CHAP. I.

MARIA VILLARS was born a beauty. Her first smile was enchantment, her first movement grace: nor had fortune been less favourable to her than nature—she and one son were the only offspring born to lord Villars by his first wife: On his marriage, 20,000l. the fortune that his wife brought him, had been by marriage settle­ments allotted to younger children, and there having been no limitation, as to number, the whole sum became the property of Maria. Lady Villars died in a few months after the birth of her daughter; and many more had not elapsed before [...]d Villars exchanged the sober garb of affliction, for the gay trappings of a bridegroom.

[Page 6]On this second marriage, Maria was placed under the care of a sister of her father's, a woman, who, to an unbounded love for dissipation, joined so much natural good humour, as made her desirous that all with whom she had to do, should share in pleasures, which she thought so necessary to hap­piness. Although married, she had no children; she had talked herself into the belief, that she was miserable from the want of them: Maria there­fore became her passion;—the most unlimited in­dulgence soon taught her to know no rule for action but her own will. Naturally violent, craving, and vain, she soon became tyrannical, selfish, and overbearing. Nature had bestowed upon her a quickness of apprehension, which, had it been properly directed, might have assisted her in procuring such useful knowledge as would in time have formed her judgment, and corrected her temper; but this quickness being mistaken by her aunt for wit, it became rather a subject of praise for itself, than cultivated as a means by which to acquire things worthy of praise.

Of the many accomplishments, therefore, that Maria made a parade of acquiring, she knew no one tolerably, music and dancing excepted. She was born with an accurate ear and a sweet voice, and she so early felt the advantage to be derived from the cultivation of such enchanting talents, that she had acquired a very competent knowledge in the science of music, and, in the little less dif­ficult one of dancing, she excelled. In her ear­liest years she had been her aunt's plaything; as time began more to unfold her charms, she be­came her boast and her exhibition.

Where rank, youth, beauty, talents and fortune, were united, it is not wonderful that the useful [Page 7] acquirements of the understanding were unsought, or that the unobtrusive virtues of the heart were forgotten. In the circle wherein Maria Villars moved, there was but one opinion, "that miss Villars was perfection." She heard it every hour of the day, she saw it in the deference that was paid to her opinions, and in the eagerness that was manifested even to prevent her wishes; she repeated it to herself continually, and there was certainly no article of her faith to which her mind yielded half so perfect an assent.

Amidst the general admiration that followed her wherever she appeared, there was not wanting, even from her earliest youth, several individuals, who, allured by her beauty, or induced by her fortune, seriously sought her for a wife; but her aunt was in no haste to induce her to fix her choice; she thought no rank, however high, or fortune however splendid, above what might be challenged by the merits of her niece: And Ma­ria (whose greatest delight was in multiplying her conquests, and in the infliction of pain) en­couraged and disdained all her lovers alike.

She was now in her eighteenth year, when one night on her return from a ball, she declared to her aunt in the most peremptory terms, that her choice was made, that she was in love with mr. Mordaunt, and that mr. Mordaunt she would marry. The shock of an earthquake could not have been more tremendous to the feelings of mrs. Fortescue, than was this declaration of her niece; She knew mr. Mordaunt for a young man of fashion and good family, elegant in his person and insinuating in his manners, but he was with­out rank, and almost without fortune; as to his understanding or his moral character, she [...]d [Page 8] never heard either of them mentioned, nor would they have made any part of her inquiries: She attempted to remonstrate; but she soon sound that she had neither the power that authority bestows, nor the influence that is derived from affection. Maria had taken her resolution, and she scrupled not to say, "that although she should be best pleased if her marriage were sanctioned by her aunt's approbation, yet, the want of such ap­probation should not prevent it."

The fact was, that mr. Mordaunt, from the first time in which he beheld Maria, had became violently and truly in love with her. There was something in the humility and verity of his passion, that had been peculiarly pleasing to her vanity; his address and his person had charmed her; she saw his attentions were sought for by the most distinguished of her companions; it became, therefore, a point of honour to attach him to herself: But, when she learnt that he was the object of the tenderest love to her most intimate friend, she was resolved to make him her husband.

Mrs. Fortescue, despairing of the effect of her own influence with her niece, saw no other means to prevent a marriage which she so much disap­proved, except by the force of parental authority; she applied to lord Villars, representing to him the entire destruction of those ambitious hopes, the uncommon beauty and attractions of Maria had given birth to, if she were thus permitted to dispose of herself: But lord Villars, however he might wish that the inclinations of his daughter had taken another bent, was too much engaged in the cares and interests that had arisen from a second marriage, to bestow much thought [...] trouble on the affairs of a child, estranged from [Page 9] him since her birth, and whom he considered as being totally spoiled by the weak indulgence of her aunt; he therefore told his sister, that she must abide by the consequences of her own mis­conduct; that ten thousand pounds was the whole of what he could spare to his daughter on her marriage, but that the rest of the settlement would be her's at his death, and that she must endeavour to make the best bargain she could.

Mrs. Fortescue thus finding that all opposition would be vain, no longer troubled herself to op­pose what she could not prevent. Mr. Mordaunt was made the happiest of men, by being told Maria Villars was to be his wife; and Maria her­self took the air of sacrificing ambition and avarice at the shrine of love. She became, in truth, du­ring the time of the courtship, as much in love with mr. Mordaunt, as she could be with any man. As to mr. Mordaunt, he was not more enchanted with her beauty, nor captivated by the graces of her manner, than he was impressed with gratitude, for the preference she gave him; he considered such a preference as a proof of the most disinterested affection, and entertained not a doubt but that in the lovely mistress he was about to possess, he should find the good humoured com­panion, the affectionate friend, and the faithful wife; he knew not, nor would it have been in the power of an angel from heaven to have [...] him believe that Maria Villars was to be [...] of his happiness, and the scourge of his c [...] [...] Maria, it is true, had suffered herself, equa [...] with mr. Mordaunt, to be determined in [...] choice of a companion for life, by the charms [...] an ex [...]s, and by motives that could have [...] [Page 10] influence on the happiness of that life; but she had not, like him, added, even in imagination, the qualities either of the head or heart; she had not thought about them. The man who was in love with her, was, of course, at her disposal; she did not so [...]ar mistrust her charms, as to suspect that this might not always be the case, and while she could preserve an unlimited power over the actions of mr. Mordaunt, she sought for no other quality on which to ground happiness; there was no one excellence of the head or heart, nor all the possi­ble excellencies of both united, that she would not have exchanged for the single virtue of unli­mited compliance with her wishes: But mr. Mor­daunt was formed by nature to have bestowed happiness of a very different kind from that which Maria required—with perfectly good and clear sense, of a calm and gentle mind, with kind af­fections, and the most disinterested dispositions, had he met with a heart and temper congenial to his own, there was no degree of domestic felicity that he was not capable of giving and receiving.

It would have been mr. Mordaunt's wish upon his marriage, to have withdrawn from scenes of dissipation and expence, (at once so adverse to his inclination, and so inimical to his fortune), to his paternal estate in Northumberland. But to this plan mrs. Fortescue and Maria were equally averse, and mr. Mordaunt easily found in the gaiety of youth, and the inveteracy of habit, a sufficient excuse for this opposition to his wishes; —he hoped time, and the cares of a mother, which he saw with pleasure would soon belong to Maria, would produce dispositions more suited to his own, and in the mean while he made his happiness by contributing to her's. He was, how­ever, [Page 11] somewhat more alarmed when he found, that even after the birth of a daughter, her rage for amusement seemed greater than ever; and long before his tenderness thought she ought to have quitted her house, he found her eager again to emerge into the world, to form new engage­ments and to seek new pleasures: She had abso­lutely refused to suckle her child, and he had been made to believe that her health was too de­licate to admit of her performing such an office; but when he saw it sufficiently robust to encoun­ter the vigils of balls and assemblies, and the har­rassing exertions of morning amusements, he first uttered his surprise and then ventured to remonstrate.

It was the first moment in which he had appeared to have a will distinct from that of Maria. The ve­hemence which she betrayed upon this occasion astonished and alarmed him; but the veil was now fallen, and from this hour she appeared in her na­tural form. The imperfections of temper in a wife, although sufficient to destroy happiness, are, how­ever, seldom powerful enough to pluck from the breast of a tender hearted man a deep rooted love. Mr. Mordaunt was compelled to be miserable, but he could not cease to love. It was not so with Maria, she had never loved—she never could love any one but herself: While mr. Mor­daunt contributed to her convenience, or her plea­sure, she smiled upon him with a complacency that made him believe himself the happiest of men; when he thwarted her most extravagant wishes, she armed her brow with defiance, and his hours were passed in wrangling and ill humour.

For some of the first years of their marriage, the dread of interrupting those moments of sun­shine from which he drew his precarious and li [...] [Page 12] enjoyed happiness, made him give up, undisputed, almost every point to his wife. Her habit of con­troul became by this means the more confirmed; and afterwards, when this reason ceased (for there were no longer moments of sunshine), the embar­rassment of his affairs, and the dread that all minds, not strong, feel of probing the bottom of an evil, occasioned him to go on in the same way. Thus at the end of ten years, he found himself disappointed in his hopes of happiness, involved in debt, the father of three miserable neglected girls, and the husband of a decayed beauty, whose health had been ruined by dissipation, and whose temper, not naturally good, had been irritated by the distresses of poverty: Her heart and her un­derstanding offered no resources in the hour of disappointment, and her continual self reproaches for having so foolishly thrown herself away, awakened mr. Mordaunt to a wandering sense, how the most beautiful features, or the most per­fect form, could ever have been a veil sufficiently thick, to have concealed from his observation the deformity of her temper, and the selfishness of her heart.

As to what was now to be done, there remained no option: mrs. Fortescue had so often relieved the distresses of her niece that she had no longer the power of doing so—The ten thousand pounds paid at her marriage, were dissipated— of the ten that were to be received on the death of lord Villars, the interest only could be of any use, as the principal was settled upon children. Creditors were numerous and pressing; there was no alternative but a jail, or the family mansion in Northumberland.

Mr. Mordaunt, with a degree of resolution [Page 13] which might have been the preventative ten years before, of the evils, for which it was now scarcely an alleviation, sold all his property, in or near town, and packing up his wife, himself, their three daughters, and one woman servant, in the only carriage they had left, this ruined family be­gan their journey into Northumberland.

Maria, although she had nothing to oppose to a measure so necessary and unavoidable, yet had not fortitude enough to submit to it without the bitterest lamentations, and the deepest grief: She parted from mrs. Fortescue as if she had been go­ing into a Siberian exile, and mrs. Fortescue her­self would, with less grief, have followed her to her grave, than thus have seen her, at eight and twenty, banished from all that she held valuable in life, and buried in the frightful glooms of a Northern solitude. But grief, however violent and tempestuous, brings no balm to irremed [...]ble evils. After some days of vehemence, complaints, and tears—after others of a sullen silence and ill humoured discontent, mrs. Mordaunt found her­self, in spite of all her grief and reluctance, set­tled at Groby Manor, compelled to attend to the common affairs of life, and her influence confined to the circle of a small country family, three hun­dred miles distant from London.

CHAP. II.

GROBY MANOR was situate about thirty miles from the sea coast, at the head of a narrow valley, the opposite sides of which were formed by a variety of high and differently shaped hills, well wooded, with here and there a green meadow or a corn field i [...]terspersed. Through the valley ran a clear stream, and there were a variety of pleasant and romantic walks on every side.

The house had, for many generations, been the residence of a respectable and well beloved family: It contained large and convenient rooms, and though the furniture was old, it was sufficiently plentiful. The house was sheltered from every cutting wind, and open only to a southern expo­sure; it was warm and comfortable, provisions and coals were cheap and abundant, there was a good library, and the air, clear and wholesome, gave colour to the cheek, and vigour to the limbs.

Here, then, were sources enough of enjoy­ment, were the mind capable of relishing them; but mrs. Mordaunt seemed resolved that as she [Page 15] was to be less happy than she wished to be, she would be as miserable as she could. She passed her days in sullen discontent and unavailing re­pining, refusing all society, and rendering those who were obliged to approach her as miserable as herself.

With mr. Mordaunt it was otherwise.— Having once broken the chains that tied him to a life he disapproved, his natural temper began to manifest itself in beneficial effects to himself and all around him. He was delighted to be returned to the seat of his forefathers; joy sprang in his heart at the sight of the scenes of his infancy; he rejoiced to renew the social connections of his former neighbourhood, and to busy himself in the cares and occupations of a country life. He saw, with a satisfaction, that tranquilized his sleeping, and gladdened his waking hours, that ten years of prudent retirement would clear his estate. In these ten years he hoped to recompense to his daughters, the evil they had hitherto received from neglect and ill education; and he considered the end as being scarcely more desirable than the means.

He endeavoured, by gentleness and the kindest affection, to soften the mind of Mari [...], and to open it to a capability of enjoyment: He still loved her: he therefore easily persuaded himself, that time and the easy undisturbed life she was henceforth to lead, might work this miracle; he was willing [...]ay all her faults on the mistakes of her educatio [...] and the folly of her former life.

Here, my dear Maria (would he sometimes say), [...]e it depends only upon ourselves to be happy, and after the experience we have had of the insuf­ficiency of every other source of happiness, shall [Page 16] we neglect the only pure one, and which is now in our power? He had not, indeed, the satis­faction to see she was sensible either to his kindness, or his reasoning; but he considered, that time only could overcome habits so deeply rooted as her's, and he was willing to wait patiently and good humouredly for its effects.

Twelve months were now elapsed since mr. Mordaunt's removal into the country, and Maria began to be somewhat more reconciled to her situation. She was not the less reconciled from observing the effect that the change in her manner of living had upon her beauty:—The regularity of her life, and the purity of the air, had [...]lushed her faded cheek with health, and had restored the lustre to her eye, her limbs had recovered their roundness, and her complexion its transparency; she heard the rustic praises of the peasants when­ever she walked out, and her own maid had not so far forgotten her old trade, as not carefully to repeat, sometimes with, and sometimes without, ex­aggeration, the commendations that were retailed by servants from the dining parlours of their masters.

She was conscious of the disgust she had given to all their neighbours on her first coming into the country; she had then scarce thought it worth her while to remember the existence of beings whom she considered as little above the brute creation: but to the pleasure of admiration it was not pos­sible, while she continued to breathe, that she should long be insensible. She endeavoured to apologize for her former conduct, by imputing it to ill health, and she gave an appearance of truth to her apology, by now shewing a willingness to enter into society, and to partake of such pleasure as the country afforded.

[Page 17]Her insinuating manners, the superiority of her breeding, and her uncommon beauty, adorned as it now was by graciousness, soon made her the idol, or the envy, of all who approached her. Mr. Mordaunt could not but be pleased with this im­provement in his wife's temper: but he soon found it was confined wholly to those hours when she was engaged with company, either from home, or in her own house; he saw, with the most sen­sible mortification, that this amendment, how­ever, arose only from the gratification of her va­nity: to him she was always alike cold and insen­sible, always equally neglectful of her children, and intolerable to her domestics. Her grumblings and discontent when they were alone, were ra­ther increased than abated: she sullenly refused to take pleasure in any of his plans or amusements, and coldly withdrew her attention when he wished to converse, complained that his eagerness in his country pursuits, distracted her nerves; and would shut herself up in her room for a day together, altering an old bonnet, or new-modelling some of the ancient furniture.

Such a conduct, in spite of himself, gave mr. Mordaunt a bad opinion of her heart; and gra­dually wore away all attachment or partiality but that which a confirmed habit, and the intimacy of their connection, preserved in spite of his reason and his feelings.

CHAP. III.

HAD Maria been more amiable, they might now have been happy. They were now settled with a small but comfortable establishment, upon an equal footing with their neighbours, sufficiently busied to feel no want of employment, and suffi­ciently idle to be in no danger of fatigue. They had no particular cares to molest them. They enjoyed health and a competency: and if they had not much to hope they had also not much to fear.

But, in a life where happiness must arise from a discharge of duty alone, Maria found no charms. She was sensible only to weariness. As some re­lief from this eternal sameness, she was not dis­pleased to find herself with child. To give her­self more consequence, and the circumstance more interest, she took it into her head to imagine that she longed passionately for a boy. By talking perpetually on the subject, and expatiating on the maternal raptures she was about to feel, and the maternal cares in which she was henceforth to be engaged, she had converted what was at first merely a whim, into a serious passion. She counted the months, the weeks as they passed. Every day might now complete her wishes. The hour came, and—she was delivered of a daughter!

From the moment she beheld her, the poor child's destiny, as far as it depended upon the af­fection of its mother, was decided. 'It was [Page 19] hideous. She saw every bad passion in its counte­nance. It looked like an owl, like an ape, like aunt Nelly.'—Invective could go no farther.

This aunt Nelly, the ne plus ultra of abhorrence, had been the sister of mr. Mordaunt. Her breast was the mansion of every female virtue. She had been the being in the world, next to Maria, that mr. Mordaunt had most fondly loved. Being by many years his senior, she had been the nurse of his childhood, the gentle monitor of his youth­ful days, the warm and steady friend of his manly years. On his marriage, he had eagerly sent for her to town, that she might know and [...]e known to one, whom he thought her only superior. He told his Maria, 'that in the friendship of his sister, she would find all the advantage of superior wis­dom and perfect goodness. He did not bid her love her: he knew it was impossible she should do otherwise; and as to his sister, she would doat upon Maria as her child.'

All this might have been, and would have been, had Maria been the person mr. Mordaunt be­lieved her to be. But, with her sarcastic spirit, and self consequence, virtue and wisdom, in the form of a plain, though intelligent looking wo­man of five and forty, were likely only to produce contempt and satire. She quarrelled with every feature in her face in the first half hour of their acquaintance; ridiculed her to her companions; scoffed at her to her woman▪ and in the con­strained civility that she thought proper to shew her before mr. Mordaunt evinced, to a woman of miss Mordaunt's penetration, the aversion she had taken to her. Nor was it less difficult to discover the mistake that mr. Mordaunt had made in his choice: and Maria's aversion to her sister-in-law [Page 20] was increased by a consciousness that it could not be hid from her.

This aversion, however, might have worn off, could mrs. Mordaunt have found real cause for the contempt she expressed towards miss Mor­daunt: but she soon was compelled to feel for this hated sister, a respect, which her virtue in­spired, and a dread which her understanding im­posed. This respect, this dread, converted dislike into hatred. She was sensible, her conduct would justify animadversion▪ and she had no doubt but she received it from miss Mordaunt. She looked upon he [...] as a s [...]y; and hated her accordingly.

During mr. Mordaunt's residence in London, miss Mordaunt had visited town from time to time, for the purpose of seeing her brother. She had very early discovered that he was unhappy: and although he did not complain, she perceived her company was a relief to him. She therefore never suffered twelve months to pass without spending a few weeks in lodgings in town, contributing, by this means, all in her power toward his happi­ness, and indulging herself in the pleasure she received from the company of his children. She endeavoured all she▪ could to counteract the evil they imbibed at home, and she sought, by every method, to inspire them with love towards her­self. In this latter particular, she so completely succeeded, that the poor girls loved nothing half so well as aunt Nelly.

All these circumstances confirmed Maria's ha­tred: and almost the only act of maternity she ever exercised was, the giving her eldest girl a whipping, on her saying, as her mother was put­ting on her morning bonnet, 'Now, mamma looks like aunt Nelly.'

[Page 21]Two years before mr. Mordaunt's removal into the country, miss Mordaunt had been seized with a disorder which prevented her stirring from home; and having languished under every painful circumstances for eighteen months, she had at length been released from, and rewarded for her suf­ferings. Her death had been a severe affliction to mr. Mordaunt: and he cherished her memory with the highest degree of tenderness and venera­tion. It was not, therefore, with mr. Mordaunt, that the supposed likeness of his new-born child to aunt Nelly, was likely to operate to her disad­vantage; nor was the unreasonable aversion that mrs. Mordaunt had taken to the poor infa [...] one whit more prejudicial to her with her father; for when he beheld the inveteracy with which his wife persisted in her detestation of so excellent a creature as his sister had been, and when he compared the parade she now made of her feelings, as a mother, with the absolute neglect she had hitherto shewn to her offspring, all partiality was for the moment at an end; and he viewed her with a degree of disap­probation, that seemed to prohibit the possibility of its ever again being renewed.

There was one point, however, even on this subject, in which mr. and mrs. Mordaunt agreed: this was, in giving the name of Ellen to the poor little girl. Maria chose it, that she might gratify her spite in calling the child, "aunt Nelly;" and mr. Mordaunt was fond of perpetuating a name that had belonged to a sister, whose memory (per­haps by comparing her character with that of his wife) grew every day dearer to him.

CHAP. IV.

IT was not merely in the airy nothing of a name that mrs. Mordaunt exercised her dislike to her unhappy infant. The inextinguishable desire that she had of being ever the object of attention and observation, made her seek for means to perpe­tuate her consequence, when youth and beauty (however distant she might at present consider that period) should be no more.

To be the principal object wherever she ap­peared, had been the first wish to which she had been conscious, and it was likely to be the last of which she would be sensible. The fashionable furor for education presented her the means she sought. She could no longer eclipse rival beau­ties at a ball: she could no longer strike the fangs of envy into a heart similar to her own, by the superior elegance of her head dress, or the splen­dor of her equipage. All her triumphs were confined within the circle of a small neighbour­hood, far remote from the scene of all her former distinctions, and where the inquiries of the cu­rious were more directed to the domestic economy of their neighbours, than to the form of their clothes, or the fashion of their carriages. To [Page 23] this neighbourhood she resolved to be known as the most educating mother in it. Her elder daughters were too old, and too much under the wiser care of their father, to be proper objects on which to display her abilities in this new road to distinction: but the new born infant was her undisputed property, and she resolved to pour all the terrors of education on poor Ellen's head.

In this design, so wisely and so benevolently formed, she succeeded so perfectly, that at the early age of twelve months, when other children know their mothers only as their surest source of indulgence, Maria was become so completely an object of terror to her child, that she scarce looked upon her without trembling, or appeared before her without tears. It seemed too, as if every circumstance was to conspire to render the infancy of Ellen wretched. In less than fifteen months after her birth, the eagerly desired boy was borne, and, as if this unnatural mother posse [...] but a certain degree of affection, the little tenderness that she had hitherto manifested towards Ellen, was all withdrawn, to be added to that which she profusely lavished on the boy. Besides which, Ellen was always wrong in every thing she did, or every thing she did not do, for her brother. If she caressed him, she would smother the child— If she stood aloof, she was a little insensible, without affections; and then she had a flap or a push, or her play things were taken from her, or she was sometimes whipped, she did not know for why, or for what.

The age of teaching now came on, and mrs. Mordaunt was resolved to teach. But the truth was, that she had never learn. Her own ideas of what she meant to convey were too indistinct, [Page 24] to enable her to communicate them to another. Her method was unintelligible, and her impatience extreme. Ellen could learn nothing—it was stu­pidity—it was obstinacy. She had always fore­told that she had the worst dispositions of human nature—punishment followed punishment, 'till by a succession of such teaching and such correc­tion, that very stupidity and obstinacy were nearly produced, which they were designed to correct.

Mr. Mordaunt was not an inattentive spectator of all this; but he was far from understanding the real truth of the case. The early terror that had been impressed on the mind of Ellen, had made her appear, even to mr. Mordaunt, as a child of a slow capacity, and somewhat of a sullen disposi­tion. He was often witness to what were repre­sented to him as fits of obstinacy, and sometimes to moments of violence. He feared Ellen might resemble her mother, and thought a little cor­rection might be necessary. With the degree and frequency of the punishment he was wholly unacquainted: and as it is easy to put a child in the wrong, mrs. Mordaunt took care that Ellen should always appear so to her father. But how­ever mr. Mordaunt might, for a certain time, have been persuaded, that his wife's mode of treating his daughter was salutary, or necessary, experience convinced him it was inefficacious. At six years old, Ellen could scarcely read: and he observed, with inexpressible pain, a sullen indifference to all instruction or reproof pervading her mind.

Maria had never been her husband's friend▪ for many years she had ceased to be his confidant: and the ingenuous mind of mr. Mordaunt had suffered the severest mortification when he had found it necessary to sacrifice the pleasure of com­munication [Page 25] to the dictates of prudence. Since his residence in Northumberland, he had [...]nd, however, both a friend and a confidant, to w [...] he opened his heart whenever he was oppressed with dissatisfaction or perplexed with doubt. This friend and this confidant was the clergyman of the parish, whose benevolence had never sailed to sooth his sorrows, or his judgment to enlighten his understanding.

To mr. Thornton he revealed the fears and grief that the character of Ellen excited in his breast.

"Give me leave to invite my wife to make one of our party," said mr. Thornton. "I am mistaken if she will not give you comfort."

Mrs Thornton was only in the next room. She obeyed her husband's summons; she sat down, and heard mr. Mordaunt's distress.

"Your child, my dear sir," said she, "is neither stupid nor ill disposed. Wrong methods have been taken with her. Terror has overwhelmed the powers of her mind, and deadened her affec­ [...]ion. Convince her she is beloved, and she will be and do every thing you can desire."

"How is it possible, madam," said mr. Mor­daunt, "that you should have formed so contrary, and so much more favourable an opinion of Ellen, than I, with all my partiality, have been able to entertain?"

"She loves me, sir," returned mrs. Thornton; "and she loves me, because she believes I love her. If she can love one person, she can love another. She is willing to learn of me: and only the last [...]e I was with her, I taught her a lesson in ten minutes, that she told me she had been the three preceding days in vain attempting to learn. Do you ask other proofs?"

[Page 26]"No," cried mr. Mordaunt: "but I have farther favours to ask of you. You must take this poor child under your care, my dear mrs. Thornton. You must take her and make her all you say she is capable of being made."

After a little more conversation, all the parti­culars of this plan were settled.

Mrs. Thornton had long seen Ellen's sufferings with pity; and was happy to contribute all in her power to put an end to them. Mrs. Mor­daunt, convinced that Ellen would do no credit to her mode of education, and tired of the trou­ble she gave her, easily consented to part with her.

The parsonage, to which Ellen was now re­moved, was scarcely half a mile distant from Groby Manor: and it was situated at the other end of the valley. So near a neighbourhood en­abled mr. Mordaunt to see his daughter every day; and he saw her every day with increased satisfaction. Her pallid cheeks, hitherto robbed of their colour, by the continual washing of tears, began to be tinged with a faint red. Her sullen eye, formerly fixed gloomily on the ground, was often now raised timidly to the person who spoke to her, and sometimes cast forth beams of intelli­gence and gaiety. If she did not run to meet her father when he approached her, she ventured to press the hand that held her's: and sometimes would she rest her head upon his shoulder: and he could perceive, as she raised it, a tear tremble in her eye, which he could attribute only to the tenderness of her heart, responsive to its care [...] ▪ Mr. Mordaunt left no method untried to secure her affections: and every day now gave him a [Page 27] more perfect assurance that he was not unsuc­cessful.

Ellen had been about six months in her new situation, when the illness of lord Villars called mr. and mrs. Mordaunt into Hampshire. His in­disposition was long, and terminated in his death.

Mrs. Mordaunt, very well pleased to find her­self once again in her old world, caught at every possible reason for prolonging her stay. Her bro­ther, now lord Villars, had been married some years. She had seen little of him during this period. He pressed her so much to continue in Hampshire the remainder of the summer, that mr. Mordaunt consented she should do so. But he consented upon condition that their three elder daughters should join them there. He thought it desirable to have them known to their nearest connexions: and he was willing to give them such assistances, in some exterior accomplishments, as the distant situation of Northumberland had not hitherto allowed them. The boy had never been separated from his mother.

Mr. Mordaunt's condition was joyfully ac­cepted. The summer passed pleasantly with them all: and when the time for repairing to London approached, mrs. Fortescue (now a widow) so vehemently urged the melancholy of returning into Northumberland at that season, and so kindly offered the whole family apartments in her house, that mr. Mordaunt again consented to prolong his absence from home.

The family had not been settled more than a month in town, when mrs. Fortescue was seized with a fever, of which she died in about a fort­night. On her death is was found she had be­queathed to m [...] Mordaunt all she had in her [Page 28] power to dispose of. This all consisted in a small country mansion, with an estate of about 200l. a year about it. It was situated within ten miles of lord Villars's house, in the country; and was furnished and fitted up with all the elegance of modern taste.

Whatever tears mrs. Mordaunt might shed for the loss of a partial, though mistaken, friend—for one, who had not only been her steady advocate through life, but who had proved her benefactress at her death, were soon dried up by the thoughts of the independence that friend had secured to her, and still more by reflections on the place where the property which gave her that independ­ence was situated. She immediately declared her intentions of going to Hadley Lodge directly upon leaving town. But she also protested, that she meant not to leave London 'till the middle of June. The house she was at present in was to continue her's for six months, and she therefore saw no reason why the event of mrs. Fortescue's death should abridge the scheme of pleasure that she had laid down for theensuing spring.

Mr. Mordaunt felt it harsh to oppose any of these resolutions, since they were not (in conse­quence of their new acquisitions) liable to the censure of imprudence in a pecuniary light. He therefore acquiesced, reserving however to him­self the power of visiting Ellen and Northumber­land: and this he proposed to do when mrs. Mordaunt and her family removed to Hadley Lodge.

In the execution of this plan, he was, however, prevented. The death of a distant relation, who had for many years resided in the West-Indies, made it necessary he should himself cross the At­lantic. [Page 29] Property of some value had devolved to him; but the succession of it was disputed: and it was attended with some circumstances that made it necessary, if he meant to prosecute his claim to it, to visit the island where it lay.

He would willingly have persuaded mrs. Mor­daunt to have re [...]ed into Northumberland, there to have remained during his absence; but to persuade her was impossible, and to compel her to a measure so disagreeable to herself, on the eve of a separation that might be for a considerable length of time, was what the softness of mr. Mordaunt's feelings would not permit; it was therefore agreed that she should reside at her own house while he was absent, and he flattered him­self that the neighbourhood of her brother might be some restraint upon her indiscretion, and af­ford protection and counsel to his girls, [...]f any circumstance should arise, during his absence, in which they wanted either.

The time was short in which he was to arrange all this; he recommended his family to lord Vil­lars, and sailed for Jamaica.

By unforeseen circumstances and unavoidable delays, his absence was prolonged to the begin­ning of the fifth year, and he returned something poorer than he sat out.

Immediately on his arrival in England mr. Mordaunt hastened to Hadley Lodge, but no comfort awaited him there—He found his eldest daughter married to a man of libertine character and dissipated fortune, whose recommendation, in the eyes of mrs. Mordaunt, had been his fashionable manners, and his connexions with people of rank.

The boy, now ten years old, had continued, [Page 30] in spite of mrs. Mordaunt's repeated injunctions to the contrary, in his mother's house, where he had remained ignorant of every thing he ought to have learnt, and became acquainted with almost every thing he ought not to have known.

Mrs. Mordaunt herself was embarrassed with debts, and of the independence, of which she had made so ill a use, but little remained.

Mr. Mordaunt could scarcely forbear reproach­ing lord Villars for the little attention he appeared to have given to his sister and her children; but when he considered that he had himself the cares of a large family upon him, and a numerous train of half brothers and sisters, whose interest he was compelled to attend to, and reflected upon his character, in which selfishness was the predo­minant feature, he thought it best to forbear re­proaches, which would now be made in vain, and which might tend to interrupt the friendly inter­course there had hitherto subsisted between him­self and lord Villars. In reproaches to himself, however, he was not sparing: he felt too bitterly, the consequences of his ill choice in a wife, not to call him severely to an account for having suf­fered his eyes to mislead his judgment.

Northumberland was again the resource: and as mrs. Mordaunt had now no power to remain in Hampshire without the permission of her hus­band, she knew it was in vain to oppose her wishes to his, she therefore prepared, however reluc­tantly, for her departure; but the delays which she artfully threw in the way, having exhausted mr. Mordaunt's patience, he left her to follow him at her leisure, and set out for Northum­berland, accompanied only by the second son of lord Villars, a youth of fifteen.

CHAP. V.

AS mr. Mordaunt approached Groby Manor, his impatience to behold the effects that more than five years must have wrought in Ellen, be­came extreme.

He was sometimes willing to hope, that having been removed from mrs. Mordaunt's baneful in­fluence, she might compensate to him for all the other domestic disappointments that influence had produced; at others, the remembrance of those faults which he had been accustomed to call na­tural to her disposition, recurred to his mind, and overclouded it with the dispiriting fear that no difference of treatment could have been powerful enough to correct them; yet mrs. Thornton, though she had said nothing of her mental abili­ties, had spoken much of her docility. If I find her, said mr. Mordaunt to himself, gentle and af­fectionate, I will compound for a moderate ca­pacity, and give up willingly all pretensions to talents or accomplishments.

These thoughts occupied him so much, that not all the comicality and sprightly understanding of his companion could always awake him from [Page 32] his reverie: and Henry, who had as much feeling as gaiety, imposed silence upon himself, that he might not prove troublesome to his uncle.

Mr. Mordaunt rested not a moment at Groby Manor; but with a long step, and hasty move­ment, that made Henry laugh, proceeded down the valley to the parsonage.

As he approached the house he heard the sound of a fiddle; and immediately after saw assembled on the green before the door, ten or twelve girls of different ages, who were dancing gaily to the music. Mr. Mordaunt stopped short. He sought, if possible, to discover Ellen before she was pointed out to him; and Henry rushed forward that he might join in the amusement.

"Might that be her," said mr. Mordaunt, "might that spright', good-humoured looking blooming girl be her, my wishes would be more than answered."

His wishes were more than answered. It was Ellen herself. The music ceased. The whole group was in confusion: and the next moment Ellen, with an emotion that charmed him, was in the arms of her father.

"My dear child, my beloved Ellen, can I ever part with you again?"

"Yes, yes, this very moment, my dear uncle," cried Henry. "What! am I not to have a dozen kisses at least of my cousin?"

"And are you my cousin, too?" said Ellen, with one arm round her father's neck, and the other hand held out to Henry. "O, I did not know I was ever to have been so happy!"

The pathos of the scene was now over: but the delight remained: and Henry, having taken some­thing more than his dozen kisses, ran away with [Page 33] Ellen to join her companions, and recommence the dance.

"You never told me," said mr. Mordaunt to mr. Thornton, "of the good-humour and intelli­gence that beam in Ellen's countenance, nor of the lightness of her movements, the delicacy of her limbs, and the ease of her shape."

"Ellen is not a beauty," said mrs. Thornton, smiling.

"She is in her father's eyes," returned mr. Mordaunt: "and will be so in those of her lover."

"But you do not ask, what I have attempted to teach her. You do not inquire, whether she was capable of learning."

"I am almost indifferent what she has learnt. With the dispositions that I see she possesses, she will gratify my fondest wishes."

"But Ellen has not only dispositions," said mr. Thornton, "she has powers. She is an ex­cellent arithmetician: she is a good geographer: she is mistress of all the rules of drawing: she writes and speaks French well; and has a very competent knowlege of Latin."

"To which let me add," said mrs. Thornton, "that she is mistress of her needle; understands music tolerably; plays at chess; and dances, walks, and plays at shuttlecock to admiration."

"Impossible!" said mr. Mordaunt. "You flatter me."

"Nothing can be more true; and yet Ellen is no prodigy. She is what every girl of common sense and common application may be at her age."

"But how did you conquer her obstinacy? how did you subdue her violence?"

"I neither found her obstinate nor violent. I [Page 34] did not propose to her to do any thing but what she saw my own daughter, something younger than herself, do. Each day has its allotted busi­ness, and its allotted pleasure. The slowest ca­pacity could comprehend, that the more hours were consumed in business, the fewer there would be for pleasure. It is is only necessary to lay down the premises, and to abide by them. The con­clusion every child can draw for itself. If that conclusion be as infallible as it is unpleasant, in a little time it will be carefully avoided. To the reason of its instructors a child will not perhaps readily submit. It is against reason that it should. But to the reason of facts children will always yield, provided it be made clear to them."

"Can it really be so easy to give the best pos­sible education to a child?"

"I do not say, that mine is the best possible education; nor is it so easy as it appears. To guard against the faults of the child is not half the business. The weakness of the tutor is much more inimical to the success of his efforts—to be unyielding in matters (simply considered) of little import—to bear a cold countenance with a warm heart—to be insensible to the blandishments of childhood, where the good of the future man re­quires it—are not easy tasks to a feeling and affec­tionate mind; and no other is fitted for the task of education. Then will not the tutor have to com­bat with his own indolence, his own unevenness of disposition, his caprice, and his partialities? No, the task of education is not easy; but it is the greatest in which man or woman can be engaged; and ought therefore to be attended to by all who undertake it, with every energy of the mind. What I have chiefly wished to avoid, was the doing too [Page 35] much. Not to do mischief, and to let the causes that produce good have their full operation, are two material points. I was aware, that the greatest difficulty, in this important matter, arose from the weaknesses of the instructors, and the indiscreet interference of others. Mr. Thornton and [...]e absolute here, and as perfectly steady, though sometimes at the expense of a heart ache. Hence Ellen and Mary have learnt to consider our laws as immutable as the decrees of fate, and to accommodate themselves to them, as they would do to any physical necessity. Constant application has made the task of learning easy: and where something new, however little, is acquired every day, the sum total, at the end of five years, will be surprising."

"But do you allow nothing to natural disposi­tion, and to the natural powers of the mind?"

"Oh, yes, a great deal: And here, I acknow­ledge that Ellen has met my cares more than half way. She has a very good, but not an uncom­mon capacity. Her quickness of apprehension, however, is something more than common. She has a warm heart and a generous mind. I have been able to move her with the touch of a finger. Had she had duller feelings, I must have put my whole strength to her."

"Your method of teaching seems not only cal­culated to produce the immediate end, that of communicating the thing to be taught, but also to give an anticipated experience of life. Will there not be learnt by it, that yielding to the necessity of things, which is the best secret for happiness, and which enables us to repress useless repinings, and, when we cannot be happy one way, to be happy another?"

[Page 36]"It is what I hope from it: and without some such end, all the teachings in the world are only calculated to destroy the pleasures of childhood, without having a tendency to promote the virtue or the happiness of the man. I know not what may be Ellen's destiny: but I think I can dare to foretel, that if her present habits are allowed to strengthen, and her present principles to take root, she will never in any circumstance, be the victim of ungoverned fancy, or the martyr to a selfish sensibility."

"But is there not some danger in thus guarding her from a too great influence of the feelings, that she should become less amiable by the want of them?"

"I do not guard her from feeling. I guard her from selfishness. For others she will feel acutely—for herself moderately: and where self is out of the question, there is no fear but that reason will always be near enough to ward off any danger from too lively a sensibility."

"What is the leading feature of her mind? What is it that she is extremely?"—

"Ellen knows no extremes."

"Except," interrupted mr. Thornton, "the extreme of good-humour."

"Were I to have made the exception," said mrs. Thornton, "it would have been that of disinterestedness. But let us recollect that we are speaking of a girl of twelve years old. She is yet really nothing. All the intimations that she gives of character, are favourable. But, alas! how much six years of weak indulgence, or cold neglect, may make the woman of eighteen, differ from the girl of twelve!"

"She has neither the one nor the other to fear," [Page 37] said mr. Mordaunt warmly, "if you will continue your cares."

"If I will!—"

"My obligations," interrupted mr. Mordaunt, "will then be such as can never be discharged. And—"

"Talk not of obligations," said mr. Thornton. "be assured they are reciprocal: and if you trust your Ellen with us another six years, they will all be on our side. Hitherto she has only acquired the means of self improvement; from this time, every day will add something to the real improve­ment of her mind, and the formation of her heart: And do you not think, that those who are to accompany the traveller in so flowery a way, will be more than repaid for the fatigue of the journey?"

The conversation was here interrupted by the breaking up of the ball: and Ellen sideling to­wards her father, found herself a seat upon half his chair.

It is not to be doubted, that from this evening mr. Mordaunt spent many of his hours at the parsonage: Henry spent still more. With Ellen he studied, and with Ellen he idled. She was the better scholar of the two; and would laugh at the careless manner in which he had been taught, would scoff at his want of application, and pique him to greater exertion by her ridicule. When books gave way to sports, they walked, danced, or played at shuttlecock together; or Henry would assist Ellen and Mary in the labours of their garden; or they would compel him to listen to some of their botanical discussions, bo­tany being a new study which mr. Thornton had just given them. But as to chess, which equally [Page 38] excluded conversation and locomotion, Henry had never patience to hear it mentioned. For music he had little more toleration, except Ellen would sing a ballad or play a country dance.

Six weeks were thus passed away: and mrs. Mordaunt had not yet fulfilled her promise of following her husband: he, therefore, thought it most prudent to return into Hampshire, and not to quit it, 'till he brought her away with him. Henry's vacation was more than expired. He must depart with his uncle; and Ellen declared, with as much naïveté as truth, that she knew not which she was most sorry to part with. She bade them farewel with a degree of pain which she never before remembered to have felt. But she had no leisure for artificial grief. It was rather the recollections that were forced upon her, than any she indulged in, that saddened, for some days after their departure, both her lessons and her amusements. But a much more serious grief awaited her.

CHAP. VI.

ELLEN retained only an indistinct idea of the severity and ill will of her mother towards her during her infancy. All remembrance of it had been, by the cares of mrs. Thornton, as much obliterated as possible. Thus, though she did not look forward to the arrival of mrs. Mordaunt with the same delight and desire which she had felt when she expected her father, she nevertheless thought of it with pleasure: and the expectation of seeing her sisters, filled her with hopes still more satisfactory to her feelings.

The first evening spent in their company re­pressed this pleasure, and chilled her hopes.

The immediate impulse, on the sight of her mother, had been to fly into her arms: but she had stopped short, checked by the frigidity of her air, and the scowling discontent of her brow. She waited for invitation,—but she received it not: and she stood silent and depressed, with her eyes cast upon the ground, unconscious what could have been her fault, yet feeling that she must have committed one.

"Maria," said mr. Mordaunt, "Ellen longs to embrace you."

"There, child," said Maria, coldly kissing her forehead, "I hope you are grown good. But you used to be the naughtiest little brat I was ever ac­quainted [Page 40] with. Many are the twigs of birch I have worn out in your service."

Tears started into poor Ellen's eyes. She had nothing to say; nor did she know clearly at that moment what she thought. But she felt that she wished herself away.

Her sisters had no ill will towards her; but she was not an object of any interest in their eyes. Vitiated by their mother's precepts and example, they considered the having quitted the South of England, as having left every thing that was de­sirable in life—as the forfeiture of all their hopes of establishment in the world—and, indeed, as the consummation of misfortune. Their journey, therefore, had been spent in tears and regret. Groby Manor appeared to them as a prison, in which, for the future, their only happiness must arise from enumerating delights that were gone for ever, and in talking of persons who were to be seen no more. To all, of which Ellen could speak, they were perfectly indifferent. They were too indolent to enter into her exercises, and too ignorant to care about her studies.

Ellen sensibly felt her disappointment, a disap­pointment that every future day confirmed.

Her mother added ill humour and disappro­bation to her coldness: and though it was no longer in her power to punish, or to control her, it was more than sufficiently so to mortify and to thwart her. There was no opportunity that occurred of doing either, that she ever suffered to escape. Her dislike to Ellen was, indeed, little, if at all, short of hatred. She could not conceal from herself how false had been the character which, in her early years, she had sought to stamp her with. Her understanding and temper, however, now [Page 41] appeared both to be indubitably excellent: and mrs. Mordaunt was fully aware of the conclusion that must be drawn by every body, that if such soil had not from the first produced fruit, it must have been wholly owing to the unskilfulness of the cultivator. She therefore considered Ellen's merits and acquirements, as reproaches to herself, and as a most severe mortification to her vanity; and as she could not, with all her depreciation of them, lessen their real value; she hated Ellen as the cause of her daily and hourly mortifi­cation.

It was more by the self indulgence of railing at Ellen, than from any fixed design, that mrs. Mor­daunt communicated her prejudices to the hearts of her daughters. These prejudices were aided by the discovery that they soon made, that Ellen, though so far short of them in years, was their superior in every kind of useful knowledge. They found she every day grew into more consideration: and the just preference that mr. Mordaunt gave her in his affections, though they did not by any effort towards imitating her excellencies endeavour to lessen, filled them with the most rancorous jea­lousy. They shrunk from all Ellen's playful and affectionate attempts towards being upon a fami­liar footing with them: and she was soon pain­fully convinced, that she was to look for no friend­ship from her sisters.

All mr. Mordaunt's efforts to establish harmony and mutual love among the individuals of his fa­mily were in vain. It soon came to be considered as composed of two parties, of which mrs. Mor­daunt and her two eldest daughters formed one, and mr. Mordaunt and Ellen the other. The boy [Page 42] he had resolutely divided from his mother, and placed under the care of a friend of his own, from whose assiduity he hoped he might derive advan­tages, that would, in some measure, make up for the years that had been mispent.

"If," said he to mrs. Thornton, with a sigh of the bitterest self-reproach, "if I am to do justice to the understandings of my children, or to pre­serve their hearts from selfishness and vanity, it must be by removing them from the influence of a woman whom I once imagined possessed of every virtue that adorns humanity."

"Ah, my dear friend," said mr. Thornton, "your mistake is not an uncommon one. The fascination of beauty always has prevailed, and always will prevail. We can only render it harm­less, by giving to our females such educations as will place all the useful energies of the understand­ing, and all the virtuous propensities of the heart, in conjunction with personal charms. If this can be done, the whole of human kind will bene­fit."

Ellen disappointed in the reciprocation of affec­tion and pleasure which she had hoped for from her own family, applied herself closer than ever to her lessons: and the kindness of mr. and mrs. Thornton, with the friendship of their daughter, she found no inadequate compensation for the contrary sentiments that filled the bosoms of her mother and sisters.

The following summer again brought Henry into Northumberland. He and Ellen met with mutual delight: and this delight increased with every hour they passed together.

If Henry had been the companion and play-fellow [Page 43] of Ellen, when first they knew each other, he now became her friend. Ellen had already sorrows to disburden. The invincible silence and apparent unconsciousness of both mr. and mrs. Thornton, as to the conduct of her mother and sisters towards her, left Ellen at a loss to know whether it was perceived by them or no. But such reserve on their part made appear the pro­priety of her continuing equally silent, and seem­ingly unconscious. From a feeling of delicacy, she was not more communicative to Mary.

But with Henry she had no concealments. His quick sense had instantly revealed to him the unkindness of his aunt and cousins: and the warmth of his heart and temper led him to speak of it to Ellen, in terms of honest indignation. Ellen was not angry; but she was grieved. She lamented her own inability to conciliate the affec­tions of those by whom she most wished to be be­loved, and to love: and Henry being made still more angry by seeing her grief, declared them, in express terms, to be unworthy of her solicitude or regret.

Henry's partiality for Ellen, was an additional motive to her mother's hatred, and her sisters' jealousy. Mrs. Mordaunt had hitherto boasted of her nephew as the ornament and pride of her own family: and she could not but look upon it as a degradation to the dignity of that family, to see him give the most unequivocal manifestations of preferable attachment to that child of hers, whose birth, she scrupled not to declare, she considered as her greatest misfortune.

Henry, with something of a malicious archness, was so far from concealing his partiality in com­pliment [Page 44] to his aunt, that he took every opportu­nity of displaying it before her, and of magnify­ing the merits and acquirements of Ellen, be­yond all other merits and acquirements. He needed not this method for the confirmation of a passion that had taken deep root in his heart.

CHAP. VII.

EVERY vacation, while Henry continued at school, and many days that were not vacation, when by his removal to college he became more his own master, were spent by him, upon some pretence or other, at Groby Manor. Each time he saw Ellen his attachment increased, for each time she appeared more amiable and charming in his eyes.

Perhaps the most unsuspicious proof of a good education is, that the progress of time is marked by the progress of improvement in the pupil. Ellen gave this proof of the goodness of her education. Every six months she had made some acquisition in knowledge, or gave some proof that her reason strengthened, and that her passions were more under control. Good habits were converted into virtues; and warm affections ripened into bene­volence.

Those who bestow the name of education on a desultory form of instruction, often suspended through idleness, or broken in upon by frivolous and pernicious amusements, whose efforts, weak as they are, are directed wholly to filling the head, rather than to forming the heart, or cultivating [Page 46] the reason, cannot guess, and will not be made to believe, how much useful knowledge, how much vigour of mind, how much strength of prin­ciple, may be produced by eleven years of wisely directed and unremitted attention to those objects.

Ellen at seventeen, with all the gaiety that belongs to that age, possessed great acuteness of discernment, much power of reason, an invincible integrity, and a command over her passions, which is not often met with in the most advanced years. Her mind was stored with useful and ornamental learning. Her person was light and agile. She had the prettiest hands and feet in the world. Her countenance was frank and intelligent: and her complexion clear and blooming. No one would have fallen in love with Ellen for her beauty; but, being in love with her, every one must have thought her beautiful.

Henry could now sit whole hours with her at chess, or hanging over the back of her chair. Any sound that she drew from her harpsichord had power to rivet him to the spot. Ellen could re­mark on the difference of his taste now and in former times: but she was not conscious of the change that had taken place in the nature of his attachment. Her's towards him, was lively and animated, as it had always been. But being ac­customed to love him only as her cousin, she thought she loved him as her cousin still.

Henry, however, now twenty, was no stranger to the nature of the passion which wholly occupied his mind; and being challenged upon it by his uncle, frankly declared that his hope and design were to gain the heart of Ellen, and that, having gained it, no earthly consideration should make him forego the possession of her person.

[Page 47]"But your father?"—

"My father has no claims upon me but those of nature. I am no eldest son, thank heaven. To me cannot be pleaded either the pride or the ava­rice of my family. I am destined to work out my own support; and by that destiny my inde­pendence is secured. Oh! my uncle, give me leave to try to gain the affections of Ellen. Do you ratify the gift, and my father neither will or can have any objection to our union."

"It is at least fit you consult him before you attempt to gain a heart, which, even if gained, ought not, without his concurrence, and, I flatter myself, would not remain yours."

Oh! thought Henry, if I were once assured of Ellen's heart, the way would be easy.

"Will you, sir, explain my hopes and my wishes to my father? You know I have never attempted concealment. I have always thought I had a right, as one born to independence—the independence that industry gives—to indulge in a love which has possessed my heart from the first weeks of my knowledge of Ellen, and which will never depart from it but with my latest sigh."

"I love your frankness, and I love your ar­dour: but I must tell you, you are mistaken in your idea of independence. What are you, what can you be for many years to come, unsupported by your father? It is for him to say how you shall exert your industry, what assistances he will give to it, and what returns he may expect from the success of it, before you can consider yourself as being, or pretend to act as, an independent person."

"But you, sir," said Henry lowering his tone, "but you, sir, could be favourable to my wishes."

"I shall be, I must be, ruled by your father. [Page 48] All I can give Ellen will be little; and I shall never consent to her becoming the wife of any man against the consent of his parent."

Henry's hopes seemed to [...]otter to the founda­tion. "What would you have me to do, sir?" said he faintly. "I will put myself under your direction. I wish to consider you as my father."

"What I require from you is to quit Groby Manor. I would guard Ellen from all unneces­sary pain; and therefore if you are not to be united, I would spare her the pang of a disap­pointed hope. At present, with all your insi­nuating qualities, young man, I believe your heart is free."

"This is what you require of me," said Henry impatiently: "what is it that you advise?"

"That you open your mind fully to your father, and that you act implicitly as he shall direct."

"And suppose he forbids me to think any more of Ellen, do you suppose I can obey him?"

"Indeed I do; because you ought."

"And could you, sir, at my age?"

"Ask me no questions. If you hope for my interest, you must do what I require and advise."

"With such a bribe, what is it I would not do? I will be gone this very evening, nay, within this hour. If I were to see Ellen again, who knows but I might whisper a secret in her ear, that might make her not uninterested in the success of my journey."

"Go; and my good wishes go with you. If you can add perseverance to your activity, you may in time have the independence you talk [Page 49] of; and I may have the pleasure to receive you as my son."

Henry pressed his uncle's hand between both his in speechless agitation, and ran off to conceal his falling tears.

Henry's journey was speedy, and not wholly unsuccessful. Marriage, according to the deci­sion of lord Villars, was to be put wholly out of the question for some years: but Henry was al­lowed, upon those terms, to endeavour to attach Ellen to himself: and lord Villars promised, when his son could prove to him that he was master of the annual sum of five hundred pounds, as the fruits of his own industry, that he should then be allowed to make her his wife. His profession was to be the law. Three hundred pounds a year lord Villars proposed to allow him; and he engaged to continue this sum 'till Henry by his own efforts made the five hundred pounds per annum eight.

Henry already thought himself the husband of Ellen; but lord Villars's views were very different. By removing the possibility of a connexion, which it was not his desire should ever take place, to so distant and uncertain a period, he depended upon the vicissitude of human events, and the instability of human affections. He knew, much better than Henry, how long it must of necessity be be­fore he could perform his part of the engagement: and in the lapse of so many years, he made sure of his calculation, that either the power to do so, or the will, would be lost. He might indeed have refused his consent altogether, but he had many reasons for not doing this. Although steady and unbending as to the end he had in [...]iew, the means he always chose should be the [Page 50] gentlest possible. Experience had long confirmed him in the policy of such proceeding. If they succeeded at all, their success was more complete than any which violence could produce: and if violence must be resorted to, it ever operated with double force for having been for some time withheld.

In this case he particularly attended to the cha­racter of Henry; the energy of whose mind he knew would be up in arms against manifest injus­tice or manifest unreasonableness. It suited nei­ther his family views, nor his interest to be at va­riance with a son, whose superiority of character he was willing to make the instrument of family aggrandizement. He was not inattentive either to the advantage to be derived from curbing the passions and indiscretions of a young man, or of the spur that might be given to his industry, by the bait of a promised marriage with the woman of his choice, as a reward for his virtue and his exertions. But in thus holding forth the sugar­plumb for good behaviour, he by no means yielded the power of the rod which was still to be exercised, if after circumstances made it necessary.

Henry comprehended nothing of all this. He relied equally on the good faith of his father and his own constancy; and thanking lord Villars for his indulgence with the most enraptured gratitude, measured back his steps to Northumberland.

Mr. Mordaunt thought lord Villars's decision both wise and kind; and most willingly gave Henry permission to gain the heart of Ellen, if he could.

In the character of Henry mr. Mordaunt saw the seeds of all those qualities that he could wish for in a husband for his daughter. But, had he [Page 51] been independent, and his wishes sanctioned by the approbation of lord Villars, mr. Mordaunt would not willingly have trusted, at the early and tempestuous age of twenty, the happiness of Ellen to his care. His disposition was too ardent, and his taste for pleasure too eager, to have given a reasonable hope, that having thus early attained the summit of his wishes, the rest of his life would be regulated by the dictates of reason, or even that the object which had so easily been obtained, however now highly prized, would be able to maintain its value in his estimation. But in the discipline of a seven or eight years' study of the law, with Ellen for his reward, mr. Mordaunt saw a course of education for Henry, that would, he doubted not, give stability to all his virtues, and train him to that power of mind, and recti­tude of feeling, which would secure both her happiness and his own.

All these arrangements were received by mrs. Mordaunt with a sullen discontent. She smiled scornfully at the idea of an engagement between a boy and a girl, the accomplishment of which was not to take place until so distant a period of time: and she expressed a wonder that her brother would ever consent to so foolish a contract. How­ever as the completion of it opened no views of splendour or greatness to Ellen, she took no trou­ble to oppose it, and contented herself with pro­phesying that it would all end ill.

Ellen, from the simplicity of her life, and the full occupation of her time, had perhaps thought less of love and matrimony than any girl of her age: but Henry was not the less dear to her for this. It is true, he made neither her sleeping or her waking dreams. She slept each night sound [...]d undisturbed: and she arose each morning gay [Page 52] and active. The day was not more tedious when Henry was away; but it was infinitely more de­lightful when he was there. His conversation had more charms for her than that of any other of her companions, but she had no desire to enjoy his conversation apart. If things went on in their usual course, Henry occurred seldom to her mind: but if she were more than ordinarily pleased, or more than ordinarily chagrined, "Oh, that my cousin were here!" was the first wish of her heart: Ellen heard the commendations of Henry with no sensation but that of a simple acquiescence in their truth. But where he was blamed, she was struck with surprise, and thought not so much of vindicating him, as correcting a mistake. Of his merits, as equivocal, she herself never spoke, no more than of the light of the sun: they appeared equally uncontrovertible. Neither thought she of denying or affirming that she loved him. To love Henry seemed to her as natural as loving herself. But had he never been allowed to return to Northum­berland, when he left it on his last visit to his fa­ther, however Ellen might have sensibly lamented the loss of her earliest friend and most loved com­panion, her peace would have remained secure, and her heart unwounded.

Henry had hitherto been satisfied with the kind of love Ellen had felt for him. But he now sought to render it more decided and appropriate.

The change in his attentions had not before es­caped her: and the change in his language was still more striking. This change did not, howe­ver, displease her; nor did it alarm her, till she began to find something like it in herself. Ellen had been accustomed to think, nor could she proceed long heedlessly in any path. Little re­flection [Page 53] upon circumstances made her believe, that it was her duty to repress the too fervent ex­pressions and intimations of Henry's regard, and to lead herself and him back to that calm state of friendship, when, however delighted to be toge­ther, they were indifferent whether it were with others or alone.

In consequence of this little plan, she avoided all tete-a-tete walks, all withdrawings from soci­ety▪ to pursue their studies or amusements toge­ther. Sometimes she assumed an air of reserve, when his heart was running over at his lips; and at others appeared not to understand what was spoken in the most express terms.

Henry was in despair; for he did not find out that all these were symptoms the most decided in his favour.

Mr. Mordaunt amused himself sometimes with those cares. As he had no objection to the hook striking deep into the heart of Ellen, he suffered her thus to play with the line 'till she was completely entangled in it.

Having heard her one day resolutely deaf to the earnest solicitation of Henry for a walk in the wood, and having seen him in consequence walk off in a huff, while she remained thoughtful and silent at her work,

"How comes this, Ellen?" said he, "It seems as if Henry and you were not upon such good terms as formerly."

Ellen blushed.

"Or are you upon better?" said mr. Mordaunt archly. Ellen blushed a deeper die: and almost hiding her face in her handkerchief, she replied [Page 54] faintly, "It might be possible I might see too much of my cousin."

"And do you think if there were danger that you might see too much of your cousin, I should have suffered you to have seen so much?"

Ellen raised her eyes hastily to her father; and as hastily let them fall again.

"Come, my dear Ellen, if I were your lover, I might perhaps enjoy your confusion: but as your father I must relieve you from it. You may follow Henry into the wood; and whatever he may say to you there, be assured he has mine and his father's sanction for."

The inexpressible joy that filled the heart of Ellen at these words, first told her how much such a sanction was necessary to her happiness.

Whether Ellen followed Henry into the wood, or whether she waited for the explanation, till he followed her there, may be left to the decision of every female who reads their story. But certain it is, that from this evening he had an allowed interest in her heart.

Like him, she had a perfect reliance on his constancy, and his industry. But he did not so fully agree with her, that their happiness was likely to be more permanent from being established on the grounds of prudence and forbearance, than if they were, maugre all such considerations, to begin it from that moment.

It mattered not, however, as to the effect, what was the opinion of either of them in this point. From the decree which had declared their marriage should not take place till Henry's application pro­duced him five hundred pounds a year, there lay no appeal.

[Page 55]Henry took chambers in Lincoln's Inn, and began his legal career with equal diligence and acuteness. Every vacation he spent at Groby Manor: and he was earnest in displaying, both to Ellen and her father, his habits of application and economy. Ellen relying upon his affection, and pleased with her prospects in life, had no jealousies to alarm, or anxieties to disturb her. She pursued, uninterruptedly, her accustomed course of studies and amusements: and as she grew more her own mistress, and more independent, they were im­proved into pleasures of the purest kind, by being enabled to render her benevolence more active, and by suffering her attentions to take a wider range.

She had now nearly attained her nineteenth year; and she had resided wholly at Groby Manor for the last twelve months. She continued, how­ever, to live much with mr. and mrs. Thornton, under whose dearly-beloved roof many hours of every day were passed. Nor could any thing in­crease that affection which subsisted between her, and its highly-valued inhabitants. The gratifica­tions of taste, and the feelings of the heart, formed the ties which bound them to each other: and the force of obligation, received and communi­cated, rendered them indissoluble.

CHAP. VIII.

IT was at this time that lord Villars invited his sister and her whole family to his house in Hamp­shire. He had formed for his eldest son a ma­trimonial connection, with lady Almeria Western, an heiress of a large fortune, to whom he was guardian. To bring this matter to the desired issue, had cost him much artifice and trouble: and the success of his plans filled him with not less pride than pleasure. The lady was still very young: and as his son had no attractions either of person or manner, he was eager to complete the marriage before her comparative powers would lead her to make such distinctions as might probably break it off for ever. As she added a very competent share of beauty to the attractions of her thousands, it was not to be doubted, but that, if she appeared in the world, mr. Villars would meet with many competitors: and lord Villars had none of that blind parental partiality that could conceal from him, in any degree, the [Page 57] danger of such a competition. The marriage, it was therefore determined, should take place im­mediately. It was to be celebrated in the country; and lord Villars wished, by making every circum­stance relative to it as splendid and dazzling as possible, to persuade the young bride that she was an enviable and a happy woman.

Mr. Mordaunt willingly accepted the invitation, both as an indulgence to his wife and his elder daughters, and from a desire to introduce Ellen to a more intimate knowledge than any she had yet attained, of a family of which she was some time to make one. Henry also was to leave the dust and dullness of his chambers, upon this fes­tive occasion: nor was there to be any one circum­stance omitted that could contribute to the satis­faction of any of the individuals who were to form the party to be assembled. Joy and happiness were to pervade the whole.—But how vain are the plans of human wisdom! The triteness of the observation is the proof of its truth.

Three days before the intended nuptials, the destined bridegroom was thrown from his horse; and received a hurt, that in thrice as many hours deprived him of life.

It would be impossible to describe the degrees and variety of sorrow this event gave occasion for. Lady Villars wept as a tender mother. Her children were affected in a greater or less degree, according to their age and sensibility. Lady Al­meria was more stunned than afflicted. Mrs. Mordaunt saw, with grief, the path that this event opened to the exaltation of Ellen. Henry's un­feigned sorrow for the death of his brother was not unmixed with a tumultuous sensation, arising [Page 58] from the change that had thereby arisen in his own situation, and the uncertainty how that change might operate on the dearest wishes of his heart.

These various emotions, however, were all within the bounds of moderation: but, to the grief and disappointment of lord Villars there were no bounds. The sorrows of a parent on the death of a child appeared to be sacred and un­questionable; all hearts of common humanity sympathized with lord Villars: but few, if any, suspected the source from whence the extremity of his affliction proceeded.—He had lost his son: this loss might be supplied. But with his son he had lost the heiress—that heiress, by the fortunes of whom every branch of his family were to be benefited, on whose property he had formed, in idea, a superstructure of greatness and power, which could be realized by no other means, and the demolition of which filled him with the cruelest pangs. There was indeed one way; but it was nearly hopeless.

On Henry had devolved the rights and the titles of his brother, could he be prevailed upon to fulfil his engagements. Lord Villars had often wished him in his brother's place. The supe­riority of his character fitted him for the head of his family: but the decrees of nature could not be reversed: and lord Villars had endeavoured to persuade himself, that wealth and rank might bestow, even upon his eldest son, the consequence that character had denied. They might how­ever now be united—they must—they should be united. Lord Villars had taken his resolution▪ and it remained only to think of the means that might put it into force.

[Page 59]The first step was to break Henry's engagement with Ellen. But it was an act of so violent and irritating a nature as to make almost hopeless every consequence that lord Villars wished to follow from it. It was, however, a necessary step, and that without which nothing could be done. Lord Villars well knew the tender feelings of Henry: and though he was aware he should in vain at­tempt to overcome his spirit, he was not without hopes that he might work upon his heart.

For this purpose, the genuine sorrow that the first sense of his disappointment inflicted, was suc­ceeded in lord Villars by a counterfeit affliction, in appearance as deep, as heart-breaking, and as incapable of consolation as was ever felt by a parent for the loss of an only and highly be­loved offspring.

