CHAPTER I.

ON the western side of the lake of Killarney, be­tween that noble expanse of waters and the Atlantic ocean, stood Arlington castle, the seat of the ancient family of the Percivals, barons of Arlington. The house was situated on the declivity of a hill, and the front being to the south west, commanded a view of the ocean, with the Skelig Isles in the horizon. The space between the house and the sea was a continued landscape of lawns and woods, or rather shrubberies, for they were only of a stature to diversify and adorn the prospect, not to interrupt it. From another part of the house were seen the beautiful lakes of Killarney, with the mountain of Mange [...]on on the other side of them, forming a scene not less grand than picturesque. On the whole, perhaps, a more romantic or beautiful spot could not be formed by the most luxuriant ima­gination.

[Page 6]The house was spacious, and had formerly been the abode of cheerfulness and hospitality; but alas! the halls now no more rang with the mirth of the festive board; the guests no more assembled round the blazing hearth; nor did a smiling peasantry repeat with transports the name of their hospitable landlord. All was silent in the mansion—its owners had for­saken it—they were allured away by the luxuries of the English metropolis, and by the imaginary fame to be acquired by gaining a seat in the English house of commons; forgetting that it was not the mere act of sitting there, which could cast a lustre around their heads; and that, this was only to be obtained by fil­ling the seat worthily; by labouring incessantly to promote the welfare and happiness of those, who had deputed them to that station; and not by sitting on the benches as idle spectators and auditors.

Two very expensive contested elections, for the populous town of —, had made dreadful depre­dations on the fortune of one of the proprietors of Arlington castle; so that when it descended to his son Edward, he found himself encumbered with an immense debt, thus foolishly incurred.

Edward, born and educated in the metropolis of Great Britain, could ill digest the thoughts of re­turning to live amongst the WILD Irish, as he had al­ways heard them emphatically stiled; and he there­fore determined to try, first, whether by prudent ma­nagement in England, he might not be able to re­trieve his affairs, without banishing himself from all civilized society, which he conceived it would be, to return to his patrimonial inheritance.

Prudence in the choice of a wife, he conceived, would be of the utmost importance to him, in car­rying his economical plans into execution. For this purpose, he resolved not to take one from amongst the daughters of affluence, who would probably spend three times as much money as she brought him; but to seek out for some female, who, having been edu­cated [Page 7] in habits of economy and retirement, would have no wish to enter into the expensive course of life, which one born in a more elevated situation, would naturally be led to expect.

It was not long before he met with a young wo­man, agreeable in her person, whom he thought ex­actly suited to the plan of life which he had laid down for himself, to whom therefore, he immediately made his proposals, and was, soon after, married. Mis­taken man! he soon learnt the severe lesson, that ig­norance of an irrational course of life in her early years is no security for a woman's leading a rational one, when more knowledge of what is called the world, has filled her head with new ideas of the plea­sures to be derived from following the giddy rounds of folly and dissipation, in which she sees thousands engaged. No; a woman is then most likely to per­form her duty properly, when initiated into the follies of the gay world, with a mind accustomed to reason on all things; and who, viewing those follies, there­fore, with a philosophic eye, would not prize them too highly, or seek after them too eagerly.

Start not, readers, at the ideas here suggested, of a female philosopher. I know it is a character, which the world has been hitherto in the habit of considering as a sort of eccentricity of nature, very fit to be shown about as a sight, but not to be imitated. But, thanks to the improved state of knowledge in these times, we may hope that in a short time the character will become so common, that it will no longer be looked on as a prodigy, or shunned as a bane, but nourished as a plant of the most balsamic influence. For let me ask, whether it can seriously be supposed by any reflecting person, that a woman will be the less likely to perform the domestic duties well, when her mind has been cultivated, and she has been taught to per­form them on principle, and to use her reason in the management of her family, than when her whole system of action is the result of habit only; so that like [Page 8] a piece of mere mechanism, should one wheel be in the least deranged, she is utterly at a loss, and the whole machine immediately becomes confusion and dis­order.

Lord Arlington, at least, had soon reason to repent of the choice he had made; for no sooner did his bride find herself elvated to a station, to which, pre­viously to her acquaintance with him, she had never even dared to raise her thoughts, than she launched out into every extravagance, which the intoxication of newly-acquired rank could suggest to her, without ever pausing a moment, to consider whether such ex­penses were proper or improper.

Lord Arlington endeavoured, from the first dawn­ing of this propensity to extravagance in his wife, to check its progress; but alas! in vain; she went on from year to year, growing more profuse, as expense grew less proper; 'till, at last, hurt in his fortune, al­most beyond a possibility of retrieving—and wounded deeply in his mind with the thoughts of the needy situation, and consequent obscurity, into which he and his family, must be thrown, by the fresh incum­brances which the prodigality of his wife had brought on his before over-burdened estate, he resolved to make one effort more, before all was lost; and by re­moving his wife from the scenes with which, and the companions by whom, her attention had, for so long a time, been entirely occupied, to pluck up the evil by the roots, and endeavour to save a part of his for­tune from the general wreck.

However contrary therefore, to his own inclinations it might be, he determined to retire with his wife and his son Theodore, then about six years of age, and the only fruit of his ill-starred union, to Arlington castle, there to live in retirement and economy.

But no sooner was this plan suggested to lady Ar­lington, than she, who had drunk too deeply of the Circean cup of British dissipation, to be able quietly to relinquish the intoxicating draught, began to play [Page] off the usual round of arts, so often successfully prac­tised by females, when they wish to turn a husband aside from any purpose, which may not be pleasing to them.

