart, eased of a load of anguish, beats lighter, gives a freer play to the lungs, and a swifter circulation to the blood. What is more conducive to health than change of air [Page 114] and exercise? Besides, I have now some object in view, which will give constant employment to my thoughts. Employment naturally begets cheerful­ness. Nothing is more pernicious to the health of mind or body, than indolence and inaction. The fac­ulties become torpid; even the chords of sensibility lose their fine tone, and the heart itself grows cold and inanimate as marble. Keep the hands employed, and the mind occupied in some laudable pursuit, and a sweet serenity will diffuse itself over the soul. The day passes without our noticing the hours, the night brings peaceful and refreshing slumbers, and by throw­ing the golden chain of industry over the wings of pleasure, we take the little fleeting phantom prisoner, and make it our own forever."

Columbia felt the full force of her mother's argu­ment; for, being busied in putting a few necessaries together for their journey, she was so wholly occupied by the pleasures of anticipation, that every obstacle seemed to vanish. "Heaven in its mercy guard and support my dear mother," said she mentally, "and for myself I have no fears."

The young woman, whose name was Cicely, un­dertook to conduct them to the cottage of her mother. For the lady Isabelle said, as Sir James was not at home, she would herself visit the sick lady, and admin­ister such consolation as she might find needful. The last tints of day were fading in the western sky, and the moon, in full majestic splendour, tipped with her silver beams the lofty and antique trees that surround­ed the mansion of Howard, when these two interesting women, accompanied by Cicely, entered the wood through which they were obliged to pass in their way to her mother's habitation.

In silence they pursued their way. Columbia and her mother could converse but on one subject, and on that one, prudence forbade them to speak in the presence of a third person; and Cicely, though so communica­tive to the daughter, was awed by the presence of the mother.

[Page 115] At length they reached the cottage; it was small and meanly furnished, but withal so clean and neat, that it seemed the habitation of comfort and content. A middle aged woman, decently clad in home-spun stuff, met them at the door, and looking at the stran­gers with an air of surprise, eagerly asked for Sir James. Isabelle did not give her little guide time to reply, but answered for her, that Sir James being from home, and she being his particular friend and guest, had come to visit the sick lady, and see if any thing could be done to help he.

"Alack a day, my lady," said the woman, "I be­lieve she be past help; I did not think she would have lived till now; but walk into the next room, I believe she is quite sensible yet, and seems to have something heavy on her mind. I do think the poor soul would die easier, if she could tell somebody her troubles."

As the loquacious landlady finished speaking, she opened the door of the adjoining apartment, and Co­lumbia, with trembling impatience, approached the bed, and softly put ba [...]k the curtain. The light, which stood on the table by the beside, shed its rays full on the face of the invalid, and discovered the fea­tures of Mina. A momentary slumber had lulled her in forgetfulness. Beside her lay an infant, to all ap­pearance but a few hours old.

"My heart foreboded this," said Isabelle. Colum­bia's eyes streamed as she hung over the pale form of her beloved Mina; she sobbed aloud, but was unable to speak. The dying sufferer unclosed her eyes, she saw, and instantly recollected her lady and dear bene­factress.

"Then my prayers are heard," said she, faintly; "I shall leave my child, the wretched offspring of shame and folly, to the care of an angel."

"Oh! my poor Mina," cried Columbia, sinking on her knees by the bedside, and endeavouring to stifle her grief. "Unfortunate creature," said the lady Isa­belle, taking the cold, damp hand of her servant; "severely hast thou suffered for thy deviation from the path of rectitude; but do not despond, my child. [Page 116] Your present weak state, and the depression naturally attendant on your situation, makes you think yourself near your end; but we will hope—"

"Hope!" said Mina, raising her languid eyes; "yes, I do hope that my sufferings are nearly at an end, and that they have in part made atonement for my errors. I did not, believe me, I did not leave your protection voluntarily. I was forced away and brought to this place; I was taught to believe that you had left En­gland. I have sometimes, since my seclusion here, seen the author of my ruin; but could not learn from him, that he knew aught concerning you. I was par­ticularly anxious to see him to-night; for sure I am, my dear lady, I shall never again view the light of day. And I wished to have with my own hands com­mitted his child to his care; but I can with more con­fidence leave it to your protection."

Here a sudden faintness made her pause. A few drops administered, some what revived her, and she proceeded:—"A few struggles more, and I shall be at peace. My heart, my heart is broken. Yet trust me, it is not my own sufferings, the slights of the man for whom I sacrificed all, or the scorn of a contemn­ing world under which I have sunk. No! it was the consciousness of lost innocence; it was the reflection that my lapse from virtue had involved my kindest, best friends in ruin, which penetrated deep into my soul. Sleeping or waking, you were present to my thoughts, and I have died a thousand deaths, in daily anticipating yours."

The lady Isabelle endeavoured to soothe and com­pose the affectionate, penitent Mina; assured her that what was in her power she would cheerfully promise to perform; that she would look on her child as an infant given to her protection by the immediate agen­cy of Heaven; and though she should think it a duty to endeavour to awaken in the breast of Howard the feelings of a father towards the helpless innocent, yet it would be her care to see that his health and morals were in no ways neglected.

[Page 117] "Yes, my dear Mina," said Columbia, "he shall be my charge. Come, compose yourself; endeavour to rest. When you are better, we will nurse the little rogue together, and I warrant I shall prove the better nurse."

"Blessed—blessed—" said Mina, grasping the hand of Columbia (which from her first awaking, she had held in her's). Her eyes were ardently turned up­ward; they gradually closed; her singers related their hold, and her head sunk upon the pillow.

"She is dropped asleep," said Columbia, "I hope it will refresh her." "It will," replied her mother, drawing her from the bed-side; she will awake relieved from all her pain."

"Do you think so indeed! my dear mother."

"Yes, my child, most assuredly; for in this world she will awake no more."

The feelings of such a heart as Columbia's, on such an occasion, cannot be described. The soul alive to sensibility, can easily conceive them; and to the un­feeling, a repetition of her complaints and sorrows would be tedious and uninteresting. She took the poor motherless infant in her arms, and sitting down in one corner of the room, baptized it with her tears.

The scene became too painful for the lady Isabelle; and whilst the landlady and her daughter, assisted by a servant, prepared the body of the departed Mina for her last resting place, she walked in a little garden be­fore the door, seeking, from the cool evening air, a relief from that oppression on the heart, which the recent scene had occasioned.

The air in a slight degree had the desired effect. She returned to the house, and approached the door that led to the apartment of death. The lifeless body was now stretched upon the bed, on the side of which sat Columbia still weeping, and clasping the infant to her bosom. Her sorrow was too sacred, the lesson was too important, for her mother to interrupt her. The sound of footsteps called the attention of Isabelle from her daughter. She turned to see from whence [Page 118] the sound proceeded, and beheld just entering the house, Howard.

"The lady Isabelle," said he, with a look of aston­ishment, "by what miracle do I see you here? and where is my charming Columbia?"

"She is here also," replied Isabelle, with a solemn voice. "Follow me; I will lead you to her."

They entered the apartment together. Columbia raised not her eyes. The heart of Howard beat quick, as, leading him toward the bed, Isabelle drew the cov­ering from the death-stamped face of Mina, and point­ing to her, said emphatically, "Behold the works of thy hands, Howard! Here contemplate the fruits of seduction!"

At the name of Howard, Columbia started; she read the emotions of his soul in his expressive counte­nance. Rising from her seat, she presented the infant to him, and laying her right hand on his arm, called his attention from the pale corse of her lamented ser­vant. "Gaze not there, Howard," said she; "the injuries of the mother are past redress; but behold your child, make reparation here!"

Howard, the gay, the thoughtless, dissipated How­ard was struck to the heart. He saw the once lovely, blooming, cheerful Mina, and inanimate mass. Those sparkling eyes, that first awakened the licentious pas­sion, were closed in death; that heart, that had but too much sensibility, too much sincerity for its own peace, was cold and still. His seductive powers had hurried an amiable creature out of the world, and in­troduced into it a helpless being, who, should he live, through life would blush for the frailty of his mother, and execrate the licentiousness of his father. He took the infant from the arms of Columbia, pressed the hand which she had laid on his arm, attempted to speak, but his voice died away in inarticulate sounds. The bitter tears of self accusation rushed down his cheeks; he returned the child to her; and throwing himself beside the lifeless Mina, gave a loose to the an­guish of his heart.

[Page 119] Isabelle led her daughter from the room; but du­ring the whole night Howard never left it for a mo­ment, and small was the portion of repose which any of the inhabitants of the cottage tasted.

By the dawn of day, Isabelle wished to begin her journey towards London. She sent in a request to Howard, that he would grant her a few moments au­dience. He complied. When he entered the apart­ment, she thus addressed him. "I sent for you not, Sir James, to irritate your sensibility by unseasonable reproaches, nor to inquire what injury I had ever done you, that you have thus wantonly heaped misery on me and mine. I wish but to tell you, that I am fully sensible how unjustly and on what false pretences you have detained me here; and that, knowing my­self perfectly free, and safe in the protection of my queen, and the laws of my country, I may travel without molestation whithersoever I please. I shall immediately proceed towards London. I also wish to inform you, that the poor departed victim, in her dying moments, recommended her infant to my care, and died in the full confidence of my protection and tenderness being extended towards it during its years of helpless infancy. I am sensible of your prior right; the right of nature is incontrovertible; and I have still so good an opinion of your heart (when left to the dictates of reason and religion) as to think you will discharge the duty of a parent with conscientious strictness. But I have to request, you will suffer me to be informed where the child may be placed, that in case of indisposition, I may have it in my power to visit and see that he is properly nursed and attended."

Howard was for a moment silent. His proud spirit was humbled to the dust. But Howard, when con­vinced of an error, knew how to make atonement with­out descending from the dignity of man.

"Noble lady," said he, "I have been highly culpa­ble. My heart tells me at this moment, I have for­feited all right to the protecting power of an Omnipo­tent, by abusing his good gifts, and debasing the no­blest work of his hands. But I am not so far lost to [Page 120] virtue, as to persist in error against the conviction of reason. I have injured you, lady Arundel, I have wounded the heart of your lovely daughter, by a false tale of the death of her lover; but, thank Heaven, re­paration here is not beyond my power. My servants shall attend you; my horses are at your command; depart when you please. You shall have safe conduct to the court of the royal Elizabeth, where you will meet Sir Egbert Gorges, rich in every virtue as well as in the favour of his sovereign. Your request in re­gard to the hapless offspring of indiscretion, shall glad­ly be complied with; his infant wants I will take care shall be amply supplied; I will endeavour, by tender­ness toward him, to atone for the injuries I have done his mother. But your friendship and attention, in di­recting my cares to a proper channel, will be a valua­ble acquisition to him, and an act of condescension to­ward me. I will see the lost Mina repose on her last bed, and then conduct my child and his nurse to Lon­don, where, making ample provision for his support through life, I will leave him to your protection, and seek, in the clash of arms and the pursuit of glory, to lose the remembrance of circumstances which tend at once to my dishonour and disquiet."

Early in the day, Isabelle and her daughter com­menced their journey toward the metropolis. Though the spirits of Columbia had received a severe shock from the death of her favourite Mina, yet the bright prospects that opened to her, in her recovered liberty and the certainty of Sir Egbert's life and safety, contrib­uted in a great degree to dissipate her melancholy; and as they drew near the conclusion of their journey, her heart vibrated with the most pleasurable sensations.

A sudden thunder shower, which obliged them to stop when within a few hours ride of London, imped­ed their journey, and they were necessitated unwilling­ly to sleep another night on the road. After an early repast, they retired to their apartment, when just as Columbia was going into bed, she missed her ring from off her finger. "Oh! madam," said she, "I have lost my ring; and yet I am sure I saw it on my fin­ger [Page 121] just before we went to supper." Every part of the bed-chamber was now searched, every article of her attire carefully shaken, her pockets turned inside out, but all in vain.

"Perhaps," said Isabelle, "you may have dropped it in the room below." The hostess was summoned, and requested to look for it, whilst Columbia, too anxious to think of resting, had (almost unknown to herself) again put on her clothes. The hostess return­ed. " I have been very fortunate," said she; "a gen­tleman who has been seeking game in the neighbour­ing fore [...], being overtaken by night sooner than he expected, entered the house just as you came up stairs, and being shewn into the apartment you had left, has found the ring, and here it is."

Columbia eagerly extended her hand to receive it; but overcome with joy and astonishment, she gave a sudden exclamation of pleasure, and springing toward the door, was instantly folded in the arms of Sir Eg­bert Gorges.

It was he, who with Rawlins had been in pursuit of game in the adjacent woods. Entering the apart­ment Columbia had just left, he saw something glitter on the floor, and stooping, picked up the identical ring which he had placed on her finger at parting. His surprise was excessive; he had heard that the lady Isabelle and her daughter had been in the power of Mary, and it was universally believed they had, through Howard's means, escaped; that they were at that moment under the same roof with him, he had not the most distant idea; but the person [...] dropped the ring might probably give him some information concerning her. He was gazing at it, lost in conjec­ture, his bosom throbbing with anxiety to learn her fate, when the hostess entered the room.

"I beg pardon," said she, "but I come to look for a ring which a lady thinks she has dropped here; I hope if you have seen it, gentlemen, you will restore it; for indeed the poor young lady seems in a sad ta­king about it."

"A young lady?" said Sir Egbert.

[Page 122] "Aye, a young lady," replied our loquacious host­ess; " and as sweet a young lady as eye ever looked on. I warrant it is some love token. Oh! if you had but seen her earnestness, when she entreated me to come and look for it."

"I have found the ring," said Sir Egbert, his heart throbbing so violently as to render respiration diffi­cult; "here, take it to the young lady, and as you give it her, suffer me to see her; leave the door partly open as you go in." A golden argument, with which Sir Egbert enforced his request, prevented objections, and taking the plain gold ring from his own finger, he sent it to Columbia.

It may easily be supposed, that so happy, so unex­pected a meeting, banished sleep effectually from the eyes of all. Isabelle and her daughter returned to the parlour, where inquiry, recital, and unreserved confi­dence on both sides, occupied the remainder of the night. They learnt that young Dudley was safe in the protection of Elizabeth, [...] had restored to him the title and estates of his father, and promised to be his friend and patroness.

Nor was Mina forgot; Rawlins seized the first pause in their interesting conversation to inquire after the ob­ject of his sincere affection.

Isabelle hesitated; she read his tenderness in the emotions of his countenance. At length the fatal truth was disclosed, and the piece of silver which Co­lumbia had taken from around her neck after her de­cease, was restored to him.

He took it; he gazed on it in silence. His manly features were tinged with the pale hue of death. He raised his eyes to the face of Columbia. The look was expressive; it seemed to say, "You loved her la­dy; do you not lament her?" Columbia breathed a sigh of commiseration. His heartstrings, which were drawn almost to breaking, were softened by its [...] influence. He passed his hand across his eyes to [...] the tear, the mournful catastrophe of his beloved Mina had extorted, and putting the piece of [...] his bosom, hastily left the apartment.

[Page 123] The ruddy morn peeped through the eastern gates, before this happy trio thought of separating. Isabelle and Columbia at length retired to their chamber; but Morpheus was flown beyond recall. Unfeeling deity! he makes his longest visits to the ignorant and insensi­ble. The peasant, whilst he labours amongst the corn he sows, strews the somnific poppy; and in return, the leaden-winged power collects its sweets, and sheds them on his pillow. From the couch bedewed with tears he takes his flight, and when ecstatic joy has strung each nerve, and the exhilarated spirits mount toward heaven, he stands aloof and shakes his heavy wings, nor for one moment will impede the tide of bliss, though courted earnestly by weary nature, who lan­guishes for rest from each extreme, whether of grief or pleasure.

Presented at the court of Elizabeth, Columbia shone conspicuous. Her beauty struck the admiring eye; her affability, good sense and virtue captivated the heart. Her delighted, happy mother bestowed her hand on Sir Egbert Gorges with unfeigned satis­faction; and remaining in the capital till Columbia was mother to a son christened Ferdinando, and a daughter named Elizabeth, she retired to Austenbury Castle.

Her old servant Cora was no more. Matthias was in his second childhood; but he experienced all the pleasure of which human nature in its last stage is ca­pable, in the return of his revered lady. The autumn following, he slept in peace; and before the ensuing spring had called forth the primrose, or decked the almond tree in blushing sweets, the lady Isabelle, the descendant of the great Columbus, the daughter of the Peruvian princess Orrab [...]lla, gently declined into the vale of years, and rested in the house appointed for all living.

Columbia on this occasion visited the scene of her juvenile pleasures. Her feelings on the departure of her mother were indescribable. Her tears again con­secrated the memory of the unfortunate Mina; and having given orders that the court yard, the filbert walk, the tower and eastern wing of the Castle should [Page 124] be kept in constant repair, she returned to London, where she continued for many years to shine eminently in the characters of wife, mother, and mistress of a family.

She died in the fiftieth year of her age, after hav­ing given birth to five children; Ferdinando, heir to his father's title and estate; Elizabeth, who was mar­ried to lord Henry Dudley; Jane, who died in her infancy; Edward, who, embracing the service of his country in a nautical profession, and in the year 1585 embarking with the brave and enterprizing Sir Fran­cis Drake, perished in the attack against St. Domingo; and [...]eatina, who married into the ancient and re­spectable family of the Penns.

Sir Egbert Gorges himself lived to a good old age; and dying, bequeathed his title and estates to a son, who thought hereditary honour of little value to the possessor, unless supported by humanity, justice and mercy.

Sir Ferdinando Gorges regarded the honour of an­cestry in no other light than as a stimulus to praise­worthy actions. "My father," said he, "was belov­ed and esteemed for his virtue, honour and integrity; I will not fully the name I bear, by any action derog­atory to the character of a MAN and a CHRIS­TIAN."

Sir Ferdinando Gorges was a gentleman of the old world; should the character appear unnatural to any of the present time, let them remember that they are reading a "tale of old times," and exculpate the au­thor from the charge of romance and improbability.

A certain modern author, a noble author too, (if inheriting a title constitutes nobility) has been at infi­nite trouble to explain the requisites necessary to form the character of a fine gentleman; unfortunately, he forgot humanity, truth and religion. Sir Ferdinando Gorges imagined, that to love and worship his Crea­tor, to scorn to assert a falsehood, and to do as he would be done by in the most minute particular, was to deserve the distinguished rank he inherited from [Page 125] his ancestors; and it is a moral certainty, that Sir Ferdinando was perfectly right in his ideas of the cha­racter of a real gentleman.

CHAP. XV.
A Century when past is but as a Moment.

SIR Ferdinando Gorges took but a small share in the active scenes of life, till the unfortunate Earl of Essex, favourite to Elizabeth, incurred the censure of his sovereign by neglecting her commands, and hur­ried by the impetuosity of his passion, instigated the populace (ever eager for novelty) to arm in his sup­port and defence, which called forth the aid of the loyal subject in behalf of the queen's disputed power. It was then Sir Ferdinando started into notice; he asserted the prerogative of royalty, and enforced the com­mands of his sovereign, not as the will of a despotic tyrant, but as the laws of a well-regulated govern­ment, necessary to be supported, for the peace, interest and security of millions who lived under their pro­tection.

He was a man remarkable for public spirit; it was the main spring that actuated all his pursuits. Every wish of his heart, every undertaking in which he en­gaged, was designed to promote the general welfare.

About the year 1624, a number of persons having formed themselves into a company for planting and setting a colony in New England, North-America, Sir Ferdinando was appointed by royal authority one of the directors, and expended great part of his pater­nal inheritance in promoting the design. The spirit of his great and enterprising ancestor seemed to revive in him, and nothing but his advanced age prevented him from crossing the Atlantic himself, in search of discoveries that might enrich or enlighten the rising generation.

[Page 126] Sir Ferdinando had married, at an early age, a lady of family and fortune; but she lived only to give birth to a daughter; and Sir Ferdinando was so firmly attached to her whilst living, and so sincerely regretted her untimely departure, that he thought no other woman could supply her place. His sister Elizabeth was nearly at the same period left a widow, with only one child, a boy about five years old. To whom could Sir Ferdinando apply to take the charge of his infant daughter, so well as to lady Dudley? And where could the young, the lovely widow find herself so safe, so secure from reproach, as in the family and under the protection of her brother?

As the children grew up, Henry regarded his little cousin Isabelle with more than fraternal affection; but the tenets of the reformed religion forbidding a union between two persons so nearly related by the ties of blood, neither Sir Ferdinando nor lady Dudley en­couraged an affection, which in their ideas was a crime; and with a design to prevent its progress, at the age of nineteen, Henry was sent to travel, and finish his education by gaining a competent knowledge of fo­reign courts and manners.

Though Isabelle Gorges, at the departure of her cousin for the continent, was scarcely fourteen years old, yet Henry was fully sensible of the nature of the emotions he felt in her favour; whilst she, the pure child of simplicity, had no idea but that she might love him beyond all other terrestrial beings, and con­fess it with impunity. She hung upon his neck at taking leave, besought him not to forget her, and spent the whole day in tears. Every ensuing day seemed still to make his absence more intolerable. She thought of him incessantly, spoke of him often, and when a letter arrived, would hang over her fath­er's shoulder with delighted attention whilst he read the contents.

Henry Dudley was a man exactly calculated to do honour to the noble race from whence he sprang; the letters of his governor to his mother were filled with his praises. To a brave, undaunted spirit he united a [Page 127] soul alive to all the finer feelings of humanity. With an ardent thirst for knowledge, he possessed an under­standing that directed his studies and researches to the most useful, laudable objects; from the gentleness of his nature liable to error, but open to conviction, and ever ready to make atonement.

"He has but one fault," said his governor in one of his letters, "and that is an impetuosity of disposition when in pursuit of any favourite object; his affections are ardent in the extreme, and his passions, or rather his excessive sensibility, hurry him often beyond the bounds of reason and discretion. But this error is like a spot on the sun, which may be discernible whilst his beams are weakened by the mists of the morning, but when he shines in full meridian splendour will become imperceptible."

"Dear, beloved Henry!" exclaimed Isabelle, as she listened to her aunt whilst she read the passage. "Oh! why is he not my brother? I am sure though, if he were my brother, I could not love him better than I do now; and you, my charming aunt," she continued, throwing her arms round the neck of lady Dudley, "I think I could not love you more than I do now, but yet I should like to call you mother. I never knew my own mother; you have amply supplied her place. Let me call you mother, dear! dear! mother. Oh! there is something so delightful in the word, that my heart overflows with tender transports as I utter it. What a happy girl I should be if I could say, My father, my mother, and my brother Henry."

The lady Dudley perceived that the innocence of Isabelle was equal to her tenderness, and that in wish­ing to call her mother, she meant no more, than that by her being so, Henry would become her brother.

Henry continued his travels till he had reached his twenty-third year; it was then thought necessary to call him home; and as in his letters he had never mentioned Isabelle only as a relation, Sir Ferdinando hoped absence, and a variety of scenes, had totally eradicated the youthful predilection he had conceived [Page 128] in her favour. But in this he was mistaken; the pas­sion which began in childhood had increased with his years; and though during his travels various other pursuits had contributed to keep it dormant, it still re­mained in his heart, and waited only for a re-union with Isabelle, to blaze anew with more than its former ardency.

During his residence at the court of France, Henry Dudley formed an acquaintance with Howard Fitz­Howard, grandson to the unfortunate Mina.

Sir James Howard had conscientiously performed his promise, in providing splendidly for the education of his son, whom he had christened James Fitz-How­ard; but as he left him in charge with an ecclesiastic of the Romish religion, in order to his being brought up in that faith, the lady Arundel could do no more than sometimes visit him during his infancy. His father died abroad before he was fifteen. Leaving him a very large share of his estates, soon after this event his governor removed him to Paris; and from that period, the family of Sir Egbert Gorges were to­tally unacquainted with his welfare or pursuits.

The priest to whose care he had been entrusted, was a man of strict probity; he paid the utmost attention to his education, and, uniting the friend and compan­ion with the instructor, made him love virtue for its own sake; for, beholding its effects in the conversa­tion and manners of his respected tutor, he grew em­ulous to copy what appeared so amiable. His father had been well-known to some of the most noble fami­lies in France, and Fitz-Howard, at an early age, found himself in very elevated circle, caressed and esteemed by all. He married the daughter of a rich farmer-general, and Howard Fitz-Howard was the only surviving fruit of the union.

This young man was a character composed of con­trarieties, at one versatile as the wind, and boisterous as the waves. With scarcely a trait of his father's virtues, he inherited the vices of his grandfather, with all that imbecility of mind, that heedless credulity, which had been the cause of the ruin of his grand­mother. [Page 129] Eager in the pursuit of pleasure, a passion­ate admirer of female beauty, and master of an afflu­ent fortune, uncontrolled by any, he lavished it with a profuse hand on those who flattered his follies, careless whether they were deserving favour or contempt.

It may be thought strange, that a young man like Henry Dudley could form an intimacy with such a character. But youth is ever unsuspecting, and the generous nature of Dudley could not imagine the gaiety and vivacity of Fitz-Howard was almost the only recommendation he possessed.

At the time Henry was recalled home, Fitz-How­ard expressed an wish to accompany him to England. Madame Fitz-Howard had never, from his infancy, ventured to contradict any wish of her darling; and, unwilling as she was to part with him, she at length consented to his going, on condition that the visit was limited to six months. Accordingly the two friends, attended by their respective governors, arrived in En­gland about the middle of November, and with all the speed the mode of travelling then in use would allow, proceeded immediately to London. The last rays of daylight glimmered in the west as they crossed the Thames, and before they reached the mansion of Sir Ferdinando Gorges, the family were quietly settled to the employments of the evening.

Sir Ferdinando was reading to his wife and daugh­ter, who were employed in embroidering a dress, in which Isabelle was to be presented at the court of James the First, who now filled the throne of the de­ceased Elizabeth; uniting, by his accession to the British crown, the two kingdoms of England and Scot­land in one. (This monarch was son to the unfortu­nate Mary, queen of Scots, who was beheaded at Fotheringay Castle during the reign of Elizabeth, after having been detained a prisoner there upwards of fifteen years.)

Isabelle Gorges was now eighteen. Her features were regular, but not at first view strikingly handsome. The radiance of her mild blue eyes did not dart at once upon the heart, taking the astonished senses cap­tive; [Page 130] but through the softening shade of long, dark, silken lashes, stole imperceptibly on the soul, and made it all her own. Her stature was above the middle size, yet not so tall as to render her person masculine. Her limbs were round, and finely proportioned. A chaste dignity, tempered by the most winning softness, informed her manners, and rendered her irresistibly charming.

It must be remembered, that Dudley had not seen her for above four years. Imagine, then, what must be his feelings, when he saw the lively, affectionate girl, transformed into the elegant, dignified woman!

Isabelle had been hourly expecting her cousin, and was too much occupied in anticipating the pleasures of their meeting, to be very attentive to her father's reading; nay, even the work in which she was en­gaged, though it continued to employ her fingers, did not for a moment occupy her thoughts. Every noise in the court yard, every quick step ascending the stairs, made her heart beat quick, and her eyes would glance eagerly toward the door.

A confused murmur in the great hall had made Sir Ferdinando pause. "He is come," said Isabelle, drop­ping her work and starting from her seat. The door opened, and Dudley was in a moment at the feet of his mother. Released from the maternal embrace, he turned toward his lovely cousin, and received a welcome, which filled the breast of Fitz-Howard with envy. Recovered from the momentary delirium that ever pervades the too sensible system upon a re-union with beloved friends, Dudley presented his new friend, who was received with cordiality, and immediately invited to take an apartment in the house of Sir Fer­dinando, during his residence in London.

A very few days served to convince the father of Isabelle, that the absence Henry had been obliged to submit to, from his cousin, had acted in the same man­ner as a small quantity of water does when thrown on a fierce fire, gave a momentary damp to its pro­gress, only that it might burst forth with double vio­lence, [Page 131] destroying every object that attempted to oppose its fury.

Isabelle, modest, timid, and tremblingly alive to feel the smallest infringement on the delicacy of her sex, was yet susceptible of a pure, ardent passion for her cousin. Fitz-Howard, an inmate in their family, read the workings in the minds of all; for each strove to hide from the other real sentiments. The lady Dudley, and her brother Sir Ferdinando, saw with concern the passion which consumed their children; but they endeavoured to conceal that knowledge even from each other, still labouring, by various schemes, to divert the attention of Isabelle and Henry different ways.

Henry, when conversing with Fitz-Howard, would speak with rapturous eloquence in praise of his cousin; but if his friend at any time accused him of being too partial, he would say, "Is it not natural for brothers to be partial to their sisters?" "Surely," replied Fitz Howard, "but do you love Isabelle Gorges no more than you would love a sister?" "No more, on my honour." Dudley would reply, and immediately change the conversation.

Lady Dudley, thinking to fathom the sentiments of Isabelle in regard to her son, would speak of him in her presence. At the smallest encomium bestowed on Henry by his mother, the eyes of Isabelle would beam with pleasure; a brighter glow would ornament her cheeks; and her coral lips, half unclosed by the smile of innate satisfaction, displaying her pearly teeth, would give that chaste animation to her whole counte­nance, as rendered it scarcely a degree below angelic. When on the contrary, should she hear a syllable of disapprobation escape her aunt, her lips would trem­ble, her cheek lose its carnation hue; and her eyes half filled with tears, her brow contracted by the op­pression of her heart, would seem to say, "Do not speak harshly of him, I am certain he does not deserve it."And when lady Dudley has remarked that Hen­ry was an uncommon favourite, she would reply, "Cer­tainly he is, and can you blame me? Is he not your [Page 132] son? Surely I may love him for your sake, and you will not contemn me."

Thus every person that composed the family of Sir Ferdinando, endeavoured to conceal their real feelings; but Fitz-Howard read them all. From his first in­troduction, he had felt his heart strongly drawn to­ward Isabelle. At first, he imagined an insuperable objection would arise from the passion of Dudley; but when from various circumstances he learnt that the parents of neither party approved that passion, he con­ceived the idea of ingratiating himself with lady Dud­ley, and leading her, by imperceptible degrees, to ap­prove his own pretensions. He foresaw that the dif­ference of religion would prove an almost insurmount­able obstacle [...] but Fitz-Howard had not been educa­ted in a manner, that would lead him to think either religion or morality was of any very great conse­quence, when opposed against his own inclinations.

In order to accomplish this desired end, he in turn made himself the friend and confidant of all. He lis­tened attentively to Sir Ferdinando's account of new discoveries, and approved all the plans he had form­ed for the extending of the blessings of navigation and commerce over the whole habitable globe. With Dudley, he joined in extolling the beauty, virtue and accomplishments of Isabelle, and without pretending to perceive the extent of his attachment, encouraged the affection he seemed to disapprove.

To the lady Isabelle he was another character; talked of the different opinions that were adopted by the people of England in regard to religious matters; mentioned his own faith, not as opposing it to the faith of the pious, enthusiastic lady Elizabeth; but ap­pearing to wish instruction In the right way, as desir­ing to have his own errors corrected. Nor was this conduct entirely the result of art; it was chiefly the effect of nature. For Fitz-Howard could never main­tain his own opinion against strong argument. In­deed, he could hardly be said to have an opinion of his own; and had he conversed four successive days with persons of four different religions, he would, at [Page 133] the end of that period, have been persuaded that he with whom he conversed last, was certainly most right. Thus versatile by nature, it cannot be wondered at, that, finding this versatility likely to forward his most favourite views, he took no pains to correct it, but gave free indulgence to a disposition, which, whilst it rendered him agreeable to every separate branch of the family, promised him ample gratification in the favour of the aunt of Isabelle.

To Isabelle herself he was tender, assiduous; in short, all that love could inspire, or friendship wish. She rode, she walked, she danced and chatted with Fitz-Howard without restraint; though at the same time she would have preferred the company of Dudley. But if his company gave her most pleasure, it was a pleasure so mixed with anxiety, such fear [...] of offending, such trembling apprehension and embarrass­ment, that it became no longer desirable, and she evidently avoided giving him any opportunities of entertaining her, except in the presence of her father and lady Dudley.

Fitz-Howard possessed but little penetration, but a very competent share of vanity supplied its place. He imagined that the apparent preference Isabelle shewed him, was the effect of real liking, and that she was captivated by his person, manners and fortune. Buoy­ed up by these ideas, he made proposals to her father, offered to become a proselyte to the reformed religion, and in every other respect his alliance was unexcep­tionable.

Sir Ferdinando, flattering himself that Isabelle was not altogether averse to the union, referred Fitz-How­ard to his sister for a final answer; and lady Dudley, prepossessed in his favour by his specious manners, ea­ger to confirm him a convert to the Protestant cause, and wishing to put an end at once to the hopes of her son, approved his suit; and that very evening, as they were sitting conversing together in an unconstrained, confidential manner, declared to her niece the appro­bation she had given to the proposals of Fitz-Howard, and advised her seriously to think of him as the man destined to become her husband.

[Page 134] Astonishment for some moments kept her silent; at length she told her aunt, that she was by no means partial to the man she so warmly recommended, nor did she wish to alter her state; she was perfectly con­tented with her present condition. Happy in the af­fection of her father and lady Dudley, she wished not to quit their protection for that of a stranger, and begged leave to decline the proposed union.

"I am much afraid, Isabelle," said that lady, "that you nourish improper, nay, criminal wishes. I fear you indulge chimerical hopes of a future union with Henry Dudley. But do not deceive yourself, my child; whilst I live, those hopes can never be realized, without incurring the severest malediction of an of­fended parent."

"If I know my own heart, madam," said Isabelle, somewhat piqued by her aunt's peremptory prohibi­tion. "it never yet has indulged improper hopes or criminal wishes. Its every emotion has been regu­lated by your precepts, and I trust it will never dis­honour its noble instructress. But if to love and pre­fer your son above all other human beings constitutes guilt, I am in some measure guilty. I am sensible of the barrier custom, and perhaps you will say, religion, has placed between us; I have no wish to break through that barrier; but whilst I am satisfied with loving him only as a brother, I see no reason why I should be compelled to become the wife of another."

"Nor shall you be compelled, my dearest cousin,"said Dudley, who being in the adjoining apartment (the door of which had been accidentally left ajar) had overheard the whole conversation; "no divine ordinance forbids our union; then why should super­stition impose such shackles on us? Have we not rea­son to direct us? Why then should we submit blindly and implicitly to the opinions of other? Madam, look not thus angry on me," continued he, turning toward his mother. "You have heard from her own lips the preference with which my charming cousin honours me; then give her to me freely, and with her bestow your maternal benediction. For here, in [Page 135] the sight of Heaven, I vow solemnly to have no [...] but her, to live but for her sake, and may that mo­ment put a period to my existence, in which she is separated from me."

It was in vain lady Dudley attempted to interrupt him before the solemn vow had passed his lips; in vain she entreated him to recal it. He repeated it with a ve­hemence that made her tremble; and turning from him in displeasure, she took the hand of the affrighted Isabelle, and led her from the apartment. Disguise had now become useless to [...] parties. Isabelle, daily tormented by the assiduities of Fitz-Howard, admon­ished by her aunt and threatened by her father, felt existence a burthen. The time she was obliged to pass in company she laboured under the most cruel constraint, and her hours of retirement were spent in sighs, tears, and unavailing complaints.

Dudley no longer made one of the family. He had removed to a house of his own, where he had solicited his mother to preside; but her affection for her brother had prompted her at first to decline the proposal, and the reason may easily be conceived, why Henry now ceased to urge his request. Fitz-Howard too had quitted the house of Sir Ferdinando, for apartments where, being himself master, his actions were not so strictly scrutinized as they were liable to be in the family of a man virtuous from principle, and sincerely pious, without being either a bigot or an enthusiast.

Though Dudley was no longer an inmate in the family, he was a daily visitant at the house of his un­cle, and found sufficient opportunities to forward his suit with Isabelle; persecuted on one side, and ear­nestly solicited on the other, where is the wonder that she should listen to the syren voice of honourable love, and, bestowing her hand on him who had long pos­sessed her heart, become the wife of Dudley? Secretly, and by his own chaplain, was the ceremony perform­ed. They wait [...]d a favourable moment to supplicate a paternal blessing, and, fearful of a premature discov­ery, became more circumspect in their behaviour to­wards each other; their interviews were conducted [Page 136] with the utmost caution, and suspicion was again lulled asleep. But Fitz-Howard still persisted in his addresses, though treated with the most contemptuous coldness by the object of his adoration.

The spring was now rapidly advancing, and the la­dy Dudley removed with her niece to an elegant seat she possessed near Windsor. Sir Ferdinando, fully oc­cupied in the laudable design of extending the bless­ings himself enjoyed, to distant, unenlightened nations, seldom quitted the capital, except for an hour or two, to breathe the fresh air, and enjoy the pleasure of be­holding his beloved child.

In this retirement, Dudley often visited his wife; and unfortunately, Fitz-Howard, who had taken up his summer residence at Windsor, saw him come from the garden of lady Dudley one morning at four o'clock. That a son should be seen coming from the dwelling of his mother, was in itself nothing surprising; but Fitz-Howard knew there was a coolness between them, and shrewdly suspected to whom these early vis­its were paid. His chief knowledge of the sex being formed from his acquaintance among the most un­worthy part, he had always affirmed that every wom­an may be won, however seemingly virtuous. Im­pressed with this idea, he imagined Isabelle had forgot the respect due to herself, and, whilst his breast swelled with envy at the supposed good fortune of Dudley, he resolved to share her favours with him.

To this end he became more assiduous in his visits; and one evening having followed her into the garden, informing her first with his knowledge of Henry's vis­its, he addressed her in terms that made the chaste soul of Isabelle congeal to an icicle. Swelling resentment for a moment kept her silent, and when her words found vent, that laudable resentment added keenness to her reproof. Her pointed rebukes, which should have effectually repulsed his passion, served but to in­flame it; he caught her in his arms; she shrieked; her voice caught the ear of her husband, who had just entered the garden by a private door, to keep an appoint­ment he had made with her the preceding day. Again [Page 137] she shrieked; he redoubled his speed, and entering the arbour, struck the assailer of his honour to the earth, before his step had been heard approaching.

Isabelle was a woman possessed of strong fortitude; but terror, joy, apprehension at once assailed her, and she sunk fainting upon the earth. Her husband stoop­ed to raise her, and the cowardly Fitz-Howard, med­itating only revenge, recovered from the blow which had for a moment stunned his faculties, snatched a sti­letto from his side, where he constantly wore it, and plunged it into the bosom of Dudley.

The cries of Isabelle had reached the ear of her aunt, and she had sent out servants in quest of her. They approached the arbour with torches, at the very moment this bloody deed was perpetrated, and in the confusion that ensued, Fitz-Howard escaped. The apparently lifeless bodies were raised, and borne into the house. Isabelle in a few moments recovered, but the soul of Dudley was fled forever.

The despair of his mother was great, yet was it not to be compared with the anguish of heart under which the unfortunate Isabelle suffered; for to the loss of the being she prized most on earth, was added the re­proaches of her aunt, and the resentment of her father. In the first moments of her sorrow she disclosed the secret of their marriage, and lady Dudley, far from blaming herself as the author of the fatal catastrophe, told the heart broken Isabelle, it was a just punishment (no doubt sent from Heaven) for her disobedience and unlawful love.

Sir Ferdinando forbade her his presence, and she was driven from the house of her aunt by repeated taunts and upbraidings. As the widow of Dudley, she was in affluent circumstances; but of what value is wealth to the possessor,

She could not be said to live; it was barely exist­ence; existence not worth preserving, yet obliged to be endured.

[Page 138] At length she became a mother, and the tenderness, the cares and pleasures naturally attendant on the ma­ternal character, awakened her dormant sensibility. Her feelings were not dead, only benumbed; as the limpid stream, arrested in its course by the chilly hand of winter, becomes stagnant, nay, almost an impene­trable mass, till the infant spring, with genial warmth, gradually dissolves the frigid spell; when it again proceeds in its usual meanders, beautifying and fer­tilizing every meadow through which it passes. So the mind of Isabelle, awakened from its torpid state by her infant son, expanded to receive the new-born pleasure of rearing and instructing him. Every fond affection of her soul centered in him, and if she studi­ed to improve her mind, it was ever with the delight­ful hope of transmitting that improvement to the mind of her child.

From the day of Henry's death, the lady Dudley had declined, and she died without forgiving Isabelle.

Sir Ferdinando's resentment had been powerful, but his affection towards his daughter was greater; and when there was no longer any one to keep the former awake, it gradually [...] away, and the latter revived with all its primitive servor. He sent for his daughter, was reconciled to her, and breaking up his own household, became an inmate in her mansion. His grandson, amused his solitary ho [...]s, and made the chords of sensibility vibrate in delicious harmony; whilst Isabelle, with cheerful, unaffected, filial piety, softened the pillow of declining age, and strewed the path that leads but to the grave, with flowers so sweet, its rude descent was scarce perceptible; nor did [...] thorn or [...] appear, to impede the journey or to wound the feet, that must per force pass over it.

Young Dudley was christened Edward; "For alas!" said his mother, "Henry was an unfortunate name. Caressed, almost [...] by his grandfather, and educated immediately under his own eye, Edward almost imperceptibly imbibed the enterprizing spirit that had characterized his ancestors.

[Page 139] He delighted in conversing with Otooa, a native of North-America, who was a servant to Sir Ferdi­nando. His little heart would bound with transport at the description of vast oceans, immeasurable conti­nents, and climes as yet unexplored by Europeans; and, seized with an irresistible desire to visit the new world in America, in the year 1632, embarked for New-England. His inquiring nature found ample gratification, in observing in this novel scene, the va­rious flowers, plants, shrubs, insects, birds and animals, to which the European world were strangers. Simple in his manners, rational in his opinions, and truly sin­cere in his professions of piety, Edward Dudley became a favourite in the colony. And when the death of his grandfather called him home, he was parted with unwillingly, and wish sincere regret.

He married in the year 1644 the lady Arrabella Ruthve [...]; and the troubles in England soon after in­creasing, on account of the persecution of dissenters, whose religious tenets Dudley favoured, he sold his estates; and, purchasing a vessel, which he loaded with provisions, farming utensils, and some merchan­dize, himself and lady, (who from that time was styl­ed dame Arrabella) with an extensive household, em­barked for New-Hampshire, and landed, after a fatigu­ing voyage, in October, 1645, in tolerable health, and most excellent spirits.

CHAP. XVI.

DUDLEY and his fair companion having trans­ported over, in the vessel with themselves, the frame, and every material necessary to form a com­plete habitation, immediately on landing, employed workmen to set it up; but the cold coming on more rapidly than they expected, but little progress could [Page 140] be made that winter, and Arrabella suffered much in­convenience from the want of those indulgencies to which, from her birth, she had been accustomed. But she was not a woman to complain for trifles, or, having once embarked in a cause, easily to be frighted from pursuing it.

The inclemency of the winter was accordingly passed over with patience, and as soon as the enlivening sun re­laxed the springs and called the tender herbage forth, two apartments in their new house being rendered hab­itable, she exerted her utmost endeavours to add a de­gree of neatness and elegance to what was absolutely necessary for comfort. All the accomplishments she possessed, were at her leisure hours exerted to embel­lish and render their dwelling pleasant. It was situ­ated above ten miles from the sea.

Dudley had, on his first arrival, purchased a large tract of uncultivated land. Having got a small por­tion of it clear, immediately surrounding his habita­tion, Arrabella, both by her taste, and knowledge in agriculture, assisted in rendering it at once pleasant and serviceable. Part of it was converted into a kitchen garden, to the cultivation of which Arrabella was particularly attentive. With her own hands would she weed, water, or transplant the young vege­tables; and having sown a few flower seeds which she had brought with her from Europe, the watching a plant as it advanced in growth, or a bud as it gradu­ally disclosed the opening flower, afforded her the most innocent satisfaction; and from this constant at­tention to her garden, she gleaned at once employ­ment, health and amusement.

But Arrabella did not neglect her needle; and when the ensuing year produced them a small quanti­ty of flax from their own land, with what exulting pride did she purchase a wheel, and set about manu­facturing it into linen for her family use!

Delightful age of primitive simplicity, when the mother of a numerous family did not blush (though surrounded by affluence) to set the example of indus­try to her daughters; when she would preside amongst [Page 141] them, whilst they were converting the produce of them father's flocks and fields into clothing for the family. And with what a laudable pride did she look round on her husband, her children and servants, and say, "That cloth, that linen, those gowns, are all of our own manufacturing."

Their wants were few, and those few were amply supplied; plenty presided at their board, and cheerful­ness was a constant inmate in their dwellings. But indolence introduced luxury with her innumerable train of artificial wants. Though at first repulsed, still would the [...] return, varying her shape to gain her favourite [...] to pride, she took the form of necessity; to the [...]luptuous, she wore the semblance of indulgence; to [...] she appeared in some seductive form, and none but the truly industrious hand and contented heart could bid defiance to her arts. Alas! the number was but small that escaped the contagion she spread through all ranks of people, till at length the fascination became universal. By her magic pow­er she threw a mist over the discerning optics of even the most rational; they saw not the deformity she concealed under her gorgeous robe, but blindly wor­shipped, whilst she led them to the very brink of ruin.