Henry soon lost every other thought in com­miseration for his father, and in anxious endea­vours to console him. But lord Villars was not to be consoled. He could no longer endure to remain at a place, where he had been deprived of the hopes of his future life. He wished to remove to a smaller house that he had on the borders of the county: and he wished only to have for his companions lady Villars, lady Almeria, mrs. Mor­daunt, and Henry. Of lady Almeria indeed he had become so fond, that he could not bear her from his sight. "She was the beloved of his lost son: how could she be otherwise than inex­pressibly dear to him?"

For the desire of retaining mrs. Mordaunt he gave more genuine reasons. He knew there were no schemes for the aggrandizement of her own family, (as she always took care to denominate that of the Villars's) and for the mortification of [Page 60] Ellen, that she would not with equal avidity seek to promote. He therefore said, with the most perfect sincerity, "that from her company he hoped more, than from any other, toward soothing his mind:" and he earnestly intreated mr. Mor­daunt to leave her with him for a few weeks, promising, at the end of that period, to bring her himself into Northumberland, where, with mr. Mordaunt's permission, he would stay some time, as he hoped from the quiet and seclusion in which he might there live, to regain more composure and happiness, than he could expect to derive from more busy and public scenes."

It was not possible for mr. Mordaunt to refuse his consent to any part of what lord Villars pro­posed. But in spite of his wish to repel all sus­picion from his mind, there was something in lord Villars's conduct that excited very uneasy sensa­tions, as to the rectitude of his future intentions.

Without his being able to fix on any one cir­cumstance that could justify his fears, mr. Mor­daunt was strongly possessed by the apprehension, that lord Villars's grief was a cover to designs inimical to the happiness of Henry and Ellen. There appeared too much plan and arrangement in all he did, to proceed from a mind wholly im­mersed in grief, as he pretended his to be. The extravagant attachment that he professed to lady Almeria, the almost total neglect that he mani­fested to Ellen, with the perfect silence he main­tained as to the engagements subsisting between her and Henry, and the excluding her from a party where she would so properly have made one, all contributed to strengthen this apprehension.

Lady Villars, who had become extremely fond of Ellen, had expressed a wish that she might [Page 61] continue with her: but this had been mentioned only once, and seemed to be no more thought of. Henry, who had not supposed it possible it should be intended she should leave him, expressed the utmost astonishment and reluctance when he found it was so designed: and he was told by mrs. Mor­daunt, that it was at the particular request of mr. Mordaunt that Ellen was to go away.

All these circumstances conspired to oppress mr. Mordaunt's mind with very serious fears. But he was withheld by delicacy and respect to the sorrow lord Villars displayed, from coming to any explanation upon the subject with him at this time. He knew the delay of a few weeks could be of no importance; and he was willing to hope, that by giving lord Villars more time for reflection, he might be led to see the injustice of any hasty design, which the poignancy of his present disap­pointment might have suggested, of separating Henry and Ellen. He was also cautious not to betray any suspicion that might seem to suggest the possibility of such a measure being adopted, and still more so to avoid giving a sanction to such breach of faith, by seeming to expect it. He contented himself therefore with saying to lord Villars, that he should be truly glad to afford him every consolation that he could derive from the retirement of Groby Manor, and the unwearied attentions of his family to every thing likely to contribute to his satisfaction; and that Ellen, he was assured, would think it as much her pleasure as her duty to do all in her power to supply the loss he had sustained.

"We will talk farther of such things," said lord Villars hastily, "when I rejoin you in Northum­berland: [Page 62] and it shall not be long before I shall do so."

Divided between hope and fear, as to what were lord Villars's future plans, mr. Mordaunt returned, with his daughters, to Groby Manor. But to Ellen he communicated neither the one nor the other: and happily for the ease of her mind, no suspicion similar to her father's, had found admittance there. Since the death of mr. Villars, she had been wholly occupied with the feelings of others; and all thoughts of self had been lost in her solicitude to administer to the comfort of those around her. The change that had taken place in the situation of Henry had been brought about by so disastrous an event, that it never presented itself to her mind under the form of pleasure: but neither did it ever occur to her that a circumstance that secured him an immediate situation in life, more affluent than that which he was to have attained by the flow progress of his personal efforts, could be the means of placing a barrier between them, who were so certainly to have been united when those efforts were crowned with success.

She returned, however, saddened by the scenes she had witnessed, by her separation from Henry, and by something of an unsettled notion, that though lady Villars was all kindness and affection, towards her, lord Villars had shewn her more marks of neglect than regard.

CHAP. IX.

LORD VILLARS and his family were now removed to the Grove; and Henry appeared so assidious in his efforts to administer comfort to his father, and so sincerely touched with the con­tinuance of his grief, that lord Villars was led to believe he might safely begin his operations.

One day, therefore, as they were alone toge­ther, lord Villars, as usual, apparently immersed in sorrow, and Henry, as usual, exerting all his faculties to rouse and amuse him. "My dear fa­ther," said he, with emotion, "it goes to my heart to see you thus overcome with a fruitless affliction. For my sake, for the sake of your fa­mily, endeavour to recover more power of mind."

"I am indeed overcome with affliction. But it is for the sake of my family that I am thus over­whelmed."

"My dear sir, we all know your paternal feel­ings. We all know the loss that—"

"No, Henry, it is not that: it is not any selfish sorrow that overwhelms me. I could bear my own loss: but it is the ruin of my family, involved in that loss, which I deplore."

Henry started. Thoughts rushed into his mind, which if they had ever found entrance there be­fore [Page 64] he had repel [...]ed, as too affrontive to the ho­nour of his father, to be entertained for a mo­ment.

"The eldest son of a noble and not opulent family," continued lord Villars, "stands in so many relative situations, that his death, when his place cannot be fully supplied by a succeeding brother, is no single misfortune. It inflicts no single wound. Every branch of that family, how­ever widely diverged, must sustain an incurable evil."—

Henry was silent. He felt no inclination in himself to take his brother's place—to heal these wounds. Lord Villars went on.

"You know the princely fortunes that lady Almeria was to have brought to your brother: but you are mistaken if you suppose the advan­tages would all have been his. You, your bro­thers, your sisters, the whole innumerable tribe of you, would have felt the beneficial effects of her property through your lives, and perhaps be­yond the latest period of them."

"My brother's death," said Henry coolly, "was very unfortunate both in its circumstances and effects."

"In its circumstances it certainly was. But it depends upon you to say whether it shall be so in its effects."

"Upon me, my lord," said Henry, affecting more surprise than he felt.

"My dear son, I have no reason to doubt the rectitude of your principles, or the tenderness of your heart. I can therefore have no doubt how you will act. But it is painful to me, that your duty and inclination should be, however little, divided."

[Page 65]"Divided, my lord! no, thank heaven, they are united, and united in such bonds as no power whatever can dissolve."

"How you charm me, my dearest son! and how true it is that a wise son maketh a glad father!"

Lord Villars was not accustomed to quote scripture. Henry's heart was not the lighter for his doing so upon this occasion.

"It is necessary, my lord, that we should un­derstand each other. I presume, that we both mean, that it is my duty to maintain engagements entered into voluntarily, and authorised by your sanction?"

"Undoubtedly, all such engagements as can be kept. But when a change of circumstances has changed not only the nature of duties, but of possibilities, engagements that cannot be fulfilled dissolve themselves. I am assured that your own natural sense tells you that you cannot now marry Ellen."

"Not marry Ellen! What power shall hinder me."

"The power of your own mind, sir—the sense of right—the dread of my never-ceasing abhorrence."

Henry writhed with agony.

"It is to your understanding, it is to your jus­tice I appeal. Where is now that independence on which alone you grounded your right to choose for yourself? Is it your own interest, or the inte­rest of others, that in pursuing that choice you would sacrifice? Had you, from the first, been placed in the circumstances you are now in, should you have dared to propose such a choice to me? [Page 66] Do you believe me sufficiently weak, or wicked, to have sanctioned such a choice? You are no longer the person you were when I did sanction it. You have no longer the same rights, the same duties. You must no longer have the same conduct."

"Let me then," said Henry, with a new-born hope springing up in his soul, and brightening his eye, "let me then resume that station, where only can my happiness and my duty be reconciled. Let me again become a younger brother. To Frederic, with all my heart and soul, will I make over all my rights of primogenitureship."

"It is not in your power, sir. You cannot give him your title, unworthy as you are to retain it."

"And what is title without honour? You require me to give up the one, and yet are tena­cious of the other."

"I am jealous of both alike, sir; and will not see either prostituted to the romantic fancy of a boy."

"You wrong my affection, my lord; indeed you wrong it. It is founded on reason and on virtue."

"I should be less surprised at the warmth with which you pursue it," returned lord Villars, with a sarcastic smile, "if it were founded upon beauty. Your passion, Henry, wants the stamp that will alone make it pass current in the world."

"Beauty! Ellen is an angel."

"Yet this angel of yours will have no objec­tion to becoming your wife, though she bring you for her dowry ruin and a father's detestation."

"Oh! no, no, she would reject, she would renounce me for ever, rather—"

[Page 67]"And can you admire that rectitude of mind in her, which you refuse to imitate? But I talk not of your ruin, sir. After the degeneracy of mind that you have betrayed in this conversation, were you alone concerned, I would not trouble myself to with-hold you from it. But I must not so far forget my duties, whatever you do yours, as to suffer you to involve in your destruction the destruction of a family. My hopes for the esta­blishment of you all, were placed on your brother's match with lady Almeria. You have succeeded to your brother's rights, and to his engagements: and, however unworthy of it, you have also suc­ceeded to his place in lady Almeria's heart. She views you, ungrateful boy as you are, with but too favourable an eye. Upon you it depends to give wealth and happiness, or poverty and wretch­edness, to your parents and to your family. We shall see the kind of heart you have, by the elec­tion you make."

"The happiness that derives wholly from wealth, and the wretchedness that is dependent alone upon poverty, are both, in my eyes too unsubstantial to deserve any sacrifices—my lord, do with me as you will—but I will never be the husband of lady Almeria."

"And remember, peremptory sir, that but under my heaviest malediction shall you ever be­come the husband of Ellen."

The father and son here parted: and from this day the farce of affliction, except in public, was over.

CHAP. X.

BUT if the bosom of lord Villars seemed light­ened from a load of woe, that of Henry became insupportably oppressed.

However he might be roused by the thought of ill treatment to a resolute assertion of his own rights, or however firmly his heart might be at­tached to Ellen, or his determination be unchange­ably fixed, never to abandon her, he could not be unmoved by the displeasure of his father, or by the thought, that in a parent's eye he was the cause of unhappiness to himself, or family. Nei­ther could he be insensible of the truth of many of lord Villars's arguments, or unconscious that a marriage with Ellen, in the present circumstances, would be attended with many inconveniencies. But the thought that dwelt most upon his mind, and the grief that pressed the heaviest upon his heart, arose from the probability that now this marriage would never take place. He believed he knew her too well to flatter himself that she would become his wife against the express prohi­bition of his father: and perhaps he prized her integrity too highly to wish that she should do so. But the sense of this integrity, the certainty of the virtues from which it arose, made the suppo­sition [Page 69] that he should never call her his, an agony that he knew not how to endure. He distracted himself with endeavouring to find out some middle way, that might reconcile his father's expectations and his own ideas of happiness: but, wherever he turned, his detested title, like Dejanira's fatal gift, stuck close, and filled him with torment and despair.

His father often returned to the attack, some­times with an appeal to his generosity and his rea­son; and then was his resolution most in danger of yielding, and his heart torn with the extremest anguish: sometimes with the high tone of autho­rity, and the most severe denunciations of ever­lasting displeasure. Here Henry was invulnerable. When he was threatened, he became as the rock, which seems but the more firmly fixed by the storm that beats against it.

He knew, however, that if he did not yield, neither would his father; and that in any case his happiness, and in the former both his happi­ness and filial duty must go to wreck. Of lady Almeria he thought little. Yet it was some ad­dition to his unhappiness, to see evident marks of that partiality, with which his father had told him she distinguished him.

This was in part the work of mrs. Mordaunt; and it was the business in which lord Villars had from the first engaged her.

Lady Almeria, even before the death of mr. Villars, had not been wholly insensible to the difference which nature had made between the brothers. She had not been entirely without some wandering thoughts, that if Henry had been the elder brother, her destiny would have been the [Page 70] happier. But she was too young and too giddy to suffer those thoughts to sink deep in her mind, had it not been for the artifices and management of mrs. Mordaunt, who insinuated how generous it would be in lady Mary to turn her affections to Henry. She formed the hope, that he might re­turn those affections: and it was by her skill and care, that the strength of his engagements with Ellen were concealed from lady Almeria. All those were, however, unnecessary cares, and founded wholly upon the imperfect knowledge that had yet been attained of the disposition of lady Mary.

Scarcely escaped from the nursery, she was little known; and she had credit given her for infinitely more feeling and delicacy than she pos­sessed. Of love she was incapable: but having quick perceptions, and a tolerable power of dis­criminating characters, she was well formed for taking strong though transient likings. And while such prepossessions lasted, it would not have been any consideration, for the peace or honour of another, that would have with-held her from the gratification of them. Stimulated by the arts of mrs. Mordaunt, and moved by her own taste, she had taken this kind of fancy to Henry; and pro­vided she could inspire him with the like, she troubled her head little with the nature of those engagements that had once subsisted between him and Ellen. It was not in Henry's nature to be rude or careless, especially where a woman, and a young and pretty woman, was concerned. His address, therefore, to lady Almeria, was gentle and obliging: and though she would rather it had been impassioned or gay, yet she hoped both these modes were to come, when he had got over [Page 71] the odd fancy, as she called it, of grieving for the death of a brother, which had made him heir to a title and an estate of seven thousand pounds a year.

In the mean time, Henry, alike unable wholly to explain his distress, or wholly to conceal it from Ellen, wrote her letters that filled her with the cruellest disquietude. She knew not how to shape her fears; but every added line told her that some misfortune awaited her. Whether she were to suffer with or apart from Henry she knew not. Whether she were to be the sport of his incon­stancy, or the victim of his prudence, she was unable, from the tenor of his letters, to resolve. Had she been to have chosen her fate, the decision was easy. The resignation of Henry she thought herself equal to: but under his depravity or un­kindness she believed she must sink.

In this state of her mind, she was as little able to express her wishes and her fears with clearness, as was Henry himself. She called upon him again and again, to explain himself; while he, some­times, thinking he saw a flexibility in his father that revived his hope, and sometimes, from his increased severity, relapsing into despair, alter­nately awakened the hopes and the fears of Ellen, without explaining to her his grounds for either.

Mr. Mordaunt saw the uneasiness of Ellen, and but too truly divined the cause. He forebore, however, to press her upon the subject, and thought she would frankly have opened her heart to him, ha [...] she had any thing certain to tell. She shrunk from conversing with him on a mystery that might involve the condemnation of Henry.

Mr. Mordaunt wrote repeatedly both to lord Villars and mrs. Mordaunt, to remind them of [Page 72] their promise, of joining him in Northumberland, but hitherto without receiving any satisfactory answers. Lord Villars, however, beginning now to be convinced he had nothing to hope either from the ambition, the reason, or the obedience of Henry, resolved to try his influence with Ellen, and by making her renounce his son, render it a matter of indifference, as far as their engagements, whether his son would renounce her or no. He determined therefore to set out for Northumber­land. He wished to conceal his intention from his son: but Henry had too much at stake, to be easily thrown off his guard, or lulled into a false security.

He had considered, that while his father con­tinued in Hampshire, the contest lay wholly be­tween them; and that there was at least a chance, that his obstinacy might out-tire that of his fa­ther's. While this was possible, he forebore to explain himself to Ellen, unwilling to impress her mind with the painful sense of his father's injus­tice, or to make a parade of his own constancy: but he was aware, that lord Villars's removal into Northumberland was with the design of bringing the dispute before another tribunal, and a tribunal where he knew the voice of love would plead in vain, were it once imagined to be opposed by that of reason or of rectitude.

Not a moment, therefore, was to be lost, lest Ellen might be interested in the decision, by an undue application to her generosity, or by a belief, though but a momentary one, that he could hesi­tate in his. He was therefore no sooner convinced that lord Villars meant to begin his journey to Northumberland in a few days, than he dispatched a messenger with the following letter▪

[Page 73]"The moment that any longer concealment would be unavailing and dangerous, is now come. Imagine, my dearest Ellen, the greatest sacrifice that can be made to avarice and ambition; and then know that such a sacrifice is required of me. While there remained a hope that the ear of rea­son and of justice would be open to my argu­ments, and my rights, I forebore to shock you with an instance of depravity, that, I blush to think, proceeds from one I am bound to re­verence and to love. It having been found, how­ever, that I am invincible, I know that the at­tack is about to be transferred from me to you. It is meant, that you should be subdued by your virtues. But remember, dearest creature, that they are not your own rights you will be called upon to resign; they are mine—my just, my sanctioned, my inalienable rights. Remem­ber, that I never will resign them while I breathe. —Beware of a false generosity, a mistaken virtue —disinterestedness, in this case, would be injus­tice. You are mine, my chosen love, my be­trothed wife.—I have had my father's word that you should be my wife.—Circumstances may be changed; but I am the same; be you so too, my Ellen; and we shall weather this storm, which now seems to threaten the wreck of our happi­ness: but our happiness cannot be lost while we preserve our virtues. It is by virtue, by the most solemn engagements we are bound to each other. Let us ever keep our principles in view, lest we be misled by the ignis fatuus of sophistry. That cannot be generous which is unjust. Be just to me, my Ellen, and I fear not your generosity to others.

[Page 74]"I must remain where I am, while my father continues here: but no sooner does he set out for Groby Manor, than I do so too: and you may trust that speed will be swiftest, that is winged by love."

CHAP. XI.

THIS letter was received by Ellen with a va­riety of emotions. She read in it a certainty of her misfortune; but she read in it also an assurance of the constancy and generosity of Henry.— She acknowledged no right that could divide her from him; but she trembled at the power, that, in adhering to him, she knew she must oppose. —Her heart told her, there was no happiness without Henry: and the source of rectitude shewed her, that there was no escape from misery in becoming his wife, under the prohibition of a parent.

She had now no reason for any reserve to her father. She shewed him Henry's letter, which, however, told him nothing but what his pene­tration had before discovered.

"Is it possible," said he, "that lord Villars can be thus cruel and unjust!"

"If he design to appeal to me," said Ellen, "he must mean to abide by my decision."

"And your decision, my Ellen.—What would be your decision?"

"Alas! I know not. It is no broad path that [Page 76] lies before me: Intricate and scarcely to be made out by such a one as I, is the line of duty, that, if I could be sure of, I hope I should pursue."

Mr. Mordaunt pressed Ellen to his heart.

"Henry pleads his rights strongly, they are indubitable, they cannot be cancelled by the man­date of ambition or avarice, though issued by a parent. But to be the author of his ruin, and his filial disobedience! Oh! my father, such deci­sions are beyond my reasoning faculties, they must be decided by the impulse of my heart, not, I hope, more firmly attached to Henry, than to virtue."

"Excellent creature!" said mr. Mordaunt: and Ellen felt herself encouraged by the praise.

"It may be generous and right, that Henry should refuse to abandon me. It may be virtuous and necessary that I should resign him."

Thus did poor Ellen endeavour to balance the reasons that made for and against her wishes. But she bewildered her understanding without relieving her heart.

"I will see lord Villars. I will hear, (dan­gerous as it may be) I will hear Henry. If I must lose him, he shall not be torn from me: I will give him up. Oh! my father, if the sacrifice must be made, allow me to make it."

"No other can make it. I abjure lord Vil­lars's sophistry. Having once authorised your engagements with Henry, I cannot recal my sanction. You are mistress of your fate. I am willing to assist your judgment: but I must not control your will."

"My will?" said Ellen, sighing, "alas! how little must that be consulted in this debate."

Ellen passed three days in what might be called a labyrinth of thought, rather than a chain of rea­soning. [Page 77] When, from what she regarded as an evident principle of duty, "the strict adherence to her engagements," she had drawn conclusions the most favourable to her happiness, her deduc­tions were crossed by a principle as evident, as that of the obedience of children to their parents, and all her reasoning thrown into confusion. Again she began; and again she found herself conducted to a certain point; and, again con­fused and bewildered, she found she had lost her way.

From such a maze of contrary obligations, she knew not how to extricate herself. Yet she lost not hope, while she perceived that which ever way she turned, wherever she directed her view, the wish to do right still appeared, as a beacon on a distant hill, pointing out the coast to which she meant to direct her course.

It was impossible, except where the mind was wholly given up to selfishness, or resentment, to live with Ellen without loving her. The evenness of her temper, her promptitude in obliging, must subdue all lesser prejudices. This had been the case with her sisters; though their early estrange­ment from her, and the difference that subsisted in their manner of thinking, forbade any of that tender interest and interchangement of sentiments in which true friendship consists; they now loved her full as well as most reputed friends love each other: and now that pity was added to their affec­tion, they felt and shewed for her a solicitude, that neither they nor herself had before thought them capable of.

Charlotte, in particular, was much moved by the evident distress of Ellen's mind, and the calm­ness [Page 78] with which she endured it. She thought there was something heroic in such composure, under such circumstances; and she exerted all her abilities to console and support her. But, however Ellen was soothed by her sympathy, she could not be assisted by her counsel. Charlotte could see the matter only in one light. She ex­patiated on the injustice of lord Villars, on the merit of constancy, and the obligation of main­taining an engagement: and when Ellen pressed her with the question, "Would you, Charlotte, be the wife of any man, who, in forming his ties with you, must break all those that bind him to his family, and incur the everlasting resentment of his parent?" Charlotte could only reply, lord Villars had no right to be displeased; and that the peace of Henry ought to be dearer to her than that of all his family beside.

"But the peace of Henry," said Ellen, "is involved in the religious performance of his duty as a son."

"No," Charlotte would reply, "such conduct as lord Villars holds, dissolves the bonds of filial duty. You ought to set him at defiance, and be happy in the love of each other."

Ellen would have been glad to have thought so too: but in a mind as free from the prejudices of selfishness as her's was, things are not seen as they are wished to be, but as they are.

On the evening of the third day, Charlotte and Ellen were walking in the wood, wholly engrossed with this one subject, when, as they were return­ing to the house, they were suddenly met by Henry.

"We are once more together, my Ellen," cried he, snatching her to his heart: "and no power on earth shall part us."

[Page 79]Ellen, who had been engaged rather in debating whether she should choose misfortune, than in de­ploring it as already felt, had, since the receipt of Henry's last letter, been more depressed, than agitated. But his sudden appearance, and the vehemence of his address, communicated in a moment to her bosom all the emotion with which his own was convulsed. Sinking from his arms, rather than being able to try to disengage herself from them, "We are indeed together," said she: "but, alas! upon what terms?"

"Upon terms that heaven and earth must ap­prove—Upon terms that give me a right to say I will never resign you."

"Oh! be less vehement!" cried she, and resting wholly upon Charlotte, her convulsive sobs gave Henry the most lively alarm. Never had he seen distress in this form. Never had he before seen the countenance of Ellen disfigured by the violence of any passion.

"Why not rest in my arms? Why not weep in my bosom?" cried he mildly, "am not I your husband? Oh Ellen, is it possible you can have decided against me?"

"No! no! no!" said she. Charlotte unable to support her, yielded her to the impassioned Henry, who, holding her in his arms, sat down with her on the grass. Tears relieved the almost bursting heart of Ellen. She suffered them for some time to flow as she hid her face on Henry's shoulder: then rousing herself, "I am better," said she; "let us return to the house: and, my dear Henry, if you would have me able to act as you wish, you must not thus distress me."

"Dearest Ellen, forgive me. I will be all calmness, all reason."

[Page 80]Ellen with difficulty moved along: but growing every moment more composed, the emotion that the sudden appearance of Henry had given her, taught her the more to fear the power of her feel­ings, and to arm herself with double resolution against being governed by them.

As they approached the house, they were met hastily by mr. Mordaunt.

"Do you know who is arrived?" said he.

"My father," cried Henry: "how nearly has he eluded my vigilance!"

Now, said Ellen to herself, is the moment of trial come. Lord Villars appeared. Henry saw the pallid cheek of Ellen and the whiteness of her lips.

"My Ellen," cried he, "do not desert your­self; do not desert me."

"Oh, heaven direct me," said Ellen.

"Heaven does direct you. Heaven dictates what you ought to do. Heaven cannot approve of violated vows."

"Nor of disobedience!" said lord Villars sternly.

"Forbear," said Ellen to Henry, ("my lord.")

"Forgive my interruption, madam. To you I mean no harshness. To the rectitude of your mind I know I may appeal, from the ungoverned passion of that intemperate young man."

"Temperance were treachery in this case. My lord, I see your design. You mean to tamper with the virtues of Ellen. You mean to subdue her constancy by her generosity—but—"

"I am above disguise, sir. I do mean to prove the virtue you have so vaunted. It is you who have said, that Ellen would renounce you for ever, rather than accept you at the price of your dis­obedience."

[Page 81]"Heavens and earth!" exclaimed Henry.

"And most truly have you said, my Henry," interrupted Ellen; "and most sincerely do I thank you for it."

"I never said so; or, if I did—Oh! Ellen, do not undo both yourself and me."

"My lord," said mr. Mordaunt, "you are too precipitate. Ellen ought not to be, she shall not be so persecuted. You have nothing to fear, nothing that you ought to fear from her coolest deliberation; and it is only the coolest delibera­tion that ought to decide in such a case as this."

And yet, thought Ellen to herself, the decision is made. What but one thing can I do?

"I meant not to be thus precipitate. I meant not now to enter upon the subject: but the daring impatience of that unworthy boy— My dear madam," turning to Ellen, "I know and revere your virtues. It is from them I hope the salvation of my family. Pray take my arm: let me support you."

"My lord, I want no support."

"Yes, my Ellen, you do. You want the sup­port of a parent," said mr. Mordaunt: "take my arm."

"Thank you, sir," said Ellen faintly, and almost overcome: and resting on her father's arm, she reached the house.

Here she found mrs. Mordaunt, who greeted her with her usual coldness: but seeing her agi­tation said: "Yes, yes, I knew it would come to this. I always foretold this. I always said that the interests of a whole family were not to be sa­crificed to the foolish fancy of a boy and girl, who knew not what was good for them."

[Page 82]"Dear mamma!" said Charlotte.

"No harm, ma'am," said Ellen mildly, "shall happen to any body, through my means, if I can prevent it."

"Retire, my dear," said mr. Mordaunt. "I am sure you wish to be in your own room."

Ellen moved towards the door. But Henry, who had hitherto kept a gloomy silence, now rushed forward, "You do not go, Ellen, you do not go, without suffering me to speak to you, without hearing what I have to say?"

"She knows you have nothing to say," interrupted lord Villars, "that she ought to hear. Ellen is indeed the excellent person you have always described her, the exemplar of her sex."

"Henry has a right to be heard, my lord; and I mean to hear him. Nor have I more inclination than I have power to refuse him."

"My kind, my beloved Ellen!"

Ellen held out her hand to him, "Oh!" said she, in a low voice, "that I could be as much the one as I believe I am the other!" Then speaking aloud, "At eight to-morrow morning I will see you alone: at present I beg I may be allowed to retire."

Lord Villars who believed he saw the destruc­tion of his hopes in the severity of her air towards him, and her kind indulgence to his son, stood thunderstruck and confounded; while the wretched Henry, who argued the contrary but too justly, even from her very kindness, sunk spiritless into a chair, while the warm blood forsook his cheek, and every limb quivered with agitation. Lord Villars endeavoured by a long detail of the circum­stances of his family, to convince mr. Mordaunt's [Page 38] reason of the necessity of the conduct he held, and by artful praises of Ellen to sooth the indig­nity offered to her.

Mr. Mordaunt disdained to reply to his rea­sonings, or to thank him for his commendations. He assured him, that it was neither the wish of his daughter, or himself, that she should enter into his family without his approbation.

"But, my lord," said he, "you have in my opinion, by your former sanction to the affections of your son, put it out of your power now to with-hold your consent to his marriage. All you have a right to do, is to endeavour to convince both him and my daughter, of the inconvenience that now attends it, and to induce them, if pos­sible, by the weight of your reasons, to resign rights, which nothing but the most apparent in­justice can with-hold."

Lord Villars was stung to the quick by the cold contempt of mr. Mordaunt.

"I am then to undo my whole family for a punctilio? Mine was only a conditional consent. It could only be a conditional consent. It was my second son that I would have allowed to have mar­ried your daughter. No one would have dared to have asked me for my first."

"Nor do I ask you now, my lord. But if you have made a bad bargain, common honesty re­quires you should stand to it, except those with whom you have made it, will generously release you."

"Would you then," said mrs. Mordaunt (pas­sionately) "would you have an ancient and noble family fall into ruin, rather than thwart the mo­mentary fancy of a foolish girl and an obstinate boy? Rather be all the engagements that have [Page 84] been made since the days of Adam broken, than that such a consequence should be incurred."

"Ellen would bring ruin into no family. I have, however, said, that I think she and Henry are the only proper umpires in this dispute: and I could wish a subject to be dropped, upon which if I speak at all, I must speak very harsh truths."

"I would endeavour," said lord Villars, with an air as if he were to be a sufferer for conscience sake, "I would endeavour to get over the scru­ples of my mind, in allowing one unworthy child to take his own way to ruin, which it seems with some people would much exalt my character. But when the interests of my other dear and innocent children are involved in his folly, however my name may be branded, I will adhere to what I know to be right: and though I may be unable to prevent this act of madness, I will never have to reproach myself with having consented to it."

"Your lordship may rest perfectly at ease both as to your conscience, and the part Ellen will take. However either she or myself may wish her the wife of your son, we can have no desire that she should become your daughter."

"I see, however," said lord Villars in a passion, "I see that she designs it; but at her peril let her pursue the design. Poverty while I live, and my eternal curse when I come to die, shall sadden her days and torment her mind."

Mr. Mordaunt arose, "I leave you, my lord: and I would leave you under the mistake that so unworthily afflicts you: but when you find your­self master of your wishes, you shall not have cause to think that you owe the completion of them either to the duplicity or the vehemence of your conduct. I know Ellen perfectly well; and I [Page 85] will stake my life, that in the present circum­stances she will never marry your son."

Lord Villars, on an assurance so agreeable to him, felt all his anger subside in a moment. He did not wish to quarrel with mr. Mordaunt; so, catching his hand, he cried, "My dear brother, forgive me; forgive the effusions of a father's solicitude for a large family, whose well being in the world depends upon the issue of the present contest. How willingly would I make any sacri­fice short of the interest of this family, for the happiness of being still more closely united with you!"

Mr. Mordaunt withdrew his hand.

"You will give me leave to retire, my lord. It is not possible to form any judgment but one on the events that have passed: and the conse­quences of that judgment must be, that all inter­course between us henceforward must cease."

Mr. Mordaunt withdrew; and left lord Villars and his sister to rail and to rejoice; for after what mr. Mordaunt had said, they neither of them entertained any apprehension but that Ellen would break her engagement with Henry.

CHAP. XII.

HENRY had not been present at the conversa­tion that had passed between his father and mr. Mordaunt. As soon as he had recovered from the emotion into which the last words of Ellen had thrown him, he had withdrawn to the parsonage, there to pour out his griefs to the commiserating mr. and mrs. Thornton. They, while they en­deavoured, by the softest arts of pity, to administer some balm to his wounds, sought to inspire him with fortitude to support the consummation of his misfortune, which, in the present circumstances they considered as inevitable.

Ellen passed the night in endeavouring to strengthen herself in the resolution, which she saw was the only one she could now adopt with­out incurring the reproaches of her own heart, and involving Henry in disobedience and ruin. But she dreaded his vehemence: and though she per­suaded herself, that that alone would not be able to overpower her judgment, grounded, as it was, upon the best reasoning she was able to command; [Page 87] yet she shrunk from the contest: and had she not had more compassion for him than for herself, she would have explained herself in writing, and spared them both the pangs of a fruitless alterca­tion. But to comply with his wishes in every thing that militated not against his duty, she thought the most sacred of her own: and she kept the appointment made the preceding night.

The moment she cast her eyes upon him, she saw, that the trial that awaited her was of a dif­ferent kind from the one for which she had been preparing herself. All animation was fled from his countenance. A settled despair had taken possession of his features: and as he approached her, the tears fell in large drops from his eyes.

"Dear Henry!" said she, holding out her hand to him. He took it; and pressed it closely to his lips.

"So kind, and yet so determined! I do not complain, Ellen. But surely I ought not to have been condemned unheard."

"Unheard! am I not here for the purpose of listening to all you have to say?"

"Yet my father tells me, I have nothing to hope."

"Do not believe lord Villars rather than me. —You have every thing to hope that, in your unprejudiced reason, you would wish to hope. I think I may venture to promise you shall decide for me."

"Oh! that I might! then should I never quit this dear hand till you had promised to pledge your faith with it at the altar."

"Would you then brave your father's displea­sure? Would you be content to live in perpetual [Page 88] enmity with him? Would you entail distres [...] and poverty on your family?"

"Oh! no, no.—My father would with­draw his objections. Justice, reason, would com­pel him to withdraw them. My family shall never receive injury from me. I have offered to divest myself of my birthright, to resume the station which Ellen's love might be allowed to bless. I have been told I cannot divest myself of my title, and that that title must be supported by riches; that the fortune I may obtain by marriage, must be such as will provide for my numerous brothers and sisters, whose necessary provision will other­wise reduce the family estate below the decorous appendage of a title. I am reminded, that such have ever been the known family views; and that I acknowledged the force of them, when I pleaded my being a second son, as an unanswerable reason why I might be allowed to choose for myself. However my heart or my understanding may re­volt from such reasonings, I mean not to combat them; I mean to act, as if convinced of their truth, and their rectitude: and had I not had reason to believe the cause already prejudged, I had a proposal to have made to you, that, I persuaded myself, might have reconciled duty and inclina­tion, have satisfied my father, and made us hap­py."

Ellen's heart fluttered with revived hope.

"And what is your proposal? Be assured there is no prejudgment. Only shew me how I can be yours, without violating the immutable obligation of obedience to a parent, and you will not be more ready to propose, than I shall be to com­ply."

[Page 89]"My proposal." said [...]e▪ still speaking faintly, "is grounded on the knowledge I believed I had of your heart, on its total freedom from any wish for splendor, for shew, —"

"Name them not. Reconcile my duty and my love; and your task is over."

"Dearest creature, how could I for a moment suspect that love? How could I for a moment believe it less pure than my own."

"And did you? Could you?"

"You are calumniated, my Ellen. I have been taught to fear, that, awed by my father's threats of everlasting displeasure, you shrunk from a marriage, which, under that displeasure, would be a source only of poverty and distress to you."

"How am I beset on all sides! How allured by inclination, how stimulated by resentment to quit the rugged path of duty. Support my rec­titude, my dear Henry, by your own: and make me no proposal that is not warranted by the sanc­tion of virtue.

"What I propose is this: that I shall pursue the line of life marked out for me before the un­fortunate death of my brother; that the annual difference there will be between the allowance my father will make me as an inmate of Lincoln's-Inn, and that which I ought to have as his eldest son, shall accumulate, and be considered as a fund upon which I shall draw for your fortune; that I shall not claim your hand but upon the condition that it was first promised me. While my father lives, the splendor of the family will be supported by him. When he dies, though it must suffer a temporary eclipse, it will be in no danger of being annihilated.—No wonder," said Henry, interrupt­ing [Page 90] himself, "that you smile. I almost disdain to dwell upon such considerations. But if there is no preaching people into reason, it is well, for the sake of peace, to accommodate ourselves as well as we can to their folly. As I have no hope, that the savings I have proposed to be made from my annual allowance will be considered as satis­factory to the wants and the wishes of the family, I further propose, that in the event of my coming to the estate, such a part of it shall be appropriated to the use of my brothers and sisters, as, in some given number of years, may make up the sum that my father has fixed in his own mind as a proper fortune to be brought into the family by his eldest son's wife. At the end of this time, I shall resume the whole of the estate, and the name of Villars recover its lustre. Thus no injury will be done to the younger branches of the fa­mily; you, my Ellen, will, after all, be a for­tune: the family splendor will be untarnished: and all this will be purchased on our part, by a few years of obscurity and happiness."

Though Ellen had a rectitude of principle and understanding, that made her perfectly compre­hend, and resolutely adhere to that plainest of nature's dictates, the obedience due to a parent, she was too young and too noble-hearted to cal­culate the inconveniences of a narrow income, or to have suffered them to have influenced her decision, if she had calculated them, while they could reach only herself and him, who, she doubted not, would have considered the possession of her hand as a full compensation. Her heart beat quick at this proposal of Henry's. Her eyes sparkled with pleasure. "And what says your [Page 91] father to this plan?" cried she, trembling with the eagerness of hope.

"What says he! What can he say? Has he any right to object?"

"But does he object?" said Ellen, with a voice scarcely articulate.

"Dearest Ellen, will you hazard nothing for me? When every claim of justice is satisfied, are we to be undone for a punctilio?"

"Your father does not then approve your plan?"

"But he will approve it. He will be com­pelled to approve it. All the world will unite in his condemnation, if he does not."

"When he does approve, be assured of my most cheerful, my most delighted concurrence."

"And without that approbation, you will do nothing for me?"

"Alas! what can I do? Had it been only justice that was to have been satisfied, should we ever have been in any danger of being separated? Will this plan of yours at all avert your father's displeasure? Will it save you from disobedience, or from the effects of it? Will you not have a parent's enmity to deprecate? And without the concurrence of lord Villars how can your plan itself take place? How can its beneficial effects be felt? How can the claims of justice, which you seem yourself to allow, be satisfied?"

"Time will do all for us. My father will forgive, when he sees that the consequences he so dreads, have not followed the step he forbids. We shall have injured no one, and be happy in each other.—"

"Oh! Henry, Henry! how should we be happy? There can be no happiness for a child [Page 92] in disobedience to a parent. No sophistry, no hope of selfish joy can obscure so evident a truth, can allure me to dare its violation. We have no choice; if lord Villars persists in his opposition, we must submit, and —"

Part—she would have said; but her tongue faltered, and she stopt.

"Oh! Ellen, you have not the heart to utter the word, and can you persist in the act?"

"Cruel necessity forces it upon us. We can­not do otherwise."

"Well then be it so," said he, after a pause: "but let not the parting be for ever. Let us yield in appearance to the present storm. Let us preserve our hearts for each other, and refer our happiness to a time when no imagined duty, no real injustice can step in between us."

"Dear Henry, do not so tempt me. See you not the fallacy of this? See you not, that we should live on falsehood; and that the hypocrisy that affects the air of a difficult virtue, is, in it­self, the worst vice?"

"All your conclusions, Ellen, tend to one point. Would you then have me make obedience perfect? Do you advise me to marry lady Al­meria?"

"I am but a bad casuist," replied the weeping but unrelenting Ellen: "but I do not see that the duty which requires you to give up your own choice to the will of your father, exacts that you should adopt his in opposition to your own."

"What then does he gain by the obedience you so unfeelingly enforce?"

"At present the satisfaction that must result to a parent from even the partial compliance of a child with his wishes; and, in future, the more [Page 93] complete gratification of seeing your choice and his the same."

"And can you bear to point out such a futu­rity? Can you desire it?"

"Let us not," said Ellen, trembling, "let us not deceive ourselves. It is with this hope the present sacrifice is required. Our renunciation of each other must be complete—it must be for ever."

"For ever be it then," said Henry, rushing towards the door, "for now I see that you desire it."

"Stay, dear Henry."

"Dear! do you say I am dear?"

"Most dear! do not inflict upon me the only trial to which I feel myself unequal. I can bear to give you up: but I cannot bear that you should believe me fickle or interested."

"Oh would to God, I could believe you so. But while I think of you as you are, how shall I imitate you in the virtue that so exalts you in my eyes?"

"It is from sad necessity that I act. You too must feel its irresistible power: and all the merit that either of us can have, is in the manner in which we support that necessity."

"I do not yet admit the necessity. If you refuse to resign the rights you have over me, my father must yield to them."

"Let us not go over the same ground," said the almost exhausted Ellen. "Nothing but lord Villars's consent to our marriage will ever justify me to myself in becoming your wife, or you in my eyes for accepting me as such. Lord Villars has declared, and who can doubt his firmness, that his consent never shall be obtained. The [Page 94] consequence is obvious. Dear Henry, receive my last farewel!"

"Never, never will I give you up—I will never relinquish you,—nay, you must not, shall not leave me."

"I must; for wherefore should I stay?"

"Go then: but be assured I shall haunt you wherever you go. My father shall gain nothing but my misery by his injustice. If I cannot be your's, I will not be another's."

"You will think better of it," said Ellen, as she opened the door; "farewel." She closed it; and, her task over, her powers forsook her, and she sunk into a chair motionless, and nearly with­out recollection. There was nobody to observe her: and she had time to return to herself. Sud­denly she heard a movement in the room she had quitted. She arose hastily, and passing up a pair of back stairs, took refuge in her own chamber.

Henry, given up to his emotions, had remained where Ellen had left him. The sudden entrance of lord Villars roused him from his grief. He started at the sight of him, as at something nox­ious; and passing furiously by him, quitted the house on the instant.

Lord Villars required no other proof of the part Ellen had taken; and exulting in the success of his schemes, sent a respectful message to her, desiring he might have the honour of returning his thanks in person. This was, however, a mark of complaisance that Ellen thought she might well be allowed to refuse him. She therefore excused herself by writing these words on a scrap of paper.

"As lord Villars will learn from his son the submission that has been paid to his will, there is [Page 95] no doubt but he will willingly excuse himself the sight of a person whose presence must be a reproach to him. Ellen therefore begs leave to decline the honour of appearing before him."

Lord Villars, even in the midst of his triumph, could not help feeling the superiority both of mr. Mordaunt and Ellen: and he withdrew from Groby Manor successful it is true, but mortified; and his pride severely hurt, that though he had overcome by the force of his power, he had not been able to deceive by his duplicity.

CHAP. XIII.

HENRY had found shelter at the parsonage; and it required all mr. Thornton's influence to bring his mind to any degree of moderation. Displeased yet enraptured with Ellen—indignant against his father, yet feeling the principle of filial love and filial duty strong in his heart—his pas­sions were wrought up to a pitch of intemperance that allowed his reason no weight, and urged him to resolutions that could only perpetuate and justify his misery. Mr. Thornton at length succeeded in calming him: but he could not prevail with him to relinquish the idea of endeavouring to extort from Ellen a promise that she would preserve her heart for him, and wait in the hope that he might by some means induce his father to withdraw his objections. Mr. Thornton in vain represented that he had no reason to doubt Ellen's joyful ac­quiescence in any measure that tended to unite them, and which had lord Villars's sanction; nor had he any thing to fear from the lightness of her mind, or the variableness of her inclination. But to seek any concession on her part at this time, and much more any promise, would be to make [Page 97] all the resolution she had hitherto shewn, appear as a mean subterfuge; and would, in fact, in its effect, entirely destroy what she most intended to establish, his obedience to his father.

Henry felt as if there were still something to be done, and it was intolerable to him, to sit down in inactive hopelessness. It was some relief to him to seek Ellen in the wood, though sure not to find her there. He acknowledged every evening, that the pursuit was vain, yet went out every morning with revived expectation▪ He wrote and his letter was returned. But again he wrote; because to write was to do something; and while he made the effort, he for so many minutes sus­pended despair.

Ellen, not a whit less afflicted, though more patient than Henry, had indulged herself in one day's seclusion from her family. The happiness she had given up, was too dear to her heart, not to demand from her a sincere tribute of grief to its memory. And indeed the agitation that her mind had undergone for the last twenty-four hours, made it necessary that in private she should calm and regulate her feelings. She saw, how­ever, her father; and found in his caresses and ap­probation the best reward for what she had done, and her best stimulative to perseverance.

On the morrow she appeared again in the breakfast room; resumed her accustomed em­ployments; and endeavoured, by something like cheerfulness, to do her part toward dispelling the gloom which seemed to have settled over Groby Manor. By this conduct she rendered innoxious the unkindness of her mother. All her taunts and sarcasms rather lacerated her own than Ellen's heart; while Ellen appeared unconscious of her [Page 98] design to hurt her. She forbore to reproach others; and felt she could herself he no just ob­ject of reproach to any one. With the thoughts of the future she did not disturb herself. Perhaps she believed that the image of Henry would never depart from her mind: but she neither told her­self that it would be so, or encouraged the idea when it occurred. Having resolutely entered the path of duty, she was resolved to tread it, lead where it would: and if, in the present depressed state of her mind, she formed a wish, it was to hear that Henry was equally reasonable with herself.

But however this temper of mind was the cer­tain road to happiness in time to come, for the present she was more than sufficiently wretched to have gratified the wish of the most malignant. It was not possible to obliterate with a wish all remembrances of past delight, or promised felicity. It was not possible to forget, that Henry had been alike the choice of her fancy and of her reason; that his love had been her best treasure; and that in relinquishing it, she made him as wretched as she made herself. The thought indeed of his misery was often more than she could bear. The work was suspended, and the book dropped from her hand, when her too faithful memory repre­sented his transports and his despair. His idea was, in fact, so closely united with every thing she did, or thought, with every object around her, and with every occupation she attempted, that to forget him was impossible: and she sometimes doubted if she should ever be able to remember him with less anguish than at the present moment.

It is true, he gave her very little time for mak­ing the experiment. He was every day at Groby [Page 99] Manor: and though she constantly refused to see him, this did not make him forbear attempting to throw himself in her way, in all their formerly most frequented walks. He wrote to her conti­nually. His letters were unsealed: but she re­turned them unread. Again he wrote to her, and he employed her sisters to inform her, that he could not believe she did him the injustice to refuse to look into his letters.

Mr. Mordaunt frequently saw him; and as he was touched with the most sincere compassion for his sufferings, was willing to tolerate this unrea­sonableness for some little time, hoping that such indulgence would lead him to resume more com­mand over himself. But, in the mean time, his heart bled for Ellen, on whom, in spite of her self-command and fortitude, this persecution had the most sensible effect.

At length, mr. Mordaunt found himself ob­liged to tell the unfortunate Henry, that he could no longer suffer him to haunt the environs of Groby Manor; and that if he wished to preserve his friendship, he must quit Northumberland. Henry's spirit took this ill, and he declared that nothing but an order under Ellen's hand should induce him to quit the country.

Ellen's heart bled for his distress. She forgot her own.

"I would see him once more," said she, "whatever it might cost me; but in seeing him what relief shall I afford him? He knows my heart. He knows how I suffer with him. If we meet, we shall enfeeble each other."

Mr. Mordaunt encouraged her to write to him. This was not an easy task. But she hoped some good might arise from her letter; and she resolved [Page 100] to write. After many less successful efforts, as she thought, she sent him the following:

"It is a cruel persecution that you subject me to, my dear cousin. Why do you force me to appear severe and unkind, when I aim only at being just and true? The relief that you require from me, I have it not in my power to grant. But in the example of obedience that I seek to set you, I offer you all the consolation that our un­happy circumstances allow. Assure yourself I have not read your letters. How harsh it sounds to say, that while affairs remain as they now are, I never will. This is the last of my writing that I can address to you. Of all the power that once we might be supposed to have over each other, that which good will and friendship give, alone remains, if you would not have me believe that with you I have forfeited even this, you will en­deavour to make that task easy, which I must per­form, however difficult. I entreat you to leave Northumberland: and if we are ever to meet again, let it be without self-reproach on either side.

"Adieu! and every blessing be your's, that attends on virtue. If there were a happiness apart from rectitude, such is the honesty of my affection, that I could not wish it you."

After all, this was a bad letter—but Ellen was not in circumstances to write a good one. It was received by Henry with tears of delight and anguish. To see Ellen's hand-writing addressed to him, filled his mind with joy. But there were some touches in the letter, and more especially the purport or the whole, that stung him almost to madness.—He observed, that she no longer [Page 101] called him her dear Henry, but her dear cousin, as if the affection she bore him was no longer ap­propriate to himself, but belonged only to the re­lation he held towards her. The relinquishing for ever all power over him but what arose from friendship and good-will, shewed him, that she did not wish to owe even his compliance with her request, to any more ardent or particular feeling. Her earnestness, that if ever they met again, they should meet without self-reproach, convinced him of her adherence to her principle, that their present se­paration ought to be considered as the termination of their engagement, and that if they were again to meet, it must be only as friends. The intima­tion, that she wished him no happiness indepen­dent of rectitude, he thought pointed out a desire, that he should fully comply with his father's wishes. All these observations filled him with the most poignant grief, and the last (in which, however, he was mistaken) with the most lively resentment. Nothing, he now found, was to be hoped for, from a longer continuance in Northum­berland: and he therefore determined to be gone.

He committed to mrs. Thornton a few lines, which, as he assured her they were his last fare­wel, she did not scruple to receive, and to engage that Ellen should read.—Thus he wrote:

"I go.—You request it: and I comply. But it is not the cool principle of friendship that gives such absolute power over the mind. It is not a sense of your good-will, that throws me a vagabond on the world, without an object, without a mo­tive for action, and delivers me to all its dangers, robbed of the polar star, hope, to direct my course. You have withdrawn your beneficial in­fluence: [Page 102] but it is not in your power to withdraw that which may impel me—perhaps to my ruin. They tell me you act nobly. It may be so; for you were all excellence. But my faculties are too much clouded to distinguish between right and wrong; and I can feel only your unkindness. Heaven shield you from self-reproach, but for myself!—

"Adieu! adieu! my beloved, my own Ellen, appropriated to me by vows, by love!—No, I will not throw you back into the common herd of relations, you who have so long been worn near my inmost soul, the dearest treasure I possessed. —Adieu! and may you soon forget your cousin."

CHAP. XIV.

THIS letter was the severest stroke Ellen had received. Its incoherence, the despair it mani­fested, gave her an image of Henry's mind, that filled her with horror. It made her call in ques­tion the rectitude of all she had done. She felt herself accountable for any excess that Henry might commit: and she knew not, that she was exculpated by any motive, from the guilt of having broken an engagement which had always acted like a charm upon Henry, and preserved him hitherto in the paths of virtue and prudence. While she believed herself right, whatever she suffered in being so, she retained a source of comfort in her own breast that calmed her most tumultuous passions, and lulled her loudest griefs. But the supposition, that she was wrong, destroyed this calm, and gave her up to the most unmitigated affliction.

She was at one moment inclined to annul all she had done; to declare her adherence to her engagements with Henry, and her design to wait till lord Villars either withdrew his objections, or was no longer able to enforce them. But the conviction that she was influenced to such designs, rather by the complainings of Henry, than by any reasonings of her own, made her first hesitate as to the rectitude of such a step, and then abandon the idea altogether. Sometimes she thought to [Page 104] write to Henry, openly to acknowledge all she suffered, and unequivocally to declare that her regards towards him were the same as ever. But she considered that this was, in fact, to tell him only that, of which he could not doubt; and that as it could not be followed by any yielding of re­solution on her part, it would only serve to revive a hope that must again be lost in still bitterer dis­appointment. She considered further, that as she had declared her renunciation of him to be final, whatever affection she might in such early days of their separation still be allowed to entertain for him, yet that it ought by every passing hour to become less and less; and that therefore she was bound to avoid any professions that might seem to promise a continuance of this love, or which might encourage him to keep alive in his breast a passion which she had exhorted him to sacrifice.

On the whole, she was convinced that her streng [...] was to fit still; that she had nothing far­ther to do, but to bear her own burden with all the patience she could; and by obtruding herself as little as possible on the memory of Henry, to accelerate that period, when she would be able to look back on the present painful transactions, as on the impressions made by a painful dream.

This was what the plain sense and the true virtue of Ellen suggested to her, as the best line of conduct she could pursue; and in pursuing it she hoped in time to reap the reward she so well deserved, peace of mind to herself. But such quiet forbearance, when exertion would have been so flattering to the feelings of her heart, was not without efforts so painful, that in the struggle, the colour forsook her cheek; she lost her appetite and rest; and, in spite of all her at­tempts [Page 105] to the contrary, Ellen was but the ghost of what she had once been.

In quitting Northumberland, Henry knew not where to go. To go to his father he felt was im­possible. He had no motive for returning to his chambers: and neither duty nor inclination called him elsewhere. He was indeed the very vagabond he had described himself to Ellen: and he felt careless as to what he did, or what became of him.

Lord Villars had carefully watched him from the time that he had himself quitted Groby Ma­nor: and he was hence convinced that from the present state of Henry's mind, nothing favourable to his future hopes was now to be attempted. He saw it was necessary to regain his influence over him by kindness; and to refer to some distant time the completion of those views that he by no means gave up. He was, however, aware, that even tenderness from him at this time would be suspected: and he therefore employed lady Villars to sooth the passions of her son, and to soften his resentment.

Lady Villars was a person of a good heart, but of very little understanding. She had always been accustomed to the most perfect submission to the will of her husband. By him she had been taught the impossibility of allowing their eldest son, to connect himself with a woman of no fortune, and the consequent ruin of their family if he did so. This idea was by habit become so strong, that she could as easily have changed her nature, as have abandoned it. She therefore looked upon the se­paration of Ellen and Henry as unavoidable: but she did not therefore look upon it with less pity▪ [Page 106] and she thought that every thing ought to be done, that could make their sacrifice easy to them. That in time they would each be happy asunder, she had no doubt: but she wished time to be given them. Lord Villars from less kind motives, was of the same opinion. He engaged lady Villars to write to her son, assuring him of the tender concern that both she and his father took in his happiness, praising him for the compliance he had shewn to their wishes, and promising him that no other woman should be offered to his accep­tance, 'till the remembrance of past connexions was obliterated. From herself she invited him to join her instantly at the park, from whence his father was absent, expressing an anxious desire to see him, and assuring him, he should see nobody there that he did not wish to see. This conclu­sion was meant to point to lady Almeria; and it was so understood by Henry.

On the receipt of this letter, he felt himself irresistibly drawn towards his mother. Her ten­derness he had always experienced: and it was peculiarly tempting at this instant, when he felt abandoned by the whole world. He hoped, too, from the facility of her understanding, to be able to persuade her of the injustice there was in his giving up Ellen: and he knew, from the purity of her principles, that what she believed to be unjust, she would never think eligible.

He repaired, therefore, immediately to the park; and found, from the tenderness of lady Villars, all the consolation that he had hoped. But he was disappointed in his expectation of drawing her over to his side. Of the justice or injustice of the matter, she declared herself incom­petent to judge: but she knew it was impossible [Page 107] he should marry a woman without fortune: and what it was impossible to avoid, however grievous, it was necessary to endure.

Thus, from the shortness of capacity in his mo­ther, and the obdurate ambition of his father, Henry found he must give up all hopes of redress to his wrongs, or relief from his miseries.

From this dreadful derelection of him self, the policy, though not the kindness, of his father re­lieved him.

Lord Villars had conducted lady Almeria to an estate she had in Devonshire; and had left her under the care of an aunt, who was left joint guardian with himself. He had left her with an assurance, that a few months would obliterate all traces of Ellen from the breast of Henry; and that twelve months would not pass before they saw the full completion of her wishes. He expected, by thus keeping up her hopes, that he could pre­serve her constancy; and that, though the period might be stretched much beyond that he predicted, she would be in no haste to form any other con­nexion. To lessen the danger of her doing so, he recommended to her aunt, that she should pass the coming winter in Devonshire: and he engaged that lady Villars, himself, and son, should visit her there.

Having thus provided as much as circumstances admitted, for the security of his prize, he pur­posely moved from place to place, avoiding the meeting with his son 'till he learnt from lady Villars, that, though he seemed to have sunk into a deep melancholy, his resentment appeared to have subsided; and that she thought they might now meet with advantage to both sides.

Lord Villars, on this intimation, went imme­diately [Page 108] to the park; and by the most winning address, and the kindest manners, strove to regain the confidence, and awaken the dormant affection of his son. He spoke to him of Ellen, and always in the most flattering terms; scarcely seemed less hurt than Henry, that so much merit should be lost to them; and deplored the necessity (upon the strength of which he always took care to dwell) that separated them: of any farther choice he gave no hint, saving that he sometimes said, that with the single qualification of fortune provided for, the whole female sex lay before him.

To the kindness of a parent, however suspi­cious, Henry could not be long insensible. He felt it as a balm to his wounds; and was some­times so far seduced by it, as to hope that in time his father might relent. He wished, therefore, for every reason, to preserve the good understand­ing between them: and Ellen had soon the con­solation of hearing, that they appeared on the best terms together. The inference, indeed, that it was natural to draw from such information, would not perhaps have been very consoling to any mind less true and disinterested than Ellen's. But in having given up Henry to a sense of duty, she had made no reservation whatever. She meant wholly and for ever to give him up: and in this circumstance she found no comfort so soothing to her heart, as to know that he began to recover his peace of mind, and to resume the path of duty and obedience. It would lead him ultimately, she doubted not, to marriage with some woman of his father's choice: and she of­fered up no other prayer, when this idea occurred, but that she might also be so much the choice of Henry, as to secure his happiness.

[Page 109]It was not, indeed, before she wanted it, that this comfort reached her. The impression which his letter had made upon her feelings, she had found it impossible to efface. Her mind was equal to any exertion: but her constitution sunk under that which she made to appear easy and cheerful, while her heart was torn by the most ex­cruciating fears for the happiness and good con­duct of Henry.

Mr. Mordaunt saw, with extreme anxiety, her increasing thinness, her loss of colour, and a kind of feebleness that seemed creeping over all her faculties: and he felt, with something like disap­pointment, that he thought he saw even Ellen unequal to the task of rising superior to an unfor­tunately placed passion. Ellen had felt, that there was so much to condemn in Henry's letter, that she had carefully concealed its contents from every creature. Mr. Mordaunt knew not, there­fore, the real spring from whence her bitterest sorrow flowed: and imputing her sorrows wholly to disappointed love, he saw, with surprise, an improvement take place both in her looks and spirits, from the moment she knew Henry was living in his father's house, and that they were friends together.

He ventured distantly to try her on this subject, and to probe her feelings, to see how far she could endure Henry's marriage with another. She understood him, and replied with the most perfect openness.

"My heart is lightened of its only intolerable weight, now I am assured that Henry is in the road of duty. All the sorrows that belong to myself, I know I can bear, and, in time, subdue. [Page 110] I look for Henry's marriage! I acknowledge that my anxiety on the subject will be great: but when I released him from his engagements with me, it was for the express purpose of his forming new ones with another."

Mr. Mordaunt could only clasp Ellen to his heart, and call her, what he thought her, the most rational of her sex.

From this time, mr. Mordaunt saw a visible improvement take place daily in Ellen. But to suppose that a perfect cure could be wrought while she continued at Groby Manor, where every object reminded her of Henry, seemed as unrea­sonable as to expect that ease could be restored to a person while still bound to the rack. Mr. Mor­daunt felt that she called for every assistance pos­sible for her to receive: and however inconvenient it might be, with regard to pecuniary considera­tions, he determined, with his family, to spend part of the ensuing winter at Bath.

Ellen received the proposal with the gratitude it called for. She knew, the reluctance that she felt to quit Groby Manor, was an unfavourable symp­tom: and she hoped change of place might indeed contribute towards making her more the person she wished to be, than she felt she was at present.

Lord Villars observed, that on the part of Henry there appeared nothing like a return to cheerfulness: and he began to suspect, that so far from intending to get the better of his passion for Ellen, he secretly nourished it, and that having resolved to keep himself free from every other engagement, he looked forward to the time when his father's death would set him at liberty to follow his own inclination. The no-marriage of Henry was nearly as detrimental to lord Villars's [Page 111] family views, as his marriage with a woman of no fortune. And he dreaded seeing his son con­firmed in sentiments he knew it would be beyond any stretch of his power to overthrow. He had, indeed, guessed pretty nearly the state of Henry's mind: something, much resembling the above plan, was forming itself strongly into a resolution, except that not daring to date his happiness from his father's death, he had substituted in idea the vague term of some distant period, though well his reason assured him, that no period, however distant, during his father's life, could unite him, with his consent, to Ellen.

Having in some measure fixed his own plan, the thought that most tormented him arose from the apprehension that Ellen might be induced to connect herself with another. It was this fear that had made him so strenuous to draw from her a promise, that she would preserve her heart for him. Her refusal had nearly distracted him: and the dread that her yielding might make all his constancy vain, still continued to overwhelm his mind, with the deepest gloom.

Lord Villars knew that though by his power he had separated Henry and Ellen, he could pro­ceed no farther. To oblige Henry to take ano­ther wife, was what he could not do: and he now saw, that it was only from the change which time might make in the inclinations of Henry, that he could hope the complete success of his designs. To keep him in the country, brooding over his disappointment, and indulging in romantic plans of everlasting constancy, was not the way to acce­lerate this change. He therefore caught eagerly at a wish, slightly expressed by Henry, that he might be allowed to go for some time to his [Page 112] chambers in town. To town therefore he went: and lord Villars employed every art to draw him from the gloom of Lincoln's-Inn to the haunts of gaiety and amusement. He had the satisfaction to hear, that his schemes were not wholly unsuc­cessful.

After some time spent sullenly alone, Henry began to regain his cheerfulness; to associate with the young and dissipated; and to be once again the delight of his companions. He now stood on a precipice, and, in the wreck of his love and happiness, his principles and his virtue were well nigh involved.

But from the mischiefs to which the mercenary views of a parent exposed him, he was preserved by his passion for a virtuous woman, from whom that parent wished to sever him for ever. The misery of his mind, when alone, drove him into company; nor was it the still voice of rational converse, or the quiet complacence of domestic scenes, that could overcome the louder tone of grief, which spake within, or control the contend­ing passions that were boiling in his breast. Pas­sion must be opposed to passion. The festive roar of laughter▪ the dissonant bray of Bacchus, were alone sufficiently powerful to overcome the sense he retained of his disappointment; no wonder if in such company, with a mind so disordered, his

Who does not tremble for Henry? One step [Page 113] beyond where now he stood, and he had fallen, not to rise again but through the rugged paths of penitence and remorse.

But the words in Ellen's letter, "if ever we meet again, let us meet free from self reproach," had never departed from his memory. To meet again, to meet again as allowably dear to each other, as they had once been, was a hope so in­terwoven with his very existence, that he felt, life and it must expire together. But to meet her unworthy of her, was a misery beyond any he had yet known. To lose her by his own fault, he knew would be distraction: and starting from the idea with horror, he resolved to quit a life where every moment teemed with temptations which he could not yield to without entailing on himself the severest self reproach.

However resolute he might be to avoid vice, he yet found that dissipation of some kind was ne­cessary to a mind, so cruelly thwarted in its fa­vourite views as his was, and all its plans for the happiness of every louring hour thus deranged.

He determined to seek this dissipation abroad, where, even from amusement, he might draw instruction, and where, while he diverted his melancholy, he might cultivate his under­standing.

He applied to lord Villars for permission to leave England; and received a ready compliance with his wishes. Lord Villars, however, ear­nestly desired to see him first: and Henry hastened down into Hampshire. Lord Villars had art­fully sent off lady Villars into Devonshire before his arrival: and, when Henry asked for his mo­ther, he was told where she was, and that she [Page 114] was so much indisposed, that she could not travel into Hampshire to see him, and still less could she suffer him to quit England without bidding him adieu.

Henry saw the trap: but, firm in his own con­stancy, he did not fear any consequence, that could be drawn from visiting a sick parent in lady Almeria's house. He therefore readily accom­panied his father into Devonshire: and when there, he sought, by a studied coldness towards lady Almeria, to evince to every body, that it was only a parent that he did visit.

Lady Almeria was, however, young and hand­some: and she shewed him so flattering a pre­ference, that Henry, who was no anchoret, found it impossible to maintain his reserve.

Lady Almeria was a little giddy-brain, who either felt or cared for no consequence, let her say or do what she would. She laughed and romped with Henry; rallied his grave airs; talked of her own passion; boasted the constancy with which she would wait his return; and seemed so sure of her passion being answered, that it was impossible to tell her she was mistaken. Henry was amused, and perhaps flattered by all this: but his heart was only the more immovably attached to Ellen; for who could thought of exchanging her for lady Almeria? His spirits received great improvement from his sojourn in Levonshire: but he quitted England without having wavered for a moment in his resolution, of having no other wife but Ellen.

Lord Villars saw enough, during Henry's visit into Devonshire, to raise his hopes; but he also saw that while Ellen remained unmarried, they probably would never be fulfilled; her marriage, [Page 115] therefore, became a point with him, and he em­ployed his sister to bring this about if possible.