But it was all in vain. Lord Arlington was re­solved: and he was not of such a wavering disposi­tion, when once resolved on any thing, as to be easily shaken in his purpose; he had, therefore, made a considerable progress in settling his affairs, previously to his departure, when his wife, finding all her endea­vours to move him ineffectual, determined to pursue a plan of her own forming, and eloped with one of those kind hearted knights errant, who are always ready to fly to the assistance of females, in lady Ar­lington's distressed situation.

Lord Arlington immediately sued for, and obtained, without difficulty, a separation from her in Doctor's Commons; and thus being relieved, though in a painful manner, from this great obstacle to his eco­nomical plans, and, indeed, as it ultimately turned out, relieved from all expence on his wife's account —for though a proper maintenance was settled for her, yet, as she went abroad, and lord Arlington never heard of her more, that allowance was never paid,—he pursued with alacrity, the schemes he had formed, and very soon after arrived with his son at Arlington castle.

This first step taken, the next was to institute a strict inquiry into the real state of his affairs. But in this investigation, lord Arlington only found mor­tification rise on mortification. The more he en­quired into his affairs, the more embarrassed they ap­peared. Every day produced some fresh mortgage or claim upon him; 'till wearied with chagrin, he had several times nearly given up the enquiry, and determined to go abroad, as concluding all lost. At last, however, by the most unwearied perseverance, he so far arranged his affairs, and put them into such a train, as to give reasonable hopes, that if his plans [Page 10] were strictly adhered to, his estate might, in a course of years, be quite freed from all embarrass­ment.

These cares, together with the education of his son, upon which he spared no proper expence,— wisely judging, that this was the only branch of ex­pence, wherein a very rigid economy would be im­proper,—occupied the greatest part of his time during the first years of his residence at Arlington castle. He saw little company, only visiting those of his neighbours, who had sense enough to respect him, for the prudent manner in which he lived. These, indeed, were few; it being the opinion of much the larger part of the country, that it was degrading to a peer, to live in so economical a manner.

Among these with whom he principally associated, was colonel Conolly, who had a small estate, with a pretty house on it, at Airville, about four miles from Arlington castle. The colonel had acquired a very large fortune in the East-Indies, where he had served as an officer in the company's army, and was now re­tired to his estate, to enjoy in peace his large posses­sions: for, unlike many of those who acquire their fortunes in the East-Indies, he could enjoy his in peace, having no qualms of conscience to torment him with the idea of any thing am [...]ss in the acquirement of those possessions. All was fairly gotten, that is, as far as any thing can be said to be fairly gotten, which is acquired by the murder of our fellow creatures: for, though murder was his profession, yet he had not extented an a [...] to the injury of any one, but in the fair way of that profession.

He had married an English woman while he was in India, by whom he had only one child, a daugh­ter; and his wife dying on her passage to England, he immediately, on his arrival in England, placed his daughter under the care of a relation in London, from whence, at a proper age, she was to be removed to a boarding school, with a charge that she should be in­structed [Page 11] in every thing proper to be taught to the heiress of so large a fortune.

Colonel Conolly was just arrived at Airville, when lord Arlington returned to his family seat. An inti­macy soon commenced between them; which the lat­ter was particularly assiduous to cultivate, indulging a secret hope, that when their respective children came to be much together, they might entertain a partiality for each other: and that miss Conolly's fortune might help to disencumber the Arlington estate.

At sixteen years of age Theodore Percival was sent abroad, under the care of a mr. Lewson, a very wor­thy and respectable gentleman, with whom he tra­velled through the greatest part of Europe; and was returning by way of France, having so settled his jour­ney, that in conformity with his father's wishes, often expressed in his letters, he should return to Ireland by the time he was of age; lord Arlington having intented that day to be spent as a day of great festivity at the castle. His return was, however, somewhat retarded by the death of mr. Lewson, who had been, for some time, in a very indifferent state of health, and who, when he arrived at Vienne in Dauphiné, was taken too ill to be able to proceed on his journey, and, after languishing some weeks, died there.

Mr. Percival deeply regretted the loss of him, as he had in every respect fulfilled, with the most per­fect propriety, the important trust committed to him. Well assured, that the most effectual method to se­cure his precepts a favourable reception from his young pupil, was, to watch the proper opportunities of instruction, and to mingle, with the utmost cau­tion and art, amusement and instruction together; he never threw in an observation mal-a-propos, nor ever attempted to thwart his charge in any innocent plan he had formed for recreation or entertainment; neither did he ever refuse to accompany him on such occasions, how much soever he might be disinclined to them himself. He was, in short, not only the [Page 12] tutor, but the friend and companion of Theodore, who in all his letters to his father, bore an ample testimony to his virtues and talents, and at his death lamented, in the most pathetic terms, the loss he had sustained.

The death of mr. Lewson, however, made lord Arlington more anxious than ever for the return of his son. He wrote him many very pressing letters on the subject, in consequence of which, though only two days before he completed his twenty-first year, Theo­dore arrived at Arlington castle, to the no small joy of his father, who beheld in him all the improve­ments which his most sanguine hopes could expect.

In his outward appearance, he was tall, and well made, with a countenance at once handsome, intelli­gent, and expressive of a mind liberal and well in­formed, and of the utmost sweetness of temper; his manners also were those of a perfect gentleman, with­out the least tincture of the coxcomb or pedant.

About two years before his return, miss Conolly had been taken from school, and placed at the head of her father's house. She was mistress of all those accomplishments, which are denominated genteel; she could dance, sing, play on the piano-forte, talk French and Italian to perfection; she understood all kinds of work, proper for her station, and dressed with taste and elegance; yet, with all these accom­plishments, and with a face and person, which were both much admired, she was quite free from affecta­tion and coquetry. One thing only was wanting to make her completely amiable; but, perhaps, one worth all the acquirements she had attained, and that was, a taste for reading and intellectual improve­ments; but to have acquired that taste in the man­ner in which she had been educated, was not to be expected, and still less could it be expected, that she would acquire it at her father's house, who himself considered reading as not at all a feminine employ­ment.