A few years rendered the habitation of Dudley and Arrabella extremely delightful, and, added to other numerous comforts and blessings which they enjoyed, was a rising family of beautiful children. How did this family at once increase the pleasures and the cares of their respectable [...] Anxious not only for their present but future happiness, she laboured to cultivate their understandings, and point out to them sources of mental pleasure, that would delightfully fill up every moment when employment paused.

The morning walk, the evening ramble, still afford­ed something to instruct and improve. Nor was the winter evening sterile or unprofitable. Edifying con­versation, books and needle-work, charmingly diversi­fied the scene, blending the useful with the agreeable.

It was in the summer of 1661, the eldest child of Dudley, a son named William, who was about fifteen [Page 142] years old, and his youngest, a daughter called Rachel, scarcely two, when some disagreements having fallen out between the native Indians and the English settlers, the former frequently made inroads on the latter, plan­dering and burning their habitations, and either mas­sacreing the inhabitants, or taking them prisoners and carrying them up the country, where they often exer­cised on them the most wanton barbarity; scalping, maiming and disfiguring them, if at last they suffered them to escape with life. But what could be expect­ed from the untaught savage, whose territories had been invaded by strangers, and [...] perhaps had suf­fered, from the cruelty of the [...], in the person of a father, brother, son, or [...] near connexion. Revenge is a principle inhere [...] human nature, and it is only the sublime and heavenly doctrine of Chris­tianity that teaches us to repel the impulse, and return good for evil.

The morning was fine. Cheerful had Arrabella arose, and, surrounded by her little family, joined with their father in their morning adorations to the Giver of all good. This indispensable duty performed, Dud­ley went to superintend his mowers; and his wife, calling her girls, to the number of five, together, began the usual task of instruction. But the little Rachel was not inclined to be quiet; she was more inclined for play than sitting still. She climbed up in her mother's lap, kissed her, and [...] childish sport threw the book on the floor.

"It is impossible to attend [...] to any thing," said her mother, "whilst [...] little mad-cap is here. Do, William, take her into the garden. William obeyed, and from the garden strayed into an adjoining wood, where, intent on a book which his father had desired him to peruse with attention, he suffered the little prattler to play round, pluck flowers, and catch grasshoppers.

Arrabella was pursuing her employment, with all the delight a fond mother can feel, who marks the daily improvement of her children, and sees them ea­gerly striving who should foremost reach the goal of [Page 143] perfection, when an old servant, the only male then about the house, rushed into the apartment, exclaim­ing, with looks of horror, "The natives! the natives!" Starting from her seat with precipitation, she turned towards the window, and saw a band of savages cross­ing through a field of corn, not very far from the house. "Fly! fly! my children," she cried, taking the two youngest by the hand; and followed by the eldest, they rushed out of a door that led a contrary way to the road the savages were coming.

There was in the very wood where William had wandered with his infant sister, a cavern formed by the cunning hand of nature, the recesses of which Ar­rabella had in days of happiness frequently explored. Her presence of mind in this terrifying exigence did not forsake her. With hasty, yet trembling steps, she led her children thither; nor was it till resting on the ground in its remotest winding, when she felt her five children hanging about her, that she recollected Will­iam and Rachel.

"Oh! my children! my children!" exclaimed she, suddenly starting up. "We are all here, mother," they answered with united voices.

"But where! Oh where!" cried she franticly, "is your brother William, and your sister Rachel?" "Oh! my poor brother, my dear, sweet little sister," said the children severally; "let us go back, mother, let us go back and look for them."

"No, my darlings, no!" she replied, sinking again on the ground, and drawing them closer towards her; "that would indeed be to suffer you to run into the very claws of the destroyer. The great God of heav­en and earth inspired me with the thought of bring­ing you here for safety; he will, I trust, protect us; and his power to protect and save, even from the jaws of death, is equal throughout this wide-extended uni­verse. He can guard all your brothers, your sister, and your father too. Let us kneel, my children, and implore his mercy."

At the mention of their father, and the recollection of their brothers, Charles, James and Christopher, who [Page 144] were in the field with him, the girls wept aloud. Ar­rabella poured forth her soul in fervent prayer, and the kneeling innocents, in broken accents, sobbed amen.

The female servants, terrified at the approach of the savages, in their eagerness to elude them ran di­rectly into their power, and instantly became victims to their fury. They dispatched them with their toma­hawks, and stripping off their scalps, kept them as proofs of their endeavours to extirpate the English from amongst them. The man who had alarmed his mistress ran out of the house by the same way she had taken; but thinking it would be right to alarm his master, instead of following her, made the best of his way to the field where the mowers were at work.

The savages having rifled the house of provisions, wearing apparel, and every thing which they conceiv­ed would be any ways serviceable to themselves, set fire to it, and then departed, with horrid yells of ex­ultation at having done all the mischief in their power to an English family. William was, at the moment the flames burst forth, just returning with his little sister. His father's house on fire, and a band of In­dians in frantic rage hastening towards them, was a sight that filled with the most horrid presages the breast of William. He saw there would be no way to escape them; so, clasping the infant Rachel in his arms, he knelt on the ground, fear almost suspending every faculty.

One of the foremost of the savage troop had raised his tomahawk to dispatch the boy; but the child, with one arm clinging to her brother's neck, extended the other little innocent hand as if to ward off the blow, and screaming, cried, "Don'tee, don'tee." At that moment a squaw, who held a papouse at her breast, threw herself before the suppliant children, and said in their own language. "You shall not kill the infant."

The attempt seemed to have been the impulse of the moment, for it required but little persuasion to turn the Indian from his purpose; he dropped the instru­ment of death; William started from the ground, ran to the kind hearted woman, kissed her hands, bathed [Page 145] them with his tears, and pointing to the sky, gave her to understand, that the Power who dwelt above that azure firmament would reward her. Her own infant be­ing returned to her back, (the mode in which the In­dian women in general carry their children) she took Rachel in her arms; and William being made to assist in carrying their plunder, they proceeded or their march; a weary march it was to the poor little captives.

Otawee, for that was the name of their protectress, did all she could to make little Rachel easy, but she continued at intervals to cry for her mother; and William, his feet lacerated by the sharp flints and thorns he encountered in the rugged paths through which he was obliged to pass, his heart bleeding for what he thought must have been the fate of his belov­ed parents, brothers and sisters, proceeded as well as he could till towards the evening of the second day, when, overcome with fatigue, grief and long fasting, (for he could not eat the food they offered him) he fell fainting to the earth. Fortunately they were now near the end of their march, or it is more than proba­ble the unfortunate boy would have been left to perish in the woods. As it was, two young Indians bore him between them to the water-side, put him in a ca­noe, and Otawee sitting down beside him, threw wa­ter on his face, raised his head on her knee, and forc­ing him to swallow a little spirits, he by degrees re­covered.

This party of plunderers were natives of Narha­ganset. Two or three unprincipled and licentious Europeans having made incursions amongst them, plundering their little settlements, burning their wig­wams, and practising other enormities, as must cer­tainly awaken a spirit of revenge in the bosom of per­sons better regulated than those of untutored savages; several families who had beed particularly injured, formed themselves into a party, and embarking in their canoes, proceeded up Connecticut river, landing wher­ever they thought there was no fear of opposition, [Page 146] and wreaking their vengeance on the unguarded and innocent inhabitants.

Dudley had, from his first settlement, been a man of peace; happy in his family, fully employed in cul­tivating and improving his little domain, he stepped not out of his own domestic concerns, except it was to assist a neighbour, (for any European family, settled within twenty miles, was at that early period termed a neighbour) or to instruct a new settler in the best mode of clearing his lands; to which instructions he ever readily added any help his servants, horses, oxen, or even himself could give.

Such a man could hardly be supposed an object of enmity to any; but his habitation had been marked by an Indian who had strayed from his companions. Its lonely situation, its flourishing appearance, which promised plenty of plunder without fear of opposition, determined them to attack it; but when they had committed this outrage on a quiet, inoffensive family, they well knew it would not be long before they were pursued. They accordingly made all the haste they could to the place where they had left their canoes, and embarking with the plunder they had obtained, proceeded immediately home. On their way thither, meeting with a party who came from the more eastern parts; and, fearful that the young captives they had, might, if seen, betray them to the English, they sold them, and William, and Rachel were carried to a greater distance than it could hardly be believed possi­ble for the Indians to proceed in their little birch ca­noes. When being landed on a very wild and totally uncultivated place, they were marched three days journey from the sea-shore, and presented to the squaw of their sachem for servants.

Otooganoo was a man naturally gentle, fond of peace, and eager in his endeavours to promote the welfare of his people. He had ever recommended to them to treat the strangers who were come to settle amongst them with hospitality; but it was not in his power to restrain the impetuosity of youth, or to curb the licentious hand of the rapacious. When the [Page 147] young captives were brought to his wigwam, he re­buked those who brought them, and bade William to banish all his fears; for he would be a father to him, and, if ever opportunity offered, restore him to his natural parent. His wife was particularly pleased with little Rachel, and the kindness of these two good Indians rendered the lives of the brother and sister as comfortable as the nature of their situation would admit of.

CHAP. XVII.
Real Afflictions.

AT the alarm given by the servant mentioned in the preceding chapter, Mr. Dudley, accompa­nied by his labourers and little sons, made all possible haste to the house; but who can describe his feelings, when he beheld the mansion where he had taken his morning's repast in all the security of conscious inno­cence of heart, and in which he had left those treasures of his soul, his wife and seven children, a heap of smok­ing ruins? When he beheld, stretched on the earth, the mangled bodies of his female servants, the forti­tude of the man was lost in the anguish of the husband and father. He raised his hands and eyes in agony towards heaven, his heart was too much oppressed to allow even the relief of tears, and he fell lifeless to the ground. His three sons endeavoured to raise him, they called repeatedly on his name, and finding he re­mained totally insensible, wrung their hands, and wept with convulsive violence.

At length nature, which had been only stunned by the suddenness and greatness of the affliction, in some measure revived. He raised his eyes, he cast them on his weeping boys, and as if, at the sight of them, re­collecting that it was a signal mercy that they were saved from the general wreck, he endeavoured to re­pel the sensibility that had overpowered him, and sum­mon resolution to search round the garden, fields and [Page 148] out-houses, some of which had escaped the fury of the Indians.

But in vain he sought, in vain he repeatedly called on Arrabella and her children; not a vestige of them could he find. That they escaped out of the house before the savages entered, the servant had informed him; but their weakness from age and sex, he imag­ined, would prevent their going far. They might be overtaken in their flight. They might be carried in­to captivity. A thousand conjectures presented them­selves to his distracted thoughts, but none of them glanced towards the right. At length, weary and heart-broken, he was persuaded by his servants to go, with the remains of his family, to the nearest Europe­an settlement. Accordingly, they put the children in a cart, and Mr. Dudley mounting a horse, the la­bourers followed in the best manner they were able, and late at night they arrived at Plymouth; where the relation of the sad events of the day filled the whole settlement with alarm. Every one was ready to sympathize with the respected Dudley, and their sympathy was doubly cordial, as in pitying him, each father of a family felt in might have been his own case.

But to return to the afflicted mother and her daugh­ters. Never was a day and a night passed in more agony, never did day and night appear so tedious; the mother, trembling for the fate of her children, and in her own mind certain that her husband and their father had fallen victims to their savage foe, shudder­ed at every blast of wind that howled through the dreary cavern, thinking it was the yell of the Indians. And if, during the long, long night, weary nature paus­ed in momentary forgetfulness, she would start with redoubled terror, and call on her children severally, fearing, whilst she had ceased to watch, they might have been snatched from her.

Several times did she venture almost to the mouth of the recess; but the raftling of the trees, the sound of animals' feet, which she mistook for human, would make her run back; and nothing but the most pressing [Page 149] calls of hunger, which her children began to express by loud and impatient cries, could have driven her at last from her retreat.

She ventured at last entirely to quit it, and with fee­ble steps led her almost famished little group towards the place where their mansion had stood; but alas! no mansion was there. Faint and dispirited, she sat down on a rock, and gave free vent to the agony of her soul.

"Do not cry so, mother," said the eldest girl, her own voice almost choked with sobs. "I am very hungry," said a younger one.

"Oh! my children! my children!" cried the dis­tracted mother, "we must all perish together. Your father is no more; your mother has neither bread to give you, or where to shelter you from the inclemency of the weather, unless we return to the cavern, and I fear we are too much exhausted to reach even that asy­lum again to-night.

"There is the corn-barn, mother," said one of them, "let us go there." Arrabella consented; they enter­ed it, and some few grains of Indian corn being scat­tered here and there, the children gathered them up, and ate them with avidity. But it was a kind of food, however faint and exhausted, their mother could not swallow. From the ruins of the house they brought part of an earthen pan; this they took to the spring, washed it clean, and took it full of water to her. She drank, and was in some small degree re­freshed.

Arrabella had it in contemplation to go to Plym­outh; but her own increasing weakness, and the ex­treme youth of two of her girls, made her reject the idea as impracticable; added to which, in the after­noon was a heavy tempest of thunder, lightning, rain and wind, which would have made such a journey almost impossible, even in the best circumstances.

During the whole night, the tempest continued; and in the morning this unfortunate mother was so re­duced by anguish of heart and continued fasting, added to the damp of the floor on which she lay, which had [Page 150] given her a violent cold and stiffened all her limbs, as to find herself totally unable to rise. She firmly be­lieved her last hour was at hand, and recommending her children to the protection of the Almighty, she lay in silent and uncomplaining expectation of termi­nating a life, in which she had enjoyed a very large share of happiness, and which, deprived of its chief comfort in the chosen friend and partner of her heart, had now no longer any charms for her.

The elder girls, by searching abroad, had procured some little sustenance from the fields and hedges; and this they would have gladly shared with their sis­ters; but alas! poor innocents, they were too far ex­hausted to be revived by the participation. They lay on the floor beside their mother, and a faint moan, expressive of their sufferings, was the only sign they gave of existence.

The third morning dawned from the time of the enemy's invasion, and still no hope of relief presented itself to the mind of Arrabella; and indeed to such a state was she reduced, that hope, fear, every lively sen­timent was extinct, and a torpid despair had taken en­tire possession of her soul.

Dudley, from excessive anxiety, was so very ill as to be unable to leave his bed. The three boys were stationary in his chamber; they hung over him, they administered every nourishment or medicine the doc­tor prescribed. Whilst he slept, they waited in trem­bling silence, and when he awoke, eagerly strove who should receive his first request, and fly to comply with it.

But the old servant and one of the labourers, after talking the matter over one evening, resolved upon visiting the scene of desolation the ensuing morning, to see if any thing worth preservation could be found amongst the ruins. It need hardly be mentioned, that in th [...]se early days, superstition, (the natural at­tendant on ignorant minds and contracted educations) pervaded the understandings of almost every class of people.

[Page 151] During the walk of old Philip and his companion, from Plymouth to the domain of Dudley, their con­versation had turned chiefly on spirits, haunted houses, and supernatural appearances of every kind. Philip affirmed, that it was his belief, innocent blood was never spilt, but that the spirit of the departed, nightly visited the spot where it had been driven from its earthly tabernacle, and called for vengeance on the murderer; nor would it be at peace till that vengeance was exe­cuted. "And for my part,"continued he with great earnestness, his astonished auditor (who not knowing how to read and write his own name, looked upon Philip, who could, as a wonder of learning) listening with astonishment, "for my part, I would no more go to these ruins after sunset, than I would put my hand into a burning fire; for I have no doubt but my poor mistress and her dear little ones—" And here he paused to give vent to a gush of tears, and then, as if thinking such weakness in a man required an excuse, he added, "She was a good mistress; we all loved her like a mother."

"Yes, that we did," replied his companion; " I shall never see the likes of her."

"Don't say that," replied Philip; "I hope there be many as good; but I am morally certain it be an un­possibility to find a better. But as I was saying, I dares to say, she do walk over the ruins every night, and with her dear little girls. Oh! mercy on me, what's that? Only that it be noon-day, or I should think—"

"As I am a sinner," said the other, "I do see sum­ma [...] as like little Eliza."

They stopped, they gazed upon what at the mo­ment they believed a vision; it was the eldest daugh­ter of Dudley, who, having strayed toward the road in the hope of seeing some human being, of whom she might solicit help for her dying mother and sisters, she saw Philip approaching, and instantly knew him. The excess of [...] joy had nearly proved fatal to her, and she sunk down amongst some bushes, which in­stantaneously [Page 152] concealing her, the simple clowns imag­ined she had vanished.

"Well, could not you have sworn you saw her?" said Philip.

"Yes, indeed," replied the other, "I would take my bible oath of it."

They had now got nearly opposite the shrubs which concealed her. The poor child had not entirely faint­ed; but her languid frame, overcome by the sudden flood of transport that rushed on her heart at the sight of a human creature, and one she knew, had occasion­ed a momentary suspension of her faculties. She heard their steps as they approached nearer, and raising her­self on her knees, cried, "Philip, dear, good Philip!" at the some time extending her hand towards him.

Philip trembled, stood aghast, and struggled for breath. His companion covered his face with his hat, and fell on his knees. But Eliza soon dissipated their fears, by coming feebly towards them, again repeat­ing, "Philip, dear Philip!" Then earnestly clasping her hands, she added, "Come, come, and save my mother."

Fearful conjecture was now lost in joyful certainty. "It is Eliza herself," cried Philip, catching her up in his arms. "She is alive! Oh! thank God! thank God! And my mistress too. How did you escape the Indians? Oh! this will cure my master; this will make him forget his other losses; they are noth­ing. A man may build another house, but where could he find another wife like my worthy madam Dud­ley?"

They now, directed by Eliza, had reached the place where, scarcely existing, lay the despairing Arrabella. One child lay on her left arm, its head resting on her bosom; another lay at her feet, to all appearance in­animate; a third was seated at a little distance, sup­porting in her feeble arms a younger sister.

"Oh merciful!" said Philip; "good father, what's here? My mistress and my sweet little ladies all dying. Go run," turning to the labourer, "run back to town, tell them to send a cart, to send victuals and drink, [Page 153] and a nurse and a doctor, with bed and a bedstead, and every thing. Good Sirs, what shall I do? Why don't you run? What do you stand for?"

In this manner did Philip exclaim, walking back­ward and forward in wild disorder; one moment stop­ping to gaze at the pale and almost inanimate form of Arrabella, and the next running from one child to the other, sometimes weeping, sometimes bidding them to be hearty, and frequently searching his pock­ets, as though he could in them find something to sat­isfy their hunger.

Extreme sensibility is often not only painful to the possessor, but prejudicial to those whom we may wish to serve. Philip, with a soul exquisitely formed to dictate all the soft offices of humanity, was not so ca­pable of rendering a real service to his distressed mis­tress, as was the labourer, who, simply comprehend­ing the necessity of immediate relief being obtained, exerted his utmost speed to return to Plymouth, where, explaining the nature and urgency of his errand, a short time only elapsed before, with an easy convey­ance, restorative cordials, and several women, he again reached the desolated mansion of Dudley.

The meeting between Arrabella, her husband and children, was too pathetic to admit of description. The joy such an unexpected meeting occasioned, would have been too exquisite for human nature to support, had it not been allayed by the certainty that William and Rachel were lost beyond hope of recovery. With hearts overflowing with transport, they blessed God that eight of their children were living; and though they acutely felt the loss of two, yet gratitude tem­pered affliction, and prevented their repining at the decrees of Him, whose judgments ever go hand in hand with his mercies.

When Dudley's health was in some measure restor­ed, he began to think of preparing another habitation before the approach of winter; but no persuasion could prevail on him to suffer another house to be erected on the spot where he had formerly lived. He even took a dislike to the whole colony of New-Hamp­shire, [Page 154] and selling his lands, he joined a number of per­sons, at that time about to make a settlement at Cas­co-Bay.

It was in vain Arrabella represented to him the dif­ficulty of clearing and cultivating a new spot; his mind had never regained its firmness after the shock it had received, and he persisted in removing, from the bosom of his friends, to an uncultivated wilderness. But Arrabella was no longer in her prime. The brilliant genius and industrious hands which had con­tributed to improve and embellish their former dwell­ing, debilitated by sickness and sorrow, had sunk into inanity.

For fifteen years, Dudley and his wife suffered al­most every species of affliction which human nature can endure and live. The throat-distemper raged, and in ten days swept off all their children; the cold Arrabella had contracted in the cavern, and sleeping on the damp floor of the corn-barn, had given her a rheumatic complaint, which often confined her eight months out of the twelve. Dudley sought, in the so­ciety of his neighbours, a relief from reflection; and his intellectual faculties were so weakened, that he easily became the dupe of the artful or avaricious, and his sixtieth birth-day beheld him poor in purse, depressed in spirit, and devoid of health.

"And if virtue, piety and integrity are thus over­whelmed with misery," (asks the man who professes infidelity) "who can believe in an over-ruling Power, who punishes the evil doer, and rewards the good ac­cording to their works?"

"All must, all do, who do not wilfully harden their hearts, and shut their eyes against the light of Heav­en," replies the humbly hoping Christian; "for as the mansion of an earthly king is adorned by gold sev­en times tried, silver purified by fire, and precious stones, which, ere they attain a proper brilliancy, must submit to the knife, the saw, or chissel of the ar­tist; so must those souls, destined to shine in the ever­lasting mansion of the King of kings, pass through the [Page 155] fiery ordeal of affliction, be purified, and polished by the correcting finger of the great Source and First Cause of all symmetry and beauty."

CHAP. XVIII.
William and Rachel.

IN the year 1674, the war between the native Amer­icans and the European settlers raged with un­common fury. William Dudley, who had, with his little sister, been carried into captivity in 1661, had now become a personage of great consequence amongst them. Otooganoo, the sachem to whom he had been presented, possessing talents naturally good, and thirst­ing for knowledge, yet unable to attain it, soon learnt, from his conversations with William, that he could in some measure gratify this very laudable desire to be instructed. William, though young, had, by atten­tion to the documents of his father and the milder in­structions of his mother, obtained a very decent knowl­edge of reading, writing, arithmetic, geography and history.

Otooganoo no sooner made this discovery, than William became to him the most valuable thing he possessed. "I will certainly restore him to his Euro­pean friends," said he, "but he shall first teach me all he knows. In the mean time, I will be kind to him, nor shall his little sister ever want a friend or protec­tor; as soon as he has imparted to me his stock of knowledge, I will certainly send him to his friends."

Thus argued Otooganoo. But, alas! human na­ture will be human nature; and when the period ar­rived that he had gleaned all the knowledge poor William had to impart, his heart was so attached to him, his society had afforded him so many days, months, years of real felicity, that he made to his own conscience daily fresh excuses for not sending him from him.

[Page 156] William himself, though he frequently spoke of them, and expressed a wish to see his parents, no lon­ger felt that ardent desire to return to them, which he experienced in the early days of his captivity. He had become insensibly attached to Otooganoo; and as, from the effects of his instructions, his protector had made rapid advances towards civilization, had entirely lost his natural ferocity, and attained such a degree of rational information as made him a pleasant compan­ion, William felt that attachment daily increase.

Otooganoo had a daughter. Oberea was full five years younger than William; she was tall, straight, and finely formed. She was, at the time of his ar­rival amongst them, a lively girl of ten years old, wild as the rein-deer, that with fleet steps bounds over the frozen plains of Lapland, and untutored as it is possible for a human being to be. Her looks, her words, her actions, were the genuine impulses of na­ture.

As the little Rachel increased in years, it was the employment of her brother's leisure hours, to instruct her in the English language in the best manner possi­ble. The book he had with him, on the morning of his capture, was of infinite assistance to him, as by looking at that, he was enabled to form a very tolerable alphabet upon bark, using some of their strong dye in­stead of ink; and this alphabet served alike, Otooga­noo, Rachel and Oberea, who delighted in partaking their lessons, and profited daily by his instructions.

Educated under the immediate eye of a woman like Arrabella, it may naturally be supposed, William, though young, had imbibed very strong and just ideas of female delicacy and decorum, and these ideas he laboured incessantly to impress on the mind of his sister. Oberea listened attentively, and treasured every sentence he uttered in her heart. She had heard him tell his sister, that his country-women were the most charming women in the world, and Oberea early form­ed the wish of being thought charming in the eyes of William. This wish was a powerful talisman to cor­rect the bad effects of habit, and at the age of seven­teen, [Page 157] she was so much superior in manner to her un­civilized associates, that William, without being aware of it, adored the lovely statue his art had animated.

He was not sensible of the excess of his tenderness for the charming Indian, till an accident, by nearly depriving him of her, convinced him at once how ne­cessary she was to his happiness. Some Indians, who dwelt in the town with them, having by traffic with the Europeans, who inhabited the sea-coasts, procur­ed two or three musquets, one was brought and pre­sented to Otooganoo, who being mightily pleased with the present, loaded it, with a design of going out in pursuit of game; but not putting his design in imme­diate execution, it was left standing in one corner of the wigwam. A young savage, particularly attached to Oberea, took it up to examine it, and not under­standing how to handle it properly, touched the trig­ger. It went off, and the contents were lodged in the right side of Oberea.

William heard the report, and the instant cries of his sister; he flew to them, and entering, saw both his sister and her he now found he loved equal with her, lying on the ground, which was covered with blood. The young man, frantic at what had happened, told what he had done, and that he feared he had killed both the girls; but Rachel's fall was the effect of sud­den surprise, and it was soon discovered she was not in the least hurt. But Oberea wounded, to all ap­pearance dying, was an object distracting to William. He raised her in his arms, called aloud for help, and having assisted his sister and an old squaw, to staunch the blood, and bind up the wounds, which were chief­ly in the fleshy part of the arm, and having seen her open her eyes, and sign to him that she knew him, he walked backwards and forwards, watching her as she dozed, sometimes applying a feather to her mouth to be satisfied she still breathed, and often kneeling down to kiss her hand, which lay motionless on the outside of the bed.

Otooganoo, during the time she was thought in danger, observed, the extreme solicitude of William, [Page 158] and when she was perfectly recovered, thus addressed him. "You have been to me, young Englishman, a friend, a companion, an instructor, now above eight years. I love you with sincerity, and I believe you love me."

"Do you doubt?" asked William eagerly.

"No, I do not for a moment doubt your sincerity. But I have also discovered that you love my daugh­ter. Your counsels and instructions have rendered her unfit to match with any of her own countrymen; you are now almost become one of us; take her, then, to wife; and when age, infirmity or death shall occasion me to cease from the cares of life, supply my place, govern my people, direct them by your wisdom, teach them the real value of well-constructed laws, encour­age them in studying the arts of war; yet lead them, by your example and forbearance, to cultivate a social and commercial intercourse, and to preserve peace with your countrymen, who are become their neigh­bours, as long as they can preserve it with honour."

William, weaned from his natural friends, tenderly attached to Oberea, perhaps not altogether insensible to the charms of power, and harbouring a fond hope, that by this union with the family of a sachem, he might promote the interests of his countrymen in gen­eral, and be the cement to bind them in bonds of last­ing amity, listened with delighted attention, plighted his vows of love and constancy to Otooganoo, and in a few days ratified those vows, by binding himself, by the most sacred of all ties, to protect and love through life his charming Oberea.

Otooganoo lived to see his son-in-law equally belov­ed and respected with himself, to embrace a grandson whom William called Reuben: "For," said he, "I have been a bondman and a servant unto my wife's father, and this my first born shall pay my ransom."

As the old sachem felt his hour approaching, he called his chiefs, and the oldest men of his tribe, about him; and taking the little Reuben in his arms, whilst Oberea, William and Rachel stood on his right hand, thus addressed them:

[Page 159] "Warriors and Chiefs, Natives and undoubted Lords of this vast country, listen to your departing father. I have ruled over you now above forty years; I have ever found you obedient to my commands, and affectionate to my family. But the great Spirit whose throne is on the loftiest mountain, and whose breath passing over the great lake, can make it rage even as the wild tyger, when, suddenly springing from his se­cret hiding-place, he tears and mangles his defenceless prey; or softly moving over its broad surface, ren­ders it smooth, beautiful and enticing as is the syren, who charms but to destroy; this wondrous, incom­prehensible Spirit, who gave me life and motion, re­cals the precious gift, and in a short time I shall be dust."

Otooganoo paused; his whole soul was filled with the sublimity of the BEING of whom he had been speaking, and a moment was given to feelings beyond expression exquisite. Recovering the firmness of his voice, he thus proceeded:

"Friends, Countrymen, Children, had I a son, I w [...]ll know your unanimous consent would nominate him my successor. Behold, then, the son of my choice, the friend of my soul, the husband of my daughter. He is brave, he is wife, he is humane! alike competent to prosecute war with vigour, or pre­serve peace with honour. He is, you will say, a son of our invaders, of our common enemy. But consider them as enemies no longer. Bury the war­hatchet twenty feet under ground, and smoke the great pipe of peace, whose fragrance may ascend even to the heaven of heavens. Hail these Europeans as brethren, and follow henceforth their precept of doing as you would be done by."

"We will! we will!" they all exclaimed; when Otooganoo thus continued:

"Chiefs, Elders and brother Warriors, in recom­mending to your choice this young man, I mean not to relinquish the affection you have ever shown my family. No. Behold this child, the son of my daugh­ter; in him you see your rightful sachem. But I am [Page 160] passing from this world to the land of spirits, and this infant is incompetent to supply my place. Who then so able, who so worthy as his father, to govern and di­rect you, and instruct the young sachem how to guard, your liberties, and preserve your love inviolate."

Otoogano ceased, and an old warrior thus replied: "The offspring of Otooganoo, the son of Oberea, will ever be honoured and respected. We are content to receive, during his childhood, the Englishman Will­iam, and to adopt the new faith thou hast lately taught and practised. As the Europeans deal by us, so deal we by them, and the great Spirit judge us both."

Otooganoo survived this conference but a few days; he passed (to use his own expression) to the land of spirits, and William Dudley was chosen sachem in his stead, by the unanimous voice of the whole tribe.

"As the Europeans deal by us, so deal we by them, and the great Spirit judge us both." This was the oath they took, and most religiously did they keep it. But if the professors of Christianity practise not them­selves what they would teach to others, who can blame the savage, who (in seeking his own gratification, or promoting his own interest, regards not the happiness, or interest of a fellow creature) follows but the exam­ple set him?

The new settlers made daily encroachments on the native inhabitants, drove them from their lands, rob­bed them of their wives, and made their children pris­oners. Was it in human nature to bear these injuries tamely? No; they resented them. And even Will­iam himself, though his heart bled at what must be the consequence, could not attempt to repel the spirit of just vengeance that actuated the minds of all. War was declared on both sides, and pursued with unre­mitting fury.

Amongst the young warriors that lived under the government of William, was Yankoo. He was intrep­id, bold, and daring. He hated the Europeans; yet, spite of that hate which seemed inherent in his nature, his heart was susceptible of tenderness for one of the race. The beauty of Rachel had penetrated his soul. [Page 161] He loved, revealed his love, and found it was re­turned.

The war continuing to rage, it became necessary for the sachem in person to quit his home, and head his warriors. The undaunted Oberea would follow her husband to the field, and Rachel, though naturally more timid, yet having her nerves new-strung by af­fection, accompanied her. They encamped near the sea-shore. By the morning's dawn they expected the enemy.

Yankoo passed a few hours the preceding evening in the wigwam of Oberea. "Oh! my friend," said Rachel, as she was parting from him, "be careful of your own life for my sake; and if at any time your tomahawk should be raised against an ancient English­man, pause for a moment, and think, perhaps it may be the father of Rachel, and let the idea disarm your rage."

"It would do so," replied Yankoo, "did I not at the same time remember, that every Englishman is the enemy of my country."

"Would you not spare my father then?" said Ra­chel.

"No! not even my own father in such a cause," an­swered the warrior, and broke from her embrace. Rachel retired to her bed, and passed the night in tears.

CHAP. XIX.
Long looked for come at last—Reuben and Rachel born.

THE situation or feelings of William Dudley were at this period by no means enviable. Ruler over a nation of savages, who by their attachment and fidelity had conciliated his affection, his principles would by no means suffer him to desert their cause in the hour of danger; yet remembering that his natural parents were Europeans, and the tenderness he once [Page 162] experienced for them not being extinct in his bosom, he felt his heart divided between two separate interests; and if at any time a skirmish took place, he would think that, perhaps, amongst the killed or wounded of the enemy, he might have to lament a father or a brother. And whilst he was publickly obliged to ap­pear rejoiced at the success of the Indians, he would privately lament the defeat of his own countrymen.

The soul of Rachel was equally agitated. Alas! who can describe the feelings of a heart thus divided? She dared not pray, for to which party could she wish success? "Oh! save, protect and support my father," she would cry; then in a moment recollecting, she would wring her hands and cry, "Oh! poor Yan­koo." It is anguish only to be felt, it is impossible to convey the smallest idea of its excruciating tortures, to any who have not experienced the agonizing effects of divided affection.

The English had been driven to the very borders of the sea; the Indians had pursued them with unremit­ting fury, ravaging the habitations, and, giving the unoffending inmates a quick passport to eternal rest with their tomahawks, nor command nor entreaty could restrain their impetuosity.

William had followed a party led by Yankoo, to a house situated in a deep wood. As they approached, a cry of terror issued from the dwelling. The heart of William throbbed with anxiety; he quickened his steps, and arrived at the door just as Yankoo had dragged forth by his venerable locks, a man, whom he no sooner beheld than he recognized the features of his father. The arm was raised that was meant to de­stroy him.

"Hold, monster! barbarian!" exclaimed William, and throwing himself on the body of his father, receiv­ed the falling weapon on his own shoulder. It fell heavy, it sunk deep, and the blood issued in a torrent from the wound.

Yankoo recoiled with horror; he beheld his ruler, his friend, and more than those, the brother of Rachel, weltering in gore, wounded even unto death, and by [Page 163] his hand. He knelt upon the ground, he took his hand. "Oh! brave warrior," said he, "why did you throw yourself in my way?" William raised him­self, and pointing to old Mr. Dudley, cried, "To save a father."

The old gentleman, in some measure relieved from his fright, endeavoured to rise from the earth; but hearing the expression of father from the lips of one whom he supposed an Indian chief, the truth began to dawn upon his mind. He knelt beside the dying sachem, and taking his hand, looked earnestly in his face, and cried, "Is it indeed possible? are you my son!"

"Your own son William," replied the bleeding warrior.

"But alas!" said the old man, "you are, I fear, mortally wounded."

"And if I am," replied the heroic William, "it is a glorious wound; for I give my life to preserve the life of him from whom I received it."

As he finished these words, he fell back and his eyes closed. The whole party were now assembled round their wounded chief; they raised him from the earth, and bore him into his father's cottage, where, confin­ed by infirmity, was the unfortunate patient Arrabella. She had heard the exclamations of her husband; her heart had not yet become callous to misery. The be­holding her long-lost son, was double agony, since she but beheld his closing scene. He recovered a moment after they had laid him on the bed, gazed on the coun­tenance of his mother, faintly articulated her name, and his last breath passed in imploring a blessing on her.

The news of their sachem's death, and by whom, soon reached the tribe William had governed, and they repaired to the place of his decease, vowing re­venge on his murderer; for in that light they looked upon Yankoo. But when they rushed furiously into the house, intending to wreak their vengeance on him, the mute sorrow depicted on his face, as with his arms folded on his bosom he stood contemplating the man­gled [Page 164] form of his departed friend, for a moment dis­armed their rage. He saw them enter, and advan­cing intrepidly towards them,

"Friends, Countrymen, and brother Warriors," said he, with a firm voice, "that I have incurred your hatred, that your rage is justly excited, is a truth I pretend not to evade or deny. I have deserved death at your hands, and behold, here I stand prepared to meet it. Strike; I will not flinch; or lead me forth, and let me experience the most cruel tortures, I will not complain; nor sigh nor groan shall escape my lips. Alas! if torture could wring them from me, how loud would my lamentations now be! The chief whom we all loved, the man we all revered, is gone to the land of spirits; is gone to that Father, that great First Cause, of whom we have so often heard him speak. He is passed from us, and my hand gave the passport, signing it with his blood."

He paused, and his untamed spirit swelled even to his eyes; but he repelled the tokens of his sensibility, that were almost bursting from the glistening orbits, and struggling for a moment to recover the firmness of his voice, proceeded:

"Thou art gone, brave chief! (turning as he spoke towards the body of his friend) thou art gone; and where shall thy equal be found to supply thy place? Thou wert bold and daring as the young lion, and like him, generous and noble, exerted not thy power against the feeble and defenceless. Firm and unshaken in as­serting the rights of innocence, as the mountain whose foundation is in the centre of the earth, and whose top reacheth unto the clouds; yet gentle as the south-west breeze on an evening in the blossom season, and com­plying as the willow, that inclines its head as the breeze passes. Thy voice was the voice of wisdom. Thy words taught lessons, which thy example enforced. But thou art gone! and where shall thy equal be found to supply thy place? Thou wert glorious as the sun at his uprising, mild and beautiful as the beams of the moon, when it dances on the bosom of the lake which the wind gently agitates. In the chase, fleet [Page 165] as the young stag, and the arrow from thy bow never missed its aim. Thou didst speak, and none could re­fuse to believe; thou didst command, and none but were eager to obey. The bad loved, whilst they fear­ed thee; the good adored, and endeavoured to imitate thee. Under thy wise government we rested in peace, on matts made of osiers; our wigwams were improv­ed, our bows better strung, our corn was multiplied an hundred fold, and our skins dried with more care. In peace thou wert as the dew of the evening, refresh­ing and invigorating all who lived beneath thy influ­ence; and in war terrible as the tempest that breaks the tall pine, roots up the stubborn oak, and makes the forest tremble, as it rushes with tremendous fury through it. Thy enemies beheld thee, and fear shook their souls; thou wert the father of thy people, Oh! val­iant sachem. But thou art gone—by my hand gone! and where shall thy equal be sound to supply thy place?"

The numerous affecting images he had called to­gether, whilst speaking the eulogium of the deceased, had now awakened feelings too powerful to be repress­ed. The afflictions of his heart burst forth in loud lamentations. The rage of his countrymen was to­tally subdued. They dropped their tomahawks, and joined him in piercing cries and groans, repeating at intervals, "Our chief, our warrior, our friend is gone, and who can supply his place?"

Arrabella had not lived so many years in the very bosom of America, at different times obliged to have some kind of intercourse with the natives, without at­taining a considerable knowledge of their language. She listened whilst Yankoo was speaking, and as he enu­merated the virtues of her son, she felt that, amongst the tears of regret that fell for his death, were some of exultation that he had deserved such an eulogium, and her heart was consoled.

But who can paint the anguish, the distress of Ra­chel, or the distraction of Oberea? When they heard the fatal tidings, they sought the body of their Hus­band, Brother, Chief. But here nor tears, nor cries [Page 166] declared their sorrow. When the soul is too full, lan­guage is of little use. There are no words capable of expressing real affliction.

Oberea led her son Reuben (now nearly six years old) to the bed on which lay the corse of his father, and pointing to the body, pronounced in a tone deeply mournful, "Behold!"

"My father!" said the boy, and, terrified at his ghastly appearance, clasped his arms round his moth­er, and hid his face in her bosom. She seated her­self on the side of the bed, folded her arms round her child, and resting her head on his shoulder, appeared the mute image of despair.

The feelings of Rachel would have been equally poignant, had they not been directed to another chan­nel. She had, as she entered the apartment, faintly articulated the word brother. Arrabella caught the sound, and calling her daughter by name, Rachel was folded in a moment to her bosom, and in the embrace of a new found mother, felt a relief from her sorrows. Dudley kissed his daughter with tenderness, but the lively affection he had once experienced towards his children was now almost extinct. It had indeed for a moment revived when he heard the voice of William, but the icy finger of death had silenced that voice for­ever, and the heart of Dudley could no more vibrate with the exquisite delights springing from paternal love.

By the united efforts of Rachel and Arrabella, Obe­rea was at last aroused from that state of apparent insensibility into which she had fallen. Rachel releas­ed her arms from the neck of her child, and drew her gently towards her mother, who soothed, caressed, and collect her her dear daughter, the relic of her be­loved William.

At the name of William, she started. Arrabella, perceived she had awakened her attention, and from her own son, made a quick transition to the son of Oberea. She begged her to call forth her fortitude, to exert the faculties of her mind, and as she loved [Page 167] her husband, for his sake, live, to protect and instruct his son.

"I am his mother," said she; "have I not reason to lament the loss of a son so worthy? But that he was worthy is my comfort. Had he not a thousand virtues? and will you not strive to live, to teach his son to emulate his father, to be as good, as great, as wise as he was?"

Oberea cast her eyes on her child, then suddenly covering her face with part of her garments, she wept aloud. The desired end was now attained. Acute sensibility being relieved by the effusion, Arrabella was silent, and leaving nature to its course, waited till the first rude shock was past before she attempted, by rea­soning, to convince her of the inutility of grieving. Alas! it was a lesson (hard as it was) which Arrabella had long since learnt; but it is what the children of sor­row all learn. Repeated disappointment first blunts the keenness of our feelings; corroding sorrow, from over­straining, weakens the chords of sensibility, and at length age and infirmity, creeping by chilling yet al­most imperceptible degrees through the whole system, totally relaxes every fibre, whilst the heart becomes cold and impenetrable as the ice on the highest sum­mit of the Andes.

The Indians mourned with sincerity for their de­parted sachem. The chiefs and elders assembled, de­clared that Reuben, when of a proper age, should fill the seat of government, till when they entreated Dud­ley to take the charge of his education. In the mean time, they prepared to inter the remains of their chief, with every mark of respect and honour. But on the very day when the solemnity was to be performed, the Europeans made an unexpected sally on them, routed the main body, killed many, and took the re­mainder prisoners. Amongst those who fell was Yan­koo. He fought, defending the house where lay the body of William, and died exhorting his companions to conquer or die.

Dudley, his wife and daughter, with Oberea and Reuben, were conducted to an English settlement, [Page 168] where the former sunk into a state of debility nearly approaching second childhood, and in a few months rested from all his sorrows. When this event took place, Arrabella determined to return to England, partly from the hope of her native air acting as a restorative to her health, and partly in the wish of securing to Reu­ben the estates of his great-grandfather, Sir Ferdinan­do Gorges; besides which, she knew that in Europe she could procure him to be properly educated, which the very imperfect state of literature in America, at that early period, would not allow her to hope, should she continue there. Rachel of consequence accompa­nied her mother; and Oberea, attached to them by every tender tie, would not be left behind. "The mother and the son of my William," said she, "I will follow to the furthermost part of the earth."

It was early in the spring of 1680, when the widow Arrabella Dudley, her daughter, daughter-in-law and grandson arrived in England, from which she had been absent about thirty-four years. Internal feuds and discontents had driven herself and husband at first from their native land, and these feuds in some measure still continued.

Arrabella found it would be in vain to solicit for any part of the property of Sir Ferdinando. Himself and family in general had been attached to the royal party, and during the years Dudley had been absent from England, the estates had passed through so many different hands, that it was almost impossible to trace them; or could she have done so, she would have found it difficult to make Reuben be received as the heir. His dark complexion, the nature of his father's mar­riage with Oberea, which in law would have been termed illegal, all militated against success, should any suit be commenced against the present possessors; and Arrabella wisely determined to consider them as inev­itably lost.

She herself inherited, from the bequest of an aunt, a small estate in Lancashire, and thither she retired, where, devoting one half of its produce to the educa­tion of Reuben, she made the other half serve all the [Page 169] purposes of life; and this estate was worth but three hundred pounds per annum. Yet Arrabella was con­tented, and enjoyed not only the necessaries, but the comforts of life. Her own appearance and that of her daughters was always neat, always respectable; and their countenances ever serene, if not cheerful. But their hands were constantly employed, and indolence and luxury were alike strangers in their dwelling.

A return to her native climate, added to the tran­quillity she enjoyed, in a great measure restored the health of the widow Arrabella.

Rachel, true to the first impulse of her heart, re­fused to marry, though her beauty and sweetness had attracted many suitors. "I may," she would say, "find men more accomplished, who will talk with more eloquence, are more polished in their manners; but where shall I find the equal to Yankoo for sin­cerity?" Rachel preferred a state of "single blessed­ness."

Oberea lived to see her son attain his twenty-third year, to see him beloved and respected by all who know him; she then fell a victim to an autumnal fever. She had lived beloved, and died universally lamented.