Ellen soon learnt, from her mother, the visit Henry had made in Devonshire, and she learnt it under all the exaggerated forms that malicious misrepresentation can give. In the pain that Ellen felt, at this information, she acknowledged the little progress she had made in driving Henry from her heart: but even here her pain was not wholly selfish; in the character of lady Almeria she saw nothing that could make Henry happy: and again she felt herself accountable for his loss of happiness, as she had before done for his pro­bable loss of rectitude.

CHAP. XV.

THE whole Mordaunt family had now been some months at Bath. Ellen had imposed upon herself to partake of all the amusements of the place: she therefore refused no amusement that was offered her. The mornings were spent at breakfasts, and the evenings in balls. But a way of life, so little suited either to her present inclinations, or to her habits, exhausted both her mind and body, and she was often compelled, from weariness and indisposition, to remain at home.

At home, indeed she never failed of passing the hours extremely to her satisfaction. Her mo­ther and sisters were constantly engaged, and her father as constantly at leisure: but he was seldom alone: and his society and that of his friends, was much more suited to Ellen's disposition, than any, that, in the present state of her heart and spirits, she met with in public

Sir William Ackland was among the most con­stant of her father's visitors: and it soon became evident, that he was not the less so from his be­ing now, from her increased indisposition, almost sure to meet Ellen in her father's drawing-room.

[Page 117]Sir William Ackland was one and forty: but he united to an uncommonly elegant and youth­ful looking person, the polished manners of a man who had lived much in the world. He had passed many years of his life abroad, was a man of sense and observation, and particularly excelled in the art of conversation. When silent there was some­thing austere in his countenance and manner: but when he spoke, the gloom dispersed, and he ap­peared all gaiety and good humour. His fortune was ample: and it was understood among his ac­quaintance, that he was resolved to settle in Eng­land, and marry.

It was apparent, from sir William's first know­ledge of Ellen, that he watched her attentively; but he seemed rather to study her character, than to be in love with her person. Ellen saw, in sir William Ackland, nothing but an agreeable friend of her father's; his conversation pleased her, and unconscious of his designs, and without any her­self, she conversed with him with a freedom and unreserve which soon displayed the stores of her understanding and the goodness of her heart.

This freedom was not checked on the part of sir William, by any attentions that could obtrude the idea of a lover upon her fancy. She saw him every day the same, polite, obliging, and friendly: but though Henry, Ellen's prototype of love, was all there, he was so much more, that it was im­possible that Ellen should believe effects so differ­ent should spring from the same cause. It never once occured to her that sir William sought her for a wife: and had she been consulted on the subject, she would have thought her eldest sister more suited to the station.

[Page 118]But this was not the opinion either of sir Wil­liam, or of mr. Mordaunt. The latter thought he saw, in an union with sir William Ackland, an asylum for Ellen from all the ill humour of her mother. In the opulence of sir William's fortune, he believed, was secured to Ellen a never failing source of the indulgence of her benevo­lence▪ and he thought her situation, as his wife, would call into action all the powers of her un­derstanding, and all the virtues of her heart. All the enquiries he could make into the character of sir William were answered favourably: and though through his long absence from England, he was not intimately known to any body, he was uni­formly spoken of as a man of a liberal mind, in­tegrity and virtuous dispositions. It soon, there­fore, became the favourite wish of mr. Mordaunt, to see Ellen united with sir William Ackland: but as he was aware the more time elapsed be­fore the proposal was made, the more likely it was to succeed; all the efforts that he made, were rather to retard than to bring it on.

Ellen had, however, an open and professed lover. He also was a baronet, a stout hale man of fifty, who, with a good constitution, and two thousand pounds a year, declared he wanted no­thing but a young wife, and an heir to his estate. Ellen laughed both at his wants and his wishes; nor did she conceive it possible that any body should treat his pretensions more seriously.

But if mr. Mordaunt desired sir William Ack­land for his son-in-law, mrs. Mordaunt had not less earnestly fixed her mind upon sir John Sin­clair. By marrying Ellen to him, she would fulfil the task lord Villars had given her to performs and by giving such a husband to Ellen, she would [Page 119] gratify the never ceasing dislike she entertained towards her. For a girl with fifteen hundred pounds to her fortune, to refuse such an esta­blishment, appeared to her madness: and poor Ellen was obliged to be very serious in a matter that appeared highly ridiculous to her.

Her steady refusal of such honours drew upon her from her mother, so much reproach and ob­loquy, as made her life completely wretched. Sir William Ackland carefully observed all the family proceedings in this matter: and he was not more pleased to remark that pecuniary advantages alone would not dispose of Ellen, than he was with the mildness with which she endured all the ill treat­ment her opposition to her mother's unreasonable desires occasioned her. He wished, indeed, to see how she would conduct herself to a younger lover; for there was something in the ridicule with which, while the affair continued a laughing matter in the family, she had treated the notion of sir John Sinclair's thinking himself a suitable husband for her, that had pressed rather unplea­santly upon some of sir William's feelings; nor were his wishes long ungratified.

Among the numerous partners whom the for­tune of the dance had consigned to Ellen, there was one young man, who, being just come to his estate, and master of himself, imagined that the first woman he liked to flirt with, was the one with whom he could be happy for life. He made love with the same ease he would have made tea; and received Ellen's refusal with the same non­chalance, as he had made his proposal. As he wanted neither sense nor money, was handsome and full as well bred as most of the young men [Page 120] of the age, there was no very oftensible reason for the peremptoriness of Ellen's negative.

It had been sufficient with her, that he did not raise one emotion of any kind in her mind, and that marriage was the thing least in her thoughts, and her wishes. But the talkers around her sought for some less simple cause, to account for a young woman of small fortune, refusing to settle herself advantageously in the world. With many it was imputed to her design of becoming lady Sinclair. But sir William knew that this was not the case. Others averred that she had fixed her hopes and designs upon sir William himself: and this sir William felt not at all disposed to question. He was complimented by so many upon his con­quest, that he began to persuade himself, (what cannot love and vanity persuade a man to?) that if she refused the rich and the young, it was be­cause his merit had penetrated her heart. The complaisance and attention with which she always listened to him, and the superiority that his per­sonal attractions and outward manners gave him over all the other men who approached her, made this no very extraordinary or unpardonable mis­take. On this mistake he grounded his resolution of explaining himself to mr. Mordaunt.

The spring was now far advanced: and the family were to quit Bath in less than a fortnight. Sir William therefore wished, before he lost sight of them, to leave no doubt of his future intentions. He accordingly opened his heart to mr. Mordaunt: but he represented to him that being only a few weeks returned to England, he had much business to adjust before he could enter into matrimony. He therefore proposed to arrange his affairs, to visit his country residence, and afterwards, if mr. [Page 121] Mordaunt encouraged him to hope, he flattered himself he might be allowed to pay his devoirs to Ellen, in Northumberland.

Mr. Mordaunt received sir William's declaration with manifest pleasure; and with the frankness that distinguished his character, immediately in­formed him of the attachment that had subsisted between Ellen and Henry. He represented the case exactly as it was; and assured sir William, that he had no doubt but that Ellen's mind grew every day more free from every remains of predi­lection in her cousin's favour. But he gave it as his opinion, that as sir William must of necessity be some weeks before he could openly declare himself, it might be productive of good effects, if he deferred his intended visit into Northumberland 'till the autumn. In the mean time, mr. Mor­daunt promised to observe the inclinations of his daughter, and to deal with perfect fairness in the representations he should make of them, from time to time, to sir William.

Mr. Mordaunt, who could not conceive that a man, who had passed his fortieth year, could expect a young woman, not yet twenty, to have fallen in love with him, or that it was probable that she should not have had some attachment or prepos­session more suited to her years, had no suspicion that by the frankness of his dealing he pierced sir William's heart with the most sensible disap­pointment, and opened it in future to all the tortures of rage and jealousy.

This prior love of Ellen's explained in a way not at all flattering to sir William's vanity, her indifference to the riches of sir John Sinclair, and the youth of mr. Bowden: and if he were to hope it were to be overcome in his favour, he [Page 122] found he was to owe his better fortune rather to time, and perhaps to the recommendation of a parent, interested in his behalf, than to his own merit.

The chagrin that he felt on this discovery made him readily come into mr. Mordaunt's proposal, that any farther declaration should be delayed: and he designed to quit Bath without again seeing Ellen. Accident however prevented this. Going to visit mr. Mordaunt one evening, when he had understood she was to be at the ball, he found her in the drawing room: and she appeared, from the accidental mode of her dress, or from some other cause, more attractive in her manner and appearance, than he had ever before thought her.

"I feared," said he, the moment he saw her, "that you were to have been at the ball."

"Then I am not to flatter myself," said she gaily, "that this visit is to me?"

"Should you think it flattering if it were so?"

"I am not sure I should call it flattering; but I am sure I should call it very pleasant."

There was a naïvete and truth in these words, that went to sir William's heart.

"If I am not to be the first man she has loved," said he to himself, "I may be the second. And if from this moment I might be the only one, I should be happy."

In this night's conversation, mr. Mordaunt was wholly forgotten: and sir William's attentions and admiration were so apparent, that Ellen could not help seeing him in a light he had never ap­peared to her in before. When he was gone, mr. Mordaunt ventured to rally Ellen on her con­quest: and she replied with so much praise of sir [Page 123] William, that mr. Mordaunt thought himself in possession of his wishes.

The effect this evening had upon sir William, was such, that instead of leaving Bath at the time he designed, he continued there till the last mo­ment of mr. Mordaunt's stay; and spent so many hours in his house, and with Ellen, that she could not doubt, but that, at least for the present, she had found the way to his heart. This was a dis­covery that certainly gave her no pleasure; but neither did it excite much pain, nor give her any very lively alarm. There was something so guarded even in the admiration that sir William expressed, as easily persuaded Ellen, who had no vanity to counteract her wishes, that he thought not of her as a wife, and that when once out of sight, she should be thought of no more. It was, however, with great satisfaction, that she saw her­self removed from Bath: and the sight of Groby Manor made her heart throb with delight. "Here," said she to herself, "I shall find an asylum from all gallantry. In those shades there will be no concert but the concert of the birds, no dancing but the quivering of the leaves."

She flew to the parsonage.

"My friends," said she, as she embraced first one and then the other, "I have not known so happy a moment as this, since we parted."

Her return to Groby Manor seemed to give her new life: and, unknown to herself, the escape she thought she had had from sir William Ackland, diffused peace and cheerfulness over her mind.

She resumed all her occupations with a spirit which she had not experienced since her loss of Henry: and mr. Mordaunt thought himself autho­rized [Page 124] in giving sir William the most flattering ac­counts of her dispositions.

Ellen had, however, one continual cause of un­happiness, which neither her reason nor her pa­tience could preserve her from feeling. This was the increased ill humour of her mother. Baffled in her scheme of marrying her, persuaded that Ellen in secret meant to preserve herself for Henry, her resentment and malice towards her knew no bounds. There was no one moment of the day when she did not make her feel the fangs of her malevolence. All mr. Mordaunt's authority could not shield Ellen from the storm. The tongue is an instrument of evil that cannot be restrained. Bitter taunts, and severe reproaches, may be resented; but cannot, when we are com­pelled to live with the tormentor, be avoided. Ellen's duplicity and presumption were the con­tinual topics of her mother's discourse: and with these she took care to mingle the most confident assurances that all would prove vain, and that Henry would return to England only to marry lady Almeria.

From such attacks, Ellen took refuge, whenever she could, at the parsonage: but they made mr. Mordaunt more and more impatient to see her under the protection of a man of worth, and to have her prove, by her marriage, the falseness of mrs. Mordaunt's calumnies.

Sir William grew impatient to visit Northum­berland: and mr. Mordaunt determined to delay his consent no longer than till he had opened the matter fully to Ellen.

CHAP. XIII.

ONE day, when mrs. Mordaunt had been more than commonly injurious, Ellen had withdrawn herself to her favourite wood, and had just eased her swelling heart, by a flood of tears, when her father, who had purposely followed her from the house, joined her. She would have concealed her emotion.

"My dear Ellen," said he, "your mother de­serves no delicacy from you. Do not, for her sake, deprive me of your full confidence: the sympathy of one parent is but a due compensation for the cruelty of another."

[Page 126]"Your kindness, my father," said the weep­ing Ellen, "is a compensation for every evil: and I ought to bear injuries that I have not deserved, with more fortitude."

"I ought to remove you from the pressure of such injuries: and I would do so too, even at the hazard of never seeing my wife again, did I not hope a more amicable end to all your oppressions, and such a one as will give the lie direct to all your mother's unjust imputations."

Ellen regarded her father with a look of timid surprise.

"What do you mean, sir?"

"Your marriage with a man of worth will se­cure your own happiness; and prove, beyond all dispute, the sincerity and good faith of that re­nunciation, the motives for which are now so daily called in question.

"My marriage!" repeated Ellen, faintly.

"I want no further proof," cried mr. Mor­daunt warmly, "of the strength of your mind, and the purity of your principles. I know, that the sacrifice you appeared to make, was sincere, that you never looked to futurity for an indemni­fication for present losses: and I see, with equal pleasure and admiration, that you are capable of receiving happiness from another source than that which is dried up to you for ever. It is not, my love, that I am putting your honesty to the test: but it is that I think I am offering a reward to your virtues, when I talk to you of other con­nexions, when I name marriage."

"Marriage?" again repeated Ellen.

"Were your home as happy as I could wish to make it, yet marriage would be desirable. Half the female virtues fade, or are useless, except in [Page 127] marriage. You are formed to adorn them all: and having suffered as a daughter, it is proper you should be rewarded as a wife."

"As a wife?" said Ellen.

"As a wife, my love; nor can I believe that with a man whom you could love, there is any thing very dreadful in the name of wife. Sir Wil­liam Ackland seeks and deserves your love. In giving you to him, I believe I secure your happi­ness: and have I not observed that he is not dis­agreeable to you?"

"Disagreeable! no, certainly."

"His person, his conversation pleases you. You think him worthy, amiable?"

"Yes."

"You are not unconscious that he admires you?"

"No."

"It would not be ungrateful to you that he should love you?"

Ellen was silent.

"Dear Ellen, why these monosyllables? Why this silence?"

Ellen gasped for breath. Mr. Mordaunt took her hand. It was cold.

"You are ill?"

"No, I am better." And throwing herself into her father's arms, she burst into tears.

"Dear sir, forgive me. I will not be less all you wish me, notwithstanding these foolish tears."

"They are not tears of reluctance, Ellen? I mean not to distress you. You are and shall be mistress of yourself."

"It must come to this. I knew it would come to this! I will not abuse your indulgence. But leave me, dear sir, leave me: In two hours I will [Page 128] tell you what I think I can do, what I believe I ought to do."

"I will leave you, my love: but do nothing merely because you think I wish it. Let the rea­sons why I wish it, have their weight, but not the wish itself."

"Impossible! your wish must be a motive with me."

Mr. Mordaunt retired: and Ellen hastened, as fast as her trembling limbs would carry her, to the parsonage. She found the little family assem­bled in that woodbine bower, where so many happy hours of her childhood had been passed, where she had so often studied and so often idled with Henry, where she had a hundred times re­ceived his vows of everlasting love, and where she had as often promised never to forsake him. The recollection was too painful: she stopt short. Her limbs failed her. Mr. Thornton caught her in his arms; and then giving her a glass of water, she rested her head on mr. Thornton's shoulder, and was saved by tears from fainting.

Mr. and mrs. Thornton hung over her with true parental affection, terrified with an emotion they had never witnessed in her before, yet afraid to increase her distress by inquiring into the cause.

Mary, as much alarmed, and less considerate, cried, "Dear, dear Ellen, what's the matter? Who now has done you wrong?"

"No one; myself I think. I did not think I should have been so overcome. I meant to have been quite calm."

"But what, what is the matter?"

"Oh! my friends, you must advise me. Yet, already I know what I ought to do."

[Page 129]"Sir William Ackland would marry you?" interrupted Mary.

"My poor Ellen," said mr. Thornton.

"My dear sir, my second father," said Ellen, looking up to mr. Thornton. "You shall be my casuist. You shall decide for me. What you determine, will be right aad good."

"Dear Ellen, you have decided yourself. What is eligible, what tends to your happiness nobody can doubt. The question is, what can you do?"

"I can do that which you advise me to do."

"Sir William is pleasant to your fancy, and approved of by your understanding. He is ami­able, he is kind: plain sense requires no other qualifications in the object of affection."

"But if the heart is not free?" said Mary.

"Will Ellen make that plea?" said mr. Thornton.

"No. If my heart is not yet sir William Ackland's, I mean not to reserve it for another."

"What is the heart but the power of bestow­ing affections where there is merit enough to de­serve them? Does not sir William Ackland pos­sess that merit? And where can you look for mar­ried happiness with better hopes of success than with him?"

"No where I believe."

"You are above the romantic notion of living single all your life, from having experienced one disappointment; a notion, to say nothing of the false and selfish principles upon which it is grounded, that is usually attended by a much se­verer sense of disappointment than any occasioned by the events that gave birth to it."

[Page 130]"I hope I am. I have always disdained such a notion."

"Have you one objection, which you would wish to act from, to an union with sir William?"

"No."

"Then, my dear Ellen," said mr. Thornton, embracing her, "the question is decided. And if sir William is the man you and mr. Mordaunt describe him to be, your happiness is also decided. No retrospect will ever disturb it."

"I am willing to think so: but I mistrust my­self. The emotion I have now betrayed —"

"If I saw you insensible I should be less sure of your happiness. But the same sentiments that formed your first attachment, will form your se­cond. It is upon sir William's merits and your power of appreciating those merits, that I ground my assurance of your happiness. Your affection for him will fill the present void in your heart, will give a motive for action, and an interest to duty. If you have thought it possible for those who have lost you to be happy in a second choice, you will not be able to suppose you cannot be so, without making yourself too much, or too little of a compliment."

Ellen had nothing to reply to this; but turning to mrs. Thornton, said, "And you, my dear mo­ther, do you ratify this sentence?"

"Indeed I do. It is the dictate of good sense and good principles; high treason, I allow, against the laws of romance▪ but when did you ever refer your actions to that fantastical code?"

"Never, thanks to you, my best friends▪ and now I think I may engage I never shall."

"I long to know sir William," said mr. Thornton.

[Page 131]"He will meet with your approbation, I have no doubt."

"Then must he have more than common me­rit: less will not satisfy me, when I am looking for a husband for you."

Ellen faintly smiled; and asking Mary, whose silence had marked her dissatisfaction, to accom­pany her home, said she had promised, on parting with her father, to see him again in two hours.

"Heaven bless you, my dear child," said mr. and mrs. Thornton, both in a breath: and mr. Thornton added, "if moderation and rationality were to be personified, they would take no other form than Ellen's."

Ellen's heart was full. She pressed their hands between her's; and scarcely uttering 'adieu,' walked along with Mary.

Mary had much in her mind: but of all that was there, she was not able to utter a syllable. Ellen talked of the softness of the evening, the fragrance of the woodbines, and the melody of the birds. Mary could neither smell nor hear. Ellen changed the subject; and inquired con­cerning the last new book she had read, and whe­ther the colours in her flower-piece stood. Mary could bear no more.

"Oh! Ellen," cried she, throwing her arms around her, "I could not do as you do."

"You could if you would. What your father said was unanswerable. My judgment is tho­roughly with him."

"And is it a matter of judgment?"

"Assuredly. What but our judgment shall correct the mistakes of our hearts?"

"I can easily excuse my judgment that office. I hope it will never be called to it."

[Page 132]"You will be the happier. But, educated as you and I have been, in the same school, in the same circumstances, I have no doubt, but our conduct would be the same."

"It is easier to admire than to imitate you. All Aristotle's pupils were not Alexanders."

Mr. Mordaunt, in whose breast Ellen's agi­tation had raised the most painful apprehensions, had counted every moment since she quitted him, with the most anxious impatience: and no longer able to wait quietly her return, he had bent his steps towards the parsonage. He met Ellen and Mary. From the first glance of Ellen's eye, he learnt all he wished to know. "A blessing will follow all you do, my dear Ellen," said he; "for all you do is founded upon good sense and pro­priety."

"If I am right in your eyes, and not self-con­demned, I know not that there is any thing more in this world to be wished for," said Ellen.

"You have, indeed, laid the best foundation for happiness: and I entertain not a doubt but the superstructure will be all our most anxious love can desire."

CHAP. XVII.

SIR WILLIAM received mr. Mordaunt's sum­mons to Groby Manor with a mixture of the most lively pleasure, and the most tormenting solicitude. He could not doubt of Ellen's determination in his favour: but he doubted the motives that had produced it. He had begun his attentions to her by a scrupulous weighing of her merits and ble­mishes: and he had ended in the most decided and ardent passion. To be happy, he must be be­loved, be beloved preferably, and almost exclu­sively. To be less than all to Ellen, was, in sir William's mind, to be little more than nothing. His vanity could scarcely hope, or his reason desire this: and yet less than this would by him, before marriage, be lamented as a misfortune, and after marriage be punished as a fault.

He hasted down into Northumberland op­pressed by doubt, yet too much in love to be dis­posed to be governed even by a confirmation of his doubts.

The sight of Ellen increased his love and his fears. He found her gentle, complacent, yielding: [Page 134] but to all the symptoms of passion with which he was infected, he found nothing correspondent in Ellen. From the even tenor of her spirits, and the perfect freedom in which he was convinced her choice had been left by her father, he could not suspect that she was influenced in her accep­tance of him by any motives but such as she avowed—a sense of his merits, and a conviction that her life would pass happily with him: but those sentiments were far short of those he wished to inspire. He had been told she had loved Henry. She could therefore love. The anima­tion of character which she displayed in all she did, put the matter out of doubt. Her warmth of friendship for Mary, her attachment to her father, were farther proofs, if any had been wanting. Sir William already began to think it an injury to him, that, with the ardent feelings she possessed, she seemed to grant him only esteem.

To the querulous reproaches that sometimes es­caped him, Ellen opposed at times a good hu­moured raillery; and at others, with a frank ho­nesty, would refer him to time and his own vir­tues, as the only grounds on which he could build the probable success of his desires.

"And have you no notion of any love but what is grounded on the merits of the object?" Sir William would ask.

"Certainly not."

"And do you never love but in exact propor­tion to those merits?"

"I don't say so," said Ellen, with a blush.

"And yet you refer me to my merits?"

"As the ground-work; that once laid, let me alone for the superstructure."

"Is it not laid?" asked sir William peevishly.

[Page 135]"Without doubt: but hurrying me, will re­ [...]ard and not forward the building."

"Are you always so tardy in works of love?"

"All my loves," said Ellen with emotion, have hitherto ‘'Grown with my growth, and strengthened with my strength.'’ I am of slow capacity, and cannot seize an idea the moment it is offered me. You must not expect to reap before you have sown: but wait the season, and be assured you shall have a full harvest."

So Ellen felt; and so Ellen believed. She saw much in sir William to esteem, and much to like. Every day he grew more interesting to her. The happiness she already began to feel, she imputed to him. She did not trouble herself to analyze it too scrupulously, nor to examine how much ought to be referred to the unbounded content that shone in her father's countenance, how much to the new-born kindness of her mother, how much to the satisfaction of her sisters, who saw in her marriage the probable sphere of their pleasures much enlarged. If she adverted to any circum­stance as making a part of her happiness, inde­pendent of sir William, it was a self gratulation on acting right, and a conviction that she should not by her new connexions grieve Henry. She understood, as a certainty, that in a few months he was to return and marry lady Almeria. This circumstance had not, 'tis true, made any part of her motives for her present conduct: but it was impossible not to consider it as an addition to the personal happiness she promised herself. The fear that in yielding so implicitly to his father's will, he had been too careless of that felicity which [Page 136] only can be secured by the wise choice of a partner for life, would sometimes obtrude itself: but she drove it from her.

It is presumptuous in me, (thought she), to de­cide a question of which I know so little. Lady Almeria may have all the virtues and perfections that I wish her to have. I hardly know her. Shall I, by judging her harshly, make myself unhappy?

There were other uncertain thoughts and vague suspicions, which she found herself, when they occurred, less able to banish from her mind, and which touched her own interests nearer.

These were some doubts of the goodness of sir William's temper, and the liberality of his mind. She scarcely knew from what such sus­picions arose; perhaps from a word or look to a servant, an opinion carelessly dropped in common conversation, an over solicitude for trifles, a some­thing falling short as it were of the thing she wished, rather than any thing directly inimical to it. She had to oppose to these suspicions, the generosity and handsomeness with which she knew he had dealt in all matters of settlement, and in all transactions with her father—the un­varied good-humour and sweetness of temper he displayed towards her—with the exception of what might be called the complainings of too ardent a love, an exception, which, however she might lament it, she hardly knew how to charge upon him as a fault.

To these were added, the gaiety and pleasant­ness of his conversation, and his desire of accom­modation in all matters in which she was con­cerned. Sometimes she thought this a little stu­died. But she checked herself in what she thought might be too great a fastidiousness: and some­times [Page 137] she feared, that whatever idea arose in her mind to the disadvantage of sir William, might be wholly owing to a comparison, which, do what she would, would sometimes force itself upon her. When this thought occurred, she condemned her­self as unjust, and almost criminal: and sir William was dearer to her from the sense of the injury she thought she had done him.

In a word, he had made that progress in her heart, and she had so accustomed herself to consider him as the person who was henceforth to be her best friend, that it depended wholly upon sir William's self to secure her love and her happiness for life.

It is not to be doubted, that lord Villars re­ceived the accounts of Ellen's intended marriage with the most heart-felt satisfaction: but it was a satisfaction that he judged it expedient, at present, to conceal carefully from his son. He imagined that he could never plead such an example of submission so irresistibly as in the moment when the final and certain overthrow of all his hopes should fill the breast of Henry with grief, disap­pointment, and probably resentment.

Lord Villars entreated his sister to keep Ellen as happy and pleased with herself as possible, and by the most marked change in her conduct to­wards her, and the most unbounded approbation of her present designs, to make her, if possible, forget the disappointment of her love, in the gra­tification of her vanity. Hence the change of mrs. Mordaunt's behaviour to her daughter, in which the good heart of Ellen so sincerely rejoiced.

Lord Villars wrote to mr. Mordaunt, beseech­ing him to renew their intercourse and friendship: [Page 138] and mr. Mordaunt, whose nature knew not im­placability, accepted the olive-branch. Lord Vil­lars ventured one step further; and sent to Ellen, as a bridal present, a costly ornament of pearls.

Ellen felt this as an insult, as though her deser­tion of Henry was to be paid with a pearl neck­lace. From the man who had so unrelentingly refused her happiness, she could not accept of ornament: and she returned, with very civil ex­pressions, the expensive trinket.

Sir William was acquainted with this circum­stance: and Ellen saw, with a very sensible pain, that it displeased him. He was more willing that she should sacrifice the dignity of her mind, than that she should betray any remaining resentment to the person who had separated her from Henry.

But the thing was done, and could not be recalled. She endeavoured, however, to convince sir William, that what she had done, was not from a feeling of resentment, but from that deli­cacy which forbids receiving obligation of any kind, and especially of a pecuniary sort, from those of whom we think ill. And she added, with a softness which ought to have subdued displeasure, even justly founded, that she would have sacrificed even this delicacy, rather than have done what was unpleasing to him.

CHAP. XVIII.

WHILE these things were transacting in Northumberland, Henry was amusing himself extremely well in Italy, perfectly unconscious of the blow that awaited him. He had been ac­quainted with Ellen's journey to Bath, and had suffered the most cruel uneasiness as to the pro­bable consequence of that expedition. But his heart had recovered its composure, and resumed its hopes, when he knew that she was returned disengaged into Northumberland. Although se­parated by seas and mountains, the same satis­faction had filled the hearts of Henry and Ellen, on her being again sheltered, as they both hoped, by the shades of Groby Manor, from the dangers of solicitation, and screened from the possibility of notice.

This shelter had proved vain: and Henry now learnt, although indistinctly, and from doubtful authority, of Ellen's intended marriage with sir William Ackland. On the thought of the dis­tance that divided Italy from England, an icy coldness ran through his veins. There was no staying there in all the horror of uncertainty, to be made perhaps still more wretched, by being put out of doubt.

[Page 140]He quitted Venice on the instant: and with a rapidity far short of his desires, but almost be­yond his powers, he arrived in England. Here he loitered not for information: but, more and more alarmed by that which reached him as he travelled on, with the same breathless haste he urged his way into Northumberland.

Here, at the parsonage, on the close of a fine day, in September, the moon giving a more af­fecting tint to objects, the sight of which, from the variety of emotions that they raised, almost shook his frame to dissolution, arrived the wretched Henry.

He asked, in a voice scarcely articulate, for mr. and mrs. Thornton; and was told they were at Groby Manor. His informer was a female: and she added, "for miss Ellen is to be married to-morrow: and my mistress is gone to take leave of her."

Henry felt the adder's f [...]g in his heart: and casting up a look of despair, that rather seemed to menace than to supplicate, he rushed forward, and, unknowing what he did or what he meant to do, soon reached the wood that adjoined to Groby Manor.

Amongst the few pensioners to whom Ellen's limited means enabled her to extend her bene­volence, was a poor woman, who, to the burden of fourscore years, added infirmity and misfortune. To her necessities Ellen had often sacrificed the variety of her dress, and the power of purchasing new books, or new music: and it was to Ellen not amongst the least pleasing circumstances of her approaching marriage, that it would enable her to secure poor Deborah from all the distresses of penury for the remainder of her life. No­thing, [Page 141] however, seemed sufficient to console the old woman for the approaching loss of the daily visits of her beloved benefactress: and Ellen made it a point, not to remit her attentions while it was in her power to continue them.

The hurry of the preceding day had prevented her usual visit to Deborah: but as the cottage did not stand more than five hundred yards from Groby Manor, just on the outside of the wood, she had withdrawn from her friends, while they were assembled at tea, to give one quarter of an hour to Deborah, to bid her adieu, and bestow her parting bounty; for Ellen was to depart on the morrow.

She was returning from this humane visitation, softened by the gratitude and the blessings of the poor creature she had left, her mind full of past scenes, and future expectations, when on a sudden Henry's figure stood before her.

Ellen neither shrieked nor fainted. But she doubted not but that which she saw was super­natural, 'till Henry, who, on the sight of her, felt every tumultuous passion dissolve into the most melting tenderness, rushed forward and clasped her in his arms.

"Am I to believe my senses? are you indeed Henry?"

"Yes, yes, I am Henry, the forgotten Henry. I know I came unlooked for, undesired. But I come to claim my own; to save you from the sin of inconstancy."

"Inconstancy! Do you charge me with in­constancy?"

"Yes, thou dear false one, yes. Can you deny the charge?"

[Page 142]"Most confidently. But, dear Henry, com­pose yourself. What means this sudden appear­ance? What mean those looks, so eager and so wild?"

"Are you not married?"

"No."

"Are you not betrothed?"

"I beseech you be calm. I will hear all you have to say. I will satisfy you fully. But do not terrify me thus. You will drive my reason from her seat."

"Do I terrify you? Forgive me? dearest, best-beloved of creatures, forgive me. You talk of reason. Mine indeed is gone, is lost. Put your hand here, here—feel here. Do you not feel the burning chain with which my brain is bound?"

"We will sit down here. We will converse together. You cannot feel pain any where, Henry, that I shall not commiserate."

"How soft is your voice! How kind your ac­cents! Oh, Ellen, you should not thus have un­done me."

A flood of tears stopt his speech. He wept, concealing his face in Ellen's garment. She hung over him in unutterable distress, and sought to sooth him by the kindest words of the most heart-felt compassion.

At length, he became more calm: and, starting up, "I meant not," said he, "to play the madman and the fool. But let us reason the matter to­gether. I will walk from you for a few moments; and having recovered my understanding, will try to keep it."

This was a seasonable relief to Ellen, and gave her time to rally all her faculties; for the sight of [Page 143] Henry, and Henry in such distress, had deprived her of every power of recollection, and made her sensible only to the extremest misery.

"I think I shall not again terrify you," said Henry, returning to her. "I think I can be master of myself. But, Ellen, I come to call you to a severe account. I come to reckon with you for my ruin."

"How innocent I am of your ruin in act, or wish, I will not tell you, Henry; for you know. I will not tell you to turn your mind to past trans­actions. My exculpation, I am sure, is written in your heart, and cannot be forgotten."

"Is it your exculpation, that you have sacri­ficed the truest love to a vain ambition? Is it your exculpation, that from disinterestedness, pure as what angels feel, you are become sordid, merce­nary?'

"Cruel Henry!—No, my dear cousin, you are not cruel; you are not even mistaken. You know I am not mercenary. You know I am not sordid. You know me thoroughly; and can be at no loss for the real motives of my conduct."

"I know you thoroughly!—No, no.—Once indeed—"

"No retrospect:—It is not only upon the present occasion, I have promised to forbear it; and to give it is not only useless but detri­mental."

"Cool, reasonable Ellen! But it is false, dis­sembled. You shall not persuade me that you forget."

"I forget nothing. I should be sorry to lay the foundation of my duty in the loss of my fa­culties."

"And do you indeed remember? Dearest [Page 144] creature, do you remember? It was in this walk, it was under these trees,—"

"Forbear. It was indeed in this spot I first acknowledged the preference I entertained for you; a preference justified by a father's appro­bation. But here, also, I learnt that your father forbade a union, which it would be impious in you to form under his prohibition: and here, too, I solemnly engaged I would never be accessary to your disobedience, and your ruin. Which of these recollections can criminate me in your eye, or justify your present extravagance?"

"All, all may justify my extravagance. That heart with all its virtues has been mine. It is torn from me—most unjustly torn from me— I have lost it for ever—Oh! Ellen, you bind me to the rack, and forbid me to complain!"

"Such complaint might have been pardonable twelve months ago. No future event can place a more insurmountable bar between us than was my promise then given to your father. In that promise you then acquiesced, why now—"

"Are you not about to be married to another▪ Am I not to be for ever undone?"

"When I promised your father never more to listen to you without his approbation, I knew I for ever renounced you. To-morrow's intended ceremony will not make the renunciation more absolute, then it then was. The duty of that moment was yielding: the duty of this is per­severance."

"And you, madam, I find, are equal to both."

"You will not always, I hope, think that an ironical praise: and I shall be happy to prove myself worthy of it."

They now walked on in silence▪ when coming [Page 145] to a walk that led immediately to the house, Ellen turned into it, when hastily seizing her gown, "you are not going?" exclaimed he.

"I am going no where," said she mildly, "but where, if you please, you may accompany me."

"Accompany you?—No, Ellen, I must never accompany you. But may the God of all good accompany you. May he guard you sleeping, and bless your waking hours, and may you never more think of such a wretch as I am."

And then quitting his hold, he rushed into th [...] surrounding coppice, and was out of sight in a moment. Perhaps, had he waited another in­stant, he had seen those signs of weakness in Ellen, which he seemed to have taken such pains to excite.

She was stunned with his vehemence, and overcome by her own recollections. Her limbs suddenly failed her: and she sunk at the foot of a tree, nearly senseless, and wholly unable for some minutes either to act or to think▪

CHAP. XIX.

BUT the mind where reason is habitually pa­ramount, gives place but for a moment to the anarchy of the passions.

Ellen roused herself from the temporary stupe­faction that had seized her; and, rising, returned with all the haste in her power to the house.

Her absence had already given occasion for sur­prise and inquiry: and Mary had suggested, as its probable cause, a farewel visit to old Deborah.

It had, however, been protracted until it had produced a considerable degree of anxiety in the breasts of those who thought every moment of her absence an hour.

Mary and sir William were about to have come in search of her, when, from the windows of the room where they were, they saw her approach. They ran towards her: and Mary, in accents of solicitude, and sir William in those of reproach, eagerly enquired where she had been.

"With Deborah, said Ellen: and instantly the tone of her voice betra [...]ed the emotion which still agitated her, and which the discomposure of her coun [...]enan [...] ▪ and the trembling of her limbs, made still more [...]dent.

"Why, why would you go there?" said Mary▪ [Page 147] "That poor creature's gratitude was sure to be too much for you. How much better had it been that you had been playing and singing with us."

"I will play and sing with you now," said Ellen: and in a hurried and fluttered manner hastily sat down to the harpsichord. She touched the keys: but it was discord, not harmony, that she produced. Every eye was fixed upon her. Her father drew near with extreme anxiety: and sir William, who had kept close to her from the moment he had met her, said, with a tone of chagrin and reproach, "this visit to an old woman has strangely discomposed you."

"I am indeed extremely discomposed," re­turned she; and rising, "my father, let me speak to you."

Mr. Mordaunt, struck with a deadly fear, though he knew not of what, put his arm round her waist — she had need of the support—and withdrew with her into another room.

There a seasonable burst of tears relieved the almost bursting heart of Ellen. But recovered from this agitation, she sought to quiet, by a recital of every circumstance, the agonizing alarm that, she perceived, had seized her father. The nar­rative, however, far from alleviating, increased every apprehension he had before felt. In it he thought he saw the wreck of Ellen's happiness, and in her happiness that of her reputation. He thought he saw the intended marriage with sir William broken, and broken from a revived pas­sion for another man; a passion which ought to have been extinguished for ever before such a marriage had been thought of. But he knew not Ellen. He knew not, that the severest sufferings for another, fearless for herself, could not turn her [Page 148] aside from the path of rectitude and reason. H [...] saw her agitated, alarmed, and unhappy: and he distinguished not the source from whence those feelings arose. He could not hope that it was alone pity and fear for Henry that excited them. He remained silent and thunderstruck, unknowing what to suggest, or what to advise.

"Let me intreat you," said Ellen, "to go to mr. Thornton. Let him seek out the wretched Henry. Let him, if possible, sooth his despera­tion, and lead him to patience.

"And sir William?—What shall be said to sir William?"

"I will tell him myself every thing."

"Tell him! What will you tell him?"

"All that has passed. I am sure he will join in my commiseration for the unhappy Henry."

Mr. Mordaunt felt his fears subside, and his hopes revive. "So untoward a circumstance," said he hesitating, "may perhaps excite in sir William's mind—"

"Nothing but compassion surely. How other­wise can it affect sir William? Have I ever disavowed my affection to Henry? Have I ever pretended, that I renounced him from any consi­deration but that of duty? The circumstance of to-night has not altered the grounds of that re­nunciation. It has not shaken the esteem, the love I have for sir William. They were not founded upon the absence of Henry, but upon the good qualities and kind affections of sir Wil­liam. My designs and my sentiments are unal­tered. I will, indeed, confess my happiness is con­siderably lessened. I had been taught to believe that Henry too had sacrificed his first love at the shrine of filial duty. This belief did not form a [Page 149] motive for my own conduct: but it contributed largely to the happiness I hoped to draw from it. I cannot be happy while Henry is so perfectly wretched, and made so by me. But had I known the true state of his mind some months ago, should I not still have acted as I have done? I was not to hold myself accountable to him: and now I do know it, can it, ought it to have any influence on my actions?"

"My dearest Ellen, you are every thing that a father can wish. You are every thing you ought to be."

"Go, dear sir, go, and send mr. Thornton in pursuit of our poor wanderer; and beg sir Wil­liam will come to me."

The agony of suspense and fear that sir William had undergone during this conversation, no words can describe; nor had the feelings of the rest of the party been much less acute. On the return of mr. Mordaunt, they all crowded around him.

"Don't be alarmed, there is no harm.—Ellen has seen Henry. But go, my dear sir Wil­liam. Go, and hear from herself all that has passed. There is nothing to be regretted in the affair but the misery of poor Henry."

"Seen Henry!" repeated every voice, when mr. Mordaunt pronounced these words.

"Nothing to be regretted but the misery of poor Henry!" said sir William, and rushed ea­gerly into the room to which Ellen had retired.

She met him with her hand held out to him, "Come, my best friend, come, and with your kindness sooth the agitation, that compassion for the unhappy Henry has excited."

"Unhappy Henry!—Can he be called un­happy, [Page 150] Ellen, whose, sufferings make your eyes overflow? and for whose loss the bitterness of your regrets robs even your bridal hour of happi­ness?"

"Away with such a thought," said the upright Ellen: "if my heart did not sink within me, if my whole frame were not discomposed by having been witness of his distress, I should be unworthy of your esteem or my own. Henry was my first and, had not insuperable obstacles interposed, would have been my only choice. But when I bowed before those obstacles, it was in a full and perfect sense, without any mental reservation, without any lurking hope whatever, that I said I renounced him. With equal sincerity, with equal singleness of heart, I have avowed, that your merits and your affections have made such an im­pression on my mind, that, in consenting to pass the whole of my life with you, I believe I have secured a pure and rational felicity for the remain­der of my days. The circumstance of this night though it has clouded the serenity of my mind, has made no alteration in its sentiments: and I shall to-morrow become your wife with the same desires, with the same satisfaction, the same affec­tions, and the same hopes, that I should have given you my hand yesterday."

"In such an assurance you seem to give me all I can ask. Yet, how far short is such a modified regard, of the ardent and exclusive love I bear you."

"Be assured," cried Ellen fervently, "that no love can be more exclusive than mine, if you mean to confine the sense of that word to the love that a wife ought to bear her husband. If [Page 151] indeed you extend it to all the solicitudes of friend­ship, or family affection, know, that I never felt such a love. I am incapable of feeling such a love: and if I were conscious of any tendencies towards it, I should think I ought to repress them. I can feel a preferable love, I cannot feel an exclusive one."

"You never felt such a love?"

"No. And the engagements that now subsist between us, is a proof of it. Had not a parent, had not my friends, had not my duties, had each their share in my heart, would those ties ever have been broken, upon the dissolution of which, those that now subsist between you and me, have been founded."

"Oh, may I be able," cried sir William, ten­derly embracing her, "to connect an ardent, if not an exclusive love for me, with all the energies of such a character, then shall I be the most blest of men."

"Doubt not, but you will do so. Did I be­lieve otherwise, no consideration whatever would induce me to become your wife."

Sir William had then patience to listen to the circumstances of Henry's sudden appearance and as sudden departure. He listened, but certainly with no compassion corresponding to that felt by the relator; for, as he had a deeply-rooted fear of Henry's influence over the mind of Ellen, so he was not without a feeling towards him some­thing resembling hatred.

Ellen, though she told all the truth, avoided, from a sentiment of delicacy, to press u [...] sir William's observation the extent of H [...]nry's wretchedness, and the sense she had of it. And sir William, though he shrunk from every parti­cular [Page 152] that represented Ellen as tenderly touched for Henry, shewed an eager curiosity after the most minute circumstance that had passed. He sought to draw something like censure of the ve­hemence Henry had discovered from the lips of Ellen. But this he sought for in vain. The accents of the purest sincerity were ever on those lips; nor did any imagined refinement of feeling ever betray her into the wanderings of duplicity: and she felt only the most lively and tender com­passion for the sorrows of Henry▪ She knew she had herself been deceived, as to the state of his mind; and had no doubt but that equal deceit had been practised towards him, though the na­ture of the falshood was probably different. She could impute his indiscreet appearance, his vehe­mence, and his distraction, only to his having been kept designedly in ignorance of the real situation in which she had been for some time past, and from its having at length reached him in its full extent, and in so sudden a manner, as to suspend for a time all the restraints of reason and of pru­dence. All blame, therefore, was far from her mind; and never was anxiety more painful than that she felt on his account.

Mr. Thornton at length returned. He in­formed her, that he had traced Henry back to his chaise, which (his servants not having received any orders from him) had waited at the parsonage, from the moment he quitted it until he returned; that having put himself into it, he had driven back to the next inn, where, changing horses, he had again pursued his journey, evidently with a design to escape as soon as he could, from a place which overwhelmed him with recollections he was unable to bear.

[Page 153]Ellen could not hope to hear any thing more consolatory. Yet the idea of Henry a fugitive, under the guidance only of his ungoverned pas­sions, flying from her, and suffering for her, fixed a pain in her heart, which no considerations on the rectitude of her own conduct, or the probable prospect of happiness before her could remove. Her best balm would have been a frank and tender participation in her sorrows by sir William. It would have been, on his part, the surest means of avoiding the evil he dreaded. But she beheld him with regret and apprehension, gloomy and silent. His attention towards her wore rather the air of suspicion than of tenderness; and seemed to suggest to her the propriety of conceal­ing feelings, which she could not but consider, not only as unavoidable, but laudable.

The evening wore away with little satisfaction on any side: and Ellen retired to her apartment with a fear for the peace of her future life; which not the sudden appearance of Henry, not those recollections which it had awakened in her, but the dispositions which it seemed to have betrayed in sir William, had impressed on her mind.

When Ellen appeared at breakfast the next morning, her countenance wore an air of thought­fulness, which no one in her present circum­stances could reprove: but she had endeavoured, as much as possible, to banish all sadness from it. The gay affection that sparkled in sir William's eyes, and the ardent love with which they were darted towards her, did more, in one instant, towards producing this effect, than all her reflec­tions and resolutions, formed through a sleepless night, had been able to accomplish.

[Page 154]"Forgive, my dearest love, forgive," said sir William, "all that last night might look like distrust, or discontent, on my part. My feelings [...]ight perhaps condemn, but my judgment wholly acquitted you: and who that knows the real value of my Ellen's heart, will wonder, that a fear, how­ever unjustly sounded, that it was not wholly mine, should overwhelm me with sadness?"

"My dear sir William, only do yourself jus­tice; and you will never have any fear concerning my heart, that can give you a moment's uneasi­ness."

Sir William, delighted, embraced her: and Ellen's almost lost hope, that the road, which her reason had pointed out to her, as sure to lead to happiness, began to revive.

The marriage ceremony was performed by mr. Thornton. Mrs. Thornton and her daughter attended their beloved Ellen to church; and there they parted. The pain of this parting scene was mitigated on all sides, by a firm promise on the part of the Thorntons, that many months should not elapse, before they visited Berkshire.

Charlotte accompanied her sister, and mr. and mrs. Mordaunt and their eldest daughter were to join them at Oakley in about a month.

CHAP. XX.

TO Oakley, Ellen began her journey: but in the situation of this country residence of sir Wil­liam's, there was one circumstance, which since the adventure of the preceding day, Ellen had ad­verted to with pain.

Oakley was situated scarcely half a mile distant from the small house belonging to lord Villars, to which he had retired on the death of his son. It was not the usual residence of the family: but she knew it was a favourite spot with Henry, and a place to which he frequently resorted, to pursue the sports of the field. She could not hope that he would soon be able to see her with the com­posure, without which he ought not to see her at all: and she felt hurt at being the cause of ba­nishing him from a place, where, in the present state of his mind, he might probably have found the most eligible retreat from the distraction and regrets that preyed upon his heart. She feared his resource might be again to quit England: and in this continued estrangement from his country and family, she foresaw a probable change in his character and manner of thinking, extremely to the disadvantage of his happiness and principles. She knew him formed to be an useful and active member of society, capable of fulfilling, with ho­nour to himself and advantage to others, any civil [Page 156] or political duty, which his rank in life, or the circumstances of his country might call him to. To have him waste his existence in wandering from one foreign court to another, distant from every domestic and every national connection, a prey to useless repining, or the victim of frivolous pleasures, was an idea that filled her mind with the most painful disquietude—a disquietude that arose almost beyond endurance, when she ventured to ask herself the question, "What has driven him to this?"

Sir William observed, with chagrin, her anxiety, and the solicitude with which she desired to hear something of Henry. But in every other particular he had reason to think himself the most fortunate of men.

The charms of Ellen's person and conversation, the sweetness of her temper, and the unfeigned affection that her every action manifested towards him, left him nothing to wish, had he known how to regulate his wishes by the rule of reason.

But, in fact, sir William was neither reasonable nor amiable. Under all the exterior graces which a pleasing person, polished manners, and a good and cultivated understanding could bestow, he was vehement in his temper, and, when thoroughly provoked, implacable. Lavish in pursuit of his own gratifications, niggardly in promoting those of others; he loved Ellen with all the ardency of passion; but he loved her as a possession, in which he could not bear that any other should have a share. The mildness of her manners and the reasonableness of her conduct, with the com­placent state of mind that belongs to a successful lover, had preserved him, during his residence in Northumberland, from every possibility of betray­ing [Page 157] his natural disposition: and without designing to practise any deception, sir William Ackland, in the first months of Ellen's knowledge of him, and sir William Ackland during the rest of his life, were two men, of distinct and separate cha­racters.

It was, however, only slowly, and by degrees, that the true and unamiable character was dis­closed to the unwilling observation of Ellen: and it was not until every doubt was done away, in the most calamitous certainty, that Ellen would allow herself to believe, that the man who could appear reasonable, obliging, kind, and generous, was, in truth, unpersuadeable, harsh, violent, and selfish. But the discovery was not yet made. The present hour was all harmony: and the brightest prospects opened before her.

She was joined by the family, from Groby Manor, at the time appointed: and she learnt, with a satisfaction that banished all sadness from her mind, that Henry had signified his design to his father of taking up his abode in England. He was at present engaged in making an excursion to the North of Scotland: bu [...] he had promised to join his father at the park at Christmas.

In truth, however vehement and restless Henry might have been, while his mind was divided be­tween hope and fear, and while inaction on his part might be accessary to the loss of his happi­ness; he had no sooner recovered from the pa­roxysm of grief and despair, into which the con­summation of his misfortune had thrown him, than he roused all the faculties of his mind to bear with the constancy and dignity of a rational creature, griefs which no impatience or extrava­gance could in any way lessen.

[Page 158]Of Ellen's person and Ellen's character he was enamoured. He looked round; and in his idea saw nothing equal to her on earth: and he felt, that however impelled by passion, or misled by fancy, he might in any future hour be tempted to form a temporary engagement with another woman, that there was no other whom the sanc­tion of his judgment could allow as worthy to succeed Ellen in his affections as a wife; least of all could the frivolous, the inconsequent lady Al­meria be worthy. He considered her, too, as the efficient cause that had separated him from Ellen: and if to other woman he were indifferent, to lady Almeria he was abhorrent.

But in resolving that no consideration should ever compel him to accept of her as a wife, he wished to soften the obduracy of his opposition to his father's will as much as possible. It was in this light that he turned with disapprobation from the idea that had once appeared seducing to him, of living like a vagabond upon earth, wandering from place to place, and finding no where a home.

"I have a home, I have a family, I have a country," said he, "dearest Ellen: with what delight, animated by your approbation, should I have endeavoured to have fulfilled my duties to them all. Your love must no longer be my re­ward. But your virtue shall be my stimulator. Your eye shall follow me through life: and it shall not weep for the degeneracy of your cousin."

Three days after the marriage of Ellen, Henry was sufficiently master of himself to form this re­solution, and to write the following letter in con­sequence of it to his father.

Lord Villars had been apprised of Henry's in­terview with Ellen, and the desperation that he had manifested; and his mind had been filled with the most lively apprehensions in consequence. There was no extremity that he had not feared Henry might be driven to: and therefore the con­tents of this letter relieved him from a state of most painful anxiety.

At the instant it was written he could expect [Page 161] nothing less than a formal renunciation of the whole sex for Ellen's sake: but lord Villars little feared that a man of Henry's years, and Henry's disposition, would turn hermit. His desire of be­ing upon amicable terms with his father, and his purpose of continuing in England, persuaded lord Villars that time might yet produce all the effects he wished.

He readily promised, that neither lady Almeria nor any other woman should be offered to his ac­ceptance, and manifested the most parental con­cern for his present sufferings. "Sufferings," he said, "which made his own heart bleed, and which nothing but the most cruel necessity could ever have induced him to have inflicted on a son, whom he loved as he did his own soul."

Promises and professions cost lord Villars noth­ing. They were equally for the present moment, without reference for the past, or thought of the future. He knew, indeed, how, by the colour­ing he could give to any after events, to "keep his promise to the ear, and break it to the sense." He desired Henry to come directly to the park, where, whatever lord Villars did, lady Villars longed to see him. Henry had accordingly made them a visit of a few days; but at the expiration of that time had gone upon a tour into the High­lands, hoping by the means of a variety of objects, and constant change of place, a little to blunt the edge of those remembrances, which, while they preserved their present acuteness, were, at mo­ments, more that his reason and his fortitude could support.

CHAP. XXI.

LORD VILLARS and his family had been amongst some of Ellen's first visitors. From the offensive flattery and studied fondness of lord Vil­lars, she could not but turn with undisguised aversion: but in the friendship and partiality of lady Villars she experienced a very sincere plea­sure.

Lady Villars had no very clear idea of the whole merit of Ellen's conduct: but she thought herself under important obligations to her for the readiness with which she had quitted her rights to a connexion with her son; a connexion, which lady Villars honestly believed, would have been attended with the most fatal consequences to her whole family.

Lady Villars, therefore, rejoiced in Ellen's pre­sent situation, as in what she thought a due re­ward for the generous self denial she had practised in her conduct towards Henry. But when she saw with what propriety Ellen supported the rank of life in which she was placed, how she adorned and animated society, and how she conciliated the affections of all who approached her, she could hardly repress a regret that any consideration, however powerful, should have stood in her way, [Page 163] to the securing to herself such a daughter, and her son such a wife.

With lord and lady Villars come lady Almeria. From lady Villars, whose integrity forbade her concurring in any deception, she had learnt the contents of Henry's letter. She therefore knew that her brows were bound with willow: but her heart seemed not the less light for this. She rattled, laughed, danced, rode, and walked with the gayest and happiest of her companions; made a jest of Henry's cruelty; and rallied Ellen on her charms, which lost no part of their ascendency even over a hapless lover. Ellen's gravity upon such occasions would have taught any one but the insensible lady Almeria reserve upon this subject. But lady Almeria had a love of mischief in her disposition, which no consideration for another was sufficient to check her in the gratification of: and though she had no pleasure in tormenting Ellen, she thought it good sport to make sir Wil­liam jealous.

To a wild girl of little more than seventeen, sir William, at past forty, seemed a Methusalem, and she thought it comical to make the old gentleman (as she called him) knit his brow and pout, by talk­ing of the love and the merit of his young rival.

Lady Villars would have repressed this imper­tinence. But lady Almeria was incorrigible: for, joined to no common degree of inconsideration, she was sensible of her importance to the family, and was not unconscious, that in spite of the pre­sent coldness of Henry, lord Villars had not re­signed his hopes of making her one day his daugh­ter-in-law.

She therefore often treated both lord and lady Villars with a kind of civil insolence; and very [Page 164] openly asserted her right of having her own way in every thing. She did not want talents, nor discernment: and she despised lady Villars as much for the narrowness of her understanding, as she did lord Villars for the sordidness of his views.

Lord Villars tolerated all this in consideration of the number of her estates. But lady Villars soon conceived a decided dislike to her, and a deep-rooted fear of her ever becoming the wife of her son. This dislike and this fear were ren­dered more lively by the comparison she daily made between her character and that of Ellen.

But lord Villars' hopes and lady Villars' fears were alike unfounded; and were one proof more, added to the thousands that occur every day, that, if the sufferings of life were to be confined to actual misfortunes, the mountain of human woes, which now seems so immense, and extended, would shrink into a mole-hill, of a size so small as almost to escape observation. It is, however, inseparable from our nature, that our sufferings shall be more from what we fear, than from what we feel: and in reckoning the sorrows attached to our existence here, we are to estimate not what is, but what it is apprehended may be.

Among the joyous circle that Ellen on her marriage had drawn round her at Oakley, her brother was not forgotten.

He had continued under the private tuition where mr. Mordaunt had placed him on his return from Jamaica, until of a sufficient age to be sent to college: and at eighteen he had been removed to Oxford.

Mr. Mordaunt dreading the influence of his wife on the character of his son, had suffered him to spend as little time as possible at Groby Manor, [Page 165] while he continued a school boy; and after his removal to Oxford, had continued so to fill up his vacations with some pleasurable scheme or other, as almost totally to banish him from thence, with­out any appearance of design or unkindness. But he was now grown to manhood: and precautions of this kind were no longer possible or necessary; nor could mr. Mordaunt any longer refuse himself the satisfaction of associating with his son, espe­cially as he flattered himself, that his own opinions might probably now have more influence over him than those of his mother.

William Mordaunt had now therefore joined the family party at Oakley. He was handsome, gay, and good-humoured: but he was wild, in­considerate, and ungovernable.

Lady Almeria and he were drawn towards each other, by a sympathy of character and disposition. From the first hour of their acquaintance, they became inseparable: and lord Villars saw that if he did not find some immediate remedy for this impending evil, lady Almeria's fortune would be lost to his family for ever.

He had recourse to his usual means, delay.

He laid before lady Almeria the inequality and degradation of the connexion that she seemed dis­posed to form; and declared, that while she was under his direction, neither his honour nor his conscience would permit him to suffer it.

Lady Almeria listened in silence, and with an insolent non-chalance, to his lecture: and when he had ended it, twisting her sash ribband round her arm, as she went out of the room, replied between her teeth, "We must wait until I am one-and-twenty then."

[Page 166]If lady Almeria would but wait, it was all lord Villars could dare to hope from her: and from his own machinations during this period of expec­tation, he was to look for what further was wanting, to his success. From his usual coad­jutrice, mrs. Mordaunt, he could not in this case expect any assistance; for however desirous she might be to promote the interests of her nephew, in general, when they came in competition with those of her son, they could not be expected to have any but a second place. She had seen the growing fondness between him and lady Almeria; and had secretly resolved to do all in her power to forward it. It had been observed by mr. Mor­daunt with very different wishes and views: but he wisely thought a seeming inattention to what was going on, the most likely method of pre­venting a fancy from growing into a prejudice: and he imagined, if his son were nor led by op­position into making engagements with himself, not to give up lady Almeria, that the present par­tiality would probably end in a boy and girl's short-lived flirtation, without any farther conse­quence.

But the precipitancy of lady Almeria's passions rendered the plans of hindrance on the part of lord Villars and mr. Mordaunt, and those of assistance on the part of mrs. Mordaunt, equally vain and useless.

Lady Almeria had listened to lord Villars with the most apparent indifference: but this did not arise from her being careless as to his opposition to her designs, but from her resolution, that all op­position from whatever quarter should prove vain.

She went directly from lord Villars to William [Page 167] Mordaunt. She found him practising archery with some of his companions.

"Come along with me," said she, "I have something to say to you. Guardy," (for so she was accustomed in contempt to call lord Villars) "Guardy," said she, when they were alone, "has been fulminating his interdict against my becom­ing your wife. Neither his honour nor his con­science, forsooth, can allow of so unequal a con­nection. That is, his honour designs to give my person to his son, who cares not a pin for me; and his conscience appropriates my fortune as the provision for his younger children. But if I and my money are to go to ruin, they shall go my own way. He will not find me so soon moralized and sentimentalized out of my rights as he found your sister Ellen. What say you? Are you inclined to trust my constancy through all the battleings and all the temptations with which it will be as­saulted in the next four years? Or will you make short work of it, and meet me with a chaise and four at the corner of the park wall, at one in the morning, and away to Scotland, and let guardy try, with all his bay and brown coach horses, to overtake us?"

"To night! this moment! in the face of the sun, in spite of all the guardians and all the coach horses in the world."

"That would be spirited; but no. We should have scolding, and hectoring, and locking up, and the lord knows what. I think I could be a match for them there too; but I hate unnecessary trouble, and have no desire to play the part of a distressed damsel. Let us do the matter quietly, at one, by the silent light of the moon. O lord, it does not shine: but no matter, the stars will do as well. [Page 168] I will be punctual to the minute. If you are out of cash I can supply you. I received my quar­terage two days ago, and having paid no bills, it is luckily entire."

"Well, be it so; at one exactly."

"To a second. There's my hand upon it. And now let us go to our aunts, and our uncles, and our cousins, and our guardians, and behave prettily, as a good little master and miss ought to do: and we may laugh at them the more when we are by ourselves."

And thus, in less than ten minutes did these two thoughtless creatures determine upon a step upon which all the happiness or misery of their future lives depended.

William found no difficulty in engaging a chaise and four to be at the appointed spot, at the hour fixed upon; nor lady Almeria any in dis­missing her maid before she was undressed; nor, when she was gone, in wrapping herself up in her furs, and, with a small bundle of linen in her hand, descending the stairs, opening the door into the garden, or in proceeding from thence to the park, or, finally, in keeping her appointment with William.

At the corner of the park wall she found him; he received her with all the gaiety of youth, and all the raptures of a lover; they put themselves into the chaise together, and before lady Almeria was missed in the morning, had proceeded too far on their way to Scotland, to give any hopes of success from a pursuit.

Whatever confusion the discovery of their flight might occasion in the family at Oakley, or what­ever inward vexation it caused lord Villars, who thus saw a final end to all his ambitious projects, [Page 169] yet the nearness of the connexion in all the indi­viduals who composed that family, prevented any violent display of disappointment or chagrin. Lord Villars thought proper to gloss over the matter with an assurance, that although the respect he had for the trust reposed in him by lady Al­meria's father, would have prevented his consent­ing to such a match, yet the regard that he enter­tained for the interests of his nephew, made him, since it had been concluded without his concur­rence, sincerely rejoice in it.

With an air of acting under these feelings, he made, though something with an ill grace, his congratulations to mr. Mordaunt: and mr. Mor­daunt, with infinitely more sincerity, assured him, that had the connexion depended upon him, it had never taken place: and indeed the deep sigh, that the reflection upon the misery that an ill-judged marriage can occasion drew from him, evinced, that neither the splendour of lady Almeria's birth, or the greatness of her for­tune, compensated, in his opinion, for the light­ness of her mind and the unfeelingness of her heart.

The satisfaction, however, of mrs. Mordaunt, who judged very differently, knew no bounds: and lady Villars could not help joining (though from very different motives) in her pleasure.

The fate of lord Villars upon this occasion, was peculiarly hard. While half the world called his honesty in question, for having sacrificed the in­terests of his ward to those of his nephew; the other half arraigned his prudence, in suffering such a prize to go out of his own family; these censures were equally unfounded. He had spared [Page 170] no pains to preserve lady Almeria from his ne­phew: he had left no art unessayed to secure her for his son.

This event affected Ellen very sensibly. She could not but be pleased that Henry was relieved from all persecution on lady Almeria's account, and that he was safe from the possibility of yield­ing to it. But the very unfavourable opinion she had of lady Almeria's character, and which a farther knowledge of her had confirmed, filled her mind with the most lively apprehensions for the happiness of her brother.

The young couple, however, were welcomed on their return from Scotland, without much re­proach on any side. The necessary arrangements of their establishment were made: and harmony seemed restored to all the parties concerned.

Another event, which happened in the family of Ellen, at this time, occasioned much more serious consternation and distress.

Mrs. Mordaunt had long had the mortification of being witness to the misery and poverty of her eldest daughter. No one reproached her as the cause [...] but, notwithstanding her natural indif­ference to every sorrow that did not attack her personally, she could not avoid making herself the most severe reproaches. She now saw the fatal consummation of her ill-laid plans of ambition and vanity. The miserable daughter was returned upon their hands. The unprincipled man, whom she had chosen for her husband, having collected the remnants of his ruined fortune, had left his wife and two children to beggary, and had quitted England, as he said, for ever.

Mr. Mordaunt was little able to bear this [Page 171] additional burden. There was however no al­ternative. His daughter and her children were starving. Groby Manor was the only asylum open to them: to Groby Manor, there­fore, after a visit of three months to Ellen, mr. Mordaunt conducted his wife and the rest of his family.

CHAP. XXII.

ELLEN and sir William were now left alone: and Ellen had leisure to look around her and con­sider the duties and engagements which her new situation called her to the performance of.

In the scheme of happiness, which, in consent­ing to a marriage with sir William Ackland, she had planned for herself, a very prominent feature had been the regular and systematic assistance she should be able to administer to the wants, both of mind and estate, of her poor neighbours. In the fullness of her benevolent self-gratulation, she had said, "when the ear hears me, it shall bless me: when the eye sees me, it shall give witness to me. The blessing of him who is ready to perish, shall come upon me: and I will cause the widow's heart to sing for joy."

In her imagination, she educated the young, she encouraged the middle-aged, and she sup­ported the old. She saw the neat cottage arise at her command; the orderly arranged bee-hive rest against the wall, a source at once of pleasure and of profit; the little flower plat put forth its beau­ties; the orchard yield its fruits, and the virtues of integrity and industry [...]ead content, health and affluence in their train.