[Page 13]Such were Theodore Percival and Horatia Conolly, at the time of the former's return from his travels, previously to which event, lord Arlington had, at a distance, founded the sentiments of mr. Conolly, on the subject of the union, which he so much wished for; and having reason to think, that he would not be averse to it, he came at once to the point, and proposed to him, that they should endeavour to for­ward the plan with all the interest they possessed, in their respective children. Mr. Conolly, whose only object in the disposal of his daughter, was rank, as her fortune would be sufficient to support any rank, readily assented to lord Arlington's scheme: and it was agreed between these two fathers, that at mr. Percival's return, the young people should be thrown as much as possible in each other's way, and every fair means taken, to create in them an attachment to each other.

CHAPTER II.

FROM the moment when this agreement was made between the fathers, which was some months before Theodore's return, lord Arlington almost lived at colonel Conolly's, in order that the views of the parents might be the better veiled from the young [Page 14] people, who if a sudden increase of intimacy had taken place immediately after Theodore's return, might have been led to suspect that it was not without de­sign; for colonel Conolly and lord Arlington both agreed, that if it should come to be suspected by their children, that they had formed the scheme we have related, it might at once put an end to all hopes of its succeeding: for young people seldom revolt at any thing so much as the idea that they are designedly thrown in each other's way, in order to accomplish the schemes of their parents. But as scarcely a day passed without some intercourse between the families of lord Arlington and colonel Conolly, for weeks be­fore mr. Percival's return, the frequent visits which they intended should take place afterwards, would not appear to have any particular design in them.

At length the day so much wished for by lord Ar­lington▪ arrived, and after an absence of five years, he again clasped in his arms a son, for whom he had suffered so much anxiety, and to whom he looked up, as the future ornament of his ancient fa­mily. The very same day this dear son was intro­duced by his father, with eyes sparkling with joy and hope, to colonel and miss Conolly, who seemed scarcely less charmed with him, than the enraptured lord Arlington himself.

Yet amidst all the delight which his presence seemed to diffuse around him, and the real pleasure which he himself felt, at again seeing a parent, to whom he [...] so many obligations, Theodore was at times thoughtful and reserved; it is true, he endea­voured to wear a mask of gaiety, and returned, with an irresistible grace and elegance, the compliments paid him on his return; but it was apparent, not­withstanding, that his gaiety was but a mask, and that thoughtfulness and reserve were the natural in­mates of his breast.

Miss Conolly was as much pleased with mr. Perci­val, as the most sanguine wishes of her father could [Page 15] aspire to; but as to mr. Percival, it was, alas, but too evident, that miss Conolly's charms made no im­pression on his (as his father at once determined it to be) insensible heart.

Lord Arlington, on leaving the colonel's was re­quested by him to dine at Airville the next day, an invitation which he most joyfully accepted, but which his son, though he replied to it with perfect polite­ness, too plainly wished he could have declined. In their way home, lord Arlington addressed his son,

'Well, my Theodore, and what do you think of miss Conolly?'

'She is a fine woman?'

'Aye, a charming woman, is she not?'

'I don't doubt but she is; but one cannot form any opinion of a woman at first sight.'

'Oh, you cannot fail to be charmed with her, when you are more acquainted with her.'

'Perhaps, then, 'twere best to shun her, if she is so very dangerous.'

'Oh, by no means, cowards only fly from dan­ger; the brave are ever most forward to face it.'

'It is true, that the brave will face it with firm­ness, when it must be met; but it is rashness alone that will seek it unnecessarily. However, to be ho­nest, my dear sir, I do not think that there is any thing so very dangerous in miss Conolly's eyes, but that one may encounter their glances, without incur­ring the imputation of rashness.'

Lord Arlington felt a little chagrined at this obser­vation, but made no reply. However, he consoled himself with the reflection, that impressions made at first sight, are not always the most lasting, and rested on the hope that miss Conolly's accomplishments, when they came to be known to his son, might work the effect, which her eyes had failed of.

After supper, lord Arlington could not help observ­ing his son's gravity, saying, half in jest and half seri­ously,

[Page 16]'Indeed, my Theodore, you are so serious that one would think you had left your heart behind you: you used to be all life and spirits before you went away: I shall begin to hate foreign countries, if they have deprived me of the chearful companion I was so long accustomed to.'

'Indeed, I beg your pardon, sir, a thousand times,' answered Theodore, 'I own it is very wrong, after so long an absence from such a kind and affec­tionate parent, to meet him at my return, with a clouded brow: but though blest in the living, a pang will sometimes arise for the dead; and recollect, sir, what a friend I have lately lost, and how much every object here reminds me of him; nor blame me if a cloud now and then appears, to break the sunshine which ought to beam on my countenance.'

''Tis true, indeed, my son,' answered lord Ar­lington, and I no longer wonder at, or blame the sorrow you appear to feel. Mr. Lewson was worthy of every respect you can shew him; and not deeply to feel his loss, would be brutal indeed in you, who owe him so much.'

Lord Arlington, indeed, secretly rejoiced to hear his son's appearance of gravity and thoughtfulness so well accounted for. He had himself, though fully sensible of Mr. Lewson's merit, and the obligations which he owed him, so lost in the first joy of seeing his son, all recollection of the loss of that valuable friend, that it never once occurred to him, that his son had that cause of sorrow. But he no sooner heard it mentioned, than he immediately felt the full force of his remarks, and wondered not that Theodore, who had for so long a time been his constant compa­nion, and had gone through the painful scene of attending him in a long illness, which he saw him at last finally sink u [...] should deeply feel what could not, from a differen [...] of circumstances, make the like impression on his own mind.