About eighteen months after the decease of his mother, Reuben became acquainted with Cassiah Penn. Cassiah was tall, well shaped, not so fair as to be pale, nor dark enough to be termed brown; it was a beau­tiful mixture of the white rose and carnation that glow­ed on her forehead, tinted her cheeks, and gave ani­mation to her dark hazel eyes. Her face, which was elegantly striking, without being regularly beautiful, received much improvement from a few curls of bright chesnut hair, which escaped, here and there, from the confinement of a pinched cap (for Cassiah was a Qua­ker.) Reuben saw and loved the fair maiden. An intimacy had taken place between their parents, and by conversation it was discovered, that the father of Cassiah was a descendant from Beatina Gorges, the youngest daughter of Sir Egbert and Columbia. It was a kind of relationship that sanctified friendship in [Page 170] the elder branches of the family, and encouraged the affection of the younger.

Reuben wooed, and was successful. He threw aside the habit of vanity, and assumed the dress and faith of his beloved. Their hands were joined in the face of the church, and Arrabella, about three months after this event which gave her much pleasure, went to the mansions of the blest.

Cassiah was young. Reuben wished his aunt Ra­chel to stay in the family and manage his household. It was the very thing her heart wished for. "My sister," said she, smiling, "will have enough to do to nurse and educate her children." But, awelladay! aunt Rachel was wrong in her predictions; for Reu­ben was married above ten years before he had the least prospect of a young family.

At length his beloved Cassiah bid fair to make him a father. Universal joy pervaded the whole family; but, alas! how transient! The eagerly wished for, the long expected hour at length arrived. Cassiah gave birth to two infants, a boy and a girl. She heard she was a mother, blessed her children, and re­commended them strongly to the protection of their father, and the care of aunt Rachel.

"Will you name them, my love?" said her husband, bending over the bed with affection.

"They shall be called after the two beings I love most," said she, extending a hand to her aunt and husband. "Call them Reuben and Rachel." A sud­den faintness seized her as she spoke. Gently, and without pain, her pure spirit passed from its earthly to its eternal mansion.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

CHAP. I.
Tales by Comparison modern, by the same Rule ancient; or, Tales of Old Times continued.

TO lose the partner of the heart, and not feel acutely, would be justly termed stupidity. To attempt to delineate those feelings, might with equal justice be called presumption. The first year of our hero and heroine's existence must therefore be passed over in silence. At the end of that period we behold their father combating, by the efforts of reason and constant employment, the barbed shafts of affliction. The very attempt to repel them weakened their force; by repeated resistance they became entirely harmless, and fell, totally bereaved of point or power, to the ground.

Reuben Dudley regained his serenity; his affections, his hopes, his fondest wishes were now centred in his children. Regret for the mother was swallowed up in expectation of the children's future virtues and hap­piness. Aunt Rachel presided over the household, and superintended the nursery.

Reuben and Rachel were by no means superior to the generality of children of their age and condition. Rachel was a lively brown girl, and both she and her brother very soon discovered, that by crying vocife­rously they could obtain almost any thing. Aunt [Page 174] Rachel would not suffer the dear creatures to be cross­ed, and papa thought them, without exception, the sweetest, most charming children in the universe. Alas! cries affected wisdom how foolish the supposition; but reason, unbiassed by prejudice, declares it is only nature, pure, undisguised nature.

Nature! dear goddess! how beautiful thou art, when, chaste and unadorned, thou appearest in the vestments of simplicity; when the undeviating fea­tures portray but the feelings of the heart; when the tongue, uncontaminated by vice, unversed in the prac­tice of deception, gives utterance only to what those feelings dictate; then, who can resist thy eloquence? then, who can listen to thy voice, or behold thy beau­ties unmoved? The philosopher gazes at thee with rapture; the stoic cannot investigate thy charms and retain his apathy; forgetting his affected insensibility, he beholds with wonder, admiration and love, thy in­obtrusive excellence, and joins involuntarily in the ex­clamation of the enthusiast, Oh Nature! dear god­dess! how beautiful thou art.

The children were neither strikingly beautiful, or remarkably brilliant. Health, cheerfulness, and dis­positions naturally good, rendered them engaging; but their minds, like the minds of most infants, were perfect blanks, on which the hand of education might impress whatever characters the instructor pleased. As they were educated in the strictest principles of Quakerism, neither trouble nor expense was bestowed on the ornamental parts, though every thing useful was attended to with the utmost care.

As they advanced in years, their characters natural­ly developed themselves. Reuben was open, gener­ous, unsuspecting, and possessed a firmness of temper, almost approaching to obstinacy. Enthusiastic in his attachment to his sister, from earliest infancy his ac­tions had declared, that to see her contented and hap­py, made him so.

Rachel was modest, unassuming, meek, timid and affectionate. Possessed of a good understanding, a quick and clear perception, and a strong memory, the [Page 175] task of instructing her was most delightful. Daily, nay, almost hourly did her mind unfold some new, some unexpected beauty. Her love of literature, and the rapid progress she made in every study in which she engaged, at once charmed and astonished her aunt and father. But her extreme diffidence prevented her excellencies from being universally known, and it was only by a long and intimate acquaintance her intrin­sic worth could be discovered. Yet Rachel was not faultless. The meekness of her temper was such, that resentment was a stranger to her bosom. An injury was no more remembered than as it had given pain to her heart, and that heart, moulded by the hand of pure innocence, was credulous in the extreme. Her excessive anxiety to see others happy, made her in­attentive to the means of promoting or preserving her own happiness; and if any one professed to love her, though but a moment before they had held a dagger to her breast, she would have forgot the intended in­jury, and never doubting their sincerity, admitted them to her confidence and friendship. Her affection for her brother was equal to his for her. To separate them, though but for an hour, was to give them the severest uneasiness. They were parted with tears, and met again with superlative satisfaction.

Such were Reuben and Rachel at ten years of age. Their father doted on them with the tenderest affec­tion, and aunt Rachel thought they were the most su­perior beings in the whole universe. She would some­times talk to them about America, describe the vast woods, boundless plains, majestic rivers, and extensive lakes of that great continent. Reuben would listen with rapture, and say, "When I am a man, aunt, I will go there." "I should like to go too," Rachel would say, "but I am sure I should be afraid to go to sea."

It was on a winter's evening, as their father was overlooking some papers, old deeds, &c. that had lain mouldy in an old trunk for many years, (intending to destroy those that were useless) that Reuben espied a scarlet plume, or rather coronet of feathers, which had [Page 176] been thrown with some other rubbish in a heap, in or­der to be burned. He seized it, examined it with at­tention, and at length, conceiving the purpose for which it had been made, tied it round his head, and marching up to his father, cried, "Look at me, Sir."

"Upon my word, Sir," replied his father, smiling, "why you look like a sachem indeed now."

"Why, father, did the sachems of the Indians wear such things on their heads?" asked Reuben.

"Yes," replied, his father, "that was your grand­father's coronet."

"My grandfather, Sir!"

"Yes, child; he became a sachem by marrying the daughter of an Indian chief; but I thought your aunt had told you that long ago."

"No indeed, Sir; will you tell us all about it, how it came to happen, now?"

"No; it is a long story, and I am busy."

Curiosity is perhaps the strongest impulse of the hu­man mind. In extreme youth its power is irresistible. The children felt theirs awakened, and softly opening the door of their father's study, they slipped out, and ran into the parlour to aunt Rachel. Aunt Rachel was, it is true, an old maid.

The coronet that bound the brows of Reuben, re­called a thousand tender recollections. Her dear broth­er William seemed to stand in miniature before her. The form of Yankoo arose to her remembrance. Obe­rea too seemed present; and when the boy asked her if she knew whose crown that was, her feelings were so pow­erful as for a moment to suspend her answer.

"It was my brother's," said she in a mournful tone, taking it from the child's head and laying it on her own knee; "I have seen him wear it often."

[Page 177] "He was a great man in America, aunt," said Reuben.

"He was more than great, my love, he was good."

"Pray, aunt," said Rachel, "do you remember my grandmother?"

"Perfectly."

"Was she an Indian?"

"Yes."

"What, quite a wild savage?"

"No, my dear, she was what is in general errone­ously termed so; but her heart was as gentle, as com­passionate, as full of virtue and piety, as that of the most enlightened Christian."

"Was she black, aunt?"

"No; dark brown, or rather copper. But the complexion of her face was like that of her mind. Its charms and imperfections were discoverable at one glance, and it was ever beautiful, because invariable."

"But was my grandfather a sachem?"

"He was."

"What is a sachem?"

"It is a title given to a chief amongst the Indians, and is the same as governor with us."

"How came he to be a chief of the savages, aunt?"

"I will tell you," replied aunt Rachel.

It was a subject on which she delighted to expatiate. She stirred up the fire, folded up her work, and placing the attentive children on each side of her, began.—But my readers already know the whole story, and repetitions are ever tedious and uninteresting. Aunt Rachel was minute in her recital. At the account of her capture, Rachel wept; but Reuben started from his seat, his countenance glowing with resentment, and cried, "I wish I had been there."

"And what could you have done, my love?" said his aunt.

"Have rescued you, or died," replied our hero.

"Charming, undaunted spirit," exclaimed his aunt, and then continued her narrative.

When she recounted the death of Otooganoo, and the solemn manner in which he recommended their [Page 178] father (then an infant) to the care of the chiefs, "Good old man," said Rachel, in the most expressive accent of affection, "what a pity he should die."

"Then my father is a sachem," said Reuben; and the seeds of ambition which nature had implanted, but which till that moment had lain dormant in his bosom, started into life. At the account of their grandfather's death, the children both sobbed audibly.

"I will! I am determined I will! go to Ameri­ca," said Reuben, first suppressing his emotions.

"What, without me, brother?" asked Rachel, in a mournful voice.

"No, no," he replied, "not without you, but when I am a man we will go together; we will find out our grandfather's government, and discover ourselves to his people; I dare say they would be glad to see us, since they loved him so well."

"But what should we go there for, brother? I am sure we are very happy here, and papa would not be willing to part with us, and aunt Rachel too would miss us."

"Well, then, I will go, and leave you with them, and when I have settled myself in my government, I will send for you all. Oh! what a fine house I will have, and then what a number of servants, and horses, and coaches."

Aunt Rachel smiled, to hear how eagerly the fancy of youth catches at the hope of future greatness, and how readily they connect the ideas of grandeur, afflu­ence, and numerous attendants, to the possession of a title. She gazed for a moment with pleasure on his intelligent countenance, which the emotions of his lit­tle swelling heart had lighted up with uncommon ani­mation; and paused, unwilling to throw a damp on those delightful sensations he appeared to enjoy. At length, "What would you say," cried she, "if I were to tell you that your grandfather had no attendants except a few warriors, who, from voluntary attach­ment to his person, followed to protect him from dan­ger; that he had neither horse nor carriage; that his palace was chiefly composed of the bark of trees; that [Page 179] his bed was the skins of wild beasts, and his seat of state the trunk of an old tree, hewn into something re­sembling a chair, covered with beaver and other skins, and its ornaments the teeth of tygers, polished shells and fish bones!"

"But he was good," said Rachel, "and consequent­ly happy."

"And he was brave and wise," said Reuben exult­ingly, "and every body loved him."

"Sweet children," said aunt Rachel, "those are consequences which ought ever to follow goodness, bravery and wisdom. But, alas! they are not always certain.

"What, then are not all good persons happy?"

"Not always in their outward circumstances; but they enjoy internal peace."

"And are not the brave and the wise always es­teemed?"

"By those who have sense and discernment they in general are; but unfortunately, great and shining qualifications, of either mind or person, excite in gen­eral more envy than love."

"What is envy, aunt?"

"A passion, my dear Rachel, to which I hope you will ever remain a stranger." With this wish the good old lady kissed the children, and dismissed them to bed.

CHAP. II.
Education may polish the Manners, but Human Nature will be still the same.

THOUGH the father of our hero and heroine was a man moderate in his wishes, and of that reasonable cast of mind that preferred mediocrity to affluence; yet he conceived it an indispensable duty to endeavour to improve his fortune for the sake of his children. He had retained some faint idea of the beau­ty and fertility of the American continent; he also [Page 180] felt an irresistible impulse to visit once more the place of his nativity; and a number of families, of his own persuasion, about this period emigrating to the colony of Pennsylvania, amongst whom were some of his wife's nearest relations, he collected together all the ready money he was master of, and turning it into such merchandize as was most likely to be productive of emolument, embarked with a design of purchasing land, building a house, and putting the whole in such a state of cultivation, as might render it at once a pleasant and profitable habitation for his children, when arrived to the age of maturity.

How naturally do we expect our children, or those in whose welfare we are interested, to adopt the senti­ments most congenial to our own feelings, without considering that nature is as various in the formation of the minds of men, as of their faces; and those pur­suits and acquirements, which to one will give the most superlative delight, to another would bring only misery. Thus the father of Rachel and Reuben, be­ing himself a man of peace, fond of retirement and the study of agriculture, thought he could not render them a more acceptable service, than to prepare them a habitation, where they might enjoy uninterrupted quiet; where plenty would preside at the board, and the study of nature, in all her varieties and beauties, enliven solitude.

He placed his son at a public school to finish his education, and making proper arrangements for the support of his family during his absence (which he imagined would be about two years) he entrusted Ra­chel to the care of her aunt, with instructions, that in case of death she should remove to the house, and sub­mit to the direction of her maternal uncle, Hezekiah Penn.

Reuben and Rachel were in their thirteenth year when this separation took place. Their tears fell at the idea of being parted from their father; but when the brother and sister were informed that, during a period of two years, they must not expect to meet on­ly [Page 181] at each returning Christmas, their grief was beyond expression.

When the carriage came to the door that was to convey Reuben from her, Rachel burst into an agony of tears. "My brother! my dear, dear brother!" she cried, hanging round his neck.

"God bless you, my charming sister! my dear, amiable sister!" cried he.

Aunt Rachel drew her niece from the door, from the parting embrace of her brother (who was led to the carriage by his father) and by degrees composed and consoled her.

It cannot be supposed that their father was an un­moved spectator of this affecting scene. No! he felt and compassionated their sufferings; but he knew that a maiden aunt and sequestered mansion, would in no wise prepare his son for the active scenes of life in which (however contrary to his own wishes) he would most likely hereafter engage.

His family concerns being now settled to his satis­faction; he embarked for Pennsylvania. His commer­cial plans were executed with great success, his intend­ed purchase made on very advantageous terms, and at the close of the third year from his first arrival, he prepared again to visit England. Mr. Dudley had taken from Europe with him a distant relation of his wife's, a young man, of whom, as he will make a con­siderable figure in the ensuing pages, it may not be thought an unnecessary digression to give some account.

The mother of Jacob Holmes was niece to the fath­er of Cassiah Penn. She had been left an orphan in early infancy; but the loss of parents was amply sup­plied by her benevolent uncle and aunt. She was nearly of the same age with their own daughter, and, brought up with her, received the same benefit of ed­ucation. When Cassiah married the father of our he­ro and heroine, Mary Holmes continued with her aunt, and by tender assiduity endeavoured to prevent her feeling too acutely the privation of her daughter's society. Mary was naturally sincere and artless; but Mary was handsome, and loved to be told of her beau­ty. [Page 182] She possessed what is in general termed one of the best dispositions in the world, because she seldom took the trouble to contradict any one. Her easiness might, without much exaggeration, have been termed indolence; and her extreme good-nature, folly and want of feeling. To praise her beauty, was to win her heart; and being often extolled for her sweetness and evenness of temper, she conceived, that to be per­fectly passive was to be perfectly amiable; and Mary, with a face extremely lovely, and a form captivating, possessed neither expression of countenance, nor sensi­bility of heart; but like some kinds of tropical fruits, which, when ripe, are so sweet as to be insipid, and, though beautiful to the eye, have neither poignancy or flavour to delight the taste. She had loved her cousin Cassiah with as much tenderness as her nature was capable of; she thought her the most perfect of human beings; and whilst Cassiah was her constant companion, Mary was free from error.

In the neighbourhood of the dwelling of Obadiah Penn, was the ancient seat of the family of the Fitz­geralds. Arthur Fitzgerald was an only child; his father had been dead many years; his mother's in­dulgence had been unbounded; and at the age of twenty-five, Arthur had scarcely ever known what it was to be contradicted. Heir at once to the estates of his father and the hereditary honours of his mother; a descendant of the house of Aumerle, of which he was the last male branch, Arthur thought the chief end of his existence was pleasure; and though possessed of a good understanding, and a not naturally corrupt heart, he often performed actions which did honour to humanity; yet unlimited indulgence and unclouded prosperity, by degrees rendered those divine impulses of nature, compassion and benevolence, weaker and weaker, till at length his heart ceased to be influenced by either.

His mother, lady Allida, chiefly resided at the Pine­ry, the name the seat had taken from its being sur­rounded by a deep wood of pine trees. Mrs. Pinup was lady Allida's chief attendant, and superintendant [Page 183] of her household in general. Though it might be supposed, that the vast distance pride places between the family of a woman of quality in actual possession of eight thousand pounds a year, and expectant of twice the sum, and that of a simple country gentle­man, whose whole annual income did not exceed eight hundred, did not allow of any intercourse between la­dy Allida Fitzgerald, and the wife of Obadiah Penn; but the servants of those families sometimes met, and Mrs. Pinup, in the extreme condescension of her heart, and likewise having her mind fixed on some excellent raspberry brandy (which the old lady kept as a whole­some stomachic) sometimes paid a visit to dame Prue, upper servant in Mr. Penn's family.

In some of these visits, Mrs. Pinup had often seen both Cassiah and Mary; but there was always a mod­est dignity in the manner of the former, that repelled any approach to familiarity from persons whose edu­cation, manners and station rendered them unfit com­panions; yet it was a dignity no ways tinctured with haughtiness. She was ever gentle and affable, so much so as to be a universal favourite, from the highest to the lowest.

But Mary would laugh with the maids; and though respect for her as their master's niece, kept the men­servants in some awe, she endured from them familiar praises of her beauty, not only without resentment, but even with such an apparent degree of satisfaction as encouraged, rather than repelled their freedom. Sometimes, when Mrs. Pinup was there, she would go down stairs purposely to chat with her, ask a thousand questions about lady Allida, the house, the pleasure­grounds, and other more insignificant subjects, such as her dress, the fashion of it; for Mary Holmes was no Quaker in her heart, and would often pull off her close mob, and let her hair, which was very fine, fall loosely over her shoulders. But if the more sedate Cassiah ever beheld any of these signs of vanity, she would mildly reprove them, and as Mary feared to offend her, she would ever restrain them in her presence.

[Page 184] Mrs. Pinup, ever communicative, and wonderfully eloquent in the praise of lady Allida, would expatiate for hours on her grandeur, her rich clothes, her house, her plate, and jewels; nay, she often asked dame Prue to come and bring the young ladies to see all these fine things. Cassiah uniformly refused these invitations, but Mary, though submissive to the superior wisdom of her cousin, secretly wished to accept them.

On the marriage of Cassiah, her mother accompa­nied her home, and remained with her as a visitor near­ly a month. During this time, the heedless Mary, unable to combat her inclinations, though she knew they were wrong, yielded to the solicitations of dame Prue, and accompanied her to the Pinery. Lady Al­lida was absent for the day. Mrs. Pinup led her guests through the antique and superbly furnished apartments. The rich velvet canopies, the stately beds, the massy silver cups, large marble tables with burnished supporters, China vases, large looking-glass­es, and beautiful tapestry, were gazed on by Mary with wonder and delight. Plenty, unrestrained by par­simony, presided over every department of the house­hold economy of Obadiah Penn. His furniture was excellent in its kind, but it was plain.

The wardrobe was next displayed. The rich tissue, brocaded or velvet suits were in turns the object of her admiration and desire. The fine lace pinners, the diamond earnings, necklace, and other ornaments—Oh! how fine! how beautiful! how elegant! was repeat­ed a hundred times.

"Well," said Mary, "I wonder how I should look, dressed in some of this finery?"

"Look! why like an angel, I'm sure," said Mrs. Pinup. "Oh! there is nothing like dress, to set off a pretty face; and if you look so handsome in that brown padusuoy gown and plain muslin cap, how do you think you would look in a full dress suit?"

Mary was holding a rich blue silk robe in her hand at the moment; she held it up against her side. The delicacy of the colour was exactly suited to her com­plexion; the effect it had gave an additional flush to [Page 185] her cheek. It was a loose robe, made with open sleeves, and fastened at the bosom with a diamond clasp. The ground was blue, but it was superbly em­broidered with silver, and round the neck and sleeves was a net of silver thread.

"Put it on," said Mrs. Pinup.

The fashion of the dress was such as partly to ex­pose the neck. The neck of Mary was covered with a fine cambrick handkerchief. Mrs. Pinup took it off; and then, slipping the robe over her other clothes, fastened it at the bosom, released her luxurious flaxen hair from the confinement of the cap, and turning her to the glass, said, "What do you think of yourself now?"

Dame Prue sat by, a silent spectatress of this scene. She was too good-natured to condemn, and too wise wholly to approve. Mary gazed and smiled, walked along the room to admire herself at full length in the glass, and said, in a tone expressive of mortification, "Well, I shall never like myself in my Quaker dress again."

"With this expression, she turned with a design of throwing off her borrowed plumes, when she beheld a young man, whose dress bespoke him of consequence, entering the apartment. He stopped for a moment; he looked unutterable admiration; then exclaimed, in an accent of wonder, "Angel! goddess! bright divinity!" Covered with confusion, Mary would have escaped through the opposite door; but he saw her design, and seizing her hand, besought her not to be alarmed. "Compose yourself, lovely creature," said he, "I meant not to frighten you."

"I did not know you were in the house, Sir," said Pinup, in evident confusion.

"I have not been in ten minutes," said he. "I in­tended to dress and join my mother at lord Aumerle's, but while Le Beau was settling my peruke, he inform­ed me, if I would come up into my mother's dressing­room, I should see one of the prettiest Quakers in the world. But I see [...] celestial being. A Quaker! what! shall those lovely tresses be concealed, that enchanting [Page 186] form be disfigured by their puritanical, formal dress? Forbid it, all ye loves and graces."

Mary had neither sensibility nor discernment suffi­cient to comprehend the insult to which she had ex­posed herself, in thus associating with the servants of a family, who, if her superior in point of fortune, was not of a more elevated descent. But the feelings of Mary were never very troublesome to her, and the Lethean draught of flattery her ears had drank, intox­icated her senses and perverted her understanding. In­stead of resenting the freedom of Fitzgerald's address, she was silent, and her heart secretly exulted at having excited his admiration. Instead of insisting on going immediately home, she threw aside her sumptuous and imprudently assumed ornaments, and in her own simple attire descended to the housekeeper's apartment, where refreshments were served, of which Arthur partook.

The evening approached. Dame Prue arose to de­part. "I will see you safe through the Pinery," said Arthur. The moon was rising in full, unclouded ma­jesty. The evening was calm, mild and inviting.

"My lady will not return till late," said Pinup; "I think I will go a little way with them myself, and not trouble you, Sir."

"I thought you knew, Pinup," said Arthur, "that I never do any thing that I conceive a trouble. You shall accompany the old gentlewoman, and I will of­fer my arm to the young divinity."

"How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night,' says our immortal Shakespeare; and who so well un­derstood human nature, its weakness, its virtues, its passions; who so well delineate?"

The extent of the Pinery was a mile and a half; yet the meadow, the stream that watered it, and the hill on the side of which stood the mansion of Obadi­ah, appeared to view before they thought they had walked half way. For Arthur Fitzgerald talked of love, and Mary Holmes, though incapable of seeling a real passion, listened in delighted silence to the voice of adulation.

[Page 187] Dame Prue was confident Mrs. Dudley would not greatly approve her own visit to the Pinery, much more, that she should have taken her niece with her. She therefore desired Mary to be silent on the subject. Mary was not inclined to speak upon it to any one. Had Arthur taken no methods to see this weak girl again, in all probability, the transient liking she had conceiv­ed for him would have died away; but Arthur, un­accustomed to put any restraint on his passions, and being greatly charmed with the beauty of the fair Quaker, without once considering the consequence of seducing so young, so lovely a creature from the paths of rectitude, wrote to her in a style of submissive ado­ration, and implored her, if she wished to save him from despair, to meet him at the margin of the brook in the meadow. Mary complied; repeated inter­views ensued, and she fell a victim, not to sensibility or passion—No; Mary Holmes was the victim of van­ity and too great pliability of temper. Conscious of her deviation from virtue, the presence of her virtuous aunt became painful to her; yet did she not experience the laudable kind of uneasiness which leads to repent­ance and amendment.

Indifference is the lethargy of the soul; it is the grave of virtue and excellence. Indifference acts upon the mental faculties, as indolence does on the body; for as the man who indulges in inactivity can never expect to rise into notice, secure or amend his fortune, so the soul incrusted in indifference is incapable of in­citing one great or glorious action. It conceives not the beauty of virtue, nor the real deformity of vice. Its affections are cold; its pleasures so languid, they scarce deserve the name. Its pains are sew indeed. But then what satisfaction does the possessor lose! The beauties of creation are unfolded to him in vain; in vain the gorgeous canopy of heaven displays ten thousand thousand moving worlds, that, as they roll in the ex­panse of ether, contribute to embellish, cheer and warm the globe which we inhabit; in vain the teeming earth brings forth her fruit; nor field of ripened grain, nor opening flower, nor flock, nor herd, afford one joy for [Page 188] him. He gazes at them all with stupid vacuity of thought, and wonders at the grateful tear that springs to the eye from the heart of sensibility.

The history of poor Mary is soon finished. She left the protection of her uncle, and accompanied Fitz­gerald to London. Dissipation of every kind was rushed into with avidity. Her purse was liberally sup­plied by her seducer; her house was elegant; her equipage gay; her dress always splendid, and not sel­dom capriciously extravagant. But though beauty may fascinate the senses, prudence, virtue, and a good understanding, are necessary to make the charm pow­erful and lasting. Fitzgerald grew weary of her folly and profusion; he forsook her; yet not ungenerously. He settled sufficient on her to procure all the comforts and some of the elegancies of life. But, alas! Mary was still young, still lovely, and still indifferent. The opinion of the world was of little consequence to her; nor scarcely one individual in it was more regarded than another. Adulation she sought, and it was poured in upon her from every quarter. She regretted not the desertion of Fitzgerald; another and another spoiler came; and Mary Holmes sunk into the lowest abyss of guilt and shame.

CHAP. III.
"We all know what we are, but we know not what we may be."

THAT misery is ever the certain concomitant of guilt, is universally allowed an incontrovertible fact. Mary Holmes, with as little reflection or feeling as it is possible for a rational being to possess, was a proof of the truth of this assertion. Dissipation, whilst it had the charms of novelty, intoxicated her senses, and kept her mind in such continued employment, that her generous uncle Obadiah, her affectionate cousin Cassiah, home, the brook, the meadow, and the Pinery, [Page 189] were all forgotten in the constant vortex of folly. But the same scene, however fascinating at first, by continual rep­etition loses its charms, and becomes insipid and disgust­ing. So Mary, often in the midst of noisy mirth and tumultuous pleasure, would cast a wishful, though tran­sient thought, towards her uncle's quiet parlour, and the tranquil happiness that was ever her companion there.

Seven years had passed, and Mary was no longer followed, courted and admired. She had lost her most powerful charm. Her cheek was no longer suffused with the crimson of timidity, nor her manners attract­ive from that feminine bashfulness, which renders even a plain woman agreeable; and a beautiful woman on whose brow sits modest bashfulness, enthroned in native purity, ever is, ever will be, irresistible. But, alas! when virtue has forsaken the heart, the vermillion of chastity ceases to visit the cheek, and beauty without it, however exquisite, can catch even the eye but for a moment. Charmed with the most finished workman­ship of nature, we look for the soul that should inform it. But we find it blotted! disgraced! lost! Admi­ration ceases; pity succeeds; and whilst we wish to reform, we cannot but despise.

Mary had arrived at this last stage. Forsaken by the men, her vanity was no longer gratified; and to enliven her home, where could she find, amongst the unhappy females with whom she had been accustomed to associate, one whose conversation could either amuse or i [...]strust her. Unaccustomed, even in her happiest days, to seek amusement within herself, it cannot be sup­posed, when "sin and shame had laid all waste," she could find pleasure in reflection.

The life of Mary was a continued blank; unloving, unloved. Joyless passed her days; nor wish, nor hope, nor fear diversified it; all was inanimation.

At this period she [...]ound herself in the most interest­ing situation a female can experience. She was about to become a mother. If Mary ever was sensible of any thing like remorse, it was on this occasion. She wish­ed she had not swerved from the path of rectitude; she wished her child had not been the offspring of shame.

[Page 190] It was about the middle of April. The meadows began to assume a cheerful appearance; the fruit trees, rich in blushing sweets, scented the air with perfume, more grateful to the sense than the most costly com­pound of art. Mary's health had been impaired, by midnight vigils, riot and intemperance. She sought, from the freshness of the country air, a reinstatement of it, and a relief from that lassitude and inanity which weighed upon her spirits; a neat cottage but a few miles from London became her residence.

Late one evening, as she was preparing to retire to rest, the sound of a carriage driving hastily by, attract­ed her attention. In a moment the noise of the wheels ceased; a sudden shriek was heard, and then all was silent.

"Why, as sure as can be, ma'am," said the servant who was helping her to undress, "the carriage is either broke down or overset."

"I hope not, Dolly," she replied, going to the win­dow to listen. Before she had time to unbar the shut­ters and raise the sash, a loud ring at the gate an­nounced an unexpected visitor. It was the person who drove the carriage; it had been overturned; a lady in it was hurt, and her husband had sent him to request they might be permitted to repose for the night in her house, as the carriage had been so dam­aged as to render it impossible for them to proceed on their journey.

Mary was not deficient in the knowledge, nor back­ward in the performance of the rites of hospitality.

"The strangers shall be welcome, "said she, "to every accommodation my humble mansion affords."

The lady had sainted; for her arm was dislocated, and the pain had overcome her natural fortitude. A gentleman, assisted by his servant, bore her into the house; their dress struck on the heart of Mary. She went to the sofa on which the fair insensible was laid, with a design of administering volatiles and a restora­tive cordial. She raised her head, which was reclined on her husband's shoulder, and beheld the features of Cassiah. Her hands trembled, her check turned pale. [Page 191] "My cousin!" said she. Mr. Dudley looked at her with attention, and, though decorated in the habili­ments of vanity, recognized the conntenance of Mary Holmes.

But little now remains to be told. The hurt Cas­siah had received, confined her above a week, during which time Mary was delivered of a son. The advice and admonitions of her friends determined her to ab­jure a way of life, into which she had been first sedu­ced by want of resolution, and in which, want of reso­lution alone could have induced her to continue.

Business of importance had brought Dudley from the country; and, prompted at once by affection for her husband, and a wish to see the capital, Cassiah was induced to accompany him. The desired ends fully accomplished, they prepared to return.

"Come, Mary," said Cassiah, "thrown off these trap­pings of vanity; they become not the penitent. As­sume the dress of simplicity and purity, in which thou wert wont to appear. Return with a noble firmness, to the man who seduced thee, the wages of thy guilt, the price of thy dishonour. I pray thee, Mary Holmes, return to the bosom of thy friends, to the paths of in­nocence and virtue. Albeit thy good uncle Obadiah is no more, yet I and my brother Hezekiah are his representatives. Had he been living, and thou hadst returned repentant, he would have exceedingly rejoic­ed; would have killed the fatted calf, and have bid his friends and neighbours to come and welcome thee. And shall not we perform the will of our deceased father? Yea, verily will we, since in so doing we shall also perform the will of our Father who is in heaven. Dear Mary, turn not a deaf ear to my prayer; for the ways of truth are the ways of pleasantness, and where innocence dwells, dwells also peace forever­more.

Mary must have been insensible indeed to have re­jected the earnest solicitations of her amiable relation. Every feeling of the force and beauty of virtue was now powerfully awakened and called into action. She returned the settlement she had received from Fitzger­ald, [Page 192] and accompanied Dudley and Cassiah into Lan­cashire, where a few years put a period to her exist­ence. Mr. Dudley had from his birth adopted her son Jacob Holmes; and when he embarked for Amer­ica, Jacob accompanied him, was witness to every transaction on that side the Atlantic, enjoyed his un­limited confidence, and when he proposed returning to Europe, Jacob was entrusted with a copy of his will, the title-deeds of the newly purchased estate, and left in possession of it, with directions to spare neither cost nor pains to improve, cultivate and beautify it.

CHAP. IV.
Things as they were, as they are, and as they ever will be.

P. S. I shall leave Jacob Holmes in care of my estate here. I shall also leave him a trifle to put him [Page 194] in a little way of business, that by prudence and in­dustry he may render himself independent. The man who depends for the necessaries of life on a patron, can never ass [...]rt that freedom of spirit which is the natural prerogative of every human being. Jacob is serious, assiduous, and scrupulously conscientious in all his dealings. I have placed an unlimited confidence in him, and am firm in the belief that he will never abuse it. Once more, God bless you.

"So then," said Reuben, his fine eyes beaming with pleasure, "so then, my father intends that we shall all go to America. Well, I always earnestly wished to go, and I find I shall be gratified."

"But brother," said Rachel, "look at the date of my father's letter, and remember what he said about sailing in October: why, my dear brother, he will be home very soon."

"He may arrive in a few days," said aunt Rachel.

"A few days!" cried Reuben eagerly, "why he may arrive this very night."

"Oh dear! dear Reuben, do you think so?"

"Yes; and perhaps in six weeks or two months time we may be all on the Atlantic ocean. Bless me! Miss Oliver, are you not well?"

This question and exclamation, which Reuben ad­dressed to their fair visitor, was extorted by sudden sur­prise. He had casually glanced his eye towards her as he was speaking, and beheld her interesting counte­nance pale as ashes.

"What is the matter, Jessy Oliver?" said Rachel, whose attention was awakened by her brother's ques­tion; "is the room too warm?"

"No! no! my dear," said Jessy in tremulous ac­cents; "only! only! indeed I don't know what ails me; but I was seized—

"With a sudden sickness at the mention of the At­lantic ocean," said Hezekiah Penn, who had been smoking his pipe in one corner of the room.

The dry manner in which he spoke, the look he cast towards her, recalled the roses to the cheeks of Jessy. [Page 195] She affected to laugh at the idea; but it was not the laugh of nature. Her heart was full, and her eyes had nearly betrayed its feelings. Reuben was at first surprised; but he looked on the confused fair one, and an idea crossed his mind which gave birth to a sentiment which could not be extinguished but with life.

Jessy Oliver was two years older than our hero and heroine; extremely lovely in her person, accomplished in her manners, and endowed with an understanding far superior to the generality of her sex. She was se­date beyond her years; but that sedateness was the offspring of sorrow, occasioned by the loss of her moth­er when she was about twelve years old; soon after which, her father unthinkingly united himself with a young, volatile woman of quality, who, though she brought him a very ample fortune, yet by her ex­travagance, threatened him with ruin, and by her lev­ty, with dishonour.

Jessy had a brother, one year younger than herself. Archibald Oliver was classmate with Reuben, and had twice invited him to his father's country-house, which was in Oxfordshire, to pass a few days in the midsum­mer vacation. This friendship between the young men naturally led to an intimacy with the sister; and Jessy, without a thought which she would blush to own, was tenderly attached to Reuben.

Her situation at home became disagreeable in the extreme. Fond of reading, drawing, needle-work, and every elegant domestic employment; without af­fectation; delicate in her manners and conversation, and sincerely pious; it cannot be imagined that Jessy could find pleasure in the society of a woman, igno­rant, dissipated and irreligious.

To her maternal grandmother she wrote, in confi­dence, the miseries of her situation, and received from her an invitation to pass the winter with her in Lan­cashire. Perhaps the visit was not anticipated with less satisfaction because in the neighbourhood of the family of Reuben Dudley. Not that Jessy was con­scious of being too partial to him; but that she ex­pected [Page 196] much pleasure from the society of his sister and aunt, of whom she had often heard him speak with en­thusiasm.

She was charmed with the unaffected nai [...]ette of Rachel, and the more she knew of her the more she loved her; and though unperceived by herself, the friendship she conceived for the sister strengthened her partiality for the brother. Their persons were alike, as much so as it was possible for a face truly feminine, strikingly to resemble one whose features are more marked, more manly, more expressive of character.

Jessy looked at Rachel with admiration. "How much you are like your brother," she would say. Alas! poor Jessy; she was unconscious, that it was that re­semblance which chiefly drew her heart, with irresisti­ble power, towards her new friend. The mind of Jes­sy was as pure as the chaste dew which glitters in an April morn upon the bosom of a half-blown snow­drop; and when undissembled joy she flew to meet him on his arrival in Lancashire, and presented her hand and smiling mouth to greet him, it was with the sensations of a seraph who welcomes a kindred spirit to the mansions of the blest.

Oh why! why! is this pure, this unimpassioned in­tercourse between the sexes, so rare, as to be almost in­credible? Alas! it is a humiliating truth to own; but human nature is so weak, so liable to error, that its purest emotions may be construed into guilt, and, conscious of our own imbecility, we tremble for the firmness of another. Besides, wherever beauty, sense, or merit dwells, there envy hovers round, with hag­gard eye, and pale, distorted brow; the poison falling from her baleful tongue discolours every object, and casts on even innocence itself a sallow, doubtful hue. Oh! how happy, how superlatively happy, is the youthful, inexperienced, yet susceptible bosom!

Thus pure, thus susceptible, thus fearless of evil, were the hearts of Reuben, Rachel, and their fair friend Jessy Oliver; when on the evening just mentioned, the reception of the letter, the eagerness Reuben expressed to embark for America, and the remark uncle Heze­kiah made on the sudden sickness of Jessy, awakened new ideas in the breasts of all.

Reuben had folded up his father's letter, returned it to his aunt, and seated himself beside Jessy, took her passive hand, and seemed for a moment busied in counting over and over again, the beautifully white and finely tapering fingers. Rachel seated herself on the other side, and asked, with innocent earnestness, "if she was not better now."

"Yes," replied Jessy, almost unconscious that she spoke at all.

"I thought you were," said Rachel, with the great­est simplicity; "for the colour is returned to your lips and cheeks."

The remark did not make her paler. And when uncle Hezekiah, adjusting his broad-brimmed beaver, and putting on his great coat, bade Reuben talk no more of the Atlantic ocean, America, and such fright­ful things, the lily was entirely exchanged for the car­nation.

Hezekiah went to the door, with a design to go home; his horse had been previously brought out. But he opened the door, and ordering the poor beast back to the stable, returned to the parlour, and pro­tested that it stormed tremendously.

"Does the wind blow very hard uncle?" said Rachel.

"Yes," replied Hezekiah, deliberately seating him­self, and filling another pipe.

"And does it blow on shore?" said aunt Rachel, who, having experienced the dangers of the sea her­self, felt more sensibly the perils to which her nephew [Page 198] might be exposed, should he be coming near the land on such a stormy night.

"It blows strongly from the sea," said Hezekiah, drawing in a vast quantity of smoke, and then suffer­ing it gradually to evaporate, as it escaped in small curling clouds from his mouth.

As he spoke, a sudden gust rushed impetuously by the house, and shook the apartment in which they were sitting.

"Does it snow or rain, brother?" said Rachel.

"It snows," said Hezekiah, not giving Reuben time to reply; "it snows, and is very dark indeed."

At that moment, the discharge of a distant cannon was heard; and Hezekiah, dashing his pipe on the hearth, started from his seat, and exclaimed, "There is some ship in distress." Before any one could reply, another and another gun was heard, and the servant and carriage arriving for Miss Oliver, they were informed that a ship had been seen in the offing, before dark, as it was supposed, endeavouring to make the port of Liverpool; but that she appeared much disabled in her masts, yards and rigging, and it was imagined she was now on shore, or in imminent danger.

It was not the remonstrances or entreaties of his friends, that could now restrain the impetuosity of Reuben. He was prepossessed with the idea that his father was in the vessel, and he would set off immedi­ately for Liverpool. He might be enabled to send re­lief to the distressed mariners.

"Oh! my dear brother, it is impossible," said Ra­chel; "only hear how the wind roars."

"I do hear it," he replied mournfully, "and every blast seems to say, Reuben, thy father is perishing."

A momentary silence now ensued, when Hezekiah proposed going with his nephew. "I do not think," said he, "that we can render them any service; but sus­pense is painful, and we may at least learn earlier in­telligence of the fate of the vessel and her unfortunate crew; discover from whence she came, and what pas­sengers were on board."

[Page 199] "Then promise you will not attempt to go off in a boat, my dear Reuben," said Rachel.

"Oh heavens! he will not surely think of such a thing," exclaimed Miss Oliver.

"Silly children," said Hezekiah, "do not raise im­aginary miseries to afflict yourselves with. If he was so mad as to wish to do so, he would not find any one mad enough to carry him."

The horses were now at the door. Reuben handed Miss Oliver to her carriage, and then, accompanied by Hezekiah, made all possible speed to Liverpool; whilst aunt Rachel and her niece passed the night in travers­ing the apartment, listening to the storm, and ejacu­lating fervent prayers for the preservation of the un­happy sailors, whose perils (they were assured by the repeated discharge of guns) still continued. Neither of them attempted to rest; they spoke but little, but each in silence indulged her own melancholy thoughts.

Aunt Rachel had, added to the anxiety she felt for her nephew's safety, a presentiment that, should any thing happen to him, his children would be involved in very disagreeable circumstances. Mr. Dudley had not entrusted her with the exact situation of his affairs previous to his leaving England. He had told her she might draw on his agent, Atkins, for two hundred pounds each year, and that Atkins had also orders to pay for Reuben's education, and defray all his ex­penses; but she knew that the last half year of Reu­ben's board remained unpaid, and she had herself re­ceived a letter, recommending prudence to her, and hinting, should Mr. Dudley extend his stay abroad another six months, he, Atkins, should not be able to supply the money necessary for house-keeping.

This had previously given birth to many uneasy re­flections; and now that she found he had drawn for so large a sum, and given Atkins unlimited power to sell or mortgage part of the Lancashire estate, she fear­ed, should any fatal accident prevent his reaching England, Reuben and Rachel might be severe suffer­ers, in more ways than the loss of a father.

[Page 200] For herself, she had no fears; and though the half of that estate constituted the whole of her worldly pos­sessions, yet such was the native philanthropy of her mind, so little was self regarded, and with such en­thusiasm did she regard the offspring of her lamented brother William, that to supply the smallest of their wants, she would have cheerfully divested herself of even the common necessaries of life.

Aunt Rachel was now nearly approaching her six­ty-fifth year; but temperance, cheerfulness, and a de­cent competence, joined to a constitution firm by na­ture, had given even to this advanced period, strength of intellect, hilarity of spirits, and uncommon personal vigour.

In reflections like those just mentioned on her part, and earnest prayers for her father's safety and her brother's return on the part of Rachel, was the weari­some night passed. Towards morning the storm aba­ted, and the sun arose in a clear, unclouded horizon; but the ravages of the tempest were to be seen; sev­eral trees were lying on the ground, torn from their roots by the violence of the wind. A barn had been unroofed during the night, and the chimney of a neigh­bouring cottage blown down.

"I wonder my brother don't return," said Rachel.

"I wish he may bring us good news when he does come," replied her aunt.

From the rising of the sun, till it passed the meridi­an, Rachel scarcely for a moment quitted the window that looked towards the road. At length, about three o'clock, she saw her brother slowly winding down the hill.

"Ah! my dear aunt, here comes Reuben," cried she.

"But he comes not like the messenger of joy," re­plied aunt Rachel.

"He is weary, aunt." The affectionate sister ran to open the door, and receive her brother.

"What news, my dear Reuben?" said she eagerly, as he led her into the parlour.

"The vessel is lost!" he replied.

[Page 201] "And the crow?"

"All perished."

"Did you learn where she is supposed to be from?" said aunt Rachel.

"A pilot boat, that passed her yesterday morning, brought intelligence she was from America, but not what particular port."

"Had they no pilot on board?"

"Yes, and he has perished with them."

The tears started into Reuben's eyes as he spoke; Rachel wept audibly. Their aunt took a hand from each.

"Weep not, my children," said she, "but trust in God. If it has pleased him to deprive you of your father, he is able to supply his place. Look up to him, my children; worship him, serve him, obey him, in sincerity of heart. He may of his infinite wisdom afflict; but remember, and let it fill your souls with humble hope and comfort, that his chastisements are but temporal, but his rewards to those who love him, eternal."

"Then you think we are orphans?" said Rachel.

"I think," replied her aunt, "that it is more than probable your father was in the ship which was last night lost."

Two days from this passed, and no certain intelli­gence could be procured. Sometimes they encour­aged a dawn of hope, and then again relapsed into despair. Rachel was the earliest riser in the family; she had been up above an hour when the newspaper was brought, as it was customary twice a week from Liverpool. She took it from the servant, and as she held it to the fire to dry, the following paragraph met her eyes.—"We are at length certain, that the large ship which was lost on Monday night last, en­deavouring to get into this harbour, was the Aurora, of London, from Philadelphia. Two men, who prov­identially escaped, brought the melancholy intelli­gence of the captain, mate, ten hands and fourteen passengers having perished; amongst the latter was Mr. Reuben Dudley."