[Page 173]Such were the visions that filled the mind of Ellen, who, wholly insensible to every happiness she could not communicate, thought she placed her own felicity on the surest basis, when she ex­tended it to others.

Such were the visions which had filled the mind of Ellen before her marriage: and amidst the hur­ried and busy scenes which had held her almost wholly engaged in what appeared more personally to concern herself for the first three months after it took place, she had by no means lost sight of them.

In all her excursions in the environs of Oakley, she had looked around her with reference to the favourite object that filled her mind. She had endeavoured to make some enquiry into the si­tuation of the cottagers, and to form an acquaint­ance with the poorest of her neighbours. But she found difficulties that had never occurred to her imagination.

The long residence of sir William abroad, and the character of his immediate ancestors, who had spent little of their time at their principal country residence, and who had bestowed less of their thoughts upon the wants and claims of the poor who surrounded it, had long occasioned Oakley to be forgotten by the diseased and the necessitous; and had made its owners to be considered as hard and selfish people of fashion, who regarded their estate no farther than as it could furnish the sup­ply to their pleasures or their vices. There were no old servants to whom Ellen could apply for information, how to direct her benevolence. Her household consisted of a set of domestics whom sir William had collected upon his marriage, all [Page 174] strangers to that neighbourhood, and indifferent to its interests. The steward was a man whom sir William had brought out of Wales, professedly that he should have no predilection for any of those with whom he would have to deal. Sir William knew as little of the residents on his estate, as any of his dependants, farther than if they paid their rents well or ill: and whenever Ellen endeavoured to lead him to think upon the subject, or to open her own plans, he either re­pressed her by a look of disapprobation, or laughed her out of countenance, on the taste she had of becoming a lady Bountiful.

Ellen willingly imputed this backwardness to what she still believed sir William must think right, and would therefore in time pursue, to the contrary habits in which he had been so long en­gaged, to the different solicitudes that at present occupied him, and to the novelty of a country life, and country cares. To her he was lavish: and therefore she could distribute her guineas around her to the relief of immediate and impor­tunate distress: and with this she endeavoured to rest satisfied, until time would enable her to mature her plans of more permanent assistance; assistance that would equally relieve the distresses of indi­gence, correct the errors of ignorance, and reclaim the wanderings of vice.

As sir William and Ellen rode or walked out together, she would ask questions of the women or children that fell in her way, or would stop and enter any cottage, which either from its neatness or desolation particularly drew her attention. But sir William betrayed the greatest impatience on her thus withdrawing her attentions one moment from him. He seemed enraptured to have her [Page 175] left to himself, and as if he could not endure that even her duties should share her with him.

The perfect indifference, or marked disappro­bation with which he heard her tales of distress, and her projects for relieving the sufferers, awak­ened Ellen to a most painful conviction, that she must consider herself as sufficiently happy, if she were allowed in silence and unobserved, as it were, to pursue them: but that she must not hope from sir William either concurrence or applause.

Ellen here first tasted of those waters of disap­pointment, which were afterwards to flow with so full a stream.

The affection she entertained for sir William was composed of confidence and benevolence; of a sense of the virtues she believed he possessed, and of the gratification that his manners and conver­sation afforded to her taste. On this affection she had boldly promised herself happiness in her connexion with him, notwithstanding the de­cided preference she had formerly entertained for Henry. She looked around her; and saw a very sufficient degree of happiness attached to the state of marriage, where the contracting parties were well known not to have united themselves with the objects of their first affections: and she reli­giously believed, that felicity depended much more upon the qualities of the husband, than upon the accidental circumstance of his having been the first person whose merit had made any impression upon the heart of the wife. "Sir William is worthy, is pleasing," said Ellen; "and I shall be happy."

Nothing could have been more just than her conclusion, had her premises been firm. But if the virtues were to disappear on which her confi­dence [Page 176] and her benevolence rested, how inade­quate to her happiness would be that affection, which had nothing left for its support but the external graces of manner and conversation.

Ellen soon found the whole scheme of her hap­piness must be incomplete. But she still flattered herself (for she was young, and had all that san­guineness of disposition that accompanies the warmest philanthropy) she still flattered herself, that some parts were yet in her power.

She had promised herself, indeed, that sir Wil­liam would go hand in hand with her in her vir­tues, as well as her pleasures. But if she could not accomplish the first, she yet did not despair of the second; and was not without hope, that by this circuitous road, she might at length lead him to the point she wished. She therefore eagerly concurred with him in a design he had formed, of building her a dairy house. But the ostentation he displayed in his manner of doing it, and the parade he made of studying her taste, while he shewed the most unequivocal dissatisfaction if that taste differed in the smallest degree from his own, effectually sickened poor Ellen of the dairy-house long before it was finished; and she never drank one bowl of cream within its walls, uncon­taminated by the effects of sir William's selfish­ness, violence, or jealousy.

Every day brought the disappointed Ellen, fresh proofs of all those failings in the mind of him whom she had engaged to love and respect.

His expenses flowed but in the single channel of self-gratification. They reached her indeed; because to ornament and indulge her made at present a principal part of his gratification: but to have pleasures, however innocent or praise-worthy, [Page 177] which she did not refer to him, she soon discovered would be considered as a crime.

From the softest manners and most courtly ad­dress, she frequently saw him, on the slightest provocation from a servant, become furious and abusive: and she could not conceal from herself, that in his dealings with his dependants, he was oppressive and tyrannical.

Ellen was the admiration and the love of the neighbourhood. Her youth and gaiety of dispo­sition led her to participate in all the pleasures which were offered her, and to promote them by every means in her power. Sir William soon taught her, for no one could be more quick in taking a hint, that such gaiety and such good neighbourhood were displeasing to him: and Ellen quickly withdrew from her usual parties.

To have made such a sacrifice to any reason­able feeling in the breast of sir William, would have cost Ellen nothing. It was the consciousness that she made it to the hydra-headed monster, jealousy, that gave it any sting.

Of whom, it will be asked, was sir William jealous? Of every body, of every thing that con­tributed to the pleasures of Ellen, independent of his agency.

To all the unfavourable suspicions relative to sir William's heart, and temper, which had, in a vague and doubtful form, arisen in her mind be­fore her marriage, the occurrences of every day now gave shape and stability: and Ellen had not been married six months, before she found herself involved in the difficult task of keeping alive, by every artifice in her power, her affection for a man, who might, had he pleased, in half that time [Page 178] have secured her heart immovably his own for ever. But the efforts of sir William seemed di­rected, if indeed they had any direction, rather to destroy than to excite or nourish love.

On the successful cultivation of her affection for her husband, Ellen knew that all her happiness, and she feared much of the performance of her duty, depended. She had, it is true, been only acquainted with disappointment: and she had proved herself equal to the severest self-denial. But her sorrows had then found the softest soother, and her virtuous resignation the warmest pa­negyric, in the kindness and partiality of her fa­ther. In the bitterest moments of her distress, in the most laborious of her struggles, his sympathy and his approbation had stilled the voice of com­plaint, and smoothed the rugged road of virtue. In the trials which she now foresaw awaited her, she could hope for no such support, for no such encouragement. Her first duty was concealment. The most wilful blindness with respect to herself, and the most inviolable silence with respect to others, was the first, the indispensable rule by which she was henceforth to form her conduct.

But, feeling, how could she persuade herself she did not feel? And, suffering, how could she be silent? Disappointed, how could she put on the air of satisfaction? and losing all on which she could ground esteem, how could she preserve love? These were points of constant and painful doubt and deliberation. But more immediate evil pressed upon her.

"Where she could not love, she could derive no satisfaction from being beloved. She felt that it was not the virtues of her heart, nor even the powers of her understanding, that made her so [Page 179] much the object of passion to sir William. She was thoroughly awakened to the conviction, that the solicitude which, in the early days of their acquaintance, he had discovered as to her real character, and upon which she had afterwards reflected with so much satisfaction, as a proof that his affection for her was founded upon those qualities, of which he would be the more assured, the more he knew her, was in fact nothing more than a selfish anxiety, lest, in the apparently gentle and complacent virgin, he should hereafter dis­cover the arrogant and self-willed wife. In a regulated temper, he saw a security for his do­mestic peace. In soundness of principles he be­held the guarantee of his honour. And in his systematic search for a wife, by whom to give an heir to his estate, he had, in respect to character, looked no farther.

In fixing upon Ellen, he had been determined, by finding reason to believe, that in sweetness of temper, and in goodness of heart, she yielded the palm to no one. He had warily decided to fix upon a wife before he was in love: and Ellen's person, which had at first appeared to him, rather simply pleasing than beautiful, seemed calculated to gratify his eye, without intoxicating his senses. But although Ellen did not seize the soul with the first glance, her's was even a more dangerous fas­cination. The charms of her conversation, the graces of her manner, the winning sincerity and modest frankness of her character, all conspired to render her irresistible, and to give her that power over the mind which beauty alone never bestowed. Sir William had become madly in love: and no sentiment in the breast of Ellen, not wholly correspondent to that which he felt for [Page 180] her, could satisfy his desires, or lull his jealousies to sleep.

In the well governed mind of Ellen this was a passion that could find no admittance. No merit whatever could have excited it. How impossible, then, was it, that she should feel such love for a man, who every day lost ground in her esteem, not only by his conduct towards others, but even towards herself!

Sir William, in having become a lover, had re­tained his dread of being made a dupe to the pas­sion of love. Hence, even his fondness was cap­tious, and his indulgence tyrannical; and Ellen, who in marriage had sought a friend, found by turns only a lover or a master.

CHAP. XXIII.

IT was in making these mortifying discoveries that Ellen spent the first six months after her marriage.

Disappointed in her schemes of benevolence, mistaken in the character of her husband, dissa­tisfied with herself, she was sometimes tempted to arraign her own conduct in having married sir William. But this was an idea that her good sense easily corrected.

Keeping fast to principles, she knew herself unaccountable for events. If she had been mis­taken, it was from no want of due consideration, from no precipitancy of action, produced by im­proper motives. She reviewed her conduct; and found, that being placed again in the same cir­cumstances, and assisted by the same lights, she should again act the same part. This conviction somewhat calmed her mind. What appeared so reasonable, she was persuaded must have a suffi­cient portion of good in it, to satisfy a rational creature. She endeavoured to find out this good.

She considered that her's was no uncommon case; that marriage-discontent was a weed that found nourishment in every soil; that it sprang up alike in the fields of love, and in the wilds of am­bition and avarice; that no foresight could stifle, [Page 182] no prudence eradicate it. If her own marriage furnished an example that the coolest investigation was not sufficient to guard from the most fatal mistakes in a matrimonial choice, her father's equally condemned the yielding to the blind im­pulse of passion.

"There are evils," said she, "which no human foresight can teach us to avert, which no purity of intention, can enable us to escape. In the con­duct under such evils lies our trial, and the foun­dation of our future reward or punishment.

This thought brought with it a train of the most anxious solicitudes. Ellen had all the mis­trust of herself, which true humility and an earnest desire to do right, ever induces. To guard her­self from that acute sense of her sorrow which might lead to faulty regrets, or culpable impa­tience, she carefully avoided every exaggeration of her disappointment which fancy could have suggested. She would not allow herself to think her's a peculiar misfortune, or attended with any particularly aggravating circumstances. She re­pulsed from her mind all anticipations, and all re­trospects. She made every hour bear its own burden, and, as much as in her power, was ready to accept the present good, without perversely dwelling upon the past, or anxiously conjecturing the future.

If sir William's ill humour, or his fondness, (for effects were often the same, when causes were different) put her out of her way of virtue or of, pleasure, she sought some other path which might lead, though not so directly, to her point. His ill humour she endeavoured to disarm by com­plaisance, and by gaiety, and to meet his fondness with the genuine satisfaction of reciprocal love. [Page 183] But this was the most difficult part of her task. Could she have esteemed him, his harshness and his unreasonableness with respect to herself, she could have more easily borne, and would hope to have subdued. But in losing her esteem for him, she lost this hope: and, in losing this hope, she lost the power of returning his passion with any but dissembled kindness.

Thus Ellen, with the most sincere and upright of human hearts, saw herself obliged to cultivate hypocrisy as a virtue. But that which is a crime in others, was in her only a misfortune.

From a never-ceasing succession of disappoint­ments, and from the accumulated weight of dif­ficult duties, Ellen was somewhat relieved by her removal to town. The novelty of the scene, the gaiety of the amusements, the objects of splendor and curiosity with which she was surrounded, filled and amused her mind. Sir William, too, seemed to have left much of his ill humour and narrowness of heart in the country. The air of London appeared to be more congenial to his character, and to call forth all the amiable parts of it. His liberality and gaiety revived; his money flowed freely round him; his house was open to the best society; his entertainments were elegant; and his establishment splendid.

But the principle of all this was little suited to that on which Ellen acted, and on which she wished him to have acted. "This, this," would he say to her, "is life! I grudge every guinea I expend in the country. I hate that my money should be swallowed in thick ale down the throats of stupid country oafs, or be wasted in courting a popularity, which is both the ruin and disgrace of whoever enjoys it."

[Page 184]"But in the improvement of the beauties of nature," said Ellen, "or in the relief of the dis­tresses of sickness, or age, money will not be mis­applied even in the country."

"What beauties of nature are comparable to those displayed in Hyde Park, or Kensington Gardens? And what distresses are those that the poor laws do not amply provide for? There is no other country in Europe, where there is such a provision made for the poor, by the laws, as in England: no country that can vie with it in public institutions for the relief of all kinds of misery. I approve all this: but having contri­buted my part to these institutions, I have done enough; I have done what I can afford: and pri­vate charities, I am convinced, are only the nourishers of idleness and the dupes of imposition."

Ellen did not press upon the subject: but she could not but observe to herself, that the man who did not think two hundred pounds too much to expend in one evening's amusement in London, could not, with much appearance of truth, say, he had done all he could afford towards relieving the distresses of his fellow creatures.

It was one of sir William's favourite maxims, that money spent in luxury was of more use, than if given in charity: and he would point out to Ellen, with a triumphant air, the splendor and richness of the shops, and ask her, if she did not think that those who contributed to the support of them, were of infinitely more use to society, than all the good housewives and lady Bountifuls that ever were born.

Ellen was too wise to argue with selfishness and prejudice. "Could the whole world be a Lon­don, my dear sir William," she would say, "your [Page 185] argument might be conclusive. But after doing all we can to the support of these manufacturers of the luxuries of life, there will still remain a large country world, who will perish for the want of the necessaries of it, if those of superior fortunes do not sometimes turn their thoughts from the shop to the cottage."

These kind of conversations made their rambles through London but little pleasing to Ellen: but she seemed to follow sir William's lead; took more than usual care of the elegance of her appearance; cultivated her inclination for amusement; and sought, by every means in her power, to do ho­nour to sir William's taste, and to support her part in the society he had introduced her to.

In the perpetual crowd in which she lived, there seemed to be little probability she should make any selections that could alarm his jealousy, or wound his self-love. She had not time to know any one well enough to become attached to him. Her time and her thoughts were taken up by a perpetual succession of engagements: but she had too good health and spirits to be easily tired: and a person of Ellen's quickness of parts and cultivated understanding, found, even in the promiscuous crowd of triflers and simpletons, many persons from whom she reaped both advan­tage and amusement.

If Ellen's heart was heavy in scenes, where from her youth, her attractions, and the advantages with which she appeared, she ought to have felt only self-gratulation and pleasure; it was not from any retrospect in which she indulged herself, but from the immediate weight which the conviction of the real character of the man on whom she was [Page 186] to depend for happiness, and with whom she was to pass her life, had fixed there. To love those with whom she was intimately connected, was indispensible to the felicity of Ellen. This the character of sir William made impossible: and hence Ellen, with every other blessing which hu­man beings implore, was wretched.

But Ellen was not wretched alone. Neither the hopeless state to which he was reduced, nor the fortitude he had exerted, had been able to restore to Henry his peace of mind. The mar­riage of lady Almeria had been a momentary re­lief to him: but like the remission of a fever, the disorder seemed to have gained strength by its temporary suspension. Had Ellen been unmar­ried, and the obstacle of lady Almeria removed, (the thought pierced him with ten thousand stings) another lady Almeria would have been found, replied his reason: Lady Almeria was not so re­solutely chosen as Ellen rejected.

"Be it as it may," said he to himself, "the die is cast; my fate is determined. I will follow the track I have chalked out for myself."

In pursuance of this resolution he had visited his family. He had been kindly received. He had endeavoured to rejoice in the kindness, and to busy himself in the interests of those around him. But the character of Henry was gone. His gaiety, his impetuosity, his social humour, his openness of heart were no more. An invincible gravity had taken their place, and a cold reserve to all, with a chilling indifference to every thing around him, marked all his actions. He rather appeared, however, to have lost the relish for pleasure, than to shun it. He affected nothing: but from the [Page 187] genuine overflowing sorrows of his heart, he was incapable of taking interest in any thing. There were times, when he felt ashamed of being thus overcome with his feelings: and then he made some more vigorous efforts to recover the natural tone of his mind. He imagined he should be more likely to do so, were he again to see, and accustom himself to the presence of Ellen.

"Henceforward," said he to himself, "she is to be nothing to me but the highly cherished re­membrance of an invaluable blessing lost for ever. Let me familiarize myself to that dear picture. It may be a means of rendering the sense of my loss less bitter."

Under the influence of these thoughts he came to town. It was easy for him to see Ellen every day without being observed by her: and when he had subdued the at first ungovernable tumults which the sight of her for the several first times had occasioned, he resolved to present himself before her. He remembered the last words he had ever heard her utter, "I am going no where, but where if you please you may accompany me." I may see her still, thought he. As a friend I may see her. And the friendship of Ellen is worth the love of all her sex beside.

One evening as Ellen was coming out of her box at the opera, accompanied by lady Almeria Henry appeared at the door.

"See, sir Doleful Dismal!" said lady Almeria. "Do you know you have quite spoilt that man?"

Ellen involuntarily stopped. She could not for an instant move on. But Henry, who had been learning his lesson, approached her. He had ra­ther the air of a person who was accustomed to see her every evening, than of a lover, who now, [Page 188] for the first time after their separation, beheld the beloved object which fate had torn from his arms, without being able to dislodge her from his heart.

He enquired after her health. He asked how she liked the opera. He desired to know if he could be of any use. And all this before Ellen, astonished and pained by the profound gravity and coldness of his manner, had sufficient presence of mind to utter a word.

"How you two look!" said lady Almeria laughing. "Dear, she's very well. She has been enchanted with the opera: and if you will see for her carriage, you'll do us a favour."

Henry disappeared like an arrow out of a bow. In spite of all his preparation, the scene was too much for him; nor could he have borne it a mo­ment longer.

"How very ill mr. Villars looks!" said Ellen, endeavouring to recover herself.

"And how very ill lady Ackland looks!" re­turned the unmerciful lady Almeria. "Here, child, take my salts. If those impertinents were to come by just now, who were disputing the other night whether you wore rouge, the wager would be decided in a minute."

"How you rattle! I want no salts."

"No to be sure. Well don't be afraid! I won't tell the old gentleman at home."

"I must beg, lady Almeria," said Ellen, ear­nestly, "that you will not speak so. You know I will not suffer it."

"Well, then, I will tell him. Will that please you? There's no knowing how to deal with you sentimental people."

Just then some gentlemen of their acquaintance [Page 189] inquired whether they would call their servants. Ellen thankfully accepted the offer: but lady Al­meria said, 'How can you be so rude? don't you know poor sir Doleful is gone on the same er­rand? he'll be in despair, if you run away with out seeing him!'

Henry at that moment returned; and saying the coach was then at the door, took Ellen's hand to lead her to it. It was with some difficulty he got her through the crowd: and the embarrass­ments they were in from that circumstance, re­lieved them both from the greater embarrassments of their own minds.

As he put her into the coach, "May I visit you?" said he, "and will you introduce me to sir William?"

"Undoubtedly, with the greatest pleasure," said she. It was all she could say; for lady Al­meria followed her: and the coach drove off.

CHAP. XXIV.

LADY ALMERIA accompanied Ellen home, nor did she spare her raillery. They were en­gaged to meet a party at supper; but as it was somewhat early, nobody happened to be arrived: and they therefore found sir William, who was just returned from his dinner society, alone.

Ellen would have chosen not to have men­tioned Henry's name before lady Almeria: but as she was confident it would come out in the course of the evening, that she had met with him, she thought it most prudent to speak, with all the indifference she could assume, of the circumstance herself.

"I have seen mr. Villars," said she to sir Wil­liam: "and he has desired me to introduce him to you."

"Oh! I wish you had seen them both," cried lady Almeria, "one so grave, the other so pale. Bow goes his worship; courtsey goes her ladyship. You would have sworn they had not seen each other for three hundred years, and were not over­joyed at the meeting now. Well, I protest I don't wonder Ellen chose you, if she could have any notion what kind of man Henry would be­come; for I protest I think you ten times the more agreeable person, I vow."

[Page 191]"Did you say you would introduce mr. Villars to me?" asked sir William very gravely, without regarding lady Almeria.

"I did," said Ellen.

"Why, can you have any objection!" said lady Almeria. "Ellen you know jilted him for you."

"What nonsense you talk, lady Almeria!" said Ellen.

"She certainly does not talk truth," said sir William, with the same gravity as before. And here, much to the relief of Ellen, they were joined by more company: and the evening passed as usual.

When they retired to their own apartments, Ellen remarked a gloom upon sir William's coun­tenance, which she had never before observed since their arrival in London. She endeavoured to dissipate it by more than usual cheerfulness on her part: but he seemed to regard her with an eye of suspicion, and preserved a gloomy silence. Ellen hesitated whether she should seem to remark this change in his humour, and endeavour to regain his confidence, and dissipate his chagrin, by ex­plicit declarations of unalterable attachment.

But the case between them was much changed, from what it had been at the period when she had last seen Henry, and when she had held this con­duct with advantage. Sir William at that mo­ [...]nt possessed her esteem and warmest friendship. Now he had nearly lost both one and the other. With truth could she have promised inviolable constancy: but to speak of an unshaken attach­ment which no longer subsisted, seemed adding hypocrisy to unkindness. The professions she had formerly made him, had flowed freely from her [Page 192] heart: now they would be uttered with embar­rassment and coldness. The fears which then seemed to oppress him, she had regarded with compassion. The suspicions that he now evi­dently entertained, she considered as injurious. They appeared but new marks of that narrow and selfish mind, the effects of which she had every day reason to deplore.

The debate whether she should conquer such feelings, or yield to them, held her so long, that before she was aware, her silence was as marked as sir William's: and they both retired to rest, with equal disinclination to sleep.

Some few hours of uneasy thought restored to Ellen her usual calm of mind.

However oppressed her heart might feel, by the afflictive change that appeared to be wrought in the character of Henry—and however alarmed, and somewhat offended she might be by the suspicions to which she was aware sir William had yielded—yet her confidence, that her conduct would never justify the one, and her hope that time might bring some alleviation to the other, enabled her wholly to suppress her resentment, and so far to overcome her sorrow, as to banish from her countenance and manner every appear­ance of it. In the course of her reflections she had also made some which had softened her heart toward sir William.

Oh! thought she, that he would but let me love him! The heart that can form such a wish, is not far from its gratification: and it was with un­affected tenderness, that Ellen proposed to sir William to pass the morning in an excursion some miles out of town, which he had talked of a few days before. But sir William coldly re­pulsed [Page 193] her by an air of scornful indifference, and by saying he had engagements elsewhere.

Elsewhere he went: for he quitted Ellen the moment breakfast was over: and she saw him no more in the course of the morning.

Ellen had previously dedicated this morning to some home occupations: but the tumult of mind sir William's unkind behaviour occasioned, with the train of dangerous reflections it drew after it, made her afraid to trust herself with her­self for a whole morning. The moment, there­fore, that she could compose herself, after his departure, she ordered her carriage, and conti­nued to find occupation from home 'till a late hour.

On her return, the first card she saw was that of mr. Villars: but she had little time to think of this circumstance, when she found to her sur­prise, that sir William was not returned home.

They were engaged to dine at her brother's: but Ellen having waited in vain beyond all dinner time, for the return of sir William, she found herself so inexpressibly uneasy, that she was in no condition to keep her engagement. She therefore excused herself on the score of indisposition: and with a heart oppressed by fears and apprehensions, to which she scarcely dared to give a name, she awaited with a degree of excruciating impatience, which she had never before felt, the return of sir William.

The clock had struck nine when she heard his knock at the door. She ran to the top of the stairs to meet him, and catching hold of his hand, "How glad I am to see you! where, where have you been?"

"I have been at your brother's," said he [Page 194] coldly. "But I could not stay when I heard you were ill. Are you better?"

"But where were you all this morning? Why did you not come home to dress?"

"I was kept late in the city. I knew your brother would excuse me. But what's the matter? What kept you away?"

While Ellen detailed her fears, and her unea­siness, sir William regarded her with an air as if he doubted the truth of what she said.

"I thought," returned he, "you had been above the foolish fears of your sex. It is a pity you gave way to them in this instance. You have missed seeing an old friend. Mr. Villars was at your brother's."

The insulting unkindness of these words filled Ellen's eyes with tears.

"No, sir William," said she, "I have missed nothing that I regret on that account, I assure you. I see how your suspicions wrong me. But, receive my solemn promise, that as far as it depends upon me, I have seen mr. Villars for the last time."

"No romantic resolutions, I beg. Let me not be made ridiculous by your high-flown virtue. If mr. Villars be as indifferent to you as he ought to be, and as you have pretended, why should he not visit at my house like any other person of your or my acquaintance?"

"I might have asked you that question; for the objection seemed to come from you."

"And you did not know mr. Villars was to be at your brother's to-day? And you did not stay away on that account?"

"No, upon my honour. I stayed away for the reasons I have given you."

"Then I ask your pardon. I have been too [Page 195] hasty in my conclusions perhaps. Mr. Villars is now my acquaintance. You will consider him henceforward as such. And if you would have me believe that you regard him in no other light, you will make him as much and neither more nor less of your parties than you do any other person, who has the same claim to your attentions."

This was almost too much for Ellen. But sub­duing every resentment, and every tender feeling, she said, "I will do in this, and all other things, as nearly what you wish as I can; and where I fail, I hope your candour and your love will be heard in my excuse."

"Oh! Ellen," said sir William, grasping her hand, "could you but love me as I have loved you!—But I am a fool to expect it. I make my­self ridiculous. I'll change my dress and we'll go together to mr. Curzon's; and then let this non­sense be forgotten."

"Oh!" cried Ellen to herself, with a deep sigh, as he left the room, "how impossible it is to love this man!"

At mr. Curzon's they met lady Almeria.

"So, so, you are not sick after all," said she. "I never thought you were. I'll lay my life you were afraid of meeting your old lover."

Ellen would have explained how the unac­countable absence of sir William had alarmed her.

"Yes, yes, very likely. I don't believe a word of it though. But come, if you are not really afraid, shew it now, for there he is. In spite of his grave face, I would bring him with me. Thank my stars, Mordaunt is not jealous."

Although all this was not professedly said in the hearing of sir William, yet was he so near that he lost not a word of it. He now walked on: and [Page 196] lady Almeria said, "I was running away; for the place is as dull as a quaker's meeting. I can­not get a party at cassino, but with old dowagers, the very sight of whom gives me the vapours. But now you are come I shall have a little chat: or, come, let us sit down to cassino, and mr. Vil­lars shall be of our party; though he is almost as bad as an old dowager too. But perhaps your presence will enliven him."

Mr. Villars then came up; and with great gra­vity, hoped Ellen was better.

"Bless me, she was never ill!" said the ever talking lady Almeria. "I told you so all along."

"I hope mr. Villars will, in this case, rather believe me than you," said Ellen with a smile. "But I am now quite well."

"This was the first time that Ellen had ever called Henry mr. Villars, when speaking to him. The word ran through his veins like ice.

"Lady Almeria is so good as to answer for every body," said he, faintly smiling. "It is no wonder that with so much business upon her hands, she is not always quite accurate."

"I see you improve," returned she. "I have not heard you attempt being saucy this age. But you must play at cassino with us. I have been doing nothing 'till I am tired to death."

"Let sir William make a fourth," said Ellen.

"No, indeed," returned lady Almeria sharply. "I have had a dose of sir William to-day, I can tell you. He really grows intolerable."

"I hope you intend I should love you better for such freedoms," said Ellen.

"You'll not love me the worse. Besides, I may speak what I think, whatever you may do."

"I have not quite lost that privilege," returned [Page 197] Ellen: "and I tell you plainly that if you mean I should be of your cassino party, you must be a little more agreeable."

"Agreeable! I'll be as agreeable as an angel. And so do go, that's a good soul, (speaking to Henry) and find us a fourth—but not sir Wil­liam."

However Henry might take most of these insi­nuations, for lady Almeria's accustomed rattle, he could not but observe the shade of chagrin and melancholy that rushed on Ellen's brow: and he observed it with an anxious curiosity to know the real cause. He returned in a moment, bringing sir William with him.

"See, I have obeyed you," said he to lady Al­meria.

"Obeyed me? No: I protest against playing with husbands and wives. Sir William, you are the only man in the room I objected to."

"I must hope, then," said he with a laugh, "that you are the only lady in the room that would have made the objection. And even that stretch of vanity won't console me under the mis­fortune of your displeasure."

"Oh, I did not object to you positively—only relatively, in your capacity of husband."

"There may be something flattering in that objection," returned he. "And now let you and me try to beat lady Ackland and mr. Villars."

This little party at cards diffused something like ease among Henry, Ellen, and sir William, in its consequence; though it was little short of mar­tyrdom at the time: and from this night Henry visited and was received at sir William's house on the footing of a common acquaintance.

CHAP. XXV.

AS Ellen and Henry now saw each other, almost every day, the emotion with which they at first met, wore off by degrees. But Henry lost no­thing of his gravity: and he could not but perceive that it seemed in some degree contagious.

Ellen's both natural and assumed spirits too often sunk under the weight of every day's vexa­tions which she received from sir William: But Henry, who knew nothing of all this, fluc­tuated between hope and fear, that the pensive thoughtfulness which sometimes overspread her countenance, might be imputable to the recol­lection of past scenes. He wished her happy. He wished her upright. But he knew not how to wish her wholly forgetful of his former suf­ferings, or wholly insensible to his present. No­thing, however, arose, that could lead to the clearing his doubts. Ellen did not appear to shun, or to seek his company. She conversed with him with her usual frankness; treated him as her re­lation and friend; but seemed to have, forgotten he had ever been her lover. Yet he often saw [Page 199] her eyes fill with tears, and a sigh o [...] [...]tisfaction would sometimes escape her.

He turned his attentions toward [...] William; but could see nothing in his conduct which could give him reason to suppose the source of her un­happiness lay there. Sir William was in fact an impenetrable man. He knew how to conceal from the whole world his real disposition: and he had besides habitually different manners, and a different countenance, for his public and private hours.

He dreaded to draw on himself the ridicule which is attached to the character of a jealous husband: and he wished his acquaintance, espe­cially those of his own standing in life, to believe him perfectly satisfied in his choice of a wife.

The fangs of jealousy, however, struck deeper and deeper into his heart every day. The more he knew of Henry, the more he knew him to be the man most suited to the sentiments and feel­ings of Ellen. In accidental conversations, he was frequently struck by the coincidence of their opi­nions. Their minds seemed to be formed in the same mould; their hearts to beat in unison; their wishes, their pleasures, their pursuits to be the same. The similarity of their taste, and of their virtues, seemed to form them for each other: and he knew not how to trust, that the latter would be such a barrier between them, as the former would not surmount. Yet could not the keen eye of jealousy discover in the conduct of either any thing to reprove.

All was open, frank, and above board. He could not observe that Henry sought Ellen apart from him, or from the rest of the world: no [...] could he discover in Ellen any affectation of too [Page 200] much or too little solicitude in her intercourse with Henry. But he suspected that he himself lost ground daily in the esteem of Ellen; for he knew that he deserved to do so: and he believed it not in nature that Ellen not loving him, should forget that she had loved Henry—Henry, too, so deserving of her love! so consonant to her taste! so apparently, so almost avowedly considering her as the first of women! He could not have been more perfectly convinced of their mutual intelli­gence, had he received the most unequivocal proofs of it.

Hence his private hours with Ellen were spent in indirect upbraidings, in cruel insinuations, in direct charges of want of love on her part, which such conduct served completely to verify.

Ellen opposed to all this injustice the calmness which good sense dictates, and the gentleness which a regulated mind inspires. She treated sir William's unkindness as the effect of a distemper: and she thought she saw no cure for it, but in the most undisguised frankness.

"You have conceived the most distressing sus­picions," would she say to him: "and the misfor­tune is the greater, since, being totally unfounded, I know not how to clear myself from them. If you would preserve any of that love in my breast, of the diminution of which you so bitterly com­plain, you must give it something whereon to feed. Complaints, reproaches, and calumnies, were never the sustenance of affection. Take me where you will. I am ready to accompany you to the remotest corner of the world: there I will live only with you and for you. Fix upon any plan of life, where, though excluded from the society and pleasures of it, you admit of its duties, [Page 201] and you will find me ever ready to concur. But let us not continue amid scenes of imagined amusement and real misery, where it is impossible but the very conduct you enjoin me, should fill your heart with bitterness, and increase an evil which can only be cured by the reflections which time and a continued observation on my real cha­racter will enable you to make."

This was good advice. But it was the advice of cool reason, not the fervent expostulations of ardent love, suffering under the misery of suspicion. Sir William therefore rather resented than bene­fited by it.

Retirement, too, was by no means to his taste. He could not have been happy, even in the love of Ellen, if he must only have enjoyed that love in a desert. The world was the theatre on which his talents and his accomplishments were shewn to most advantage. In the society of men of genius, in the assemblies of people of high rank, in the circle of courts, sir William had been ac­customed to be listened to, and admired. And it was in scenes such as these that he could alone find happiness. Could Ellen have accompanied him in them, and could he have been convinced that she preferred him to every other man she met there, his happiness would have been com­plete. But in a solitude the gratification of his vanity was wanting to his felicity; and in the world, the gratification of his love. Possessed, however, with the opinion, that Ellen's heart was wholly given up to Henry, he no longer felt any pangs from jealousy, of which he was not the ob­ject: and in removing her from him he removed her from all whose attention towards her, gave [Page 202] him uneasiness. Yet to secure his own honour in the preservation of her's, was more a point of delicacy than a cure for the wounds of his mind. Once convinced that she had sacrificed it to her passion for Henry, and he would have found, if not a compensation, at least a gratification in the security of the punishment he meditated. But for the pangs inflicted by a persuasion that he had irrecoverably lost her affection, no distance which he could place between her and Henry, no ven­geance which he could pursue, no indemnification he could propose to himself, could heal his sor­rows, or restore him to peace. Solitude he would have thought rather favourable than disad­vantageous to the sentiments he believed she en­tertained: and therefore both to occupy her mind with scenes in which Henry had no share, as well as to gratify his own taste, they removed, on leav­ing town, to Weymouth.

Ellen, the unhappy victim of this mixture of selfishness and vanity, had flattered herself that she should either have been permitted to visit Groby Manor, or to return to Oakley. But sir William seemed to have an almost equal aversion to both places.

The benevolent expenses of Ellen, at Oakley, which he had no inclination to join in, or desire to countenance, he felt as a reproach to him: and the scenes of Groby Manor he considered as too closely connected with the memory of Henry, to be favourable to his interest.

Ellen quitted town without regret: but she did not go to Weymouth without reluctance. The little lightness of heart which she had carried with her to London, had long since been lost in the increasing unkindness, of sir William. The [Page 203] amusements it afforded had lost their novelty, and with their novelty, to a mind so ill at ease as her's, their power of interesting. But the duties and pleasures of a country life she knew were so suited to her taste, as always to afford employment for her faculties and gratification to her heart. She had lost the hope of being able to love sir William, or of awakening in so irrational and so selfish a mind as his, that spirit of justice, from which, even while he continued to love her, she could alone hope for any degree of happiness; and sometimes extending her views into a futurity when probably he would love her no more, she trembled for the situation in which she might find herself.

But Ellen's good sense forbade her to torment herself with the apprehension of any probable evils: and she was more willing to encourage the hope, that if she might be allowed to take up her abode at Oakley, whether sir William chose to be with her or not, she might always be able to secure to herself a very competent share of content, in the active discharge of her duties. At present she was however compelled to give up all thoughts of the quiet and interesting occupations of the country; and to prepare herself for all the fatiguing dissipation, and sickening repetition, of a sea­bathing place.

Ellen had only been a very short time at Wey­mouth, before she had reason to suppose herself in a situation which she believed would give the greatest pleasure to sir William.

During the first months of their marriage, he had expressed an anxious impatience for the pros­pect of becoming a father, and had more than once testified chagrin and disappointment, when [Page 204] there were no appearances of his soon being one. Ellen herself anticipated a thousand delightful cares and pleasures which would arise from the duties of a mother; and was not shy of owning to sir William, that the indisposition under which she then suffered, would probably put him in possession of his wishes.

But this information, far from being received by sir William with pleasure, seemed to overwhelm him with the sense of some sudden misfortune. His countenance changed: his lips quivered with suppressed emotion: and he had hardly sufficient command of himself to utter a word of kindness or congratulation on the subject.

All this was a perfect enigma to Ellen.— Happily in this instance her innocence defeated her penetration: and after much uneasy conjecture, she rested upon the supposition, (a supposition suf­ficiently painful) that sir William having lost all love for her, had with it lost all desire of any far­ther tie between them. She was confirmed in this idea, when she observed, that he rather en­couraged than restrained her in riding, walking, and dancing. But Ellen, who began to see that all the felicity of her future life might probably depend upon children, became extremely solicitous not to lose, by any indiscretion of her own, her present promise of such a source of happiness.

Sir William, without seeming to advert to the care she was willing to take of herself, was always projecting some party of amusement; some riding, fishing, or frolicking expedition, which called for exertion of bodily strength. Ellen had very good health; and knew not how to hold herself ex­cused from such engagements, without seeming to take a supersluous and selfish care of an [Page 205] interest which nobody else appeared to think about.

Having spent two months at Weymouth, sir William formed a party with another family to travel through South and North Wales, to cross the kingdom from Chester to Scarborough, and fully to occupy the time until Christmas, when they were engaged to spend a month with mr. Mordaunt and lady Almeria, at their house in Devonshire.

Ellen ventured to plead for a little rest, and mentioned Oakley. But sir William told her, that travelling would do her good, and that he had planned the whole scheme entirely on her account.

She was less disinclined to give into it, from the hopes that when they were so far North as Scar­borough, she should be able to persuade sir Wil­liam to make a visit to Groby Manor. She com­municated this hope to her father: and in this hope she performed her peregrination through Wales, with much satisfaction. But by the time they arrived at Scarborough, sir William declared the season so far advanced, that no consideration would induce him to venture a mile farther North: and under this pretence, he hurried her by hasty journies into Berkshire.

Ellen happily suffered little by all these jour­neyings. But when she found herself once again at Oakley, she would have been very happy, if she might have remained there for some time. Sir William, however, declared himself impatient to join the society at Stanton Park; and to Stanton Park they accordingly went.

Lady Almeria had filled her house with a nume­rous party of young dissipated people of fashion. [Page 206] Hunting, riding, shooting, billiards, and shuttle­cock, engaged the mornings. The pleasures of an expensive table, high play, music and dancing, occupied the evenings. Here appeared love in all its degrees, from the serious, sighing, jealous swain, to the pert fluttering coquet, who laughed at the passion she affected to feel.

Mr. Mordaunt and lady Almeria had long ceased to affect even the semblance of a passion which had carried them so precipitately into Scot­land together: but in [...]aving ceased to contribute to each other's pleasures, they had but fallen into a contrary extreme of wishing to interrupt them. He was careless, she indifferent. He coquetted with every pretty woman who would listen to him: and she flirted with all the agreeable men who came in her way.

She had just lain in of a poor neglected little girl, who, confined to the nursery, was seldom visited by her mother. In scenes such as these, where Ellen found so much to disapprove, and so much to lament, this nursery seemed her best refuge: and here she spent many hours every day.

Sir William, since their abode at Weymouth, seemed to have lost much of his former passion for Ellen: yet he could not see her, in such a circle as that with which she was now surrounded, without feeling her superiority. He did feel it. His love seemed to revive: and he often sought her in this same nursery, where she passed so much of her time.

Ellen, who never lost sight of the virtuous desire of being one day able to inspire sir William with such a way of thinking as would excite and retain her affection, felt her hopes of the approach of so desirable a period spring anew, whenever do­mestic [Page 207] pleasures, or domestic virtues appeared to engage his attention, or occupy his heart. She was delighted to see him quit the dissipated, and, in fact, vicious, society of the drawing-room, or the eating parlour, to seek her in the innocent recesses of the nursery. With sportive fondness she would endeavour to make him take his share in nursing the bantling; and would anticipate their mutual pleasure, when they should have such a plaything of their own. But from this subject he always appeared to shrink: and though he fol­lowed her to a nursery rather than be absent from her, he came there only for the purpose of draw­ing her away from it.

CHAP. XXVI.

ELLEN had now been at Stanton Park more than a month, and the little pleasure she took in the society there, or rather, the positive disappro­bation she felt towards most of the individuals who composed it, had caused her, as it were, to fold up her charms and her talents in a civil re­serve, which forbade all familiarity in those who approached her.

At this time mr. Villars arrived at Stanton Park.

There had never been any distinction between Ellen's manners towards him, and towards those, who with him had frequented her house in town. There, whatever difference of character might really exist, in the interchange of the common­place civilities of an assembled intercourse, little difference could appear. But here, where, in the freedom and familiarity of behaviour that pre­vailed, every vicious principle seemed to be dis­played, and every depravity of the heart to be laid open—here indeed there was a decided distinc­tion. When she conversed with Henry, no cold­ness sat upon her brow, or restrained her tongue, Her heart was upon her lips. The smile of ap­probation dimpled in her cheek, and sparkled in her eyes.

[Page 209]Henry came immediately from Groby Manor to Stanton Park. Of Groby Manor, of her father, of her sisters, of her beloved Thorntons, she was never weary of talking. There was no inquiry relative to all these, which was too minute, no circumstance which was not interesting.

In these conversations, it is true, Ellen wished nothing so much as that sir William should par­take; for she wished nothing so much as that they should be equally important to him. But the vivacity which the arrival of Henry seemed to have inspired her with, was a mortal offence to sir William, and a confirmation, "Strong as proof of Holy Writ," of all he had before suspected.

From this period the most deadly hatred suc­ceeded in the breast of sir William, to that love which he had once felt for Ellen: and from this period he nourished the most determined resolution of revenge.

But sir William was indeed capable of that hypocrisy, of which he most unjustly suspected Ellen. The dread he entertained of being marked as a jealous husband, enabled him to dissemble, even with her, the pangs which wrung his very soul.

Instead of the conduct he had manifested in town, he continued his newly resumed fondness; frequently made Henry the object of his pa­negyric; pointed out to her his superiority to those around him; shewed a pleasure in his conversa­tion; and always sought to make Ellen a party in it. To this depth of dissimulation he was insti­gated, not only by a desire to escape the ridicule of jealousy, but by a hope, that by thus la [...] suspicion asleep both in the minds of Henry and Ellen, he should attain a certainty of that, which [Page 210] though he did not doubt, he could by no means prove: and nothing short of proof he knew could bear him out, even in his own opinion, in the course he was resolved to pursue.

The art of sir William was much more than a match for the ingenuous innocence of Ellen. She entertained not a doubt but that he was convinced of the injustice of his former suspicions: and the moment she believed such suspicions were aban­doned, she sincerely forgave them. She con­ceived, that he really was well satisfied that she should entertain and manifest towards Henry, that cousinly regard which she had never disavowed, but which, on the contrary, she had always de­clared she should carry to her grave. On the strictest examination of her heart, she discovered nothing in her sentiments for Henry which she could wish to conceal: and when she beheld, as she believed, sir William relieved from every jea­lous doubt, she had on this subject nothing farther to wish. Henry too appeared to have recovered his natural tone of mind: and Ellen secretly con­gratulated herself on the accomplishment of those hopes, which had cheered the darkest gloom of her former sorrows.

Ellen's temper was sanguine. There were mo­ments in which she could have believed any thing as certain, which it was possible the united efforts of virtue and good sense could produce.

"Now," said she to herself, "I see Henry happy. Sir William will in time be all I wish him▪ His love for me will be as rational as it is tender. He will deserve and I will give him my whole heart. After all my sorrows, and all my apprehensions, there will not be a happier lot than the one I have drawn."

[Page 211]It depended wholly on sir William to have realized this picture of happiness. He chose to convert it into scenes of the most genuine wretch­edness.

The delight with which such thoughts often filled the mind of Ellen, as she sat conversing with sir William and Henry, frequently spread an ineffable air of satisfaction and tenderness over her features. Henry at these moments beheld her as the image of virtue itself; and sir William re­garded her as the most abandoned of her sex. "The time will come," thought he, "the time will come!"—and in this thought he was able to repress the resentment which swelled his heart almost to breaking.

The task, however, of dissimulation, at length became too painful: and he longed to begin the period of punishment and vengeance. Ellen was to lye-in in town: and to town for this purpose she removed about the beginning of February.

CHAP. I.

FROM the instant of their quitting Stanton Park, Sir William's behaviour was entirely changed. He seemed not now to wish to dis­guise the ill opinion he had formed of her. He reproached her explicitly for the pleasure she had manifested in the company of Henry: and he openly exulted in the art with which he had laid her caution useless, and by which he had been able to ascertain her real sentiments.

Ellen heard Sir William with an indignant as­tonishment, which for some time deprived her of the power of speech. She kn [...]w not how to defend herself against a charge, the truth of [Page 6] which involved no criminality. She had consi­dered every mark of regard which she had shewn to Henry, as sanctioned by Sir William's express approbation; and she knew it did not contain a particle of that kind of love which the most ex­tended of his rights could prohibit.

The resentments of Ellen were always short-lived: and even before she had voice to reply to Sir William's injuries, she felt somewhat like compassion, though perhaps a little mingled with contempt, rise in her mind towards him.

'That it can suit your ideas of honour and tenderness,' said she, 'to endeavour to betray those whom you are bound to defend, is what I can only be sincerely sorry for. But to treat that as a discovery which you owe to your own artifice —that, which at no time has been disavowed on my part, is a vain endeavour to dupe me a second time. Tho' innocence is unsuspicious, it is not sottish. Be assured you have discover­ed nothing; for nothing was attempted to be concealed. From the first hour I accepted your heart, you knew the whole of mine. If you have not secured it your own long before now, the failure has not arisen from my partiality to another, but from the want of those qualities in yourself, on which only affection can be ground­ed. I have laboured to love you: and never were you so nearly in possession of my heart, as at the moment when you have chosen to load me with the most injurious reproaches. What can I say, most unhappy of men, what can I say, but that my heart shall still be yours, when you know how to deserve it.'

Sir William trembled with passion. The truth [Page 7] flashed upon him—it was the lightning's flash, that strikes and kills. To believe himself alone accountable for the loss of Ellen's true affec­tions, was a pang of such intolerable anguish, as human nature could not bear. To think her false and worthless, was a suffering of a milder kind. Barring his mind against conviction, he gave way to a rage which was only a temporary assuagement of his sufferings, the source in fu­ture of the bitterest self-reproach.

The agitation that his violence occasioned to Ellen, threw her into labour. Her situation be­came critical and hazardous, in a very high de­gree: and Sir William would have almost con­sented to see her in the arms of Mr. Villars, to be assured of her life. It was not, however, by the death of Ellen, that heaven had determined to punish Sir William. She was delivered of a boy, and declared out of danger.

Amidst the varied anguish, composed of grief, terror, and resentment, that filled the mind of Ellen, she experienced, as she clasped her child to her bosom, a source of joy, which no misfortune, that threatened herself alone, could embitter. Yet she regretted but the more, that, in the father of her infant, she could not love the husband of her choice.

Sir William, under pretence of guarding her from every emotion that might be prejudicial, absented himself for some days from her apart­ment: and Ellen made use of this in [...] to bring her mind into such a state of ch [...]ty with him, as would enable her to receive him, when they did meet, with a kindness, which might [Page 8] shew her disposed to forget all that had passed at their last interview.

She presented his son to him, with a faint smile, saying: 'Let this be the pledge of ob­livion for all that is passed, and the assurance of an unbroken amity for the time to come.'

'A son!' said Sir William, looking earnestly in the boy's face.

'Did you not know it was a boy?' said El­len.

'Yes,' returned Sir William, and again re­peated, 'A son!'

'Dear Sir William, take your child into your arms. The touch of his lips will banish every uneasy thought. I have found them a sovereign panacea.'

'So might I too!—'

'Why do you not try then?'

'No; it is a woman's remedy.'

'It is a parent's,' returned Ellen.

'True,' said Sir William; but he touched not the child.

Ellen, pained, wondering, confused, by a va­riety of indistinct thoughts, hastily snatched the boy to her heart, and burst into tears.

Sir William alarmed, tried to soothe her by every tender expression he could think of; but he did not caress the child. Nor did he appear to regard it either as a pledge of oblivion, or as an assurance of amity.

Ellen recovered slowly: the anxiety of her mind affected her body. She saw Sir William gloomy and discontented: and though he restrain­ed himself from acts or words of ill humour or [Page 9] reproach, the same dark suspicions seemed to lour in his mind, and the same resentment to possess his breast.

Ellen was now able to go out in her carriage▪ and she thought it proper no longer to delay mak­ing Sir William acquainted with the resolution she had formed. It was not long before he gave her an opportunity of doing so.

On meeting her one day on her return from an airing, he observed, that the colour began to return to her cheek, and the usual life to appear in her eye: and he added, in a cold and reproach­ful tone, 'You will soon be able to return to society. You will soon be able to see all your friends.'

'I have a very few words to say, Sir Wil­liam, on that subject,' returned Ellen: 'and if you are at leisure, be kind enough to hear them now.'

'You are not going to make me a speech?'

'I do not deal in oratory,' replied Ellen. What I have to say, will be comprised in a very few words.'

'Well, Mad [...]m, cried he, with an air of provoking mockery, 'I attend.'

'When first I was made sensible of the un­just ideas that you entertained of my character,' said Ellen, 'I was led to hope that such jealousy might only be the exuberancy of too ardent a love: and I trusted to that love and my own [...] ­titude for the remedy. When I had reason to think the evil had a deeper root, that it spring from the constitution of your mind, and that, perhaps, you could not change it, I offered with the most genuine sincerity, to withdraw with you [Page 10] from the whole world, and to live only for you. This was treated as the flight of an absurd and romantic mind: and I was enjoined to conduct myself to all with whom I conversed, without distinction. I obeyed this injunction as far as it was possible to obey it. The honest affections of the heart, which I had always avowed, and the difference that must arise in our intercourse with the wise, and the foolish, the good and the bad, stood not controuled, nor could they by this injunction. You know if ever my distinction went beyond what such affections and such dif­ference could warrant: and I know most feel­ingly, that notwithstanding a conduct resulting from such principles, as will stand the strictest investigation, I have not been able to acquit my­self in your opinion. I believe it impossible that you should at this time doubt my honour: but you scruple not to tell me, that I have volunta­rily given my affections to another. What may you not next believe?—I shrink from the thought: and it behoves me to preserve myself from a suspicion, that may involve in the effects of its injustice those who are yet unborn. What I once assumed as a kindness to you, I now ask as a favour and shelter for myself. I will not again join any society, I will not again see any friends, that can awaken injurious doubts in your breast. If it is your will, that I shall remain in town, I will remain there as a close prisoner in my own house. But if you wish to avoid the appearance of singularity, which this will have to the world, I beg you will suffer me to go down to Oakley: my health will furnish a reason­able pretence for such a seclusion: and there I [Page 11] cannot give you even the shadow of a cause for those jealousies which wrong me, and make you miserable.'

Sir William appeared struck with the greatest astonishment, by the calm and impressive state­ment, that Ellen thus made of her wrongs, and of her conduct. Some purpose labouring in his mind, seemed, in spite of himself, to be suspended by the power of truth.

'Would you go alone?' said he.

'I shall not be alone. My boy will be with me: and I will yet hope, that all love for me is not so extinct in his father's breast, but that he may sometimes be induced to visit us.'

A sudden shade of distrust and indignation crossed Sir William's brow.

'You doubt it not,—his father will visit you.'

'I hope so,' said Ellen warmly. 'Then you approve my plan, Sir William? You will suffer me to remove to Oakley?'

'Yes, to queen it there—to court popularity by insidious charities—to form a party of the scum of the earth—to build your reputation on the downfall of mine.'

'Good God!' exclaimed Ellen: then check­ing herself, 'far are all such thoughts from me,' said she. 'I have no predilection for Oakley. You have an estate in Wales: let me go there. Send me into the North of Scotland—banish me to Ireland,—do with me what you will; with this exception only, do not keep me here, and compel me into company, where the purest in­nocence cannot preserve me from the foulest sus­picion.'

[Page 12]Again Sir William's resolution seemed to be shaken. He remained silent and thoughtful.

'If I could b [...]lieve it was prejudice and false­hood—'

'I know not what means to use to convince you it is so, but such as I have used in vain,' said Ellen. 'It appears to me, that your mind is deeply infected with a distemper that nothing but time and your own reflections wi [...]l cure. Let me wait the result of these quietly and inof­fensively, far from any possibility, by any man­ners or conduct of my own, of increasing the evils.—No happiness results to either of us from being now together. On the contrary, so many causes of mutual offence may arise, as may serve definitively to alienate our hearts from each other, and make it impossible, at any future period, however distant, to entertain that mutual friend­ship so essential to our happiness, our virtue, and our reputation.'

'Well,' said Sir William, after a moment's pause, 'be it so; the experiment may serve as a trial in more ways than one. But whom do you mean to take into your secret? Who is to be con­fidant?

'No one. This is a secret I would willingly conceal from myself: and be assured I will not burden any one else with the knowledge of it.'

'And shall you not write a pathetic letter to your cousin, desiring he will keep out of your way, and bidding him farewell?—And talk of the sa­crifice of friendship to duty, the hope of better times, when innocence will have all its rights, when you may avow the esteem with which you always have been, and always shall be—And so [Page 13] turn a period and make a flourishing conclusion? —Would not this be according to rule?'

'The paroxysm is strong now, indeed,' said Ellen. 'I will leave you, and wait your decisi­on as to where I shall go.'

'Stay; that may be decided in a moment. Oakley is the best place. Your retreat there will appear most natural, and raise least conjecture. When shall you be able to go?'

'In less than a week: and I entreat you, Sir William, to let that time be spent with as little discomposure as possible. On my part, you shall see nothing but good humour, and, if you will permit it, cheerfulness.'

'Good God! why should we part?—Oh! Ellen, are you all you seem to be?'

'I hope you will, ere long, be convinced I am: and I think the present arrangement most likely to produce that conviction.'

'You wish then to go?'

'I do; but I should not, if I could believe, that, continuing here, I could ward off those un­just thoughts, that make us both so miserable▪'

'I believe you had better go. Perhaps I shall sooner come to my senses in your absence. Per­haps the present separation may make every fu­ture hour we are to spend together happier.'

CHAP. II.

IN a few days, Ellen left town, for Oakley, taking her beloved boy with her. He seemed the only human being whom she might love un­reproved, or at least the only one for whom her affections were not embittered by some painful reflection.

She could not conceal from herself, that Sir William studiously held her apart from her fa­mily: and he had so professedly set his face against Miss Thornton, that, except one single fortnight which she had spent at Oakley, Ellen ha [...] not seen her since her marriage; nor was he more willing that either of her sisters should be with her: and i [...] the early days of the break­ing out of his discontent, he had reproached her for loving her father with a warmer affection than she loved him.

With lady Almeria, who was always surround­ed by a society in which he himself found plea­sure, and whom he knew Ellen could not love— and with her brother, who shewed not much love to her, he suffered her to associate with that degree of familiarity which the nearness of their [Page 15] connection warranted▪ but he held her as much as possible aloof from the whole world besides. He wished her to be always in company: but he would have had the promiscuous croud with which he had surrounded her, wholly and alike indifferent to her.

A mode of life, in which the affections had no share, would have been, in itself, extremely irksome to Ellen; and when joined to the more positive evils that Sir William spared not to in­flict, became insupportable. At Oakley, she seemed to repose as in a secure harbour, after having been long tossed in storms that threatened shipwreck.

She nursed her boy: and this was one reason that was given to the world for her retiring to the country at that season of the year when eve­ry body else was flocking to town. This occu­pation was a perpetual source of delight and in­terest to her. Alone at Oakley, she could dedi­cate the whole of her time and her thoughts to so delightful a care: and she saw, or fancied she saw, in the stout limbs, and intelligent spark­ling eyes of her darling, the proof and reward of her more than common love.

Lady Almeria had dragged her poor little baby to town with her, where neglect and want of good air soon reduced it to a very pitiable object. Ellen was told it was ill, and [...]arnestly entreated Lady Almeria to let it join the nursery at Oak­ley. To this request she readily acceded; and the little Almeria was sent down into [...]shire▪ to add to the cares and pleasures of Ellen.

With her two children, and the various means of occupation which her understanding and her [Page 16] heart provided her with, Ellen began to regain a degree of ease and happiness, which, except at very short intervals, had been long a stranger to her bosom. All remains of resentment towards Sir William entirely subsided. She again flattered herself, that if she could once inspire him with a taste for the calm delights of the country, she might be able in time to correct his unhappy aptitude to suspicion, to eradicate all jealousy from his mind, and, making him worthy of her love, to love him with an affection more reasonable, and as warm as any he had ever felt for her. She congratulated herself on the part she had taken; and was ready to persuade herself that her past vexations were only a more certain road to happiness.

She wrote to Sir William frequently, detailing all she did, and recounting the witticisms of Almeria, who, however, could not yet speak, and the wonderful tricks and achievements of her boy. In return, Sir William's letters were short, con­taining little but the anecdote of the day, and never replied in any way to the domestic and nursery stories which made the subject of Ellen's.

Ellen was willing to lay all this insensibility to the way of life Sir William was engaged in, so unfavourable to the feelings of the parent and the husband; and to hope the cure for all lay in his being made s [...]sible of the superior pleasure that could arise from such feelings, to that which every other gratification apart from them could bestow. In this hope, she urged him much to make a visit to Oakley: but hitherto he had attended little [...] her request.

CHAP. III.

WHILE Ellen was thus indulging herself in every virtuous propensity, and already began to reap the reward that usually attends the gratifi­cation of such propensities, Henry was a prey to the most tormenting disquietude.

On his arrival in town, he had learned Ellen's removal into the country: and he had heard assigned as a reason for it, her own health, which had suffered much from her confinement, and the cares she had taken upon her, with respect to her boy. Nothing could appear more natural than these reasons: and with Henry, who knew Ellen's disposition, they would have found, but for one circumstance, a most ready belief.

Sir William's conduct during the time they had all passed in Devonshire together, had completely deceived him. He believed that Sir William felt for Ellen all the love that she was so well formed to inspire: and he never had reason to suppose that Ellen did not rejoice in and return his love. But in Henry's opinion, it ill consisted with such a mutual affection, that Sir William should suffer Ellen to go without him into the country, in circumstances in which she m [...] be supposed particularly to call for more than common atten­tion, [Page 18] or that he could consent so soon to lose sight of their first pledge of love; a boy too, which is generally as dear to a father as a mother.

It was this circumstance that raised a suspicion in the mind of Henry, that there was something more in Ellen's present retirement than the world in general believed. Yet was he cautious in his endeavours to discover whether his suspicions were grounded in truth, lest he should commu­nicate similar doubts to others.

He threw himself as much as possible in the way of Sir William, who preserved towards him the manners he had held when they were together in Devonshire: it being Sir William's unalterable resolution, even in the vengeance that he medi­tated against Ellen, that the world should never know that he had entertained a suspicion of her virtue or her love.

Sir William would often speak of Ellen, would mention the partiality she entertained for a coun­try life, the new-born attachment to her boy, which seemed to swallow up every other affec­tion: and sometimes he would lament that it deprived himself, and the rest of her friends, of her company in town.

Henry upon these occasions was strongly tempted to ask, what could detain him there, while Ellen was in the country: but as he could not forget, neither could he hope, that Sir Wil­liam could forget the connection that had once been between Ellen and himself. The remem­brance of this connection imposed a scrupulous delicacy upon him, whenever he mentioned El­len to Sir Wi [...]m.

[Page 19]As it was a subject he never began, so it was one that he always put an end to as soon as possible. Sir William perceived this shyness and imputed it to the worst of motives. From a restless de­sire to discover what he dreaded to ascertain, he scarcely ever saw Henry without introducing, in some way or other, the subject of Ellen's retire­ment: and Henry at length began to think there was something of affectation, or design, in this.

While Henry's mind was in this state of sus­pense, Lady Almeria awakened him to a much more lively suspicion of the truth.

Lady Almeria's own attendant was cousin 'to the woman who waited upon Ellen. They were both Northumberland girls: and Ellen's servant had spent all her life, 'till taken into Ellen's ser­vice, within a bow-shot of Groby Manor.

Hence she could tell of the early love between her lady and Mr. Villars, of the cruelties of Lord Villars, the distress of the lovers, the sud­den appearance of Henry on the eve of Ellen's marriage, with every circumstance relating to the affair that was made public, and with many that had never happened, and which were reported from misapprehension and conjecture.

It was from her knowledge of much that re­ally had passed, and from her belief in still more that never passed, that she had drawn the con­clusion that Ellen would never love Sir William. Thus from the day of her marriage she never saw a shade of discontent upon Ellen's brow, that she did not impute (according to the cham­ber-maid-like idea of the invincibility of a first passion) to her having been crossed in love.

[Page 20]With a mind thus pre-occupied by this fancy, it was not possible, that the whole of Sir Wil­liam's unkindness, and its effects upon Ellen, should be entirely concealed from her. What she fell short of in real knowledge, she made up in conjecture: and all she conjectured she reported as fact.—Much of it, indeed, was so; though she did not know it.

Ellen having left some books in town, locked up in a cabinet, of which she had the key with her in the country, about this time sent her maid to town to bring them to her.

Jenny, who had her mind full of all that she believed had happened in Sir William's family since she last saw her cousin, made use of some of the few hours that she spent in town, in a visit to Lady Almeria's house: and there she fully detailed to her sister gossip, all she knew, and all she believed she knew.

She told of Ellen's violent illness, immediately following an angry conversation with Sir Wil­liam. She repeated some words she had acciden­tally overheard. She dwelt on the length of time which he had absented himself from the apart­ment of Ellen—on the dislike that he seemed to have to the child—on the grief that she had often witnessed in Ellen's countenance and manner—on the unkindness of Sir William, in never having once visited Oakley since Ellen had retired thither —and on the contentment and ease which Ellen seemed to experience, notwithstanding his ab­sence.

From all these circumstances, those two Ma­chiavels concluded, with a certainty, that lest no room for doubt, that Sir William was jealous of [Page 21] Mr. Villars; that he had banished Ellen into the country to prevent their meeting; and that Ellen had more satisfaction alone, and left to the re­membrance of her first love, than, from the unkindness and suspicion of Sir William, she had ever enjoyed in the world, and in his society.

As Jenny sincerely loved her mistress, all Ellen did was right in her eyes: and if she had been employed by her in carrying on an intercourse with Henry, she would easily have excused her on the score of the unconquerable nature of a first passion, and the provocation received from a jealous husband; such circumstances forming a species of apology, that in vulgar minds is a sufficient excuse for every enormity.

But as Jenny thought Ellen extremely injured, so she knew her to be perfectly innocent: and hence she painted her as the most patient suf­ferer, and Sir William as the worst and most unkind of human creatures.

Lady Almeria's woman had often heard her Lady express somewhat of contempt, and a good deal of surprise, on Ellen's withdrawing from town at that season of the year: and she had heard her throw out, as no improbable supposi­tion, that it was contrary to her own wish, and the effect of Sir William's arbitrary jealousy. She had, however, also heard her declare, that she was not in the secret, and did not in fact really know what the cause was.

Lady Almeria, among her other foibles, had that most pernicious one of busying herself much in the affairs of others. She had always taken upon her to foretell that the marriage of Ellen with Sir William would end ill; and she looked with [Page 22] some degree of eagerness for every circumstance that could tend to prove that her predictions were fulfilled.

From these defects in Lady Almeria's charac­ter, Betty always found herself well listened to when she talked of the characters of her Lady's acquaintance, or repeated anecdotes out of their respective families.