Theodore, however, felt this reproof of his father's [Page 17] deeply, and resolved, that nothing more of this melan­choly should, if possible, appear. The next day, therefore, at colonel Conolly's, he was much less re­served, than on the former occasion; he was perfectly easy and polite—talked much of foreign countries, their manners and customs—entertained the com­pany with many anecdotes of hie travels, and, in short, was quite the hero of the circle.

Horatia was charmed with him; she sung and played; she exhibited specimens of her talents in drawing and painting; she talked of London, and the beau monde; but Theodore was insensible to all her attractions, though perfectly polite to her. On the whole the day passed off pleasantly; and at parting in the evening, lord Arlington reminded the colonel and his daughter of the festival which was to take place at Arlington the next day, when his son would be twen­ty-one years of age, and which mr. and miss Conolly both said they enjoyed too much in idea, to have wanted to be reminded of.

Great preparations had been making for some time, for the celebration of this day; the rooms, which from the desertion of the house by his ancestors, and from the retired plan of life which lord Arlington himself had adopted, had been shut up for many years, were now opened, having been repaired and decorated for the occasion; not that by a foolish and wanton extravagance, lord Arlington, meant now to undo all that years of prudence had been accom­plishing. The festivity was conducted at the same time with economy and hospitality. Nothing gaudy or frivolous was mixed with it; but every thing was good of its kind, and served in plenty, without pro­fusion.

A most elegant dinner, a concert, with a ball and supper, were served within the house, attended by the nobility and gentry for many miles round. Without the house, an ox was roasted whole, with plenty of other beef, pies, plumb puddings, ale and punch, for [Page 18] the tenants, both farmers and peasantry, men, women, and children; and in the evening there was a display of very fine fire-works, with rural music, and a dance upon the green.

The whole was a scene of elegance and chearful­ness, of jollity and hospitality; and was conducted with the utmost regularity and order: nor did one untoward circumstance intervene during the whole of the entertainment.

Mr. Percival, on whose account it was given, was present in every place by turns, and was alike admired wherever he went; he was no less easy among the company without doors, than amongst those within; he ate some of the ox with them; drank health and happiness to them all; joined with them in their dance, and while he continued with them was as one of themselves.

Nor was his elegance of manners a less source of admiration to the company within doors; he charmed them all, and it was with peculiar pleasure that lord Arlington and colonel Conolly both observed, that Horatia was not amongst the number of those who were the least sensible to his attractions. In fact, she that day completely lost her heart; it became wholly and solely mr. Percival's. But the love still remained entirely on her side: though she was dressed to the best advantage, though she danced to perfection, and was allowed by all present, to be the finest woman in the room, she was not at all the particular object of Theodore's attentions, she came in for no more of them than her share in common with the rest of the company.

Lord Arlington observed this indifference of his son's with the deepest regret: a regret, which time only increased, instead of diminishing; for time only shewed more and more plainly, how little prospect there was of Theodore ever voluntarily fixing on Ho­ratia in his choice of a wife. And this regret, which was felt so deeply by lord Arlington, was doubled in [Page 19] the heart of colonel Conolly; as it became every day more apparent, how much his daughter's affections were engaged to a man, who repaid them with per­fect indifference; and appeared, indeed, as much as possible to shun her. This, indeed, was but too true. Theodore soon perceived what the aim of both pa­rents was; and as he had no inclination to comply with their wishes, he thought it the most honourable mode of proceeding, to avoid the lady whenever he could do so, without being guilty of incivility.

Eight months had elapsed thus, mr. Percival at some times appearing quite thoughtful and melan­choly, at others easy and chearful; when lord Ar­lington growing impatient of delay, determined to lay open his mind to his son. He called him, there­fore, one day into his study, and thus addressed him:

'My dearest son, it is my most earnest wish to see you well settled in life; nor could any thing, I think, be more desirable for you, than an union be­tween your family, and that of colonel Conolly, by a marriage with his daughter. She is a very amiable and accomplished woman, to whom you cannot pos­sibly make any objection, and her fortune is beyond what your most sanguine wishes could have dared to think of. I have sounded the colonel's sentiments on the subject, and though he might have formed much higher views for his daughter, yet he is content, he kindly says, to wave all other considerations, in the happiness he should feel at bestowing his daughter on a man of your worth and accomplishments. I hope therefore you will raise no obstacle to an union, which would give so much satisfaction to all parties.'

Theodore heard his father out, without attempt­ing to interrupt him; but being well aware, that such a proposal was likely to be made to him, he was prepared with his answer, and replied with a calm but firm tone, as follows:

'I am perfectly sensible, my dearest father, of your kind intentions towards me, in the alliance you [Page 20] propose. I am perfectly sensible too, of the merits of miss Conolly, and of the honour done me by her father; but indeed, dear sir, I must entreat of you not to think of pressing this match any farther. I am sure miss Conolly is not a woman with whom I could ever be perfectly happy. She is, though amiable in her disposition, uncultivated, except in those showy accomplishments, which may, indeed, attract the senses, but never can find their way to the heart; and though she may pass off very well as an associate for an afternoon, she must be an insipid and uninteresting companion for life; nor can I ever consent to an union, which I am sure would make me miserable.'

Lord Arlington was sufficiently chagrined at the firm and decided manner in which his son declared his disapprobation of a measure, which he had so much at heart to accomplish; unwilling, however, totally to give up this darling project, he often urged it on his son, alleging to him not only the recom­mendations of the lady herself, which he thought suf­ficient to satisfy any man; but that, added to these, she would bring him a fortune which would entirely clear his still encumbered estate; and was, there­fore, in that light also, a most desirable match for him.