[Page 202] Rachel read no more. The paper sell from her hands, and sense, feeling, almost life itself, was for a while suspended. She sunk on the floor, her head rested on the elbow of her aunt's easy chair, her eyes were open, but she was as devoid of speech and mo­tion as a statue. In this situation her brother found her. "My sister! my dear Rachel!" he exclaimed, eagerly raising her. His voice recalled her fleeting senses. She threw her arms round his neck, faintly articulated, "Our father! our beloved father!" and nature relieved her bursting heart by a violent gush of tears.

Aunt Rachel was prepared for the intelligence; her heart had presaged it from the first. She bore it with the fortitude of a Christian, though she felt it as acutely as her niece. But she had learnt to repress her feelings, and to bow with resignation to the will of an all-wise Providence.

CHAP. V.

IT may naturally be supposed, that when the heavy misfortune Reuben and Rachel had sustained was universally known, condolements of form and fashion poured in upon them, and some few offered consola­tion with sincerity, and participated in their afflictions with feelings truly philanthropic. Amongst the lat­ter class was Miss Oliver. She was so sensibly affect­ed by the loss they had experienced in the death of their father, that nearly a week elapsed before she could summon fortitude sufficient to enable her to pay them a visit. At length, her wish to administer comfort tri­umphed over the fear she had entertained of the an­guish she must necessarily encounter in the interview. [Page 203] She arose with a resolution of passing the day with Rachel, took an early breakfast, and by nine o'clock was at her habitation.

Anguish of heart had so enervated the mental facul­ties of our heroine, that she no longer arose with the lark, sought employment with avidity, or pursued it with alacrity. "Why should I work?" she would say; "I have no expectation now to cheer me; no fond hope of a returning father's smiles and approba­tion rewarding my labours." Her mind occupied by reflections such as these, Rachel gave more hours to her pillow than was her usual custom; not that she found there the rest she sought; but there she could weep unrestrained, there she could uninterruptedly in­dulge in contemplation. And if haply sleep for a few hours steeped her senses in forgetfulness, she blessed the sweet oblivion, and courted its return. She was s [...]at­ed at the breakfast table when Miss Oliver entered.

"Jessy!" said she mournfully, and half rising to pre­sent her hand; but overcome by the sensations which rushed on her soul, she sunk again on her seat.

Miss Oliver took the proffered hand, pressed it ten­derly, seated herself beside her, but was silent. Yet her speaking eye met the glance of Rachel's; its ex­pression conveyed more than was in the power of words; it said, in the most intelligent language, Dear Rachel, I feel, I participate your sorrows.

It was the consolation most congenial to the soul it meant to address. Rachel felt its sincerity, its ener­gy, and was relieved. Oh! said she mentally, how far preferable is this to the profusion of words, with which the unfeeling attempt to console me. She re­turned the pressure of Jessy's hand; a few tears escap­ed from her eyes; Reuben kissed them off, and seat­ing himself opposite the two charming young women, contemplated them till his own eyes were suffused; and the suffusion did honour to his heart, to nature, to reason, to manhood!

How long this silence might have continued; is un­certain; but it was abruptly interrupted by aunt Ra­chel, who entered the apartment, followed by a di­minutive [Page 204] figure habited in a grey coat, black waist­coat and breeches, an immense and not very fashiona­ble peruke, high boots, a very deep pair of ruffles, and a long neckcloth twisted through the fourth button­hole of his waistcoat.

This extraordinary personage appeared to be about fifty years old. His black eyes, which were not the less penetrating for being extremely small, darted their glances at the three interesting figures that presented themselves in the persons of Reuben, Rachel, and Miss Oliver.

He bowed profoundly on entering. Rachel rose from her seat. Her sorrows seemed to retire within her heart, and a dignified composure took possession of her features, as she received and returned his compli­ments.

"This gentleman comes from Mr. Atkins," said aunt Rachel, as pointing to the sofa on which Reuben had sat, she motioned for him to be seated. "His name, I understand, is —"

"Allibi, at your service," said he, bowing again, and recovering himself with an air of consequence; as if he had said, I believe I am pretty universally known. "Mr. Dudley, I presume," turning toward Reuben, "and Miss Dudley, his charming sister, (bowing to Rachel) if I may judge from your mourning habits. Give me leave to condole with you on the unfortu­nate catastrophe of our mutual friend. But man is born to die; so regret is useless. Permit me, there­fore, to congratulate you on your accession to his for­tune."

The mention of her father had called forth the smothered sensibility of Rachel; but the conclusion repelled it by rousing her indignation.

"Congratulate?" said she, in a voice scarcely ar­ticulate.

"Congratulate?" echoed Reuben, and his fine countenance glowed, his eyes darted resentment. "Sir, we are the children of Mr. Dudley, his natural off­spring, reared by his care, nurtured by his love, and [Page 205] taught by his wisdom. Who then shall dare insult us?" And he rose from his seat, laid one hand on his breast, and with the other motioned as though brandishing a weapon. "Who shall dare insult us by congratulation for his death? Oh! my father!"

"My dear, lost father!" repeated Rachel.

"My afflicted friends," said Miss Oliver, softly.

It was a scene so new, the manners and sentiments of the young trio were so elevated, as to be almost un­intelligible to Allibi. He figetted on his seat, hem­med at least half a dozen times, and at length he be­gan with hesitation—

"I beg pardon. I protest I did not mean—that is, I did not know. But as I was saying, young Mr. Reuben Dudley, and his sister Miss Rachel Dudley, being twin brother and sister, and in the eye of the law joint heirs of the possessions and estates, of what kind soever, that is to say, of money, plate, jewels, landed property, houses, merchandize, or what not, belonging or appertaining to their late father, Reuben Dudley, deceased—"

"Oh heavens!" said Rachel, folding her hands across her breast, as if to accelerate her breathing, which was evidently laboured.

"My dear creature!" said Miss Oliver, in the as­cent of commiseration.

"Good Sir, be expeditious in explaining the nature of your business," said Reuben; and he walked to the other end of the room to conceal his own emotions.

Allibi with the same sang froid proceeded.—"You being, as I have before said, co-heirs, do thereby stand answerable for all debts contracted by, or owing from the said Reuben Dudley, deceased."

"Granted," said Reuben, hastily. "Pray come to your conclusion.

"The conclusion is," said Allibi, deliberately draw­ing forth his pocket-book, "that you must of conse­quence pay this bill of five hundred pounds, which your father drew previous to his leaving America, on my client Andrew Atkins. Now he, Andrew Atkins, having no property whatever in his hands wherewith [Page 206] to discharge this demand, and being empowered by your father before the late fatal catastrophe to sell, mortgage, or otherwise dispose of the Lancashire es­tate, in order to liquidate this and other debts he had contracted, I am sent by him, my client, the said An­drew Atkins, to inquire when it will be convenient for you to discharge the bill; or in case of non-ability on your part, I am empowered to take possession of the said estates on the part of my client, the said An­drew Atkins, in order that he may mortgage, sell, or otherwise dispose of it, to enable him to answer this and other demands which may be made on him."

"I suppose," said aunt Rachel, "you know that half the estate is mine."

"Pardon me, madam." said the man of law, "I know no such thing. The late Mr. Reuben Dudley inherited from his grandmother, the lady Arrabella Ruthven, wife to Edward Dudley, who went to Amer­ica in the year 1645; and as the said Reuben was the only male descendant of the said Arrabella, and she dying intestate—"

"Sir," said Reuben hastily, "the estate is half my aunt's; we wish not to contest it. It is, it must be her's, by all the rules of justice."

"I know nothing of justice," said Allibi; "the law, the law, Sir, is my profession."

I thought, Sir, law and equity were synonimous terms."

"You are a very young man, Mr. Dudley, very young, very inexperienced; when you are older, you will be wiser."

Reuben could not answer; a look of pointed con­tempt fully expressed his sentiments. Allibi continued:

"And so, Sir, yourself and sister being minors, it is necessary to throw the estate into Chancery, when, af­ter your father's debts are discharged, the residue will be paid to you when of age."

"And in the mean time how are we to live," said Rachel.

"Oh! my dear young lady, you have friends, wealthy relations. You have also youth, beauty, and [Page 207] may command a home in twenty different families, and in so doing confer a favour. Well, Mr. Dudley, I presume from your silence that you cannot pay these five hundred pounds?"

Reuben bowed his head.

"I imagined it would be so, and have brought down people to take possession of the house, plate, stock, farming utensils, &c. and must beg you will remove as soon as may be convenient. With your leave, (rising and putting on his hat) I will take an invento­ry of the family plate which I saw in the beaufet in the next room."

He drew forth his pen, ink, and folded paper, and without waiting for the leave he had requested, walk­ed into the adjoining apartment.

"Alas! alas!" cried Rachel, "whither shall we go? Who will receive us? Where shall we find either home or support?"

"Had I a home I could call my own," said Jessy Oliver, "you should not have occasion to repeat the question."

"And poor aunt Rachel too, what will become of her?" said Rachel, tenderly taking her hand, which hung passively over the arm of her chair, as lost in painful thought she leaned her head against the side of it.

"What will become of her?" said Reuben with energy, "why I will labour to support you both. Yes," continued he, fervently clasping his hands, and dropping on his knees before them; "yes, here in the sight of Heaven, I vow to dedicate my life to her and you. I will cheerfully work to procure you sustenance. Industry shall supply our wants, innocence and con­tent make our dwelling, however humble, the abode of pleasure; and I will protect you from the scorn and insults of the world at the hazard of my life."

As Reuben arose and folded his sister in his arms, Hezekiah Penn entered the room. He was soon in­formed of their disagreeable situation. But Hezekiah knew so very little of the world and its concerns, that [Page 208] he could not offer advice; all he could do was to bid them cheer up, and hope for better times.

"In truth, my dear kinsman, said he, "I do com­miserate your sufferings much; but I know not how, young as you are, you can extricate yourselves from your present difficulty. Come, then, home to my house; abide there till we can fix on some feasible plan for your future well-doing. I am not overcharg­ed with the good things of this world; but come and partake of such as I have, and take with it a hearty welcome. I pray thee, Rachel Dudley, be not down hearted, but come to my mansion; bring these children with thee, and He who feedeth the young ra­vens will provide the means of subsistence."

The heart of Hezekiah overflowed with the "milk of human kindness;" he meant all he said, and felt more, much more, than he could find words to ex­press. His friendly offers, and the endearing kind­ness of Miss Oliver, healed the bleeding hearts of Reu­ben and Rachel, and even aunt Rachel was revived by their influence. That very night they removed from their own habitation to that of the benevolent Heze­kiah, and lest the loquacious Mr. Allibi in full posses­sion of the premises, in behalf of his client Mr. An­drew Atkins.

CHAP. VI.
Death of an old Friend—Acquisition of a Lover—For­mality personified.

SOON after this arrangement took place, Miss Oliver was recalled home. With many tears she took leave of our heroine, told her, if ever fortune should put it in her power to offer her an asylum, she might freely command her purse, her house, her un­bounded friendship in every particular. When she had again embraced Rachel, she turned towards Reu­ben.

[Page 209] "Mr. Dudley," said she, "the friendship of a girl like me is an offering of so trifling a nature, I hardly know whether you will think it worth accepting. You are advised by your friends to visit America, to look after and secure the property your father possessed there. It will probably be many years before we meet again; and what changes may take place during this separation, it is impossible now to determine. Accept my most ardent wishes for your prosperity. I know you will often write to my brother; in those letters perhaps you will sometimes remember me."

"Oh! doubt it not, charming Miss Oliver," said he, pressing her hand to his lips; while she, fearful that she had said more than the exact line of propri­ety she had prescribed to herself rendered allowable, hurried to her carriage, to hide emotions she found it impossible to stifle.

Atkins having now taken the management of the estate eutirely into his own hands, pretended to ad­vance money himself for the liquidation of Mr. Dud­ley's debts, and at the end of three months laid before Hezekiah Penn, Reuben and aunt Rachel, a statement of accounts, which, to the minds of these three inexpe­rienced, honest children of simplicity, made it appear as so involved, that it would be a long term of years before it could even clear itself. In the mean time, how were the orphans and their venerable relation to be supported?

Letters were written to Jacob Holmes, a proper time allowed, and no answer being returned, Hezeki­ah persuaded Reuben, who was now nearly eighteen, to visit that continent and make inquiry himself con­cerning his father's effects.

"Your sister," said Hezekiah, "shall stay with me till you return. She shall not want a home nor a fa­ther whilst I live."

A voyage to the western continent had ever been the primary wish of Reuben's heart; he hoped he knew not what, but that hope led him on; and even to part with his sister was thought of with more com­posure, since, if he amended his own fortune, she was [Page 210] to be the partaker of it. Jessy Oliver too was foremost in the happy group his sanguine imagination portray­ed as eagerly flying to welcome his return to England. Nay, fancy would so powerfully take possession of his mind, that she would sometimes carry him a second time across the Atlantic ocean, and place him tran­quilly in the habitation his father had described, sur­round him with a blooming offspring, and give them Jessy Oliver for a mother, his sister too heightening by partaking their felicity; and even provide a snug corner and easy chair for aunt Rachel.

"Uncle Hezekiah," he would say, "will not be per­suaded to quit Old England, or else what a charming family party we should make."

Oh! how delightful are those day-dreams of youth; like the shadows of a magic lantern, that pass before the admiring eye in quick succession, each one as it comes forward more pleasing than the last. But sor­row, disappointment, poverty, throw a damp upon the fire of youth, which had given brightness to the pic­ture; the brilliant tints grow pale; the figures are scarcely perceptible; they pass before us almost un­noticed; when age entirely extinguishes the flame, and all is darkness, undistinguishable cha [...]s.

Spurred on by the native impulse of his mind, which incited him to activity, and inspired him with the most sanguine presentiments of future prosperity, Reuben took leave of his friends in Lancashire, and embarked for Philadelphia.

Previous to his departure, he had thrown off both the habit and manners of a Quaker. Hezekiah remon­strated, but Reuben would reply, "Nay, uncle, can you believe it is of any consequence to out eternal welfare, whether we wear a plain drab coat or a scar­let one? or do you not think I should commit more sin in continuing the habit, when I cannot submit to the tenets of the Friendly system? I admire their primitive manners, and the simplicity of their lan­guage; but I am a young man, uncle, and have to make my way through the world. Besides, I feel that within [...] that tells me, should my king or, country re­quire [Page 211] my assistance. I should readily draw a sword in their defence. What, my dear uncle, if we were all men of peace, who would protect us from the en­croachments of our enemies? No; you shall pray for peace, and if the haughty foe is not inclined to grant it, I will assist my brave countrymen to force them to it."

Perhaps Hezekiah did not say so much as he might have done, had he not recollected that Reuben's father had only become one of the sect in compliance with the wish of his wife; and Hezekiah had charity enough to think that a man might be a very good Christian, though he wore a button to his hat, and ruffles to his shirt.

From the time of Mr. Dudley's unfortunate death, aunt Rachel's spirits flagged. She was no longer the life of every society in which she mixed. The loss of her little independence, the being obliged to the hand of charity for her daily bread, depressed her generous mind. The destitute situation too of her darlings, Reuben and Rachel, was a heavy affliction. Rest and appetite forsook her. Reuben's departure for Amer­ica was the finishing blow. The anxiety she suffered for his safety brought on a slow nervous fever, and gradually undermined her constitution. Rachel watch­ed over her with unremitting tenderness and atten­tion; administered every medicine; read to her, pray­ed by her; endeavoured to cheer her by affected se­renity when she was awake, and wept over her with agony when she slept.

But care, affection, prayers and tears were alike in­effectual. Aunt Rachel departed this life, and our heroine felt, as the last breath lingered on the lips of her maternal friend, that in losing her she should be­come forlorn, unconnected, and be left to struggle through a world with which she was totally unac­quainted, without a comforter, adviser, or protector. Reuben still lived, to be sure, but Reuben was far, very far from her; and should she stand in need of advice or protection, she might be lost, and Reuben [Page 212] not even hear of her distress till she was past the reach of relief or assistance.

Occupied by reflections such as these, Rachel would often stray into the rural church-yard, where, resting on the "lap of earth," lay the remains of her mother and her lamented aunt.

It was midsummer. The days were extremely long, and at half-past eight o'clock in the evening, just enough of the twilight remained, as threw over the face of nature that modest, dusky veil, so congenial to the contemplative mind. Rachel seated herself on the fragment of a broken tomb-stone, and casting her eyes upon a new-made grave, where that very after­noon a youth had been interred, the only son of a farmer in the neighbourhood, she, almost unknown to herself, audibly repeated the following stanzas.

"My lovely moralist," said a voice, as Rachel fin­ished the last sentence, "if you sit here much longer, you will stand a chance of soon being as tranquil as that poor youth. His disorder was a cold, and you are taking the right method to catch one."

Rachel rose, turned her head, and beheld the apoth­ecary of the village. Dr. Lenient was a man nearly [Page 213] fifty years old, very humane, very learned, very skil­ful in his profession; but with regret it must be added, not very rich. For if he attended a family whose wants were great and means small, when the journey, man inquired if he should make out the bill, as was customary, at Christmas, he would say, Pho, pho, tear out the account and burn it; if I send it in, they can't pay it. It is only my own time lost; and the few drugs—what did they cost me? Nothing worth talk­ing of. Oh! burn it! burn it! If the poor man has got a trifle beforehand, why he wants it, in this season of hilarity, to provide a good large plumb-pudding for his little ones."

With sentiments such as these, though the Doctor's practice daily increased, yet it did not greatly augment his revenue. However, he supported his family with comfort and something more than decency.

Our heroine was a great favourite with the good man. Studious from her infancy, of an inquiring genius, eager in the pursuit of knowledge, and atten­tive to the conversation of those who had the power to impart it, Rachel at the age of twelve had prefer­ed a conversation with the doctor, to a ride or a ramble with her young companions. Charmed by her ardent thirst for instruction, the old gentleman would answer her questions, correct her errors, direct her studies, and labour to give her an unaffected turn for litera­ture and the polite arts.

When Rachel painted or worked flowers, the Doctor would assist her in arranging her shades with proprie­ty; describing, as he sat beside her while she worked, the natures, properties and use of every plant, shrub or flower. If she read, he corrected her pronunciation, and taught her how to convey the full sense of what she read to her auditors, by a pleasing modulation of voice. If she wrote, he would point out the errors in her style, and often has been heard to say, It was a great pity she could not speak and read Latin.

"Come, my good girl," said he, "you shall go home with me. You are too melancholy of late, and in­dulge too much in solitary walks and gloomy contem­plations. [Page 214] And let me tell you, my young friend, you are insensibly falling into an error, which, if indulged, will increase and grow upon you, till it becomes guilt."

Rachel started. "What mean you, Sir?" said she.

"I mean," replied the Doctor, "that you are sink­ing into torpor and inactivity; you are suffering the functions of your soul to be entirely lo [...]ked up by grief, and you are distrusting the power of a Divine Providence, in giving way to immoderate affliction."

"Alas! my dear Sir," said Rachel, "have I not cause to be afflicted? am I not a most unhappy crea­ture? My parents dead, my brother at an immense distance from me, my good uncle Hezekiah in a very infirm state, and the only source from whence I could look for support entangled in the law!"

"All this is true, I must allow," said the Doctor gravely, "but yet, Miss Dudley, you have a firm, un­alterable friend, who has said, (and his word is truth itself) "Though thy father and thy mother forsake thee, yet will not I forsake thee." And this friend, my dear, has endowed you with wonderful qualifica­tions of both mind and person; he has given you good sense, genius, and the benefit of improving those qualities by education; and all he requires of you is, not ungratefully to bury the talent entrusted to your keeping, but exert yourself to improve it to the ut­most, depending on him to second your endeavours, and he will amply reward your faith, patience and industry."

Cheered and comforted by conversation such as this, the melancholy cloud began to disperse from the brow of Rachel. Her features assumed a sweet, an interest­ing composure; and, arrived at the dwelling of the good Doctor, she consented to go in and partake of his supper. For the house of Hezekiah Penn was within five minute's walk of the Doctor's, and a lad was dis­patched to inform him that Rachel was safe, but would sup out.

This little necessary business was settled in the gar­den that fronted the house, where the lad was busied, [Page 215] in watering some pots of curious flowers; and the Doctor then led his fair companion through the shop into a back parlour, where they usually sat.

"I have brought you a welcome visitor, sister," said he, as he opened the door. Mrs. Auberry rose from her seat, and taking the hand of Rachel, cried, "Welcome indeed." Then turning to an elegant young man in military uniform, she continued, "My dear Hamden, give me leave to present you to Miss Dudley. This, Miss Dudley, is my son Hamden Au­berry, of whom you have often heard me speak."

The majectic figure, the soft, melancholy counte­nance of Rachel, rendered more striking by her deep mourning habit. (for Rachel was not Quaker enough to neglect that outward token of respect to the memory of departed friends) made her appear in the eyes of the young soldier almost divine. She bowed her head, and presented her hand with a grace peculiar to her­self. There was something in the action nouvelle, and irresistibly charming in the eyes of Hamden. He took the snowy pledge of amity, and bowed low upon it; and if his fingers did contract closer than the frigid rules of politeness render admissible, surprise and ad­miration must plead his excuse. Rachel was sensible of the pressure, and life's warm fluid, rushing impetu­ously to her heart, from thence sprang to her cheeks, and gave uncommon animation to her expressive coun­tenance.

Dr. Lenient was an old bachelor. Himself and sister were nearly of an age. She had, in her youth, united herself to a young man, who, being a younger son though of the united families of Hamden and Auberry, had nothing but a commission and the interest of his father to depend on. Joanna Lenient was poor in every thing, save personal beauty and a good heart. Young Auberry saw her, loved her, and bidding defiance to every suggestion of prudence, in direct opposition to the will of his father, married her. His father renounced him, and he never rose above the rank of captain. He sought preferment in the field of action, fought bravely under the gallant Marlborough, [Page 216] and fell in the memorable battle on the plains of Blein­hem.

His wife had never been acknowledged by his fami­ly, and after his death she retired, with her infant son, then only fifteen months old, to the village where her brother resided. He had just entered upon the busy scenes of life, had a pleasant house, a considerable de­gree of employment; but no social companion to ren­der the fireside cheerful, or preside at the temperate meal. He invited his sister to come and increase his comforts by sharing them. She complied, and his home from that hour became her's. Her pension was devoted to the education of young Hamden, and the supply of her own pocket expenses; and the Doctor found himself so happy in her sisterly affection, her economy in managing his family, her good humour, sincerity, and study to please, that every other woman of his acquaintance lost something in his opinion, when compared with his sister Auberry.

It happened that when Hamden was about seven years old, the maid-servant of Dr. Lenient requested leave to go to a neighbouring fair, and take little mas­ter with her. Hamden joined his solicitations with Susan's, and was permitted to go. The brother of Susan was the head-waiter of an inn, in the town to which they went, and thither the girl (after having paraded through the fair with some of her companions, and purchased for Master Auberry a gun and a drum) repaired, in order to procure some refreshment. Ham­den, satiated with cakes, fruit and sugar-plumbs, left her to take her repast in quiet, whilst, taking his little musket on his shoulder, and slinging his drum before him, he paraded in the court before the front of the house, supporting his gun with his left hand, and beat­ing the drum with his right.

Hamden was a remarkably handsome boy; his complexion at once fair and florid, his eyes large and expressive, of the finest sapphire hue, and his forehead shaded by innumerable ringlets of beautiful flaxen hair; tall of his age, and sufficiently robust to prevent an appearance of effeminacy. Such a boy so employ­ed, [Page 217] could not fail to attract notice. A lady, who in passing to her country-seat had stopped to take dinner in this place, had observed his martial air and step, as he marched before the windows, and throwing up the sash, called him to her.

"So you have been to the fair, I see, my pretty boy," said she.

"Yes, ma'am, and Susan gave me this gun; a'nt it a pretty one? and the drum too; only hear how loud I can beat it. She wanted to give me a fiddle and a coach, but I chose the gun, and next fair I will have a sword."

"You shall have a sword now, my sweet boy; here is a shilling to buy one."

"No, thank you, ma'am," said Hamden; "mamma gave me money enough, and she would be angry if I took any from strangers."

"You are a charming fellow; will you go with me?"

"If mamma pleases, and you will promise to make me a soldier."

"Why do you wish to be a soldier?"

"Because papa was a soldier. He was killed at the battle of Bleinhem, and I should like to know how to fight, that I might kill the man that killed my father."

The lady felt her eyes fill with tears; the undaunt­ed spirit of the boy delighted her.

"What is your name, my love?" said she.

"Hamden Auberry," he replied; "'tis a great name, my mamma says, and for the sake of my father's relations I must be careful not to disgrace it, though they never owned me, nor noticed me."

At the name of Auberry, the lady had funk agi­tated on the window-seat. "Come into the room, my dear." said she. Hamden obeyed, and was instantly folded in her arms, while her tears bedewed his face, as she tenderly saluted him.

It was lady Anne Auberry, the eldest sister of Ham­den's father. Struck by the innocent reproach his natural and spirited replies had given, not only to her­self, but all the family, for their wilful neglect of so [Page 218] promising a branch of it, she made inquiries concern­ing the situation of his mother, ordered her carriage, took the child home, and from that moment adopted him as her own son. At that period she was verging upon forty, was still unmarried, and remained so at the time Hamden, returned from a tour he had been making on the continent, was introduced to our he­roine.

Lady Anne had spared no cost in completing his education. She never forgot the promise he had in­nocently extorted from her at the moment she first conversed with him, and before he was sixteen pur­chased for him an ensigncy in a regiment upon the home establishment. He was now only twenty-two, but what cannot interest and money procure? Ham­den Auberry, without once having been in actual ser­vice, was advanced to the rank of Major.

When lady Anne thus lavishly poured upon her nephew every advantage which wealth could bestow, she in her mind purposed making him her heir; in­deed, she looked upon him as the heir of the family. Her eldest brother's children were all puny beings, and her second brother had never married. She therefore looked forward with the hope of one day seeing Hamden one of the first men in the kingdom. One of the preliminaries she had settled for his ad­vancement was a marriage with some woman of splen­did rank and fortune. Perhaps lady Anne was not quite so anxious about beauty, grace, good sense, and good humour, as Hamden himself thought was abso­lutely necessary; for she had pointed out three several women of quality, who, she assured him, would be happy to receive his devoirs, and whose alliance would do him infinite honour. But unfortunately one was upwards of forty years old, another had a hump on her back, coarse, unmeaning features, and a disposi­tion that was the very counterpart of her form; and the third, though formed by the tenderest care of young love, yet so vacant, so totally devoid of men­tal endowments,

That Hamden, though an enthusiast in his admira­tion of female beauty, could scarcely command pa­tience sufficient to listen with an appearance of com­mon civility.

His heart had remained untouched, and it was for our heroine alone to call its tender sentiments into ac­tion. The artless, unaffected manner of Rachel, af­forded him the most delicate pleasure, whilst behold­ing and conversing with her; for it was so apparent in every word, look, smile of her's, that she was un­conscious of her own charms, that those charms be­came the more striking, the more fascinating. About half past ten, he waited on Rachel to the door of her uncle's mansion, and then returned to tell his mother she was the only woman he had ever seen, who in the least appeared to him in every particular what a wom­an ought to be.

Hezekiah had been married very early in life, but his wife lived only a few years; and from the time of her decease, his household concerns had been super­intended by a distant relation of his mother's, whose tall, thin figure, and austere visage, attired in the close mob black hood, and other plain habiliments usually worn by the sect, looked, as much as it is possible to conceive any thing to look, like formality personified. Nor was her dress and person more stiff and forbid­ding than was her manners. Ignorant in the highest degree, she valued herself on that ignorance; she un­derstood nothing of polite literature; and whenever she saw our heroine engaged in any book, whether of instruction or amusement it mattered not, by her they were all termed vanity and vexation of spirit. The productions of the best poets were called blasphemy. History was of no use; for of what consequence was it to her what was done in the world before she was born? And works of fancy, however excellent in their kind, were all a pack of nonsense, and served on­ly to fill young people's heads with proclamations. [Page 220] To be seen with a book on any day except Sunday, was highly against her creed. For in her opinion needle-work, spinning, and attending to the culinary concerns of the family, were sufficient to occupy every hour of the day. Her pickles and preserves were ex­cellent in their kind, and for good substantial roast and boiled dishes, with solid plumb-puddings, and large family mince-pies, Tabitha would not give place to any woman in England. Hezekiah thought, with all her oddities, she had his interest sincerely at heart, and therefore continued passive, and suffered Tabitha to rule the family as she pleased. But the maidens of the household unanimously declared, that she ruled with a rod of iron.

CHAP. VII.
Journey to London.

WHEN Hamden Auberry had seen Rachel to her uncle's door and rapped at it, politeness obliged him to wait till it was opened, which it was by Tabitha herself. She glanced her eye at the scar­let coat and the lace which decorated it, nor did she entirely overlook the handsome form and face of him who wore it. But when, without noticing Tabitha, Hamden bowed to our heroine, and kissing her hand with an air of gallantry, wished her a good night, she became troubled in spirit that Rachel should have sub­mitted to such an abomination quietly.

With upright head, her long, scraggy neck stretch­ing to its utmost extent, from a consciousness of her own purity, in silent solemnity Tabitha stalked into the parlour; where sat Hezekiah almost dozing in his easy chair. She deposited the candle on the table, and seated herself on his right hand. Rachel sat down on the other side, and affectionately bending over the chair, asked her uncle how he was.

[Page 221] "Why tired almost to death, thou mayest be sure," said Tabitha, not giving Hezekiah time to reply.

"Then it was a pity my uncle did not go to bed," said Rachel innocently.

"Thou art both an unthinking and an unfeeling girl, Rachel Dudley, else wouldest thou know that anxiety for thy safety kept him up. But he has had so many of those uneasy hours since thou hast been in his dwelling, that I can foresee it will hurry him to his grave. Oh! Rachel! Rachel! thou art turned to vanity, to folly, to abomination. Thou art wilful­ly running into the snares of the wicked one. Thou dost love to consort with the children of disobedience; thou delightest to behold their vestments, shining with gold, and red in the blood of Jezebel."

"Bless me," said Rachel, "what can you mean? Uncle, pray speak to me. I hope I have not given you any cause for uneasiness. I sent word that I should sup at Dr. Lenient's; had you sent by the boy for me to come home, I should have returned instantly."

Hezekiah had taken her hand, which in her ear­nestness she had laid on his knee, gave it a gentle pressure, and was beginning to speak; but Tabitha in­terrupted him, and he knew it would be in vain to at­tempt being heard, when she was inclined to talk. So he relinquished his intention, leaned back in his chair, shut his eyes, and inwardly wished he could shut his ears also.

"Thou didst send word, it is true," said the perse­cuting Tabitha, "but thou didst not send word that a stranger would walk with thee; that thou wouldest lean on his arm, and suffer him to kiss thy hand, in a manner not becoming a maiden who wisheth to pre­serve her reputation. And this stranger was clothed in scarlet and gold, and eats the bread that is pur­chased by murdering his fellow-creatures. Verily, I say, my spirit waxeth wroth when I think the daugh­ter of Cassiah Penn turneth from the worship of her father's house, and runneth after strange gods, and delighteth to dwell in the tents of idolaters."

[Page 222] "I beg your pardon," said Rachel tartly; "my father despised both formality and hypocrisy."

"Oh thou offspring of a generation of vipers," cried Tabitha, "dost thou call our pure and undefiled faith hypocrisy?"

"No! Heaven forbid I should," replied our hero­ine mildly; "it is only the uncharitable and insen­sate wretch, who, having neither heart to conceive, nor understanding to enjoy, the innocent pleasures with which a bountiful Creator has enriched the world, proudly arrogate to themselves the right to judge and contemn their fellow-creatures; and surely it is the height of hypocrisy to pretend to deserve the di­vine appellation of Christian, and yet harbour in the bosom envy, hatred and malice."

"Rachel! Rachel! child of folly, daughter of dis­obedience," exclaimed Tabitha vociferously, her mea­gre features flaming with rage, as though the fire within shone through her skinny cheeks and hollow eyes; "child of darkness, hear me; thou art going blindfold into the pit; thou art walking barefoot over burning ploughshares; but the soles of thy feet, like thine eternal soul, is callous and insensible to the dan­ger that surrounds thee. Had thy mother lived unto this day—"

"Oh! would to Heaven she had!" cried Rachel, her spirits no longer able to support her against the absurd accusations of Tabitha. "Oh that she were alive at this moment; she would not suffer her inno­cent child to be thus grossly insulted."

Here she gave way to an involuntary gush of tears; but suppressing them as quick as she could, she kissed her uncle with affection, "Good-night! God bless you, my dear Sir," said she; "the unhappy Rachel will not long be a trouble to you."

"God bless you, my love," said Hezekiah, "and grant us both patience according to the burthens it may please him to lay upon us."

"Amen," said Rachel fervently, darting an indig­nant look at Tabitha; then rising and taking the can­dle from the table, she went towards the door; but [Page 223] the natural philanthropy of her mind would not suffer her to part in enmity with any one. She turned to­wards Tabitha. "Good-night," said she in a softened accent, "and Heaven forgive us both as we forgive each other." Tabitha was sullenly silent, and Rachel retir­ed to her solitary apartment, wept a few moments, knelt, and commended herself [...] the protection of Heaven; was composed and comforted by the action, retired to bed, and sunk into the arms of repose.

Sweet, heavenly sweet, are the slumbers of the in­nocent. Rachel's heart was uncontaminated; envy, hatred, jealousy, were equal strangers to it. Her sleep was undisturbed and refreshing; her dreams the vis­itation of ministering angels.

When Rachel left the parlour, Tabitha began speak­ing to Hezekiah, but he arose from his seat. "My head aches," said he, "I can sit up no longer." Then taking his own candle, which stood ready on the ta­ble, he bade Tabby good-night and retired to his apartment.

"I will alter my will to-morrow," said Hezekiah, as he laid his head on the pillow; (for, some years previous to the death of Mr. Dudley, this will had been made highly in Tabitha's favour) "I will alter my will," said he, "it will not be right to leave my fair and good kinswoman Rachel, dependent on a per­son whose understanding is weak, and whose heart is contracted."

In the morning he arose with the same determina­tion, and dispatched a person for the most eminent attorney of the neighbouring market town. He walk­ed himself to Dr. Lenient's, wishing to consult with him, and to have him a witness to his new will. But unfortunately the attorney was gone to London on particular business, and Dr. Lenient had been called to Liverpool to visit a patient, who, having found benefit from his prescriptions whilst on a visit in the country, wished to have those prescriptions continued.

At dinner, Hezekiah ate less than usual, complain­ed of an acute pain across his temples, and a coldness down the spine of his back.

[Page 224] "Why dost thou not partake of that boiled soul?" said Tabitha; "the shrimp sauce is good, I can assure thee, for I made it myself."

"I have no appetite for fish," he replied, pushing the plate gently from him.

"Let me change your plate, dear uncle," said Ra­chel, removing the one before him and setting one in its place on which she had previously laid the wing of a chicken.

Hezekiah drew the plate towards him, cut a mouth­ful and raised it to his lips. But the effort was vain; his countenance changed; he sunk back. It was a kind of paralytic affection. He struggled to speak, but could not articulate. By the order of Tabitha, he was put into a warm bed, and Dr. Lenient being just returned, attended on the first summons. He or­dered the usual applications, and waited to observe their effects. All the night he continued speechless; but towards morning, by a violent exertion, he spoke so as to be understood. Desiring to be raised in the bed, he in faltering accents thus began:

"I called on you, my good friend, this morning, to ask your advice and opinion."

"I wish I had been at home," said the Doctor, "we might perhaps have prevented this severe attack."

"That is not my meaning," said Hezekiah. "My time is come, and, skilful as you are, my good Doc­tor, I do not think you can ward off the stroke of death."

"I do not think I could," said the Doctor gravely.

"Tabitha," said the sick man, reaching out his hand towards her, "I am much indebted to you for the un­wearied attention you have for many years shewn me, and the care you have taken of my temporal interest. It has grieved me to see the little dissensions which have of late taken place between you and my niece Rachel, who, though younger, livelier, more free from prejudice than yourself, is nevertheless one of the best and most unoffending creatures in the world. Let me see you friends." continued he, taking Rachel's hand and joining it with Tabitha's.

[Page 225] Rachel could not speak, Tabitha would not, and Hezekiah continued:

"You will find on the opening of my will, Dr. Lenient, that I have not forgot the services I have re­ceived from my ancient kinswoman; but I am sorry—I meant to alter—I wish her to give—" His voice again faultered—"to give her—" said he with ex­treme difficulty.

"Fifty or sixty guineas," cried Tabitha, interrupt­ing him.

"No," exclaimed the dying man; then struggling violently, he at length articulated, "Give her half." They were his last words. In a few moments he sunk again into insensibility, and before evening expired.

Now the good-hearted Doctor fully comprehended what Hezekiah meant when he said, "Give her half." But Tabitha wilfully misconstrued the expression; and when the will was read, which gave the house, land, cattle, plate, furniture, &c. to Tabitha Holdfast, in consideration of her more than sisterly kindness," Dr. Lenient intimating, that he expected she would make a fair and equitable division of the whole with Rachel, in compliance with what he understood to be the intention of the testator from his last words, she calmly replied:

"Friend Lenient, I am not accountable for what thou mayest have understood. I am certain our dear departed brother Hezekiah—" And here the hand­kerchief visited her eyes; but it returned

"I am certain," she continued, "he meant not the par­ticipation thou wouldest insinuate; for when (ever ea­ger to interpret and prevent his wishes) I mentioned giving her fifty or sixty guineas, he said, "Give her half;" and by his dying words I shall most surely abide."

[Page 226] "He meant to say," cried the Doctor vehemently, "that you should give her half of all he died possessed of."

"It may be to thy advantage, friend, (said she sneer­ingly) to have his last will so understood. The sin­gular attentions of one of thy relatives to Rachel has not passed unnoticed; and I think thy family is re­markable for promoting its own interest at the expense of others."

It was a reproach too pointed to be misunderstood; but it sprung from a mind so debased, that it was be­neath notice. The Doctor took his hat, and wished Tabitha a good night. Rachel arose to light him to the door.

"My good, dear girl," said he, "I would fain have procured from this woman a small independence for you; but it is in vain to flatter you with the idea. But this give me leave to say, Should you not hear from your brother, and your residence with dame Tabitha becomes painful, I have a home. My sister and my­self both possess hearts, which I thank God are not yet quite petrified." Saying which, he shook her hand and left her.

Rachel soon perceived the full extent of her unhap­py situation. The morning after the interment of her uncle, Tabitha paid her thirty guineas, and from that moment she found that she was looked upon as an in­truder in the family.

Rachel was not of a spirit to brook the cold hauteur of Tabitha. Nor could she think of availing herself of the kind offer of Dr. Lenient. For, besides that she shrunk from the weight of obligation, she also felt there would be an impropriety in her seeking an asylum in the family of Hamden Auberry. She was not insen­sible to his merit, nor had she listened unmoved to the expressions of attachment that had sometimes acci­dentally escaped his lips. For Hamden knew he should have many obstacles to encounter, should he give way to a passion for a woman in the state of life in which fortune had placed Rachel. Lady Anne would never [Page 227] be brought to approve of his allying himself to a person, who had neither rank or wealth to recommend her.

Rachel saw the struggle of his mind, and, attributing that to pride which was only the effect of caution, re­solved never to intrude herself into a family which would look upon her connexion as degrading to its principal branch.

Having therefore formed a plan for her future con­duct, Rachel took an affectionate leave of the worthy Doctor and his sister, and a very cool one of Tabitha, and departed in the stage-coach for London, resolving to consult and advise with her friend Jessy Oliver, in regard to her executing the scheme she had thought of for her subsistence till she should hear from Reuben.

Mrs. Auberry gave her a letter to a reputable family, with whom she proposed to board. Hamden was absent at the time of Rachel's departure on a fishing party, and on his return, his mother merely informed him that Miss Dudley was gone to London; but wish­ing to put a stop to any further intimacy between them, she did not mention with whom she would reside, or how long her stay might probably be in the metrop­olis; and as he was engaged to pass the autumn with lady Anne in Scotland, he was not so inquisitive as he might otherwise have been.

Rachel got safe to the end of her journey without meeting with any adventure on the road. But unac­customed to travelling, she was greatly fatigued; and when she entered the busy streets of London, the noise, confusion and hurry made her head giddy; the disa­greeable effluvia too, which assailed her olfactory nerves as she alighted from the coach in a very close lane in the city, turned her extremely sick, and she would have fallen, had not a spruce young man, who was waiting for another coach to arrive, caught her by the arm, and led her into the house, where a few drops and water revived her, and she began to inquire for a con­veyance in which she might proceed to her lodgings. A hackney-coach was sent for, and while she waited for it, the young man re-entered the parlour where she [Page 228] was sitting, introducing a middle-aged woman, dress­ed to the extremity of the fashion.

"Walk in and sit down, Miss La Varone," said he, "I will order the [...]egus immediately." Then turn­ing to our heroine, he continued, "And how do you find yourself now, ma'am?"

"Much better, Sir, I thank you," said Rachel.

"Have you been sick, ma'am?" said Miss La Varone.

"I am not used to travelling, and was rather faint when I first alighted; but it was only fatigue, and the air of London is not quite so pure as that I have been accustomed to from my infancy."

"Oh dear me! I don't wonder, ma'am, if you nev­er were in London before, that it made you sick. Then this lane is so close; and I protest it made me as sick as could be. But pray, ma'am, to what part of the town are you going? Perhaps one coach will serve us both."

Rachel looked at the direction in her memorandum book, and Miss La Varone exclaimed, "Well, as I'm alive, we are both going to the same place. Mr. Spriggins, this young lady is going to your aunt's."

Rachel knew but little of the world in general, and less of London than almost any other place; yet there was a something within her, a kind of native rectitude, that told her not to be too easy in agreeing to the pro­posal of the strangers who said they would all go to Mrs. Webster's together. Yet her politeness and good-na­ture was such, as would not suffer her to repulse them rudely. Besides, there was something in the appear­ance of La Varone, however familiar her address had been, that prepossessed her in her favour. She was a small, delicate woman; her pale countenance, the features of which were extremely regular, was orna­mented by an animated pair of black eyes, and long, dark eye-lashes. Her dress, it is true, was in Rachel's opinion rather too gay; but she was totally unac­quainted with the style of dress that might be fashiona­ble in London, and therefore passed this circumstance the more easily over.

[Page 229] Finding it impossible to separate herself from her new acquaintances, she contented herself with giving the hackney-coachman particular instructions where to carry her, and in less than half an hour found her­self at Mrs. Webster's, in Dartmouth-street, Westmin­ster. Mr. Spriggins, (who was shopman to a silk mer­cer in the vicinity of St. James's Park) boarded with his aunt, and Miss La Varone occupied the second door of the house.

Rachel begged an early cup of tea, and then retired to the apartment prepared for her; where wearied na­ture was refreshed by several hours of profound sleep. But the fatigue which had accelerated her repose, gradually giving way to its effects, her slumbers be­came lighter, and about three o'clock, she became sen­sible of the (to her) unusual noises that surrounded her. The hollow voices of the watchmen, the rat­tling of coaches and carts, the riotous mirth of intem­perate wretches of both sexes, who, under the black veil of night, prowled through the streets in search of prey; all together struck on the astonished ears of our heroine, who, not immediately recollecting where she was, sprang out of bed, exclaiming, "Heavens! what is the matter?" However, as Rachel was not troubled with weak nerves, and had in general great presence of mind, she presently grew collected, remem­bered she was in London, returned to her bed, and en­deavoured to obtain another visit from the leaden­winged god. He listened, and was propitious to her entreaties, and at eight o'clock the following morning she continued still locked in his embraces.

CHAP. VIII.
Visits—Curiosities.

THE scene of life into which Rachel had now en­tered was every way new to her. Her inten­tions in avoiding the family of Dr. Lenient on account [Page 230] of young Auberry were laudable; but her open and ingenuous nature, fearless of guile, because intending none, was not competent to the task she had underta­ken. Humane, generous, and credulous in the ex­treme, she felt that every human being had a claim upon her affection; and willingly allowing that claim to others, she readily believed every profession of friend­ship made to herself.

Mrs. Webster was a woman of moderate un­derstanding, devoid of knowledge, and with a very small share of curiosity, and being a widow with three girls, the eldest of which was but sixteen, she had to work extremely hard at her business, which was that of a hoop-petticoat maker, to support her family. From such a woman, Rachel had nothing either to hope or apprehend. She enjoyed from the effects of her care a very neat apartment, and regular decent meals; but as to any idea of a companion, it was entirely out of the question. The daughters were young, and their minds totally uninformed; they were of consequence unfit society for her. To whom therefore could she look to enliven her solitude by cheerful conversation? Miss La Varone had read a great deal, though not in most instructive authors. She had a considerable degree of superficial knowl­edge, was chatty, good-humoured, and studious to ren­der herself agreeable. She became the constant com­panion of Rachel, and was unfortunately the most im­proper companion she could have chosen.