All, therefore, that she had heard from her cousin, was most eagerly poured out as a torrent, the next time she attended upon Lady Almeria: and it was poured out with all those exaggera­tions and embellishments that so readily occur to every relator of every story, who wishes to make the most of what is to be told. Every thing that Betty related, found ready credence with Lady Almeria: and in a few hours after she had heard the story, meeting with Henry:

'Now,' said she, 'I can clear up the won­derment of Lady Ackland's running away from us in such a strange manner. That brute, Sir William, is jealous of you: and he means to confine Ellen to Oakley as long as she lives. And woe be to you both, if you approach the threshold!'

Henry turned pale as death.

'Let me beg, Lady Almeria,' said he, 'that you will not indulge yourself in such wild fancies, —much less repeat them.'

'Oh! you don't believe me?—Come this way then; and I will give you such a proof as will clear my veracity in a moment.'

'Why should I be convinced of what would give me inexpressible pain to believe?'

[Page 23]'It cannot give you more pain than it does me. I have been in a perfect fidget ever since I heard it. I am sure I dare not tell Mr. Mor­daunt half: he'd be for cutting Sir William's throat, or some such thing, for you never heard of such a dragon.'

Henry's curiosity now got the better of his prudence: and he listened to all Lady Almeria had to tell. But with what emotions he listened to it, it is not possible to express. His whole frame trembled: and his agitation was so great, that lady Almeria began to repent that she had chosen a public assembly for such a communica­tion.

'Come, I will tell you more,' said she. 'How you do love this Ellen still! I do not be­lieve there is such another constant swain in the bills of mortality.'

'I must know all now,' said Henry, 'cost me what it will. You have set me on the rack.'

'But I dare not. It will be you that will be for cutting Sir William's throat at this rate.'

'No, I have no such thoughts. Sir William will live safe from my vengeance. But what is there more to hear?'

'Bless me, not much. It is easy to suppose what a jealous, an unreasonable man will say and do. But Ellen is so reserved that I don't find she has ever complained, even to her maid.'

'Complained!—To her maid!—' repeat­ed Henry. 'No, Ellen knows how to suffer, but not to complain.'

'And so she will have no redress! I see no mighty wisdom in that. Were I in her place I would complain, and loudly too. Men may be [Page 24] managed by their fears: and Sir William would not dare to use her so, if he thought she would expose his conduct to the world.'

Henry was in no humour to discuss the pro­priety of such maxims: and finding he could draw no farther particulars from Lady Almeria, he earnestly recommended what yet he could not hope she would practise, the strictest silence; and withdrew with a heart oppressed almost beyond sufferance.

Although Mr. Villars was well aware of the suspicious quarter from which he had received his intelligence—and though in any matter where the happiness of Ellen had not been concerned, such evidence as that on which it rested, would not have fixed any circumstance for a moment in his thoughts—yet in a case where so much was at stake, his apprehensions gave credibility to the most doubtful testimony: and this testimony seem­ed to be confirmed by several particulars, of the truth of which he could not entertain a doubt.

He knew the sudden and dangerous illness of Ellen, which was now ascribed to Sir William's violence, to be a fact: and he had before been told, that it had been occasioned by a fright. It was also certain, that she had retired into the coun­try, and that Sir William so far from accom­panying her, had never even visited her since her residence there. The frequent, and what now more than ever appeared to be officious conversa­tions, with him upon this subject, returned with added effect upon his mind: and he felt per­suaded, that they had been held with a design to confirm or do away suspicions which he was now convinced Sir William had entertained.

[Page 25]These suspicions seemed, it is true, ill to agree with the friendly and open conduct he had held towards him while in Devonshire; or with the continuation of the same in their intercourse in town. But Henry could not help fearing, that this conduct, which might be used as a cloak to his real thoughts, was rather a proof that the evil lay deep, than that it did not exist.

A thousand schemes did he revolve in his mind as to what he could or ought to do towards the discovery of the truth; and towards the allevia­tion of the evil, if it did subsist. But to every one he found insupportable objections; and was obliged to rest in the conclusion, however con­trary to his wishes he might find it, that the safest and best course he could pursue, was to do noth­ing.

Impelled, however, by feelings very similar, Sir William and he met continually. Their minds were equally occupied by the same subject; and though both were shy in their manner of treating it, they found no interest in any other.

Henry observed that Sir William enquired fre­quently into his motions; and remarked, that he was particularly inquisitive whether his love for hunting did not carry him often to the Lodge. Henry was sometimes, upon such occasions, be­trayed, by his eagerness to do away all suspicion in Sir William's mind, into a minuteness of detail and a warmth of denial, that rather seemed as the cover to the truth, than the simple declara­tion of it.

Seldom, therefore, did Sir William and Henry converse together without Henry being more than ever convinced of the jealousy Sir William had [Page 26] co [...]ceived, and Sir William confirmed in the jus­tice of it.

By these conversations, and the reflections Sir William made upon them, his mind was at length wrought up to such a pitch of misery and indig­nation, that he resolved to withhold the meditated revenge no longer: but, preparatory to the blow he intended to strike, it was necessary to see Ellen, and lull her if possible into perfect security.

For this purpose he no longer delayed to visit Oakley. There, however, such a scene awaited him, as again broke in upon all his designs, and suspended his mind once more in the agitating balance of uncertainty.

CHAP. IV.

SIR WILLIAM found Ellen blooming with health, and her ingenuous countenance marked with the placid look of content, which virtue only can impress. He found her busied in every rural and every domestic care, living with the children perpetually in her arms, occupied wholly with them, and apparently without a thought which wandered from the environs of Oakley.

He was received by her with such marks of genuine satisfaction, as seemed not to leave a doubt but that he was truly welcome to her, and that it would be his own fault if he did not derive from her society every happiness he could desire.

Such appearances were so entirely incompati­ble with the guilt he had been so ready to impute to her, as to compel him for some time, in spite of himself, to do her justice. Yet, if she did not love Henry, how came she to be so happy in the absence of her husband? The answer that his conscience forced from him to this question, gave [...]im a pang of self-reproach, that he knew not how to endure.

If her heart be not another's—yet I have lost it for ever, thought he. But no, it is in loving [Page 28] Henry that she has ceased to love me. My con­duct towards her has justified this dereliction in her eyes; and hence the ease and satisfaction that appears in her countenance; hence the deep hypocrisy she is enabled to maintain.

Such thoughts as these were supplanted by others more worthy of Ellen: and these were again driven from his mind by fresh suspicions and new jealousies. What would he not have given for Morgana's cup, or the little boy's mantle.

Ellen remarked the perturbation of his mind: and she strove to allay it by the most affectionate cheerfulness. It would not have been possible to have supposed from any word or look that escap­ed Ellen, that she had withdrawn into the coun­try to avoid the violent effects of the most unjust jealousy; or that she retained an atom of resent­ment for the injuries she had received. A per­fect oblivion as to all that had passed before her removal to Oakley, seemed to pervade her mind. She appeared willing to consider that period as a new epoch of her life, from which, if he pleas­ed, Sir William might date their mutual hap­piness.

Sir William had now spent three weeks in Berkshire: and so far had the mild and wise de­meanor of Ellen wrought upon his mind, that he began to consider all his past fears but as the horrors of a frightful dream from which he was now awakened.

If he could always live with Ellen at Oakley, he thought he could subdue his jealousy: but to live always at Oakley, even with an angel, was what little suited his taste. It would not, how­ever, [Page 29] he knew, be difficult to persuade Ellen to continue there altogether. This indeed appeared to be what she desired: and if he could be assured that she lived there wholly to herself and chil­dren, he was willing to flatter himself, that the kindness with which he doubted not she would always receive him when he chose to join her, would be sufficient for his own happiness.

To this scheme of selfish felicity there was only one objection arose in his mind: he feared there might be some mystery in the choice Ellen seemed to have made of Oakley for her residence. The neighbourhood of the Lodge recurred to his remembrance; and brought with it a sudden pang of jealousy that made him start.

The experiment, however, he thought worth trying. If Ellen were innocent, she might be safely trusted at Oakley. If she were guilty, the place of her abode was a matter of little conse­quence. Time and observation could alone clear this important point: and to time and observa­tion he resolved to refer it.

Sir William was in this state of mind, not wholly cured of his suspicions, and yet willing to believe them ill founded, when an event hap­pened, that seemed to his disturbed imagination to carry conviction with it. It fixed [...] im­moveably in his plan of vengeance, and sealed the destiny of Ellen.

Both the children were seized at the same time with the measles: and the disorder put on its most alarming form. Ellen dispatched a messen­ger instantly to Lady Almeria; and shutting her­self up in the apartment with the children, watched them with equal and unremitted solicitude. Be­fore [Page 30] Lady Almeria arrived, the little girl was apparently out of danger: but the boy continued in a state of the greatest hazard.

Ellen, who had not a thought that she could disguise from him, did not observe the almost undissembled indifference with which Sir William viewed the child's danger, and her sorrows. But it struck every body else. Lady Almeria considered it as a full confirmation of all that she had been told. She had promised to inform Henry of the progress of the child's disease: and she scrupled not to mention in the most explicit terms, all the observations that she had made on Sir William's conduct.

Henry was almost driven to distraction with the idea of Ellen's sufferings, and Sir William's cruelty: yet durst he not attempt to alleviate the one, or to punish the other. He could only en­treat Lady Almeria not to remit the frequency and particularity of her details: and he waited the event in town, with all the anxiety and per­turbation that he might have felt, had he been indeed the father of the child.

Not all the exertion of the best medical skill, nor all poor Ellen's solicitous and unwearied care, could prolong her darling's date on earth, or keep its spirit one moment from its native sky.— It died!—And Ellen remained a motionless image of despair, by the side of the bed on which it had expired.

Sir William had been out in his grounds; and, returning, entered the apartment to make his usual cold inquiry, in his accustomed words of, 'How go you on?'

'It is all over!' said Lady Almeria.

[Page 31]'Thank God!' said Sir William, and rushed out of the room.

Ellen looked up; and instantly sunk down senseless, and to all appearance lifeless.

Lady Almeria's shrieks brought Sir William back. 'You have murdered her—you have killed Ellen,' said she.

No words can describe Sir William's conster­nation. He hardly knew the force of the words that had escaped him, and the effect they had had upon Ellen appeared incomprehensible. But the sight of her, pale and breathless before him, drove him almost to instant madness. He caught her in his arms; and, eager to remove her from the chamber of death, carried her to her own apart­ment. There, while every method was used to restore her, he threw himself on his knees before her, and, regardless of all present, earnestly im­plored her forgiveness, upbraiding himself as the most cruel and unjust of men, and promised never-ceasing love and confidence, if she would but live to bless him.

Ellen opened her eyes. But, as if the sight of Sir William was baneful to her, she put her hands before them and wept bitterly.

Sir William ordered every body to retire.

'No! no! no!' said Ellen.

'Do you then hate me?' said Sir William, 'Dare you not trust yourself with me?'

These words brought Ellen to her recollection. 'Do not talk so, Sir William. But I am very ill. I want assistance?'

'I will assist you. I would give my life for yours: and do you refuse to let me attend you▪

'Leave us,' said Ellen faintly.

[Page 32]'Oh! Sir William,' said she, when they were alone, 'what mean those words of love, after you have given me such a proof of your deadly hatred?'

'A proof of deadly hatred!—Oh! Ellen, how you wrong me! what sense can you have put upon my words, to make you think them words of hatred?'

Ellen wept but could not speak.

'The subject is too delicate,' continued Sir William, 'to explain upon. But is it an unpar­donable crime, when hope was extinct, to have been grateful that suffering was no more?'

Ellen was silent.

'Dearest Ellen, say, you misunderstood; that you are convinced. Do not persist in an error so injurious.'

'I cannot speak. My heart is cruelly oppres­sed: but never need you dread injustice from me.'

'Then, my dearest love, look upon me. Do not thus turn from me, as if the very sight of me was hateful to you. Often have I given you cause of offence. Never did I find you unforgiving. Now when I would not offend you, be not less kind.'

'I would not think that there has been offence given. I would not think that there is room for forgiveness.'

'Then, in this embrace, be all misapprehen­sion forgotten. Be assured, you cannot be grieved, without my taking a part in your affliction.'

'I will endeavour to believe it. But take it not unkindly, if I wish to be alone, I am very greatly afflicted. I cannot now make use of the full powers of my mind. I cannot at this mo­ment [Page 33] be all you wish me to be, or all I ought to be. Let me recollect myself. I hope soon to be resigned to all the ill I am destined to suffer, and alive to all the good that is still afforded me.'

'May you consider my love,' said Sir William, embracing her, 'as the greatest share of that good; and as a proof you do so, do not banish me long from you.'

Sir William then left her, and endeavoured to calm the disturbance of his mind, by persuading himself that he had given such a sense to the unkind words that had escaped him, as would effectually remove from the mind of Ellen all apprehension of their real meaning.

Whatever were the suspicions that had dictated these words, and whatever the impulse to which he had yielded in uttering them, he was sensible there was a barbarity in their sound, that no motive, and scarcely any offence, could justify. He doubted not but Lady Almeria would repeat them: and he saw his character at stake. In persuading Ellen that they were only the effusion of compassion, he knew he secured a warm ad­vocate: and in the kindness of their intercourse he saw a refutation of any censure to which his unguardedness might have exposed him

These were the selfish motives upon which his present conduct was founded. But he was not without a very sensible compunction for what had passed, and had a very lively interest in the sor­rows of Ellen. He had lately accustomed him­self to consider her as rather injured than injuring: and in this light he felt for her a revival of his first passion: and, mixed as it was, with pity to­wards her, and reproach to himself, the expressions [Page 34] of it were more lively and tender than even in the first days of their marriage.

But Ellen's heart was no longer in a state to receive pleasure from the love of Sir William. No explanation that he could give to words so cruel and wounding, could do away the effect they had produced in her mind. Without fully understanding the feeling from whence they sprung, she felt them as the greatest and most unprovoked unkindness he could have been guilty of. The careless indifference he had shewn through the whole of the poor baby's illness, now rushed upon her recollection, and she found it impossible to believe that words so strong had arisen only from a sudden impulse of compassion to sufferings to which he had so long appeared insensible. Yet why Sir William should rejoice in the death of his child, except because it was the source of her purest delight, she could not guess. She had often thought, that he had con­sidered the boy with jealousy, as an object which had occupied that place in her heart, which he alone ought to have possessed; but for a jealousy so selfish and unjustifiable, with all her candour, she could find no excuse. A sentiment of disgust and resentment now therefore mingled with the deep grief of Ellen for the loss of her child; nor could all her efforts to subdue it, wholly succeed. But grief in this case did more for her than reason. So overwhelming was her affliction, that it overcame every other feeling: and had the cause of the offence been unconnected with the subject of her sorrow, it would have been instantly obliterated from her mind.

CHAP. V.

WHILE Ellen remained almost wholly absorb­ed in grief, a circumstance happened, which broke in upon her affliction, and convinced her, that no state could be wholly wretched which afforded the benevolent heart an opportunity of administering to the wants of others.

Her letters from Northumberland informed her, that the grandson of her favourite protegee, Deborah, a young man distinguished for his in­telligence, honesty, and industry, had, from some unavoidable misfortunes, fallen into the greatest distress, and that he, his wife, and two children, were in jail. Charlotte, who wrote the history, deplored the utter impossibility of her father to afford any effectual assistance to so much unde­served misery; as the sum necessary for that purpose was not short of two hundred pounds, a sum much too large for him to spare from the immediate wants of his own family.

Ellen's heart seemed to leap in her bosom, when she read this account. Sir William had always [...]tinued his usual allowance to her: and the little occasion she had had for money for ma­ny months past, had made her rich. By antici­pating [Page 36] a part of her next quarterage, which might be made easy by a little future economy▪ she was able immediately to command two hundred pounds: and by the return of the post she trans­mitted a draft upon Sir William's banker for that sum.

It is needless to attempt explaining the joy and gratitude of the family, whose miseries she reliev­ed. Their joy, however, was not short of her own; nor was her gratitude less when she rais­ed her thoughts to the Giver of all Good—the giver of that good which includes all other, the giver of a good heart. This transaction shed a calm over the mind of Ellen, and contributed more towards restoring her to peace, than any gra­tification merely selfish could have done.

Lady Almeria had been but too faithful a de­tailer to the wretched Henry of the whole story of the death of the child, and the consequent sorrows of Ellen: and he felt on the communi­cation, his sufferings increase to so intolerable a degree, that he found it impossible to forbear some effort towards their alleviation. Yet, when he considered that all his information came from La­dy Almeria, and reflected upon her unfeeling character, and the talent she had in exaggeration, he thought it prudent to judge with his own eyes, and determine, by his own observation, before he took any step, the consequence of which might involve the conduct of Ellen as well as his own.

Ellen, from the extent of her grief, which took in the whole of her mind, excep [...] what she could spare to the calls of benevolence, and from the gentleness of her temper, which forbade any [Page 37] sharpness of resentment, had been able to receive Sir William's attention and solicitudes with such a degree of satisfaction and gratitude, as seemed to speak to all lookers on, that perfect harmony was restored between them. Ellen had been also particularly softened towards Sir William by his generosity, unlike his usual character, towards the grandson of poor Deborah. The circum­stance of what Ellen had done for him came ac­cidentally to his knowledge: and he was too ac­cute not to perceive the favourable opportunity now in his power, of doing more towards rein­stating himself in Ellen's favour, than all his stu­died fondness to herself could ever have produced. He praised, in the highest terms, Ellen's benevo­lence; and by imitating, give an irrefragable proof that he approved it. To the two hundred pounds he added another, as a means by which the young man might be enabled to enter the world again with some advantage.

On this occasion, Ellen looked upon Sir Wil­liam with an air of the sweetest complacency: and she once more said to herself, his heart will at length open to the true use of riches. Our minds and our wishes will be in unison: and we shall be happy.

Sir William had explained the offensive words to lady Almeria, in the same sense in which h [...] had explained them to Ellen: and he sought more and more by the marks of the fondest love, and most sincere participation in her present affliction, to prove that they could justly bear no other sense. Ellen seemed now to have forgiven, or at least to have f [...]gotten all that had passed: and Lady Almeria now saw nothing between Ellen [...]d [Page 38] Sir William that could justify her former opinion, or the tales of Jenny.

She was not, however, willing, notwithstand­ing those favourable appearances, to suppose her­self mistaken: and while she acknowledged in her letters to Henry, the change that had taken place, she scrupled not to impute it to the con­summate art of Sir William, who meant by this means to deceive her. For the truth of this conjecture she appealed to the sorrow in which Ellen was still plunged; and which, she said, it was impossible to believe occasioned by the death of a brat not four months old.

But Henry, who saw no such impossibility, considering the peculiar circumstances in which Ellen was placed, and feeling his hopes revive, that her sorrows did not wholly flow from so irremediable a cause as he had been taught to believe, thought this a proper time, when Sir William was with her, and they appeared to be on perfect good terms with each other, to make use of his own observation to come at the truth if possible. For this purpose he came down to the Lodge: and the next morning af­ter his arrival, walked over to Oakley. He had been told by Lady Almeria, that Ellen was so much indisposed, that she seldom left her a­partment 'till two o'clock in the day: and he had therefore chosen an hour for his first visit, in which he believed he should only see Sir William.

He had crossed a corner of the park, and had entered through a part of the gardens which led him directly to a small hall where servants al­ways waited. But in going towards this hall▪ [Page 39] he necessarily passed before the breakfast-room windows, which opened to the ground, and at which at that moment Lady Almeria was stand­ing. They saw each other: and Lady Almeria beckoning to him, said, 'So you are come? I thought you could not stay away: but you have good information: for I suppose you know Sir William is not at home?'

'Sir William not at home?' repeated Henry, 'Why did you not tell me so before?'

'Oh, he went away two days ago, upon some sudden business or other, that signified not a far­thing, and will stay away a week I believe. Well, sit down, and I'll run and tell Ellen. I am sure the sight of you will do her good.'

'Stay, I beg you will stay,' said he. 'Do you suppose, knowing all you do, that I would see Lady Ackland in the absence of Sir William?'

'Why not? I tell you it will do her good: and it was an hundred to one but you had found her in this room. She is much better than she was, and comes down to breakfast: but [...]he had a head-ach this morning; and so kept her [...] ­ber.'

'I am happy she did so. And now, Lady Al­meria, if it be possible for you to keep a secret, promise me that you will not mention to Lady Ackland that I have been here. As some little indemnification for such restraint, I give you leave to tell Sir William every circumstance of my visit.'

'Tell Sir William indeed! No, I will never tell him any thing that I think can give him satisfaction. But, in the name of common sense (for as to high-flown heroics I do not pretend to [Page 40] understand them) pray tell me, why you will not see Lady Ackland.'

'If half what you have told me is authentic, I think you may answer that question yourself. My visit was to Sir William, not to Lady Ack­land: and when Sir William returns I will repeat it. I have no objection to seeing Lady Ackland: but I will not see her apart from her husband.'

'But why not give yourself the merit of your mighty forbearance with Ellen?—Objection to seeing Lady Ackland indeed! I know you would give one of your eyes to see her with the other. Why not tell her what hardships you impose upon yourself for her sake?'

'Dear Lady Almeria, would you have me shew to Lady Ackland, that I know Sir William is jealous? I hope in God this is a truth she will always remain ignorant of. Have you not told me yourself, that even to you she will never appear to see this: and shall I convince her, that not only you, but that I am in possession of the fatal secret—a secret she wishes to conceal from the world!'

'Why then did you not stay and see her, as you would do if you knew nothing of the mat­ter?'

'And so expose her to the unjust suspicions and unkind treatment of Sir William. Even you suppose I had received intelligence of his absence: and do you think he will be less liable to fall into such an error? When Sir William knows of my visit, and knows I have not seen Lady Ackland, it will be impossible but that he should believe, what is truth, that I came to see him, and not her.'

[Page 41]'Well, I pretend to no great skill, either in matters of prudence, or in matters of sentiment. But I'll engage for it I should manage a jealous husband better than either of you.—I should go my own way. If it were agreeable to my migh­ty Lord so much the better for him: if the con­trary, he would be soon weary of complaints that hurt nobody but himself. There, now you must see Ellen—that's her chamber door—I hear her foot on the stairs.'

'Good morning then: and I entreat you do not say I have been here.'

Henry darted out of the room; and to avoid the path that would have detained him for some time within sight of the windows, turned hastily into a more private one, which led into a part of the pleasure ground, that did not connect with that part of the park by which he had entered. After wandering about some little time, he found his way over a fence, from which he regained the public road, and from thence his own house.

When here, he reflected upon the escape he had, and upon the injury he might have caused Ellen, had he seen her in Sir William's absence. Such a circumstance would, he well knew, have car­ried to a jealous mind, conviction of a private correspondence. He determined to learn for­bearance for the future, and from henceforth to act as if the sorrows and injuries of Ellen were indifferent to him. The evil that might have attended the gratification of his solicitude upon this subject, though he had guarded, as he thought, the mask of it with every possible cau­tion, fixed the pang of self reproach in his h [...]t.

[Page 42]'Dearest Ellen,' said he to himself, 'I am forbidden to contribute to your happiness: but let no alleviation to my own misery, tempt me again to hazard an increase of yours.'

Alas! if the possibility of increasing the sor­rows of Ellen appeared thus insupportable to the feeling and generous heart of Henry, what would have been his anguish had he been con­scious of the evils he had already prepared for her. Determined by these thoughts, Henry mea­sured his steps back to London; and firmly resolved, on no pretence whatever, again to at­tempt seeing either Sir William or Ellen.

Lady Almeria had a sharp contest between her love of communication, and her pride, which was somewhat piqued by Henry's words, 'If it be possible you can keep a secret.' Her desire to show him that she could, prevailed more than any motives of prudence or delicacy, or desire of obliging him, in inducing her to hold her tongue▪ but being fidgetting and restless under this re­straint, she dragged Ellen with her into the gar­den, and then ran away from her, to look all around, for the purpose of seeing if Henry was quite gone.

Ellen was returning slowly alone to the house, when she saw, with some surprise, Sir William coming towards her. He was attended by a ser­vant, whom she heard him question very [...]nestly, and with something of displeasure in his [...]e, whether there had been any visitors in his ab­sence. On the [...] answering in the negative, he [...] angrily [...] him, and seeing Ellen, started [...] dis­composure. Ellen was [...] [Page 43] steps to meet Sir William: and so far from its appearing that Sir William hastened to meet her, that she thought for an instant he would have turned another way. The next instant, however, he came forward, and joined her.

'You are much improved,' said he, in an unconciliating tone, 'since I left you. I hear you come down to breakfast; and I see you walk in the garden.'

'Yes,' said Ellen, taking hold of his arm: 'but that giddy Lady Almeria has run away from me: and I should have found it difficult to have gained the house without some support.'

'You had support when you left it, I sup­pose?'

'Lady Almeria was with me: but she has [...]own off upon some of her [...]luttering expeditions, I know not where, or why.'

'Have you been alone, since I left you?'

'Yes; and poor Lady Almeria is so tired, I think she would have left me to myself, if you had not returned to put an end to our tête-à-tête.'

'She won't like the party better for my being of it.'

'Indeed I believe nothing will detain her here much longer. She thinks she has already sacri­ficed enough to charity; for she declares she is here wholly upon that score now.'

Here they reached the house: and Ellen was glad to repose herself upon a sofa. Sir William stood silent before her, with his eyes fixed intently on her face, and lost in deep thought.

Struck with his appearance and manner, so unlike all that he had lately shewn, it occurred [Page 44] suddenly to Ellen, that something unpleasant had happened during his absence. 'What's the matter?' said she kindly. 'You are returned sooner than you intended. Nothing, I hope, is amiss.'

'It is plain, I have returned sooner than I was expected,' said Sir William; and went has­tily out of the room.

Ellen, astonished and alarmed, knew not what to think or conjecture. She was sure some new jealous fancy had taken possession of him; but could not guess from whence it originated. Had she known, that he had seen Henry scrambling over the fence, which divided the pleasure ground from the road, the enigma would have been explained. This, indeed, was the case: hence his earnest questions to the servants, hence his increased suspicions on meeting Ellen in the gar­den, and hence that implacable desire of ven­geance that proved so fatal to Ellen.

CHAP. VI.

LADY ALMERIA returning to the house, learnt from Ellen the unexpected return of Sir William; and she learnt it with much satisfac­tion; for being heartily tired with her residence at Oakley, she was resolved to seize the moment when Ellen had a companion to leave it. She therefore replied, 'Well, then, you'll want me no longer: and therefore I will return to town to-morrow, where, I flatter myself, many people want me.'

'You will leave me,' said Ellen, with a deep sigh, 'you will leave me your little girl?'

'Most willingly. But I hope you won't think of staying here: you'll never recover your spirits if you do. But if Almeria grows inconvenient to you, either send her to me in town, or let her maid take her down into Devonshire.'

Lady Almeria then went to give some [...]irec­tions to her servants, for her removal the next day: and Ellen, dispirited and occupied wholly with conjectures as to the cause of Sir William's discomposure, retired to her own room.

Lady Almeria returned sometime afterwards to the breakfast parlour▪ and it occurring to her, that it would be a good thing to apprize Henry [Page 46] of the arrival of Sir William, she wrote him the following lines.

'Sir William returned this morning. You made your escape in the nick of time. The ene­my would have been upon you in a moment. Now, however, you may make your approaches in all due form, and with a decorum that will set suspicion at defiance. I shall be gone to-morrow; so to all your other motives, you may add that of charity, for your visits here. Per­haps the world will be kind enough to impute them wholly to that laudable principle. However, pray come; for poor Ellen will be moped to death, if left wholly to the conversation of caro sposo.'

This note she left open upon the table, while she ran up stairs to countermand some directions she had given to her maid. She was not absent ten minutes: but Sir William entering the room in her absence, his eye was involuntary caught by his own name, written in Lady Almeria's hand. No motive of honor, or delicacy, could at that moment have restrained him from the gratification of his curiosity. He read—every word was a dagger to his heart. He rushed out of the room into the garden, with the fury of a mad man, impelled by a sudden impulse, to seek Henry, and make him atone by his blood for the injury he could no longer doubt he had received from him.

A few moments, however, brought him to calm­er reflection. His resolution was previously taken, and taken upon what he thought a certainty lit­tle short of that which he had this moment recei­ved. But such evidence as this brought convic­tion [Page 47] with it: and he felt somewhat like satisfaction, that, acting upon sure grounds, that would now be justice, which might before have been cruelty. His victim, if a victim he made, he had always determined should be Ellen. Her criminality was, in his eyes, of a much deeper dye than Henry's. It was the complicated product of hypocricy, infidelity, and treachery. He consi­dered each action of her life, since he became her husband, as marked with the most vicious duplicity: and he held himself acquitted to his own heart, for using the same means for the punishment of vice, which, he believed, had been pursued in the perpetration of it.

The present tumult of his mind, however, was too great to escape notice, if he were to subject himself to observation. He returned, therefore, to the house; and summoning his servant, complained of sudden indisposition, and went to bed.

Ellen was soon informed, that Sir William was not well, and going to his chamber, sa [...] his inflamed eye, and felt his burning hand, with a truly tender compassion: she entreated h [...] [...] send instantly for a physician, and seating [...] by his bed-side, declared her intention of wate [...] ­ing by him, 'till the physician arrived. Sir Wil­liam opposed this resolution so strenuously, and with somewhat of such unkind warmth, that Ellen, fearing to be of more disservice by oppo­sition, than of use by her attendance, at length yielded: and she yielded the more willingly, as Sir William positively asserted, that his illness only arose from having rode fast in a ho [...] s [...] and he averred that a few hours sleep (a [...] [...]e [Page 48] affected to feel himself drowsy) would entirely remove all his complaints.

Ellen was not, however, so well satisfied with Sir William's medical skill, as to rely wholly ei­ther upon his account of the cause of his illness, or in his confidence in its cure. She therefore sent for a physician; and frequently visited the door of Sir William's apartment, to satisfy her­self, if she could, whether he slept or not. She was soon convinced that he did not sleep, being sure that she heard him up, and walking about his room. She gently tryed the lock of the door, but finding it fastened, did not venture to push her intrusion farther.

This circumstance fixed the most uneasy so­licitude on her mind. The humour in which Sir William had appeared, on his return home, and which, when he complained of illness, she had persuaded herself to attribute wholly to that cause, she now began to consider more as a cause itself▪ and to fear, that if there really were any indi [...]osition, it was brought on by discomposure of mind. But she apprehended that illness was [...] pretence, and that Sir William meant [...] withdraw himself from all observation, [...] exciting any curiosity by doing so. In [...] case, no good could be produced by her forcing herself upon him against his will. If he were really ill she could not doubt, but that he would do all that was necessary in such a case: and if any thing had arisen to vex him, she thought her influence to calm his mind, would be exerted with the most hope of sucess, when he appeared more willing to listen to her. She therefore retired to her own room; and there [Page 49] waited in anxious suspence, 'till Sir William's bell should give her a pretence again to appear in his apartment.

While these things were passing, Lady Alme­ria had returned to the breakfast-room, had sealed her note, and dispatched it to the Lodge, by the servant whom she was sending to the neighbouring town, for post horses for her car­riage the next day. When she was told Sir William was ill, she was somewhat alarmed, lest she should be again involved in the cares of charity, and that his illness should be of such a nature as would not allow her, with decency, to leave Ellen while it continued. She went to Lady Ackland's appartment, to make all the enquiries possible; but could learn nothing more that was satisfactory.

In the mean time, the physician arrived: and Ellen desired he might be shewn immediately to Sir William. The servant, however, informed her that he had received the most positive com­mands from his mas [...], not to enter his room until called for, and that he durst not disobey.

As Ellen's fears on the account of illness had very much subsided, she yielded to the servant's remonstrance; and affected to suppose that Sir William slept, and that sleep would be his cer­tain cure. In her stolen visits to the door, she had observed all was quiet; and began to hope that the paroxysm of ill humour, which she was induced to think was the whole of the case, was going off.

About eight in the evening, Sir William rang his bell. His servant found him up: and on being told that Doctor Wilson was in the house, [Page 50] he readily admitted both him and Ellen. With a kind of bitter raillery, he treated her wife-like fears, that had induced her to trouble Doctor Wilson to ride ten miles in a hot day, to visit a man who had gone to bed to sleep off a head-ach; and stre [...]ching out his hand to the physician, 'Feel, Sir,' said he, 'if that pulse does not beat health­fully.'

Doctor Wilson affirmed it did; and assured Ellen she need have no farther apprehension, for that Sir William had known how to cure himself.

Ellen, convinced that her suspicions as to the non-existence of any complaint, were perfectly well founded, now withdrew; and informed Lady A [...]meria, that Sir William had slept off all his c [...]mplaints, and that Doctor Wilson said he was quite well.

'Thank God!' said Lady Almeria.

Ellen could not help smiling. 'I am sure Sir William is much obliged to you for the in­terest you take in his health!' said she

'Pish!—no. That's not quite the thing. But you know I have fixed to go to town to-morrow: and I could not have gone, and left Sir William ill, and you so drooping.'

Then shook her head; and moralized a little to herself, on the good and ill that attended a disposition so thoroughly selfish.

Sir William appeared both at supper and at breakfast next morning: but it happened that he was never an instant with Lady Almeria apart from Ellen: and if he had been so, it is probable she would not have mentioned the visit Henry had made, both from the reason she had given, of never willingly contributing to the [Page 51] satisfaction of Sir William, and the feeling no particular stimulus to relate that which had no­thing out of the common way to recommend it, and which contained no mischief in it.

When she shook hands at parting with Ellen, 'Pray endeavour to recover your spirits,' said she. 'But you ought to go some where. You'll never be yourself again if you stay here.'

'I think,' said Sir William, after Lady Al­meria was gone, 'I think for once Lady Almeria gives good advice. I have been thinking of the same thing. What say you to an expedition for some little time?'

'I will accompany you any where willingly,' said Ellen, her heart beating with the hope that Groby Manor would be the place thought of.

'Your health, your spirits, require some change of scene,' returned Sir William. 'Our new-born happiness (hurryingly, and with a cloud­ed brow he spoke it) requires nurture. In a distant residence, in a foreign country, I hope we should be able to re-establish the one and secure the other. What say you to going abroad for a few months?'

The thought of Northumberland crossed El­len's mind; and prevented that promptness of compliance with which she usually met any pro­posal from Sir William. She hesitatingly repli [...]d, 'I can have no objection, provided I can [...] Groby Manor before I go.'

'Why visit Groby Manor? That would de­range all my plans. I want to be gone immedi­ately.'

'You do not mean then to be absent very long I suppose?'

[Page 52]'Not very long; I should propose returning in something less than a twelvemonth.'

'A twelvemonth!' repeated Ellen, 'and do you not call that long?'

'I think a less time will not answer any of the purposes for which we go: and as I do not wish to spend any time in London for the next year and half, I would not return to England 'till next June.'

'If our absence is to be so long, you can have no objection to my visiting Groby Manor be­fore we set out. It is now a year and a half since I saw any of its dear inhabitants.'

'When,' said Sir William peevishly, 'shall I propose any thing, to which you will give a rea­dy assent?'

'You cannot wonder,' returned Ellen mildly, [...]hat I do not willingly consent to add another twelvemonth to the separation which has already taken place between me and some of those whom I best love, and who best love me. My father, in particular, I know longs to see me.'

'I should have no objection to your going into Northumberland, but the thing is impos­sible. Let me see. This is Wednesday. By Monday se'nnight I hope to be landed in Hol­land.'

'By Monday se'nnight! Indeed I am very sorry to hear it: for, pardon me if I say, I fear my father will take it very unkindly, if I leave England for so long a time without seeing him.'

'You may easily exonerate yourself from the charge of unkindness. Lay every thing upon the cruelty and tyranny of your husband: [Page 53] and then you will not only be excused but [...]pi­tied.'

'Alas! if we carry such thoughts as these abroad with us, change of place will add little to our happiness.'

'Why then do you give reason for them? In no one instance since we were married, have you been willing to sacrifice the feelings of others to my wishes.'

'Indeed! this then shall be an instance. I am ready to quit England with you if you choose it.'

'And do you say this from your heart?'

'From my heart, and with my heart. I had hoped your wishes would never have been in com­petition with the duties that I own my father: but since it is so, your wishes shall have the place they ought to have.'

'How inexplicable, how impenetrable is the heart of a woman?' exclaimed Sir William.

'Indeed, my dear Sir William, you make the mystery you seem to wonder at. Surely there is not a leaf in the whole book of nature sooner read than that of my heart.'

'Do not I know, do not I know—' then hastily checking himself, 'well, I will put you to the test.' Then opening a book of maps, 'Let us trace our intended route. We will have none of the beaten road of France and Ita­ly. Let us begin with the North of Europe. My sister's marriage with a Saxon nobleman, has occasioned me at times to reside so much▪ in the Northern part of Germany, that I feel myself at home there: and some of the happiest hours I ever knew, were spent at Dresden. We will [Page 54] go to Dresden. I will introduce you to my sis­ter. We will go first to the Hague; from thence we may see every thing that the United Provinces have worthy of observation. I will show you Hanover, Brunswick, Hamburg. You shall visit the shores of the Baltic. We will then turn to Berlin: there we may spend some time. But we will winter at Dresden.'

'And by what route shall we come home ask­ed Ellen.'

'Oh, I will travel you through Bohemia to Vienna: perhaps enter Italy. But there are scenes with which I think you would be parti­cularly pleased, in the Archbishoprick of Saltz­burg.'

'I think I should like to go from Vienna to Venice,' said Ellen; 'from thence through the Tyrol to Switzerland. I should be sorry to leave Switzerland out of our tour. But we seem to be furnishing materials for a very long absence.'

'We could easily pass through a much grea­ter extent of country, than we have marked out, in much less time than we think of being absent.'

'Yes, pass through it. But that is not the manner in which we should like to see it.'

'Well, this is only a rough sketch of what we may do. We must model it as circumstances and inclination may arise.'

'But do you really design to leave England next week? Is it possible we should do so? Must we not have a travelling carriage built? And your own affairs—can you put them in a pro­per state, in so short an interval, to be left for so long a period?'

[Page 55]'All this may be managed. Give yourself no trouble about the matter. Make what ar­rangements you may find necessary as speedily as possible. And be assured I shall be ready to accompany you to town in less than a week, in our way to Harwich.'

Sir William then left her, and with an air as if he would immediately begin his preparations: and Ellen retired to her room with a mind ex­tremely distressed and embarrassed by the consi­deration of all that had passed since the preceding morning. She could not help connecting this sudden journey with the discontent and distur­bance Sir William had manifested the day before. But all her reasoning and all her penetration were unequal to the discovery of the link that was between them.

From the habit, which had arisen from princi­ple, that Ellen had acquired, of always looking on the bright side of events, and of opening her mind to all the good it was possible they could produce, she was enabled at this moment to sub­due a crowd of painful apprehensions, and indis­tinct fears, that arose in her thoughts. She endeavoured to gather from some words that had fallen from Sir William, that his present conduct was designed as the final test of her integrity and affection▪ and she flattered herself that a prudent management on her part would fix the content of her future life upon a tolerably firm basis.

It was this thought that had made her so readily yield her consent, and her reasonable desire of seeing her family before her departure, to the needless hurry, as it appeared to her, and [Page 56] capricious wishes of Sir William: and it was this thought, that inspired her with fortitude to conceal the bitter regret that she felt in conse­quence of this sacrifice. She was resolved that Sir William should see on her part nothing but good humour and alacrity: and she hoped that in the cheerfulness with which she quitted every other attachment to accompany him, he would find a full refutation to those unjust suspicions that had hitherto destroyed her peace, together with his own.

CHAP. VII.

THERE is no virtue which so immediately produces its own reward, as a vigorous exer­tion of the mind, arising from a purity of prin­ciple.

Ellen soon felt that cheerfulness and that alacrity which she had judged it proper to as­sume. She wrote without delay to her father, informing him of the journey she was about to undertake. But softening the apparent harsh­ness of their declining to visit Northumberland before the set out, by representing that Sir Wil­liam's haste to be abroad arose from his solici­tude on her account, which would not suffer him to listen to any delay: she intimated a very probable hope, that her absence would be much shorter than was at present talked of. She sug­gested that it would depend upon her perfect [Page 58] restoration to health: and as she could truly say, that all remains of indisposition were even now trifling, she dwelt upon the strong probability, that they must meet again early in the spring. She endeavoured, by an appearance of cheerful­ness and satisfaction, to leave no doubt upon the mind of her father, that the journey met fully with her concurrence: and she promised the most constant and minute details of all she should see or hear.

The letter, however kindly designed, or artfully framed, by no means answered the purpose for which it was written. Mr. Mordaunt was struck with the glaring inconsistency of the degree of indisposition, that required so precipitate a remo­val into another country, and the choice that had been made of the country to which the inva­lid was to be removed. The climate of the northern part of Germany seemed ill calculated for the recovery of a constitution debilitated by sickness and sorrow.

Ellen had indeed mentioned, as a concurring motive for her journey, that from change of scene was hoped a relief to her spirits, as well as from a change of climate to her health. But Mr. Mordaunt well knew, that, if left to her own choice, Ellen would have sought every relief that she could hope for her mind in Northumberland, rather than elsewhere: and the cheerfulness which she had assumed in her manner of writing, with the pleasure she affected to take in the prospects before her, seemed to say, that she did not stand in need of much assistance in this way.

These reflections perplexed and disturbed Mr. Mordaunt▪ and he resolved to see Ellen before [Page 59] her departure. He wrote accordingly to inform her of his intention: but that he might not delay for a moment a journey upon which Ellen had described Sir William as so earnestly bent, he told her, that he should immediately proceed to town, where he hoped he should be time enough to catch them for a few hours as they passed through it; he having understood from Ellen that Sir William did not mean to make even a day's stay in the metropolis. But Sir William's haste defeated Mr. Mordaunt's kind purpose: and though, had he known the fears and suspi­cions that had found their way into Mr. Mor­daunt's mind, he would willingly have spared not one day only, but several days for the purpose of removing them; yet it not having occurred to him that Mr. Mordaunt would not rest satis­fied with Ellen's representation of the matter, he was not aware that there were either fears or suspicions to remove.

On the very day that Ellen's letter arrived at Groby Manor, she and Sir William left Oakley for London. Contrary to the first plan, they passed two nights and a day there: but pursuing their journey the day following with diligne [...], they had sailed from Harwich before Mr. Mor­daunt reached town.

The circumstance that had detained Ellen a whole day in town, was the sudden marriage of her own maid. Jenny had been courted by a young man, son to one of Sir William's prin­cipal tenants. It had been agreed that the match was not to take place until the young man could take a farm of his own: and this they had con­sidered as somewhat a distant prospect. But the [Page 60] day after Sir William had determined upon the plan of going abroad, his steward had offered a farm to Thomas upon such advantageous terms, that nothing was wanting but the consent of Jenny to become his wife, to make him one of the most contented of men. Jenny objected to the impossibility of leaving her Lady so suddenly, and so much to her inconvenience. But her scru­ples were soon overcome by the rhetoric of Thomas: and she mentioned, though with some reluctance, to Ellen, how unlucky it was, that she was obliged just then to go into foreign parts, when if she were to stay at home, she might have been married to Thomas.

Ellen easily understood her: and as no per­sonal inconvenience ever caused her to hesitate, when the happiness of others depended upon her decision, she cheered Jenny with a ready and kind consent to her remaining in England, and by assuring her, that she did not apprehend any unpleasantness to herself in consequence of her doing so.

Sir William seemed highly pleased with Ellen's disinterestedness on this occasion; and gratified both the mistress and the maid, by making Jenny a very handsome nuptial present.

Ellen received this act of Sir William as a farther proof, that his manner of thinking was becoming more congenial to her own. Of ser­vants he generally spoke as of creatures of a lower order of beings, who were bound, if well paid, to consider themselves, without murmuring, as the slaves of caprice and the victims of tyran­ny. She had feared he would have inveighed at the ingratitude and unfeelingness of Jenny: [Page 61] and she had prepared several mollifying argu­ments, to make him submit quietly to the incon­venience her sudden desertion must occasion. She was much delighted to find him in so differ­ent a disposition; and readily acceded to his request, that, as she had now no English servant, to whose services she had been accustomed, she would supply Jenny's place with a foreign one, which, he assured her, she would find much more convenient during her sojourn abroad.

Ellen had written to Lady Almeria to desire she would find her some person who could supply the present emergency: and the choice she had been obliged to make between several candidates had detained her in town. Having fixed upon the least exceptionable, she had dismissed Jenny; and with her new attendant had proceeded on her journey.

Nothing could exceed Mr. Mordaunt's disap­pointment, when, on his arrival in town, he found Ellen had left it. But he had such comfortable assurances both from Lady Almeria and his son, of the state of her health, and the ease and ap­parent contentment of her mind, that he became perfectly satisfied in every respect, but that of having missed the pleasure of seeing her. He imputed the unnecessary hurry which had accom­panied their departure wholly to the solicitude of Sir William, to re-establish the health of Ellen, a little aided by the pleasure that it was reason­able to suppose he would feel in returning to the scenes and habits of foreign courts: as it was very apparent that those of his native country, were not nearly so pleasing to him.

[Page 62]Mr. Mordaunt returned to Northumberland, well enabled by the satisfaction his own mind had received, to tranquillize the anxious appre­hensions of Ellen's friends and well wishers, who were, indeed, as numerous as her acquaintance, with only the exception perhaps of her own mother.

Mrs. Mordaunt, however, had long ceased to feel that rancour of dislike, which for many years had occasioned so much misery to Ellen. Her marriage had removed her from the situation where her superior qualities had given Mrs. Mor­daunt perpetual umbrage: and the power that this marriage had given Ellen, of gra [...]fying many of her mother's wishes, had in some degree con­ciliat [...]d her affections—affections which never yielded but to the voice of selfishness. [...]en had taken care to supply her constantly with some new fashionable article of dress or furniture. She had written her every fashionable anecdote she could collect; and had furnished her with every new play, or political pamphlet, which made the conversation of the day; and which, from being early communicated to Mrs. Mordaunt, enabled her to support that superiority over her country neighbours, in which all the desires of her still existing vanity seemed now to cen [...]r [...]. Mortification, too, had humbled her: and though it had not corrected the faults of her temper, it had made her more careful to conceal them. The constant sight of her eldest and favourite daughter, who, with her two children, drew their scanty support, and to the inconvenience of the family, wholly from Mr. Mordaunt, was such an undeniable proof of the fatal consequences of [Page 63] her misjudging pride and vanity, as compelled her to appear to adjure the principle that had led to such fatal mistakes. She no longer dared to express a desire to rule in a family, every in­dividual of which suffered, in one way or other, from her once unbounded sway. A never inter­miting discontent preyed upon her heart, and undermined her constitution. The marriage of her son with Lady Almeria, from which she had hoped to have derived so much satisfaction and consequence, yielded her neither one nor the other.

Lady Almeria shewed her the most pointed disrespect; never condescended to visit her; or invited her daughter to partake with her in the amusements of her country house, or the gaieties of a London life. The unwise and unjustifiable partiality she had manifested towards her son, he repaid, rather as if he considered the effect than the motive. No consideration for her maternal tenderness softened with him the censure which her character so well justified, and he by turns ridiculed and disregarded her.

From Mr. Mordaunt however she continued to receive every mark of consideration and kind­ness, and as her increasing ill health softened his heart towards her more and more, all past offences were by degrees forgotten by him, and something like his first love began to revive in his heart.

From the contemplation of a character so sel­fish as Mrs. Mordaunt's, it is relief to turn the mind to that of Henry's.

Stunned as he was at the first intelligence of Ellen's journey to the continent, and by the [Page 64] certainty that she was thus removed from his sight and observation, yet when he learnt from Lady Almeria her improved health, and appa­rently recovered ease of mind, he found ample compensation for every selfish pang, in the hope that she was now about to reap the reward of a virtue and strength of mind which had proved itself superior to all the buffetings and crosses of fortune. In the progress, and event, as he hoped it would prove, of her trials, he acknowledged the force of that principle of the mind, which makes the inviolable preservation of a once vowed duty the rule for conduct, and the standard of happiness.

Ellen will pursue, thought he, her path of rectitude in foreign climes, far, far distant it is true from me: but if I am enabled to tread the line marked out for me, with an equally steady foot, then, in spite of present distance, and pro­bably future separation, we shall meet at last— meet where no decorum, no unjust suspicions, no unworthy fear, will restrain the pleasures of our intercourse. We shall meet where we shall be allowably dear to each other through a long and happy eternity.

CHAP. VIII.

WHILE with these kind thoughts and flatter­ing hopes the English friends of Ellen endea­voured to console themselves for her absence, she was pursuing her route abroad with much less satisfaction than she had promised herself.

The haste with which she had quitted England, had occasioned every hour from the moment when the scheme was first suggested to that in which I had taken place, to be wholly occupied with preparations for the journey: and she had had little leisure or opportunity to attend to the occupations of Sir William, who was equally engaged with herself. In the little communica­tion she had with him on any subject apart from the one that so mutually employed their thoughts, she had had reason to believe him satisfied with her; and though his satisfaction was not accom­panied by the gaiety that it used to be, before any unkindness had arisen between them, yet it appeared of that genuine kind, which promised continuance and increase.

Ellen, however, soon began to fear, that her willingness to believe the best, had deceived her.

[Page 66]A profound gravity, almost a gloom, seemed to have pervaded the mind of Sir William. He treated her with an austere coldness, totally dif­ferent from any thing she had hitherto seen in him: and as the bursts of passion and sallies of ill humour she had before been exposed to, ap­peared the result of sudden and irresistible suspi­cion, and had therefore subsided as the suspicion vanished; the arbitrary severity that he now assumed towards her, seemed as if it could only be justified by a conviction of her depravity. It was the lordly tone of a despotic husband, which he now took upon him: and he extended his privileges to the regulating the most trifling arti­cles of her economy. Her own servant appeared to be particularly the object of his caprice: re­peatedly Ellen was obliged to change her atten­dant: and every succeeding one seemed but still more the object of Sir William's dislike.

Ellen's correspondence with her English friends was more than every thing else a cause of offence to Sir William. He reproached her continually, that though in person she had accompanied him abroad, her thoughts, her wishes, and her affec­tions, were in England. He seemed to regard every packet she received with suspicion; and sometimes scrupled not to hint, that they should never be happy together until she broke off all intercourse with every one but himself.

Ellen turned a deaf ear to all such insinuati­ons. Nothing, she was resolved, should induce her to make such a sacrifice of her duty, nor any thing but force compel her to it. 'All the affections in a good heart, would she some­times say, are so closely entwined, that the [Page 67] one cannot be destroyed without the destruc­tion of the others. If I did not love my pa­rents, my sisters, and my friends, I could not love you.'

Sir William understood nothing of this: and as he had given up the hope of being beloved by Ellen, his present unkindness was rather the result of ill humour, than the effect of jealousy. Of the guilt of Ellen he had no doubt. The readiness with which she had concurred in his scheme for leaving England, the cheerfulness and good humour which had accompanied this con­currence, he considered all as parts of that mass of intended hypocrisy, which he believed, had pervaded her whole conduct, from the first hour of their marriage—an hypocrisy that swelled her guilt, in his apprehension, beyond all bounds, and excited in his breast a proportionate resent­ment: he had been willing to appear duped by it, while it could any ways further his own pur­poses: but he was determined to punish it by every act of unkindness and provocation, which an irritated and revengeful mind could suggest.

In a more generous and candid disposition than Sir William's, the conciliating and affection­ate manners of Ellen, with the ingenuous frank­ness of her sentiments, must have produced different effects. They must have induced a doubt of the strongest appearances that indicated guilt in her: they must have led to explanation and acquittal: or at least they must have sus­pended condemnation, and withheld the arm of chastisement.

But Sir William's resolution was taken. Noth­ing could now divert him from his purpose. It [Page 68] is true, had he been entirely master of himself, he would, until the moment of putting it into execution, have concealed all desire of vengeance. But the ill passions rankling in his heart broke out in spite of every effort to the contrary, into paroxysms of tyranny and ill humour: and poor Ellen was the victim of them all.

In these circumstances it is not to be won­dered at, if Ellen placed her most fervent wishes on a return to England, or that she found little real satisfaction from the varying objects that occurred. But still Ellen's disposition and prin­ciple of making the best of every thing, did not forsake her. Her perfect good sense directed her to the best means for attaining this end. It taught her to keep her own passions under con­trol. It repressed the tyranny of imagination. It enabled her to balance the real good and evil of her situation: and it shewed her, that, in the scale of human miseries, there were more above than below her. The circumstances of every day seemed, however, to change this proportion.

The pressure of Sir William's ill humour be­came so perpetual, that Ellen, with all her patience and ingenuity, could scarcely contrive to escape one moment its weight. She hardly knew how to extract one drop of comfort from any reflec­tion that her present situation or future prospects afforded.

She had nearly lost all hope, that any conduct of hers could meliorate the disposition of Sir William: and she was farther confirmed in this hopelessness, by considering, that his present un­kindness could not be the fruit of any suspicion arising from the events of the passing hour. She [Page 69] was separated from all who were dear to her. She was alone with Sir William in a world where there did not exist an individual who en­gaged her attention, or interested her affections. What, then, could he suspect? what, then, could he fear? It was not possible, that the events of the present time should excite either fears or suspicions. This ill treatment, therefore, she could only impute to a deep resentment for for­mer imagined offences, to estranged affections, and to natural temper, evils hopeless of cure.

Mild reasonings, cheerful tenderness, affection­ate attention, and hitherto unwearied patience, she had tried in vain. She knew of no other remedies: and, resigning hope, she endeavoured to arm herself with a double stock of fortitude, and thus strove to support, with calmness and dignity, the miseries of a destiny she knew not how to escape.

She could hope little from time, except as the dissolver of that union which, as long as it lasted, she was now convinced, must be a source of unallayed affliction to her. But it was not in Ellen's nature, even in wish, to establish her happiness on the death of a fellow creature, no [...] in her chastened and religious mind, to desire to accelerate to herself so awful a period. She was desirous in this, as in every other particular, to refer herself, wholly and without reserve, to the disposal of a being, on whose wisdom and goodness she had the most profound and unsha [...]en reliance. She left events to his care, who, in superintending an universe, withdraws not his attention for an instant from the smallest atom of which it is composed; and bent her solicitude▪ [Page 70] undivided, to the right conduct of that part allot­ted to her and on the performance of which depended a happiness or misery, as unlimited in degree as duration.

Ellen judging it expedient to avoid, if possible, all self commiseration, allowed herself little leisure for reflection upon her chagrins. She contrived to be almost wholly occupied by the variety of per­sons and things which their continual journeyings threw in her way: and as her general knowledge and the cultivation of her mind, fitted her to enjoy the best conversation, and supplied her with observations and reflections upon every sub­ject of curiosity that occurred, either in nature or art, however she might be deprived of happi­ness, she was by no means destitute of a very interesting amusement.

She never yielded to the supineness and lan­gour, which, from the hopelessness of her sorrow, would sometimes invade her mind. She consi­dered it as a signal to rekindle her activity, and to double her efforts towards procuring occupation.

They moved from place to place, according to the will and caprice of Sir William: and hav­ing consumed some months in visiting several of the Northern Courts of Germany, on the shores of the Baltic, and in a short residence at Berlin, they found themselves, towards the end of De­cember, settled in a pleasant house, on the banks of the Elbè.

Ellen was, on her first arrival at Dresden, in­troduced to Sir William's sister. She found her perfectly well bred, and highly accomplished, assidious to render her all the little offices and attentions that politeness required, but apparently [Page 71] without a wish to cultivate any intimacy with her, beyond what common civility demanded. There seemed to be little attraction between their characters. Madam Teschen had been so long absent from her country, that England had no place in her affections. Her sentiments and her inclinations were German: and the evident disre­gard and coldness with which Sir William treated Ellen, must unavoidably give her an unfavour­able idea of her character, which it could not be expected, in the kind of intercourse that took place between them, Ellen would be able to destroy.

CHAP. IX.

ELLEN, indeed, soon found that neither with Madam Teschen nor any one else was it Sir William's wish that she should associate. He seemed unwilling that she should be known, or that she should have it in her power to make herself friends.

After she had been introduced at court, and into all such houses as Sir William had been for­merly acquainted with, and after she had seen all that the place afforded, worthy of curiosity, Sir William made it appear very evidently, that he was never so well pleased with her, as when she remained shut up in her own habitation.

This desire of Sir William's to seclude her from all society, agreed much better with her inclination than her prudence. Sir William was seldom at home: and thus left to herself, and deprived of the means of indulging the active propensities of her mind, or the benevolent dis­positions of her heart, she found no interest in the common occupation which her books or her work afforded, sufficiently powerful at all times to suspend the querulousness of regret, or the anticipation of fear.

[Page 73]It became absolutely necessary to find some employment, which, from its novelty, might en­gage her whole attention. In this dilemma, the advantage which would accrue from learn­ing the German tongue, occurred to her. Hi­therto she had never continued long enough in any one place to attempt it: but she had now more than sufficient leisure. It had been repre­sented to her as extremely difficult: but this was rather an inducement to her to attempt to learn it at this time, than any discouragement. What­ever would call for the greatest exertion of her faculties, and demand the largest share of her attention, would best answer her present purpose in seeking employment: she therefore resolved to learn German: and she hoped, in the labours of her understanding, to forget the sorrows of her heart. She entered, there­fore, upon her task with avidity. Her master attended her every day: and the eagerness with which she bent her whole mind to the business, with her natural talents, soon convinced her, that the difficulties of the language had been exaggerated. She was not, however, disappoint­ed in the main end. The newness of the pur­suit interested her. It filled her time; and it filled her thoughts. It prevented her thinking of herself.—Employment (thought she) is the great secret of contentment.

She had been thus busied about ten days, when Sir William, whom she seldom saw in the course of the day for more than a few minutes at a time, and who knew nothing of her new employment, unexpectedly entered her apart­ment.

[Page 74]He asked in English, angrily and eagerly, what she was about

'I am learning German,' said Ellen with a smile.

'And do you not know languages enough?' returned he rudely. 'What affectation is this of the love of study?'

Ellen doubted whether she heard him aright. Among all the foibles of Sir William's cha­racter, he had always appeared wholly free from the mean jealousy, which some men betray, of female talents and female acquirements. On the contrary, she had often heard him declare, that in marrying, he had sought not merely a mistress but a companion: and he had said, that his choice of her had been as much determined by the cultivation of her mind, as by the attrac­tions of her person, or the sweetness of her temper.

It is true, these were the fondnesses of his early love; and might be, with respect to her­self, no more than the flatteries of it. But she had invariably seen him seek the society of the best-informed females: and he had always ap­peared to have a more than common pleasure in their conversation.

She knew not, therefore, what to impute his sudden displeasure to, on his discovery of her desire to add another language to those which she already understood.

'You are not serious,' said she, 'that my attempt to learn German gives you offence?'

'Perfectly so, and I desire you will immediately dismiss that gentleman there, and inform him that you shall not again require his attendance.'

[Page 75]Ellen turning to the German, told him, in French, that she was at present particularly en­gaged; and that she would let him know when she again wished to see him.

The man departed: and Ellen turning to Sir William said, 'Pray, what am I to understand from all this?'

'That it is my will, that you do not learn German; and that any farther attempt to acquire the language will be, on your part, an act of disobedience.'

'You have so little used me to so authori­tative a style, that you must forgive me, if I say I am somewhat surprised with it.'

'I knew the new philosophy of matrimony, as with every thing else, is equality. But I be­lieve we were united upon the old terms of the wife's obedience and subordination: and there ought to be nothing surprising, if I exact from you no more than what you voluntarily engaged to perform.'

'I thought I understood,' returned Ellen, 'that you preferred receiving your rights in the free-will offerings of love, rather than in the tribute of duty. If I am mistaken, of two un­happy people, you will be the most to be pitied. But you may be assured you shall most strictly receive you due.'

'If there ever were a time when I had such an option,' said Sir William with a sigh, 'is it not gone for ever? Will you, (added he, after some little pause) will you order your maid to fold up those books? pointing to the German grammar, &c. that lay upon the table, 'and I will put my seal on them.'

[Page 76]'I will do it myself,' said Ellen: and immedi­ately wrapping up all the books and papers re­lating to the intended study, she bound them round with a string, lighted her taper, and pre­sented the parcel, and a stick of sealing wax to Sir William.

While she was thus employed, Sir William regarded her with the most fixed and melan­choly attention. Preserving an invariable si­lence, he took the wax from her, melted it at the taper, dropped some drops on the string, and impressed it with his seal, then casting up his eyes, 'Oh!' exclaimed he, with a deep sigh, 'that there were a possibility of a doubt! that I might be again deceived!' and, so saying, he hur­ried out of the room.

'Miserable inconsistency!' said Ellen, sinking quite oppressed into a chair, 'thus ardently to desire to be beloved, thus assiduously to destroy all ground for affection.'

After this incident Sir William seemed as if more than ever to shun being alone with Ellen. He appeared as if afraid that she might resume her influence over his mind. Her present situ­ation made her particularly interesting. She was again with child: and she could not help re­marking with surprise, that notwithstanding Sir William's increasing indifference towards her, this circumstance seemed to give him much more satisfaction than he had appeared to derive from it, when she believed herself in the full posses­sion of his affections. To herself it conveyed little happiness

The present depressed state of her mind, and the remembrance of the bitter disappointment [Page 77] in which her former hopes from the same source had ended, deprived her of the power of look­ing forward to the birth of her child either a [...] an alleviation to her own sorrows, or as the probable beginning of a state of happiness to ano­ther human being.

In this manner the winter passed away at Dres­den. Sir William had been more than once absent from her for two or three nights at a time, either engaged in visits to such of his former friends as resided at some distance from Dresden, or in the pursuit of the sports of the field. For the latter purpose he declared his intention, in the early part of the spring, of establishing him­self, for some little time, in a Saxon village, on the confines of Bohemia. It was a part of the country with which he was well acquainted, and which would afford him plenty of game; and from the liberty of sporting which he had re­ceived from many of his friends, it would be fully in his power to pursue it.

Ellen had no reluctance to accompany him. She rather hoped advantage from change of place, than dreaded any increase to her present chagrins; and Dresden had been to her too melancholy a sojourn not to find some relief in bidding it adieu.

CHAP. X.

THEY were soon settled in a small house little better than a cottage, in a small Saxon village, situated in the mountain that separates Saxony from Bohemia. Here, however, having previous­ly provided themselves with every necessary at Dresden, they wanted none of the comforts and conveniences of life to which they had been ac­customed.

Ellen soon began to think her situation much improved. The manners and appearance of the villagers became extremely interesting to her. In a little hamlet, scarcely containing twenty hou­ses, surrounded by extensive forests, and appa­rently shut up by rugged and almost inaccessible rocks from all intercourse with civilized life, Ellen sound a gaiety, a hospitality, a sociability of manners, which she had often in vain sought for in more polished societies. These were accompanied, it is true, by the hardest labour: but the virtuous exertions of individuals for the support of their respective families, seemed to be the source of no obstruction to the general hilarity.

[Page 79]Ellen also observed, with pleasure, that almost every body could read, and that this general dif­fusion of knowledge was far from being an ob­stacle to any of the cares of the most assiduous housewifery. Clean, active, and spirited, the women particularly charmed her by the beauty of their shapes, and the animation of their looks; and she more than ever regretted the want of a common language between them and herself.

In spite of this obstruction to their more intimate intercourse, Ellen spent much of her time in the cottages and in walks through the adjacent woods. She longed to clamber a­mong the rocks, as she had been accusto­med to do in happier days in dear Northum­berland. But this her present circumstances forbade.

Sir William was so frequently absent, that he knew little how she passed her time; and had he known, it could have made no objec­tion.

One of her favourite walks was round the back part of the village through a small wood, which led along the side of a rivulet, which coming suddenly to an abrupt and somewhat steep rock, overgrown by brush-wood, threw itself down with a precipitancy that produced in miniature one of the most beautiful cas­cades imaginable. The path wound gently be­low this rock: and the rivulet, after its fall, resuming its calmness, flowed quietly along the valley.

Immediately at the foot of this rock was placed a cottage, which, from its situation and the accompanying features of the surrounding [Page 80] scene, was picturesque beyond description: and Ellen had often stood contemplating it from above with a pleasure inexpressible; and often had she descended to rest herself on the bench at its door, and to receive the welcome re­freshment of a bowl of milk, with which its hospitable inhabitants were always willing to supply her.