Theodore, however, continued firm, often repeat­ing to his father, that he could esteem miss Conolly, but never could love her; and that no happiness could be experienced in the marriage state without an ar­dent affection on both sides.

Lord Arlington could not deny the force of this objection; but strove to parry it, by urging that es­teem was the best possible foundation for love, and that if he should marry miss Conolly, he did not doubt but love would soon be added to esteem. But all was in vain. Theodore seemed resolutely deter­mined not to consent to the match. He grew, too, almost daily, more thoughtful and melancholy, 'till at last his father, who, as we have already said, was [Page 21] not easily to be turned aside from any thing he had once resolved on, grew quite incensed against him.

Colonel Conolly, too, had, for some time past, grown very impatient at the delay of an union, on which his mind was set as much as lord Arlington's, and often urged the latter to use authority with his son, as entreaties were of no avail; till at last his ar­guments working on lord Arlington's own feelings, wrought him up to the very point which Theodore had long foreseen and dreaded. Accordingly, lord Arlington, one day, on his return from a morning's ride to Airville, called his son into his study, and with a harshness of tone and manner, which he had never before used towards him, spake thus to him:

'Theodore, dearest son of my affection, for whose sake I have consented, for so many years, to banish myself from a world, which had so many charms for me; how is it, that I am to endure the mortification of seeing you perfectly insensible to all that I have done for you, while you make not the smallest return to me for such obligations? One only thing have I ever asked of you, in return for all I have done, all I have given up for your sake, yet that you deny me, with an obstinacy that wounds me to the soul. How is this, how can you be thus ungrateful?'

'Oh! spare me, spare me, my dearest father, wound me not thus,' cried the agitated Theodore 'Heaven is my witness, with what reluctance I ap­pear thus ungrateful to you; but the sacrifice you de­mand—'

'The sacrifice!' exclaimed lord Arlington, with a countenance pale with anger. 'What is the sa­crifice I ask you to make?—This mighty sacrifice is to marry an amiable and beautiful woman, whom thousands would rejoice to have in their power, with a fortune beyond what your most sanguine expecta­tions could hope for, and thus to render happy the declining years of an affectionate parent, who has thought no sacrifice too great to make for you; to see [Page 22] your paternal inheritances freed from their present embarrassments, and in a situation to be transmitted, unincumbered, to the remotest posterity;—this, this is the mighty sacrifice I ask.'

'Oh, 'tis too much, 'tis too much!' exclaimed Theodore, convulsed with agitation: 'I wanted not this to rend my soul in pieces; no, no, my father, it must not, cannot be.'

'Grant me patience, heaven,' exclaimed the in­dignant lord Arlington, 'what insufferable obstinacy! but hear me, sir, my passions once roused, are not easy to be calmed; comply with my wishes, or I swear—'

'Oh! hold, hold,' cried Theodore, 'hear me, dearest father, hear me—'

'By heaven,' said lord Arlington, 'I will hear no more!—either consent before three days are ex­pired, to what I desire, or never come into my pre­sence any more.'

So saying, he burst hastily out of the room, and flew to colonel Conolly, to relate what had passed, leaving Theodore in a situation more easily to be imagined than described.

Colonel Conolly applauded the resolution which lord Arlington had at last shewn; and said, he did not doubt but it would have the desired effect. He added, that his fortune should be disposed of in any way that lord Arlington and his son wished; for he had no other object but to see his daughter the wife of mr. Percival.

The three days which lord Arlington had allowed to his son for making his determination, passed over without his ever seeing him, or even enquiring for him. Indeed, had be enquired for him, it would have been to no purpose, for Theodore had been ab­sent from the castle the whole time; nor did any one belonging to the house know what was become of him. On the evening of the third day, however, he arrived at the castle, just in time to attend his fa­ther's [Page 23] summons, when he appeared before him, pale, dejected, tottering in his steps, apparently plunged in the deepest affliction, and most truly an object of compassion.

Such a spectacle in a moment disarmed lord Ar­lington's anger, and turned it immediately into re­morse, as he considered himself the author of his son's misery. He took him by the hand, led him to a seat, and began to say the most soothing things to him. Theodore could not speak for some minutes: but when the power of utterance returned, 'No more of this, I beg, my father,' he said, 'your kind­ness now wounds me as deeply as your anger did, when last we met—I am now wholly your's— do with me as you please—make me—make me—the husband —of miss Co—nolly—I have no more—to say— against it.'

These words were uttered with such a faltering accent, that they were scarcely articulate; but lord Arlington understanding by them an assent to his wishes, broke forth into warm expressions of joy at that event, mingling them with the deepest concern for the state in which he saw his son.

'Pray, pray, say no more,' said Theodore, 'I have consented to this marriage. Talk not either of joy, sorrow, or gratitude. I must have time to re­cover myself. I will propose it in form in a few days: but in the mean time let me be left to myself —I shall soon be calm —I shall indeed—but reason will best gain strength in privacy—excuse me, my father—forgive me—I cannot stay with you now.'

He rose up, and was going out of the room, but was hardly able to support himself. The astonished lord Arlington offered to assist him, with looks ex­pressive of the deepest terror. He feared to lose sight of his son, in the state in which he saw him, yet wished not to distress him farther, by combating his wish to be alone. Theodore read in his father's eyes what was passing in his mind.

[Page 24]'Do you then fear me, my father?' he said, 'but you need not—indeed you need not—I am agitated —I am not well—but my senses are perfect. I am not distracted—indeed I am not—let me go then. I will see you again to-morrow, if I can—but trust me to myself—you may safely do it.'