Miss La Varone was the daughter of a Swiss valet, who, having saved a considerable sum of money in the service of a nobleman, and received a legacy at his death, married the lady's maid, and opened a per­sumery and toy-shop, in which he succeeded extremely well; especially when his daughter grew old enough to attend the customers, her pretty face and lively manner acting as a talisman to draw young men of fashion thither.

But human happiness is futile! A fire broke out in the neighbourhood, and their house was consumed amongst a number of others, and as their property [Page 231] was not insured, a few hours reduced them from a state of competence to absolute beggary. The old man received a hurt, in endeavouring to save part of his stock, which he did not long survive. The moth­er again went to service, and procured employment for her daughter in the same family. The eldest son of this family was pleased with her; offered her a set­tlement; and at the age of eighteen, La Varone quit­ted the protection of her mother, to accept that of a libertine. Her mother had perhaps a higher sense of virtue than persons in her situation are in general sup­posed to possess. She remonstrated, entreated, en­deavoured by every possible means to reclaim her; but finding all equally ineffectual, renounced her. And though she had, without murmuring, returned to her original way of life, and submitted patiently to the privation of those comforts she had many years en­joyed, and which had been the fruits of her own in­dustry, yet she could not meet shame without repin­ing. Her child's dishonour sunk deep into her heart, and in a very short time put a period to her existence.

La Varone continued with her admirer till he mar­ried; she then removed from all her former connex­ions, into the house where our heroine was now be­come an inmate. She had been an easy conquest; her settlement was consequently not large. However, she kept up a genteel appearance, and frequently received visits from an elderly gentleman, a cousin, who was a member of parliament. She saw but little company besides; but she would expatiate for an hour on the charms of retirement; so her living so recluse was not surprising. Her favourite amusement was a play, and sometimes little excursions in the country, where she would stay four or five days at a time.

The day after Rachel's arrival in London was de­voted to rest. Miss La Varone was extremely atten­tive, invited her to take tea in her apartment, where Mr. Spriggins also attended, and the elder Miss Web­ster. Here they talked of the many curiosities to be seen in London. Westminster Abbey, St. Paul's Cathe­dral, the Monument, the Tower, the Palace; all [Page 232] which Miss La Varone said they must positively visit, and the gentleman offered very politely to be their gallant.

Rachel was not devoid of curiosity. She had come up to the metropolis with the best resolutions in the world, and Mrs. Auberry, when she recommended her to Mrs. Webster's to board, thought she had ren­dered her young friend a very acceptable piece of ser­vice. But she never reflected, that twenty-five years make a most amazing difference in the manners and disposition of a person, especially if in that period they have suffered much affliction, and from narrow cir­cumstances being unavoidably thrown into the society of people, whose educations having been circumscrib­ed, are often the slaves of contracted, low ideas and il­liberal prejudices; and it frequently happens, that those who are obliged to work incessantly for the sup­port of their families, being wholly occupied in the hope of bettering their fortune, become inattentive to appearances, and overlook actions, which earlier in life would have struck them with horror. This was literally the case with Mrs. Webster. The Mrs. Web­ster whom Mrs. Auberry knew so many years since, and she to whose care she now recommended her young friend, were as opposite in person, manner, and way of thinking▪ as if it had not been the same, but two distinct people.

The second morning, Rachel took a hackney-coach, and drove to the house of Mr. Oliver, in the vicinity of St. James's. She was still in mourning; a grey tabby night-gown, with black cuffs and robins, a plain lawn cap, apron, handkerchief, and ruffles, was the dress in which she prepared to visit her friend Jessy. But a woman thus habited and in a hackney-coach was not likely to challenge much attention from the gay lackeys who waited in the hall of Mr. Oliver.

"Is Miss Oliver at home, friend?" said she to the footman who came to the door. A surly No! was all the answer she received, and the man was again shutting the door.

[Page 233] "Is she expected home soon?" said she, putting her hand out to prevent it from clo [...]ing.

"I know nothing about it," said the fellow.

Rachel had descended from the carriage before the coachman had knocked for admittance, and was stand­ing on the upper step of a flight of stone stairs which led up on each side from the street. Her figure had attracted the eyes of Archibald, who was at home at this time, and seated in a front parlour window, killing time with a political pamphlet. Hearing her voice at the door, and understanding from the tone of the ser­vant's voice that he was not answering in a very civil manner, he opened the parlour door just as she was turning to descend the steps.

"You were inquiring for Miss Oliver, madam," said he; "she is at present out of town, but I expect to see her to-morrow. Who shall I tell her did her the honour to call?"

"My name is Dudley," said Rachel.

"Dudley! is it possible; the sister of my friend Reu­ben?"

"The same!"

"How happy I am, Miss Dudley! Give me leave to wait on you to your place of residence. I wish to ask after your brother; I have also some interesting intelligence to communicate to you concerning my sister." He said this as he handed her to the coach. Then calling for his hat, before Rachel could collect herself sufficiently to refuse or accept his proposal, he was seated in the carriage beside her, and inquired where he should order it to be driven.

"Perhaps, my dear Miss," said young Oliver as the coach drove off, "you may think it particular that I did not press you to enter my father's house. But to confess a mortifying truth, neither Jessy nor myself are allowed to take any more liberties there than we should be in the house of an entire stranger. My poor father is ruled entirely by Mrs. Oliver, and his children have but a secondary place in his affections."

"Pray make no apologies, Mr. Oliver," said Ra­chel, having a little recovered from the [...] into [Page 234] which his apparently odd conduct had thrown her; "apologies are quite needless. I had no wish to enter the house except my dear Jessy had been an inmate of it. But you said you had some interesting intelli­gence."

"True, but before I enter on it, tell me, when did you hear from your brother?"

"I have not received the least intelligence from him since he left England; and sometimes I fear—" Rachel's eyes filled; her bosom heaved.

"Oh do not fear," said Oliver, respectfully taking her hand: "Letters may miscarry; you will no doubt hear soon. But apropos of Jessy; has she not written to you lately? I understood you corresponded."

"We did; but I have not received a letter from her for nearly two months past."

"Poor Jessy, she had nothing pleasant to employ her pen, and she always had an aversion to endeavour­ing to lighten her own sorrows by imposing a recital of them on the attention of others."

He then proceeded to inform her, that his sister had unfortunately (as it proved) been singled out by a no­bleman of elevated rank and splendid fortune, as the person with whom he wished to share those advan­tages. He solicited her hand, was encouraged by both Mr. and Mrs. Oliver, but resolutely rejected by Jessy herself.

"My father," continued he, "who (as I mentioned before) has no will but his wife's, has sent the poor girl into the country, debarring her of all society, and declaring she shall stay there till she accepts his Lord­ship; and I, who know her disposition, think that sen­tence is tantamount to saying she shall stay there as long as she lives."

"She is right to persevere in rejecting him," said Rachel, "if she does not feel her heart sufficiently at­tached to him to incline her to share his pains and pleasures through life. For of all the miseries that can be endured by a human being, sure none can be so se­vere as being obliged to submit to the whims and ca­prices [Page 235] prices (for we all have them) of a person to whom we are perfectly indifferent."

Oliver gazed at her, as she thus, with unaffected freedom, delivered her sentiments on a subject, which the generality of those young women with whom he was acquainted would have blushed only to have heard mentioned. But Rachel was entirely free from af­fectation of every kind; she had no idea, but that a woman might speak on the subjects of love and mar­riage, without simpering, blushing, and fifty other lit­tle foolish prettinesses. Nor did she feel the least em­barrassed in conversing with a person of the opposite sex; for it had never entered her head, that every man who saw her must fall in love with her, or that they could not pass an hour in her company without entertaining her with praises of he [...] wit and beauty, and complaints of their own hopeless passion.

When the coach therefore stopped, and Rachel ask­ed him to walk in, he eagerly availed himself of the invitation; and after sitting with her till she was sum­moned to dinner, left her, impressed with so high an opinion of her understanding, that he thought her the most superior woman he had ever known. She had promised to entrust him with a letter to her friend Jes­sy, and he was determined to call for it himself, that he might enjoy another half hour of her society. But in this he was disappointed; for immediately after dinner, Rachel wrote her letter, and leaving it with Mrs. Webster in case it should be sent for before her return, she took one of the little girls with her, and walked to the house of Mr. Andrew Atkins, in Lin­coln's-Inn, hoping to hear some tidings of Reuben, and also to inquire how long it would be before she might expect to receive any money on account of the estate in Lancashire.

Being shewn into a parlour, and having sent up her name, she was desired to wait till Mr. Atkins had din­ed, when he would wait on her immediately. In about an hour, he appeared, accompanied by the identical [Page 236] Mr. Allibi who had visited herself and brother in the country.

Rachel rose from her seat.

"Servant, Miss," said Mr. Atkins, slightly bowing, and without asking her to resume her seat. "Pray what may be your commands with me?"

"I wish to know whether you have had any intelli­gence from my brother since his departure from En­gland."

"Intelligence? No indeed! I wonder you should think of my hearing from him; his going to America was a wild-goose scheme. What does he expect to get there?"

"He expects to take possession of his father's estate, which he purchased in Pennsylvania."

"Pshaw! pshaw! Dudley made no purchase there worth inquiring after. An uncultivated tract of land, with a paltry house upon it, which my very good friend and correspondent, Mr. Jacob Holmes, has in­formed me is entirely fallen down."

"Jacob Holmes, did you say?" cried Rachel in breathless agitation. "Why that is the very man my father mentions in his letter to have left in charge of his estate. He was brought up in my father's house. Can he advance such an untruth, when he must be con­scious—?"

"Come, come, Miss Dudley, don't speak against Mr. Holmes; he is a very worthy, honest man. Your father lived in a very expensive style in Philadelphia, spent a great deal of money, more a great deal than he ought. Even the trifling purchase he did make of land was not half paid for."

"Sir! Sir!" cried Rachel, waving her hand with dignity, "I must not hear the memory of my father treated with disrespect. You may have been taught to believe what you now assert; or, perhaps, (darting an indignant look at him) your profession accustoms you confidently to assert what you do not believe to be true. Be that as it may, I see my brother and myself are two unprotected orphans." Here her cheeks as­sumed a pallid hue, her lips trembled, and she was un­able [Page 237] to proceed; and though the unfeeling Atkins had kept her standing while he spoke to her, agitation was now so great, that she was obliged to sit down, or she would have fallen.

"As I would wish to save you the unnecessary trou­ble of calling on me again, I have brought Mr. Allibi, who fortunately was dining with me, to give you any information you may require concerning the Lanca­shire business."

"I am sorry, my fair lady." said Allibi, "that it is not in my power to give you such information as you may perhaps expect; but so many unexpected de­mands have been made, that I hardly think the estate will ever be able to recover itself. I have here (draw­ing a memorandum book from his pocket) some few memorandums of the state of the affairs at present. Whenever you shall require it, Miss Dudley, I will lay a regular statement of the accounts before you, and submit the whole of our proceedings to your investi­gation."

Rachel felt that this seeming integrity was an insult to her understanding. Assuming, therefore, an appear­ance of fortitude that she was far from feeling, she ex­erted herself to rise from her seat.

"Good Mr. Allibi," said she, conveying as much acrimony into her looks and manner, as it was possible for her voice and features to express, "of what ser­vice will it be for me to examine or investigate those accounts? Did you, or your respectable client, Mr. Andrew Atkins, imagine me competent to the task, you would never have so readily offered it. But I am a woman—an orphan; young, inexperienced, unpro­tected; and even supposing I could discover errors, who is there to support my assertions? I am poor, and I can plainly perceive, you have inclination as well as reasons for keeping me so. Oh that my injur­ed brother were but here!"

"You speak pointedly, Miss Dudley," said Atkins.

"I speak as I feel," replied Rachel.

"But you are too warm, my fair lady," said Allibi.

[Page 238] "Pardon me," cried Rachel, "I do not think I am warm enough. Oh! that I could find words ade­quate to the indignation of my soul! Do not misun­derstand me; for myself I am but little concerned. I have an innocent mind that can be humble when re­quired, and hands that are not useless. But my broth­er is in a strange land; for him I feel a thousand fears. My father's memory has been traduced; on that sub­ject, my feelings are too powerful for utterance. If my rash judgment wrongs you, gentlemen, Heaven pardon the error. For I leave you in the full persua­sion, that on whichever side the wrong is, the great Redresser of injuries, the righteous Father of the op­pressed, will impartially judge between us. By his sentence we must abide, and to him in humble confi­dence I submit my cause."

As she finished speaking, she hurried out of the house, to prevent their being witness to emotions which she was unable longer to suppress; and she found her­self in the square opposite Newcastle-house, before she was sufficiently collected to remember to what part of the town she was going. Polly Webster, who had shewn her the way to Atkins's, had left her at the door, as she had some errands to execute for her moth­er in the Strand. Our heroine had imagined she should easily find her way home again; but when she found herself in a place with which she was wholly unac­quainted, and endeavoured in vain to recover recollec­tion sufficient to guide her to the right road, she began to be uneasy. She wished for a coach, but there was not one came near her but what was previously occu­pied. She walked straight forward through a narrow passage, which she imagined she had passed through before; it took her into High-Holborn. The throng of people, the multitude of carriages, and appearance of the shops, led her to think she was in the Strand; and turning to the right hand, she pursued her way, expecting every moment to reach Charing-Cross. But as she proceeded, she began to perceive the difference of the surrounding objects, and became seriously alarm­ed. A heavy shower appeared threatening in the air, [Page 239] and even at Holborn-Bars, Rachel could not procure a coach. The lightning had for some time gleamed in the horizon; the thunder which had rolled distant­ly now came nearer, and an universal war of elements se [...]med approaching. Rachel looked round with in­creasing apprehension. The tempest now burst forth at once; wind, thunder, hail, and sheets of liquid fire, rendered the scene tremendous. To avoid the fury of the storm, Rachel ran up an entry which led to a large old-fashioned mansion, and though not easily terrified, the late incidents had so oppressed her spirits, that she sat down on the steps, and burst into an hysterical flood of tears.

"What is the matter, woman?" said a man who was coming from the house.

The brutal tone of this address, the ferocious appear­ance of the fellow that uttered it, was an additional cause of terror. She rose, endeavoured to speak, but could not; and when she attempted to walk, her limbs failed her, and she sunk again upon the step.

"Why, mistress, you have taken a little too much cordial to-day," said the same man; "but come, I'll lead you down the passage, and then you must go on as well as you can; for you can't stay here."

Rachel, though overcome with terror, was perfectly sensible. She heard the remark made on her apparent helplessness, endeavoured to repel the violence of her emotions, and exert that fortitude of which she was possessed.

"I merely came here for shelter from the storm," said she; "and if I could procure a coach—"

"Well, mistress," said a dirty, ragged boy, "if you will give me a shilling, I will call you one."

Rachel readily agreed to the proposal, and was put­ting her hand to her pocket, when there was a cry in the crowd that was now gathered, that a pick-pocket was amongst them. A young naval officer said he had lost his watch and purse. 'Keep all in, keep all in,' was the cry, and the throng rushed up the passage, so that Rachel found herself in an instant surrounded by a motley group of people, the chief part of which but [Page 240] to have been obliged to speak to, would have filled her at once with terror and disgust. But what were her sensa­tions, when, putting her hand again to her pocket, she found a strange purse hanging partly out, and felt a watch actually within it. Before she could speak, a wom­an seized her arm, and holding her hand so that she could not withdraw it, she cried that she had found the thief. Rachel's strength and spirits now at once forsook her; she fetched a deep sigh, and fell senseless into the arms of the person who had been robbed.

"The poor creature is ill," said he; "stand away, ruffians, and let her have air." Then carrying her to the entrance of the passage, he pushed back her hat, and untied her cloak. Her extreme youth, her beauty, the neatness of her apparel, all conspired to prepossess him in her favour.

"Had you not better send for a constable?" said the wretch who had pretended to detect her.

"No," said the officer; "I do not think she can be guilty; or if she is, extreme necessity alone could have driven her to such an expedient. How are you, ma'am?" seeing Rachel begin to revive.

She looked wildly round her, put her hand to her head as though endeavouring to recollect why or how she came there. At length the circumstances recur­ring to her memory, she looked stedfastly on the offi­cer, and then on her accuser.

"You have been robbed, Sir," said she, "and your property found in my possession. How it came there, Heaven knows; but as I stand in the sight of Him who rules the heavens, I do protest I am innocent."

The solemnity of the appeal, the conscious innocence of her heart, which beamed from her eyes and inform­ed every feature of her face, rendered the truth of her assertion indisputable.

"I do believe you," said the officer; "but even had I thought you guilty, what is the insignificant value of these trifles, when put in competition with the life of a fellow-creature, whom distress urges to actions from which the soul recoils."

[Page 241] The storm was by this time much abated, and Ra­chel having sent again to procure a coach, the officer said he would not leave her till he delivered her in [...] to her friends. He was standing at the entrance of the passage, holding the hand of our heroine, when a post chariot, that was driving hastily through Hol­born, being for a moment impeded by a number of carts and carriages, stopped directly opposite where they stood. The glass was let down, and Rachel saw distinctly Hamden Auberry, seated beside an elderly lady. She also was certain, that he both saw and re­cognized her. The blood for a moment forsook her cheeks, and then returned with impetuosity, dying them of the deepest crimson. Scarcely was there time to exchange the glance of recognition, before the chariot moved forward again, and a hackney-coach drawing up to the door, she stepped into it, and, ac­companied by her protector, drove towards Dart­mouth-street.

On their arrival at Mrs. Websters, Rachel found the family in great consternation at her long absence (for Polly having returned without her, had been dispatch­ed again by her mother, who feared Rachel might lose her way; and learning that she had been gone some time from Atkins's, had returned as quick as she could, in the hope of finding her safe at home).

Miss La Varone welcomed her with tears of joy, and Mrs. Webster said she was glad to see her safe. Courtney, (the name of the young officer) without particularly mentioning the circumstances, said she had been disagreeably situated, and he had been for­tunate enough to be of service to her. But Rachel would explain the whole; her new friend, Miss La Varone, sympathized with her, trembled with terror, glowed with indignation, or melted with gratitude, as the recital proceeded; and in the end, said so many obliging things to Lieutenant Courtney, that he began to think her more than agreeable; and overlooking the charms of our heroine, which had nothing but na­ture and simplicity to recommend them, he was pow­erfully [Page 242] attracted by the artful lures thrown out by La Varone.

The situation of Rachel, in regard to reputation, was now as dangerous as it was possible; for Court­ney claimed the privilege of visiting her; and Ar­chibald Oliver, when he returned from the country, and his sister, called to deliver the answer to the let­ter he had taken, and one visit led to another, till scarcely a day elapsed without his passing some hours in her company.

Rachel's intentions, when she first came to London, were to apprentice herself to some person who could instruct her in some laudable employment, whereby she might render herself independent. For in her opinion, the person who by the exertion of any talent, or the exercise of industry, could support themselves, was in every sense of the word as independ­ent as they who inherited wealth or titles from their ancestors. But these praiseworthy resolutions were from time to time put off, and her attention diverted to other objects, till she began to perceive the small sum of money she brought with her to London was very visibly diminished, and yet no plan put in execu­tion, by which it could be replenished. 'I must do something to-morrow,' said Rachel every night as she laid her head on her pillow. But to-morrow came, and La Varone had ever some new scheme of pleasure to propose. Juvenile indiscretion united with curi­osity, and a love of amusement, natural to youth, led her on from one day to another, till the last ten pound note was broken in upon.

Forbear, ye rigid, ye experienced matrons, to blame our heroine; it is the particular blessing of youth to be enabled to enjoy the present moment, forgetful of the past, nor fearing the future. Then censure not those who eagerly gather the roses, unmindful of the briars that surround them, or who, delighted with their beauty and fragrance, forget, in the enjoyment of their sweets, the pain they suffered in gathering them.

Jessy Oliver had written to her, had endeavoured to advise and comfort her; but Jessy stood in need of [Page 243] advice and comfort herself; and our heroine, though conscious that she was not acting exactly right, could not summon resolution sufficient to combat inclina­tion; but one party of pleasure succeeded another, till she almost lost the desire of employment, or the wish for independence.

CHAP. IX.
Variety—Courtship—Elopement—Letters.

WHEN Hamden Auberry first saw Rachel at the entrance of the passage in Holborn, he hardly could trust his senses; but on letting down the glass and looking intently, he perceived it was no illu­sion, but in reality the woman whom he had thought the most faultless, the most perfect of her sex. His heart shuddered; he dared not stop the chariot in which was his aunt, or he would have immediately jumped out, and learnt from her own lips the reason of her being in such a place; but before he could form any plausible pretext for quitting the carriage, it mov­ed forward again with rapidity; and looking out of the open window, he saw her go into the hackney-coach, accompanied by Courtney.

If he at first had imagined Rachel had voluntarily deviated from the path of rectitude, a moment's seri­ous reflection made him reject the idea; and he began to be apprehensive that her innocence and inexperi­ence might have betrayed her into society and places, not altogether proper for a woman of character.

But how could he satisfy himself? Or should she be surrounded with danger, how could he discover her? how advise, or, if necessity required, protect her? Had he known where to find her, he would have ven­tured even to entreat his aunt to take her under her protection; but he had not the least clue by which to trace-her place of residence. He thought of writing to his mother, for information; but lady Anne pur­posed [Page 244] staying in London but two days, and it was im­possible to obtain an answer in that time. However, he did write, mentioning what he had seen, and request­ing to be informed under whose protection Miss Dud­ley was, hinting that he feared it was not what it ought to be, or she could never have been in the situ­ation in which he saw her.

On the day appointed, he accompanied his aunt into Scotland; where, situated on the fertile banks of the Clyde, was an antique family mansion of lord Mont­morill, her elder brother. Whilst there, he received a letter from his mother, which slightly mentioned that our heroine was well, and that the circumstance he had ob­served, proceeded from her standing up to avoid a shower.

She hurried over the subject as lightly as possible; for she saw the growing passion of Hamden, and knowing from experience the implacable tempers of the family, wished to discourage hopes which she saw he entertained, though against his own better reason.

Rachel herself was far from being easy when she thought of the incident, on the first night after seeing Hamden; (for she seldom was allowed a moment for thought, except in the hours devoted to rest) she felt a pleasure in reflecting he was in town. "I can see him now," said she, without incurring the illiberal reproofs of Tabitha."

The heart of Rachel harboured not a wish or thought but what might have been made public to the whole world; and while she was cons [...]ious of its rectitude, she felt proudly superior to the little prejudices of vulgar minds. She could not understand why she might not converse with or entertain a friendship for persons of an opposite sex, as well as with those of her own. She therefore indulged the hope, that Hamden would visit her during his stay in London; but when day after day passed on, and he did not appear, she again thought pride had prompted the neglect, and calling all her own self-consequence to her aid, she endeavoured to think as little of him as he apparently thought of her.

Young Courtney, the officer who under such fa­vourable circumstances was introduced to the reader [Page 245] in the preceding chapter, was the only son of his moth­er, and she was a widow. He had two sisters also, lovely, innocent and helpless; their father had been a veteran sailor, commander of a first-rate man of war, in defending which from the enemy he lost his life. The pension of a captain's widow at that period was very precarious, and at the best but trifling, to main­tain three women who had been accustomed to ease and elegance.

Courtney gave them all the assistance in his power, and had often thought he would never marry until his sisters were settled in the world; and then if he could meet with a woman who could and would sup­ply their place in attention to his mother. But un­fortunately, a few days acquaintance with Miss La Varone, made him waver in his resolutions. She could assume any character she pleased. She discovered that her personal charms had attracted the inexperienc­ed sailor. She wished to marry, that she might with impunity launch into extravagancies, which at present the fear of a jail alone debarred her from.

La Varone, with a heart extremely depraved, pos­sessed one virtue in an eminent degree. She was what the world in general calls extremely prudent, careful to preserve appearances, and where her own personal safety or interest was concerned, cautious not to incur the smallest degree of danger. By nature fond of luxury, show, and expensive pleasures, she had the art to seem frugal, retired, and studious. She was sensible that at thirty years old, the season for conquest was past, and though she did not own to more than five and twenty, and by particular attention to her com­plexion and dress, was not suspected to be more; yet she thought if she could secure a permanent establish­ment for herself before old age and neglect overtook her, it would be the wisest step she could possibly take.

The name of Courtney was honourable, his person handsome, his manners agreeable, and his family un­exceptionable. It was a conquest worth some pains. La Varone artfully drew forth his sentiments in re­gard to the woman he might prefer for a wife, and [Page 246] appeared the very character his warm imagination and unadulterated heart had conceived as most charm­ing. She spoke of his mother with respectful affec­tion, of his sisters with all the fervour of enthusiastic friendship; but if he mentioned her visiting them pre­vious to their marriage, she contrived to evade his so­licitations; yet with such modesty, alleging such deli­cate motives for her refusal, that whilst it opposed his wishes increased his love.

Our heroine was equally with Courtney the dupe of La Varone, and rejoiced in the affection that subsist­ed between them; looking forward to their union, as a period that would at once insure their felicity, and secure to herself two sincere friends, in whose protec­tion she should feel herself perfectly safe till the ar­rival of her brother.

During this interval of time, Rachel was frequently visited by Archibald Oliver. He had at first beheld her with admiration, listened to her with delight, and every ensuing interview had heightened those sensa­tions to a degree which almost might be termed ado­ration. But Archibald possessed not a doit independ­ent of his father, and that father he knew was, by his wife's extravagance, nearly ruined.

Though volatile in his temper, eccentric in his ideas, and violent in his passions, young Oliver was scrupu­lously honourable; and he would have deemed it the height of cruelty to engage the affections of a woman he could not with prudence marry, or to marry her when he could neither provide for her support, or for those helpless innocents of which he might become the father. And fearing to forfeit the highly valued priv­ilege of visiting her, he confined his feelings within his own bosom. "She loves me now," he would say, "like a brother; shall I then, by claiming more, lose even the affection I possess? No; I will adore her in silence, and pray that her felicity may be complete, though at the expense of my own."

One morning he entered the parlour (where La Varone and our heroine usually sat at work) and seat­ing himself beside the latter, told her he came to make [Page 247] her a partaker of his own uneasiness. "Our dear Jessy," continued he, "has left her father's protection, nor have we any idea whither the beloved fugitive is fled. Here is a note she left for me; inclosed is a let­ter for you, Miss Dudley. The persecutions the sweet girl has lately undergone, I have concealed from you, because, as you could not alleviate them, I wished not to make you participate. But disguise must now be at an end. This was to have been her wedding day; but early in the morning it was discovered she was not in her apartment. The confusion this discovery occa­sioned, reached me as I was preparing, with a despond­ing heart, to accompany the devoted victim to the al­tar; and as I was rushing out to inquire the cause (for my mind foreboded something fatal) the girl who usu­ally attended on Jessy, came into my dressing-room, and in agitated silence put these papers into my hand, retiring the instant she delivered them. I hastily tore my letter open; but it contained, as you will see, noth­ing satisfactory. I learnt that a note had been deliv­ered to my father, and wishing equally to avoid him, Mrs. Oliver, and the disappointed bridegroom, I took a coach and drove directly here." The letter to Ar­chibald was as follows.

Rachel wiped off the tear this letter had extorted, and proceeded to peruse the one addressed to herself.

When Rachel had finished this letter, she imparted to Archibald as much of the contents as she thought necessary; but to all his entreaties of being permitted to peruse it she continued inexorable. She admired the resolution of Jessy, and had so good an opinion of [Page 250] her heart and understanding, that she felt confident of her strict adherence to truth and rectitude.

In all their past hours of friendly confidence, Miss Oliver had never suffered a syllable to escape her lips by which Rachel could guess at her partiality to Reu­ben; and at the time when they were most together, our heroine was too inexperienced to discover the pas­sion of her friend by looks and gestures. Perhaps, had she conversed much with Jessy after her own ac­quaintance with Hamden Auberry, she might have been more clear-sighted.

Soon after this circumstance, young Oliver, weary of home, dissatisfied with himself, and more than ever in love with Rachel, felt there was a necessity for tear­ing himself from her society. Besides, he hoped, in travelling through the northern counties of England, to be enabled to learn some tidings of his sister. A distant relation of his mother's resided in the beautiful little town of Alnwick, in Northumberland; thither he repaired on a visit. Its romantic situation pleased him; the society of several agreeable families in its vicinity delighted him; and if we add that a lovely and interesting woman, whose fortune was large and independent, beheld him with affection, and suffered that affection to become manifest, it is to be hoped the fair reader will not blame him, if he lengthened his stay at Alnwick, and every day thought less and less of Rachel.

After the marriage of Lieutenant Courtney with Miss La Varone, our heroine felt somewhat disap­pointed that she had not been pressed to accompany the new Mrs. Courtney into the country. The Lieu­tenant had, to be sure, solicited her company; but the bride did not, even by a single monosyllable, second those solicitations; so Rachel saw them depart fer­vently wished them hourly increase of felicity, and then sat down to reflect on her own situation in Lon­don, without friends, without employment, and with only eight guineas in her pocket.

[Page 251] "I have done wrong, (said she mentally) very wrong. I must take more care, must endeavour to be more prudent for the future."

As she ruminated on the past, felt no satisfaction in the present, and looked with fear and despondency to­ward the future, she heard a confusion in the adjoining apartment, and the voice of Polly Webster, who was her favourite, entreating a woman to have patience, who by her expressions and manner seemed a total stranger to that virtue. She opened the door, and learnt that Mrs. Webster was indebted to this woman for tea, sugar, &c. (for she kept a chandler's shop in the neighbourhood) nearly five pounds.

Now five pounds, to a person in abject circumstan­ces, is a debt of as much consequence as five thousand would be to one who keeps high company, a carriage, horses, servants, dresses gay, and, as it is generally termed, lives in style; nay, perhaps, ten times more. For the poor being, who for the absolute necessaries of life has incurred a small debt, may be dragged by a remorseless creditor to [...] a prison, unknown, un­pitied; while he who, to indulge in luxury and super­fluity, had deceived the expectations of honest indus­try, deprived the laborious mechanic of his due, or duped the unwary tradesman, is suffered to proceed with impunity. Nay, even those who criminate his conduct, will flatter his vices, eat at his table, take him by the hand, and smile in his face, whilst in their hearts they laugh at his absurdity, pity his weakness, or condemn his depravity. Not but there are those, who, discriminating between the embarrassments of necessity, and those of wilful extravagance, pity the one and despise and execrate the other. Yes, there are in this world hearts to commiserate misfortune, whilst they dictate to the tongue comfort, and to the hands relief to the sufferer. And those chosen, those superlatively happy few, must surely be the favourites of Heaven. For the blessing they delight to confer on others, will return a thousand-fold into their own bosoms.

But I digress. To return to Mrs. Webster: She could not pay the demand, and was threatened with [Page 252] the law. Rachel had but eight guineas; but she could pay this demand and have three left. She stay­ed not to inquire what was prudent; she felt what would be humane. She followed the heavenly pre­cept of "doing as she would be done by;" she paid the money.

The heart of Mrs. Webster dilated with gratitude; and the pain Rachel had endured from the departure and coldness of Mrs. Courtney, was forgot in the trans­port of the present moment; so true is it, that real happiness must be the result of the knowledge and practice of virtue.

Mr. Spriggins, the nephew of Mrs. Webster, though awed by her superior sense and the dignity of her man­ner, was an ardent admirer of our heroine; but he had never yet breathed a word that could lead her to sus­pect his passion. La Varone, young Oliver, and Lieu­tenant Courtney, had contributed to impose silence on him, and keep him at a distance. But now they were gone, he could offer any civility to her without the fear of having his endeavours to please entirely frus­trated, by officiousness or rivalry.

The second day after their departure, he came, and requested the Miss Websters and Rachel would ac­company him to the play. He foresaw that the young ladies would not be permitted to go without Miss Dud­ley, and also that her good-nature would not suffer her to decline his invitation, as by so doing she would deprive the juvenile party of a rational and (to them) rare amusement. His expectations were realized; and at an early hour they were all at the pit door of Drury-Lane Theatre. The performance was a trage­dy and pantomime, both excellent in their kind.

Rachel, whose sensibility often usurped dominion over her rational faculties, banishing the mil [...]er reign of reason, was, during the tragedy, so entirely absorbed by the sufferings of the hero and heroine, that the splen­did circle that surrounded her in the boxes was totally unnoticed. But between the play and entertainment, she looked round on the glittering throng; and in the stage-box, conversing with attentive earnestness with [Page 253] an elegant and very young lady, she saw Hamden Auberry.

The lady laid her hand on his shoulder. Rachel discovered that her seat was uncomfortable. Ham­den, as he conversed; twisted a curl of her luxuriant auburn tresses round his fingers.

"I declare I am out of patience," cried Rachel.

"At what, ma'am?" cried the officious Mr. Sprig­gins.

"At the players," said she; "they are so tedious."

"Yes, ma'am," replied Spriggins, "they are to be sure a long while."

At that moment Hamden had taken the hand of his fair companion and pressed it to his lips.

"I cannot endure it any longer," cried Rachel, "the pit is so crowded, and it is so hot." Rachel was not easily overcome; but her heart was more at­tached in Hamden Auberry than she was aware of. "It is so oppressive," repeated she, unwilling to ac­knowledge even to herself the cause of her uneasy sen­sations. "I must really quit the house," said she, gasping for breath. And then, before any effort could be made to get her through the crowd, a sudden mist came over her eyes, and she fainted.

The young Websters were frightened, and Spriggins was entirely occupied in supporting her, so that no method was taken to recover her. But an elderly gentleman, who sat near them, observed if they could lift her up, so that she might be above the crowd, it would accelerate her return to life. Accordingly, he humanely stepped up on the seat, and raised her in his arms. A smelling bottle was now applied, and some lavender rubbed on her temples.

The bustle this incident had occasioned in the pit, attracted the notice of the company in the boxes; and as the old gentleman raised the declining head of Ra­chel that she might receive the more benefit from the air of several fans, Auberry saw and knew her. Like lightning he sprang over the front of the box, and rush­ing through the company, was by the side of our he­roine, when returning life began to animate her lips [Page 254] and cheeks; and when she opened her eyes, Auberry was the first object that met them. The tender solic­itude of his looks and manner, whilst he inquired into the cause of her disorder, contributed to restore her entirely; and having thanked the old gentleman for his care, and made room for Auberry to sit between herself and Polly Webster, as he held her hand, and spoke to her of his mother, Dr. Lenient, and the rest of their acquaintance in Lancashire, she entirely for­got both her indisposition and its cause.

Though the impulse of the moment had urged Hamden Auberry, in direct opposition to every rule of politeness or even propriety, to quit his company and spring into the pit, when he beheld the lifeless form of Rachel, yet when he now saw her perfectly recovered, he remembered the necessity of immediately returning to them, and apologizing for the abrupt­ness of his conduct.

"I do not feel altogether satisfied, my charming Miss Dudley," said he in a low voice, "that the soci­ety in which, perhaps, you are obliged to mix, is prop­er or congenial to your feelings. Who are these young women, and the young man who attends them?"

"I am not indeed," said Rachel, "situated exactly as I could wish; but I know not how to better my­self."

"Where shall I call on you," said Hamden; "I cannot now stay to say all I think. I must return to my cousin, lady Lucy."

"Is that your cousin?" said Rachel, glancing her eye upon the young lady in the box.

"Yes; I came to town by my aunt's desire merely to accompany her; she is come upon a visit to a friend of her mother's, and is going with her to make a short tour on the continent."

"And do you accompany her?" said Rachel; but she dared not raise her eyes to his face as she made the interrogation; for she felt that her own was suf­fused with a blush.

"No; I shall only go with them as far as Dover. But as we do not set forward till Saturday, I shall [Page 255] hope to pass a few delightful hours in your society previous to my journey. At what time will you be at leisure to-morrow morning?"

"I am always at leisure to see my friends," replied Rachel, with a fascinating smile.

Hamden's countenance expressed his gratitude, and the pleasure her frankness gave him, and pressing her hand, he wished her a good night, returned to the box, and a few moments afterwards, the whole party in which he was engaged left the theatre.

The remainder of the performance was entirely lost upon our heroine. Her person was present, and she saw the figures that passed and repassed before her; but her mind was totally absent, and she might as well have gazed upon vacancy. She was dissatisfied with herself; she had discovered that she was too much in­terested in whatever concerned Hamden Auberry; she feared too that he had discovered her weakness. These reflections entirely employed her thoughts.

When the performance was ended, she mechanically followed her party out of the house. When freed from the hurry of coaches, chairs, orange-women, link-boys, and the crowd that had just immerged from the play-house, she took hold of Polly's arm, and in silence pursued her walk home. When she entered the parlour she asked for a candle, and would have retired to her chamber; but Mrs. Webster had pre­pared some little delicacy for her supper, and she had too much good-nature and politeness to refuse sitting up to partake of it.

The curiosity of Spriggins and the two elder Web­sters was excited by the behaviour of Hamden Auber­ry. They had talked it over as they walked home to­gether, and all agreed that he was certainly a lover. The company he was with declared he was of a supe­rior rank in life; but they had not been quite pleased that our heroine had neglected to introduce them.

"He is a monstrous handsome man," said Belle, the second daughter.

"He is well enough," said the eldest, "but he seems so proud and self conceited."

[Page 256] "We'll joke Miss Rachel a little about him at supper time," said Spriggins.

"I wonder what made her faint," said Belle.

"Why lawk, Belle!" replied the sister, "you know she has always lived in the country, and so I suppose the lights, and the noise, and the beat—"

Just then they arrived at home, and in a few min­utes they were all seated round the supper table.

Miss Dudley has been very ill at the play, mam­ma," said Polly.

"Yes, indeed," cried the eldest, "she fainted quite away, and there was such a fine gentleman jumped out of the box and came to her, I believe he is an old acquaintance."

"I believe so too," said Belle, laughing; "for he seemed monstrous anxious, and looked so happy when she began to recover."

"He is an old acquaintance," said Rachel, at once distressed and flattered by the manner in which his anxiety and assiduity was mentioned; "it was Major Auberry, madam," addressing herself to Mrs. Web­ster; "the son of our respected friend."

"Indeed! Well, I have not seen him since he was an infant; and besides, if he even remembered me, he is so much amongst the great folks, it would be be­neath him to notice me, or any of my family, though his mother and I, when girls, were just like sisters."

"Yes, yes," cried Spriggins, whose self-consequence had been lowered by his being entirely overlooked by the Major; "yes! when folks get up in the world, they generally forget their poor friends."

"But I dare affirm Major Auberry is not one of those kind of people," said Rachel; "he intends calling on me to-morrow, and I have no doubt but he will re­joice in being introduced to Mrs. Webster and her family."

"Well, we shall see!" cried Spriggins; "but I am sure he is not overburthened with good manners, or he would have said good-night, or your servant, or some such like, to me, when he went away; for though mayhap I am not so grand, nor so fine, nor so learned, I thinks I understands good-breeding as well as any [Page 257] body. And for the matter of that, a man is but a man, and I don't see why wearing a laced coat, or be­ing called Sir, or My Lord, or Your Grace, makes one man a bit better than another."

Rachel found that it would be in vain to attempt defending Hamden against the complaints and preju­dices of Spriggins, whose contracted mind, and very small portion of understanding, would not suffer him to comprehend those nice distinctions which, allowing for the natural equality of man, still preserves that re­spect, that necessary subordination, due from inferiors to persons of shining abilities, liberal education, and superior understanding; and the ignorant, self-opin­ionated being who prates of equality, never once con­ceives the cause of the distinction, which education (more than any other cause) makes between man and man. Persons of large fortunes are enabled to enjoy the benefits of instruction in its most extended sense; and they who have cultivated their minds with care, whose tastes and manners are highly polished, feel as great a repugnance to the society of the vulgar ignorant, in whom mean pride, obstinacy and vanity in general combine, as the pure and uncontaminated mind would feel in being forced into an intercourse with the vicious. But Rachel knew these arguments, if advanced, would have no effect on Spriggins; she therefore listened in silence to the end of his harangue, then wishing them all a good night, retired to her apartment.

CHAP. X.
Matters of Consequence.

THE next morning by ten o'clock, Hamden Au­berry was in Dartmouth-street. He was intro­duced to Mrs. Webster and her daughters; to the for­mer, as the friend of his mother, he was uncommonly respectful, and he spoke to the girls with such free­dom, politeness and affability, that when they went [Page 258] into the adjoining room, Belle declared he was a most captivating man.

Polly said she hoped, if he was going to marry dear Miss Dudley, that he was as good as he was hand­some. For if he was a king, he could not be too good for her.

"Marry," said the eldest, putting up her lip, "I dare say he would be frightened to hear you say such a thing. No! no! young men of his rank and fash­ion don't often marry poor girls; if they did, I don't see why some folks might not stand as good a chance as others." And she cast a sly glance at the looking-glass, which hung directly opposite to where she was fitting.

Hamden, in this interview with our heroine, felt his admiration increase. Every circumstance that had taken place during her residence in London, she re­capitulated to him, with an ingenuous freedom that captivated his heart, whilst his reason applauded the involuntary tribute of admiration and respect, her manners and sentiments exacted.

When she had finished her artless recital, (which was drawn forth by his inquiries, not voluntarily ob­truded on his attention) "You are, I fear, improperly, as well as uncomfortably situated," said he with en­ergy.

"I acknowledge it," replied Rachel, "but I must bear it with patience; there is no remedy."

"What do you mean, my dear Miss Dudley? You surely have friends."

"I dare say I have, Sir, many friends; but I should be sorry to trespass on their goodness."

"Is it possible Miss Dudley can imagine—" He was proceeding, but she stopped him.

"Do not misunderstand me, Major Auberry; I do not think meanly of my friends, but I am conscious of my own defects; I am too proud to live in a state of servile dependence."

"Good heavens! what do you mean?"

"Nothing very extraordinary. My brother is ab­sent; my late dear father's agent, I greatly fear, is dis­honest; [Page 259] and perhaps I shall find it necessary to be in­dustrious, in order to continue in some degree respect­able."

She said this without embarrassment, and with a cheerful smile. She felt no degradation in the idea of exerting her talents to procure support.

Hamden was silent; a certain something struck cold upon his heart. No wonder; it was the cold, hard drop that turns whatever it falls upon to stone. Pov­erty has a most unaccountable petrifying quality; many a heart has it rendered impenetrable as adamant; many a bosom has it incased in marble, or enveloped in ice, so firmly congealed, that only the sun of pros­perity, riding in full meridian, could soften or relax it. Hamden felt the cold chill run trembling through every nerve; but his heart defied its frigid power, and glowed with more fervour. He said but little after this explanation, and soon took his leave.

On his return to his lodgings, he thus inquired of himself. Do I love Rachel Dudley? Most assuredly, beyond all other women. Does she return my passion? That is a question yet to be determined. If I might judge from the intelligence of her eyes.—But hope may be presumptions. Would I marry her? Yes, with delight and transport, if she would accept me. What? in defiance of my aunt's wishes and injunctions?

Here was a moment's pause. At length he pro­ceeded in his questions. Would I be willing to relin­quish all hope of future affluence, honour, title, and devote my life to obscurity and Rachel Dudley? I fear not. I should repine at the advantages I had re­linquished, and embitter her life by my own fruitless regret. Then is it honourable, by indirect attentions, to lead her to suppose she has an exclusive preference in my bosom, or to awaken expectations, which will end only in disappointment? Certainly no.

After thus closely interrogating his own heart, Ham­den determined to avoid visiting Rachel again; but on the morning following, he received a letter from his mother; it would be but kind to call and let Miss Dudley know her friend Dr. Lenient was well, and that Tabitha [Page 260] Holdfast had taken to herself a help-mate of one of the faithful.

He accordingly went; one visit produced another. Prudence on one side, and pride on the other, were for a while forgotten. Hamden talked of love, and Ra­chel listened with complacency.

It was on a fine evening in the beginning of Septem­ber, as wandering on the banks of the Thames, where a row of young willows drooped their pendent branch­es over the softly gliding stream, that Hamden (on whose arm Rachel reclined with the confidence of fra­ternal affection) spoke of the happy intercourse of con­genial minds.

"Dear, charming Rachel!" said he, "it seems as though our souls were formed at the same moment, and partake of congenial particles."

"Our sentiments are certainly much alike in most things," said Rachel.

"And why not in every thing," cried Hamden ea­gerly. "Way, my lovely friend, loving as we love each other, (for you do not deny though you hesitate to avow your affection) why do we not sanctify that affection by the most solemn vows?"

"You have an aunt, Hamden Auberry," said Ra­chel with firmness, "and on her depends your future fortune. She will not approve of the untitled, unpor­tioned Rachel for your wife."