One morning she directed her steps to the favorite spot; and, finding herself more than usually fatigued with her walk, thought with uncommon satisfaction of her resting-place, the bench. What then was her grief and disap­pointment, when, arriving on the top of the rock, from whence first the cottage could be seen, she looked for it in vain? The cottage was no more: but from its scite arose a curling smoke, which told with too much certainty its fate. Of self in such a moment no one would have thought. Ellen knew not that she existed; but an with a precipitancy round the rock, that left her no breath when she arrived at the bot­tom of it.

Here she found the ruined and desolated fa­mily given up to all the horrors of despair. It consisted of a mother, two daughters, and three children, the offspring of one of the daugh­ters, the husband of whom, a miner, being at present engaged at some distance from his home, had left the helpless females without that assistance which would probably have aver­ted a calamity, which, with a lamentation use­less as their own, he would now only be able to deplore.

[Page 81]On the sight of Ellen, all the poor sufferers gathered around her. The old woman grasped her hand; the children caught hold of her clothes; the mother pointed to her ruined cottage, and then to her infants. The appeal was irresistable. There was no need of language. The note of supplication is the same in all. Ellen's heart was ever responsive to its cry. She returned the pres­sure of the old woman's hand; she embraced the children; she took out her purse; it contained not much; for the supplies of Sir William were no longer regular. But happily much was not wanted. The ruin, it is true, was complete; but the means of recovery were not very extend­ed. Ellen gave all she had. It appeared a mine of wealth to the receivers: and their ex­pressions of gratitude were more than the feeling heart of Ellen could bear. The bench was gone. But she sat down on a stone: and the younger sister, who was the first to observe her emotion, ran hastily to the rivulet, and brought her a little water in a wooden bowl. Ellen drank it; was relieved; and rose to depart. Again the grati­tude of the now happy family threw them at her feet.

At length, escaped from these, to her, painful effusions of their feelings, Ellen turned her steps homewards with a lightened purse, but with a heart ten times more lightened. She had not known a sensation so delightful since the day in which she had relieved the distresses of the grand­son of old Deborah.

Oh! said she to herself, how little do those know of happiness, who confine it to the grati­fication of self!

[Page 82]Ellen now grew so near the time of her con­finement, that she began earnestly to wish that Sir William would remove from their present situation. It had been determined that she should lie-in at Vienna; and that from thence, after her recovery, they should prosecute their tour; a tour, which Ellen no longer wished to be extend­ed. Her wishes were fixed on England: and she sometimes thought, if she might be permit­ted to return thither, with a healthy baby in her arms, she might still secure to herself a tole­rable portion of happiness.

Day after day passed away: and Sir William still found new reasons for continuing where they were: but at length their removal could he delayed no longer, if indeed Ellen was to arrive at Vienna before her lying-in.

Sir William had for some time past suspended the unceasing attention, which, on their first leaving England, he had shewn to the personal attendants upon Ellen. Her present servant had lived with her since her arrival at Dresden, and she had no reason to wish to change her. Two days, however, before the day on which it was now fixed they should leave the village, Sir Wil­liam expressed the most pointed disapprobation of her; told of his suspicions of her honesty; complained of her impertinence; and desired Ellen would dismiss her.

Ellen could not help a little remonstrating against a request, the compliance with which would expose her to all the fatigues and incon­veniencies of a long journey in her present help­less circumstances, without the assistance she had been so long accustomed to: and she proposed [Page 83] that she might be allowed to retain her servant until her arrival at Vienna, when she said she would willingly discharge her. Sir William urged her immediate dismission: and whatever were the inconveniencies that Ellen might fear from it, she thought them less than those which attended a contest with Sir William. She there­fore acquiesced: and Sir William promised to seek out some peasant's daughter, who might accompany them on their journey, and continue with Ellen until she could find somebody more to her mind at Vienna.

Fortunately his enquiries were answered by a young person who was just returning from ser­vice at Dresden: and she willingly consented to attend upon Ellen as long as she wished her to do so. The caprice which Sir William mani­fested in these particulars, was not confined to the attendants upon Ellen. He had repeatedly parted with his own personal servants: and at this time their whole suite consisted of the newly hired Saxon girl and one footman.

'We will establish ourselves comfortably at Vienna,' said Sir William. 'Already we have a good house taken there: and I have desired a female friend of mine to hire us servants. I will now add to the list a femme de chambre for you.'

'My dear Sir William,' said Ellen pressing his hand, 'how happy should I be, if you would realize your words—if indeed we might have a comfortable establishment any where. Long have we wanted it: and yet every comfort and every happiness seem to be in our power.'

'Be satisfied,' said Sir William. 'All will soon be as it ought to be.'

CHAP. XI.

THE road from the village where Sir Willi­am and Ellen then were, to the great road which leads from Dresden to Prague, was intri­cate, and in some degree difficult: but Sir Wil­liam relied on his knowledge of the country; and undertook to instruct the drivers of the carriage the best and safest way.

They left the village early in the morning; and hoped to be able to reach a tolerable good inn on the direct road from Dresden to Prague before a late hour at night. But either Sir Wil­liam deceived himself in the degree of informa­tion he possessed, or he never seriously intended to arrive at the spot marked out.

The day's journey was fatiguing, the roads rugged, often alarming, and they found them­selves, at the close of night, entering into a thick forest, which by no means answered the de­scription that had been given of any of the en­virons of the place they had been directed to.

Ellen, who seldom felt vain or unfounded fear, was more fatigued than alarmed. She did not think any danger threatened her: but she [Page 85] felt her strength so much exhausted, that she apprehended she should not be able to support herself much longer.

Sir William expressed a very lively compassion for her situation; and endeavoured by [...]y means in his power to raise her drooping stre [...] and spirits. The gloom of the forest and the darkness of the night made it hazardous to at­tempt finding a road through the wood. Yet there seemed to be no alternative, except the remaining where they were in the carriage all night. Ellen proposed this: but Sir William en­couraging her with the hopes that this [...] really a forest with which he was well acquain­ted, and in the midst of which was situated a hunting box, where, if he were not mistaken in the place, he was assured they would be able to meet with some accommodation; it was at length determined to endeavour to find their way through the wood.

They proceeded very prosperously for some time; and had begun to hope that even should they not find any house, they might at least be able, without accident, to penetrate thro' the forest. But at the moment they indulged these hopes, the postillion, not able to see the track, drove over a fallen tree that lay on one side of it, and overturned the carriage.

Sir William was supporting Ellen in his arms at the instant the accident happened; and hap­pily contrived so to break the shock of the fall to her, that she received no material injury. It was, however, from the darkness of the night, and the position of the carriage, with difficulty [...]hat they were able to disengage themselves from [Page 86] it: and even when they were all safely placed on the ground, they knew not what next to do.

The carriage was broken: and to have at­tempted to mend it in the present darkness would have been a fruitless labour. It rained h [...]ily: and Ellen was wholly unable to pro­secute her journey on foot, when every step she took might lead her still farther from her way, and from every necessary assistance. To stay where they were, without shelter, chilled with cold, and drenched in rain, with no rest­ing-place but the wet ground, seemed to threat­en the most fatal consequences to Ellen.

Sir William appeared half distracted, repeat­ing every moment, 'Good God! what have I done?' The servants exclaimed, 'What shall we do?' The poor Saxon girl wept bitterly: and Ellen, when a little recovered from the first shock, seemed the only person capable of a ra­tional thought.

'I cannot stand,' said she, almost sinking from Sir William's arms as she spoke. 'But if you can contrive to get at the little seat on which I rested my feet in the carriage, I can sit here 'till the postillions have a little ascer­tained where we are. If this is really the fo­rest you take it for, we cannot be far from the hunting box you have described; from thence we may possibly procure light, and such assistance, as will enable us either to remove thi­ther, or so to raise the carriage, that we may remain safe and sheltered from the weather the remainder of the night.

Sir William pressed her tenderly to his heart, as if at once to thank her for her calmness and resolution, and to re-animate his own.

[Page 87]The seat was soon found: and Sir William placing Ellen in it, knelt behind her and sup­ported her in his arms. He then gave orders for one of the postillions and his own servant to pursue the track they were in, which, he said, if he were right in his conjectures concerning the place, must bring them in less than a mile to the spot he had mentioned. There they had only to mention his name, and tell his distress; and he was assured of every assistance that could be given.

The servants were absent nearly an hour: and Ellen was so much overcome by fatigue, the beat­ing of the rain, and above all by the uncommon kind of distress that seemed to have seized Sir William—for as he joined his face to hers, she felt his tears trickle down her cheeks—that when they returned, she had scarcely power to benefit by the assistance they brought.

The most cheering part of this assistance was light. But that which afforded the most essential service was a small tilted cart, the bottom of which was well covered with straw. Upon this, Sir William contrived to place the cushions of the carriage, so as to form a tolerable bed: and having, by the help of the light, been enabled to get at a box of [...]ordials, he made Ellen take some of them; and then with the assistance of the servants easily lifted her into the cart: here he also placed the maid servant, who, shivering, wet and crying, made a most deplorable figure. The trunk that contained the night clothes fur­nished her with a seat: and Sir William, making one of the men who had come from the house, lead the way with the lanthern, he himself [Page 88] mounting one of the chaise horses, accompanied the cavalcade by the side of the cart.

In this manner, they proceeded rather more than a mile; and reached the house without any new accident, and with little farther incon­venience.

The first object was to change Ellen's clothes, and put her to bed: and when this was accom­plished, Sir William made her take such refresh­ments as could be procured; and then left her in the hope that she would repose.

Nor was his hope vain. Worn out with fa­tigue, she soon dropped asleep; and after some hours of rest, awoke much recruited.

Sir William appeared extremely pleased, when [...] was assured the adventures of the preceding night had been attended with no essential ill con­sequences. He proposed to continue where they were, through the day, both because it was ne­cessary the carriage should be repaired, and as a farther refreshment to Ellen.

Towards the evening of the day, Sir William told her, that he had indeed widely mistaken the way he meant to have taken; and that he found he had wandered very distant from that which led into the public road to Prague: but that the mistake had brought him so near the mansion of an old friend, that, except for the inconvenience that had occurred to her, he could not lament it.

He then mentioned the name of a lady, with whose son Ellen knew he had formerly been extremely connected: and he spoke in the high­est terms of the hospitality and kindness which she had always shewn him.

[Page 89]'We are not more than six miles from her house,' said he: 'and I should never forgive myself, if I were to be so near without paying my respects to her. The carriage is now mend­ed: we will go together: she will he delighted to see you: and I shall be surprised, from what I know of her character, if she does not offer you an asylum with her, till you are in a fitter state to undertake a long journey. The misfor­tunes of yesterday have made me a coward. When I think of the length of the travel that is before you, I tremble for the consequences.'

Ellen declared herself very able to prosecute her journey to Vienna; and avowed the prefer­ence she should give being in a house of her own, during her confinement, to any accommo­dations, however comfortable, that might be af­forded her in another.

'Well, we need not settle this now,' said Sir William. 'We will act as we see occasion. This night, at least, we will pass with my old friend. But can you dispense with the atten­dance of your maid? I never saw such a fool. She blubbers and shivers yet. I should be very glad to exclude her from the party, and for one night—'

'Oh! I can do very well without her,' inter­rupted Ellen: 'and indeed I shall be glad to save her any farther fatigue for a few hours. She has reason for her tears. She is extremely bruised and hurt; and is so stiff with the cold she caught last night, that she can hardly move. I shall desire that she go to bed, and continue there till we rejoin her at this place to-morrow.'

[Page 90]All this being arranged, Sir William and Ellen began their little journey. But it seemed as if Sir William was doomed to be convicted of ig­norance whenever he boasted of his knowledge of the country. The six miles seemed to be lengthened into twice that number: and it was already nearly dark, and yet there was no ap­pearance of the habitation to which they were going.

'Surely you cannot be again mistaken,' said Ellen. 'I should be sorry to pass such another night as the last.'

'There is no mistake this time,' returned Sir William rather peevishly, 'nor any danger.'

'But surely we must have come much more than six miles.'

'Don't you see the roads are bad and tedi­ous?'

'I fear arriving at an unseasonable hour, and that your old friend, though glad to see us, may be put to some inconvenience.'

'I never knew women direct their fears aright. I intreat you not to perplex yourself with what does not concern you.'

Ellen remained silent and sad. The deep­ning shades of night added to the uneasiness of her sensations: and a confused apprehension of, she hardly knew what, stole over her mind. At length they arrived at the top of a long avenue: and Sir William calling hastily to the man to stop, 'This,' said he to Ellen, 'is the place. I will get out, and announce our arrival before the carriage can be heard at the house; lest our appearance at so late an hour may alarm the old lady. Stay where you are [...]out ten [Page 91] minutes, and then follow me slowly down the avenue.'

So saying, Sir William jumped out of the carriage, and left Ellen, wondering, disturbed, and unhappy. The servants obeyed the direc­tions given, and in about the time prescribed followed Sir William.

CHAP. XII.

THE avenue was closed at the other end by a large pair of gates, which opened into a court surrounded by buildings. The gates they found open, and were directed, by a light immedi­ately opposite, to drive up to the door of the house. Here they found Sir William.

'We are extremely unlucky,' said he as he opened the chaise door, and assisted Ellen to get out. 'My old friend has spent the winter at Prague, a thing she never did when I knew her: and she is not yet returned.'

'Then,' said Ellen, shrinking back, 'let us return. The night is fine: and now we kn [...]w the road, it will not appear half so tedious as it did in coming.'

'No, no, I will not suffer that. I have still a friend in the garrison. We shall be well ac­commodated to-night: and I will not again expose myself to your unreasonable fears of darkness and rugged roads.'

[Page 93]'That's a reproach I hardly deserve,' said El­len smiling. 'But be it as you will.'

She then entered the door, which opened into a long and narrow passage, and in which there was no other light than that which Sir William held in his hand. He led the way: and they soon found themselves in a hall, not very spacious but very gloomy. Here they were met by a respectable looking person, who had also a light in her hand. She was a wo­man of about fifty, and seemed to regard El­len with looks of the most scrutinizing curio­sity.

'That's my old friend the housekeeper,' said Sir William: 'and she assures me her lady would never forgive her, if she were to turn us from her doors at this time of night.'

Ellen was going to make her acknowledge­ments, in French: but Sir William said, 'You may spare your civilities; for the old dame un­derstands not a word of any language, but her native German.'

'Upon how many occasions lately,' exclaim­ed Ellen, 'have I had reason to regret my igno­rance of that language!' Then from a sudden feeling, that this might sound as a taunt to Sir William, who had refused her permission to learn it, she added, 'but all cause for regret will soon be over. Once returned to dear England, and I hope we shall speak only English for the rest of our lives.'

As she said this, the light that the woman h [...]ld fell full on the face of Sir Willian, and Ellen saw with surprise the sudden alteration of his countenance. He cast up his eyes, with a look [Page 94] almost of horror, and repeated, 'Once returned to England!'

Ellen took hold of his arm, and perceived it trembled. But at this moment their attendant opened a door; and they entered a large and to­lerably furnished parlour, where there was a bla­zing wood fire, and two lighted candles placed on a table before it.

The servants said something to Sir William, to which he gave an answer apparently of assent. She went out: and Sir William giving Ellen a chair, threw himself into another, and seemed lost in thought.

Ellen regarded him with surprise for a few moments; and at length ventured to say, 'are you not well?'

At the sound of her voice, Sir William star­ted from his reverie; and said, 'Well? yes, very well, I believe: but I am hungry. Our old lady has promised us some supper. I care not how soon she keeps her word.'

Then endeavouring to appear in spirits, he would have rallied Ellen on the apprehensions he said she betrayed on the road. But his cheer­fulness was evidently forced: and, before the servant returned, Sir William had again sunk into thoughtfulness.

It was not long before the housekeeper made her appearance, accompanied by another female with preparations for supper: and presently after, the supper was on the table

The meal, for which Sir William had expres­sed so much desire, was not relished by him in a manner that justified the impatience he had shewn for its appearance. Ellen pressed him to [Page 95] eat, and, yielding to her intreaties, he took some fowl on his plate: but Ellen observed, that the moment her eye was withdrawn, he seemed to forget that it was there; and fixed a melancholy and disturbed look upon her.

In making these observations, Ellen lost all appetite also; and the supper was served and ta­ken away without having been much diminished by either.

When the servants were gone, Sir William shivering, drew his chair near the fire.

'I am sure you are unwell,' said Ellen anxi­ously. 'It is hardly possible you should have been exposed so many hours to such weather as we were out in last night, with impuni­ty. Do you think Madam Housekeeper has no family medicine that might be of service to you? something that would make you perspire might remove all your complaints before morn­ing?'

Sir William seemed not to hear her: and the shuddering with which he was seized, had more the appearance of proceeding from emotion, than from cold. Ellen felt dreadfully alarm­ed. She took his hand, but dropped it sud­dently, startled with the burning heat which it communicated to her own. 'You are feverish —you are ill—for God's sake let us inquire what there is in the house that it will be proper for you to take.'

'Oh! God of heaven and earth!' said Sir William, with a sigh from the bottom of his ve­ry soul.

'Dear Sir William!'

'Dear?— Oh, Ellen, no, no, no.'

[Page 96]Ellen, seized with an instant fear for his intel­lects, snatched up one of the candles, and was making towards the door.

'What are you about? and where would you go?'

'I am going to seek the housekeeper. I hope she will be able to furnish me with something that will be of service to you.'

'And if you speak to her, she will not un­derstand you.—It is true, I am not well. I shiver; I burn; I have an intense head-ach, the effects all of a violent cold. Something to make me prespire, and a good night's rest, will set all to rights.'

'God grant it!' said Ellen fervently.

'There's no doubt,' said Sir William, as he went out of the room.

He was absent nearly a quarter of an hour, which seemed almost an age to Ellen. When he returned, his looks were composed, and his air somewhat more cheerful. He was followed by the servant they had first seen, who had a bowl in her hand.

'Our good friend there,' said Sir William, with a melancholy smile, 'has made me a mix­ture which she says is sovereign for a cold. She has also prepared me a bed apart from yours, lest I should disturb you. I will drink your health, and then let us retire to our rooms.' He took the bowl. He fixed his eyes intently on Ellen for a moment, 'Good night, God bless you,' said he, with an emphasis; and raising the bowl to his mouth, he drank off the contents. But Ellen perceived that he turned deadly p [...]le, and that his lips trembled.—Horrible apprehen­sions [Page 97] crossed the mind of Ellen, which she durst not suffer to harbour there for a moment.

'Will not you have something warm?' said Sir William, 'some negus? or whey? I did not offer you any of my potion; for though it may be salutary, it was nauseous.'

'I think I will,' returned Ellen: 'I am cold myself. I should be glad of any thing warm.'

Sir William spoke to the woman, who instant­ly withdrew: and Sir William, taking Ellen's hand, drew her towards the fire, 'You look uneasy; you look frightened; I assure you my indisposition is trifling. I shall be well to-mor­row: and then you will wonder how you came to be so much alarmed. You say you are cold,' added he: 'for once let the arms of a husband warm you.'

He snatched her to his heart, and held her there for a moment. Then letting her go, as the door opened, 'Oh! Ellen!' said he, 'why not thus for ever!'

'For God's sake, tell me what all this means. Either you or I are strangely disordered.'

'Means!—It means justice—but come, we will talk it all over to-morrow.' Then taking a bowl from the servant, who had just presented it to Ellen—he put it to his lips, and assuming a cheerful look, 'Excellent white wine whey, I assure you, much better than mine. Now drink my health.'

'Heaven is my witness, how sincerely I do,' said Ellen▪ 'and taking the bowl, she drank a part of what it contained. It appeared to her what Sir William had said it was, except that [Page 98] she thought there was some taste in it more un­usual than disagreeable.'

'Now,' said Sir William, 'let us go to bed. Rest will do us both good.' Then speaking to the servant, and again to Ellen, 'If you will fol­low the old lady, she will shew you your a­partment. I know the way to mine.'

'I wish I might accompany you thither,' said Ellen earnestly. 'If I were to see you asleep, my rest would be better.'

'No, no, that must not be. You had too disturbed a night last night, to become a watch­er this. I shall want no attendants: but if it will make you easy, James shall sit up an hour or two in my room: and when I am asleep, he shall let you know.'

Ellen joyfully accepted this offer: and stretch­ing ou [...] her hand to Sir William, she bade him good night. He pressed it tenderly between his; held it to his lips; and she felt a tear drop up­on it. Yet he spoke cheerfully and with uncon­cern: 'Pray lend me your watch. Mine has been spoilt in last night's overthrow, and does not go.'

Ellen gave him her watch; and again bade him good night. He followed her to the door of the room, as if unwilling to lose sight of her; and as he turned from her, she heard him sigh deeply.

Ellen, following her conductor, crossed the hall, from the upper end of which went a pair of stairs that led to a gallery above, in which were several doors. The woman opened the se­cond, on the left hand: and Ellen found herself in a spacious room, the modern furniture of [Page 99] which somewhat surprised her. Around the fire­place, which was well supplied with fire, were arranged her night dress, and every thing she could require, in the nicest order. The woman opened a door on one side of the room, which Ellen saw was designed for her bedchamber. This also had a fire in it, and seemed to be pro­vided with every comfort, and with many of those accommodations Ellen could not have ex­pected to have found in the apartment of an old Bohem [...]an lady.

Her attendant offered her service to assist in undressing her: and Ellen, harrassed in mind and body, was willing to take off a part of her clothes, and put on her dressing gown. But she meant not to go to bed, until she had heard something more of Sir William: and she now felt the most tormenting perplexity from not being able to explain herself to her companion, who seemed resolved not to leave her 'till she had seen her in bed.

At length it occurred to her, that she might easily make her comprehend her wish to have a written paper delivered to Sir William: and she wrote these words with a pencil:—

'Pray inform my too civil attendant, that I wish her to leave me alone: and be so kind as to direct her to come to me as soon as James can inform her that you are asleep.'

The woman readily understood what she was to do with the paper. She took it, and in a few moments returned with these words from Sir William.

'If you have any regard for my health, let the old lady see you in bed. I promise you [Page 100] she shall bring you good news of me in conse­quence. But if you are left to yourself, I know you will sit up all night: and this thought will keep me waking.'

Ellen in return wrote, 'I acquiesce: but re­member your promise.'

She then suffered her attendant to assist her in going to bed. She made the woman under­stand that she wished to have a light: and this being procured, the woman drew the curtains and left her.

Ellen in her own mind, was confident that she should not close her eyes, until she had heard from Sir William, such an impression had his apparent indisposition both of body and mind made upon her. But her head was scarcely laid upon her pillow, before she fell into a sleep pro­found as death.

She awoke from this sleep with a sudden start, supposing that drowsiness had only for a few moments overcome her. But, surprised by the kind of light that she saw in her room, which she thought could proceed from neither fire nor candle, she hastily undrew the curtain; and was amazed and chagrined to find a meridian sun shining full upon her bed. She rose hastily; and wrapping a few clothes around her, opened the door which led into the next room, design­ing to go from thence to the gallery to see for somebody, of whom she could make inquiries after Sir William. On opening the door, she found in the adjoining room, as if in waiting, the woman who had attended her the night before.

Ellen was proceeding to make her understand what she wanted, by earnestly rep [...]ating Sir Wil­liam's [Page 101] name, when the woman delivered her a sealed letter, the direction of which she saw was in his hand. On the sight of this letter, her heart sunk within her, as if it foretold all she had to suffer. Yet at the moment she thought not of herself. She was seized with an universal trembling. The letter dropt from her hand: and she sunk almost senseless into a chair. Yet how wide were her apprehensions from the truth! —For Sir William she only feared: and yet Sir William, withheld by no compassionate considera­tion for her, was at this moment consummating that vengeance for imagined crimes, which he had been so many months in preparing with the coolest deliberation.

The woman, as if she had expected the effect that even the sight of the letter would have, ran readily to the assistance of Ellen; poured drops and water down her throat; gave her air; and seemed, by the tone of her voice, to exhort her to patience.

Ellen, whose mind was fixed wholly upon the draught that she had seen Sir William swallow the night before, and now convinced that the soundness of her sleep had been procured by me­dicine, could think only of one catastrophe; and regarding the letter with horror, had not courage to open it. The woman took it from the floor; presented it to her; and seemed to intreat her to read it.

Confused and overwhelmed as Ellen's mind was, there seemed to her something in this ac­tion of the woman's, which spoke the evil not to be so bad as she feared. She took the letter, she broke the seal—and, in the relief from the [Page 102] horror which at had first seized her, forgot for a few moments the extent of that misery which was announced to herself. The letter was as follows:

'Summon to your support all that strength of mind, which has so often given me cause to admire you. Oh! Ellen, had it been uniform, had it sprung from principle!—But away with every vain regret. Where the guilt is certain, all compunction for the punishment should cease: and if the chastisement is heavy, you will not affirm it is disproportionate to the crime. It would, however, be useless to reproach you. My injured love, my violated honor, cannot speak more severely than will your own heart: and in guarding myself from the possibility of being again deceived, I wish not to inflict any unneces­sary rigour.

'When you know, that I was apprised, by the conviction of my own senses, of the last visit you received from your undoer—when you are told that I read the invitation for a repeti­tion of his visit under such forms as would elude suspicion and lay jealousy to sleep—you will not wonder, that in a cause which would not admit of doubt, I have thought all explanation unneces­sary; or that being convinced of having been once betrayed, I resolved upon such measures, as would secure me from the possibility of a second insult.

'In knowing that I never possessed your heart, I ought, perhaps, to have foreseen all that fol­lowed. But, deceived by the appearance of an integrity and candour, which, unsupported as they were by reality, will remain, I confidently [Page 103] believe, unparalleled, the warnings of my reason were unheard, and the misgivings of my mind were disregarded.

'How often has the semblance of a sincerity, which, had it been genuine, angels might have copied with advantage, baffled the precautions of prudence, and suspended the rod of justice? But the veil is now fallen: and even you can elude no longer. Here then let all retrospect end.

'You need not be told, how a husband ought to feel and act on such a discovery. Yet the agonies you witnessed in me this night, with so much alarm, may shew you, that I am not yet free from that weakness, which has so long enabled you to deceive me. It may shew you, that the measures which justice and honor de­manded from me, are not pursued without a torture of mind equal to any I can inflict upon you. If this conviction can lighten the destiny which from henceforward awaits you, I grudge you not such an alleviation, poor, undone, mise­rable wretch as you are!

'Again I entreat you to collect every power of your mind. Consider, it is no single life that is at stake. Suffer not any extravagance of grief, any excess of despair, to hazard an exis­tence, which you cannot believe you have a right to dispose of. Take pity also on yourself. If you would preserve one ray of hope to gild your future life, destroy not, by any extravagance of grief in the present moment, the only source from which it can proceed.

'I expect not that a creature which must par­take of my nature shall be dear to you, as was [Page 104] that cherished darling in which I had no part. But if it be mine, it is also yours. Let that consideration make it an object of your care; and add not the guilt of murder to those other crimes which so deeply stain your conscience.

'This is not the upbraiding of resentment. It is the warning of friendship. Take it as such: and may you be enabled to endure, with tole­rable moderation, the severity of a punishment, the justice of which you will not dispute. Know, then, you will never henceforward go beyond the boundaries of that habitation in which you are now placed. But every comfort, and every accommodation, and every amusement which your situation will admit, will await you there.

'You will see the necessity I have been under of depriving you of the solace of conversation, and of leaving you destitute of all property. Devoid of all means of influencing the feelings, or of bribing the avarice of your attendants, I have secured, beyond a fear, your perpetual im­prisonment: and I have, by cutting off from you all hope of escape, preserved you from the continual irritation which must have attended any attempt for that purpose, which, even in circumstances more favorable to success, such is the extent of the precaution I have taken, would certainly have ended in disappointment: nor in such a case would disappointment be all that you would incur. Necessity would then induce a much more rigorous confinement, an infinitely severer restraint.

'When you reflect how much it imports me to perpetuate a confinement which I have once begun, you will not doubt but that I have taken [Page 105] the precautions I speak of, nor the consequen­ces to yourself should you endeavour to elude them. Although unable to converse with you, you will find your attendants always respectful, attentive, and ready to administer to your wants. You will be regularly supplied with accommoda­tions of every kind: and if it should so happen that my attention on this head does not fulfil your wishes, you have only to write down in French any thing that you may wish to be supplied with, and you shall obtain all you desire. Books, musical instruments, or materials for work, or drawing, I include in this permission. But you will find vain any attempt to convey a letter, even to me. Never, Oh! never, will I renew an inter­course which has cost me so much. Could I doubt, I would hear you. But, if justice cannot make me happy, neither shall a weak compassion increase my misery. Resolved to punish, I am henceforth deaf to the voice of penitence: and desiring to love no longer, I seek only forgetful­ness!—In the hour of pain and danger, which now draws so near, you will have every assis­tance you can possibly desire: and you will re­ceive in a very few days every necessary prepa­ratory to that time, which either yourself or your infant can want.

'And now, most guilty and unfortunate Ellen, what more can I add?—To my regrets and my good wishes you are probably alike in­sensible: nor can I expect that my admonitions will prevail, where considerations of so much more importance have failed to have their due effect. But if it were possible that you should at last be wise, if by taking your punishment [Page 106] with patience, you make the best of the time which is yet allotted you for penitence, and thus make all the amends in your power for the evils you have occasioned, you will fulfil all the wishes and gratify all the desires which yet remain in the breast of your injured husband.'

CHAP. XIII.

ELLEN read this letter with an astonishment which suspended for a time all powers of recol­lection or feeling. She could neither believe nor comprehend what she read. Never once had the idea that Sir William suspected her of guilt beyond the estrangement of her affections, crossed her mind; nor could the evidence of her senses now convince her that she was judged, condemn­ed, and punished unheard.

'Where is Sir William?' cried she, rushing to the door, forgetful that she spoke to those who understood her not, and thoughtless of the dis­order of her dress.

The woman mistook this motion for an attempt to escape; and, placing herself between Ellen and the door, endeavoured, though with respect and gentleness, to detain her.

'Let me go,' said Ellen struggling. 'Let me see Sir William. I implore you, let me see Sir William.

The woman shook her head in token of the impos [...]bility of a compliance: and again she offered her the letter, which Ellen had a second time let fall to the ground. On this opposition [Page 108] from her attendant, a sudden recollection struck Ellen.—She remembered that she spoke in vain, and that her present efforts were probably mis­understood. Again she read the letter: but she read it with nearly as little comprehension of the contents as before.

Totally ignorant of the circumstances on which she had been condemned, and sure of her own innocence, she could not believe that Sir William could think her guilty. She could not believe that, unheard, he could punish her as guilty.

As she continued to read, she looked for some hidden sense in words, which she could not con­ceive to be used in that which was obvious. When she came to the expression, 'From hence­forward, you will never go beyond the bounda­ries of the habitation in which you are now placed,' she looked towards the high windows, and around the room, with an air at once wild and thoughtful. Then covering her face with her hands, she endeavoured to collect her senses, and be assured that she did not dream.

Again she turned to peruse the letter, and to weigh every syllable of it. But she had read it many times, before she was able to give it cre­dit as a reality, or was awakened to a full sence of her true situation. At length, convinced that Sir William was gone, and that he had consign­ed her to perpetual imprisonment, she rested persuaded that her case was as hopeless as it was miserable

But even under this overwhelming conviction, Ellen did not forsake herself. She need [...]d not Sir William's exhortations to shun all excesses in her grief, and every undue and unbecoming [Page 109] violence. Stunned rather than roused, afflicted rather than irritated, the first recollection of her real situation, which was sufficiently perfect t [...] form any resolution upon, was followed by a determination to do nothing which could be injuri­ous to her child, or disagreeable to herself. But it was not on her own strength that she relied for power to bear up under such a load of hopeless misery.

The woman who had remained an attentive but forgotten spectator of all her movements, saw her with surprise rise from her chair, with an air of dignified humility, and prostrating herself up­on her knees, continue for some moments in fervent prayer.

When she arose, she cast her eyes upon the woman, and appeared to see her for the first time. She advanced towards her; and with a mild and complacent aspect held out her hand towards her; seeming by this action to bespeak her friend­ship, and to declare her own submission. The woman, struck and moved by her manner and look, could not forbear raising the hand that was offered her to her lips, and then immediate­ly presented her with some of her cloths, endea­voured to make her understand, how ready she should be to serve her. From this moment, it it seemed as if a treaty of amity was sealed be­tween them: and Ellen felt something like hope revive in her bosom.

When Ellen was dressed, her attendant opened the door of a room which was opposite to the one that led to the bed chamber; and invited Ellen to enter it. Ellen found this room much larger than either the dressing-room or bed-cham­ber; [Page 110] and casting her eyes round it, saw in the manner in which it was furnished, a sad certain­ty of the intended length of her captivity.

Two book-cases, which, with the books they contained, seemed to be new, and recently put up, filled the large recesses on each side of the fire. A harpsichord, which also appeared to be new, stood on the one side of the room: near it was placed a harp. A writing table, furnish­ed with all the materials necessary for writing, stood near the fire. A sofa, and one or two chairs, of different forms and dimensions, with two more tables, made up the furniture. The room was fitted up with striped linen: and there seemed diffused over the whole an air of cheerfulness which suited ill with the sad­ness of Ellen's soul. Hitherto she had not shed a tear. On beholding an apartment so evi­dently prepared for her solitary prison, she burst into a passion of weeping, and threw herself on the sofa, in an agony of mind not to be described.

The calmness which she had hitherto preserv­ed, arose more from the stunning nature of the blow she had received, and the natural temper and acquired habits of her mind, than from any fortitude that she had yet been able to assume upon the present occasion. Suddenly and irre­sistably the recollection of English friends and English joys rushed upon her heart, and the sense of their misery in the loss of her, and of her's in the loss of them, formed a mingled torture of so acute a kind, as for a time overcame all her sense of the duty of resignation, and all her fears for the safety of her child. Agitated by convulsive twitchings, almost choaked by her [Page 111] rising sobs, she lay for some in a state of the most alarming disorder.

Her new friend, not more terrified than griev­ed for the situation in which she saw her, ming­led so much genuine compassion in her attempts to relieve and calm her, that Ellen, upon whom the voice of kindness was never lost, and whom death alone could hold long insensible to the emotions of gratitude, began, in pity to what another felt, to still the loud complainings of her own affliction.

She became composed and silent; patiently took what was offered her; and returning after some interval to perfect calmness, she shewed so earnest a desire to be left alone, that the com­passionate Mrs. Ulric at length complied.

Ellen, left to herself, wept without restraint and without measure: and this free indulgence of nature saved her overcharged heart from breaking. Her mind glanced hopefully on the compassion which she saw she had excited in her attendant: and she began to believe it would not be difficult to win her over to her wishes.

She wished but to be able to write to Sir William, secure, could she once induce him to come to an explanation, that she must convince him of her innocence. The rigour of his deal­ings towards her was all founded on error: and hence, those passages of his letter which had at first given her the most poignant distress, now inspired her with hope. Were I the vic­tim of his hatred, (thought Ellen) no justificati­on would avail me. But while I am a sufferer only from his mistaken ideas of justice, in esta­blishing my innocence, I shall put an end to my [Page 112] misfortunes. It seemed so easy to prove this innocence to any one with whom she could speak, that the most bitter of her regrets at this moment, was her incapacity to converse with Mrs. Ulric.

This tender hearted woman returned in a few hours to Ellen's apartment, bringing with her a nicely prepared meal, of which she pressed Ellen with so much kindness to partake, that she could not wholly refuse her. But Ellen could not eat. Mrs. Ulric, however, induced her to drink a glass of wine, and again left her to herself.

The close of this melancholy day now came on: and from those changes to which the mind in the first stages of affliction is subject, grief seemed to return with fresh force, as the shades of evening overspread the apartment; nor was her grief wholly unmixed with a degree of ter­ror. Frightful images arose in her mind: and she scarcely dared to trust herself with consider­ing, to what so violent means as those already taken by Sir William might ultimately lead. But these unfounded fears arose wholly from the shattered state of her nerves. The benevolent countenance of Mrs. Ulric, illuminated by the light of two candles, with which she presently entered the room, dissipated them in an instant: and Ellen easily admitted the folly of tormenting herself with imaginary evils, when she had so many real ones to deplore.

The fatigues which Ellen had undergone for three days, had entirely exhausted her strength: and she readily yielded to the signs by which she understood Mrs. Ulric to desire her to go to [Page 113] bed. When there, weariness so overcame afflic­tion, that if she found no refreshment, she at least received rest. Her mind was so full of her project of making Mrs. Ulric her friend, that, in studying for means to explain herself to her, she lost a part of the sense of what made such an explanation desirable, She was resolved, also, to endeavour the next morning to inspect every part of her prison, both as a matter of curiosity, and as a means to ascertain what degree of in­dulgence would be allowed her.

Her sleep as it was broken, so it was short. She arose early, and looking for her watch, now re­collected, for the first time, by what artifice Sir William had deprived her of it. She easily comprehended his reason for such a procedure; and was not therefore surprised upon feeling in her pockets to find her purse gone, and every trinket, of however trifling a value, except the picture of her father, which was set very plainly in gold.

On the sight of a countenance, which never bent its regard towards her but with looks of the fondest love, now never more to be beheld by her, her whole frame shook with disorder, and her heart swelled almost to bursting.

'My father,' cried she, and pressed the picture to her lips. 'My father!' repeated she, 'Now in vain do I call to you for help; now, in my uttermost distress, impotent to save?'

Despair stopt her tongue.

'Oh! God,' cried she, kneeling down, 'be thou my father. Thou canst burst the walls of this prison. Thou canst restore me to all I hold dear—to reputation, to friendship, to happiness. [Page 114] Thou canst do more: thou canst teach me to endure with patience, perpetual imprisonment, never-ending deprivation. Let it be as thou wilt.'

This act of pious resignation calmed the flur­ried passions of Ellen. Again she pressed her father's picture to her lips; and felt an emotion of gratitude to Sir William for having left her so precious a relique.

CHAP. XIV.

WHEN Mrs. Ulric attended, she found Ellen dressed, and apparently perfectly composed. Mrs. Ulric withdrew with intention of preparing break­fast: and Ellen took an accurate survey of her apartments. She found, in addition to the three rooms she had seen, two closets which belonged to her bed chamber, one dark and the other light. The windows of her bed chamber and dressing-room were both too high to allow of any thing being seen from thence, except when standing close to them. She saw, they looked upon a garden, which, as far as she could dis­cern, was walled round. Beyond it she could see only woods, which appeared to extend far into the country. The windows of the apart­ment, which seemed to be allotted for her fitting-room, were lower than those in the other rooms; and appeared to have been newly put in. They opened into the court-yard by which she had entered: and as the window of the light closet looked out upon the open country, Ellen com­prehended that her apartment occupied one entire side of the building. The window of this closet [Page 116] was too high to look from, except when stand­ing upon a chair, or table; and was so small, that Ellen could not have got her head through it. The country which could be seen from it, appeared wild and desolate.

Ellen felt it a matter of great importance to herself, whether she should be allowed the liberty to pass beyond this apartment, or whether it was indeed the limits of her confinement. She was resolved to know.

When Mrs. Ulric, who had attended her at breakfast, was removing the tea equipage, Ellen arose, and went towards the door of her apart­ment. Mrs. Ulric instantly put down what she had in her hand, opened the door of the room, and seemed to invite Ellen to enter the gallery. Ellen complied: and Mrs. Ulric going before her, shewed the rooms which were opposite those she inhabited. Some of these appeared to be occupied by servants, and some not to be occu­pied at all: and Ellen thought she understood that one belonged to Mrs. Ulric. The furniture was scanty, and miserably old, and ill corres­ponded with that which she had seen in her own apartment.

From the gallery she descended to the hall, and the first object which caught her eye, was, the door by which she had entered it through the long passage that led to the outer court. This was now closed, and fastened by a heavy wooden bar, which was placed across it. She went into the parlour, where she had been re­ceived the night of her arrival. It was gloomy: and by several things that lay about, she con­cluded it was the place where Mrs. Ulric usually [Page 117] sat. The remembrance how she had been be­trayed into her present situation, rushed power­fully on her mind: and she hastily quitted a place which called to her recollection circumstances she could not bear to think of.

Returning to the hall, she made towards a door, which she then first perceived. Mrs. Ulric stepping before, shewed her it opened into the offices, but directed her attention to one opposite. She opened that too, and Ellen found, with great satisfaction that it led immediately to the garden. Mrs. Ulric, as if yielding to the desire which Ellen shewed to enter it, made way; and, respectfully retiring, suffered Ellen to walk out alone.

Her heart bounded, when she found she was mistress of such a privilege; and she felt her­self half at liberty. She traversed the gardens with a kind of wild tumultuous hope of imme­diate escape. But she was soon convinced of what indeed her reason, if this had been a mo­ment when reason could have been attended to, would have told her before, that every avenue was securely closed.

The garden was spacious; and seemed to be laid out more for use than pleasure. Yet at the greatest distance from the house, there were some retired and shady places, which would afford no unpleasant retreat, in such weather as makes the cooler air preferable to the house.

Many parts of the walls were old: and it appeared as if the new building which connect­ed them together, did not follow the line of any former wall which might have been destroyed. From this circumstance, Ellen concluded, that [Page 118] the compass of the garden had been lessened; at one sharp angle, however, the meeting lines of which were formed of walls equally old, she discovered a small door: it was very massive, and, though extremely old, retained great strength: upon it was a lock; but as the fastening of the door did not seem to depend upon that. Ellen tried to shake it, but found it perfectly steady. As well as she could judge from its position, it must open immediately upon the country: and poor Ellen stood for some minutes opposite to it, fixed in a deep and melancholy reverie, so lost in thought, that she knew not that it was the hope of escape through that door, that wholly absorbed her faculties.

Starting from this temporary stupor, she con­tinued her search. But finding no other spot in the whole circumference of the garden, from which it was possible she should escape, she re­turned again to the door; again surveyed it with the greatest accuracy; again tried to shake it upon its hinges; and again found all her efforts ineffectual.

It was impulse rather than reason (as the new-caught bird flutters around its cage) that had occasioned Ellen to make this search. Had it been attended with the discovery of an immediate means of escape, Ellen was in no condition to have availed herself of it; and must have declined, upon reflection, to make use of it.

Her present circumstances, which made walk­ing any distance impossible—her total want of money—her entire ignorance of the language of the country—would have made it madness to have attempted an escape, while there remained [Page 119] any hope of inducing Sir William to do her justice. On winning Mrs. Ulric to her cause, she rested all her real hopes and rational expec­tations of deliverance: and she determined not to lose a moment in making the experiment.

Being returned to her apartment, she sat down with the design of forming that letter, which she hoped to be able to prevail upon Mrs. Ulric to deliver. But, upon reperusing Sir William's, to determine upon the best manner in which to enter upon her defence, she found herself entire­ly at a loss. The circumstances on which he grounded her condemnation, were entirely un­known to her: and the conviction under which he seemed to write, that she must herself acknow­ledge her guilt, as it took away every uncertainty upon which explanation could be founded, so it appeared to make all explanation impossible.

But when she attended to the precise act of criminality with which she was charged, in the words, 'I was apprised, by the evidence of my own senses, of the last visit you received from your undoer,' a suspicion found place in her mind which had not before entered it.

Ellen had never seen Henry, (for that he was meant by her undoer, she had no doubt) since they parted in Devonshire. He had attended her to her carriage, at the hour of her departure, and he had assisted her into it, in the presence of Sir William, of several servants, and of ma­ny other people. This attendance could hardly be called a visit; and if it could, it was not possible to fix the stain of guilt upon it; nor could it be necessary that Sir William should apprise her, as a piece of of information which [Page 120] must overwhelm her with shame and confusion, that he had witnessed it. This she knew well: and she could neither have had the power, nor a motive to conceal it. But as she was perfectly convinced that no subsequent interview had taken place between them, and as, from the circum­stance of her having withdrawn into the coun­try, before Mr. Villars arrived in town, she thought Sir William must be as well convinced of this as herself: she began to suspect that Sir William, so far from being deceived, sought only to deceive her—that, delivered up to his resentment, on being persuaded, that he should never be able to touch her heart, he had resolved to punish that as a crime in her, which he felt to be so severe a misfortune to himself. His saying, that he had seen that which she was entirely clear in her own mind he never could have seen, confirmed this idea; and made her conclude that he only sought to colour an act of extreme cruelty and revenge, with the thin veil of justice.

These ideas filled her with despair. She had placed her hopes of redress upon the belief, that her justification would be as acceptable to Sir William as advantageous to herself. But now she began to think, that her greatest difficulty would not be in prevailing upon Mrs. Ulric to deliver her letter, but in inducing Sir William to give it a candid reading. His prohibition to write to him—his declaration that he wished only for forgetfulness—his acknowledgment, that the voice of penitance would plead in vain—all concurred to make it evident, that he wished not to have her innocence established.

[Page 121]'It is hatred and revenge which have placed me here,' said she, the tears running down her cheeks: 'and it would be in vain to hope for my deliverance from tenderness and love.'

Her thoughts hastily returned to the garden. Again she reconsidered the walls of it. Their height, their solidity, precluded every hope of escape that way. Her own helpless state, even could she get out, now also rushed upon her mind. To owe her deliverance to her own pow­ers, she felt was impossible. And as she would not neglect any possible chance of putting an end to her sorrows, she finally resolved, not withstanding her hopelessness of its success, to try the effect of a letter to Sir William—Thus she wrote.

'I address you not as a penitent, not as an object of your love, I appeal only to your jus­tice. I am innocent. Never, even in thought, have I wandered from the duty that I owe you. Of this you will some time be convinced. If, therefore, you have any consideration for the fu­ture peace of your mind, wait not for this con­viction, until my injuries are past redress.

'I beseech you, let me understand the par­ticulars of my accusation, that I may be able to clear myself even from suspicion. To the pre­sent unintelligible charge which you bring against me, I can only repeat, that I am innocent. If you will condescend to explain yourself to me, I can prove myself so. I know of no visit, I am conscious of no invitation, which can fix the slightest stigma upon my name, of none which I would not avow in the face of the whole world. I cannot comprehend what you mean. I sup­press, [Page 122] however, all complaint. I am willing to believe you have acted upon a mistake: and if you will only permit me to see and to converse with you, I am confident I shall lose at once all cause and all inclination to complain.'

Having finished this letter, she resolved to assail Mrs. Ulric with all her powers, when next she saw her. Nor was the opportunity long wanting. This compassionate woman, whose heart was ill suited to the task assigned her, was not able to absent herself long from her unfortunate prisoner, lest some consolation might be wanting which she could afford. She enter­ed the room, bringing with her some biscuits and a cup of chocolate; for Ellen, with all her efforts, had not been able to swallow a morsel at breakfast.

Ellen took the refreshment which was offered her with a smile: put a part of one of the bis­cuits in her mouth: and tasted the chocolate. But she could do no more. Her heart swelled: and tears ran down her cheeks. Mrs. Ulric looked on her with compassion, and sought to soothe her.

Ellen seized her hand; and pressing it fervent­ly to her lips, 'Oh! if you could be induced to assist me!' said she. The tone of these words seemed to penetrate the heart of Mrs. Ulric. She too wept. The moment seemed favourable: and Ellen, holding out the letter to her, looked in her face with a countenance of entreaty that could not be misunderstood. It was perfectly intelligible to Mrs. Ulric: But she put the letter back with her hand; and shook her head in token of refusal.

[Page 123]'Let me prevail,' said Ellen, joining her hands together.

Mrs. Ulric withdrew a few steps.

'I have no hope if you deny me,' said Ellen; and threw herself on her knees before her.

Greatly moved, Mrs. Ulric stooped hastily to raise her.

Again Ellen offered her the letter: but Mrs. Ulric withdrew her hand, and walked toward the door.

'Have you no pity?' said Ellen.

The moving tones of her voice seemed to subdue Mrs. Ulric. She returned—she raised Ellen to the sofa. She took the letter; but open­ing the drawer of the writing-table, she deposited the letter there, locked the drawer, and gave Ellen the key.

The calm decision of this action robbed Ellen of every hope. She sat for some moments a motionless image of despair. The blood forsook her lips; and she scarcely breathed. Mrs. Ulric approached her. She kneeled down before her. She took her hand; and respectfully kissed it: She seemed to say, 'Unhappy that I am not to be able to do as you wish me.'

Ellen was not insensible, even to this degree of kindness. 'Cruel Sir William!' exclaimed she, 'had you but allowed me to have been un­derstood, how easily should I have worked upon this worthy woman to have befriended me! But you have indeed taken your measures securely. You have indeed known how to make my ruin complete.'

Ellen wept bitterly as she pronounced these words: and Mrs. Ulric seemed so affected, that El­len [Page 124] resolved to make one more effort to prevail on her to receive her letter. But, as she was about to unlock the drawer, Mrs. Ulric per­ceived her intention, placed her hand upon it, and evidently shewed her that the attempt would be in vain and Ellen at length, persuaded that Mrs. Ulric was inexorable only from what she considered as a principle of duty, finally gave up the contest.

CHAP. XV.

MRS. ULRIC had not the shadow of a doubt of Ellen's guilt. Sir William had made it clear to her, by a detail of circumstances, which seemed to admit but of one explanation. His own distress, the tender consideration, which, even in preparing the punishment, he had ma­nifested for every possible consolation to be ad­ministered to Ellen, not incompatible with that punishment, had convinced Mrs. Ulric of the sincerity of his love, and the bitterness of his re­gret, for the measures that he thought himself obliged to pursue. These circumstances, joined with the agonies she had witnessed in him, when the moment at last came of delivering Ellen into her hands, left her not a suspicion, but certainty, that Ellen being no longer deserving of his love, could be alone his motive for withdrawing it.

These were two points in which Sir William knowingly deceived Mrs. Ulric. He had repre­sented to her, that even in the punishment to which he had doomed Ellen, he had been ac­tuated [Page 126] by motives of mercy; that a much severer [...]ate awaited her from the customs of her own country, and from the indignation of her parents; and that if he were to deliver her to them, not only imprisonment would be her lot, but an im­prisonment of a much more rigorous kind, aggra­vated by darkness, fasting, and stripes.

Mrs. Ulric therefore considered Sir William not only as one of the most injured and unfortu­nate of men, but as one of the most compassionate and worthy. This deceit had been suggested from a knowledge of Mrs. Ulric's character, who would never have consented to become an instru­ment of so much injustice as was attached to Sir William's conduct, even in the case of Ellen's actual guilt. But, acting under the error into which she had been betrayed, although the mild and winning manners of Ellen, with the graces of her person, and the misery of her situation, made the heart of Mrs. Ulric overflow with the softest compassion; yet did she not look upon her as pu­nished more than her crimes deserved, or feel in­clined to do aught toward restoring her to the con­fidence of a husband, whom she believed she had so grievously injured.

In another particular, also, Sir William had misled Mrs. Ulric, and from something of a si­milar motive, wishing by accumulated proofs of Ellen's guilt, to take away the possibility at any future moment of her being able to fix any blame upon him in the mind of a person on whose fi­delity he was, after all his precautions, obliged to depend for the final accomplishment of his purposes.

He had therefore signified to Mrs. Ulric, th [...]t the child of which Ellen was then big, was the [Page 127] offspring of that guilty love, which she was now to expiate by perpetual imprisonment. It there­fore happened, that Mrs. Ulric never looked upon Ellen, but she thought she saw an irrefragable proof of her crime. And every effort Ellen made to prove her innocence, Mrs. Ulric considered only as attempts either to move compassion, or as shews of penitence.

This Mrs. Ulric had, indeed, been the personal servant of the Bohemian lady, whom Sir William represented her to Ellen as having served. But this lady was now dead; nor had she inhabited the house where Ellen now was for many years before her death. It belonged to the nobleman her son, an intimate friend of Sir William, and, in the present circumstances, his only confidant. To him sir William had communicated first his suspicions of Ellen's infidelity, and afterwards his certainty of it: and by him had been suggested the idea of the nature of the punishment to be inflicted. He had pointed out the eligibility of this decayed and solitary mansion for the purposes of a prison: and he had represented, that, in the tried faith and gentle manners of Mrs. Ulric, he would find such a jailoress as he desired. All he had to do was to convince her of the justice and mercy of the plan proposed, and he might rely upon her integrity without a fear. She was, when sir William's friend recommended her to him, entirely dependant upon and supported by his bounty: and she would willingly under­take any charge with which he would intrust her that did not militate against her ideas of rectitude.

Sir William had resolved, in consequence of what he believed he had ascertained, during his visit in Devonshire, to have removed Ellen ab [...]ad [Page 128] immediately after she was sufficiently recovered from her lying-in to bear such a journey.

But Ellen's conduct in her requisition to leave town, so seemingly the result of the purest inte­grity, had staggered Sir William's firm belief in her guilt; and had determined him to make one experiment as to what her residence in the country would produce. He had been perfectly per­suaded, that the child was not his; and hence his evident dislike to him when alive, and the satisfac­tion he had suffered to escape him, on his death. But there had been such an unjustifiable brutality in his expression on that occasion, and the effect it had on Ellen was so grievous, that there was no­thing he would not have done, to have effaced the impression it had made.

The placability of Ellen's temper had softened his heart. He began to believe, he had been misled by an unfounded jealousy. He began to hope, that mutual love might spring up between them: and he had nearly forgotten all his schemes of revenge and chastisement, when the accidental discovery of Henry escaping over the hedge of the garden, drove from his mind all doubt of the guilt, and all moderation in the punishment of it.

From this moment, his whole thoughts were turned to concealing and perfecting the designs, which he was now resolute to prosecute to the utmost: and to this purpose might be referred every thing that he had done, from the moment in which he announced to Ellen his intentions of quitting Eng­land, to that in which he had followed her with his eyes for the last time.

Often, indeed, had the force of his emotions been too strong for his hypocrisy. But Ellen hav­ing no clue to guide her suspicions aright, he had [Page 129] escaped detection. She had considered what was indeed the breaking forth of his future design, but as the remains of a jealousy with which she was but too well acquainted, and for which she sometimes hoped a cure from time and the undeviating prudence of her own conduct; and for which, at others, she was sadly persuaded there was no cure possible.

Often had the fair and candid soul of Ellen, which appeared in her every action, made him mistrust what he thought was the evidence of his own senses. But the conviction that he owed his present persuasion only to such evidence dis­pelled every doubt, and so fully settled his belief of the falshood of Ellen, that he could as soon have called in question his own existence as her guilt.

Having communicated his final resolves to his friend, many steps preparatory to the execution of his plan, had been taken before his arrival in Saxony: and Ellen's imprisonment was to have commenced with the winter. But when Sir Wil­liam unexpectedly found her with child, at a time when he could not doubt but that the child was his, his former desire for an heir to his estate, which had so large a share in his determination to marry, returned with fresh force to his mind. But to give a public legitimacy to the infant that Ellen would bring, it was necessary that she should be known to have been with child; nor must the date of her pretended death take place so early as to make it impossible that the child, who was sometime to be produced, could be hers.

These considerations prolonged to Ellen the term of her liberty. But though the circumstances [Page 130] of her pregnancy might delay the time of her being shut up, it would in the end facilitate the plan. It was only by a feigned tale of her death, that he could hope to put a stop to the enquiries of her English friends: and there was no incident upon which he could found such a tale with equal appearance of probability, as one so frequently attended by the most sudden and fatal catastrophe. The dangerous state to which Ellen had been re­duced in her first lying-in, would contribute to establish the credit of the pretended event of the second.

It was therefore settled between Sir William and his friend, that she should remain at Dresden until within three months of the expected time of her lying-in; that Sir William should then remove to the Saxon village, that he might be sufficiently near the place of her intended confinement, to satisfy himself, that every preparation necessary for it was executed to his wishes. And it was agreed, that when she was within a very short period of the time of her being to be brought to bed, she should, under pretence of beginning her journey to Vienna, be conducted thither.

The tale that Sir William meant to tell, was, that, being seized unexpectedly with the pains of labour, at an obscure inn on the road to Vienna, she had there expired.

Sir William had some fears, that the agitation and grief which Ellen would unavoidably undergo, when she found the heavy destiny that awaited her through the rest of her life, might prove pre­judicial to the safety of the child. But he had also almost equal hopes that the co [...] of this circumstance might operate to imp [...] [...] greater degree of patience, than she would other­wise [Page 231] be able to assume. And these hopes, which were founded upon the excellence of Ellen's cha­racter, were not vain.

It was Sir William's intention to linger near the spot of Ellen's confinement, until she was brought to bed; and when he was informed of the conse­quences of that event, then to dismiss her from his solicitude for ever, and make all the advance he could in the road to forgetfulness.

That no circumstance might hereafter obtrude Ellen upon his memory, he gave his friend on whose integrity he had a perfect reliance, power to draw upon him for any sum necessary to defray the expenses of her establishment: and he ap­pointed an agent at Dresden, who was to be paid by the Bohemian nobleman, to furnish every thing that Ellen might require. To authenticate her requisitions, which he had signified to her were to be written in French, nothing more was necessary than the signature of Mrs. Ulric.

Mrs. Ulric had, therefore, no immediate in­tercourse with Sir William: and had she been inclined to have favoured Ellen's cause, she would not only have had Sir William's resentment to have overcome, but the reluctance of her late master, who, she knew, concurred in all that Sir William had done; and applauded the justice and mercy of his proceedings.

Mrs. Ulric had been directed to inform Sir William, through the channel of this nobleman, how Ellen bore the first shock of her misfortune. And however favourable this report might be, it was very unlikely that the friend of Sir William should take any step towards reconciling him to a [...] of whose guilt he was perfectly satisfied.

Mrs. Ulric had made a faithful representation of [Page 132] Ellen's mildness, moderation, and patience. But imputing the whole to penitence, she led both Sir William and his friend to believe, that Ellen had been sufficiently explicit in the marks of this con­trition, to furnish, if that had been necessary, fresh proofs of her former guilt. Sir William, therefore, however miserable, was far from re­penting the step he had taken. He had truly said, "I am deaf to the voice of penitence." To for­give was not in his nature: and nothing but the conviction of Ellen's innocence would have in­duced him to have restored her to liberty: and from this conviction he was farther removed than ever.

CHAP. XVI.

WHEN Ellen found all the hopes she had en­tertained vain, of being able to move Mrs. Ulric in her favour, she began to turn her thoughts upon some other individual, who might probably make a part of the household.

She had hitherto seen only one other person; and she soon found that the house contained no more. This was a hale, stout country girl, with an open good humoured countenance: and though the being totally without the means of applying to the interested feelings of such a one was an ob­stacle to her success, in circumstances which ad­mitted of any other hope, Ellen would have con­sidered as invincible, hers was not a situation, where even great difficulties ought to discourage her: and she resolved to make the attempt. She hoped, by the courteousness of her manners, to conciliate the girl's good will: and she sometimes flattered herself, that precaution had not been so unremittingly awake as to have extended to an ig­norant girl, whom it was known she could not bribe, the prohibition as to receiving any letter [Page 134] from her hands. She had no doubt that she, like Mrs. Ulric, spoke only German; and had there­fore no hope of moving her by argument.

By having attended closely to the words which Mrs. Ulric always used to herself when she sought to induce her to any compliance, she thought her­self mistress of one phrase of entreaty in a lan­guage that would be understood: and armed with this piece of rhetoric, and a letter in her hand, she one day accosted the damsel. But what was her astonishment, when, with a broad stare of incomprehension, she was answered in sounds more uncouth and unintelligible than had ever before met her ears.

Ellen shrunk back: and hope died within her, when she found this fresh impediment to the suc­cess of her plans: for she easily comprehended, that the girl was a true-born Bohemian, and spoke only her native Sclavonian.

The many plans which Ellen had laid to gain the attention of this girl, and the various schemes which she had adopted and rejected as likely means, or as being impossible to engage her compassion, and explain her own wishes to her, had so fully occupied her mind for some days, that she had had less leisure to reflect upon her actual situation. In the hopes of liberty, she lost, for a time, a sense of her restraint: and when, by the discovery of the impossibility of making the girl comprehend her, these hopes seemed to shrink to nothing, a new, and even a more lively interest prevented her from feeling the whole weight of her disap­pointment.

She had received those preparations for her approaching indisposition which Sir William had promised her in his letter: and she busied herself [Page 135] in arranging every thing relative to that period This subject being fully in her mind, she naturally reverted to the ray of hope which Sir William himself seemed to allow the birth of a child af­forded her. She endeavoured to discover the true meaning of the words he had used.

It was evident, that he was persuaded the child was his own: and under this persuasion it was but too likely he would not suffer it to remain in her care. In the case of its being removed from her, what hope could spring from its existence, to gild her future life?—When Sir William had once announced her death to her friends (and by a story of her death, she naturally concluded, he could alone conceal her imprisonment) he had put it out of his own power, without fixing an inde­lible reproach upon himself, to restore her to the world: and however probable she might think it, that he would defer such an annunciation, till after the expected period of her lying-in, which was well known to her English friends, as a secu­rity against any doubts of the legitimacy of the child he might produce, yet she felt it nearly impossible that he should delay it longer. What good, then, could she derive from becoming the mother of an infant, who, under these supposi­tions, would be ignorant of her very existence.

If Sir William, therefore, really foresaw any advantage possible to accrue to her from the birth of the child, it must be his having determined, under some circumstances, to leave it to her care. But when she recalled the earnest wish he had formerly expressed for an heir, and the very evi­dent care he took to preserve the existence of the unborn infant, she could not for a moment in­dulge a hope, that this would be the case if the [Page 136] child were a boy. The hope, therefore, which in so doubtful a manner he had endeavoured to inspire her with, seemed to rest upon one of these two suppositions: Either that he had suggested it merely as a means to quiet the first excesses of her grief, without any intention of its being followed by any real good to her; or, that if the child proved a girl, he did in truth propose to leave her in possession of it. To this latter possibility she clang with a fond partiality, as to the only source of happiness which remained to her on this side the grave.

The more she considered the matter, the more she persuaded herself it was probable: and the more it appeared probable, the more it became necessary to her. Soon her mind could admit of no other idea. The gloom of the prison seemed to clear up, its solitude to disappear. Wherever she turned her eyes, this little girl was before her. She saw it in the helpless fatuity of the first weeks of its life. She marked the first smile of intelligence that sparkled in its eyes. She beheld the first symptoms of design in its actions. She heard the first half-formed articulate sound which escaped from its lips. In imagination she began the task of instruction, and beheld her most ar­duous efforts repaid a thousand fold, by having gained a companion and a friend.

If such an illusory progression of but too often unrealised bliss fills the breast of every tender and reflecting female, when about to become a mo­ther, and communicates a sense of happiness, un­felt and unimagined in every other circumstance, even in the most prosperous life, with what tremb­ling transport must [...] desolated Ellen con [...] ­plate a blessing which would be her only one▪ [Page 137] How must she prize a possession, which was to be her all of joy? And how must her heart grow cold as she thought this blessing might be withheld from her—that this possession might be snatched from her arms.

But that all this fabric of happiness should de­pend upon the sex of her child, when her heart was disposed to love equally a boy or girl, pointed to her apprehension the peculiar wretchedness of her fate, the circumstances of which could sus­pend the most natural affections of the soul, and render it doubtful whether a mother should view the face of her offspring with pleasure.

A short period brought the matter to an issue: and Ellen was delivered of a daughter. Ellen clasped the infant to her heart; and forgot for a moment her captivity. The next she feared to lose what she so highly prized. Those reasonings which had before appeared so conclusively to in­sure her the undisturbed possession of a daughter, now seemed weak and unsatisfactory. She doubted where she had before been certain. She feared where she had hoped.

In the mean time, she recovered her health much faster than could have been hoped: and, fully occupied in nursing her little girl, the days passed easily. She began to believe, that Sir William had ceased to think either of her or his child: and trusting in the vicissitudes which time always produces, she soothed her mind with the distant hope, that a period would arrive when she should be restored to those she loved.

Could she have found any means of informing her family and friends of her situation, she would have been far from feeling her present lot as an [Page 138] unhappy one. It was the thought of what they would suffer on her supposed death, which at this time formed her bitterest reflections. Removed from the perpetual ill humour and injurious sus­picions of Sir William, mistress of her time and her employments, holding in her arms, or nou­rishing at her breast the dear object of her ten­derest affections, she experienced a degree of calm satisfaction which had long been a stranger to her mind—that mind unclouded by self-reproach, un­distracted by selfish solicitudes, reposed itself in peace on the protection of a Providence, whose wisdom it could not doubt, and of whose good­ness it was assured.