'But let me then assist you, my Theodore, to get to your chamber. Support yourself on my arm; you are weak; you must be very ill.'

'No, not very ill—a night's rest will do much for me—pray don't be alarmed—there is no cause for alarm.'

At these words he quitted the room, leaving lord Arlington to a train of very unpleasant reflections. He plainly saw that something sat very heavy on the mind of his son, and thought that he had pushed the affair of the match too far. He even resolved to offer to release his son from the consent he had given to it; and had almost determined to go immediately to colonel Conolly, to inform him of the state of affairs, and rather to hazard an absolute breach with him, than to permit the match to proceed any farther. But it grew late in the evening, and he determined to defer the matter till the next morning.

When the morning arrived▪ however, his son ap­peared so much amended in the state both of his body and mind, that he thought matters were not quite so bad as they had seemed to be on the preceding night: and he determined to wait for a day or two, to see how he went on, and not to act with too great precipitation. In short, by the time that a few days had elapsed, Theodore had acquired such an ascen­dancy over himself, that he could conceal, from all but himself, the anguish that inwardly preyed upon him.

Lord Arlington observed the daily amendment in his appearance, with the highest satisfaction; and soon lost, with his alarms for his son, the idea of putting off the match. In a short time, therefore, [Page 25] pursuant to the promise he had given his father, he made his offer in form to miss Conolly, which was accepted with transport by her, and her father; and when all things were duly prepared, Horatio Conolly became the wife of Theodore Percival.

CHAP. III.

COLONEL CONOLLY's joy at this event, was as unbounded as his perseverance in accomplishing it had been; but he did not long survive it. About six weeks after the marriage took place, he was suddenly taken off by an apoplectic fit, and put mr. Percival into complete possession of his large fortune. The re­maining debts upon the Arlington estates were imme­diately paid off: and lord Arlington would have been the happiest of men, if he could have been assured that his son was so. But of that he sometimes had his doubts, though he never suffered those doubts to escape his lips; and Theodore was in general so good a counterfeit, that it was not often he gave cause for suspicion. However, that lord Arlington's doubts were not unfounded, the sequel will sufficiently shew.

About a year after their marriage, mrs. Percival presented her husband with a son, to the unspeakable [Page 26] joy of his grandfather. Mr. Percival too, seemed pleased with this addition to his family; but his joys were always clouded over by at least an equal portion of chagrin; a chagrin too, which was increased by the reflection that he was possessed of every thing, which, according to the opinion of the world, could conduce to the happiness of man. But perhaps we can in no way paint to the reader so forcibly the then state of his mind, as by presenting him with a letter, written by mr. Percival himself, at the time we are speaking of.

A friend of his youth, with whom he had kept up a constant correspondence during his travels, had frequently written to him since his return to Ireland, and since his marriage, but had never received any answer from him, except to his congratulations on his nuptials. He again wrote to him on the birth of his son, and with congratulations on that event, mingled reproaches for his silence, adding, that he scarcely knew whether he ought to write to him again. To this letter Theodore wrote the following answer:

Hitherto, however, self reproaches were the only censures mr. Percival had incurred; for the world saw no reason to censure him, since, to outward ap­pearance his conduct was exemplary. The time, however, was arrived, when a different scene was to be laid open Mrs. Percival was recovered from her lying-in; and as no reason remained for the family living any longer in retirement, it was determined that they should pass the ensuing winter in London. Every thing was accordingly prepared for their de­parture, and the day fixed for them to set off for Dublin, from which place they were to embark for England. On the evening before that day, lord Ar­lington, his son, and daughter, were looking over some [Page 28] papers together, in order to the settling of some fa­mily concerns, before they left the place, when a let­ter was brought to Theodore, which having read, he changed colour, seemed violently agitated, and with­out saying a word, went hastily out of the room.

Lord Arlington and mrs. Percival both observed his agitation, but for some time took no notice of it; but an hour having elapsed, without Theodore's re­turning, lord Arlington began to express anxiety about him; for, said he to his daughter, 'you must have observed how much he seemed agitated when he read that letter.'

'I did indeed,' answered mrs. Percival, 'but hardly dared to observe it—I have seen such emotions so frequently, that I dare not observe upon them.'

'Ha? it is even so then?' said lord Arlington, 'you think my son unhappy.'

'Alas! it is most certain,' she replied: 'he en­deavours to conceal it; but it will sometimes break out. Suppose we enquire if he is still at home.'

'No,' said lord Arlington, 'I will go myself and seek for him.'

Lord Arlington went out of the room—he searched all over the house, but could not find his son. He then enquired of his servants, if they knew any thing of him; they could only answer, that he left the house on receiving the letter, and had not returned since; but they could not tell which way he went. They were then questioned, who brought the letter? To which they answered, that it was brought by a woman, with her face muffled up in a large cap and bonnet, who seemed unwilling to be seen; she only gave in the letter, desired it might be carried to mr. Percival, and then walked away as fast as possible.

Here was ground for alarming suspicions; yet lord Arlington resolved not to proceed too hastily. Two hours more passed, and no Theodore appeared. Lord Arlington then sent round the grounds, particularly to a wood, which he knew his son used to frequent [Page 29] very much; but no son was to be found. He sent about the parish, but could learn nothing of him; he had not been seen by any body: night came on, but they could not go to bed, and resolved to renew the search as soon as day-light appeared—they did so, but with no better success.