"Do not name her. I will renounce her favour. I will henceforth live but for you."

"Hamden," said Rachel, and her features assumed a serene solemnity that was almost celestial, "Ham­den, I have not expressed the feelings of my soul, be­cause I was sensible of the impossibility of our ever be­ing united with the consent of your aunt; and know, though you were dearer to me than life itself, I will never intrude myself into a family, who would think themselves degraded by the alliance. That I am an unconnected being, is certain; no one has a right to say, Rachel, why dost thou so? But I have a heart that tells me when I err. To the reproaches of this trusty, silent monitor, I will never subject myself; to [Page 261] the contumely and censures of the world I am invul­nerable; they too often misjudge and condemn the innocent unheard."

"Sweet, charming moralist, whither wouldst thou lead me?" said Hamden.

"To happiness, I hope," said Rachel smiling. "That I feel my heart glow with esteem to you," continued she, "is a truth I wish not to deny; but that esteem is pure; nor personal interest, nor hope of future aggrandizement, will ever bias me. You ask me for a wise; here is my hand; let us sanctify our loves in the face of Heaven. Enable me to satisfy my dear Reuben, when he returns, that I have not dis­honoured the name of Dudley; and for the indiscrim­inating, curious, idle multitude, let them think as they may. Happy in your affection, their smile or their frown will be alike inconsequential."

The gratitude of Hamden was manifested in wild, enthusiastic expressions of everlasting love. But Ham­den's pride still predominated, and he accepted the title of husband to an amiable woman, whose virtue and understanding would have done honour to a dia­dem; yet, fearing to forfeit the paltry distinctions of wealth and title, he suffered her to bear the ignominy of suspicion, and the bitterness of reproach, from those who neither comprehended or could estimate her merit.

They were married in St. John's Church, Westmin­ster; and Rachel removed to a lodging provided for her by her husband in the neighbourhood of Mary-le­bone.

When Rachel proposed removing from Mrs. Web­ster's, she found no small difficulty in satisfying her in­quiries respecting the cause of her removed. She had imprudently acquainted Mrs. Webster with the dimin­ished state of her finances; when therefore on the morning of her marriage, which took place a little after eight o'clock; for Rachel, though she had now been some months in London, continued the health­giving custom of early rising, and frequently walked before breakfast, so that it was nothing extraordinary for her to be abroad so early; when, in consequence [Page 262] of this union, she prepared to quit her lodging, and gave Mrs. Webster a bank bill for forty pounds, re­questing her to get it changed, the old lady looked at her with a scrutinizing eye; and though not apt to make remarks, could not avoid speaking to our hero­ine in the following words:

"It is no business of mine, to be sure, Miss Dudley; but I am afraid you are going to do a very impru­dent thing. To your family and connexions I am a total stranger; but for the sake of my friend, Mrs. Auberry, I could wish you had conducted yourself with more circumspection."

"In what, madam?" said Rachel indignantly, "have I transgressed the laws of prudence?"

"You have received the visits of several young men. Mr. Oliver, I concluded, was your lover for some time; but after visiting, taking you on parties of pleas­ure, and being as attentive as man could be, whisk he goes off into the country, and there's an end of the matter."

Rachel could not help smiling as she replied—"Mr. Oliver, I believe, madam, never thought of me in any other light than as a friend. I am so happy as to be esteemed by his sister, and for her sake he shewed me, whilst he stayed in town, more than common respect."

" [...], it may be so; but it had a very odd appear­ance though. Then came Mr. Courtney. I made quite certain that he would be the happy man, when, behold! instead of you, he marries Miss La Varone. To be certain, she was a clever sort of a body; but then one would have thought a young man would not be at a loss to choose between you and her."

"Well, you find he was not at a loss," answered Rachel rather petulantly.

"And now," continued Mrs. Webster, not noticing her reply, "now here has been Major Auberry, danc­ing attendance above a month past. I am afraid he means no good; he is, as one may say, one of the quality folks; and his aunt, lady Anne, would no more agree to his marrying a poor girl, than she would to his going to Jerusalem. What then does he design? [Page 263] Take care, Miss Dudley, do not let him make you his dupe. You are going from me; for what purpose, or into whose protection, you have not thought proper to tell me; however, that is neither here nor there. As I said before, it is no business of mine. But when I think, that not a fortnight since you shewed me the contents of your purse, which were very trifling, and declared it was all you possessed in the world, and that I now see you in possession of forty pounds, I cannot help thinking all is not as it should be."

"I thank you, madam, for your care and anxiety on my account," said Rachel, who perceived, in Mrs. Webster's manner, more of curiosity than real solici­tude for her welfare, "but to quiet your apprehensions, permit me to assure you, I shall be careful never to offend against virtue and morality. My conduct may incur censure, but shall never be criminal. Whilst my dear brother is from England, I hold myself ac­countable to no one for my actions; and whilst my own heart acquits me of any breach of my duties either moral or religious, I am perfectly indifferent as to what opinion the world in general may form con­cerning me."

Thus argued Rachel; but her ideas were erroneous, and she found, when too late, it is not only necessary to be virtuous, but to appear so. Alas! pity it is, but the semblance is often more respected than the reality.

"I suppose we shall see you sometimes, Miss Dad­ley?" said Mrs. Webster with a sneer, as she took leave of her.

Rachel slightly answered in the affirmative, shook hands with her and Belle, kissed the affectionate little Polly (who stood sobbing by the window) and put a guinea into her hand; then ordering her trunk to be placed in a hackney-coach that waited at the door, she stepped in, drew up the glass, and a few moments con­veyed her to her new lodgings, where her husband was ready to receive her.

The attachment of our heroine to Major Auberry was pure as it was ardent. Accustomed from infancy to confine her affections within a narrow circle, she [Page 264] would have felt no repugnance to seclude herself from all other society, could she have been certain by so doing to insure his eternal love and fidelity. She had asked leave of Hamden to inform Jessy Oliver, with whom she regularly corresponded, of the change in her circumstances; but he forbade her. She acquiesced in silence.

It had never entered her mind, that an unknown in­dividual like herself, could excite the curiosity of her neighbours. She was the least inquisitive of any hu­man being. "Of what consequence," she would oft­en say, "is the business, pleasures or pursuits of oth­ers to me. I harbour no ill will towards any; and have I a right to scrutinize their actions? No."

Hamden Auberry, still the slave of pride, and fear­ing to forfeit the favour of lady Anne, suffered his wise to go by the assumed name of Dacres. Our he­roine too was equally the slave of the same passion, but it was of a more laudable kind. He sacrificed the reputation of a virtuous woman, rather than relinquish the insignificant distinction wealth and power could give; and she nobly (though romantically) braved the censures of the world, to evince her thorough con­tempt of both.

CHAP. XI.
Across the Atlantic.

AS Variety is said to be the fascinating charm that intrances the senses, awakens attention, and, dis­playing her many-coloured wings in a thousand differ­ent lights, obscures from our view the scythe and glass of Time, and suffers him to pass unheeded by; an her shrine I kneel, her aid I invoke. Come, en­chanting phantom, who, as thou passest momentarily, assumest some new, some charming form. Whether as pleasure, tripping lightly forward, thy temples wreathed▪ with roses, and thy hands striking with sport­ive [Page 265] lay the dulcet lyre; or whether, in the robe of sor­row clad, with pale, cold cheek, and uplift, tearful eye; or cheerful industry, with placid smile, with bos­om tranquil, and with moderate scrip, stored with life's comforts, not its superfluities; or as meek pa­tience, bowing with submission before the keen blast of undeserved calamity; whatever shape thou dost as­sume, to me thou art welcome. Hasten then, for with thee ever comes the Muse. Her vestments white clasped by a golden zone, her buskined leg half bare, her auburn tresses floating in the wind; her veil, which part conceals her beauteous face, and part plays loosely in the breeze, wrought with devices strange and rare; History, Poetry, Fiction and Truth, blended so soft as to relieve each other; ethereal vision, come; I wait thee here. For many is the painful hour thou hast soothed; many the heart­ache thou hast lightened. Weariness has fled at thy approach, and the still hour of night has been as cheer­ful as the full blaze of day.

'But, madam, if you please, we would prefer a lit­tle less of the figurative, and a little more plain matter of fact.'

Pardon me, gentle reader. I forgot I was writing the history of Reuben and Rachel, and was giving you the history of my own feelings.

A poor substitute, you say. I acknowledge the truth of the observation, and therefore return to my hero.

After a passage of thirty days, Reuben Dudley ar­rived safe in the Delaware, and on the thirty-second day after his departure from Liverpool, landed in the city of Philadelphia. He had with him several letters of, what is called, recommendation from merchants in Liverpool, to their trans-atlantic correspondents; but they contained nothing more than a general mention of his family, and that his character and morals had been hitherto unimpeached.

"I will not inquire out the gentlemen to whom these letters are directed, till I have seen my good friend Jacob Holmes," said Reuben to himself, as he walked up the main street. "He will, without doubt, [Page 266] accompany me, when I wish to visit them. How glad will he be to see me," continued he mentally. "His natural love to my sister and self, his gratitude to my father—"

At the remembrance of his father, Reuben's heart became full; and when he seated himself in the tavern to which he had been recommended, and began to re­flect seriously upon where he was, and that it was more than probable his father might have been in that very house, in that very room, nay, he might have rested on the identical chair he was now seated on, the fulness of his heart overflowed at his eyes, and he indulged in the effusion without restraint.

He had ordered some supper. As the master of the house came in with it, Reuben asked him if he had ever known one Mr. Dudley, who had resided in Phil­adelphia between two and three years.

The landlord had, previous to the question being asked, drawn a chair to the opposite side of the table to that where our hero was seated, and when he heard the interrogation, answered it by another.

"I expect he is some relative of yours, by your being so inquisitive about him."

"He was," said Reuben mournfully, "a very near and dear relative,"

"So I expect," replied the landlord. "Pray where is he now?"

"In heaven," said Reuben, raising his eyes, whilst every pulsation vibrated in exulting confidence of his father's worth.

"You must not be too sure of that," said the land­lord.

"Had you known him, Sir," said Reuben with a firm and earnest manner, "you would have no more doubt of his present happiness than I have."

"I did know him," replied the host.

"Then you knew one of the best men that ever liv­ed."

"Yea, he was good in the worldly acceptation of the word; he did alms, told no lies, hated no one, paid every man, yea, more than his due; but all this [Page 267] is vanity, filthy rags, unclean vestments. He was not one of the chosen; he was in a lost state."

Here a dispute ensued, in which Reuben evidently lost ground with his antagonist; for Reuben argued with coolness, and took reason for his monitor; where­as his opponent was wild, enthusiastic, and extremely ignorant. He had adopted some eccentric ideas in regard to religion, and he asserted that his opinions were right, "because they were," and that all who did not think exactly as he did, were in the high road to destruction, for the same unanswerable reason, "be­cause they were."

Before Reuben had finished his supper, the landlord left him, to impart to his spouse all he had learnt con­cerning the stranger. The curiosity of Jael was not satisfied with this intelligence of her helpmate's.

"Thou hast learned nothing, Zekell," said she; "I will go and question the young man myself."

Jael entered the parlour.

"You are just arrived," said she, sitting down in the place her husband had just left.

"Yes, just landed."

"From England?"

"Yes."

"What part?"

"Liverpool."

"Liverpool?"

"Yes."

"I expect you have got some kinsfolks in the city."

"Not that I know of."

"No friends, no acquaintances?"

"Oh yes! Do you know Jacob Holmes?"

"Yes, to be sure I do. Master has reason to know him; he is a dire hard man to deal with."

"What business does he follow?"

"Business! Well, I expect you don't know much about him, to ask that question. Why Jacob Holmes is one of our grandest men, for all he be a Quaker. And then he married such a grand woman; why I expect she had a matter of five hundred pounds to her fortin."

[Page 268] "Mr. Holmes is married then?"

"What, did not you know that? Well, I thought you were a boasting sort of fellow, pretending to know folks who you never saw'd."

"How long has he been married?" said Reuben.

"Why I expect it is about a year and a half ago."

"So long?"

"Yes, so long; and madam Holmes has got a sweet little baby, about three months old."

Reuben paused a moment, and then without reflec­tion exclaimed, "Why he must have married imme­diately after my father's departure for England."

"And pray what may be your name?" said Jael, placing both her elbows on the table, and resting her chin on her hands, whilst her large blue glass eyes were fixed on the face of our hero with a most un­meaning stare.

"My name is Dudley," replied Reuben.

"So I expected," said she, and something like low cunning informed her broad and inexpressive features. "And so you are cum'd to look after the fortin squire Dudley left?"

"Even so," replied Reuben, pushing from him the plate that contained his almost untasted supper. "How far from Philadelphia does the late Mr. Dudley's es­tate lay, and which is my nearest road to it?"

"Ah, young man!" said Jael, "I expect you be cum'd on a fool's errant. It matters not to you where it lies; he never paid for it; and cording to counts that we have heard, the squire owed a pretty deal be­fore he cum'd from home."

Reuben started. "Of whom are you speaking?" said he.

"Of squire Dudley."

"What Dudley? what was his Christian name?"

"Name! name! I can't just now say; but I expect it was a bible name."

"Was it Reuben?" asked our hero eagerly.

"I do expect it was," said the woman, rising with­out the least emotion, and beginning to remove the supper from the table.

[Page 269] "Oh! my dear father!" exclaimed Reuben, and his respiration became so difficult that he was obliged to walk to the window and throw up the sash.

Jael replaced the dish upon the table, and with a look and manner to which no description can do jus­tice, thus addressed him:—

"If squire Dudley was your father, I wonder how you got safe over sea. Nobody was surprised when they heard he was cast away and drownded; for he was as great a reprobate as ever lived."

"Reprobate!" repeated Reuben with vehemence, and his eyes flashed resentment, whilst his heart swell­ed almost to bursting.

"Yes, reprobate," repeated Jael, "and I expect you will find a pretty many folks in Philidelphy that will tell you as how here he comed over sea, and pretend­ed to be a vast rich man."

"'Tis false!" cried Reuben; "I would stake my existence upon his probity. My father would have scorned to pretend to any thing more than he could make appear reality."

"But I say he did though," said Jael; "giving away his interest as a body may say, selling his goods at half-price, that, as he said, the poor might buy as well as the rich. Then if he saw a man that wanted, he never inquired whether he was a Christian or a Pa­pish, but lent or gav'd him what he axed."

"And a just and beneficent God will reward him for it," said Reuben, raising his eyes fervently. "He is now, I trust, reaping the reward of his philanthro­py."

"It mought a been all very well," continued Jael, not noticing the ejaculation of our hero, "had he only given away his own; but to deal so hardly as he did by that pious young man, Jacob Holmes—Oh! it was a wicked thing."

Reuben approached a few steps towards his hostess, and then stopped, fixed in curiosity and amazement; amazed at the malignity with which this ignorant woman endeavoured to asperse the memory of his father, (whilst every sentence till the last, must appear [Page 270] in the eye of pure religion and candour as his highest eulogium) and curious to know from what source this malignity proceeded; whilst Jael, leaning over the back of the chair from which she had arisen, her fea­tures still fixed and without expression, in the same monotonous tone of voice proceeded:—

"It is a serious thing, young man, a very serious thing, for one to be left gardeen to a wealthy child. Oh! it is a trying matter, a grand snare, laid by Sa­tan, the mighty tempter, the great deceiver. Money is the root and spring of all evil; it is the bait the wicked one makes use of to draw the children of vani­ty astray, as he did thy father. Oh! it was an abom­ination for him to keep Jacob Holmes as he did, with­out even pocket money, whilst he was throwing away his interest by handfuls."

"I do not understand you," said Reuben; "Jacob Holmes was an orphan child, adopted, brought up and educated by the charity of my father."

"Ah! that was the story squire Dudley told, when he first comed here; but we knows better things now. It was the money of the good Jacob Holmes on which he was living; for I expect if it had been his own he would a been more careful of it. But thy father, young man, has wronged the orphan of his right, and made himself rich at the expense of the son of the widow, and the curses of the widow and the orphan will rest upon him and his children."

"So be it," cried Reuben; "I fear no judgment for my father's actions. Oh that I may be enabled to emulate his virtues, to tread his footsteps—But I feel I am to blame in listening to one, whose aim is to ca­lumniate the memory of him who gave me being. What could he have done to deserve thy hatred, that even his sacred dust cannot rest in peace? Did he ever wrong thee or thy family?"

"No, not he; I expect he was the means of my getting a matter a twenty pounds or so, that I should a lost; but then, though it did me a kindness, it did not tell much to his credit, though (as master said) [Page 271] we got our money, and what matter was it to us who paid it?"

"True," cried Reuben, "that could be of but lit­tle consequence indeed; but pray tell me, how came my father to render you this service?"

"Why I expect it is so long a story, you will be tired."

"Tell it as concisely as possible," said Reuben; "I will answer for my patience; and even should [...] more lengthy than I expect, when a father's good deeds are the theme, what son could be weary or feel his attention flag?"

Jael looked at him, with mouth and eyes extended. She comprehended nothing more than that he desired to hear how his father happened to pay her twenty pounds; so, still leaning over the back of the chair, she began:—

"I expect it's a matter a three years agone, a wom­an comed over in a ship from London, an she said as how she comed ater her husband. She was as pretty a body, I expect, as one mought see in a hundred. Master and I was just married, and got into this here house. So she comed an wanted to board with us, an she had a baby with her about six months old. So she had plenty of money, an a golden watch, an a power of fine clothes; so we let her have our best room, an hired a girl to wait on her."

"Plenty of money, a gold watch, and fine clothes," said Reuben mentally, and he turned from the selfish narrator to hide his indignation and contempt.

"Well, ater a while," she continued, "we found as how the parson she cum'd ater was not her husband; he had kept her company, and I expect, promised to marry her; but he would neither own her nor her child when he saw'd her here. So she did nothing but cry, and cry, and kiss her little girl; she was too proud to work, and so, when her money was spent, and her golden watch sold, she said she wished to die."

"Poor, unfortunate girl," said Reuben in a tone of commiseration, "how I pity her!"

[Page 272] "Pity her indeed," said Jael, "a creeter! When I told her she mought get a good living by going out to sarvice, she said she knew not how to labour for bread; them was her very words, an so she would not eat nor drink, an used to go night ater night with her clothes on, sitting on the floor, and resting her head on a chair or the window-seat. She at last grew so weak, that she was not able to walk; so I went and axed her what she meant by going on so; for she know'd as how she owed me above twelve pound; so she only answered me, 'she meant and wished to die, and at once release me and herself.' But then she would hug her baby, and cry, 'Poor little wretch! what will become of you? It were better we both died to­gether."

Reuben's eyes glistened with the dew of sensibility, but he was silent.

"So at last she fell into a consumption; I expect it was all owing to her pride that was so humbled and mortified. So seeing as how she was like to become a trouble to master, I told her how she must go about her business; for I wanted my room to let to some­body else."

"Did you tell the poor dying creature so?" said Reuben, in a tone expressive at once of anger and com­miseration; "did you tell her so?"

"Yes, I did," said Jael; "for you knows self-pres­ervation is the first law in nature, and 'tis but right one should christen their own child first. So madam got up, and with her child in her hand crawled down stairs; and when she got into the kitchen, she fainted away. So squire Dudley was in the next room, and he heard the bustle in the kitchen, and came out to axe what was the matter; so when I told him, he threw me the money she owed me; but he called me a very bad name. Then he got two men to carry the sick body to his own lodging in an arm chair, an there he had her tended and doctored; but that did no good, for she died. An there he took the child, and had it put out to nurse, though every body said he ought to [Page 273] be ashamed of himself for doing any thing for such a sort of woman."

"Oh my father! my father!" exclaimed Reuben, "ought not thy son to exult that thy character was such, that even the aspersions of thy enemies are thy highest praise?—And where is the poor child?" ad­dressing himself to the woman.

"Dead; for ater the squire went away, Jacob Holmes would not pay for its being nursed; and who can blame him? There had been enough of his inter­est wasted already."

"I tell thee, woman," said Reuben, "Jacob Holmes never had any property whatever but what he enjoyed from the beneficence of my father."

"I expect that story won't do you much good here," said Jael; "but howsoever, you axed about the child, an so as I was saying, it went to the poor-house, and there it died."

As Jael finished this history, she took the dish and plate from the table, and left the room, and Reuben shortly after retired to bed, but not to rest. To find his father's memory traduced, to find Jacob Holmes in actual possession of his estate, and believed univer­sally the lawful owner of it, was a shock he had never dreamed of receiving, and knew not how to support.

As he had imagined he [...]hould, without the least diffi­culty, take immediate possession of the effects his father had left in Holmes's care, and as he knew there must be considerable money in his hands, arising from the sale of merchandize with which he had been entrusted, our hero had taken but a very small sum of money with him from England. Indeed his finances in gen­eral were in so confined a state, that he could not com­mand a sum of any consequence. It was therefore no small addition to his uneasy sensations, that he was in a strange land, with very little money, and without a single friend. However, he determined the next morn­ing to visit Jacob Holmes; for, still unwilling to be­lieve human nature could be guilty of such depravity, or that a man, adding dishonesty to ingratitude, would return the benevolence of the father by wronging the [Page 274] son, he indulged a feeble hope, that his reception would be better than from what he had heard he had a right to expect.

After a restless and perturbated night, he arose with the earliest dawn, and having inquired for a horse, was preparing to visit Jacob, when, as he went to the door with the design of mounting, he saw the identical per­son he was going in search of just alighting. Spite of the intelligence he had received from Jael, Reuben's heart warmed with affection, when he beheld a person who had been so dear to his father, and who had borne himself and sister in his arms a thousand times. He darted forward, and took his hand. "Jacob," said he, in a tone of fraternal tenderness, "Jacob, how are you?"

"Well, I thank thee, young man," replied Jacob, coldly withdrawing his hand, and stalking with up­right formality into the house.

Though chilled by his frigid manner, Reuben felt his heart contract, yet he followed him into the parlour, and laying his hand upon his shoulder, cried, "Don't you know me, Jacob?"

"No, really, young man, thou hast greatly the ad­vantage of me; I do not recollect ever to have seen thee before."

Nearly six years had elapsed since Jacob had left England, and a period of that length might naturally be supposed to make a material alteration in the per­son of a youth, whom it had transformed, as it past, from a cheerful, blooming boy, to the graceful, well­informed man. But still there was sufficient in his manner, voice and features, to inform Jacob Holmes, at one glance, who it was addressed him. But Jacob had found a short memory very useful on many occa­sions, and was determined to try its efficacy on this; and therefore boldly asserted he had never, to his re­collection, seen Reuben before.

"Look at me again, friend Jacob," said our hero, "you surely cannot totally forget the face of Reu­ben Dudley, the son of your friend, Mr. Dudley, of Lancashire."

[Page 275] "I do remember thee now," said Jacob; "but how is it, young man, that I see thee in the garb of the chil­dren of vanity? thy father wore it not."

Reuben was now struck by observing the very for­mal and primitive appearance of Jacob. "I hope I am not the less pious," said Reuben with a smile, "be­cause my coat is not cut in the same fashion as thine, or my hat quite so large. I am come to inquire after my father's effects, and to release you from the trou­ble you have so long had, of attending to concerns which may interfere with your own business and pur­suits."

"Thou art welcome to Philadelphia, friend Reu­ben," said Jacob, assuming some small degree of cor­diality; "I shall be ready to give an account of my stewardship whenever thou shalt demand it. In the mean time, go home with me, and sojourn till thou canst suit thyself better. I am going across the river on some little matter of business; when I return, we will go together to my house."

"Ah!" said Reuben, after Jacob had left him, "I fear this man has a dishonest heart; but I will not judge too hastily."

Towards evening, Jacob returned, and with our hero proceeded to the house of Mr. Dudley, which he now claimed as his own. It was situated on the declivity of a hill, that, rising gradually behind it, sheltered it from the wintry blasts, and whose sides were covered with a variegated wood; the spreading pine, the cedar, the wild walnut, the hiccory, the birch, the oak, were intermingled, and beautifully diversified the foliage, whilst here and there the parsimon tree displayed its tempting but deceitful fruit, which, like the frivolous pleasures of the world, are lovely to the eye when viewed at a distance; but when tasted, dis­appoint the expectation, and its harsh acidity is reject­ed with disgust. Here too, in native beauty, bloomed the laurestinus, and here innumerable wild flowering shrubs, gave richness and fascination to the scene, whilst the mild south-west breeze wafted their delicious odours to the senses, refreshing and invigorating na­ture. [Page 276] From the front of the mansion, the green banks sloped gently to the margin of the Schuylkill, and dis­played the advantages of cultivation. Here were fields of ripened grain; here were pastures, where the sheep and cattle reposed in safety, and feasted on lux­uriant verdure. To a mind so pure, so every way formed to conceive and enjoy the beauties of nature as was that of our hero, the scene was enchanting; he rode on, wrapt in contemplation and delight. At length perceiving the house, which just peeped from between the surrounding trees, he asked, "Is that my father's house?"

"That is my house," said Jacob.

"And how far from hence is my father's place?"

"This is the place he designed to purchase."

"Designed?"

"Yes, but he went away before he concluded the bargain, and I have since made it mine."

They had now reached the house, entered a large gate and dismounted, when Jacob, with affected so­lemnity and humility, welcomed Reuben to his home­ly dwelling, and presented him to his wife Dinah, a pretty Quaker, whose heart was naturally good, but whose understanding was scarcely above mediocrity, and had been cramped by prejudice, and whose knowl­edge of the world extended not beyond her own im­mediate family concerns. She loved Jacob sincerely; he was in her eyes the first of human beings; and when she presented her hand to welcome Reuben, it was with an air of friendly cordiality; for he was the friend of her husband she thought, and as such, claimed the first place in her esteem, and was entitled to every mark of respect and attention. She was more than commonly careful that her supper should be good in its kind, and served with neatness. A chamber was prepared for him by her orders, and thither he retired at an early hour, to reflect on his own uncomfortable situation, and lament the ingratitude and dishonesty of Jacob Holmes.

CHAP. XII.
Settlement of Accounts—A Campaign.

THE next morning after breakfast, Reuben re­quested to see a statement of his accounts, that he might be a judge of what he ought to do; but Ja­cob told him he expected his wife's father the ensuing day, and as he had been confidentially entrusted with the mutual concerns between Mr. Dudley and himself, he thought he would be a proper person to be present at the final adjustment of their accounts.

To this delay Reuben with reluctance consented, and the day passed on heavily enough; for notwith­standing the novelty, beauty and variety of the sur­rounding objects, his mind was too much occupied in reflections on his own forlorn situation, and from thence reverted to the inconveniencies and misfortunes to which his beloved sister might be subject, should he be detained from England, and by the fraud of Jacob Holmes rendered incapable of remitting her any pe­cuniary assistance.

On the following morning, Jacob's father-in-law ar­rived, and he, with great formality bringing out a heap of papers, began to read over to our hero long accounts of money paid.

"And pray," said Reuben, "where is the account of the sales of the merchandize from whence this mon­ey arose? My father left very considerable property in your hands, and I have every reason to imagine the estate he purchased here was entirely paid for, as he drew large sums from his agent in England for that purpose."

"Thou canst not prove what thou dost assert," said Jacob, with a look of malignant satisfaction; "and I believe thou wilt find it difficult to dispossess me of an estate, the title deeds of which are all made out in my name; and to prove my right thereto, I have the re­ceipts given to me for various sums of money, paid by me at different times, till the whole was paid for."

[Page 278] "But tell me," said Reuben, "whose property was the money with which you made these payments? Was it not my father's."

Reuben fixed his penetrating eyes on the face of Ja­cob, as he made this interrogation, whose eye fell be­neath the scrutinizing glance; he dared not meet the honest look; his cheek turned pale, his lips trembled, and his tongue faltered, as stooping, with a pretence of replacing some papers in a box, but in reality to hide emotions he could not suppress, he replied, that the money was his own.

"Oh Jacob!" said Reuben, "how canst thou assert such a falsehood? Does not thy heart smite thee whilst thou art thus deliberately planning to rob the orphans of their just due?" His heart swelled; he could not proceed.

Friend Simcox, the father-in-law of Jacob, took up­on him to answer:

"It was thy father, young man, who endeavoured to wrong the orphan of his just due; it is thou hast occasion to blush for his evil deeds. This worthy young man has improved the trifle of property Reu­ben Dudley left behind him, and all demands against him discharged, there remains a sum amounting to about fifty or sixty guineas, which Jacob is ready to pay whenever thou shalt demand it; and I would ad­vise thee to return home in the first ship that goes."

A conversation now ensued, which convinced our hero that he had little hope of ever obtaining his right; for was he even to apply to the law, money would be wanting to prosecute his suit, or to prove his right to the estate, which was called Mount Pleasant. Mr. Dudley had with him, at the time he was lost, all the original papers necessary to be produced, the dupli­cates of which were in the hands of Jacob. That all the papers were irrecoverably lost, Reuben had inform­ed this unworthy steward of by letter, immediately af­ter the fatal catastrophe.

There was another circumstance, which militated much against him, and with which he was not inform­ed till that hour. Mr. Dudley had ever placed an un­bounded [Page 279] confidence in Jacob Holmes; he was a man of easy disposition, fond of agriculture, and such pur­suits as might ultimately tend to benefit the country of which he was about to become an inhabitant, and to render his new purchase at once beautiful and ben­eficial. He had therefore, after having surveyed the land, and had one conversation with the person of whom he was about to purchase it, entrusted the whole management of the business to Jacob. The whole of the payment not having been made before he left Phil­adelphia, he had never had the deeds properly execut­ed, and the news of his being drowned arriving before they were completed, Jacob conceived the idea of hav­ing them filled up in his own name. He had, from their first arrival in Philadelphia, been artfully under­mining the reputation of his benefactor, by represent­ing himself as a youth of fortune entrusted to his guar­dianship; and whenever he made a payment, he al­ways gave the person to understand that it was his own money that he was advancing to serve his friend Dudley. This idea having been artfully propagated, and universally credited, and Mr. Dudley and himself being equally strangers in the place, Jacob found no difficulty in procuring the estate to be secured to him­self. He found it much more difficult to silence the admonitions of his conscience. But the heart natural­ly ungrateful, by easy gradations may be habituated to admit, and even approve, every other vice. Grat­itude is the foundation and source of all the moral vir­tues. For if we receive the many great and good gifts of our beneficent Creator without a grateful sen­sibility, we no longer love him; and whom we do not love, we become indifferent, whether we obey or serve.

Jacob stifled the remonstrances of conscience; and even when he saw our hero, could he have done it without fear of the law, would scarcely have hesitated to give him a quick passport from this to a better world.

The accounts adjusted according to the plan Jacob had concerted, and which old friend Simcox never [Page 280] scrutinized, because he wished not to be undeceived, the paltry sum of fifty-seven guineas was offered to our hero, for which he was requested to give a gen­eral acquittal of all demands whatever, on the person or property of Jacob Holmes.

When this money and this curious acquittal were presented to Reuben, the one for his acceptance, the other for his signature, his indignation arose beyond the bounds within which, he had endeavoured to confine it. He rose from his feat, pushing, with an indignant motion, the proffered money from him.

"Add not insult to injury," said he, "Jacob Holmes; I would recapitulate who and what you are; but there are several forcible reasons that oblige me to silence. And first—You, Jacob, are not answerable for the faults of those, whose memories the grave has consign­ed to eternal oblivion; nor dare I speak of obliga­tions; for well I know he who conferred them, ever made it a rule to fix the seal of silence on his own good deeds, and the faults of his fellow-creatures. As to taking the money you offer and signing this acquit­tal, they are alike repugnant to my feelings. I have no demand on your property, Jacob; I ask but for my own; the property of my late dear father is mine and my sister's. For myself, I value it not. I am young, unencumbered, have hands to labour, or an arm to sight. I cannot want bread. But my sister, lovely, innocent, unacquainted with the world, must she be dependent? Must she court the smiles of that world? Must she submit to the contumely of the haughty, the slights of the unfeeling, or the more humiliating pity of affected sensibility, and in return procure the scanty means of bare existence? No! I cannot tamely give up her right, however I might relinquish my own. I do assert, Jacob Holmes, and you, friend Simcox, bear witness to the assertion, that this estate, this house, this land, the stock and all appertaining to it, is the joint property of myself and sister Rachel, inherited from our father, Reuben Dudley; nor will I relinquish the claim whilst I have existence."

[Page 281] He took his hat, and walked towards the door; then turning, he added—

"Jacob, poor as thou hast, by thy dishonesty, made me, I pity thee. Yes, Jacob Holmes, I pity thee. Thou hast reduced me to poverty, and thyself to mis­ery."

Dinah, Jacob's wife, had overheard the conversa­tion; not at first intentionally, but passing through the parlour that adjoined the room in which they were, and catching a word that awakened her curiosity, stopped. Curiosity, when once awakened, is hard to be repelled, at least in women, say the opposite sex. Whether we are more troubled with the impulse than our fathers, brothers, or husbands, I will not now dispute; it is a certainty Dinah stopped to listen to a conversation which had powerfully excited her's.

It has been remarked, that Dinah's understanding was not of the most brilliant kind; but she possessed that plain▪ natural sense which enabled her to have a full and clear perception of right and wrong. Her wishes were moderate, her wants few. She was equal­ly a stranger to avarice, luxury and ambition. She listened to the accusation of Reuben, and all that she possessed of sensibility was awakened; not that she seared to be deprived of part of the comforts and con­veniencies she at present enjoyed; but the man whom she thought the first and best of all God's creatures, had been accused of fraud; if innocently, her indig­nation would fall on his accuser; if justly, then Jacob Holmes was no longer the perfect being she had ever believed him; and if guilty of dishonesty, Dinah felt she could no longer respect him. Yet she was unwil­ling to believe aught to his prejudice; she therefore approached our hero as he left the apartment.

"Thou must not leave us in anger, Reuben Dud­ley," said she, laying her hand on his arm as he at­tempted to pass her; "if Jacob has done thee wrong, I dare affirm it was not wilfully; and if thou canst make it appear, he will make thee ample restitution."

"Do not detain me, madam," said he, gently free­ing himself from her hold; "I am in haste to depart; [Page 282] but I part not in displeasure with you. God bless you, and make you as happy as you are innocent." Then kissing the child, which she held in her arms, he went hastily to the stable; saddled his horse, and with­out any opposition, mounted and proceeded to Phila­delphia.

Dinah entered the room where her father and hus­band were sitting. "Good Jacob," said she, "let not the young man leave us in anger. I do remember his father; I have heard him speak of thee with affec­tion, as though thou hadst been his own child. I veri­ly believe he did love thee, Jacob; for his sake, let me call back the young man."

"No," cried Jacob, with a stern look, "stay where you are (for she was about to quit the room); the youth has behaved unseemly, refuses the money which I have tendered him; and lays claim to my whole es­tate."

"And art thou sure, quite sure, Jacob Holmes," said she, and her countenance expressed fear and doubt, "art thou quite sure that he has no lawful claim upon thy property? In good truth, I thought he spoke as though he were assured of his right."

"Dinah," said Jacob, "thou art a good woman; thou dost understand thy household concerns; they are sufficient for the extent of thy capacity. I pray thee, Dinah, trouble not thyself with what is beyond thy comprehension. Thou art a stranger to the world, totally unacquainted with the arts and decep­tions with which it abounds."

"Verily thou sayest right," she replied mildly, "but as I could not assert a falsehood without hesitating, nor claim what was the right of another, without blush­ing, I judged by the firm voice and unembarrassed manner of the young man."

"If thou didst judge of him by thyself, Dinah," said her father, "thou didst wrong."

"Perhaps so, father; I am simple, and uninstruct­ed. But I hope I am not equally wrong in judging of my husband's heart by my own; for I think, Ja­cob," continued she, and she laid her hand affection­ately [Page 283] on his arm, "I think I would rather be poor and honest, than rich at the cost of another; wouldst not thou, Jacob?"

Jacob could not reply, nor even lift his eyes to the face of his wife; he rather unkindly shook off the hand she had laid on his arm, and the child just then be­ginning to cry, he bade her take away the noisy boy, for it disturbed him. Dinah obeyed in silence, re­paired to a distant apartment, and as the infant drew from her bosom life's nourishing fluid, she hung fond­ly over him and wept.

Our hero in the mean time returned to Philadel­phia. His mind was harassed, his spirits depressed; he endeavoured to compose himself, and to form some plan for his future conduct; but, inexperienced as he was, he wanted a friend to advise and direct him. "To-morrow," said he, "I will deliver the letters I brought with me."

Reuben was elegant in his appearance, though per­fectly plain in his dress; but there was an air of supe­riority, not pride or self-consequence; it was that na­tive dignity of manner, which is ever inspired by con­scious rectitude of heart and unimpeached integrity. His person was striking, and what would in general be termed handsome. It will naturally be supposed he was therefore received with politeness, and would have prepossessed almost every one in his favour, but that almost all whom he conversed with were prejudiced persons, who conceived that Jacob Holmes's interest had been much injured by the extravagance and folly of his father.

From several to whom he delivered letters, (which letters were nothing more than a simple annunciation of his name and family) he received invitations to their houses; but when his circumstances began to be suspected, and indeed the openness of his disposition led him rather to expose than endeavour to conceal them; when it was discovered he wanted friends who would be farther serviceable than merely giving him a dinner, or a bed for a few nights; he found, by their distant, frigid manner, that he was no longer [Page 284] welcome, that he was thought an intruder. His in­dependent spirit took fire; he no longer visited, he shut himself in his apartment, lived sparingly, and re­volved a thousand different plans by which he hoped to immerge from obscurity, and rescue from oblivion the name of Dudley. He had applied to several pro­fessors of the law to give him advice and assistance for the recovery of his right; but his poverty was known to be certain, his claims were supposed very doubtful; no one would undertake the cause.

Can any situation be more distressing, than that of a young man, of brilliant understanding, aspiring ge­nius, laudable ambition and uncorrupted heart, thus deprived of every means of improving his fortune, or exerting his talents, in such a manner as might at once be advantageous to himself and society in gener­al? In a large and flourishing town, without a friend, without even an associate towards whom he felt the smallest degree of affection, how forlorn, how totally de­void of comfort were his days! A solitary individual, who looked on the surrounding multitude, whom busi­ness or pleasure had drawn together, and saw not one with whom the feelings of his soul could claim kin­dred, not one who conceived or commiserated his suf­ferings, or, should sickness overtake him, would feel interested for his recovery, or drop a tear of regret over his bier, should it please Heaven to put a period to his existence.

Depressed by his own situation, and tortured by re­flections on what might possibly be the distresses of his sister, Reuben had not courage even to write to her. "Why should I torment her," he would say, "by an account of my ill success? Why write, when I have not one comfortable idea to transmit? No, I will suffer her to suppose I am no more; my silence will lead her to imagine I have paid the debt of nature. She will grieve, but time will soothe and lessen her affliction, which even at the first will not be half so poignant, as the knowledge of my existing in a state of obscurity, without money, without credit, without friends would occasion."

[Page 285] Jessy Oliver too, would sometimes intrude on his thoughts; but he endeavoured to banish hopes, which, spite of reason, would often arise. "She is lost to me," he would say; "I shall never see her more, or should I, will my ruined fortune entitle me to the hand of a woman of her rank? But Miss Oliver is above valuing a man for the [...] distinctions of wealth. Then ought I not to [...], with the utmost force of honour, every selfish passion that would inspire a wish to degrade her by a union with my humble destiny?"

These were the hourly [...] of our hero. Night came, and he, cheerless, [...] the pillow of repose, courting oblivion [...] sleep. But the somnisic power was dea [...] [...] solicitations; or if, perchance, he paid a transient [...], sealing his weary eyes for a few hours, Memory, still wakeful, would represent past scenes, or fondly paint illusive present joys.

Rachel and Jessy were the objects of his dreams. Sometimes he saw his sister on the brink of a preci­pice, from the edge of which a horrid spectre strove to precipitate her, when, as she fell, Jessy appeared with arms extended to catch and save her from plunging into the dreadful abyss that yawned beneath. Some­times his fancy represented his sister and Miss Oliver embarked in a small and ill-accommodated vessel, on a tempestuous ocean; the sky lowered, the winds howl­ed, and glaring meteors shot along the horizon; the waves rose tremendous, broke on the little barque, and she disappeared. Then in a moment he saw the fair form of Jessy leading his fainting sister up the beach, when, as they strove to avoid the encroaching tide, their feet would slip, and succeeding waves again immerse them in the foaming flood; and then again an instantaneous change (for the visions of sleep are wild and unconnected) would represent those dear ob­jects of his fondest solicitude seated in an arbour of evergreens, twined round with myrtle flowers and roses. He saw them, talked to them; sweet smiling infants seemed to play around them. Archibald Oli­ver too was there, and a stranger of noble mien. But [Page 286] suddenly some new terror would arise; he started, awoke, and all the fascinating vision fled. Sleep thus agitated and disturbed afforded but little refreshment, and i [...] a few weeks our hero was but the shadow of his former self.

About this period the natives, who had been driven back into the Allegany Mountains, and who had pitch­ed their habitation, in different tribes, upon the fur­thermost banks of the Susquehannah, Allegany and Mohawk rivers, made frequent descents into the new settled parts of the country, plundering, burning and destroying with impunity every European settlement within their reach.

In consequence of the treachery and rapacity of these savages, it became necessary to send a military force to repel them, and guard the lives and proper­ties of the inoffensive settlers; and Patrick Gordon, Esq. who at that time governed the colony, proposed raising a volunteer company for this service. Proper officers were accordingly appointed, and the company increased daily.

The noise this occasioned in the city awakened Reu­ben from his lethargy of despondency. The native spark of ambition, which had so long lain dormant; was fanned to a flame, and with the sanguine ardour ever inseparable from youth, vainly imagining to deserve was to insure preferment, he offered himself to the Governor, and was accepted.

His candour in speaking of himself and circum­stances; his youth, his manners, his open, unembar­rassed air, and intelligent, manly countenance, spoke volumes in his favour, and procured him the honour­able appointment of standard bearer.

Early in the spring, they began their plan of ope­rations, and marched towards the margin of the Sus­quehannah. During the spring and summer months, they had several rencounters with the Indians, and be­ing in general victorious, they had driven and pursued them a farther distance into the country than they imagined, and the weather began to grow cold before they thought of returning. At length the officers [Page 287] having unanimously agreed that it would be hazard­ous, as well as of little use, to pursue their retreating foe any farther, preparations were made for their gain­ing good quarters before the inclement season should be too far advanced. The main body had began their march, and our hero, (who was now promoted to the rank of lieutenant) with a small party, was left to fol­low the next morning with the baggage.

Amongst the party of which Reuben was second in command, was an Irish youth, who particularly attach­ed himself to our hero. O'Neil was ignorant, but hon­est. Like an unpolished diamond, his outward appear­ance was uncouth and rough; but within was a jewel of inestimable price. Simplicity, integrity and hu­manity were the characteristics of his soul. This young man was so pointed in his attentions to our hero, that it could not pass unnoticed. One day, when he had been voluntarily performing some little menial office, Reuben thus addressed him:

"By what good fortune, O'Neil, is it, that I am so particularly favoured with your kind offices?"

"Arrah, my swate master," said O'Neil, "by no great matter of good fortune, only that your Honour happened to have a father."

"Did you know my father, O'Neil?"

"Och! and did you think I did not know him? Many is the time I havent served him, to be sure; and while Pat O'Neil lives, he will serve any that wears the name of Dudley, for his sake; aye, by night or by day, fair weather or foul, all's one for that. And did you think now I could ever forget how he paid the money for that swate crater, Madam Juliana, and how he had her nursed, and—"

It now struck Reuben that he might, through O'Neil, learn some further intelligence concerning a circumstance, which he had often thought of since the information he received from Jael, on the first day of his arrival; for he naturally supposed that the Juliana he talked of was the unfortunate woman, whose sor­rows his father had alleviated. He put several ques­tions to his humble friend, and gleaned from him a [Page 288] tale which cannot be better related than in his own simple language.

"It was in dear Ireland," said he, "about fifteen miles from Dublin's swate city, that my honoured master had a house; I would tell you his name, but that I can't, because, you see, I promised Madam Juliana never to breathe a syllable of the matter. She was all the child he had; and he thought she was too good for the sun to shine on, and so she was; but she was not quite so good neither, that is to say, she might a done better than to listen to a spallpeen of a lord that was an Englishman, only that he was born in Dublin. So he saw her one day when she was riding out, and he spoke to her, and rode home with her; and when my master saw who he was, he turned him out of the house, and never asked him into it; and I heard him tell Madam Juliana at supper-time, that he was no bet­ter than he should be, an if he had said not half so good, he would have said more in his favour than he deserved. I was a boy, please your Honour, then, and half a guinea tempted me to take a letter and give it to her. Och! The remembrance of that makes my heart ache very often; for if I had not been so easily persuaded, my good master and my swate lady might a been alive and happy together now. So she did not mind what her father said, but wrote to him, and met him; and one evening he brought a chaise and four horses. It was after sunset, and the new moon gave but little light; so she said, "Patrick, will you walk with me as far as the Mill-Bridge?"