Three months were now fully past since the birth of Ellen's daughter: and to the partial ap­prehensions of the mother she was already become a very interesting companion. Ellen believed, or thought she believed, that there were none of her actions which the child did not understand: and she was more than repaid the compliment by un­doubtedly understanding all that the child did.

Ellen now wanted no other companion. To Mary she talked; and to Mary she sung. She held her in her arms all day: and when she had placed her in her crib for the night, she drew her chair close to it, and, with her eyes fixed more upon the face of the child, than upon the book she held in her hand and imagined that she read. The fear that her treasure should be snatched from her now seldom obtruded itself. Every passing day took away from the probability of its being realized. If it occurred, she was tempted to consider it as an ungrateful doubting of the benevolence of Providence: and she re­pressed, as faulty, all thoughts that led to it.

CHAP. XVII.

IN this state of contentment and security was Ellen, when, one morning, as she was engaged in suckling her child, Mrs. Ulric entered. Ellen raised her eyes towards her, and was immediately struck with the sadness of her countenance. Ellen, who in holding her child in her arms, felt that all the treasure she had on earth was secure, thought not of herself. She held out her hand to Mrs. Ulric; and longed for words to inquire into the cause of her grief, and to offer her consolation. But, alas! she was herself the true object of com­passion. Mrs. Ulric sat down by her side. She sighed; and, taking the infant from her, delivered her a letter.

Ellen cast her eyes on the superscription. She knew Sir William's hand: and she anticipated, in a moment, all he had to say to her. The blood forsook her lips. She became sick: and her whole frame trembled so extremely, that it was with difficulty she opened the letter. These were its contents:

'I am willing to persuade myself that my present design will meet with a ready acquiescence from you. The person who delivers this letter, has orders to take charge of my daughter. She [Page 140] will be conveyed to me with every solicitous at­tention to her safety and convenience, which you could yourself dictate. I believe, that as your good sense will withhold you from any opposition to this plan, which, you must be convinced, will ultimately prove fruitless; so I am persuaded your humanity is such, as to take from you all selfish desire to make this innocent victim of your mis­conduct, a partaker of your punishment. When separated from you, she will be in the full enjoy­ment of every blessing a father's affection can bestow: and you surely cannot but wish that her cheek may for ever remain untinged by a sense of your shame, and her heart unwounded by a know­ledge of your afflictions. If your heart sadden with the thought, that you will never behold her more, be consoled by the assurance, that from this period I shall promote her happiness even at the expense of my own. For a measure so consonant to the best interests of your offspring, no apology appears necessary: and for the manner in which I see proper to dispose of my own, I do not con­ceive I owe you any. With every wish, how­ever, for the perfect restoration of peace to your bosom, I now bid you finally and for ever fare­wel.'

'Never, never▪' said Ellen, wildly snatching the infant from Mrs. Ulric, 'will I part with my child. Go, go and tell his agent so. Toge­ther they may force us from this place: but never shall they separate us.'

Mrs. Ulric was prepared for the tears and the grief of Ellen. But the wildness of her air, and the determined tone of her voice surprised and disconcerted her.

'Ah! madam,' said she, 'would you have [Page 141] this poor innocent remain a perpetual prisoner with you?'

As she spoke, she fixed her eyes upon the child, with a look of the tenderest compassion. The sound of her voice, and her action smote upon Ellen's heart. She burst into tears.

'No,' rejoined Mrs. Ulric, 'you are too good:' and she attempted to take the child from her. But Ellen clasping it to her breast, rushed into the next room, and fastened the door. Here in a tumult of passion, which, for some time, sus­pended every power of reason, Ellen wept over her infant in all the bitterness of distraction and despair. But in the abodes where virtue is ac­customed to preside, the usurpation of passion can be of no long duration. Ellen was not so lost in self as to forget her child: and no sooner did her heart acknowledge the cruelty there might be in a wish to detain her with her, than her part was taken. But it was with a pang, far exceeding his, who, in his haste to escape from immediate danger, destroys with his own hand that pro­perty, on which alone all his future hopes of hap­piness depend, that Ellen resolved to part with her daughter. Never had she felt a misery so in­supportable, and which seemed so entirely to drive reason from her seat, as was inflicted by the thought, that she beheld, for the last time, this object so beloved. To be restored to society and reputation, now became a hundred fold more important to her than ever: and the despair of ever being able to accomplish a purpose, now so momentous, drove her to the point of distraction▪ Suddenly a gleam of hope burst through this gloom.

[Page 142]'My infant shall be the bearer of a letter to her father,' said Ellen. 'If I can but once in­duce him to hear me, I must be justified.' At this thought, the turbulence of her passions sub­sided. She became calm. 'Who can tell,' cried she, fresh hope kindling in her heart, 'but these are the very means a merciful God, who never forgets his creatures' sufferings, has ap­pointed for my deliverance.'

Ellen soon afterwards appeared before Mrs. Ulric, who easily comprehended by the settled, calm, and deep sorrow, which had taken place of a violence so unusual, that Ellen was disposed to submit to the commands of Sir William. Ellen, however, by never quitting her child for a mo­ment, and by evidently keeping over it a jealous and suspicious watch, shewed that she meant not to part with it immediately. Mrs. Ulric was willing to wait at least till the next day, before she took any forcible means to deprive her of it: and so far their intentions agreed, that Ellen had no design of retaining it longer with her than till the next morning. This night, this last night that she might ever embrace it, when the hour of its repose came, she placed it, not as usual into its crib, but holding it on her knees, there lulled it to sleep. In this posture, with her heart filled with despair, and her eyes overflowing with the bitterest tears that ever woman shed, she wrote the following letter to Sir William.

'To the voice of reason and of humanity may my heart never be deaf! though in obeying their dictates that heart should cleave in twain.

'I deliver my daughter to you, because she is yours also; and because I wish not for any al­leviation to my sorrows, which must arise from [Page 143] my associating her in my misfortune: But what­ever may be her destiny, as to happiness; or mi­sery, she cannot be the victim of my crimes; for I am guiltless. The angels of heaven are not more free of the crime of which you accuse me than I am.

'You have said, you listen not to the voice of penitence. It is not the voice of penitence, it is the cry of innocence that assails you, an innocence as spotless, in all that relates to you, as that of the babe who now looks upon you, and bids you do justice to her injured mother.

'I am unable to understand the circumstances upon which you have condemned me. I can therefore make no defence except you will explain yourself farther. Be just alike to yourself and me—see me—hear me—I ask not this as a favour from your pity, or your love. I demand it as a right. I demand it in compassion to you, as well as myself. My ruin involves your condemnation. I would preserve you from too late a repentance. Refuse not to listen to this solicitation. Con­sidering the precautions you have taken, it is the last that can ever reach you. It is the solicitation —I must speak out, for who have I to speak for me! of suffering virtue, of oppressed innocence, of wounded justice. Oh! Sir William, when I offer so cruel a sacrifice to the rights you assert over me, deny me not that, which the most abject criminal may exact.'

Ellen continued to hold her infant on her knees, and to gaze on its face through the whole of this distressful night, without the power of closing her eyes, or losing in forgetfulness the sense of her wretchedness for one single moment. When the morning dawned, the infant awoke. Ellen put it [Page 144] to her breast. 'Dearest of human creatures,' said she, pressing it closely to her, 'and do I give thee sustenance for the last time? Oh! my God, enable me to support a deprivation so cruel!'

Ellen then proceeded to dress her child; and sewing up the letter she designed for Sir William in a piece of cloth, she fastened it under the upper vest of the infant. To have endeavoured to convey it by any other means, she was assured would have been fruitless: but she persuaded her­self, that nothing could be more certain, than that whoever found a paper directed to Sir Wil­liam in the clothes of his child, would carefully deliver it to him: and she thought it very impro­bable, that the person appointed to convey the child, and who would not have seen her, should have received any prohibition as to forwarding any letter from her: and even if such a prohibition had been given, it would hardly appear a disre­gard of it, to deliver a paper found upon the per­son of the child, the writer of which could at most only be guessed at. These considerations tranquilized her as to the delivery of the letter: but the reception it would meet with, and the effect it would produce, were matters of much more doubtful event.

Conscious of her own innocence, Ellen's first thoughts had led her to believe that it was only necessary to be heard, to make this innocence evi­dent: and from the same purity of mind, she had felt a perfect confidence, that Sir William's con­duct originated rather from mistaken ideas of the punishment due to the crime he supposed her to have been guilty of, than from any justifiable re­sentment for that want of love on her part, of which he was accustomed to complain, but which, [Page 145] he must be convinced, arose wholly from his own unkindness towards her.

More reflection had introduced ideas into her mind much less favourable to Sir William. She could not imagine any circumstances from which such a mistake, as that on which she had supposed Sir William to act, could have arisen. The ap­peal which he made to the evidence of his own senses, strengthened the suspicion of unfair deal­ing on his part: and it had received additional force by the unnecessary cruelty which appeared in his so carefully shutting from her all means of making any application to him, and in the un­feeling harshness discoverable in more parts than one of his last letter.

Added to these considerations, were others that seemed scarcely less to militate against the hopes of her deliverance. She knew well the structure of Sir William's mind. She knew how little she had to hope from his generosity or can­dour. She knew the pertinacity with which he adhered to all his opinions, the reluctance which he felt to acknowledge himself mistaken in the merest trifles: and she could hardly flatter her­self, that if he were convinced, that he had fallen into an error, he would act from such a convic­tion, when, by so doing, he must so painfully esta­blish her superiority, and place himself for the rest of their lives, in the light of the offending party. As she was aware how impossible it would be to persuade him, that she really and in fact was capable of forgiving, and banishing from her mind a sense of the injuries he had done her, and as she knew he would feel assured that he must ne­ver hope to possess her love, she but too reason­ably concluded, that if even any love for her re­mained, [Page 146] it would not be sufficiently powerful to induce him to restore her to society under cir­cumstances so disgracefully humiliating, and so little happy to himself.

These reflections would probably have had in­fluence enough to have prevented any attempt on her part towards moving Sir William in her fa­vour, and might have put her upon turning her thoughts to some more certain, though more dis­tant, means of deliverance, if the insupportable agony which she felt, on the threatened loss of her child, had not made her consider all delay in the hopes of rejoining it, a lengthened torture of so acute a kind, that she doubted her own abi­lity to endure it with tolerable patience.

This feeling, and the reflexion, that if she now o­mitted any one possible means of declaring her inno­cence, it might hereafter be urged as a remissness arising from conscious guilt, had determined her to try the fate of a letter to Sir William. But although, in her present circumstances, this was all she could do, so little did it appear likely to answer the purpose, that it was wholly ineffica­cious in abating that misery which the idea of se­paration from her child had impressed upon her mind: and when the letter was written and depo­sited under the infant's clothes, a melancholy sense of its probable inutility filled her breast; and gave to the approaching deprivation all the horrors due to a farewel, which, as to this world, was to be final.

Ellen, notwithstanding the oppression of her feelings, wished to conquer herself so far as to do that which she had resolved upon, with dignity and composure.

The opening and shutting of the doors in the [Page 147] gallery now told her she might expect the ap­proach of Mrs. Ulric every moment. Her eyes were alternately fixed on the face of her child, and now turned with a look of apprehension to the door. She pressed her lips to those of the poor baby, with a fervency which, at any other time, she would not have dared to have indulged, from the fear of hurting it. Every kiss imprinted she thought was to be the last: and as she intently gazed upon its features, she kissed each separately, with a sensation of despair which ought only to belong to the guilty. Happy was it for the intel­lects of Ellen, that this scene was not much far­ther prolonged.

Mrs. Ulric came towards her: and Ellen rising hastily, with an effort that required all her forti­tude, put the child into her arms, and rushed from her into the next room. Mrs. Ulric, struck with her courage, and moved by the tenderest compassion, committed the infant to the care of those who already waited to receive it; and then hastened back, with all the dispatch in her power, to administer to Ellen all the consolation which her humanity could afford. But Ellen remained long insensible to her kindness and her cares. Mrs. Ulric found her, on her return, in the highest state of hysteric affection. The disorder baffled all the remedies which Mrs. Ulric's skill in medicine could suggest; and continued so long unsubdued as to raise in her mind very serious apprehensions.

At length, nature seemed quite exhausted: and Ellen fell into a heavy sleep, which continued for some hours. When she awoke, she was less agitated, but so extremely reduced in strength, [Page 148] as to be unable to quit her bed, or scarcely to raise her head from her pillow.

She continued for some time subject to returns of the hysterical disorder: and when she appeared to be recovered from these attacks, she was seized with a depression of spirits, which incapacitated her from all exertion; and seemed to deprive her even of the power of thinking.

Mrs. Ulric conceived nothing more likely to remove this kind of indisposition than the open air, and a variety of objects. The latter it was not in her power, to any extent, to afford her unhappy patient. But she accompanied her for whole days in the garden, where she often in­duced her to continue by spreading a repast under the shade of the trees, or by bringing her the harp, and intimating a desire to hear her play upon it. Ellen was not lost to the pleasure of ob­liging: and in the present state of her mind, hav­ing no desires of her own, she seemed wholly di­rected by those of her companion. Mrs. Ulric, somewhat to vary the scene, ventured to unlock the garden door, and to walk some little way into the adjacent country. The door opened upon a wild heath, which was skirted by a thick wood, and in this wood they frequently walked. Insen­sibly this wise and gentle treatment produced the desired effect; Ellen began to awake, as it were, from the lethargy into which she had fallen. Her powers of reasoning returned: and if she felt more, she acknowledged, that a state of so alarm­ing an insensibility was well exchanged for one of suffering. The first reflection she made was on the length of time which had elapsed since the departure of her child, and when she found that [Page 149] six weeks were gone, never more to return, she gave up all hopes of receiving her deliverance from the justice or generosity of Sir William.

How he might have been affected, if the letter had reached his hands, it is not possible to say: but the trial was never made: and Ellen owed the loss of this feeble chance in her favour, nei­ther to design or treachery, but merely to acci­dent.

The circumstance of any paper being concealed in the piece of cloth which Ellen had fastened round the body of the child, had escaped the no­tice of its attendant. She had taken it merely for a part of its garments, and with the rest of them having been sent to the washer-woman, Ellen's letter, in fragments and defaced, floated soon upon the water.

As Ellen had never attached much hope to this attempt to move Sir William in her favour, she viewed the total disappointment of it without any of those acute feelings which might probably have precipitated her again into the melancholy state of mind from which she had only began to emerge: and it might indeed be owing to her feel­ings being blunted, as it were, by what she had undergone, that she bore so calmly [...]hat she considered as an undeniable proof of Sir Wil­liam's premeditated injustice.

CHAP. XVIII.

EVERY day Ellen began to recover her faculties: and she used every means in her power to rouse herself to exertion, and to train her mind to fortitude. Patience and resignation, thought she, are all the virtues which I am permitted to practise. In the first moments of my over­whelming affliction, I was saved, by insensibility, from the necessity of an exertion, which it might have been impossible to have made; for what I then failed in, I am not responsible. I am now called to make use of the reason which is restored to me; and let me attend to the call: That life is a blank, which is unmarked with the efforts of virtue: but it is a blank, which I shall be called to account for in another.

In consequence of these reflections Ellen began, for the first time, to turn her attention to her books. She found the collection well chosen, and evidently with attention to her peculiar taste. This circumstance softened her heart toward Sir William. Some few which she wished to have [Page 151] were wanting. She wrote down the names, and delivering the list to Mrs. Ulric, saw her sign the paper. She readily understood, that this was the proof agreed upon, by which its authenticity was to be ascertained. She observed, however, that Mrs. Ulric carefully inspected the articles: and Ellen supposed she was instructed, notwithstanding her ignorance of the French language, how to distinguish between what was allowed and what was forbidden. Books, however, had been ex­pressly named by Sir William, as what would be considered a lawful requisition: and Ellen was therefore not surprised to find herself speedily sup­plied with what she wanted. As this, however, was the first experiment of the kind she had made, she felt a sensible pleasure in its success. There was something in it, which connected her again with the world, from which, before, she seemed so totally excluded: and when she found, with certainty, that, by the stroke of her pen, she could procure any gratification, or necessary that she wanted, she no longer felt herself abandoned to the degree she had conceived before.

The evenings now grew long, and the days cold. She lived more in the house; and consequently wanted a greater variety of employments there. She had no call for works either of ornament or use. With respect to her clothes, she was sup­plied with a greater profusion than she had any necessity for. They were all, it is true, of the plainest kind, and such as (though they were per­fectly conformable to her) could not be converted into bribes to those about her. To work without any end, would defeat her purpose; for how could she be interested in the progress of an em­ployment, which, in the end, must be useless? [Page 152] and she found books and music were not sufficient to carry her through wet and gloomy days, suc­ceeded by long and tempestuous evenings, with­out the aid of conversation or exercise.

In this destitution of employment, her mind preyed too much upon itself: and when her imagination represented to her the distress of her family and friends for her loss—or when she thought of her own captivity, cut off in her early youth from every social affection, and from every active duty—but, above all, when she reflected upon her separation from her child, she found the task of resignation almost beyond her power.

Anxiously she cast her eyes around for some means of filling her time and employing her thoughts. Happily it occurred to her, that part of her Northumberland education had been the art of spinning. No sooner did she recollect this, than she set about procuring a wheel, and every necessary to her employment. She knew the perfection to which the Bohemian linens were brought: and therefore concluded, she should find all the assistance to her manufacture which she could desire. She found her orders for a wheel as speedily complied with as had been the one she gave for books: and she began her new occupation without delay.

Mrs. Ulric seemed highly pleased when she saw her thus employed; and busied herself in re­moving any trifling difficulties which arose. This new interest produced a fresh tie between them. Mrs. Ulric frequently brought her work, and passed the whole evening with Ellen. It is true, they could not converse: but they had by this time established a kind of language between them­selves, which served extremely well for all com­mon [Page 153] purposes: and Ellen had even attained the knowledge of the meaning and the pronunciation of several German words.

This knowledge, however, she acquired against the inclination of Mrs. Ulric: for Ellen easily perceived, that she seemed to be sorry when any word had escaped her: and the pertinacity with which she always declined repeating any word which Ellen endeavoured to pronounce after her, and her apparent wilful misconception, whenever Ellen took any means of inducing her to teach her in German the names of those objects with which they were surrounded, made it clear to Ellen, that she lay under the strictest possible prohibition as to teaching her the language: and she saw, that she adhered to her orders, with an integrity which all her attachment to Ellen, and the pleasure which it must be supposed she would naturally have taken in conversing with her, could not shake.

Ellen revered Mrs. Ulric the more for this steady adherence to what, she had no doubt, was with her a point of duty: and she easily forgave the effect, in consideration of the cause, though the dreary melancholy of her life was so beyond measure increased by this very circumstance. Had it not been for those scruples in Mrs. Ulric, nothing could have been more easy than for Ellen to have learnt German: and as she never lost sight of the hope of acquiring the language, as one most es­sential means to bring about her deliverance: she treasured up in her memory all that she had learnt from Mrs. Ulric: and in spite of her precaution, she added almost daily something to her store.

The winter passed away: the spinning plan [Page 154] had succeeded fully: and Ellen now began to in­terest herself about the cloth which was to be sent to the weaver, and that which was to be returned from him. She could not sometimes help smiling at the artificial business she had contrived for her­self, and at the perfect earnestness in which she saw Mrs. Ulric about the matter. But she care­fully avoided destroying the illusion, and went on spinning as if her web were to be as long as Pene­lope's might have been, but for "the back­ward labours of her hand."

Ellen's health was now thoroughly re-estab­lished: and she endeavoured to add a degree of cheerfulness to the patience and resignation which she had hitherto practised. By frequently re­peating to herself all the German she could ac­quire from her companion, her thoughts were more than ever fixed upon the language: and with so few circumstances to divert them from any object, which even from a flight motive might have engaged them, it is not wonderful, if they were almost incessantly bent upon one, from which so important an advantage might be gained— to attain the German language became now the first wish of Ellen's mind; and she was resolved to take some vigorous step towards it.

She had hitherto forborne to send for the books necessary to her instruction, as far as it was pos­sible she could instruct herself, from an apprehen­sion that this was a request upon which Mrs. Ulric would infallibly put a negative: But observing that Mrs. Ulric now seldom cast her eye over the articles contained in the lists she signed, she re­solved to hazard the attempt.

Amongst several other things which she sent for, only with the design of making the list larger, [Page 155] that so any particular article might more probably pass unnoticed, she put down all the German books which she thought necessary to her purpose. She delivered this list to Mrs. Ulric the next time she visited her apartment. It was with no small degree of solicitude that she attended its fate: But she had the satisfaction to see it signed without hesi­tation or inspection, and instantly sealed and di­rected, by which dispatch she concluded that there was some immediate means of sending it to Dres­den; and she was confirmed in this conjecture by the speed with which she received the pacquet in return. And now, for the first time, she had a secret from Mrs. Ulric. She carefully locked up her German treasure, and took care to secure the door of her room whenever she recurred to the study of that language. It was with the greatest assiduity that she pursued her task, but without some oral assistance, she soon saw cause to fear that she should make no progress that could be useful to the great purpose, for which alone, at this time, she had thought of acquiring the knowledge of the German tongue. She found, however, an incidental advantage in her new study: this was employment; and German for a time superseded spinning.

In these several occupations, diversified with music and chess, in which she had discovered Mrs. Ulric to be somewhat of a proficient, with a regular course of reading, and in the regulation of her own mind, supported with a vague hope that at some distant period her deliverance might make a part of the designs of Providence, Ellen passed her time: and such was the tranquility which the innocence of her heart and the equa­nimity of her temper secured to her, under the [Page 156] deprivation of nearly all that is supposed to make life desirable, that not only she enjoyed a degree of happiness unknown to the most prosperous guilt, but such as is unattainable even in the over eager pursuit of the most legitimate objects: Her mind was calm and vigorous, her body healthy and ac­tive; the roses, which even the chagrins of the first months of her marriage had banished, re­turned to her cheeks; her eyes recovered their vivacity; her well formed limbs acquired all their natural agility, and perhaps Ellen had never, in the whole course of her life, appeared an object so proper to excite love and admiration, as she did at this present period—and must it be, that such a rose is doomed for ever ‘'To waste its sweetness on the desart air.'’

CHAP. XIX.

TWO years were now passed, and a third far advanced, since Ellen entered the walls of this dreary habitation. No change seemed to await her: and amidst the never ceasing vicissitudes of human affairs, her fate alone seemed fixed; as if the grave, indeed, had inclosed her. But he who could break the bonds of death, was not impotent to open the doors of her prison.

About this period Mrs. Ulric fell ill; and her illness proved a rheumatic fever. Ellen attended her with all the assiduity that affection and grati­tude could inspire; she furnished her chamber with every possible accommodation, from her own: She frequently passed the night by her bed side, and thought nothing painful to herself that could contribute to alleviate the pains of Mrs. Ulric.

It was in her frequent visits to the chamber of the invalid, that Ellen first observed that the un­der servant had been changed; and that her suc­cessor was a German. To this person, as Mrs. Ulric herself was entirely incapable of attending upon Ellen, devolved all the duties of waiting upon her meals, or administring to her any little [Page 158] services she might want. Ellen observed that she performed all this with something more than a common zeal to oblige: that she appeared pleased to be employed: and often lingered in her apart­ments without any apparent reason. Ellen im­puted all this to the natural good humour of the girl; who might probably be moved by the state of captivity which she could not but know she was in. It occurred to her that she might turn this compassion to somewhat better advantage than merely having her dinner warmer, or more nicely served, by learning from her new attendant the better pronunciation of some German words. She made the experiment, and found it fully answered by the alacrity with which the girl seemed willing to enter into conversation. She observed that she spoke, what appeared to her to be purer German than that spoken by Mrs. Ulric; and from hence she concluded her to be a Saxon. This idea led her to imagine it highly probable that she could read; and if it should prove so, behold her at length furnished with a preceptress in the German tongue.

She made the trial on the instant, and was soon convinced that her conjecture was well founded. The girl read with fluency and pleasure; seeming desirous to recommend herself to Ellen to the best of her power. The book she h [...]d put into her hands was a book of such familiar phrases as are calculated for the use of learners; and when El­len was satisfied with the experiment she had made, she sought a sentence expressive of her thanks; and she read it with as good pronunci­ation as she was mistress of. The girl seemed forcibly struck; and turning over the leaves, stopt not until she found an expression, the sense of [Page 159] which was, 'I owe all to you.' This she pro­nounced with so peculiar an emphasis, pointing at the French on the other side, to Ellen, and looking upon her with so much meaning, and with a countenance so suited to the sense of the words she used, that Ellen felt an instant conviction that she was known.

When words are wanting, the most untutored will have recourse to actions. The girl, as if im­patient to explain herself, threw herself on her knees before Ellen, and passionately kissing her hand, pronounced the name of the Saxon village in which Ellen had passed so many weeks. This word instantly called to her recollection the fea­tures of the person before her; and she recog­nised the daughter of the cottager, to whom her bounty had furnished so seasonable a relief, when her habitation had been destroyed by fire.

Ellen's bosom had long been a stranger to the degree of delight which this discovery communi­cated: her quick conception anticipated, in a mo­ment, all the advantages she might derive from it: and her first sentiment being that of gratitude to an ever-watchful Providence, she threw her­self on her knees by the girl, and, with uplifted hands and eyes, thanked Heaven for what she felt as an earnest of her deliverance.

From this moment scarcely an hour passed with­out Ellen making some advance in her powers of communicating her sentiments to her new friend; and as she had from the first warned her to con­ceal their intercourse from Mrs. Ulric, their hours of lecture were conducted with the greatest secrecy. Ellen thought it unnecessary to explain any circumstances of her situation farther to the girl, than to inform her that she was an English [Page 160] woman, and to assure her most solemnly that she was unjustly detained from her country and friends; and that all she desired was the means of releasing herself from her present confinement. She, however, fully exposed her poverty, and her utter inability to reward any risk the young wo­man might run in assisting her to escape. To all such precautionary information, the girl constantly replied, in the grateful and affecting words that she had first used, 'I owe all to you.'

It was only by degrees that they came to un­derstand each other with tolerable ease: but Ellen learnt, through all the imperfection attending the very first of their communication, that her grate­ful Saxon was ready to sacrifice every thing for her sake. When she was able more fully to un­derstand her, she learnt that she had only been taken by Mrs. Ulric on a disappointment she had of a servant whom she had more approved: that as her subsistence depended upon her labour, she did not doubt, as her character was good, of be­ing able to find, without difficulty, as eligible an establishment as her present one, should she lose it in consequence of her services to Ellen.

Ellen, from her natural abhorrence to all dis­guise, hesitated whether she should not, now she could explain herself with tolerable facility, take Mrs. Ulric into her confidence; but, upon far­ther reflection, she found, that her present hopes were too dear to be put to hazard by a commu­nication, which, from the proofs she had seen of Mrs. Ulric's high sense of the sacredness of the trust reposed in her, might be the means of de­stroying them all together. She considered that in effecting her escape, she did justice to herself, without injuring any body: and she felt assured, [Page 161] from the idea she had formed of Mrs. Ulric's character, that were she acquainted with the whole of the case, she would rejoice in her deli­ [...]ance.

These considerations determined her to main­tain her secret. She learnt from Theresa, the name of Mrs. Ulric, and that of the nobleman in whose house she was confined: and no longer wondered, from what she knew of his intimacy with Sir William, that he had been able, with his assistance, so completely to succeed in his plan of shutting her up.

Some weeks were now elapsed since Mrs. Ulric had been confined to her bed, and though the force of the disorder was abated, she was become so lame, that she could not be moved from thence; however, as some amendment appeared every day, the time pressed, for Ellen's best hopes of a suc­cessful escape were placed on her being able to conceal it for some days from Mrs. Ulric.

Theresa and she now daily consulted upon the best means of effecting this escape. The absolute want of money was a great obstacle; for Ellen was desirous to purchase a peasant's dress of the country, as she hoped, by such a disguise, to pass wholly undistinguished from those with whom she was to mix. Money was not to be procured: but Ellen suggested the possibility of exchanging some of her own clothes for those of the kind which she now preferred. This was accordingly accom­plished; and Ellen found herself in possession of all the necessary garments. Theresa had informed her, that until she could get beyond the limits of Bohemia, even the little German she knew would scarcely be of any use to her: that the Bohemians [Page 162] hated the Germans, and could never be induced to apply themselves to the study of their language, though there were schools established for that purpose in several places; that therefore she would find few people in the interior parts of the country who understood it; and though most of the farmers who were situated on the great roads had a very competent knowledge of German, there were few who would be induced to con­verse in it: Theresa therefore advised, that laying aside all attempts at making herself understood, she should trust wholly to the compassion which her speechless wants might excite, and the re­ward which her music might be thought to de­serve.

The idea of the latter resource had also been suggested by Theresa, whose two years residence in a Bohemian service had made her very well ac­quainted with the predilection that the lower rank of people in Bohemia bore to music. She had ob­served Ellen's harp, and had told her that could she carry that with her, a few tunes upon it would scarcely ever fail to procure her a draught of milk, or a night's lodging. The harp was too cumbersome for Ellen to think for a moment of burdening herself with it: she had therefore de­termined to substitute a mandoline, which she had sent for to Dresden, and Theresa fully approved of the succedaneum.

Ellen could not help shrinking from the idea of performing such a journey as lay before her alone: she would willingly have engaged Theresa to have accompanied her: she found her perfectly ready to retrace in her company, the steps which had led her from her native village: but, besides that, Ellen, from her ignorance whether Sir William had returned [Page 163] to England, or had continued abroad; was very unwilling to approach Saxony; it being the place where, in the latter case, she was most likely to meet with him, or with some body, who from their connexions with him might know her, she could not consent to bring Theresa into a situ­ation where she would again be a burden upon her friends, when she had nothing in her power to make them any compensation for such a bur­den.

There were similar objections to making her the companion of her travels in any other direc­tion: for let her part with her where she would, short of England, she had nothing wherewith to reward her, or to assist her in finding her way home. Ellen's secret wish was, that Theresa would accompany her to England; there she doubted not of being able to make her such a re­compence as would fully repay her for all her trouble and fatigue; but to so distant a peregri­nation, Ellen observed reluctance in Theresa, which she was too delicate to try to overcome: and indeed a still farther reflection upon all cir­cumstances, soon reconciled her self-denial with prudence. She considered, that if Theresa ac­companied her, her escape would be immediately discovered; and as she had no means of speedy flight, and no place of refuge, such a discovery would inevitably lead to a renewal of her cap­tivity. She recollected what Sir William had said in his first letter, of the precautions he had taken to render abortive all attempts to escape; and she became convinced that her safety lay in leaving Theresa behind her, since by her conti­nuing her attendance in her apartment some days after her departure, she would not be obliged to [Page 164] announce her flight until she was securely beyond the reach of all pursuit.

The place from whence she thought it most easy to escape, was the garden-door; since Mrs. Ulric had indulged her with extending her walks beyond the garden, all fastenings had been re­moved from it except the lock. She shewed the door to Theresa, who assured her that she could easily find a method of opening that.

Every thing was now arranged. It was agreed that Ellen should appear indisposed when she made her last visit to Mrs. Ulric before her de­parture: and that the supposed continuance of this indisposition, should be the excuse that The­resa should make to Mrs. Ulric for Ellen's unu­sual absence from the sick chamber. To give this apology the greater air of truth, Ellen had no sooner determined upon her flight, than she forebore, under one pretence or other, her daily visits to Mrs. Ulric: and she even sometimes suf­fered two days to pass without seeing her. This was a severe affliction to Ellen's grateful and feel­ing heart; more especially as she could not but observe that Mrs. Ulric seemed cast down by this relaxation in her attentions; but the neces­sity of the case silenced her scruples, and she consoled herself with the thought that in future she could explain her conduct to her friend, so as fully to exculpate her from any charge of un­kindness.

Ellen took from Theresa a direction to Mrs. Ulric, to whom she determined to write from England an acknowledgment of all the obligations she had received from her, and to send her some token of her esteem and gratitude. She also put down the name of her faithful Theresa, and [Page 165] that of the place where she might transmit the reward of her services, that she meant to send her.

She next studied all the maps of Germany and Bohemia, which she had in her possession; and having learnt from Theresa the exact spot in which she then was, she sketched out a kind of route for herself, as something of a guide to steer her course by. Here Theresa could be of little use to her; as her knowledge of the country, except by hearsay, was confined to within a few miles of the place they were in.

Ellen having made all the preparations for her expedition, and taken all the precaution which circumstances would admit of, appointed the next morning for her departure. Theresa packed a small basket with cold meat and bread, at the bottom of which Ellen put several trifles, which she thought might possibly be of comfort or assistance to her. She made up also as large a bundle of linen as she could carry with any con­venience, both as a source of comfort to herself, and as a means, if all others failed, of procuring food or lodging. She farther provided a pair of shoes, besides those she wore: and being dressed in her peasant's dress, her mandoline flung by her side, her bundle under one arm, and her basket on the other, she quietly descended the stairs which led from the gallery to the hall, and, accompanied by Theresa, made the best of her way to the gar­den. Theresa easily burst the lock of the door; and Ellen saw herself at liberty. She turned to embrace her faithful Theresa, saying, 'Oh, my friend, how shall I ever repay you? Take all I have to give, as an earnest, that, when I have more, I will give more.'

[Page 166]This all was a thin plate of gold, in which the picture of her father was set, and which she had loosened from the picture for this purpose. It had occurred to her, to make this use of it during the course of the preceding night, as she lay sleepless and disturbed with the thoughts that she should be obliged to quit Theresa, without leaving with her any mark of her esteem, or any earnest of what she intended to do for her in future.

Theresa generously declined accepting the gold, urging, that it might be of use to her: but Ellen felt there was so little difference between actual want and the safeguard which such a piece of gold would be to her, that no consideration of this sort could induce her to forego the pleasure she had in leaving some memorial of her gratitude in the hands of Theresa. Yet, she afterwards expe­rienced, that gold, even of less value, was to her of the utmost importance. But though Ellen could conceive the pressure of want, she had not yet felt its weight: she therefore forced all the property she was worth upon Theresa, and again embracing her,

'God protect and reward you, my dear Theresa,' said she: 'and be assured, nothing but death shall hinder me from shewing the sense I have of my obligations to you.'

'Oh! Madam,' returned the grateful hearted Theresa, 'God protect and reward you. I owe all to you!'

And with these memorable words, accompa­nied by a flood of tears, she kissed the hand of Ellen: and after watching her move some yards from the garden-door, she withdrew, and closed it upon her.

CHAP. XX.

IT was about five o'clock on a glorious morning in the middle of July, that Ellen thus effected her escape from a captivity which had lasted more than three years, and of which the miseries had been heightened by a stroke of misfortune, which would have shed a gloom over the brightest days of prosperity. Amid the variety of emotions which swelled Ellen's heart, at this affecting mo­ment, fear was a very predominant feeling.

Habit so far triumphed over reason, as to ex­cite a most lively alarm, when she thus found her­self wholly dependent on her own powers. Un­aided and unprotected, she shrunk from the project she had undertaken. She thought for a moment it was above the strength either of body or mind assigned to her sex, and that it was presumption to have undertaken it. This was but the thought of a moment. The next she smiled at the force of prejudice, and the artificial imbecility, and false idea of decorum, induced by custom. She considered, that in the eyes of all who met her, she was only a peasant; and could therefore nei­ther draw on herself the gaze of curiosity, nor provoke the observations of impertinence; for [Page 168] that a peasant should make use of her limbs in moving from place to place, unattended and alone, was according to rule, and the eternal fitness of things. To those who knew not that her journey extended farther than from her native village to the neighbouring one, there was nothing daring or unfeminine, in being alone; and in fact the whole of her journey was only to consist of a cer­tain number of such removals from village to village.

Thus the objections of prejudice were pre­sently silenced by reason. But there were yet certain difficulties and contingent dangers, which were but too real, and to support herself under both, all her natural force of mind, and undoubting reliance upon the superintendance of Providence, were no more than absolutely necessary.

She had before her a journey of more than nine hundred miles, without money, without a friend to whom she could make herself known, without the means of warding off one evil that might attack her. Should her strength fail, or should illness seize her, she had not the possibi­lity of supporting herself until vigour returned, or until health was restored. She was to depend upon charity for the morsel necessary to her daily sustenance, and for her nightly lodging: and from her ignorance of the route she was to take, and the impossibility she must find in calculating her powers of reaching such places as would af­ford shelter, it was but too probable she would frequently find herself hungry when no food was near, and weary when she knew not where to lay her head. If the public roads exposed her more to danger, the private paths rendered her more helpless, if danger approached▪ and to the most [Page 169] eligible choice in such an alternative, no wisdom was adequate. These, and many such thoughts as these, alarmed, but did not depress the mind of Ellen.

With all these difficulties and dangers before her, she still thought herself happy, that she was no longer a prisoner: and if she had been able to preserve her equanimity in a more calamitous state, should it desert her in a less. She endea­voured, by reason, to divest her situation of all imaginary terrors, and artificial hardships, and to collect all the powers of her mind to support those which really accompanied it. She resolved then steadily to proceed; making all possible use of her understanding, her patience, and her cou­rage; but trusting alone for the happy issue of her endeavours to that Being, who is the defender of the weak, the supporter of the afflicted, and the enlightener of the ignorant.

It was Ellen's design to proceed to Egra, from whence, as nearly as she could calculate, she was something more than eighty miles. From thence she designed her route to be to Frankfort, to Co­logne, and through the Low Countries to Hel­voetsluys: here she knew she should find a ready passage to Harwich: and as to her further pro­ceedings, she left them to be determined by the circumstances which might arise. At the distance which she then was from England, it appeared to her, that the moment she set foot on its shores she was at home: and however impossible she might have thought it in former times, to have found her way into Northumberland from Har­wich, alone, on foot, and pennyless, she consi­dered that the person who had found the means under all these disadvantages, with the additional [Page 170] one of imperfect language, to make her way from the heart of Germany across the English channel, was not the one who should distress her mind with the difficulties which might arise in compa­ratively so short a pilgrimage.

The morning was gay and cheering. Ellen walked leisurely on: and when the heat of the day induced her to seek for rest, she found a shady covert, through which ran a brook, where, unpacking her basket, she indulged in the re­freshment which the friendly Theresa had pro­vided▪ and she quenched her thirst with the wa­ters of the rivulet, which ran at her foot.

Having continued in this secluded spot till the fervor of the day was past, and till her wearied limbs began to feel the invigorating effect of re­freshment, she again began her journey; and with the same leisurely pace, happily arrived, as the sun was setting, at a small village. Her know­ledge of the situation of most of the Bohemian villages had induced her, on the sight of a large wood, to quit the public road in search of one: and her sagacity was repaid by finding this, at the moment when she most wished for such an asylum.

Here she was to make the first experiment as to the effect which her music would have upon the charitable feelings of the inhabitants. Placing herself therefore on a little mound of sods, which seemed raised for the purpose of a rural seat, she took up her mandoline, and began a little wild and lively air. Presently she found herself sur­rounded by half a dozen ragged boys and girls. She changed her notes, and set them all dancing. This appearance of gaiety soon drew others to partake of it; the dancers increased; and, when­ever they suspended their exercise, Ellen sung a [Page 171] few lines of a song, or diversified their amuse­ment by a change in her music.

She had soon the whole village for auditors: and singling from among the more elderly part of the company a female, whose countenance she thought promised well, she asked, in English, the favour of a night's lodging. She had not chosen this language from the most distant hope of being un­derstood, but merely to shew that she was a stranger, and to draw on a conversation, in the course of which she thought she might be able to fall upon a method of making her wants known. Luckily, however, for her, among her auditors, there was one of those numerous individuals, who travel in large parties from Bohemia all over Europe, loaded with glasses and trinkets of various kinds, and which they sell to so much ad­vantage, that they frequently return with a sum sufficient to support them in affluence the rest of their lives in their native country. This man had, in the course of his travels, visited England, and knew the sounds which Ellen uttered, were Eng­lish; and with a little closer attention was able to make out with perfect clearness the nature of her request. He explained it to the woman to whom Ellen had addressed herself: and it found a ready acquies [...]ence from the charitable heart of the poor Bohemian farmeress, who was moved with Ellen's sweet sounds, and pleased with the softness of her address and the civility of her manners. So true it is, that, however vice may have introduced a variety of tongues, the language of virtue is uni­versal.

Ellen, after thankfully feasting upon a bowl of milk and bread, was conducted to a straw ma­trass, covered with a rug, which had nothing [Page 172] disgusting or offensive in its appearance, and with which Ellen, after having thrown herself upon the matrass, covered herself. She flattered herself, that the fatigues of the day would procure her some hours of sound sleep. But the novelty of her situation, and the fullness of her mind, rendered this hope vain. If she closed her eyes for a mo­ment, the next she started, and awoke in some fancied danger. Her slumbers were restless and feverish: and she was happy to rise with the ear­liest of the friendly houshold, and after having received a breakfast similar to her supper of the night before, and paid for it by another tune upon her mandoline, she pursued her journey, taking the best directions, as to her route to Egra, which she was able to procure.

Three days had Ellen thus wandered alone through the woods of Bohemia; and three nights had she received shelter and sustenance from its hospitable inhabitants. The timidity which rea­son could not wholly subdue, had yielded to time. She no longer thought that the eye of every passenger was turned upon her. She was con­vinced she was to no one an object of curiosity or wonder. She no longer expected a ruffian to start from behind every tree: and when she sought a covert wherein to pass the noon-tide hour, she felt secure that she should meet with no in­terruption. Her mind, always alive to the sim­ple delights of nature, began to take a pleasure and interest in the scenes amidst which she wan­dered. She often lingered under the cover of a thick wood, more from the delight she felt in the shade, than any need she had of rest: and she often prolonged her sojourn by the side of a rip­pling brook, that she might continue soothed by [Page 173] its murmurs, or from being unable to forego the pleasure of the harmony which resounded from every branch of the trees with which it was over­shadowed. Often would she compare her present mode of travelling with that to which she had been formerly accustomed: and her good taste gave the preference to that which she now pur­sued. Here no impediments from bad roads, no impositions from inn-keepers, no wrangling with postillions, no compassion for the over-loaded and worn-out horses, arose to disturb the even tenor of her thoughts, or to spoil her relish of the beau­ties which surrounded her.

But as the taste of Ellen was genuine, and formed from that love of nature which is the re­sult of good sense and a feeling heart, it was pure from those allays of romance, which, while they give a greater currency to what is called taste, do in fact debase its essential qualities. While, therefore, as a matter of feeling, she preferred wandering on foot amidst woods and villages, with no certain path to direct her to the shelter she was seeking; she fully acknowledged the more certain comfort of a well-built travelling chaise, drawn even by miserable post-horses, along a road which presented no objects but the regu­larly placed mile stones, and those posts of intel­ligence, which so benevolently preserve the tra­veller from going astray.

The weather, since Ellen had begun her pere­grination, had been uncommonly fine; the sky above was serene, the ground beneath dry and firm. Bu [...] she was well aware what an altera­tion a change of seasons would make, not only in her comforts, but in the pleasures of her ima­gination: [Page 174] and she felt sometimes, with no little pain, that, though wandering in scenes such as she was in at present, when it was voluntary, and the shelter at hand, might be delightful; yet to the weary traveller, who had no option, and no refuge to flee unto, whatever mischief might betide, it was attended with danger and inconveniencies, from the feelings and fears of which all its pleasures would be most readily re­linquished. If therefore she were willing and ready to make use of the amusements which of­fered themselves on the way, as the means to cheer the melancholy path she was treading, she was not less desirous to arrive at that haven of rest, when such alleviations would be no longer wanted.

It was not, however, only from the woods, the birds, and the brooks, that Ellen in this for­lorn situation derived amusement to her fancy, or food for reflection. While she marked the extreme poverty of that rank of people with whom she now associated, yet saw them tread a soil rich with [...] every blessing which nature could bestow, and which asked but the hand of labour, working for itself, to crown them with abundance; how did her heart recoil from the consequences of that feudal tyranny which makes the many subservient to the few!

Yet was her pity often checked, and she was led to think it misplaced, when she beheld the cheerful good humour of the people, the happy air of their countenances, and the little sense they seemed to have, of their wants. In the hopelessness of their state they seemed to find its consolation. They were at the worst, and proved how much less painful it is to suffer, than [Page 175] to fear. If the blessings of free men were beyond their reach, they were equally secure from those ills, the probability of which alarm those who have any thing to lose. The unfruitfulness of the seasons, the devastations of fire or of war, all were to fall upon their Lord. They were but another part of his property: and evils which did not affect their persons, were indifferent to them.

'Happiness, then,' said Ellen, 'is the plant of every soil; since it will flourish even in the de­sarts of slavery. Who, then, shall deny that the God of all is merciful to all?'

But Ellen's present situation called forth re­flections more interesting to her than any benevo­lence, however warm or extended, or however lively may be the interest we take in the pains or consolations of others, can produce. She had now subsisted three days on charity; and the al­ternative for many days to come was starving. A circumstance to her so new, and in general con­sidered as so degrading, could not but fill the re­flecting mind of Ellen with a variety of affecting thoughts. The very people whom the tenderness of her heart led her to pity, considered her as one degree below themselves, in the scale of human happiness: and from the very poverty which she regarded with so much compassion, she received a boon, without which she must have perished. But, though thrown from her rank in society, Ellen considered herself not the less as maintaining her station in animated nature. She was still one of those beings who are placed only lower than the angels, [...]nd who, in the eye of Providence, are all equal. Whatever distress, therefore, she felt from the ungratified wants of cold and hun­ger, it was unembittered by any sentiment of [Page 176] wounded pride. She considered it not as any de­basement to be reduced to a state in which a God, who is considerate alike of all his creatures, has seen good to place so large a part of them: and it was with equal gratitude to that God, and equal elevation of mind, though certainly not with an equal degree of happiness, that she now stretched forth her hand to receive, as she had before extended it to give. Are we not all alike children of God's mercy, thought she—and shall we conceive there is greater dignity annexed to receiving it through one medium than another? On some he bestows his alms by the means of parental inheritance. He gives it to others as the price of their personal labours: but they are not the less absolute dependants on his daily bounty, than those whom he appoints the ravens to feed. —He has ordained my present sustenance to flow from the charity of my fellow creatures. Let me serve him, in receiving, as they serve him in giving. The greater blessing has been mine. It may be mine again. But in the mean while, let me not grudge it to those, to whom, in the pre­sent moment, God has granted it.

How much so just and yet so uncommon a manner of thinking, contributed to the internal peace of Ellen, in her present distressful circum­stances, may be known by those who have expe­rienced all the pangs a contrary way of reasoning can inflict; who, in the loss of every thing that constitutes human happiness, have breathed their bitterest sighs, from the sense of the shame, which they falsely imagined to be annexed to a fall from affluence to poverty. But, if there be no shame in being born poor, how can there be any, where the change is independent of guilt in becoming so? [Page 177] If there be no shame in poverty, innocently in­curred, can there be any in receiving the relief which poverty requires?—Can what is the virtue of our fellow creatures be our degradation? Be it remembered, misfortunes may afflict; vice only can degrade. The one is often the best of God's gifts; the other is the work of ourselves alone.

CHAP. XXI.

TOWARDS the close of the fourth day of Ellen's wanderings, she began, as usual, to look around her for those appearances in the country which generally indicated where a village was to be found. She looked but without discovering any thing that gave her reason to suppose she should find what she sought.

She was just emerged from a thick wood, and had entered upon a kind of heath, which, from its extent and dreariness, presented her with an uncomfortable and alarming prospect. No mark of human habitation, no mark of shelter of any sort, was to be seen. She must either cross the heath before her, in pursuit of the refuge she wanted; and to do this would take up a consi­derable time; or she must return into the wood, which she had just left, and there take up her abode for the night. Her fears forbade the one; and her weariness, she thought, almost made the other impossible. Terror, however, was, for the moment, more prevalent than fatigue; and she resolved to attempt to cross the heath. She had still some day-light: and she considered, that should she arrive too late in a village to find admittance into any house, yet that the shelter which some out building, or shed, might afford her, was pre­ferable, [Page 179] on many accounts, to any which she could hope for in the wood.

Ellen set forward accordingly: but the wild seemed to lengthen as she went: and she became so fatigued that she could hardly proceed. To stop, however, was what she could not resolve upon. The evening was dark and louring, and, for the season of the year, cold: and while she could move her limbs, she could not consent to lie down upon the bare and hard ground, without a twig to shelter her, and exposed to all the rain and storm which seemed gathering. With slow steps she went on, and at length reached the other side of the heath. She found it bounded also by a wood, but not so uninterruptedly thick, as that which she had passed through before her entrance on the heath. The evening was already too dark to enable her to distinguish with certainty: but there appeared as if there had been once roads cut through the wood, though they seemed now nearly grown up, and the spot where she then was, she thought was the entrance of an avenue. Fa­tigued as she was, this thought gave her power to proceed. She flattered herself that it might lead at least to some ruined building, where, at the worst, a jutting cornice, or projecting wall, 'just nodding to its fall,' might afford her some shelter from the rain, which now began, at in­tervals, to fall very heavily, accompanied with loud and sudden gusts of wind; nor was the con­jecture ill founded. After about half an hour's walking, in which time all her outward garments were completely wet through, she found herself among the intricacies of some building, which she took for the cloisters of a decayed monastery. She troubled herself, however, but little in ascertaining [Page 180] whether she were right or wrong. There was too little light to enable her to discover the truth, if it had been important to her to have known it: but the most momentous concern was to find out some place where she could rest her weary limbs unexposed to the weather. As the roof of that part of the building which she then was in, was not destroyed, she withdrew to the upper end of it: and there, taking off such of her clothes, as were most wet, she seated herself upon a kind of stone bench, and began to examine her basket for something to eat. Luckily it was tolerably supplied. She had that morning been so much moved by the want of linen in the dress of the good farmeress, who had lodged her the night be­fore, that she had not been able to forbear, when they parted, presenting her with a chemise of her own; though this was contrary to the prudential rule she had laid down, not to part, in a country where she could so easily discharge her bill with a song, with what, in another, whose greater riches had banished equal hospitality, she might find ne­cessary to her support.

The woman was so much struck with this un­expected piece of generosity in Ellen, that she loaded her with a thick slice of bread, and a small bottle of milk. Ellen having found equal mu­nificence where she had sought a dinner, had preserved her morning store untouched: and she now found it a most seasonable relief. Hungry and fatigued, however, as she was, she prudently consumed only half of her riches, preserving the remainder for the exigencies of the next day. In part, however, she supplied the deficiencies of her scanty meal by swallowing a few drops upon a lump of sugar, she having had the precaution to [Page 181] furnish herself with such a cordial, upon leaving the place of her captivity.

Having taken all the refreshment which she thought it prudent to allow herself, she lay down to sleep: and though the floor on which she stretched herself, was hard and damp, and her pillow only her bundle of linen, such was the fa­tigue of her body, and such the calmness of her mind, that in a few moments she fell asleep. She knew not how long she had continued in this si­tuation, when she was suddenly awakened, by some noise. She started up, and looked around her, when, to her unspeakable terror, she beheld by the glimmering of a light, not a hundred yards distant, two men carrying a lady, who, by her helplessness, appeared to be dead.

Ellen's heart did not at this moment beat with its usual regularity: yet her presence of mind did not desert her: and considering that though the light enabled her to discover the objects which were close to it, it was not sufficient to discover her to them in the distant and dark corner where she lay. She slipped as quietly as she could, be­hind a pillar which formed the place where she was, into something of a recess; and waited the event in silence. The men bearing their burden between them, advanced nearer: and Ellen was something comforted by understanding from the expressions of one of them, who spoke in French, the deepest marks of grief for the situation of the lady. He could not, surely, (she thought) be the murderer of one, whom he so much deplored: yet, on laying her down, scarcely ten yards from the place where Ellen stood, and the light shining full upon her, Ellen observed that her clothes were stained with blood: and she fancied she saw the [Page 182] blood still issuing from her bosom, which, from the disorder of her dress, was very visible.

'What will become of me?' (exclaimed the man, who was the only one who had yet spoken) 'wretched Antoinette! dearest creature! How have you reason to curse the hour in which you saw me!'

These words determined Ellen. She was as­sured there was no danger: but there was distress, and she might be of use. Coming out, therefore, hastily from her hiding-place, she caused little less consternation by her appearance, than she had felt upon being first startled from her sleep. 'Suspend your wonder,' said she in French, to the person who seemed most interested, and whom she now discovered to be a gentleman, and the other man appeared a servant, 'suspend your wonder, and do not fear that I have any connec­tions that may injure you. I am alone here: but perhaps I have the means to assist that lady: and I am sure I have the inclination.' A ready con­fidence took place of the suspicions which had for a moment alarmed the breast of the stranger.

'Alas!' cried he, 'I can only thank you: but I fear, this miserable victim of misguided revenge, is past all assistance.'

Ellen scarcely waited to hear these words. She now saw that the lady was really wounded: and she seemed to have fainted from loss of blood. But though the trace of the blood still shewed whence it had flowed, it was now staunched. The light enabled Ellen to discern, that the place they were in was, as she had suspected, the ruins of a cloister: and it formed one side of a qua­drangle, [...]he buildings of the other three sides of which were nearly destroyed. In the midst of [Page 183] this square, had formerly been a fountain, and, though ruined, it still contained water. Ellen ran thither: and filling a small cup which she carried about her, with water, she washed the lady's wound; and had the satisfaction to find it was small, and did not appear to be deep. She then cut a large piece of a kind of sticking plaster, which made a part of her stores, and covered the wound with it: and then mixing a little of the water with some of her cordial drops, she con­trived, with the assistance of the stranger, who aided her benevolent efforts with the greatest as­siduity, to pour a small quantity down her throat. She then proceeded to chase her temples, and rub her hands: and in a short time she was encouraged to continue her endeavours wit still greater energy, by the lady giving evident signs of her returning life. In a few moments, she opened her eyes. Ellen gave her more cordial: and in a very short time, she recovered her senses.

While this was passing, the servant, at Ellen's suggestion, (for the stranger, though he imitated and assisted her in all she did, seemed to have lost the power of suggesting any thing) had been fully employed in collecting a few dry sticks, which was a task of some difficulty: for the rain of the pre­ceding night had left nothing in a fit condition to burn, which had been exposed to it. Luckily however, in his researches, he discovered several bundles of dry brush wood, and branches of trees, which had been heaped together in one corner of the cloister, probably by some peasant, who de­signed to carry them away at some future oppor­tunity. Of these he soon set fire to a sufficient quantity to afford the comfort both of [...]ight and heat. The lady was removed nearer to it, and [Page 184] farther from the influence of the air, which blew cold on the open side of the building. The lady's clothes were wet: and Ellen had no change to offer her. However she took off her upper gar­ments, as she had done her own, and spread them all before the fire, while she furnished her with some linen from her bundle, which supplied, though but ill, their place.

While Ellen performed the task of dressing and undressing the lady, the two men had retired, but not before the one, who seemed the master of the other, had assured the lady, in German, that she might trust wholly to Ellen, for that, if ever there were an angel from heaven, she was one. The lady herself appeared so weak, and so confounded, either with what she had passed through, or with what she now saw around her, that she could utter nothing more than a few broken expressions of gratitude, in German, and sometimes some passionate exclamations, in a lan­guage which Ellen did not at all understand. Ellen had now an opportunity of observing, that this unknown lady was possessed of a very uncom­mon share of beauty; that her form was inex­pressibly fine; and that, notwithstanding her pale­ness and languor, her complexion and counte­nance had charms which Ellen thought she had not seen equalled. Her dress, which was a kind of travelling chemise, spoke her of affluent for­tune; all the materials of which it was composed being of the finest texture: and the air of conscious superiority, with which she received the services of Ellen, if it did not give her kind benefactor a favourable opinion of her heart, at least as­sured her, that she was assisting one, who, from the habit of command, entertained the idea, [Page 185] that all who approached her were bound to obey.

When Ellen had contributed all in her power towards restoring her to some degree of comfort, she produced the remains of her supper, spared so prudently from her own present wants, in refer­ence to those of the next morning. The lady rea­dily ate the bread and swallowed the milk; and ap­peared so much revived by the refreshment they af­forded, and so fully restored to health and vigour, that Ellen soon found she had been mistaken in having attributed the state of insensibility, in which she had at first seen her, to loss of blood: from what now appeared, it seemed more probable that it had only proceeded from fatigue.

CHAP. XXII.

IT was upon the return of the gentleman to the fire that Ellen had first leisure to observe him with any closeness of attention. She had no sooner done so, than she was convinced that she had seen him before: and being persuaded by his manner of speaking both French and German, that he was not a native either of France or Ger­many, an opinion which was confirmed both by his countenance and complexion, she could not doubt but that he was English. She made this discovery with a mingled sensation of hope and fear. Again she looked at him, again she listened to the tone of his voice. She was more and more convinced that he was not unknown to her: but it seemed beyond the power of her recollection to recal his name, or where she had seen him. Sud­denly, on his throwing himself into a particular position, it rushed upon her mind, that he was the husband of her elder sister, that profligate man of fashion and broken fortune, to whom the absurd vanity of her mother had sacrificed the happiness and respectability of character of her favourite child. This discovery, though the strangeness of it threw her into some confusion, relieved her from every fear that she should be [Page 187] known by him. Ellen had never seen him since she was fourteen, when he had visited Groby Manor, for the only time during his connexion with any one belonging to it. She was very sure that the change which had taken place in her person in a period little short of twelve years, must securely shelter her from any discovery from him: for while time had made no other changes in his appearance than what arose from a few wrinkles, or a few grey hairs in the place of the darker locks, and smoother skin, which he had possessed in earlier youth; it had with her converted a rosy, sun-burnt, romping, laughing girl, into an ele­gantly-formed woman, whose pure red and white most truly blended, shewed in her check, as if the rose and lily strove for mastery. All gaiety was certainly at this time banished from her coun­tenance: and her large peasant's straw hat, which she had now again tied closely under her chin, so effectually concealed her features, that, if they had been much better known to Mr. Raymond than they really were, she must have been safe from awakening any recollection in him.

As hopeless as she knew his return to Eng­land was considered by all his connexions there, and the little probable good which would result if he were to return, yet she could not avoid being shocked at the proof she had before her, of the licentious life he continued to lead; nor could she help pitying the lady, little conciliating as her manners were, for having formed a connexion, the extent of the iniquity of which she thought it probable she did not know.

While these thoughts kept Ellen silent, the lady and gentleman, having dismissed the servant upon some message, continued to talk eagerly, and, [Page 188] confident in the fancied ignorance of Ellen in the German language, or careless of her opinion, un­reservedly of their affairs and situation. From this conversation she soon understood, that the lady was by no means deserving of her pity, on the score she had granted it; for that she was herself a fugitive wife, and that having been overtaken in the pursuit made after her by her husband, an affray had ensued; and she had re­ceived a wound in attempting to interpose be­tween her husband and her lover, the latter of whom, becoming desperate on seeing her blood flow, had fired at the husband; and, as he sup­posed had killed him. This act of violence, with the farther acts of outrage he and his attendants were on the point of committing, had so intimi­dated the companions of the husband, that they had contented themselves with carrying off his body, without making any farther attempt to im­pede the flight of the lovers. The lady having fainted from pain and terror, and it being no longer safe to continue in any high road, the lover had been obliged to convey her before him on horseback, having dismissed all his attendants ex­cepting one.

It appeared, from what Ellen heard, that, in the course of a journey of more than twelve miles across a country, of which they were ignorant, it had been impossible to afford her rest or refresh­ment; that she had returned to her senses only to relapse again into insensibility; so that the lover had more than once believed her dead. This was an additional circumstance, which had for­bidden him to stop at any house: and he had con­tinued to travel on, in hopes of finding some ob­scure and deserted building, such not being very [Page 189] unfrequent in a country once much more popu­lous than at present, where he might in safety con­sider upon the course he had to pursue. Having passed through the outskirts of a tolerably large village, toward the close of the evening, he had sent his servant to procure the means of striking a light, in whatever place they might find it eligible, or might be obliged to stop. It was in pursuit of some refreshment, that Ellen found the servant was now dispatched: and the lovers seemed to agree, that if they saw no reason against it in the morning, the place they were at present in, would suit as well as any other, as a place of re­fuge for a few days. They had no doubt but that the pursuit would be renewed with redoubled ardour: and they agreed, that their best hope of safety was to remain where they were, till their pursuers had overshot their mark.

Hitherto they were so much engrossed by their own concerns, that they seemed to have forgotten there was such a person in the world as Ellen: but Mr. Raymond now addressed himself to her, hoping, although he did not, from the circum­stance of her speaking French, take her to be a native of the country, that he might be able to obtain, through her means, some local informa­tion. He therefore enquired whether her home was near. Ellen replied, that at present she had no home, but was endeavouring to make her way towards a very distant one. 'In France?" 'No.' 'In Germany?' 'No.' 'In England?' 'Yes.' 'What the devil!" exclaimed in English, the profligate Mr. Raymond, 'can then have brought you into the midst of a Bohemian wild, alone and destitute?' 'Misfortune!' said Ellen, steadily [Page 190] fixing her eye upon him, "Misfortune, but not vice!'

The conscious criminal seemed to shrink into himself; but rallying, 'And how, my pretty one, do you mean to find your way from hence to England, in your present helpless circumstances?' 'By making the best use I can of my understand­ing and my strength.' 'A brave girl, faith. If I were not just now a little encumbered, I would enlist you under my banner. I am charmed with your spirit.' 'Your pardon, sir,' said Ellen with calm disdain, 'I am not so soon enlisted.' 'Oh! you would go with me. My road through life has been the path of pleasure. I have lived but to amuse myself. But, put aside that overshadowing hat, and let me see whether the face is worthy of the form, and the spirit that enlivens it.' Ellen without ever seeming to hear these words, turned to the lady, and asked in her imperfect German, whether there were any thing she could do towards her farther accommodation. The lady something sullenly replied, 'No.' And the gentleman said, still speaking in English, 'You understand Ger­man then?' 'Scarcely,' returned Ellen. 'E­nough, perhaps, to know what we have been talking of: and if so, you may as well know the whole business. I believe you will not turn in­former.'

Ellen was silent; for she felt little curiosity to know more of an affair which seemed a compli­cated tissue of profligacy and desperation. Mr. Raymond, however, who thought the circum­stances he had to bring forward offered a very reasonable apology for an action which, he could not conceal from himself, would be condemned by the general voice of mankind, did not desist [Page 191] from his explanation. 'That angel whom you see there,' said he, looking at the lady, 'is the daughter of a beast of an Hungarian nobleman, who, to fulfil some ambitious schemes of his own, forced her into the arms of an old disagreeable rascal in high favour with the emperor. What must a woman of feeling and spirit do in such a case? Surely not submit to all the horrors of the worst kind of slavery, because her tyrant was yclept a husband. I was the happy man, whom the lady fixed upon to assist in breaking her chains: and with a liberality of mind for which I shall ever adore her, she committed herself to my honour, loaded with all the jewels and ready cash which she could collect: and though, at present, we are put something out of our way, we hope still to find some sacred spot of earth, where the pleasures of love and the fruits of generosity may be reaped, undisturbed by the imagined rights of husbands and the abused authority of parents.'