At last, as lord Arlington and mrs. Percival were sitting down to breakfast, the former was called out of the room to a woman, who desired to speak with him alone, and whom he, therefore, ordered to be shewn into his study: she appeared carrying in her arms a beautiful female child, very neatly dressed, and who seemed to be about a year and a half old. She drew a letter from her pocket, and gave it to him, saying, 'that she was ordered to deliver it into no hands but his own, and to wait while he read it.' Lord Ar­lington saw it was his son's writing—he eagerly opened it, and read as follows:

Whether astonishment, horror, or tenderness, pre­vailed most in the breast of lord Arlington, on read­ing this letter, it is difficult to determine; they all contended for empire. He looked first at the letter, then at the child, which the nurse had set down, and which instantly ran up to him, and was looking in his face with all the eloquence of speechless innocence. He could not resist it—he caught her in his arms— kissed her ardently—'yes, lovely Antoinette,' said he, 'he must be more than a monster, who could withstand such sweetness, such innocence! you shall be my child — my son is interested in your fate—you are unprotected—what motives can plead stronger?' He kissed her again —she smiled—a tear stole down his cheek—he remained for some minutes quite ab­sorbed in contemplating her—he read the letter again —he was more and more bewildered—she was born of illustrious parents, and in lawful wedlock, yet thrown on his compassion—it was affecting to think of. He inquired of the nurse, if she knew any thing of the child's history; all she could tell him, was that about fifteen months before, mr. Percival came one day to her house at Killarney, with this child in his arms, and followed by a woman, who appeared to be not more than twenty years of age. He asked, if she would be willing to take in the woman and child as lodgers, and said that he would pay her whatever she required for it; that it was of importance to him, his [Page 32] placing them there should be kept a secret; and that she should be well rewarded for not betraying him. The woman said, she at first hesitated, whether [...] should undertake this charge; but as he was urge [...] with her to consent to it, she at last did yield to him; and that they had continued at her house ever since. She said, that mr. Percival often came to see the child, but that it was generally, either late in the evening, or early in the morning; and that he seemed excessively fond of it. That the evening before, he came to her house in a violent agitation, and took the child's nurse into another room, where they sat for some time, in earnest conversation; and then desiring a pen and ink, he wrote the letter which she had brought, and giving it into her hands, he desired her to carry that, with the child, by breakfast time the next morning▪ to Arlington castle; to give the letter into no hands but lord Arlington's, and to wait with him while he read it. Then he and the young wo­man, after both of them had affectionately kissed the child, went out of the house; but she did not know what became of them.

This relation was no less astonishing to lord Ar­lington, than all that had before passed. He then enquired by what names the child and its nurse had been called? And was answered, that the former was called Antoinette, the latter Joanna; but no surnames had ever apppeared for either. His next enquiry was, what sort of a woman Joanna appeared to be? To which mrs. Roberts (for that was the name of the woman) replied, that she was a genteel appearing woman she should guess her to be rather of the mid­dling rank of life, but she could not tell exactly; that she was a French woman, and understood very little English when first she came over, but could now speak it very well, so as to be perfectly understood. She said, that often, while she was kissing and caress­ing the child, she would shed tears, and lament that it was to live in such obscurity; but, that she had [Page 33] never suffered a word to escape her lips, relative to the parents of the child; but (mrs. Roberts said) her own idea was, that Antoinette was the child of Joanna, by mr. Percival; and that mr. Percival would have married her, only that he found his father was desirous of his marrying miss Conolly. All this she said, with an apology to lord Arlington; but as he seemed to wish to hear all she could tell him, she ven­tured to mention her conjectures.

These conjectures were ingenious on the part of mrs. Roberts, but did not at all satisfy lord Arlington. His son declared the child to be born in lawful wed­lock; and she could not, therefore, be his child by Joanna, unless he was married to her; and, surely, he could not have been so base as to marry miss Co­nolly, while he had another wife living—it was all mystery. He asked mrs. Roberts if she had been paid up to the present time? To which she replied, she had been always regularly, and liberally, paid; and that mr. Percival had settled every thing of that kind the evening before. Lord Arlington then gave her a guinea, and dismissed her.

What now was to be done with regard to mrs. Percival? This question agitated lord Arlington very much: he had left her in such a state of sus­pense, that she must be anxious to see him again. He was resolved, himself, to take the child into his pro­tection: but, what would mrs. Percival say to her husband's request? He determined, at last, that it was better to break the ice at once; he, therefore, with the child in his arms, returned to the breakfast room, where mrs. Percival had spent many an anxi­ous moment, in expectation of him. Judge of her surprise, at seeing him enter; not alone, as she ex­pected, but bringing an infant with him. He went to his seat—he sat down—he looked earnestly at mrs. Percival, whose eyes spoke the utmost astonishment.

'Look on this child, my love; is it not a little angel?'

[Page 34]'Heavens! What do you mean my lord?'

'Can you be a mother to this child?'

'Oh God! oh God! Is it then so?—some other woman.'—She could say no more—she fell back in her chair.

'Be calm, my dearest daughter,' said lord Arling­ton. 'I know not whose child this is—I do not know that she is my son's—compose yourself—call up all your resolution to your aid, and read this letter.'

Mrs. Percival roused herself; 'Oh! if I am thus insulted,' she exclaimed;—'but let me be calm!' She then took the letter, and read it. Love, horror, resentment, and mortification, alternately seized her breast, and sparkled in her eye: but they passed off in rapid succession. She looked at the child—she had only one sensation left, which was, self-condemnation at the manner in which she had descended from the true dignity of her sex, in giving her hand to a man, to whom she well knew at the time, she was an object of indifference, if not also of aversion. 'Yes!' she exclaimed, 'I am rightly served; but I will make all the atonement in my power—she shall be my child— 'tis enough that my Theodore desires it—come, then, poor orphan, come to my arms.' So saying, she took the child from lord Arlington, kissed it, and burst into an agony of tears. These, at length, somewhat subsiding, she again kissed the child—'hapless An­toinette,' said she, 'you shall indeed be my child; I will endeavour, assisted by my father, to form your infant mind to virtue, that, if ever that unhappy wan­derer, who is so anxious for thy welfare, shall hereafter see thee, he may know that he has not erred, in sup­posing me capable of exerting my benevolence to­wards unprotected innocence.'