"Now it was October, and the wind was sharp. So says I, 'It is cold, my lady,' says I."

"A little or so," said she, and her voice seemed to tremble. "It is a little cold, Patrick, but here is some­thing to keep you warm;" so she put a crown piece into my hand. So we went out together, and as I opened the gate, she turned and looked up at the win­dows of her father's study; for there was a big row of trees from the house to the gate, and his study win­dows were right opposite. So she looked at them, [Page 289] and lifted up her hands and wrung them, and I heard her sob."

"You had better go back, Miss," said I; but she made me no answer, only walked very fast forward; and when I saw the lord and the chaise, my mind mis­gave me, and I said, "Och! Miss July, what are you going to be after doing?"

"Do not be frightened, my good lad," said she, "but go back and take this letter to my father."

"Go back?" said I, "no! no! Pat O'Neil does no such thing; I could not bear to see my poor old master die of the heart-break, or go crazy for your loss."

"But you must go back," said the lord.

"But I won't," said I; "I will follow my mistress to the end of the world, and farther too if needs must."

"Och! your Honour, I cannot tell how I felt when I thought they were going away without me. He had lifted my poor lady in, who seemed almost dying; so I caught hold of her gown, and hung upon the step of the chaise, and swore never to quit my hold till my hands were cut off."

"Let him go with us, poor fellow," said my lady.

"He will betray us," said the lord.

"No, I will not," said I; "let me go with my mistress, and I will not speak a word to nobody; but I will protect her, fight for her, die for her."

"Get up behind," said he.

"I sprung up in a giffey, and away we went. Well, that night we went aboard a packet, and sailed away to England, and there a Roman Catholic priest mar­ried them; but the false-hearted lord never meant the thing that was right all this while; for in a week or two he grew cool, and at last told her he [...] no Cath­olic, and therefore not her husband, and that to pro­vide for her during her life, he had got her a husband, and when she was married, she might go back to her father. So a captain used to come with him, and I don't know how they managed; but Madam Juliana was married to him, and I thought the next day she [Page 290] would have gone distracted. She tore her beautiful flaxen hair, and wrung her hands, and cried and sob­bed. So then, in a little while her husband went away over sea, and then after Madam lay in, she followed him, and when she came to Philadelphia, he would not own her, and she pined and pined, till at last—"

Here the voice of poor O'Neil failed. His honest heart burst forth at his eyes.

"Spare yourself, Patrick," said Reuben, "for I think I know the rest."

"Not quite all, your Honour," said Patrick; "for on the day before she died, your good father, Heaven bless him for it, let me see her. She was almost gone, and spoke so low, I could scarce hear her."

"Patrick," said she, "I want to thank you for your steady attachment to me. I would fain leave you something as a remembrance; but I have nothing left of any value."

"My dear, swate, angel lady," said I, "you will leave me the remembrance of your precious self. I never! no, never! shall forget you."

"I sent for you," said she, "to tell you, Patrick, that, should you ever see my father, he may know from you that I have been punished, justly, I own, though very severely, for my disobedience to the best of parents. I leave my child an orphan, in a strange land; but my benefactor has promised to take care of it. You, I know, will, to the utmost of your power, protect it."

She fainted before she had finished; they took me out of the room, and I never saw her again. Och! your Honour, she is surely in heaven; for to die heart­broken, and in poverty, in a strange land, without any friends—Do you not think she is in heaven? do you not think her sins were pardoned?"

"We will hope so," said Reuben; "but disobedi­ence to parents is certainly a deep offence against the commandments of our Creator."

"But she was very penitent," said O'Neil. Reuben was silent.

After this conversation, there seemed a kind of so­cial bond formed between Reuben and the young Irish­man; [Page 291] the latter performing all the offices of a servant, the other practising all the kindness and benevolence of the best of masters. The autumn nights were cold; O'Neil would watch till he saw our hero in a slumber, then, adding his own blanket to the slight covering of Reuben's bed, he would wrap himself as well as he could in his great coat, and lie down on the ground beside him.

The baggage being placed in order ready for an early march, the soldiers and officers were retired to rest. O'Neil had, as usual, thrown his blanket over his master (as he delighted to call him) and the air being more than usually sharp, he found it impossible to sleep. He arose, and raking together the dying em­bers of a fire by which they had dressed their supper, began to re-kindle it. As he was thus employed, he thought he heard a rustling amongst the trees; and turning half round, perceived, by the faint light the fire cast around, the faces of two Indians peeping from behind a large tree. He gave a loud cry; the In­dians uttered the war whoop; a scene of confusion and horror ensued, and in a few moments part of the little corps were slain, the rest wounded and made prisoners. Amongst the latter was our hero, and his faithful adherent, Patrick O'Neil.

CHAP. XIII.
Another Visit to savage Habitations.

THERE had, some little time previous to this event, been several of the Indian chiefs taken prisoners by the Europeans, and it was to this circum­stance those, who were taken prisoners by the natives, owed the preservation of their lives, as the savages en­tertained hopes that by means of these they might procure the liberty of their captured brethren.

Their route lay across the country, and before they had reached their place of destination, a very heavy [Page 292] fall of snow rendered the woods almost impenetrable; but the Indians, inured from their infancy to cold, hunger, every species of hardship, felt little or no in­convenience from the severity of the season, whilst the Europeans funk under their accumulated sufferings; and of twelve who were taken prisoners, seven died by the way.

Reuben had been slightly wounded, and O'Neil had received a scratch, as he called it, in endeavouring to preserve his master, from the tomahawk of an Indian. But Reuben was by nature intrepid, and O'Neil was callous to every calamity that affected only himself. They mutually comforted and supported each other, and were amongst the few who survived at the end of their wearisome, pedestrian journey.

The morning after their arrival at the Indian settle­ment, the five surviving captives were presented to the sachem, Wampoogohoon. His wigwam was larger and more commodious than those of his subjects. It was well lined with skins of various wild beasts, and on a kind of throne, covered with the same materials, sat the sachem. At his left hand sat a woman, whose complexion spoke her of European descent, and behind them stood a young female, in appearance about sev­enteen years old. Her skin was a shade darker than that of the woman's; her eyes were of that kind of dark grey, which may almost be termed blue, and yet, from the shade of long black eyelashes, may sometimes be mistaken for black. Their expression was at once soft and animated, and her dark auburn hair, which did not really curl, but hung in waves down her back and over her shoulders, was ornamented with a few glass beads, and a tuft of scarlet feathers, fancifully arranged, and not entirely devoid of taste. The rest of her dress, though greatly similar to the other wom­en, had a something of delicacy, in its formation and method of being put on, that was particularly pleasing to Europeans. Her figure was above the middle size, yet not robust enough to be thought masculine, though every feature glowed with ruddy health, every limb displayed the strength and firmness of her frame. [Page 293] She stood with her right hand leaning on the sachem's shoulder, in her left she held an unbraced bow, and a quiver full of arrows was slung across her back.

Wampoogohoon received the captives with a kind of sullen dignity. He spoke to them in very bad En­glish, but they understood sufficient to comprehend that he mean to detain them till the captured Indians were returned in safety.

During the time he was speaking, Reuben looked attentively at the two women, who from their places, and the universal respect paid them, he concluded were the wife and daughter of the chief. The pensive­ness manifest in the countenance of the elder, the beau­ty and majesty of the younger, awakened in his bosom a wish to be acquainted with their story; for he was certain they were of European extraction, though of what nation he could not determine, as they had neither of them spoke.

At length, when the conference was ended, and the sachem waved his hand for them to depart, his wife arose, and spoke to him in the Mohawk tongue. Reu­ben perceived, from the soft tone of her voice and her earnest manner, that it was a supplication. He an­swered, but not with the gentlest accent; she laid her hand on his arm, and repeated her request, in which she was joined by Eumea, his daughter. He looked irresolute for a moment, then seeming to acquiesce in their demands, arose from his seat, and taking his bow and arrows, was followed by his attendants out of the wigwam.

The two interesting females now came forward, and the eldest, whose name was Victoire, addressed our hero in very tolerable French:

"Stranger, I am sorry for your captivity, though my situation amongst these Indians makes me appear your enemy. Yourself and companions are no doubt surprised, to see a person of my complexion so inti­mately connected with one of theirs; my story may be told in a few words. My mother, a native of France, being of a protestant family, and apprehend­ing persecution, emigrated to this new-found world, [Page 294] in company with her husband, a man of strict piety and principles. Their portion of worldly goods was not large; they purchased a wild, uncultivated spot upon the borders of the Allegany, and by five years of indefatigable labour, rendered their little hut and surrounding garden, together with one field, tolerably comfortable; but just when they began to taste some small degree of happiness, which would scarcely have deserved the name, but by being contrasted with the excess of hardship they had endured in clearing and rendering their little demesne fit for cultivation; then, at the moment when they hoped to reap the reward of their labours, a party of Mohawks came down upon them, rifled and destroyed their dwelling, murdered my father and two little brothers, and carried my wretched mother and myself, then only a year old, in­to captivity."

Victoire paused; she seemed affected; a tear glis­tened in the expressive eyes of Eumea. At length the former proceeded:—

"My mother was a convincing proof of the excess of misery the human mind can suffer; she survived the loss of a husband tenderly beloved, and two chil­dren. I was her comfort, her stay, which held her to this world; for my sake she bore captivity without murmuring, for my sake she wished and strove to pre­serve her existence; she lived till I was fourteen years old, and gave me every instruction which memory fur­nished, for she had no assistance from books. She in­stilled into my young mind a knowledge and love of a supreme, benignant Being, and taught me to place my whole dependence on him, whose goodness was equal to his power.

"Wampoogohoon was the youngest son of the sa­chem, who at that time governed this tribe; he offer­ed me his protection. My mother, in a dying state, rather than leave me exposed to insult, advised me to accede to his proposal, and I became his wife. His father and brothers are since dead, and you behold him a chief of the Mohawks. He is not unkind to me, and as the father of my children, I feel an affec­tion [Page 295] for him. Eumea is the only surviving child I have of six; for her sake, I wish for some intercourse with the Europeans, that her mind, which is not a bar­ren soil, may receive the culture of education. To this end, I have requested my husband to permit you to have a wigwam to yourselves, where you may dwell in quiet, till we hear of the safety of those Indians who have been detained by your party. In return, I only request you to exert your abilities to instruct, in your language, customs, manners and religion, my child Eumea."

Saying this, she presented the Indian maid to Reu­ben, who assured Victoire he would do all in his pow­er to return the obligation she had conferred.

He was then, with his companions, shewn to a hab­itation that wore a trifling appearance of comfort; in it were three or four bear skins, a quantity of clean dry straw, some dried fish, venison and maize, and without was plenty of fuel.

Here our hero indulged himself in reflection; and often would his thoughts revert to his grandfather, William Dudley, who was for many years in a situa­tion somewhat similar. But Reuben had seen too much of savage men and manners to have a wish to remain amongst them, even though he might have been ele­vated to the highest seat of dignity.

It was at once a comfort and amusement to Reu­ben, that he was obliged, for several hours every day, to employ his mind, in order to cultivate that of his pupil Eumea. He contrived, by boiling the shumak berries, to make a liquid with which he could write on white birch bark. In this manner, he made an alpha­bet, which she presently learnt; and seeming to de­light in attending to his instructions, he experienced a double satisfaction in endeavouring to expand and in­form her understanding. She was soon able to read short sentences, which he composed for her; his hand being generally employed, and his mind often totally occupied in striving to recollect what might be of the most service to his lovely scholar, he had little time for reflection.

[Page 296] O'Neil laboured incessantly to keep their dwelling warm and tight; and sometimes he went out with his gun, and brought home some kind of game which served to diversify their scanty repasts; and often Vic­toire would accompany her daughter to their wigwam, and on those occasions generally carried something which they thought a delicacy, such as noa-cake, omanny, or succatash, viands composed of maize and dried beans; and thus wore away a very long and in­tensely severe winter. Reuben had been a prisoner above six months, and yet no news had arrived that could raise his hopes of speedy liberation; and we must leave him amongst these children of nature, and return to our heroine, whom we left married to Ham­den Auberry, but living in the vicinity of Mary-le­bone, under the assumed name of Dacres.

CHAP. XIV.
Scandal—Separation—Jealousy.

IT has been already remarked, that Rachel had as little curiosity in her composition as any woman existing: she was also by nature of a retired, quiet turn of mind, though easily led into scenes of dissipa­tion, in which, as she generally mixed to gratify oth­ers, she took but little satisfaction. She therefore spent the chief of her time at home, either employed at her needle, or reading. Hamden was fond of mu­sic; he had procured her a spinnet and a master. She had a considerable taste for drawing; Hamden was a proficient in the art; he directed and improved her judgment; pointed out proper subjects for the exercise of her genius, and with her book, her pencil, her nee­dle, music, and some few domestic concerns, she so sweetly diversified her time, that not one moment hung heavy on her hands. Indeed, Rachel had, from her childhood, been taught that most useful, and to those who practise it, that most pleasant of all lessons, [Page 297] constant employment; that it is better to be engaged in trifling pursuits (if innocent) than suffer the mind to sink into inanity for want of exercise.

Hamden remained in London about a month or six weeks after their marriage. He then left her to return to his aunt, who was still in Scotland; and at the time he bade his dear Rachel adieu, he purposed re­turning to her within the space of two months.

After the departure of her husband, our heroine continued the same regular course of life. But calum­ny, who has a hundred ears, a thousand eyes, and ten thousand tongues, not one of which is ever suffered to slumber for an instant, could not permit her to enjoy her favourite and inoffensive employment unmolested.

Though Rachel had imagined that the uniform ten­or of her conduct was such, as might defy even the prying eyes of malice and envy, yet she felt there was something wrong in her appearance. She went by an assumed name; yet, confident that she was in reality the wife of Auberry, she also felt that though she had transgressed the bounds of prudence, she had strictly adhered to the rules of virtue and morality; and this internal assurance gave her great comfort. And when retiring for the night, she would reflect that her heart was in universal charity with all her fellow-creatures, that her pursuits were altogether harmless, and in some degree laudable; a sweet se­renity would diffuse itself through her bosom, and of­fering up her prayers for the safety of her beloved Reuben, and her almost adored husband, she would sink into a slumber, as composed and refreshing as her own mind was pure and uncontaminated.

The heart that is itself a stranger to guilt suspects it not in another. Such was the heart of Rachel; without enthusiasm pious, without ostentation charita­ble, and innately virtuous, without an idea that there was any particular merit in being so; since, without being insensible to the inevitable misery that must and ever will follow the forfeiture of that inestimable jewel, chastity, she wondered how so many heedless women fell into an error so repugnant to her own feelings.

[Page 298] As Major Auberry was certain he could not remain long with his wife, when he secured her a handsome and convenient place of residence, he was not forgetful of the pleasure that would naturally result from a companion of her own sex being under the same roof with her. In his search after lodgings or a ready furnished house, chance directed him to Mrs. Varnice, the widow of an attorney, whose pride would not suffer her to leave the house her husband had engaged but a short time before his death, and who would, to support that pride, (the real origin of which was meanness, not real dignity of soul) submit to any thing but labour.

At the time Major Auberry applied for the upper part of her house, she knew him, and that his name was not Dacres. "But he will pay me well," said she mentally; so she concealed her knowledge, and agreed to our heroine's becoming the mistress of the apartments.

When Rachel was first introduced to her, she ob­served her lovely, majestic form, and sweetly interest­ing countenance. Mrs. Varnice was short, rather too much em bon point, dark complexioned, and on the wrong side of forty; but her eyes, which were of jetty hue, and whose brilliancy she endeavoured to increase by an artful tinge of rouge on her high cheek-bones, were animated and expressive, and she was not with­out hope that some future conquest might secure to her a second matrimonial establishment. To such a wom­an, the first appearance of our heroine was by no means prepossessing.

"She is certainly handsome (said she, on the day Rachel took possession of her new lodgings) she is handsome, I must own; but your pretty women have seldom much to recommend them besides their beau­ty." This remark was made to a poor relation, who was dependent on Mrs. Varnice for bread; an unfor­tunate being, who, from want of education, and ex­treme poverty, possessed a mind as abject as her cir­cumstances.

Education, spirit of light, being of the first order, who in thy right hand dost hold a magic mirror, dis­playing [Page 299] playing to the astonished sense of youth the wondrous, fascinating charms of nature; who, still receding as we pursue, yet still displaying something strange and charming, invitest the admiring pupil still to follow; whose left hand holds a tablet, on which is written all that was learnt from thy instructive mirror; who as thou passest, giving place to age, who hangs his head and droops that thou canst charm no more, presentest the tablets, whence fond memory gleans something to cheer the last cold eve of life, and being transmitted to the rising age, incite them to attend thy earliest call, follow thee through thy most intricate labyrinths, that, as thou dost ascend the hill of fame, holding before them still the instructive glass, each rising age may take a higher step, till frail humanity stands on thy summit:—Education, thou first, best gift that mortals can receive; those who know thee not, conceiving not thy intrinsic value, slight thee, condemn thee, treat thee with contempt; but they who feel thy influence, be­nignant power, will revere thee, worship thee, and court thy smiles, humbly entreating that the rising age might fully comprehend and taste thy beauties.

Rachel had received a good, though not a brilliant education; her mind was therefore free from preju­dice. Mrs. Varnice and her cousin Lettuce were to­tally uncultivated, and superstition and prejudice were easily admitted and encouraged. The former of these women, therefore, concluded our heroine to be a de­luded victim to inexperience and affection. She thought the infatuation (as she called it) of Hamden would not last long, and wisely imagined, by paying the most marked attention to him, by giving up her own opinion whenever it was in opposition to his, and in a hundred different forms, which she conceived to be the height of complaisance, but which to Auberry himself appeared to have partook more of abject ser­vility, to supplant her in his good opinion; how­ever, as he imagined her, in the main, a good­natured, inoffensive woman, he encouraged her ad­vances to an intimacy with Rachel. He knew the purity of our heroine's mind, and native good sense [Page 300] would prevent her receiving any ill impressions, or con­tracting any low ideas from conversing with a woman every way so infinitely her inferior, and at the same time thought her knowledge of the world might guard the inexperienced Rachel from impositions.

If the first sight of our heroine awakened in the bos­om of Mrs. Varnice the malignant fiend envy, her manners and conversation assisted to heighten it, and in less than a fortnight Mrs. Varnice pronounced her to be proud, conceited, foolish, in short, every thing that was the direct opposite to her real disposition. Yet she concealed her opinion, and would take oppor­tunities to admire her understanding, praise her shape, her complexion, even the tone of her voice. Rachel was not greedy of flattery; but where is the human being that can at all times turn a deaf ear to its adu­lating voice, or steel their hearts to its insinuating qualities?

When Auberry left his wife to go to his aunt in Scotland, Mrs. Varnice had not an idea that he meant to return, and felt somewhat mortified that all her arts to attract his notice had proved ineffectual; but as she found it would be to no use to repine, she turned her thoughts to what advantage might be made of our heroine.

The parting between Major Auberry and his lady had been extremely painful on both sides. Rachel's heart sunk within her, and as the chaise drove from the door, her emotions became so violent, that Mrs. Varnice was obliged to lead her into her own parlour, and give her a glass of drops and water.

"Come, come, my dear Madam," said she, as Ra­chel endeavoured to suppress her tears, "you must not give way to this immoderate sorrow; Mr. Dacres, I dare say, will soon come back again; I suppose he is not gone very far."

"Four hundred miles," said Rachel, "appears to me an immense distance; and I know not how to ac­count for it, but I feel such an oppression at my heart, it seems as though I had beheld him for the last time, and yet I know he will return as early as possible."

[Page 301] "O! to be sure he will; he promised to come back soon, did not he?"

"He will come as soon as he can, I know; but the length of his stay does not depend entirely on himself. However, he has promised I should hear from him very often, and I shall count the moments with impa­tience till I can hope to receive a letter. I have been very troublesome to you, Madam," continued she, rising to quit the parlour; "pray pardon my childish behaviour; I will retire and endeavour to attain for­titude to bear this first (and I hope in Heaven it will be the last) separation."

Her eyes filled again as she spoke, and courtesying hastily, she repaired to her own apartment; and hav­ing disburthened her heart by giving a free course to her tears, she composed her spirits; and asserting that understanding which was ever ready at her call, she began to employ herself on a piece of embroidery, the pattern for which was drawn by Hamden; from that she went to her spinnet, and played as well as she could a triffing air which he had taught her. These em­ployments amused and soothed her. She became com­posed, and determined, during this enforced and pain­ful absence, to occupy herself in acquiring those ac­complishments which she knew would be most agreea­ble to her husband. Every trace of the primitive pu­ritan was now entirely abolished, except that she was extremely neat in her dress, and simple in her man­ners. She followed fashion as far as she thought it consistent with propriety, but no farther; and though strangers would pronounce her perfectly elegant at the first glance, were they to scrutinize the several ar­ticles that composed her apparel, they would be at a loss to say what particularly constituted that elegance. In short, Rachel was the kind of woman who gives taste and fashion to every thing she wears, however plain its formation, however common the materials of which it is made.

The state of her mind after the departure of her husband was such, as precluded every idea of seeking society during the day. She attempted, but the at­tempt [Page 302] was vain, to partake of a meal which the care of Lettuce had provided (for Lettuce had performed the office of attendant on the person of our heroine from the first day of her residence in the house of Mrs. Varnice); but towards evening she began to reflect, that the solicitude and attention of her hostess de­manded some return; she therefore requested she would come and take tea in her apartment.

It was now the middle of October, and the twilight at that period soon closes; it was six o'clock, when the tea things were placed on the table; a cheerful fire illumined the hearth, two wax candles lent their rays to enliven the scene, the windows were closed, the curtains let down, and perfect silence reigned in the apartments. The house was as retired as though twenty miles from London, and not a sound interupt­ed the tranquillity of the surrounding scene, save now and then the rattle of a solitary carriage passing to and from the environs of the city.

If there is a moment in which the human mind is more inclined to unbend, and place an unlimited con­fidence in those who profess a friendship, it is, when fully comprehending the charms of solitude, we find that solitude may be enlivened by being participated by one who enters into all our feelings, and smiles or weeps as the colour of our fate or expression of our sentiments excites the opposite emotions. Such was the moment we have just described, nor was our hero­ine insensible to its influence.

"I am glad to see you so much recovered," said Mrs. Varnice, seating herself at the tea-table, and drawing the tea-board towards her, which Lettuce had just brought in; "shall I save you the trouble and make the tea?"

Rachel acknowledged her goodness, and acquiesced in the proposal.

"I suppose Mr. Dacres," said she with a sigh, "is now many miles distant from me; and suppose he writes at the first post town, when may I expect to hear from him?"

"That I cannot tell," said the artful Mrs. Varnice, "unless I knew what road he took."

[Page 303] "The High North-road."

"Well, you may hear from him sooner, but I do not imagine he will write till he gets to York. He is a beautiful man," taking a miniature in her hand that hung by a ribbon round Rachel's neck, "a very hand­some man indeed; and I think there is something in your countenances very much alike, very much in­deed, just about the eyes and the mouth; that pretty dimple, just at the left corner. Well, you were cer­tainly relations."

"No indeed, we were not, I never saw him till within eight months of our union."

"Indeed! Well, I could have sworn you had been cousins. Where were you married, in London?"

"In Westminster."

"In Westminster? what at the Abbey?"

"No."

"At St. James's Church?"

"No."

"Oh! you were married at St. Margaret's?"

"No, I was not."

"Bless me, then what church was it?"

"Pardon me, I am not at liberty to say."

Mrs. Varnice smiled. "Ah! I understand now; it was a stolen match?"

"Not entirely so."

"What, I suppose your friends knew it?"

"I have no friends in England."

"None?"

"No, not one. I have a brother, a dear, respecta­ble, worthy brother; but he is in America."

"In America? Dear me; what all amongst the blacks and the wild Indians?"

Rachel could not suppress an inclination to smile, whilst she answered, "No, Madam, amongst the Euro­pean settlers, who have, within the last century, emi­grated into the new world, which I understand is a fertile continent extending from north to south, and constituting one entire quarter of the habitable globe."

"And so, your brother is gone over sea to those strange parts. And what could tempt him to leave dear little England?"

[Page 304] "To inquire after property my father left there."

"Dear well, how odd! And so your father died abroad."

"No, he was lost on his passage home, even when in fight of his native shores."

"Oh dear! how unfortunate! So you have no friends in London?"

"In London? No, nor in England, except my hus­band."

"Dear me! Well, I hope he will prove a faithful, good husband to you."

"I have no doubt of his faith or tenderness."

"Oh dear no! I dare say not; though men are strange, inconstant beings, will profess much without meaning any thing, marry women under assumed names, and never care for them after a little while."

"There may have been such things," said Rachel; "but for the honour of human nature, I could wish not to believe them possible till my senses convince me."

"Sweet innocent! I wish you may never be con­vinced," said Mrs. Varnice pointedly.

This exclamation awakened something in the bosom of Rachel, that could not rightly be termed either jeal­ousy or curiosity, but it was a mixture of both; and the artful Varnice led her on, till she had gleaned from Rachel (only that names were concealed) every cir­cumstance relating to herself, her brother and her husband.

After a day or two past in that kind of uncomfort­able, unconnected manner, which every person of sen­sibility must have experienced when separated from the chosen friend of their hearts, Rachel began again to resume her usual avocations. Her needle employed the earliest hours of morning, after which she dressed, and walked into the fields for air and exercise. Her dinner past, she employed the intermediate hours be­tween that and evening with a book, her pencil, or a lesson on her spinnet; and the evenings were usually passed in reading to, conversing and working, or play­ing picquet with, Mrs. Varnice.

[Page 305] But during this period, it must not be imagined that she was entirely forgotten by her quondam friends, the Websters. They had been indefatigable in their inquiries, till they found out her lodgings, and hearing that she went by the name of Dacres, they were per­suaded that she had forgot the respect due to herself, and become the mistress of Hamden Auberry.

Mr. Spriggins, though at first mortified and disap­pointed by her sudden departure from his aunt's house, soon found consolation, by transferring his devoirs to his eldest cousin, by whom they were very favourably received; and an old uncle having left him a decent house, shop and stock in trade, in a market town in Northumberland, he soon obtained the assent of Mrs. Webster, and took her fair daughter, to shine forth in all the airs and finery of a London bride, and to set the fashions for three months to come, to all the trades­men's wives and daughters in a little country town. His shop too was newly painted and decorated in the London style, and Mr. Spriggins himself was so po­lite, so obliging, that he soon attracted a large num­ber of customers.

Beginning the world thus, not only without embar­rassments, but with a small sum of ready money in hand, this young couple found, in a very short time, that they were in a fair way to accumulate a fortune. The wife, though proud, vain, and fond of finery, was meanly parsimonious, and would stint her family in necessaries, in order to buy a finer gown, or give a more expensive treat than her neighbours. Belle Webster was sent for to be her companion, and set her cap at some of the smart young men, in hopes of an establishment for life; while little Polly was left to assist and console her mother for the loss of her two eldest daughters.

When Hamden Auberry reached his uncle's seat, he was received with such affectionate tokens of joy by lady Anne, that he was almost tempted, in that moment of tenderness, to throw himself on her mercy, and confess his marriage. Happy had it been, both for himself and our heroine, had he followed the im­pulse; [Page 306] but he took time to consider, and that false pride, which was his only foible, represented to him, that he was secure of the person and heart of Rachel, bound to her by the most irrevocable vows; he haz­arded nothing, therefore, by longer concealment. But to avow his engagements with a woman in respect to rank and fortune so diametrically opposite to what la­dy Anne desired, might forfeit her regard forever; nay, this very pride flattered him that it was for the sake of his wife he still wished to conceal their union, and that the wealth and consequence in lady Anne's power to bestow were only valued by him, as, by pos­sessing them, he could elevate the woman of his choice to a rank she was born to adorn. Alas! this was false reasoning; it was in reality an unwillingness to give up the respect, the parade, the ease and conve­niencies, wealth is ever certain to insure.

Two days after his arrival in Scotland, the family were surprised by the sudden and unexpected appear­ance of lady Lucy. The tour to the continent had been shortened by an untoward incident, and she hav­ing, on her return, landed at Harwich, she proceeded immediately north, without going to London. Lady Anne was not displeased by the return of her niece; she looked upon Hamden as the certain successor to the title and estates of his late grandfather, but she thought a union with lady Lucy might by no means retard the completion of her wishes, which were to see him at the head of her family.

It was the evening after the arrival of this lady, that, sitting in a family way with only her aunt and cous­in, and diverting them with her vivacity and innocent prattle, when, turning suddenly to Hamden, she cried, "Oh! by the bye, Coz, how does your pretty Quaker girl do?"

Hamden's face was but a trifle paler than his coat. He hesitated, attempted to answer; but finding him­self at a loss for words, affected a laugh.

"You may laugh," cried she, "but I declare I thought her very pretty."

[Page 307] "Who are you speaking of?" said lady Anne, fixing her eyes on the glowing face of Hamden.

"Oh! he knows," continued the thoughtless girl, "and now I have the scene full in my mind, I'll tell you, aunt. You must know we went to the play.—"

"Nay, dear Lucy," said Hamden, gaily catching her hand, "how can you remember such ridiculous trifles?"

"Your servant, cousin Hamden; it was no trifle at the time. Now, aunt, I'll tell you how it was. Between the play and farce, I had observed a very pretty, interesting Quaker, who sat in the pit looking very earnestly at Mr. Hamden. I suppose she had seen him before. Eh, cousin?—Well, dear aunt, the house was very full, and the pretty Quaker fainted; when behold ye, my gentleman here takes a leap over the front of the box, and rushing through the crowd, flew to her assistance. But if you had seen when she recovered—"

"A little moderation, if you please, lady Lucy," cried Hamden, eagerly interrupting her; "you paint the scene in such lively colours, that my aunt will sup­pose the bagatelle of consequence."

"And your manner, Hamden, does not contradict the supposition," said lady Anne pointedly. "Pray who was this fainting damsel?"

"It was a Miss Dudley." said Hamden, in a hur­ried accent; "I was introduced to her when I last vis­ited my mother."

"Indeed!" said lady Anne, sarcastically.

"Yes, she was a great favourite of my mother's; but I understand she is lately married to an old crony of mine, one Dacres. I am sure, aunt, you must re­member what friends Tom Dacres and I were when boys."

"And are you friends now?" said Lucy with a half smile and a sly glance at her aunt.

Lady Anne was struck with the evident embarrass­ment of Hamden; she therefore put an end to the conversation by rising and desiring him to attend her to her closet. Here a conversation ensued, which con­vinced [Page 308] Auberry, that the moment his aunt should be assured of his having formed a family connexion with our heroine, would be the last of her favour.

"I must dissemble longer," said he. Alas! dissim­ulation is seldom necessary, can never be laudable, and was in this case despicable.—But we will re­turn to our heroine.

The first six weeks of her husband's absence she bore with tolerable patience; when a month more passed over, and no hope of his return, she murmured at the delay; but when, at last week after week glided on, and Auberry did not appear, she began to despond.

Mrs Varnice was not surprised; it was what she had expected. She by slow and almost imperceptible de­grees endeavoured to undermine the principles of our heroine; but Rachel, though not quick at discerning evil (because almost a stranger to its baneful qualities) at last discovered her aim, and repulsed her with the scorn she merited.

But innocence is ever inadequate to oppose, with any degree of success, the united powers of envy and cun­ning. In revenge for the contempt with which she had been treated, Mrs. Varnice suppressed the next letter with which Lettuce was entrusted to carry to the post, opened, read it, and committed it to the fire. By the tenor of this letter, she comprehended that Ra­chel fully believed herself the wife of Auberry; but this she knew before, and inwardly laughed at what she supposed to be the credulity of a fond, unsuspecting girl.

Having once began to interrupt the correspondence, she did not hesitate the next post-night to make Let­tuce keep watch at the street door, and prevent the rap of the post-man, which would have immediately called our heroine down stairs. The stratagem suc­ceeded; she took the expected letter from the post­man's hand, paid the postage, and retired to her own apartment to read it.

It has often been said, that envy is its own punisher, and in this case the adage was completely verified; for when from this letter she discovered that Hamden re­ally [Page 309] was, and freely acknowledged himself, the hus­band of our heroine, her heart overflowed with ran­cour, and she determined to hesitate at nothing which might be likely to poison the happiness of one she at once envied and hated.

One act of guilt leads but to the commission of an­other; it is in vain the human heart may think only this one little deviation, and I will stop. As the ball precipitated from the summit of a hill pauses not, but rushes with amazing velocity till it reaches the very lowest part of the vale beneath, so the human soul, giving way to temptation, sinks from error into guilt, nor pauses till plunged in the lowest abyss of depravity.

Another and another letter from Hamden was open­ed by Mrs. Varnice, whilst those from Rachel (whose heart now began to throb with fear, doubt, and a thousand anxieties, which none but those who are united to, and suffering an early separation from, the man of their choice can conceive) suffered the same fate. At length one arrived inclosing a bank bill for a hundred pounds. At the sight of it, Mrs. Varnice turned pale; fear was the fist emotion of her bosom. But not even Lettuce was privy to the receipt of this letter. Mrs. Varnice was not very economical; a hundred pounds would relieve her from some few em­barrassments. She looked at it, paused for a moment, at length, committing the letter to the fire, she depos­ited the note in her pocket-book, and on the ensuing morning exchanged it at a silk mercer's where she pur­chased a gown of rose-coloured tabby.

This note would have been very acceptable to Ra­chel; for she began to be sensible of the decrease of her finances, and to experience the solicitude and pleas­ing cares of maternal tenderness; and to prepare for the reception of a little stranger, she had nearly ex­hausted the whole of the money Hamden had given her at parting.

It cannot be supposed that the mind of Hamden was in a much easier state than that of our heroine; but as he was now on a party of pleasure with his un­cle, lady Anne and lady Lucy, making excursions [Page 310] from one part of Scotland to another, and staying but a few days in each place, he reconciled himself to not hearing from his wife, under the idea that her letters might not follow him as he directed, and that he should get them all together when he returned to Glasgow. But when he returned, and found not a single letter waiting for him, he felt the utmost impatience, and would have set off immediately for London, but that his aunt was attacked with an alarming fever, and to leave her at such a period, would be the height of in­gratitude. She lingered long, and even when pro­nounced out of danger, still hovered as it were on the brink of the grave for many weeks, and at length change of climate was ordered as the only chance of perfect restoration.

Hamden, whose mind was now tortured almost be­yond sufferance, finding that he should be obliged to attend his aunt to Lisbon, whilst preparations were making for the voyage, dispatched his confidential ser­vant to London, to make inquiries for and bear remit­tances to our heroine. Though this man may justly be termed confidential, yet so fearful had Hamden been of having his marriage known, that even he was not entrusted with the secret, and Rachel was humil­iated even in the eyes of her husband's servant. But her manners were such as had ever secured respect from James, and the honest fellow, often when he thought of her situation, pitied her, and blamed his master.

Nearly seven months had now elapsed since the mar­riage of our heroine, above five of which she had been separated from her husband, and half of that period had passed in the continual distress of alternate expect­ation and disappointment.

"I have been deceived," she would say, whilst tears of anguish stole down her cheeks; "Hamden no long­er loves, no longer thinks of me, and, forsaken of him, who is there in this vast universe, (for Heaven alone can tell whether my dear brother is in existence) who then is there that cares for the unhappy Rachel? And forlorn, forsaken, wretched as I am, I shall give life to [Page 311] a helpless innocent, whose father will perhaps blush to own him."

Rachel's days were joyless, and the tear of anguish fell nightly on her pillow. The rose no longer bloom­ed on her cheeks, nor did the animated beam of health and internal peace dance in her expressive eyes; pale, languid, heart-broken, she suffered in silence; for to whom could she complain?

Mrs. Varnice had exposed to her, her true charac­ter, and Rachel would not hold communication with a woman she despised. She nursed her grief in soli­tude. If she endeavoured to amuse the heavy hour, by her pencil or music, every flower she drew was moistened by her tears, and the chords of the instru­ment reverberated but the strains of melancholy.

It was a fine morning in the beginning of March, that, still considering it a duty to use every method to preserve health, (though life was no longer valuable) Rachel walked to the green park. It was an early hour; she did not fear being met by any one who knew her; there were but few by whom she would be recognized, and those few seldom visited the park except on a Sunday evening, to see and be seen. As with slow step she paced along the margin of Rosa­mond's Pond, she was startled by a voice which sud­denly exclaimed, "Heavens and earth! Miss Dud­ley!" She raised her eyes, and beheld Archibald Oliver. A sudden emotion, something like shame, rushed upon her heart; she just articulated his name, extended her hand towards him, and, tottering to a seat that was near, she sunk on it almost fainting.

"Good God! my dear Miss Dudley, to what am I to attribute these emotions?"

"My name is Dacres, Sir," said Rachel; but her voice faltered, and the carnation visited her cheeks as she remembered her very apparent situation.

"You are married then?"

"Yes."

"May you be happy, happy as you deserve. But why thus alone? it is not surely proper. Where is Mr. Dacres?"

[Page 312] The former intimacy that had subsisted between Ol­iver and our heroine could alone have excused these abrupt interrogations; but Rachel had ever consider­ed him as a brother, and new ties, new affections, had made him behold her now only in the endearing light of a sister.

"My husband is in Scotland," said Rachel, "whith­er he was called by business of consequence; but come (continued she, forcing a smile) if you are disen­gaged, walk home with me, and I will tell you all you wish to know, and in return be very inquisitive con­cerning your happiness."

Then, with that innocent freedom that gave a charm to all her actions, she passed her hand through his arm, and they pursued their way to her lodgings, engaged in such interesting chat, that they had reached the door before either imagined they were half way.

During their walk, Rachel told as much of her own story as could be done without infringing the vow she had voluntarily made to Auberry never to divulge his real name and family till authorized by him; and in return, she learnt that Oliver had experienced a very tolerable share of happiness in his matrimonial con­nexions, that his wife was then in town, and had just made him a father. Of Jessy he could give her no information, and since our heroine's marriage, that young lady had declined the correspondence of Rachel, alleging, as she no longer shared her confidence, she would not intrude her letters where she must suppose them unwelcome. This had at the time given Rachel much pain; but as Hamden would not allow her to explain her situation to her friend, she was forced to relinquish a correspondence so dear to her heart, and with it all intercourse with the only woman she had ever known whom she thought really deserved the name of friend.

Oliver could not on that morning set above half an hour with our heroine; but on the ensuing day he call­ed, and drank tea with her. After this, scarce a day passed but he inquired after her health. He saw there was something of mystery enveloped her; he saw she [Page 313] was not happy; and though his knowledge of her heart, understanding and principles made him reject the idea whenever it intruded itself, he sometimes al­most feared she had been imprudent.

To the afflicted heart, the voice of friendship is a soothing cordial. Rachel had not heard its adulat­ing sound for several months previous to her meeting with Oliver. She dreamt not of impropriety, and, unconscious of evil, dreaded not censure. His visits were always welcome, and the day passed drearily in which she saw him not.

It has been already remarked, that the greatest and almost only fault of our heroine was a too great open­ness of disposition, in regard to her own circumstances or business; she never thought of concealment, and nothing but the most unbounded affection for Auberry could have prompted her to enter into engagements which would involve her conduct in apparent mystery, and oblige her to wear for a while the veil of conceal­ment. To Oliver, therefore, only concealing his real name and family, she was explicit in regard to her fears for the health and life of her husband; she also, without hesitation, mentioned the embarrassed state of her finances. Oliver offered her money; but, though she sought consolation from the soothings of friend­ship, her spirit rose above pecuniary obligation. She was grateful for the offer, but firm in her refusal to avail herself of it.

On the evening when this explanation took place, Oliver had supped with Rachel, and the hoarse voice of the watchmen proclaiming half past eleven o'clock, was the first thing that reminded them it was time to break off their interesting conversation. They had talked of Reuben, of Jessy, and the doubtful fate of those dear relatives had drawn tears from both their eyes.

"I must leave you, Mrs. Dacres," said he, rising and taking his hat.

Rachel rang the bell; but no one answering, she took one of the candles from the table, and descended the stairs to light him out.

[Page 314] "Good night, my dear Madam," said he; "do not come to the door, you will take cold."

"Good night, Mr. Oliver," said Rachel; and as he pulled the door after him, she turned the key, put the chain across, and turned to re-ascend the stairs, when, to her surprise, the parlour door opened, and Mrs. Varnice appeared.

"Bless me," said Rachel, "I thought you were all in bed."

"Oh! I dare say you did, and hoped it too."

"Hoped, Madam! I neither hoped, nor cared; on­ly I rang the bell for Lettuce to light Mr. Oliver out, and as she did not answer it—"

"I would not let her answer it; and let me tell you, Mrs. Dacres, (if that is your name) I think your conduct very unwarrantable; and if you must have gentlemen visiting you in your husband's absence, and staying till twelve or one o'clock, you must get an­other lodging; for I will have no such goings on in my house. Mr. Dacres, (as you call him) if he is your husband, will have no great reason to be pleased with your conduct; and if he is not, why, my house is a house of good repute, and the sooner you quit it the better."

Petrified with astonishment, Rachel could not an­swer for the space of a minute; at length, resentment conquering her sensibility, she replied:

"Had I supposed you entertained such humiliating ideas of me, Madam, I would not so long have re­mained an inmate in your habitation; but, painful as it is to me, I shall be necessitated to stay some little time longer till I can discharge my account with you. I shall not leave a house whilst I am indebted to the mistress of it."

"No, I'll take care of that," said Mrs. Varnice, with a malicious grin; "I shall hardly let you go in my debt when I can detain any valuable property to the amount. But I shall say no more to-night, to-mor­row you must look out for another place, and pay me how you can, for paid I will be, or you must take the consequence, and so good-night."

[Page 315] Rachel would have said good-night, but the words stuck in her throat; she slightly inclined her head, and passing hastily up stairs, sunk almost fainting on the nearest seat. Lettuce, who had been tutored by Mrs. Varnice, followed her up, pretended to blame her cousin, and take the part of our heroine.

"I will not stay in the house," said Rachel, "but how to raise money to pay her."

"Dear! that would be no difficult matter," said Lettuce, "so many pretty trinkets as you have! Those bracelets now—"

Rachel looked on them and sighed.

"I cannot part with them," said she, "they were the first present I received from my husband."

Well, but you have such a vast number of pretty things, your watch and your etwee!—"

This conversation let our heroine into a secret with which she was before entirely unacquainted—that she could raise a sum of money on these baubles without entirely parting with them; and she went to bed with a full determination to quit the mansion where she had been so much insulted, the ensuing morning. It may well be supposed she slept but little; short mo­ments of forgetfulness, and those interrupted by hor­rid visions, were all she could obtain.

At the dawn she arose, and so earnestly did she set about a removal, that by twelve o'clock, she had paid the exorbitant demands of Mrs. Varnice, and was seated in her new lodgings; though to accomplish this point she had disposed of almost every thing of val­ue she possessed, not excepting the bracelets, for which she had expressed so much regard.

Two days after this removal, James arrived, com­missioned by his master to make inquiry after our he­roine. The tale told by the arch-fiend, Mrs. Varnice, filled his honest heart with horror.

"Receive the visits of gentlemen, obliged to leave the lodgings in which his master had placed her, and go into others, on account of keeping bad hours, and other disorderly behaviour. Good Sirs," said James, I can hardly believe it; she was so good, so modest, [Page 316] so mild. It made one's heart glad to look at her; and to hear her talk, would a made an old man young again. Body o' me! there must a been some witchcraft used to make her change so all of a sudden."

But to all James's inquiries of where she was re­moved to, they pleaded ignorance; and he being restrict­ed in the time allowed him to make the journey, could not stay so long as he wished to make inquiries in the neighbourhood. With a heavy heart, he set forward on his return to his master; but near Berwick, the carriage was overset in which he was travelling, and his right arm broken.

Hamden, agonized almost to distraction by his long absence, the cause of which he was not acquainted with, (as a fever and delirium, which immediately succeeded the accident, prevented James from taking any method to let his master know his situation) was obliged to embark with his aunt, without receiving the least intelligence of the fate of Rachel.

'She has forgotten me, she repents her union with me.' he would say, 'and seeks for an opportunity to break those engagements which I have hesitated to announce to the world.'

In these moments he would be ready to reveal all to his aunt; but the fear that Rachel no longer loved him, or perhaps was no longer worthy of his affection for her, always withheld him; and the voyage to Lis­bon, though in itself extremely pleasant, seemed to the unhappy Hamden to teem only with vexation, and when landed, and the first bustle of seeking a lodging, &c. was over, he walked through the streets like a dis­contented shade; indeed, it was but the shadow of Hamden Auberry, for his better part was flown to the shores of Albion, where it hovered round the mansion in which he imagined still dwelt the object of his dear­est affection.