Ellen could not but wonder at the ingenuity that had been able to tell a story of disobedience, treachery, adultery, and theft, in terms, which on the first hearing, so little conveyed the nature of the actions they acknowledged. Mr. Raymond was so little conscious that they conveyed it at all, that, without any of that embarrassment which a person less hackneyed in the path of pleasure (as he had called the road of vice) must have felt in con­sequence of such a confession, that he went on to say, that having taken what they hoped would have proved effectual methods to mislead the hus­band into a belief that they had, on leaving Vienna, turned their fugitive course towards Italy, they had indiscreetly neglected to make the best of their way towards Dresden, from the direct [Page 192] road to which place they had deviated as a mean; of farther security; and that they had, the day before, been overtaken, at a moment when they conceived themselves in perfect safety. He then proceeded to detail the whole particulars of the affray which had ensued, and to relate, that when he found himself in danger of being pursued, not only as a ravisher, but as a murderer, he had sent forward their carriage and their baggage, under the care of a servant, in whom he could confide, to Dresden, there to wait his farther orders; and in the mean time to spread a story, that the lady was dead, and his master gone, he knew not whither; that in the haste, in which they were obliged to make their arrangements, they had not been able to secure any part of their property, except the lady's jewels, which were in her pocket, and what little money they had about them. 'And now,' said this gallant hero of a story com­posed of crimes, which, more than any other in the whole roll of guilt, are, from their own na­ture, and the injurious effects they have upon the interests of society, the just objects of the greatest abhorrence; 'and now, if fortune will but smile for a few days, we may still baffle the malice of our enemies. My intention is, to or­der the servant I have sent to Dresden to join us as soon as possible, at Strasburg, from whence we will shape our course to some more dear retreat in the mountains of Switzerland, and there, ‘'The world forgetting, by the world forgot,'’ we will remain alive only to love and happiness.' Love and happiness! thought Ellen, how widely have I been mistaken [...] the means and the end of all that makes life desirable, [...] these mise­rables are right!

[Page 193]It was easy to be perceived, that this long dis­course of her lover, in a language of which she did not understand a word, was by no means pleas­ing to the lady. She broke in upon it by some­thing which she said very peevishly to him, and which Ellen did not perfectly understand. Ellen now began to wish impatiently for the morning, that she might escape from the consequences of a proof so pregnant, how infinitely preferable the most helpless solitude may be, to much of the so­ciety that is to be met with in the world. Yet how often had she heard Mr. Raymond exalted as the most pleasant of his sex! how often had she heard Mrs. Mordaunt declare, that he had not a fault but in the eyes of those rigid mortals who hold pleasure as a vice, who refuse to enjoy the blessings which are given them, and who seek heaven by abasing the noblest of its works! Alas! thought Ellen, how fatally would he have been awakened from the false peace into which his flatterers have lulled him, had not the rash passion of his unworthy companion interposed between his life and the just indignation of an injured hus­band!

Light, at the season of the year when these events happened, is suspended for so short a time, that had it not been for the storms of the preced­ing evening, which still filled the sky with thick and heavy clouds, Ellen would have been very soon able to have pursued her wishes of quitting her new acquaintance. But the first hours of the morning were dark; and it continued to rain in some degree. Before these obstacles to her de­parture were removed, the servant returned with a quantity of milk and bread, which he had pur­chased at a village a few miles distant. Ellen was [Page 194] invited to partake of this refreshment, which, in fact, she wanted as much as any of the party: and in the course of the meal, Mr. Raymond, who really did possess a part of that kindness of human nature, which had gained him the appel­lation of 'the best-humoured fellow breathing,' expressed much genuine solicitude for the desti­tute situation Ellen appeared to be in. He felt this the more, as, though he could draw nothing from her to confirm such a suspicion, he was strongly persuaded, in his own mind, that she had been accustomed to a rank of life, which could not have prepared her to struggle with her pre­sent difficulties. Although she had been very sparing of her speech, her accent, her manner of expression, and tone of voice, all assured him of this, and still more the ease and softness of her manners. He settled in his own mind her pro­bable story to be, that, having left her own coun­try as an occasional companion to a person of his own principles, but who possessed less of that compassionate good humour for which he had been often complimented, and upon which he piqued himself, she had, by the change of incli­nation, and want of generosity in her companion, been reduced to her present difficulties. There was something, indeed, in the nice sense of pro­priety which she appeared to have, and which was evident even to one who had lost all such feelings from his own mind, which militated against this idea. But as it was something beyond measure strange, that a person of real fashion and character could be left by any, the most distress­ing occurrences, in the situation Ellen was now in. He thought it was taking the less improbable side, to suppose, that her former way of life had [Page 195] not entirely obliterated all traces of those feelings which once adorned her state of innocence. This supposed situation of Ellen did not in the least make her a less interesting, or even less estimable object in the eyes of Mr. Raymond: and he even felt something of an additional desire to assist her, from the proof such assistance would be to all his acquaintance, that there is sometimes a sentiment of kindness in the breasts of those called wicked, towards the distressed, which the more rigidly virtuous are without. In consequence of these reflections, Mr. Raymond began to press Ellen to attach herself to their party; and hinted, in pretty intelligible terms, that besides all the difficulties and distresses which would probably attend her finding her way back to England, she would find it almost impossible, considering the circumstan­ces in which she would arrive there, to form any eligible establishment. Whereas he had no doubt, if she staid with them, that he should soon be able to introduce her to a friend, who would make her forget all she had lost. Although all this would have been perfectly plain to the apprehen­sion of Ellen, had she been the sort of person Mr. Raymond took her to be, yet being entirely ignorant of all that could lead her to his true meaning, and much of what he said applying to her real situation, she at first understood his of­fers only in a general sense: and when, by the turn and strength of the expressions, she began to comprehend that there must be some particular meaning intended to be conveyed, she was abso­lutely at a loss to guess what that meaning could be. The character of the man who addressed her and the manner of his expressions, however, persuaded her, there was something disgraceful [Page 196] in the protection he offered her: and as she was too wise to think of shewing her resentment, she contented herself with coldly and steadily saying, she was indispensibly obliged to endeavour to re­turn to England, as soon as possible; and that when there, she was assured she should want nei­ther protection nor friends, The unmoved man­ner of Ellen, and the little countenance that the lady gave to this plan of Mr. Raymond's, at length obliged him to cease from further urging it. And soon after, the sun breaking forth in all his splendour, Ellen repacking the bundle, and re-adjusting her basket, rose to depart. 'We cannot suffer you to go,' said Mr. Raymond, 'without making a small acknowledgment for the obligations we are under to you. If you would have gone with us, I would have done much for you: but now, so low are our finances reduced, that, except our jewels, I equally divide the whole of our stock, when I offer you this tri­fle.' In saying these words, he presented Ellen with a ducat. Ellen's first impulse was to refuse it, so far did habit make her forgetful of the ap­pearance she then wore. But Mr. Raymond added, 'No, no,—no refusals—while you ram­ble amongst these wilds indeed, t [...]e charity of these half savages may make money needless: but when you are among the whole savages of a civilized world, you will have nothing but what you can pay for.'

Ellen then took the ducat. But Mr. Raymond, who felt his solicitude increase for her every mo­ment, in spite of, or perhaps stimulated by, her reserve and coldness, said, 'Devil take me, if I am not ashamed to part so. Stay; would it not be possible to convey you a bill to Cologne? Do [Page 197] you mean to take Cologne in your way?' Ellen re­plied she did. 'The moment we think it safe to quit this retreat,' said he, we shall bend our steps towards Strasburg. We shall be there in much less time than your poor little feet can carry you to Cologne. Come, give me your directions: and at La Savage you shall be sure of finding, on your arrival in that place, a bill for a sum sufficient to procure you an easy conveyance to England, and to any part of it to which you may choose to go.' Ellen hesitated. The performance of such an offer would annihilate half those difficulties and dangers which she dreaded so much to encounter. 'Such a supply,' returned Ellen, 'would indeed be extremely acceptable to me. But as, on my return to England, I shall be perfectly able to re­turn any pecuniary obligations I may receive, I cannot accept your offer, however grateful I may be for it, except you will put me in some method of repaying the money, when I no longer stand in need of it.' Mr. Raymond regarded her with increased wonder. 'I would give the world to know who you are,' said he, 'and what has brought you into this desart; for I am confident you are no common one.' 'You shall know who I am,' returned Ellen, 'and all I have under­gone, when I return you the money: and then you will acknowledge that the human mind may support any destiny, however hard, which has not been brought on by misconduct.' 'I believe you are a parson in petticoats,' said Mr. Raymond. 'No,' returned Ellen, 'I am no parson; but I am a kind of a prophetess: and I foretel that you will never know happiness until you return to your wife and children.' Mr. Raymond retreated a [Page 198] few steps, as if he recoiled from a dread of su­pernatural power. 'I said, when first I saw you, you were an angel: but now I believe you deal with the devil.' 'You shall know my dealings at some future hour,' said Ellen; and giving him a paper, added, 'this is my direction: now give me yours.' 'And must I wait till a future hour for the explanation of so much mystery?' said Mr. Raymond. 'You must.' 'Well then, let it not be very distant.' He then gave her a di­rection to himself, under the name of Mason, at a particular hotel in Strasburg: and with reiterated wishes that her journey might prove more pros­perous than it promised to do, he at length suf­fered her to depart.

This adventure did not appear half so singular in the eyes of Mr. Raymond, as it did in those of Ellen. The circumstance of finding himself known to her, confirmed his former suspicions: and he had no doubt but that the story which she pro­mised him, would only be a detail of the ingrati­tude and cruelty of some man of his own set, with whom he had associated before he left London. But Ellen was struck in no common degree with the singularity of meeting in the woods of Bohe­mia a man so nearly allied to her, in circumstan­ces so disgraceful, that she could not avail herself of their connexion to the alleviation of her own distresses: nor could she forbear adverting to the power she had had, of administering, from her scanty pittance, to the wants of two people, who, had it not been for their vices, might have been in possession of every comfort and every accommoda­tion this world can afford.

CHAP. XXIII.

THIS adventure furnished Ellen with sufficient food for thought, as she walked on: and as the day was much cooler than any she had yet expe­rienced, she continued her journey, without tak­ing her usual rest at noon. Fortunately she ar­rived at a decent village early in the evening: and here she resolved to take up her repose for the night; the fatigues of the preceding day and night having made rest absolutely necessary for her. In answer to the inquiries she made here, she had the satisfaction to find, that she had not deviated very widely from the direct road to Egra. She had fixed upon this place, merely as a point, by which to direct her enquiries: but there was nothing she wished so much to avoid, as large towns and cities; and being now pretty well skilled in the best man­ner of going from one village to another, without straying too far distant from the public road, she contrived, in about fourteen days from the time of her escape from captivity, to enter Franconia, without having passed through Egra, or suffered much either from fatigue, hunger, or alarm. Having thus happily accomplished what she com­puted to be somewhat above the first hundred miles of her journey, she drew a lucky presage [Page 200] for the remaining eight. But accustomed as she now was to being alone, she felt a dread of that part of her travels, which was to lead her among the more thickly inhabited parts of the road, more than any one of the dangers which awaited her in the obscure forests and solitary paths. The observation of Mr. Raymond often returned to her mind: and when she reflected on the different treatment which the beggars wandering through the populous streets of a great city usually meet with, from that she had experienced in the Bohe­mian wilds, she could not help drawing a conclu­sion, that a close neighbourhood was not favour­able to the virtue of hospitality.

These reflections made her view her single du­cat with a sigh. But she resolved, as long as the sale of her linen, her mandoline, or the poor du­cat in question, could preserve her from the ne­cessity of it, not to ask charity in any town. Ellen continued her method of travelling with tolerable success; though she found a very sensible differ­ence in the appearance and manners of the coun­try. The latter was more populous, it was bet­ter cultivated, but beggars were more numerous, and simple hospitality less. Although she was readily relieved at a door, she no longer found it so easy to be admitted under the shelter of a friendly roof: her music was less an equivalent for all the kindness which was shewn her. Ellen, who could not pay for a lodging, and whose soul recoiled from associating with the herds of com­mon beggars who so frequently crossed her way, was therefore necessitated often to content herself with what accidental cover she could find, and which frequently amounted to nothing better than what a wall afforded, where, with her head upon [Page 201] her bundle, she often sought for that sleep which she could not find; and, sometimes, overcome with fatigue, even in this exposed and comfortless situation, slept soundly.

These frequent sleepings, exposed to the open air, or in situations little sheltered from the weather, made more substantial clothing necessary. She durst not part with the only piece of money which she was possessed of; for however she might hope she should receive the supply promised her by Mr. Raymond at Cologne, she was too prudent to act as if she were certain of it. Her mandoline she now found of little use to her: and she was therefore resolved to make that the first sacrifice. Its real value was small: and, in her present circumstances, she was not likely to get even that value for it. But she thought herself happy in exchanging it for a rug cloak, which made a part of her bundle in the day, and covered her warmly over at night.

Thus she passed through the heart of Germany, keeping on the north of the Mayne, and directing her course towards Frankfort. She found the little German which she at first possessed, very serviceable to her: and she daily increased her stock; so that she now found no difficulty in ex­plaining her wants. Indeed her difficulties did not lie in explaining, but in relieving them: and they every day became more numerous and dis­tressing. Her first pair of shoes were almost worn out. Her clothes grew thin: and though, from habit, she could now walk more miles in the course of a day, than she could, when first she set out, so long a continuance of hardships and fatigue began to have an effect upon her strength, and still more upon her spirits. The hope which had [Page 202] at first buoyed her up, began to subside: for as she reflected upon the distance there was still between her and England, she began to think it impossible, that her powers of struggling with the difficulties which surrounded her, would continue to her journey's end. A degree of despondency fol­lowed such thoughts: and this increased the very evils she feared. She endeavoured, however, to rouse herself; to awaken hope once more in her heart; and to derive all the comfort from her undiminished reliance on the goodness and wis­dom of Providence, which such reliance was cal­culated to afford. She adverted to the extraor­dinary circumstance of her having met with Mr. Raymond, and the assistance it was probable she should receive from him: and she was not un­willing to yield to the degree of superstition which induced her to believe this might be one mark of the superintendance of Providence, which, whe­ther evident or not, she never for a moment doubted.

Having revived her hopes, and strengthened her courage by such considerations as these, she pursued her way towards Frankfort, but following her original plan, she entered not that place, but turned aside to a village not far distant, where she arrived in somewhat less than a month from the time when she had entered Germany. Here she hesitated whether she should proceed to Mentz, and from thence attempt taking a passage on the Rhine. The ease this would be to her, was her strongest inducement: but she doubted whether the sale of all she was worth, would enable her to defray the expenses of her voyage: and the ques­tion recurring, what she should do, when thus without any resource, but the precarious one of [Page 203] charity during the rest of her journey, should she find herself disappointed of the promised supply at Cologne, determined her to trust to her feet some time longer. She directed her course, how­ever, as nearly as she could, towards the Rhine, thinking it prudent to be within reach of the only mode of conveyance, which her circumstances would allow her to avail herself of, however her strength might fail, or her health sink under her fatigue.

The romantic and highly cultivated country which this determination led her through, could not be viewed by Ellen, even in her present state of depression, without the livelist emotions of de­light. The picturesque situation of the villages, the striking forms of the hills, each crowned with a castle, the vineyards, the chesnut groves, all formed a scene such as she had never before wit­nessed, and which filled her mind with images of beauty perfectly new. She observed, however, the extreme inequality which a wine country pro­duces in its inhabitants, even of the same rank. And the splendid situation in which she saw some of the peasants, did not in her eyes compensate for the sight of the many poor people with which some of the villages swarmed. This was a coun­try, however, in which Ellen herself fared very well. She often gathered chesnuts enough to serve her for a meal, when no other was to be had: and wine she sometimes received gratis, and at others could purchase for a trifle. She found no difficulty in exchanging some of her linen, either for a little money, or for such food as was neces­sary for her. It was, however, with the greatest economy that she made use of this resource. But by the prudent management of that, never forget­ting [Page 204] the consideration of the future hour in the wants of the present, and of the other means which were in her power, she was enabled to move on prosperously, though slowly, towards her point. The beauties of the country lessened as she approached Cologne: and when she set her foot within that dark and ugly city, her heart sunk, from a mingled sensation of disgust and fear. To wander, unknown and unprotected, through the dismal and half deserted streets of this decay­ing place, where she was surrounded by falling and empty houses, appeared to her infinitely more dreary and depressing than all the thick forests and extended wilds which she had hitherto passed. She would have instantly quitted a place so unconge­nial with her feelings, and sought shelter in some of the numerous farm houses which surround its walls, and where she might have refreshed herself with milk and vegetables, had she not been eager to ascertain what she had to hope from the pro­mises of Mr. Raymond.

With some difficulty she inquired her way to the hotel, to which he had given her a direction; and soon found, with more grief than surprise, that there was no letter for her. The very pre­carious circumstances in which she had left Mr. Raymond sufficiently accounted for the breach of his promise to her: and without accusing him of any intentional deceit, or criminal neglect, she withdrew, congratulating herself upon the pru­dence with which she had husbanded her little store, and which she now found was to be her only dependance.

CHAP. XXIV.

AS she had en [...]red the hotel, she had observed two carriages, which seemed by their appearance, and the people who were employed about them, to belong to some traveller of distinction: but she had paid little attention to them. On her return, however, one of the servants stood so directly in her way, that she was obliged to stop till he removed. The moment he saw he was a hin­drance to any one, he made way with a civility which Ellen was conscious was not paid to her appearance. On her thanking him, he turned suddenly round, as if struck by the tone of her voice; when, what were her emotions when she knew him for the personal servant of Mr. Villars! The man marked not the confusion into which he had thrown her; for no sooner did his eyes sweep hastily over her dress, than he seemed to have abandoned the thought which had before suddenly occurred: and he returned to his business, which was disposing some parcels within the carriage, with undivided attention.

The effect that such an unexpected rencontre had upon Ellen, was so great, that for a moment she was unable to stir: but recollecting herself, she considered that she had no proof that this [Page 206] person was still in the service of Mr. Villars, and that if he were, there was nothing she ought more to avoid, than the disco [...]ring herself to him.— These thoughts made her remove from the place which she was in, as speedily as her trembling limbs would allow. But she felt it impossible to quit Cologne, without being assured whether or no Mr. Villars was there. She therefore took shelter in a baker's shop, which was immediately opposite the hotel, and where she hoped she might be allowed to remain, until the carriages moved off, especially as it was plain, from the bustle among the servants, that this would soon take place.

Many and divers were the thoughts which oc­cupied Ellen, as she watched from her retreat the motions of the people employed in making the necessary preparations for their departure. If the master of those servants should prove Mr. Villars, the desire of discovering herself to him, seemed almost irresistible. Her necessitous situation, the nearness of his relation to her, the perfect inno­cence which had always accompanied the whole of their intercourse, made her in one moment de­cide, that such substantial advantages as would ac­crue from her making herself known to him, were not to be sacrificed to punctilios and the fear of misconstruction. But the reflections of the next instant corrected this too flattering, but unjust conclusion. Whether she were ever again to live with Sir William, or whether she were to be re­gularly separated from him, her justification and her all of happiness in this life, would depend upon being able to clear every hour of her life from suspicion. Her return to England with Mr. Villars would make this impossible. Her sense of [Page 207] propriety also revolted from the idea of making the man, who had never ceased to be her lover, the first confidant of Si [...] William's jealousy and ill usage. A conversation between them on such a subject must place them equally in the most critical and embarrassing circumstances. It must unavoidably recal ideas and sentiments which nei­ther ought to feel and still less to avow. Regret and resentment must arise in the breasts of both, when canvassing the consequences of a marriage, which had broken asunder all the ties that love had formed between them: and it could hardly be supposed, that the lover would not be tempted to seek revenge for the injuries done to the ob­ject of his affections, where the natural relation which he held to her, would seem to give him a right to be the punisher of her oppressor.

Ellen saw she had but one resolution to take: but scarcely ever before had she found her will such a rebel to her reason. While she was en­gaged in these reflections, she observed, that a lady's maid was also busied about the carriages. Ellen's first thought, on seeing her, was, that she might have spared all her debatings. Henry was not near her; for Henry was not married. The next reminded her of the length of her absence from England, and of her ignorance of all that had taken place there during that period. This thought was followed by another. If he was mar­ried, all objection to making herself known to him would vanish. She stepped out of the shop with a design to make an enquiry of one of the servants, when her better reason caused her as hastily again to enter it. There was no doubt but that Mr. Villars believed her dead. It was un­certain what would be the effect upon him of her [Page 208] sudden appearance in such peculiar and afflicting circumstances. His emotions might be mistaken: and she might, by this [...]lfish act of gratification, introduce the fiend jealousy into the breast of a woman, who now believed herself happy in his undivided love. If the first wish of Ellen's heart had been, to make the happiness of Henry her­self; it had long given place to a second, little less fervent, that of seeing him happy with some worthy object, who, in deserving all his love, might possess, and return it. Probably he had now found such a one: and no personal inconvenience could weigh with Ellen against the slightest ha­zard of an interruption of their mutual happiness. She resolved, therefore, to give up every thought of discovering herself to him: but she waited in breathless impatience, and with an agitation not to be described, the moment which would clear up all her doubts. She waited not long. Scarcely had she decided to remain concealed, when the master of the carriage appeared. It was Henry himself! He was in deep mourning, and, lean­ing familiarly upon his arm, was a young genteel looking woman, in deep mourning also. Ellen's heart beat: she gasped for breath. Henry assisted his companion to get into the carriage: and im­mediately jumping after her, the door was shut, and they were driven away full speed. The other carriage drove up; two servants entered it; and with two others on horseback, followed the first carriage.

Ellen stood immoveably [...]ed, with her eyes eagerly following the whole train, until not a glimpse of them remained to be seen. Then burst­ing into tears, she hastily left the shop, almost unconscious that she had ever entered it, and [Page 209] wholly unknowing where she meant to go. A few moments brought her to her recollection. But such was the indescribable anguish which had seized her, that for some time she thought, in the varied vexations of her distressful life, she had never known so bitter a moment as the pre­sent. To have been obliged, in the helpless and wretched state she was in, to suffer him who would have been the softest soother of her sorrow, her warmest friend, her most strenuous protector, thus to depart unassistant to her wants, and un­conscious of her distress, pressed so heavily on her mind the severity of her fate, and shewed her to herself so far removed from all human aid, that, for a time, even her strong and well-disciplined mind was not able to bear up against such a weight of wretchedness. If Cologne had before ap­peared disgusting, it was now become insupportable. She hurried to get beyond its hated walls. The three classes of people, beggars, ecclesiastics, and nobles, into which its inhabitants are divided, were all alike indifferent to her: nor was the ug­liness or desolation of the city itself any longer objects of attention or soliloquy. Her mind con­tained but one idea: Henry carried rapidly from her when she most stood in need of his friendship and assistance. No other thought found admission into her mind. She felt, she saw, she thought of nothing else.

CHAP. XXV.

WHEN Ellen got again beyond the city walls, she seemed to breathe more freely: the tumult of her mind began to subside: she began to acknow­ledge, that no new misfortune had befallen her; that she was in no respect worse in consequence of what had happened; that Henry, placed be­yond the power of assisting by distance, or by si­tuation, was the same thing in effect; and that if she had been able to bear the one with patience, there was no reason why she should find the other intolerable.

Having thus restrained that power of imagi­nation, which is never indulged but to our hurt, with a recomposed mind she began once more to call a council of her own thoughts, as to what was the best method in which to proceed. Her fi­nances seemed to allow her little choice: and she resolved, keeping as near to the Rhine as possible, to make the best of her way to Nimeguen, and from thence to Helvoetsluys. But the days were now considerably shortened: a [...]d the proportional length of the nights made the trusting to any or no shelter, that might or might not be near when darkness came on, more formidable and grievous than ever. Ellen, therefore, often sound herself [Page 211] obliged to sacrifice what would have procured her a meal, to the now almost equally necessary com­fort of a lodging secured from the weather. She still avoided resting in any towns; and made her way from village to village, which, in the popu­lous and cultivated country which lies n [...] the Rhine, between Cologne and Nimeguen, she found it not difficult to do: nor had she reason to complain of want of humanity or charity in the people. Her gentle manners, her being a fo­reigner, and above all, the languor and melan­choly which had now too strongly taken posses­sion of every feature, seemed to plead irresistibly in her favour. To a night's lodging, and a bowl of milk in the morning, were often added, on dis­missing her, a few stivers, or a slice of bread which served for her dinner. The money she carefully hoarded; for her passage to England was perpe­tually in her mind, and the means when there, which she should take to arrive in Northum­berland.

In this manner and by slow degrees, she reached Nimeguen, without any material evil, or extraor­dinary adventure. It was at Nimeguen that she had crossed the Rhine, when she travelled with Sir William: and she was well acquainted with the different routes to be pursued, and the manners of the people in Holland. But she well knew the difference of situation in a country where nothing is to he had without money, between the wife of a rich Englishman of fashion, and a poor mendicant, whose very existence depended upon the charity of others. That country where a man pays for the few moments that his great coat lies upon a bench, cannot be very favourable to the wants of any individual, who does not contribute some­thing [Page 212] to the great stock of national wealth: and Ellen could not condemn the principle, which made a nation hard-hearted to beggars, whose very existence depended upon the industry of all. The little sustenance she took, she therefore con­trived to pay for: and as the cheapness of a convey­ance by the trechscuits enabled her to avail her­self of them, as a suspension of her hitherto never-ceasing fatigue, she reached Helvoetsluys easily and somewhat recruited in strength. Fortunately she arrived only a few hours before the sailing of a packet, in which she easily procured a passage, and at an expence proportionate the meanness of her appearance. The only passengers of any fashion were a gentleman and lady, who had few attendants, and appeared not to be rich. Both the lady and her only female servant were suf­ferers in the greatest degree from sea sickness: and as Ellen was happily free from all indisposi­tion, and the only woman besides themselves in the packet, she attended them, at the request of the lady's husband, in the cabin; and afforded them all the assistance and comfort in her power. The passage was prosperous, and not of the longest kind: and when they landed, the gentle­man, in consideration of Ellen's cheerful attend­ance upon his wife, and judging by her clothes, that she was by no means above receiving a small gratuity, gave her, before they parted, five shil­lings.

Ellen was now in England. But the emotion with which she once again put her foot upon her native land, after so long and so disastrous an ab­sence, were not those of unmixed joy, or even of very cheerful hopes. During her tedious and difficult journey, she had seldom had leisure, from [Page 213] the pressing wants of the passing hour, to turn her thoughts upon the fate which might await her, if ever she should so far surmount those wants as to accomplish the purpose she had in hand. But now, when nearly all her difficulties were over, and her necessities drawing to a conclusion, the situation which she should find her friends and family in, with what might be the resolutions that circumstances, or the requisitions of Sir William might call for on her part, filled her mind with anxiety and dread. So far from knowing what to hope, she knew not what to wish: and if the idea of being regularly separated from Sir William, and being allowed to live unmolested with her father, by occurring the most frequently to her imagination, seemed to say that this was really what would be most acceptable to her; there were so many considerations which checked the rising desire, that it amounted not to a wish.

She had a child! (at least she hoped she had) and for the sake of this child she would have con­sented to have been placed in a situation much more repugnant to her feelings than a re-union with Sir William would place her in. Even of Sir William's conduct towards her, she was cau­tious of forming a too decided opinion: and if it could be proved, that he had been mistaken, and not malicious, she felt nothing within her unre­sentful heart, which should prevent her endea­vouring, by a life of duty and affection, to obli­terate from the minds of both all the misery which they had mutually caused each other.

It was impossible not to think of these things. It was impossible that thinking of them should not sink her to the lowest degree of sadness: but [Page 214] it was equally impossible, that she should form one probable conjecture, how she should in future be induced to act. Her impatience, however, to bring her fate to an issue, increased to a feeling of the most painful kind. But, although in Eng­land, she was still more than two hundred miles from that home where she could alone be sure of a kind reception, or where she could inform her­self of those circumstances upon which the con­duct of her future life must depend. To appear as a beggar in a country, the laws of which pro­vide so amply for the wants of the indigent, as at first sight seemed to render it impossible that vice and beggary should be disjoined, and where those very laws, acting as it were upon this supposition, make the very act of asking charity criminal, and assign a punishment for it, was a situation which to Ellen appeared intolerable. The seasonable sup [...]ly of the five shillings given her by the gen­t [...]man, rescued her from a necessity, to which, however, she must otherwise have submitted.

She had, indeed, during the sad reflections which occupied her mind on this subject, during her passage from Holland, debated whether she should not, on her arrival in England, make her case known to some magistrate: and it is probable she would have had recourse to this method, ra­ther than have appeared in the character of a va­gabond, had she continued as entirely destitute as she was previous to the gift of the five shillings. But she was very thankful to be saved from this extremity: since, resolute not to have told a false tale, she must have been obliged, both against her inclination and judgment, to have told at least so much of the truth, as might have led to disco­veries, which, she was sensible, ought to be made [Page 215] only to her nearest relations, and most assured friends; so seasonable and so important was a gift, in itself so small, that probably the giver would scarcely place it, in balancing his account, on the side of charity. With these five shillings, which had proved a mine of wealth to Ellen, and by the [...]ale of almost every thing she possessed, except the miserable clothes she wore, Ellen was ena­bled to procure a passage in a coasting vessel, which was to sail the next day for Newcastle, and also to provide for her sustenance on the voyage.

CHAP. XXVI.

NOTWITHSTANDING the lateness of the season, the passage proved a happy and tolerably short one: and Ellen at length beheld herself landed within thirty miles of Groby Manor. But she was now absolutely pennyless, nor did she possess a single article of clothes, for which, in the opulent and money-getting town of Newcastle, she would have been able to have found a purchaser. Her ob­jections to appearing as a common beggar, seek­ing her bread from door to door, were as strong in Northumberland as in Essex, and the fear of applying to any person in any of the higher ranks of life still stronger. It appeared impossible to her, that she should be able to tell such a story as would entitle her to any thing beyond the most common relief, to any person in her own coun­try, without leading to questions, which would either involve her in falsehood, or lead to the discovery of too much truth. One valuable she was still possessed of: this was her wedding-ring: and though it had only been the seal of misery to her, she felt an extreme reluctance to parting with it. But scruples and sorrows founded only in imagination, she was in the habit of subduing. Her reason acknowledged that the giving up her [Page 217] wedding-ring was the most eligible method of sup­plying her present wants of any in her power. She was within a few yards of a silversmith's shop. She turned towards it. She stopt for a moment at the door. She dreaded to encounter the curiosity she was aware the application she was about to make would excite. She hesitated. The same thoughts passed through her mind. But now compelled by the conviction, that every other way to relieve her distress, was still more objectionable, than this, she entered the shop. She entered it however with a look of so much embarrassment and irresolution, as drew on her the notice of the man who kept it. It was not until he had enquired twice in words, and with a manner perfectly civil, what she wanted, that she had courage enough to advance towards him. Then taking off her worn-out glove, and drawing her ring from her finger, she said, with hesitation, 'If, Sir, you will let me have three shillings, or half a crown, upon this ring, I should think my­self much obliged to you.' She saw the man's eyes fixed instantly upon her hand, the whiteness of which, with the delicacy of its form, ill ac­corded with the shabbiness of her garments, and the distress her present application indicated. 'I am not accustomed to take pawns, Madam,' said the man. 'Perhaps then,' replied Ellen, 'you would give me the value of its weight, Sir?' 'It must distress you, Madam, to part with your wed­ding-ring,' returned he, looking earnestly in her face. 'I would not willingly part with it en­tirely,' said Ellen: 'If therefore you would be kind enough not to dispose of it for a few days, I should take it as a favour. In less than a week I [Page 218] hope to be able to repurchase it.' 'No, Madam, [...]aid the man, 'I will not take your ring. You are so like a lady who is dead, and who was al­ways better than her word, that I will take yours for so small a sum as this,' laying down five shil­lings, 'and if I should lose it, I will think it is given to that lady, and I shall be very well satis­fied.' Ellen, astonished and embarrassed, thought herself discovered; and, eager to remove from the earnest scrutiny of her new friend, hastily took up the money; and saying, 'I am indeed extremely obliged to you, Sir, I will take care not to dis­credit your friend,' she hastened out of the shop: she saw that the man followed her to the door of it, and attentively watched her. She therefore turned, as soon as she could, into another street, and with a beating heart and trembling limbs, took shelter in the first shop that presented itself, which could afford her any refreshment. Here, as she purchased some rolls, her thoughts were busily employed in endeavouring to recollect the features of the silversmith, who, she was per­suaded, must have seen her before, and whom, it was probable that in her happier days she had befriended. Suddenly the remembrance of the grandson of old Deborah crossed her mind: and in the kind relief just now granted her, she re­cognised the gratitude and worth of that honest young man. Cheered by the recollection of an act of benevolence, which, from the seasonable return it had produced, seemed to have placed her in a particular manner under the protection of Providence, Ellen pursued her way with a mingled sensation of delight and hope, which had long been a stranger to her bosom. The five or [Page 219] six and twenty miles which now lay between her and the haven where she hoped to repose, after all her sufferings, however it might have appeared six years ago as a gulph not to be passed by her, in circumstances like the present, now seemed little more than a needle's point. She felt no difficulty. She apprehended no danger. She thought every object familiar to her. She imagined that she must know every face that she passed; and almost expected to be called by her name by every per­son she met. The day, however, was somewhat advanced, and night came on, when she was still sixteen miles from Groby Manor: she easily pro­cured herself a decent and comfortable accommo­nation for the night (for she was now rich, and could pay sumptuously for what she wanted): but sleep, which had often visited her under the im­perfect shelter of a wall, or when exposed to the droppings of a tree, now fled the warm comforts of her present chamber. The thoughts of the next day filled her mind, and held her eyes waking. She arose with the first rays of light, and resumed her journey.

It was a bright frosty morning, in the begin­ning of October; all nature looked chearful, and Ellen's heart, which still retained the impressions she had received in the silversmith's shop the day before, partook of the cheerfulness around her. As she walked forward, these sensations subsided; and gave place to the fears which the probable changes that had taken place during the last four years in the home to which she was returning, naturally gave rise to. The day passed on. Ellen drew every hour nearer to that spot, where alone, in the whole course of her life, she had known [Page 220] happiness, and where only she could hope, if ever happiness were to be hers again, to find it. Her emotions increased every step she advanced. Sometimes she was obliged to stop for the re­freshment which the failing powers made neces­sary; at others to remain a few moments mo­tionless where she was, without the power of seeking any.

CHAP. XXVII.

THE evening approached; and the distant chimnies of Groby Manor appeared. 'If time,' said Ellen, 'has not changed the habits of the dear inhabitants of that beloved mansion, this is the hour when they are about to assemble round the social tea board. Now the evening music, or the evening lecture begins. Oh! beloved friends! there awaits you an interruption to your pleasures, which will be infinitely dearer to you than them all.' Ellen said this, as she began to ascend the hill which led by gentle windings to the house. She had determined to approach it on that side which looked upon the valley leading to the parsonage, and to make her entrance, if she could, through the windows of the common sitting-room which opened from the ground: there it was likely that some, if not all the family would be assembled: and [...] the sun was not yet set, she [Page 222] did not fear finding her entrance barred. The tumult of her mind was such, that her designs might rather be called impulse than reasoning: and as she ascended the hill, her limbs could hardly support her trembling frame. She reached the top. She drew near the house. A plane tree was placed so near one of the windows, as to prevent all objects beyond it from being seen from thence. It was on this side that Ellen ap­proached. The window immediately behind the plane tree was open: Ellen intended, or thought she intended, entering through it. She advanced. Her tremblings increased. She was obliged to support herself against the trunk of the plane tree. She heard the sound of an instrument. She could see within the room; she looked; at the harpsichord sat the very lady whom she had seen accompanying Mr. Villars six weeks before into his chaise at Cologne. Mr. Villars himself was at that moment behind her chair: and hanging upon her gown was a playful little girl. In ano­ther part of the room, sat Mrs. Raymond at work, and near her Mr. Mordaunt, and two young girls, who were also at work. Ellen remained speechless, motionless, and gazing intently upon what she saw, and yet unconscious that she saw any thing. Every faculty was suspended. A temporary stupor had seized her.

At this moment, one of the girls raising her head from her work, saw a figure under the plane tree. 'Who's there?' said she, in a voice of affright. 'It is I,' said Ellen; and sprang for­ward: but could do no more: she sunk lifeless on the window frame—'What sounds are those?' cried Henry. H [...] [...]shed toward her. He raised her in his arms. 'It is—Oh heavens! [Page 223] is this my Ellen?' 'Ellen,' said the astonished and bewildered father, 'Gracious God! hast thou suffered her to leave thy mansions of bliss, to comfort her afflicted parent?'

Ellen was laid upon a sofa; but she continued senseless; nor were those who continued gazing round her more conscious of existence than her­self. One of the young people, less interested than the rest in the scene before her, ran for as­sistance. The room was presently filled with servants. Ellen began to revive. Henry kneel­ing before her, had seized both her hands. 'I have found her; I have again found her,' repeated he; 'and no power on earth shall part us more.' Ellen heard him not; she saw him not: she saw only her father; and with a sudden motion threw herself at his feet. He clasped her in his arms. 'It is herself! she is alive! Oh! blessed God! what wonders are these!' Although Ellen's worn-down frame was little able to support such violent and affecting emotions, yet, being prepared for the scene, she was the first to recover some degree of composure. 'I am indeed restored to you,' said she, 'by little less than a miracle. Let us not, by our own vehemence, make vain all that God has done for us;' and looking around her, she seemed to de­mand whether she saw all the family that time and absence had spared. Her father pressed her to his heart. 'You will see your sisters. They are married; they are happy. But your mother —(let us not repine)—instead of a mother's em­braces, receive those of your daughter.' 'My daughter!' said Ellen rapturously, 'is this my daughter?' The lovely child was already in her arms. 'Dearest infant!' said Ellen: and, over­come by the pai [...]ess of her [...]ollections, a [Page 224] rising sob checked her voice, and she burst into tears. 'Then you, Madam,' said she, as soon as she could again speak, and addressing herself to the young lady whom she had seen at the harpsichord, 'then you, Madam, are not the mother of this beloved baby?' 'Her mother!' returned the lady: 'how cruel has fortune been, thus to make strangers of such near relations.' 'She is my sister,' cried Henry, 'my youngest sister, the ex­act image of my Ellen, the darling of my heart.'

There was a question which Ellen longed to ask, yet knew not how. The manner and words of Henry, so different from any he had ever used since she became a wife, suggested a thought, which she knew not how to express; and by the variety of emotions it excited, pressed upon her heart with a weight which was intolerable. She threw herself into her father's arms, and, hiding her face in his bosom, 'Oh! my father,' said she, 'where is Sir William Ackland? Where is my husband?' 'Be composed, dearest creature,' said Mr. Mordaunt. 'It is perhaps happy for us all, that he can no longer answer for his conduct in this world.' Ellen became suddenly sick. 'Let me retire, I beseech you,' said she. Poor unhappy man!' (tears running down her cheeks) 'mis­taken, or cruel, I equally pity you.' Mrs. Ray­mond and Mr. Mordaunt withdrew with Ellen: and Henry accompanied her to the door of Mrs. Raymond's room, carrying the little girl in his arms, from whom Ellen could not bear to be se­parated a single moment. Ellen was unable to support herself any longer: and, at her own re­quest, she was put to bed, and all parties being in possession of the great outlines of those events which it most concerned t [...] to know, all far­ther [Page 225] explanation was, by mutual consent, deferred. Mrs. Raymond could not consent to quit Ellen's bed-side during the night, in spite of her remon­strances, who told her, smiling, she was much more accustomed to be left wholly to her own care, than she could be to spend a night in watch­ing. 'In this bed, in this room,' added she, 'with a table covered as that is, with every thing that can tempt the appetite, or mitigate the pains of sickness, I am much more likely to be sleepless from astonishment, than from any fear or want of accommodation.'

Mrs. Raymond, who could not feel the full force of this observation, yet understood enough of it to be unable to restrain her tears, at the thoughts of the former hardships to which Ellen alluded. 'It seems so impossible,' returned she, weeping, 'that you should be really here, that were I to leave you for a moment, I should not expect to find you on my return.'

Henry was no sooner apprised by Mr. Mor­daunt, that he must not hope to see Ellen that night, than he set off to the parsonage. The tale he had to tell, was so beyond all credibility, that his friends there for some minutes believed him raving. But seeing nothing in his looks or man­ner to confirm such an opinion, their feelings be­came little less agitated than his own. The fact which he so constantly averred, that Ellen was alive, and at Groby Manor, he pretended not to account for or explain: and though they began to be convinced that he doubted not the truth of what he said, yet they could not persuade them­selves, that he was not by some means deceived. They resolved, therefore, to verify his words by the [Page 226] evidence of their own senses: and, late as it was, Mr. and Mrs. Thornton, and Mary, who (although she had been married a twelvemonth) still conti­nued at the parsonage, resolved to accompany him to Groby Manor. Mr. Mordaunt had taken his station in a corner of Ellen's bed-chamber: for to separate from her he found to be impossible: and he thought the loss of sleep amply recompensed by seeing her breathe, and sometimes hearing her speak. Miss Villars and the two young Ray­monds were in the parlour, waiting the return of Henry. They confirmed to the wondering Thorn­tons the events of the evening: and their mutual joy and astonishment, with the variety of excla­mations and conjectures that engaged them, so perfectly banished all desire of sleep and rest from the whole party, that it was determined they should sit up together for the remainder of the night. Henry and Mary often stole gently to the door of Ellen's room. They listened. All was quiet. They hoped she slept. They returned to the parlour to communicate their hopes to their friends; and then again crept to the door to con­firm them to themselves. Ellen, however, was sleepless: but the quiet she imposed on herself enabled her to collect her thoughts, and to pre­pare for the renewed emotions of the next day.

CHAP. XXVIII.

THE next day at length came: and Ellen found her bed insupportably irksome to her. She could no longer delay the knowledge of a thousand particulars so interesting to her, and so important to her happiness: nor was the impatience of her friends much less than her own. Mrs. Raymond furnished her with clothes; for whatever Ellen could have done, none of her family would have borne to have seen her in those tattered and worn-out garments, which were such painful indications of the hardships she had suffered.

The result of the reflections suggested through the whole of Ellen's wakeful night, had been a determination to learn from her father, in a con­versation between themselves, all the circumstances attendant on Sir William's death, and the actual situation of Henry; it having appeared plainly to her, in the few words which she had yet heard him utter, that his sentiments towards her were the same as ever, and that his hopes of possessing her, were now again risen as high as in the hap­piest days of their mutual affection. But Ellen had too long been accustomed to place the curb of reason upon her wishes, to suffer them alone to influence her actions. She had long ceased to consider Henry as her lover: but she had never [Page 228] ceased to entertain for him that friendship, which his virtues and his love towards her so well de­served. If affliction had subdued her passions, it had awakened her affections. She was now a mother: and she felt that no consideration on earth could tempt her to any act which might, in its remotest consequences, be prejudicial to that dear infant, so newly found and so highly che­rished. If, in her early youth, she had yielded her partiality for the man of her choice, to a sense of the duty he owed his parent, she well knew now how to make it submit to that which she owed her child. But it was possible that duty and in­clination might at length agree. Ellen's heart flattered her at the thought: but she suffered it not to rise into a wish. She would have no wish on this subject unsanctioned by her father.

Ellen was scarcely dressed, when she desired to see him: and the enraptured, yet anxious parent, flew to obey her summons. She begged Mrs. Raymond would leave them together: but she placed her little girl upon her knees. 'I cannot fear,' said Ellen to herself, 'any faulty impulse of my heart, while I hold to it this pledge and reward of its rectitude.' As Mr. Mordaunt viewed the languid and travel-worn figure of El­len, as he considered the paleness of her cheek, and the heaviness of her eye, his emotions almost choaked him. 'Oh! my child,' said he, 'what must you not have suffered, and for what?' 'Tell me, my father,' said Ellen, 'how long you have supposed me dead?' 'We were taught to believe you died in bringing that infant into the world.' 'And did Sir William appear afflicted for my loss? and where and how has he lived since? and, above all, did he not in dying give [Page 229] you some reason to suppose I existed?' 'He did not return to England till a twelvemonth after your supposed death; and then for the sole pur­pose of placing his child under the care of a rela­tion of his mother's: and it was not until after I had repeatedly urged him, by every motive I could imagine, to afford me the satisfaction of seeing him, that I could prevail upon him to make me a visit. I was then attending your mother in her last illness: I could not go to him. He re­mained here only two days, and appeared the most wretched of men. I repented that any conside­ration for self had induced me to force him into a visit which seemed so painful to him. Yet there was something in his grief which ill ac­corded with mine. It had more of fury and des­peration in it than softness. Once, and only once, I attempted to lead him to speak of you. He started from his chair, "Oh! name her not, she has undone me! she has ruined my peace for ever! Worthy old man," continued he, "you know not how fatal a gift you bestowed, when you gave me your daughter!" I believed the violence of these expressions to be the ravings of grief for a loss, which my own sufferings told me mu [...]t to a husband be almost past endurance. I entreated he would let me see my grandchild, the sole remains of Ellen. "She is not like her," returned he. "She does not bear her name. She will not, I hope, bear her features." 'Oh! I hope she will,' returned I fondly: 'and in time, Sir William you will find comfort in what now, perhaps, might be too lively an emblem of what you have lost.' He seemed almost convulsed with passion: "No more," said he, "if you would not drive me to madness." I sought to soothe [Page 230] him: and most carefully, during the short time he afterwards staid with me, did I avoid a sub­ject which I now saw he could not bear. He re­mained some months in London: and I heard from every one of the deep shade of grief which was impressed on his behaviour and countenance. He quitted England the following spring, and re­turned to it no more. Four months are scarcely past since he died suddenly, with no previous ill­ness, at Vienna. I was informed of the event by a Bohemian nobleman, whom I understood to have been Sir William's intimate friend. There were some words in this gentleman's letter, of which I never, until now, could guess the mean­ing, but which must certainly have alluded to the unhappy mistake, from which my beloved child must have suffered so much, and which appears to have made Sir William's life entirely wretched. These words seemed to intimate, that had Sir William been allowed any time for death-bed re­flections, he might have been induced to have mi­tigated the severity of some determination, the jus­tice of which had not been sufficient to satisfy him under the rigour of it. I considered this intima­tion merely as a sort of apology for some action of Sir William's which might some time probably come to my knowledge, which his friend was conscious would stand in need of one.'

'I found,' continued Mr. Mordaunt, for Ellen broke not in upon his discourse, 'that the guar­dians appointed to your dear infant were people unknown to me, and wholly unconnected with my family: and it seemed as if Sir William wished to keep her as far apart from every one of us as pos­sible. But my heart longed to see her: and our dear Henry, who has been my guardian-angel under [Page 231] all my troubles, and is now the support of my declining age, procured me this blessing, as he has done many others. He prevailed upon the lady with whom she is placed, to trust her to the care of his sister and himself, when they were about to make a visit to Northumberland: they have been with me ten days: and there has not been an hour in any one of these days, in which Henry and I have not soothed our never-ceasing regret, by endeavouring to trace your features in the lineaments of that infant's face.'

Ellen felt that her heart was not indifferent to this panegyric upon Henry. 'And Lord Villars,' asked she, 'does he still pursue the same projects of ambition and avarice, so often defeated but never given up?' 'Lord Villars,' repeated Mr. Mordaunt,' 'do you not know—but alas! you cannot know—there is now no other Lord Villars than Henry.' 'Gracious heaven!' said Ellen; and her pale cheek became still paler. 'He died of a liver complaint about three months ago,' con­tinued Mr. Mordaunt. 'His death was foreseen: and Henry crossed the channel to bring home his sister, who had been some time abroad with Lady Edwards: but Lord Villars died before they could return, before indeed Henry had reached the place where his sister then was. Since his return to England, he has been wholly taken up with his family affairs: and it was not 'till within these ten days, that he had leisure to give me, what he knows to be my best comfort, his dearly beloved society.' 'But, dear sir,' said Ellen, 'my brother, what of him, does he afford you no com­fort?' 'None, Ellen, none. He and lady Al­meria have no relish for the shades of a northern [Page 232] retirement, or for the society of an old man, though that man is their father. Their life is one unvaried round of dissipation and expence: and the only satisfaction I reap from their union is, some times the company of some of their children, of which they have three.' 'My sisters?' said Ellen. 'Are happily, though not splendidly, married. They are both settled in this country; and do every thing in their power to make my old age comfortable. My daughter Raymond and her two girls are kind and good to me. And now,' cried he, clasping her in his arms, 'since I once again embrace my Ellen, there is nothing this world has more to give.' 'And I,' said Ellen, 'if I can bless the declining years of my father, and guard the opening dawn of this dear child, what more shall I have to ask in this world?' 'Oh! my Ellen," returned the delighted parent, 'you have much more to ask, and much more to do. You have to reward, I will not say the con­stancy, for that may be objectionable, but the virtues of our Henry. Happiness too is in long arrears to you: and you may now reasonably ask for payment.' 'But can I,' said Ellen, 'give my child another parent? Can I hazard her welfare on the shock of interests, so often the consequence of a second connexion?' 'Who would you sooner choose for a parent to your child,' returned Mr. Mordaunt smiling, 'than Henry? Who would you rather make the guardian of your dearest interest than him? But I leave him to plead his own cause. My Ellen must have un­dergone a wonderful metamorphosis, indeed, if she find in her breast any impediment to his wishes from mistaken delicacy, or weak punctilio: and [Page 233] every reason must be on his side. And now, my dearest, let us go down together. I am im­patient to hear your story: but I will not detain you from your friends, whose tender interest in all that concerns you, kept them waking the whole night, and who are as impatient to see and hear you as myself.'

CHAP. XXIX.

ELLEN arose: but she was surprised, when she came to move, to find herself so enfeebled and trembling, that she could not but suppose, had her journey been prolonged one other day, she must have sunk under the fatigue. But she re­collected not how much more the emotions of the mind exhaust the strength than any labours of the body. What she had undergone, since her arri­val in Northumberland, had contributed more to­wards the destruction of her bodily powers, than all the hardships to which a pilgrimage of more than eight hundred miles had exposed her.

No sooner was the door of her chamber heard to open by her listening friends below, than Henry flew up stairs: and seeing her inability to support herself, and that Mr. Mordaunt tottered with her weight, 'Let me support you, my dearest cousin,' said he. 'It is a relation's office, which you will not deny me.' Ellen, almost sinking, suffered him to put his arms round her; but he was seized [Page 235] with so violent a sit of trembling, that he was obliged for a moment to support both himself and her by leaning against the wall. Ellen had been apprised, that th [...] Thorntons were below: and they, therefore, having no fear of her suffering from the surprise of their sudden appearance, could no longer restrain their impatience, but has­tily followed Henry up stairs. It was fortunate they did so: for so great had his emotion become, that he could not have supported Ellen another moment. Mr. Thornton clasped his arms round her: the beloved Mary received her sinking head upon her bosom; while Mrs. Thornton, half frantic with her joy, deluged her with perfumed water one moment, and stifled her with caresses the next. A moment's consideration convinced them all, that Ellen was unfit to be removed down stairs. They therefore agreed to assemble in Mr. Mor­daunt's library, which was immediately opposite the bed chamber assigned to Ellen. Henry could not, however, prevail upon himself again to quit her: and having regained steadier nerves, he car­ried her, with the assistance of Mr. Thornton, into the library, where being laid upon a sofa, a few moments sufficed to recompose her mind.

'I could not have suspected myself of so much debility,' said she smiling, 'and when I come to tell you what I have been doing for the last three months, you will agree with me, that I have little right to such fine lady-like airs.' 'Oh!' cried Henry fervently, 'you are weak. We all are weak from feelings no fine lady ever knew.' In­deed the groupe who were now gathered round Ellen, seemed to have forgotten all consideration of self, in the thoughts of the beloved object they encircled. Mr. Mordaunt had drawn a low stool [Page 236] close to the sofa; and held Ellen's hands in his. Henry was leaning over the back of it, with his eyes intently fixed upon her face. Mary was upon her knees, pressing close up between Mr. Mordaunt and Ellen; while the rest of the party had disposed of themselves into a kind of outward circle, and all were alike emulative of the pleasure of administering to Ellen's wants. One idea seemed to prevail with them all, that the miseries she had suffered, and the hardships she had under­gone, called for every indemnification in their power. Ellen had scarcely any voice, and, bathed in tears, was unable to look up. 'I have not,' said she, in broken and interrupted accents, 'in all my sorrows, shed so many tears from grief, as I now shed from joy. But indeed I must not indulge myself. I must shake off this weakness. Yet who can wonder that the sense of the mercies I have received, is so overcoming?'

Impatient as the whole circle were to be ac­quainted with the every particular of Ellen's fate, they all, with one voice, declared against the indul­gence of their curiosity 'till she was somewhat [...]ore restored to composure. But she was aware, that this would never be, while she had so inte­resting a story to relate. 'Believe me,' said she, 'that nothing is so likely to hush these contending feelings as the dullness of narrative. I shall per­haps fatigue myself with the length of my story: but such fatigue will be salutary. I want sleep. Mine has been long broken, and for the two last nights wholly interrupted. If I can talk myself to sleep, there is nothing from which I shall re­ceive so much benefit: and to sleep, while I have such a story to tell, is impossible.'

The party drew closer round her: and Henry, [Page 237] half invited, found a seat on the sofa, at her feet, as, supported by pillows, she changed her posture from that of lying down to a sitting one. It can­not be doubted what were the emotions with which Ellen was listened to. Pity, admiration, grief, indignation, and astonishment, succeeded each other: but when she came to relate the cir­cumstance which seemed to have sealed her fate, and of which being absolutely ignorant, she was at a loss whether to impute it to mistake, or contri­vance, Henry, in an agony he could not restrain, threw himself on his knees before her. 'Oh! my Ellen,' cried he, grasping her hands, 'my suffering, my ever-beloved Ellen, do not, do not hate me! I am the wretch who have undone you. I conducted you to that hateful prison. I closed its doors upon you. Your agonizing days, your sleepless nights, were all the gift of my hand. But, Oh! if you cannot pardon me, do not, do not hate me.' 'Oh! Henry,' replied Ellen, gently returning the pressure of his hand, 'be assured I never entertained a sentiment of hatred, even to­wards the real author of my sufferings. How then should I hate you?' 'And can you forgive me? And do you call me your dear Henry? Mr. Thornton pray for me: I shall not keep my senses.' 'Nor,' said Mr. Thornton fervently, 'suffer Ellen to keep hers. Can you admire the strength of mind, which has supported her through▪ such trying scenes, and yet desert yourself so pi­tiably?' 'But I was not tried with joy,' said Ellen, holding out her hands towards Henry (who had hastily let them go, on hearing Mr. Thornton's rebuke), 'and those, who have felt them both, know how much more difficult it is to bear joy [Page 238] than sorrow.' Henry's tears rolled down his cheeks. He endeavoured to conceal his face as he stooped to kiss again and again the dear hands he held. 'Say,' cried he, in accents scarcely ar­ticulate, 'say you forgive me for all my faults.' 'Let us not talk of forgiveness,' returned Ellen: 'and but this once suffer me to assure you, that you have lightened my heart of the single remain­ing weight that oppressed it, by clearing the me­mory of a man whom I would not condemn from the imputation of the only act of villainy with which I could charge him. It is easy to pardon injuries originating in mistake, and a mistake too, which I understand has cost the unhappy person so deceived still more than it has cost me.' Henry then explained how fatally his scrupulous atten­tion to the delicacy and peace of Ellen had suc­ceeded. He remembered the contents of lady Almeria's note; though he could not at that dis­tance of time call to mind the exact terms of it, upon which Sir William's mistake was grounded. The good heart of Mr. Mordaunt rejoiced equally with Ellen's, that there was so strong an appear­ance of impropriety in the conduct of Henry, as to justify the confirmation it had given to those injurious suspicions which had, however, been before most unjustifiably taken up. Without such an apology, Sir William must have appeared one of the worst of men. But neither Mr. Mordaunt, nor the christian Mr. Thornton, much less could Henry, admit of any excuse for the method he had taken to gratify his revenge, nor the right he had assumed to himself of so cruelly punishing offences for which the laws of his country have appointed a much less severe chastisement. Nor will it be expected that the females of the party were more [Page 239] favourable to so illegal a proceeding: and Ellen, though she did not choose to join in the condem­nation, entered not into defence of a conduct which she considered as indefensible. In men­tioning the adventure in the ruined monastery, she carefully avoided mentioning the name of Mr. Raymond, though she expatiated on the happy circumstance it had proved to her, in procuring her the ducat, which she had found of so much use. It was with the greatest emotion that she re­lated what she had felt on the sight of Henry at Cologne. 'And could you, did you,' echoed from every mouth, in such 'circumstances, in such distress, could you suffer him to depart without making yourself known to him?' 'What could I do?' cried Ellen, in a tone of self-defence. 'What power on earth could have convinced Sir William of my innocence, had I returned to England with Henry? And would you have had me barter my reputation, and my only chance of happiness, for an escape from hardships which I had already proved not to be insupportable? But God only knows what it cost me to make the choice I did!' 'The choice!' said Mr. Mordaunt rapturously, 'the choice was like yourself. It was the result of the purest principle and the steadiest reason. But this story will kill us all. For God's sake make haste to arrive in England, or I too shall incur Mr. Thornton's censure; for my brain will hardly bear it.' 'Mr. Thornton,' said mrs. Thornton, sobbing, 'has little reason to reproach you. Look at him; did you ever see him so moved before?' 'Oh! who would not be moved,' said Mr. Thornton, 'at such a proof of the strength of rectitude, and the power of reason? And yet, wonderful as it appears, it is [Page 240] in the power of every one to whom God has given common understanding, and has not cursed with unnatural depravity, to act as uprightly and heroi­cally as Ellen has done. All the rest is the result of cultivation, or self discipline, and of a continued habit of referring all our actions to principle.' 'My ever dear preceptor,' said Ellen, 'if I have been able to act rightly, I owe it to you, to my dear mrs. Thornton, to my father; but chiefly I will say to you, who, never sparing of your praise when I deserved commendation, gave it always with the same judgment you have now done; and by convincing me the path of virtue was practica­ble to all, made me ashamed to represent it to myself as difficult.' Henry could not speak: he sat with his face rested upon the arm of the sofa, in a state of emotion that shook his whole frame. He heard not mr. Thornton's moral. He gave no credit to the easy practicability of such virtues as Ellen's. He thought her an angel, and that it was scarcely among her fellow angels that she was to be equalled. Ellen hastened to conclude a narrative, the circumstances of which so deeply affected her auditors. She was happy to have the task over; and felt herself more capable of com­posure and rest when it was done. She now learnt, what from the multiplicity of events each side had to communicate, had hitherto remained untold; that the unhappy Mr. Raymond had met the fate his vices provoked; and that instead of the safe retreat he had promised himself in Swit­zerland, the vengeance of an injured family had overtaken him in a few days from the time when Ellen had left him. Refusing to subm [...]t to the officers of justice, who were employed to secure him, he had attempted a defence, impossible to [Page 241] be made good, but which was conducted with so much violence and danger to his opponents, as had obliged them to attempt subduing him by means as desperate as those he had used in his de­fence. In this struggle he had received wounds which proved mortal in a few days. His death had put Mrs. Raymond in possession of a small jointure; and had secured to his daughters the few thousand pounds which had been settled upon them. Ellen now revealed, that it was to Mr. Raymond that she owed the seasonable relief which she had before mentioned; and expatiated on the earnest desire that he had shewn of being farther serviceable to her. To hear of such praise-worthy dispositions in a man whom she had once loved, was very acceptable to Mrs. Raymond. But as ill usage had long ago worn out her affection for him; his death had rather shocked than afflicted her: and in the present happier prospects of her family, she soon learnt to consider it rather as a release than a misfortune. Ellen's two other sisters joined the happy party at Groby Manor the next day; and most unfeignedly partook of the joy that reigned there. In a few days, Ellen recovered her usual serenity of mind: and in a few weeks she was perfectly restored to bloom and health.

CHAP. XXX.

AND now what avails it to prolong a narra­tive, the conclusion of which is already antici­pated? Opposed by no one duty, supported by her own wishes, sanctioned by the authority of a parent, can it be supposed that Henry's revived claim to the hand and heart of Ellen was disal­lowed? Yet did she feel an unspeakable reluctance to becoming his wife, until her reputation was as spotless as her life. Her return to existence must of necessity be known; and with it must be known the suspicions which had so long held her in seclu­sion from the world. The death of Sir William made her vindication difficult; since no one could be assured of her innocence, but those who would naturally screen her guilt. The most unequivocal testimony was that of the Bohemian nobleman, and to him it was resolved to apply; Henry de­termining that if the matter could not be settled satisfactorily by letter, he would himself take a journey to Vienna. Mr. Mordaunt drew up a plain statement of all the facts upon which he had reason to think Sir William had grounded Ellen's condemnation: lady Almeria's testimony on those which had seemingly been such unequivocal marks [Page 243] of her guilt was added thereto: and the nobleman was entreated to declare, whether Sir William laid any thing more to her charge than this ex­planation obviated. The natural eloquence of a parent trembling for the reputation of his child, gave an energy to Mr. Mordaunt's entreaties and remonstrances, which must have affected any heart not wholly callous. The heart of the Bo­hemian was not of this nature. He had long en­tertained doubts of the guilt of a woman to whose excellencies Sir William's never-ceasing regrets had done reluctant justice: and since her escape, he had received such proofs from Mrs. Ulric of the purity of her mind and the goodness of her principles, as had well prepared him for the vin­dication of her conduct which he now received. The answer he returned was the most satisfactory possible.

He informed Mr. Mordaunt, that Sir William himself had frequently declared, in the last months of his life, that, were it possible, he could have been mistaken in what his own senses had wit­nessed, he should be persuaded he had wronged the unfortunate Ellen; that remorse for the severity of the punishment he had inflicted, even suppos­ing her guilty, had haunted every hour of his life; that he seemed not unfrequently to regret the strictness with which his orders, not to convey any letter or message to him from her, had been observed; that nothing withheld him from again seeking her, but the insupportable shame which must have overwhelmed him, either had she been able to have cleared herself from the crimes im­puted to her, or which would have attended his restoring her to the world, guilty or innocent; and that, finally, even the dread of this shame [Page 244] would probably have given way to the increasing wretchedness of his mind, had his life been spared a little longer.

The Bohemian stated it as having been his own intention, after the death of his friend, to have visited Ellen in her prison, and from the opinion which he should have been able to have formed of her from such an interview, to have regulated his own future conduct, as to the continuation of her imprisonment, or the putting a speedy and final end to it. He ingenuously confessed, that though, had he found her innocent, he should have held his friend's reputation as nothing when compared with the injustice and cruelty of detain­ing her any longer a captive; yet, that had she appeared to him guilty, he should have preferred suffering her to languish out her life in perpetual confinement, to the fixing such a stain upon Sir William's memory, as her restoration to the world and the publication of the whole story must have done.

The generous Bohemian after congratulating the happy father on the innocence and escape of his daughter, informed him, that in order that no cloud might obscure a happiness so dearly pur­chased and so amply deserved, he had written a full vindication of her character, to the guardian of her child, and the trustees of her settlement: and this he had done, he said, not more from a conviction that by such a testimony to her virtues he offered the most acceptable proof of his invio­lable attachment to his deceased friend, than from the assurance he had in his own mind, that he was offering a tribute to truth, and from the pleasure which resulted to himself, in an act of justice and compensation.

[Page 245]In consequence of this well-judged and generous interference of the amiable Bohemian, Ellen found no difficulty in having her daughter given to her wishes. By this agency she was enabled also to acquit herself, as far as money could acquit her, of obligations to the good Mrs. Ulric and the faithful Theresa; nor can it be supposed that the grandson of old Deborah was forgotten. Henry, in the ample provision which his disinterested heart had apportioned to every branch of his fa­mily, had left himself poor: but he had more than sufficient for happiness. He revived the scheme which, so many years before, he had pressed with so much fruitless earnestness. Ellen and he re­solved to content themselves with her jointure, until his estate had cleared itself of every incum­brance: and, at the earnest entreaty of Mr. Mor­daunt, they took up their abode at Groby Manor. The cottage of old Deborah was enlarged, and fitted up for the reception of Mrs. Raymond and her daughters, that they might (while always most welcome to Groby Manor) have a place to retire to, when under the dominion of that wish which is felt at times by every human mind, the wish, that as we shut the door upon us we may be able to say, 'Now I am at home.' Of the happiness of Henry and Ellen, of the feelings of Mr. Mor­daunt, of the contentment of the Thorntons, and of the peace and satisfaction of all within the reach of their benevolence, it were needless to tell. To those who have hearts and principles similar to theirs all that could be said would be superfluous: to those of opposite feelings and opinions it would be unintelligible.

Such then is the history of Ellen. Instructed [Page 246] by her example, let no one affirm the omnipotency of love: let no one assert the uncontrollableness of sorrow. Be it remembered, that in the exertion of PLAIN SENSE, and the exercise of unshaken inte­grity lay all her powers, and let not any one who means not to forego his claim to such distinctions, plead as an excuse for vice or weakness the dominion of passion, or the irresistibility of grief.