CHAP. XV.
Sorrows of the Heart—

IN the mean time, the afflictions of our heroine dai­ly increased. Oliver had left London; she was without friends and without money, and to increase the sorrows of her heart, she became the mother of a fine boy about the middle of June. Before her con­finement, she entrusted her hostess with the real state of her finances, and to retrench her expenses, had ta­ken a room on the second story, where she suffered in silence all the miseries of disappointed love, added to the poignant sting of poverty. Once she wrote to Mrs. Auberry; had she addressed the letter to Dr. Lenient, she had done right. But Mrs. Auberry had received a letter from Mrs. Webster, which had prej­udiced her against Rachel; she therefore did not men­tion to her brother that she had heard from her, and threw the letter into a draw, without deigning to give our distressed heroine the comfort of one line in answer.

During her confinement, she was told by the wom­an who attended her, that a very find lady had taken the range of apartments on the first floor, which consisted of a dining-room, drawing-room, and bed-chamber; that she had taken them only for a few weeks, whilst her own house was finished and properly furnished. "She is a charming lady," said the talk­ative old woman, "and keeps her chariot, her own maid and footman."

All this intelligence appeared of so little conse­quence to our heroine, that she scarcely heard a sylla­ble of the whole harangue; but the next day, as she was passing from the bed to the sofa at the other end of the room, she cast her eyes casually out of the win­dow; an elegant chariot drew up to the door, and to her utter astonishment she saw Mrs. Courtney descend from it.

Lost in amazement, she sat down; that her eyes had not deceived her, she was certain. To what could [Page 318] she attribute this sudden elevation of fortune? This was a riddle she had not power to unravel; but what­ever was the cause, she rejoiced at the effect, and, for­getting the coldness she had experienced from La Va­rone immediately after her marriage with Lieutenant Courtney, conscious only of a pleasurable sensation, to find a person with whom she had formerly lived in habits of intimacy so near her, she wrote with a pen­cil on a slip of paper,

"Dear Mrs. Courtney, your friend Rachel is again an inmate of the mansion you inhabit, and flatters her­self you will give her the pleasure of your company for half an hour."

This billet she sent by the nurse, and in a few mo­ments Mrs. Courtney entered the apartment. The attendant withdrawn, and a few common-place inqui­ries past,

"You cannot think, my dear Madam," said our heroine, "what real pleasure it gives me to find Mr. Courtney's prospects so much amended, since your marriage."

"Yes, he is made a Captain; besides, a particular friend of mine, whom I had not seen for many years, has settled on me a very handsome income, which makes me quite independent."

"How fortunate!" said Rachel in the simplicity of her heart. "And where is Captain Courtney?"

"Gone to India."

"Is either of your sisters, or your mother-in-law in town with you?"

"Oh dear no."

"They are well, I hope?"

"Yes, quite well; that is, I believe so, for I have heard nothing to the contrary, but I have not seen them lately."

"No?"

"No, not for these three months past. But come, tell me, my demure friend, what changes have taken place in your fate since we parted."

With a look of mingled confusion and candour, in the simple language of truth did Rachel explain to [Page 319] Mrs. Courtney every circumstance of her marriage and consequent uneasiness, still concealing the real name of her husband.

She spoke to a woman whose heart was impure, and who scrupled not to judge of others by herself. Besides, Mrs. Courtney had been to visit Mrs. Web­ster, and had learnt from her the manner of our hero­ine's departure from her house, and with whom it was supposed she resided. She laughed at the affliction Rachel appeared to experience from her husband's neglect, called her agony of heart ideal misery, told her the honey moon could not last forever, bid her keep up her spirits, and, promising to see her again in the evening, left her. Accordingly, in the evening she again visited her.

"I have been thinking, Mrs. Dacres," said she with a half smile, and looking sidelong from under her dark eyelashes, "that change of scene and air would be of service to you. I am going into Northumberland, to visit our old acquaintance, Mrs. Spriggins; what say you to a jaunt? You will travel at your ease with me in the chariot, Pelham will help take care of the child, and I dare say the journey will not be the less agreea­ble because it will take you near the borders of Scot­land."

A tinge of carnation passed over the languid cheek of Rachel, as she said she should like such an excur­sion, but it was not in her power to take it.

"What, for want of money, I suppose? Pshaw! nonsense! you cannot be wholly destitute; a trifle will serve, and you surely wish to be nearer the Major than you are at present."

Rachel's heart beat quick, as she attempted to re­ply. Mrs. Courtney put her hand before her mouth,

"Come don't deny it; I have found out your se­cret, but I won't betray you. Perhaps, when you are within a day's journey, he may be able to visit you. London is at a vast distance from the banks of the Clyde."

There is nothing more difficult to a person of nat­ural veracity than to be under the necessity of assert­ing [Page 320] a falsehood. Rachel felt the impossibility of do­ing it, and remained silent. In short, her innocence, her credulity, her ardent wish to be near her husband prevailed, and she consented to accompany Mrs. Court­ney into Northumberland. But, however liable to err from the frankness and candour of her temper. Rachel had still that pride of soul which could not condescend to tell Mrs. Courtney that three guineas, and a few clothes, constituted the whole of her worldly possessions. Part of those clothes, with some very fine laces, were disposed of to pay the nurse and other contingent ex­penses; and with a mere trifle in her purse, our hero­ine departed with her unworthy associate from London.

Mrs. Courtney was deceived when she invited Ra­chel to take this journey with her; but it was the de­pravity of her own heart had deceived her, and before she reached Northumberland, she discovered that the mind of our heroine was still uncontaminated, still pure, and shrunk from vice with disgust, turned from immorality with abhorrence.

On their arrival at Mr. Spriggins's, Mrs. Courtney was received with a profusion of compliments, whilst Rachel was scarcely noticed. She was shown to an upper apartment, and, weary as she was with the jour­ney, suffered to undress the child herself, and put him to bed. She laid him on the pillow of repose, and, kneeling beside the bed, poured forth her afflicted soul to her Maker. Her cheek rested on the same pillow with that of her infant, and her tears flowed without restraint. She felt that the pretended friendship of Mrs. Courtney was only ostentation; she feared she had more to suffer than she should be able to support. She prayed for resignation to the will of Heaven, and her tears continued to flow, not from impatience, they were the effusions of an afflicted spirit.

After a few weeks residence in the family of Mrs. Spriggins, Rachel perceived that not even a shadow of respect and attention towards herself remained in the manners of the whole family. At meals, she was suf­fered to take the lowest seat at the table, where she was sometimes so totally overlooked, as not to be helped [Page 321] till every one else had begun their dinner; and then she was insulted by an affectation of friendly familiar­ity, such as, "Bless me, Mrs. Dacres, I had forgot you; but why don't you speak? you are at home you know."

At these moments, Rachel's heart would swell to her eyes, and in struggling to suppress her tears, the food she attempted to swallow seemed almost to choak her.

Mrs. Courtney disagreed with and discharged her woman, and the next day requested our heroine to rise from her seat, and fetch her work from the other end of the room. Had Rachel been independent, she would without hesitation have complied with the re­quest; but Rachel was poor, and she felt the request an insult.

"I am not qualified to supply the place of your servant, Madam," said she haughtily.

"Why I do not suppose you are," said Mrs. Court­ney, yawning indolently; "but indeed, child, circum­stanced as you are, I do not know what you could do better than endeavour to get a place; though to be sure your child is an objection."

The expressive eyes of our heroine flashed indigna­tion, at the insolent manner and proposal of her osten­tatious friend; but she disdained to answer. 'I am not yet fallen quite so low as that," thought she, and rose to quit the apartment.

"I really am sorry for you, child," continued Mrs. Courtney, detaining her, "but painful as it is for a person who is so much interested for your welfare as I am to speak disagreeable truths, I really must tell you, that the haughty airs you give yourself are very un­becoming; you must learn humility."

"I hope I shall in time," said Rachel indignantly, "If I do not, I shall profit but little by your endeav­ours."

"Come, come, you misunderstand me; if you do not incline to do something for a livelihood, I really think it would be adviseable for you to go on to Scot­land to your husband. I expect a friend of mine here [Page 322] in a few days, with whom I am going to make a tour through the northern counties; if you choose to go with me in quality of a companion, and take the care of my clothes, assist me to dress and undress, I will pay you twenty guineas a year; but then you must leave your child here at nurse."

"No, Mrs. Courtney," said Rachel, "if I am obliged to eat the the bread of servitude, I will earn it of stran­gers, not of one who once thought herself honoured in being called the friend of Rachel Dudley. I will be the humble companion (or rather a slave on which ill humour may be lavished with impunity) to no one. I would gladly embrace your first proposal of seeking my husband, but you know I have not the means of prosecuting the journey, even by the cheapest convey­ance."

"Heavens and earth!" replied Mrs. Courtney, with a look of well-affected surprise, "is it possible you can have come into this strange place without any money? And what do you mean to do, child?"

"To be no longer troublesome to you, Madam," said Rachel. "I thank you, Madam," continued she, "for the shelter your roof has so long afforded me," turning to Mrs. Spriggins, who had sat a silent and insensible spectatress of the scene, "but will no longer intrude; but this very night remove to a habitation better suited to my present humble condition."

She then hastily left the room. On the stairs she met Belle Webster.

"What is the matter, Mrs. Dacres?" said she; for the tears, which a laudable pride had restrained whilst she was in the presence of her insolent hostess and her companion, wounded sensibility forced in a torrent from her eyes the moment she had shut the door. "What is the matter?" said Belle.

"Nothing," replied our heroine, "only I have stayed here too long."

"Dear! I'm afraid sister has been vexing you; well, don't mind her, you know she never was very good natured."

[Page 232] "I do not mind either her or her associate," said Rachel; "but I wish to release them from an unwel­come intruder, and shall leave the house immediately. Do me the favour, Miss Webster, to request one of the servants may take my trunk to the inn."

"Dearee me! I hope you are not in earnest?"

"In very earnest, I assure you."

"Well, now I'm quite sorry."

"I thank you, Miss Webster. Will you ask the favour I request?"

"Oh! to be sure I will; but you won't go before tea?"

"Before another hour," said Rachel firmly.

Belle was not overburthened with understanding: she did not perfectly comprehend the delicacy of our heroine's feelings, nor did she give herself the trouble to think much about it; so wishing her health, she de­scended the stairs, and sent up a boy to take her trunk. It was between four and five o'clock in the afternoon, when Rachel, taking her dear boy in her arms, and followed by the lad with her parcels, left the house of Mr. Spriggins, and went to seek a lodging in a town, to almost every inhabitant of which she was a perfect stranger. She knew that the public inns afforded lodgings to travellers, and to one of the most reputable of these she directed her steps. Her purse was but slen­derly provided, but she augmented her little store by the sale of a gold locket, the last thing of value which she possessed, and from which she took a lock of plaited hair; for it was the hair of Hamden Auberry, and to her a thousand times more precious than the metal in which it had been enshrined.

On the following morning, she inquired after a pri­vate lodging, and was recommended by the woman who kept the inn, to a mean apartment in one of the most unfrequented streets in the town. To this hum­ble asylum she retired, and felt a degree of melan­choly pleasure that she could indulge her tears with­out restraint.

It may occasion some degree of surprise, that Sprig­gins, who had formerly been an admirer of our hero­ine, [Page 324] would suffer her to leave his house without either friends or money; but the heart by nature contracted, and whose chief object has been self, is sensibly affect­ed by an appearance of slight; it can never either for­get or forgive it; and such a heart languidly moved in the bosom of Spriggins.

But those visitors, who had seen Rachel in the fam­ily, and now missed her, felt an awakened curiosity to know what was become of her. To these interroga­tories had the Mesdames Spriggins and Courtney sim­ply answered, that she was gone home; curiosity would have died, but they felt they had done wrong in driv­ing her, poor and unprotected as she was, from their house; and in palliation of so inhuman an action, threw aspersions on her character. Not content with depriving her of the protection of their own roof, they prevented her obtaining that protection from any oth­er, whose inmates were in the smallest degree respect­able.

That the human heart is liable to error, and that on the eternal record our crimes and follies are en­rolled, and will one day appear in dreadful judgment against us, is a solemn truth, which no person of com­mon sense will attempt to deny; yet we are led to hope, that the tear of unfeigned penitence will blot those offences out. But the crime of slander is of so soul a die, its sable hue stains the sacred page, and on­ly mercy infinite can purify it. Oh thou Giver of life, guard, I beseech thee, my heart from ingratitude, and my lips from slander; and for the rest, thy will be done.

During the period of these vicissitudes, Rachel had never omitted writing every week to her husband, on­ly at the time when the birth of her son prevented her. These letters, written after she left the house of Mrs. Varnice, all lay at the place where he had desired them to be addressed; and when James was sufficient­ly recovered to follow his master, he made them into a parcel, and took them with him.

But words are inadequate to describe the feelings of Hamden, when he by turns listened to the account [Page 235] which James gave him, and read the pathetic letters of his wife; sometimes love, sometimes resentment predominated. But when he read that he was a fath­er, and that his once loved Rachel, in that season of sickness, was without the means to purchase the neces­sary accommodations and comforts to render the situ­ation in some measure supportable, he determined to hazard every thing, own his marriage, and fly to her relief and comfort.

Hamden was ever impetuous; he resolved one mo­ment, and the next put the resolve in execution. La­dy Anne heard him with more calmness than he had expected; but that apparent calm was deceitful; when he had finished, she upbraided him with his du­plicity, imprecated misery on both himself and his wife, and with a determined air renounced him forever. In vain was every endeavour to soften her resentment, and Hamden embarked for England, without the smallest hope of being reinstated in her affection, or of ever being the better for her fortune.

Mortified pride, love and jealousy corroded in his bosom during his short voyage; and on his arrival in London, he repaired immediately to the house of Mrs. Varnice; for though Rachel had mentioned her re­moval, yet she had forgot to mention the name of the street to which she had removed; and though she was displeased with Mrs. Varnice, yet, as she did not know the extent of that woman's vileness, she spoke of her no farther than to say she had reason to think both Hamden and herself had been mistaken in her char­acter. This was not sufficient to deter Hamden from going to her house, especially as he conceived it the only probable means of finding Rachel. But this visit did not serve to conciliate his affection, or awaken returning tenderness. Mrs. Varnice told her own tale. Our poor heroine was represented as imprudent, if not guilty, in regard to Oliver; extravagant and thought­less, in her expenses.

"Why indeed," said Auberry, "I thought I left her sufficient to defray every expense till my return; [Page 326] and when I found my stay protracted beyond my ex­pectations, I forwarded her a hundred pounds."

"Well, who could have thought it?" said Mrs. Varnice; "before she left me, she to my certain knowledge, raised money on her watch, rings, brace­lets."

"Bracelets?" said Hamden.

"Oh yes! Lettuce pledged them for her."

"Cruel, unkind Rachel!"

"Dear! don't let it distress you so; I suppose her young friend Oliver helped her off with some of the money."

"Damn him!" said Hamden. "Oh! Rachel, Rachel, why have you used me thus? Oh! Mrs. Varnice, if you knew how I loved her, how I adored her! how at this moment her fascinating image twines around every chord, every fibre of my heart! you would wonder how she could be so ungrateful, so vile, so barbarous."

Alas! weak, credulous Auberry, had you instead of listening to this woman's infamous aspersions, treat­ed them with scorn, and boldly asserted the innocence of your wife, and your full confidence in her truth and honour, her accuser, conscious of her own guilt and duplicity, would have retired intimidated within herself, and shrunk from a scrutiny, from whence she must have been assured her own falsehood would stand detected. But who will espouse the cause of an in­jured wife, when he who has solemnly sworn to pro­tect her from all evil, listens with avidity to the voice that defames her, and joins with her worst enemies to precipitate her into the abyss of ignominy.

From the house of Mrs. Varnice, Hamden went to the lodging she had last occupied, and there, from a conversation with the woman of the house, learnt the route Rachel had taken, and with whom; but un­fortunately, he also learnt that she had been visited almost daily by Oliver, during the period of his stay in London. Tortured almost to madness, he resolved to follow her, upbraid her with her perfidy and cruelty, [Page 327] oblige her to relinquish the care of the child to him, and take an everlasting leave of her.

In the mean time, our heroine was drinking very deeply of the cup of affliction; poverty was her con­stant companion. The trifle she possessed, at the time she left the house of Spriggins, was soon expended, and by degrees the remains of her wardrobe dwindled away, till two cotton gowns, with a change of linen, were the whole of her earthly possessions. She had inquired for work, but could get none. The dearth of amusement in a country-town makes every trifle, if wearing the appearance of novelty, become of con­sequence; and what spreads faster than a tale of scan­dal? The circumstance of our heroine's coming from London to Mr. Spriggins, and quitting, the house so abruptly, had been talked over in almost every family in the place, told a hundred different ways, and each narrator adding or altering some circumstance, poor Rachel was looked upon, even by the woman of whom she rented her small apartment, as a suspicious char­acter; and had she been inclined to partake the pleas­ures of society, she would have found the doors of al­most every class of people shut against her. But she had still the consolation of an innocent heart, and a firm faith and reliance on an omniscient Deity, who would not suffer her eventually to perish. She sub­mitted to her afflictions as to the wise dispensations of his providence, and prayed daily for a more humble, more unrepining spirit. She was entirely ignorant also, that any stigma had been thrown on her repu­tation, and conscious of not deserving, she feared not the censures of a world, which, though she would not wilfully offend, she was but little solicitous to please.

The neglect of Auberry sunk the deepest into her heart, when her thoughts reverted to the few happy weeks past in his society immediately after their mar­riage. The tear of bitter remembrance would gush from her eyes, and as she pressed her infant to her heart, it bled at every vein, that he, as well as her­self, should be so totally abandoned by his father.

[Page 328] It was one evening in August, when Rachel, hav­ing lulled her darling to sleep, the twilight still giving sufficient light, took her tablets from her pocket, and, as she leaned over a window she had just opened to gaze at the serenity of an evening, that seemed to give pleasure to the whole creation but her forlorn, unhap­py self, wrote with her pencil the following lines:

When she had finished, the full sense of her own de­plorable situation rushed upon her mind; she rested her head upon her hand, and, unable to weep, a kind of stupor pervaded all her senses; and so entirely ab­sorbed [Page 329] was she in her own agonizing reflections, that she was as perfectly lost to every surrounding object as if she had been no longer in existence. From this reverie she was aroused by the cry of her child, and in her haste to let down the window, she dropped her tablets. It was an awkward circumstance; for the window looked into a garden belonging to a genteel house that was in another street. It was therefore impossible to regain them that night; but she resolved to go early the ensuing morning to inquire for them; for they had formerly belonged to her mother, and were on that account highly valued by Rachel.

Accordingly, the next morning, as soon as she im­agined she could gain admittance, she took her child in her arms, and walked round to the front of the house. The door was opened by a decent young woman, and Rachel was beginning to speak, when, turning her eyes toward a parlour, the door of which stood partly open, she saw Archibald Oliver, dressed in deep mourning, sitting at a breakfast table, and holding the identical tablets she came to inquire for, in his hand. She was surprised—she was silent.

"Did you wish to see my mistress, Ma'am?" said the young woman.

"Yes!" said Rachel, hardly conscious that she had answered at all.

There was something in the air and manner of our heroine, that, had she been clothed in the meanest ap­parel, would still have commanded respect. The young woman passed before her, and courtesying as she push­ed open the parlour door, desired her to walk in, and she would call her mistress immediately. At the sound of approaching steps, Oliver raised his eyes.

"Good God! Mrs. Dacres!" exclaimed he.

Rachel was fluttered; she could not speak. A lan­guid smile illumined her pallid countenance as she ex­tended her hand towards him. But the expressive tear that burst from its glistering orbit, contradicted the appearance of tranquillity the smile was meant to convey.

[Page 330] "How is it, Mr. Oliver," said she, when she could command her voice, "that I see you here?"

"A very unhappy circumstance brought me and still detains me here," he replied. Rachel glanced her eye over his fable dress. Jessy darted into her mind.

"Your sister!" said she eagerly.

"Is well," interrupted he, at once comprehending her fears, at least I have no reason to think to the contrary; but Mrs. Oliver is no more."

His voice faltered; Rachel was silent; she knew the folly and impertinence of common-place consola­tion. Oliver recovered himself, and having learnt from our heroine every occurrence that had taken place since he saw her in London, he in return in­formed her, that friendship for a very particular ac­quaintance of her's had brought him to that place—

"An acquaintance of mine?" said Rachel.

"Yes, Lieutenant Courtney."

"Courtney! You astonish me; I thought he was gone to India."

"He had an appointment of that kind, which was procured him by lord M—; but some discoveries which he made after he had even joined his ship, and had received sailing orders, compelled him to quit his appointment, throw up his commission, and follow his unprincipled wife to this place. Lord M. has a seat at Alnwick, which is only a short ride from hence, and Courtney having obtained sufficient testimony of her depravity and his own dishonour, came to me, and asked my advice in what manner he should pro­ceed. See your wife, said I, and remonstrate with her. I will go with you. He seemed inclined to fol­low my advice, and we rode together toward this place. When we had proceeded a few miles, we saw a chariot and four driving furiously along; the live­ries bespoke it the equipage of lord M. Courtney no sooner saw it, than, clapping spurs to his horse, he gal­lopped from me, and before I could get up with him, had stopped the carriage in which was Mrs. Court­ney [Page 331] and his Lordship. The irritated, impetuous hus­band had dragged the ignoble peer from the carriage, and, drawing a case of pistols, presented him one, whilst with the other he prepared to defend himself, when one of the footmen struck him across the head with the end of a whip, and he fell lifeless to the ground. Lord M. sprang into his carriage again and drove off, leaving me with my servant to take what care we could of poor Courtney. We were nearer this place than we were to Alnwick, and placing him on the horse before John, with great difficulty we got him here. This house is kept by a woman who nurs­ed my wife; and as I thought he would be quieter and better attended here than in a public inn, I had him brought hither. The wound on his head is deep, but the surgeon does not think him in so much dan­ger from the effect of that as from the violent pertur­bation of his mind.

Rachel listened with astonishment to this detail, and was so entirely absorbed in reflection on the strange incidents Oliver related, that when the mistress of the house entered, and requested to know what her com­mands were, she had totally forgotten the circum­stance that had brought her to the house. She hesi­tated blushed; at length, casting her eyes on the breakfast table, she saw the object of her inquiry; but the consciousness of her embarrassed, awkward appear­ance, so increased her confusion, that the inquiries she made for her tablets had more the appearance of sub­terfuge than truth. However, the maid having men­tioned that Mr. Oliver had picked them up in the gar­den, they were delivered to our heroine, who, having expressed a desire to see Courtney, and promised to re­turn in the afternoon for that purpose, took her leave.

Now, though Rachel did not know five persons in the neighbourhood where she dwelt, even by sight, yet she was herself [...] by every individual in it; and her embarrassed and hesitating manner, added to a knowledge of the evil reports which were circulated concerning her, [...] the woman where Oliver lodged, [Page 332] to imagine she came to visit him, or Courtney, as she seemed so perfectly acquainted with both.

In the afternoon, Rachel determined to see Court­ney. She had no idea that impropriety could be an­nexed to a visit which she conceived to be an act of duty; and when she found him so extremely ill as to need the most constant and tender attention; when she discovered that it was in her power to [...] his afflicted heart, and smooth the bed of pain, by an ex­ertion of friendly assiduity; forgetting every thing but that she had once been under obligations to him, she resolved herself to be his attendant till he should re­cover strength sufficient to enable him to return to his mother and sisters. Thus every morning she repair­ed to the chamber of the sick man, nursing him with the affection of a sister, and administering to him the consolation of a friend.

Mrs. Spriggins and her unprincipled guest were mean enough to employ their servants to inquire in the neighbourhood after our heroine, and be constant spies upon her actions. That she was often, nay, al­most continually at the house where Oliver was, and where Courtney lay sick, they were assured of; and though they knew that she constantly returned to her solitary apartment to her [...], which were scanty enough, and that she was always at home at an early hour in the evening, yet they failed not to attribute to motives the most degrading to the sex, a condúct which was the result of pure benevolence, and did honour to her heart, however it proved, that her head was not too much stored with worldly prudence and knowledge.

Things were exactly in this situation, when Ham­den Auberry arrived in search of a woman, whom, one moment, he was ready to kneel and worship, and the next, to call down everlasting wrath upon her.

It may easily be imagined, that the story told by Mrs. Spriggins, Mrs. Courtney and family did not tend to soften his heart towards her; so far from it, he poured forth a torrent of execrations, and vowed never to see her more. But when he had returned to his inn, and mused a few moments, he thought he [Page 333] would see her once more, upbraid her, and bid her an everlasting farewel; he had learnt in what quarter of the town she lodged, and at the dusk of the evening went to the house and inquired for her. She was not at home. At eight o'clock he called again; still she was not returned. Having obtained a direction to the house where he was told she spent every day, and having assured himself that was the residence of Oliver, he determined to keep watch before the door, and be himself an eye-witness of her leaving it, and at what hour. Long and wearisome was the night, and horrible were the feelings of Auberry. About twelve o'clock, he determined to leave her to her fate, and return with all speed to London; but before he had reached the inn, desire of revenge impelled him to re­turn. 'I will tear her from the arms of Oliver,' said he, 'and wreak my vengeance on both her and her paramour;' but then the memory of his child crossed his imagination, and with it the fond recollection of what the mother was when he first knew her; a flood of tenderness rushed over his soul, and he wept like an infant.

In this distracted manner did Auberry pass the night, and the dawn of day found him sitting on the steps of a door opposite to the lodgings of Oliver. He rose from the cold, damp seat, and with a heavy heart was giv­ing a last look at the house, when the door opened gently, and Rachel herself, with her child in her arms, came out.

Though during the whole night Hamden had sup­posed his wife was there, yet something like hope had sometime led him to think he might have been deceiv­ed, and she might still be innocent; but this ocular proof was beyond all doubt. He reeled against a post, staggered and fell.

Rachel saw him; but, wrapped in a coarse great coat which he had borrowed at the inn, with his hat slapped, it was impossible, by the faint glimmer of the twilight, she should know him; she imagined it to be an inebriated person, just endeavouring to return home; and fearful, should she be observed by him at that early hour, that he might in some respect or other [Page 334] be rude to her, she quickened her steps, and before Auberry was sufficiently recovered to speak or rise from the ground, she was out of sight, and in a few moments reached her own habitation. A little girl, who was up on some particular occasion, let her in, and she threw herself on the bed, in hopes to obtain some repose, while Auberry returned to the inn, pen­ned a hasty letter to her, which he left, with orders that it should be sent by eight o'clock in the morning. He then ordered a chaise and four, and proceeded with all the rapidity of such a conveyance to London, sel­dom stopping even for refreshment, as though he thought, by the velocity of the movement, to leave his cares behind, or lose the remembrance of them, by attending to the various objects that passed in quick succession before him.

In the mean time, Rachel had enjoyed about two hours sleep, and felt herself greatly refreshed; for the fatigue and anxiety of the night had exhausted both her spirits and strength. She had attended as usual the day before at the bedside of Courtney; towards, noon he had arisen, and was removed for the benefit of the air into an adjoining apartment, and placed in an easy chair near the window. The noise of horses drew his attention towards the street. He looked out, and saw his wife, accompanied by lord M. on horse­back, attended by two servants in rich liveries. She raised her eyes, saw the emaciated figure of her hus­band, pointed him out to her dissolute companion, and both burst into a loud laugh. Courtney was unequal to the shock; he attempted to speak, but his voice failed him; he gasped, groaned, and fell to the floor. Alarming faintings succeeded each other, and he was reduced to such a state of weakness, that the medical gentleman who attended him imagined it al­most impossible that he should live through the night. Was it possible for Rachel in such a situation to leave him? No! She had not been treated with sufficient respect by the mistress of the house where she lodged, to make her think it necessary to send any message to her concerning her staying out, or her reasons for so doing.

[Page 335] Towards morning, Courtney fell into a quiet sleep, and Oliver entreated Rachel to retire, and endeavour to take some repose. Acting from motives the most pure and even commendable, without a thought or wish in the smallest title derogatory to virtue, Rachel had no apprehension of incurring censure from any. How surprised was she then, on awaking in the morn­ing, to read the following note, which was brought to her by the little girl who had let her in.

"Misstress Dakirs, after the adventer of last nite, you cant suppos I will suffer you to stay any longer in my ouse, wich is a onest ouse; and furdermore, I does not expect you to go without paying me every fardin of what you oe [...]me. You must go meditly, as I does not want women of your sort in my ouse no longer."

Rachel was really so totally unconscious of evil, that she was at a loss to think what the woman meant by "the adventure of last night;" but going to her to inquire, was so overwhelmed with abuse, that, weeping, trembling, almost fainting, she retreated from the house leaving every thing behind her to satisfy the ra­pacity of her inhuman landlady.

As she was going out of the door, she met the porter with her husband's letter. She took it, broke the seal, and read that he had been there, that he had seen her, that he believed her lost to virtue, and that he abandoned her forever. Overcome by sensations the most agonizing, she sat down on the steps of the door. The letter remained open in her hand; her eyes were riveted to it, and only that she breathed, she might have been taken for a statue of fixed and mute despair. How long she would have remained in this situation is uncertain, or whether, sinking into insensibility, she would not have lost all consciousness of her misery, had not the woman with the diabolical malice of a fiend opened the door, and bade her begone from the step. Aroused from her lethargy of grief, she arose, folded her child to her bosom, and bowing her head in meek resignation, the sorrows of her heart found vent at her eyes, and she obeyed in silence.

[Page 336] And what was there, in this moment of anguish, to support the sinking spirits of our afflicted heroine? Conscious innocence! And whilst humbled to the very dust, she could look up with hope and confidence to Him who is a rock of defence to the injured, a sure help to those who trust in him.

Wounded pride would have first impelled her to hide herself from Oliver, as she discovered, from the unconnected scrawl left by Auberry, that it was of him he was jealous, and had it been only for herself that she was interested, she would most likely have suf­fered every degree of misery before she would have asked relief of any one; but her child, the son of Au­berry, the lawful heir to large possessions, for his sake she was resolved to stifle her feelings, and endeavour to convince his cruel father that he had injured her in the most unwarrantable manner.

She therefore went immediately to his lodgings, and calming her perturbed spirits as much as she possibly could, thus addressed him:—"Mr. Oliver, I am necessitated to request the loan of a few guineas, at the same time that I tell you it is more than prob­able I may never be able to repay you. Something has taken place this morning, which obliges me in fu­ture to forbear seeing you, or giving any farther at­tendance on our unfortunate friend."

"Good heavens!" said Oliver, struck with her pale countenance, swollen eyes and evident agitation; "what can be the matter? Wherever you are going, do no refuse me the satisfaction of knowing, that I may be able to assist, protect, comfort, be a brother to you."

"It is impossible," said she, "the world will not suffer it."

He comprehended the meaning of her words, and without reply tendered her his purse. She took five guineas from it, and then requesting to see Courtney, of whom she took a silent leave, she departed, leaving Oliver astonished and affected at her conduct. He mused a few moments, and then thinking, however rigid propriety might forbid her to visit the house he [Page 337] inhabited, or receive visits from him, yet it did not for­bid him following and discovering her retreat, where he might supply her with all the necessaries and com­forts of life. He snatched his hat, and rushed into the street; but he was too late; Rachel was no longer in sight, nor could [...] discover which way she had gone.

Our heroine walked to a poor cottage about a mile from the town, inhabited only by an old woman and her daughter. Here she agreed to board at a very low rate for a few days, and th [...] sat down to write to her husband. She endeavoured to explain circum­stances that appeared suspicious; but to think that Auberry suspected her honour, gave her such inex­pressible anguish, that she was frequently obliged to lay down her pen and weep. At length she finished, earnestly conjuring, if not for her own, yet for his child's sake, he would send her some relief, nor suffer them to expire with want, or languish out their lives in poverty and obscurity.

This letter she directed to a coffee-house in London, which she knew he frequented, and requesting an an­swer to be directed to the post-office at Newark, she left her infant in the charge of her old hostess, went herself and put her own letter in, inquiring at the same time when she might expect an answer.

When she returned to her humble home, fatigue, an­guish of heart, and the violent emotions she had ex­perienced during the day had so far overcome her, that she went to bed [...] indisposed, and after a night of restless agitation, she awoke from a short slumber so ill, as to be unable to rise.

From that time, a period of three weeks was a to­tal blank to Rachel. A fever, accompanied by a de­lirium, brought her to the verge of the grave; but the tenderness of her good old hostess and her daughter, co-operating with a naturally good constitution, and the attendance of skilful man of medicine, at length triumphed over the disorder, and she returned to life and a renewed sense of her sorrows.

The first thing she thought of was her expected letter. She dispatched the young cottager to New­ark [Page 338] to inquire for it; she returned empty handed; there was no letter there. Thus day after day passed on. The five guineas Rachel had borrowed of Oli­ver were totally expended during her illness, and no letter arriving from her husband, she was once more pennyless, but not totally friendless. The poor inhab­itants of the cottage were Christian [...]. Had she been stained with a thousand errors, they would not have thought it right to remember them when she was bow­ed to the earth by affliction. Their whole possessions were, the cottage, small garden, a cow and two spin­ning wheels; but they dried the tear from her eyes by the voice of kindness, and told her she should be wel­come to share their humble fare till returning health enabled her to join their labours for subsistence, if nothing better offered. During her illness, the old cottager had found Auberry's letter, and wishing to gain some intelligence concerning her family, had pe­rused it.

"She may be guilty," said she, "but I have no right to judge her. She is sick and afflicted; it is therefore my duty to nurse and comfort her." She then returned the letter to the pocket from whence she took it, nor even after Rachel's recovery did she suffer her to imagine, by any word, look or hint, that she had seen it.

As soon as Rachel had gathered strength sufficient to enable her to attempt it, with slow and uneven steps she proceeded to Newark, determined to make inqui­ry herself concerning a letter [...]or she thought it im­possible for Auberry to abandon her and his child to absolute want.

She went to the office, and was told no such letter was there. "Are you certain, Sir?" said she; "it must have been here some time, if it is here at all. Pray look amongst the letters that lay in the office; it is of more consequence to me than you can imag­ine. It is directed to Mrs. Dacres, to be left here till called for."

A young man hearing her repeat the name of Da­cres, turned over a parcel of letters, and presented to [Page 339] the trembling hands of our heroine the long-expected epistle from her husband.

Rachel opened it; a hundred pound bank note dropped from it! She attempted to read it, but a mist came over her eyes; she reeled, and would have fallen, but the young man caught her. He called for water, and an interior door opening, a young woman, very plainly habited, rushed out, supported and pressed to her bosom the lifeless, inanimate form, calling on her to revive by the [...] name of friend, her dear, unhappy Rachel. Life soon revisited her lips and cheeks; she opened her eyes, and found her­self in the arms of Jessy Oliver.

Leaning on the arm of this dear friend, and hardly daring to trust her senses lest it should prove an illu­sion, Rachel retired into a small, neat parlour, where she soon regained sufficient composure to peruse her letter. It was short, and the conclusion of it almost annihilated her. It was as follows.—

Rachel referred to the date of the letter; it had been written near a [...]. "Then he is gone! left me forever! and [...] me the most depraved of women," said she; and her emotions became so violent, that in her present debilitated state, Miss Oliver feared she would have fallen into fits; at any rate, she thought it necessary to take her home, and procuring a car­riage, she herself accompanied her to her lowly hab­itation. By the way she talked her into something like composure; she learnt every circumstance that had taken place since their separation.

Convinced of the purity of our heroine's heart, that her motives had been always right, though her con­duct had been sometimes directly contrary to the rigid rules of prudence, she felt all her affection for her re­vive; and taking her hand when she had finished her detail, she cried, "Well, Mrs. Auberry, (as we shall henceforth call Rachel) in return for the confidence you have reposed in me, I will tell you my story. It is a very simple one, without one romantic or extra­ordinary incident.

"When [...] London, I recollected an old school fellow I had at this place, of whose sense and discre­tion I had a very high opinion; to her I repaired, and through her means settled the method of correspond­ing with you and Archibald, also the means of receiv­ing a small yearly income, which I possessed inde­pendent of my father. I then threw aside the fine lady entirely, assumed the plain attire you see me now wear, and with it a sisplicity of manners that might be likely not to betray my real rank in life. I then procured an apartment at a farm house, that is situ­ated in a most delightful though very solitary valley, [Page 341] about three miles from hence. I purchased a few books, with materials for needle-work, and diversified my time with reading, working, and taking necessary exercise. The productions of my needle, through my friend were sent to London and sold, increasing my little income in such a manner as to afford me all the comforts of life. I heard of my brother's marriage, and of his residence so near me. I longed to see him; but was too proud to think of throwing myself on the liberality of his wife, for I knew that Archibald him­self was as poor as I was. I therefore continued my retirement and avocations. I have frequently thought of you, and from some accounts which accidentally met my ears, was led sometimes to blame but oftener to pity you.

"But should I ever return to the gay world, my young associates will, I have no doubt, be surprised that I should have eloped from my father's house changed my name, and secluded myself above a year and a half in a cottage, yet never have met with a single adventure, or made one conquest; nay, if you will believe me, the impenetrable rustics have entirely overlooked my beauty and accomplishments; and though I have appeared regularly every Sunday, when the weather permitted, at the parish church, the Squire has not once noticed me, and I have remained entirely unmolested.

"But I am weary of this dull sameness of scene, and you and I will now set out together in search of adventures. This mad brained, harum-scarum hus­band of yours, though I think he little deserves such attention from us, yet we will e'en go after him. For if we should not find him, we may perhaps find some­body else that will be glad to see us."

Rachel comprehending that Jessy meant Reuben, replied with additional pensiveness, "Alas! my dear girl, I have never heard from my brother since he left England."

"So I understand," said Jessy, still forcing a smile, while her eyes were brimfull of tears; "but I cannot repress a fond hope, which almost amounts to a belief, [Page 342] that he is still in existence, and that we shall one day meet again. As to Archibald, it will not be proper to let him know of our design till it is too late for him to overtake and accompany us; for that would over­throw my whole plan of reconcilement between you and Auberry. And should the worst come to the worst, there is still my little annuity; we will live to­gether, my dear Rachel, in humble, but contented in­dependence. What our income will not procure, in­dustry shall supply. We will study to fulfil the duties of our lowly station, and, enjoying the sweet consola­tion of an approving conscience, hold the trifling mul­titude, that is in general termed the world, in so little estimation, as neither to court its smiles or fear its cen­sures."

This was a plan too agreeable to the feelings of Ra­chel not to be immediately closed with. This re-com­mencement of friendship, with a person so dear to her heart as Jessy Oliver, seemed to ease her bosom of half its load. A very short time sufficed for the settlement of every concern, either of Miss Oliver or our hero­ine, and on the second morning after their meeting they were on their road to London. Rachel left am­ple testimony with her aged hostess at the cottage, that whatever her other errors might have been, she was not guilty of the sin of ingratitude. Arrived in London, they made every inquiry after Auberry, and learnt that he had been departed above a fortnight, and it was universally believed to America.

It was late in the season for vessels to cross the bois­terous Atlantic ocean; the two fair friends could hear of none likely to sail to the port they wished, under a month or six weeks. This appeared to the anxious and impatient Rachel an eternity; and being inform­ed that a ship would go from Liverpool in the course of ten days, they pursued their journey for that place, and arrived just in time to secure a passage, as the ves­sel was to sail the following morning.

Reduced as our heroine was by illness, this long journey was almost too much for her strength; but Jessy Oliver had fine spirits, and a constitution which, [Page 343] though not robust, could support great fatigue with­out sinking under it. They alighted at the inn, and resolved to indulge in a few hours rest before their em­barkation, where we will leave them and make some little inquiry after Auberry.

When he had dispatched his letter with the money to Rachel, he waited with the utmost impatience the arrival of the time in which he might expect her. He had in the first hurry of jealousy, rage and disappoint­ment sold his commission, and taken a passage on board a ship bound to Philadelphia, determined never more to visit his native country, where every bright prospect of his youth had been untimely blasted. The reception of his wife's letter awakened all his tender­ness for her. Rachel in want, depressed, sick, broken­hearted, was ever before his eyes. 'She may yet be innocent.' cried he; the very supposition seemed to give him comfort; 'yet the proofs of her depravity were so incontestable—' here his heart glowed with resentment; 'I will at least send her the means of coming immediately to me. If she comes, I will re­ceive her with affection, if not, I will endeavour to for­get that I ever knew her.' In this frame of mind he wrote the letter which conveyed the money to our he­roine.

But when day after day passed, and no tidings of her neither by letter or any other means, he conclud­ed she was totally abandoned, and in despair of ever knowing peace again, he embarked on his intended voyage. But tempestuous weather ensuing, and the brig in which he embarked being rather ancient, sprung a leak, and they put into Liverpool to refit; where Auberry, giving way to the despair that prey­ed upon his mind, sunk into a state of inanity. Both mind and body became debilitated; a hectic fever slowly undermined his constitution; and when the ves­sel was ready to depart, he was too ill to make the voyage, and suffered her to go without him. He had gone to his mother immediately on his arrival in Liverpool, where he explained to her all his cause for sorrow, and felt every would bleed afresh as he perus­ed [Page 344] some letters from Belle Webster, which tended highly to criminate his wife. Doctor Lenient was ab­sent at the time of his arrival; a small estate had been left him in Ireland, and he had crossed the channel in order to take possession and settle some very material business.

When Hamden had been with his mother about three weeks, the Doctor returned, surprised to see his nephew, and more surprised at his very rueful appear­ance. He inquired what he had been doing to alter himself so. "I have ruining myself," said Au­berry.

"Odso! I hope not," replied the good-hearted Doc­tor. "What, have you been gambling?"

"Yes, in the lottery of life, and have drawn a blank. In short, my dear uncle, I have married a woman with­out either family or fortune, and am discarded by my aunt; but that I could have borne, had my wife been faithful."

"Odds my life!" said the Doctor, "matrimony seems no improver of happiness; for this is the second tale of misery I have heard to-day. What think you, sister? just as I landed from the packet, I saw two women standing on the shore, ready to step into a boat that was waiting. One countenance I knew instantly; for though pale and greatly emaciated, there was still that character of sensibility and virtue impressed upon it for which I used to admire it. It was our unfortu­nate young friend Rachel Dudley."

Hamden gasped for breath, but he suffered the Doc­tor to proceed without interruption. "She had a fine boy in her arms," continued the Doctor, "apparently about four months old and spite of all we have heard, I felt myself impelled to speak to her. Her compan­ion was Miss Oliver, whom we heard had eloped from her father's house, and who has not been heard of by her family for above a twelvemonth."

"Well, Sir," cried Auberry impatiently, "but what of Rachel."

"Why I'll tell you," said the Doctor, taking off his wig and deliberately putting on his crimson velvet [Page 345] cap, and without noticing the emotions of Hamden; "when I went up to her, and asked her how she did, she said her hand on her bosom, and with a look I shall never forget, answered, "Neither well nor happy, Doctor."

"I am sorry, my poor girl," said I, "for some cir­cumstances that I understand have taken place, and knowing your extreme sensibility, cannot be surprised that they have injured both your health and peace of mind. But where are you going now?"

"To America," said she, "in pursuit of my hus­band."

"You are married, then," said I.

"Yes," she replied, and fixing her eyes on my face, "did you not know it?"

"No, how should I? I have been in Ireland these two months past. Just then the sailors called to her to get into the boat. She tendered me her hand."

"God bless you, my good Doctor," said she. I shook her hand, helped her in, and—"

"And she is really gone, then," cried Hamden frantickly.

The Doctor raised his eyes; the agitated counte­nance of his nephew alarmed him. "Yes, I believe so," said he in a doubtful tone; "but why does it af­fect you thus.?"

"Why does it affect me? Oh! Sir, I am the hus­band of Rachel! It is me she is gone in pursuit of. I have deserted, abandoned, forsaken her; I thought her depraved; I was told—"

"Yes, and so have I been told," said the Doctor with vehemence striking his hand on the elbow of his chair; "but after beholding her meek, expressive countenance, where candour and purity are stamped on every feature; after seeing her emaciated frame, and hearing her tremulous, plaintive accents, I would not believe the smallest tittle to her disadvantage, though millions joined to affirm it! Young man, you have been hasty, and blinded by passion; have thrown away a pearl of inestimable price."

[Page 346] Hamden's feelings were now too great for utterance. His mother soothed him; but Dr. Lenient, who hated family pride, blamed the whole of his conduct; and though before he went to bed he prescribed something to compose the agitated spirits of Auberry, yet when retired, his thoughts were wholly occupied by Rachel, wandering without a proper protector, in search of a man who had wantonly sacrificed her happiness and reputation on the altar of ambition and interest.