Lord Arlington warmly applauded her sentiments and from that hour the friendless Antoinette was considered as the child of adoption by them both, and provided for accordingly.

But not to the child alone was their anxiety con­fined. [Page 35] No pains nor expense was spared to find out, if possible, what was become of the distracted Theo­dore. But all was of no avail: no traces of the course he had taken, could be discovered: and after many weeks of fruitless enquiry after him, the pursuit was given up; and they rested in the hope, that time might throw more light on this mysterious affair, and discover what diligence had sought for in vain.

They then applied themselves to arranging, and putting in order his apartment, which was left in the utmost confusion; determining carefully to lock up every thing which he had left, considering his papers, and all things belonging to him, as a most sacred deposit.

CHAP. IV.

THIS unhappy affair had put a total stop to their intended journey to Great Britain. After some time, lord Arlington mentioned it again to his daughter-in-law, and proposed to travel about some parts of the country during the summer, and go to London in the winter. Mrs. Percival replied to this proposal, that [Page 36] she by no means wished him, at present, to think of leaving Ireland, alleging, with good reason, that if any hopes could be entertained, of hearing again of their lost friend, it must be by remaining on the spot. 'And what pleasure, my lord,' added she, 'can I hope to find from the gaieties of London, in the un­happy situation in which I am now placed?—no, my lord, the time was, when indeed I should have sought, in dissipation, to chase away sorrow; but after living more than a year with my Theodore, I have learnt, that reading and reflection are the most powerful cordials to heal a wounded mind. And though, alas! they could not work a complete cure in his, yet I am well convinced, that it was from those sources he derived all the little intervals of tranquility that he ever did attain; and we know not to what a depth his soul was wounded; perhaps, even beyond the power of the strongest medicines to heal.

'In a word, my lord, since my connexion with that beloved Theodore, I have found that my father (who I am well assured meant to do every thing that was kind to me) mistook the path of prudence in my education, and in giving me every shewy accom­plishment, which it was possible to acquire, neglected to give me one, which, though of a less splendid na­ture, is worth all others put together—a taste for reading and intellectual improvement. How often have I felt—with the deepest mortification felt—my total insufficiency to be the companion of a mind so highly cultivated, as that of my Theodore; and sighed in secret, to render myself more worthy of him!

'Let me then, my lord, live still in retirement, and so enrich my mind with knowledge, that should heaven ever give back to my arms a husband, whom I almost adore, I may shew him, that I have a soul ca­pable of emulating even the perfections of his.'

Lord Arlington heard her with equal astonishment and delight. He very much feared himself, that her deficiency as a domestic companion, had been one [Page 37] very principal cause of his son's indifference to her; and hoped, when that obstacle was removed, if he ever did return, he would find such an alteration, as would entirely reconcile him to his situation.

He therefore highly applauded the resolution she had taken, and clasping her in his arms, 'Ah, my daughter,' said he, 'how much do you deserve a hap­pier fate!—would to heaven that my son could have seen with my eyes—how different, then, would your situation be!'

'Oh! blame not your son,' she answered, 'blame me only,—it was in my power to have prevented an union, which, had not passion and vanity blinded me I might have foreseen could never have been a happy one. But let us drop so painful a subject: repining is of no avail, and the uneasiness which I have thus brought on myself, I am determined to support with fortitude—my own sensations [...]e my sufficient pu­nishment: vain as I was of [...] powers of pleasing, my vanity has been no less mortified than my love. But I am resolved that such a source of mortification shall not exist to that dear charge he has left me, if it be in my power to prevent it. He bids me store her mind with knowledge—his request shall be sacred to me. But how am I to store it? with what I do not myself possess? Ah! then, what an additional motive is thus held out to me, to spur on my industry! Yes, dear Antoinette, child of my Theodore's love, I will inform myself that I may impart knowledge to you: such knowledge as shall teach you to shun the rock on which my peace of mind has been wrecked.'

The idea of rendering herself a fit companion for her husband, and instructress for her children, having thus strongly taken possession of the mind of Horatia, she lost no time in applying herself to such studies as would contribute to the furtherance of her views; and when, to a good capacity, an ardent desire of improve­ment, and an eager thirst for knowledge, are united, the knowledge so desired is not difficult to be attained. [Page 38] The truth of this position mrs. Percival strongly exem­plified. She made a rapid progress in her pursuits, with the assistance of lord Arlington, and another gentleman, a friend of the family: this was a doctor Schomberg, a clergyman, who was a widower, with one son and one daughter, both married and settled; and who, being an excellent scholar, and a perfect gentleman, and having a great deal of leisure time, was solicited to undertake the office of mrs. Percival's instructor.

With such assistance, and her own indefatigable industry, mrs. Percival made a very rapid progress in various branches of knowledge, so that by the time the children were of an age to want her instruction, no one was more capable of instructing them; nor did she ever depute that task to another, giving an excellent example to the daughters of affluence, who are too apt to imagine, that wealth excuses them from maternal duties [...]nd who think they have done suffi­cient for their children, by placing them at a boarding school, or putting a tyrannical governess over their heads, who teaches them nothing effectually but to be conceited and to make courtsies.

Four years had now elapsed, since the sudden de­parture of Theodore; in all which time, notwith­standing the utmost diligence had been employed, not a trace of him could be discovered; he had never written to his family, and the whole business remained as mysterious as ever. Mrs. Percival was settled into a calm resignation; her whole thoughts were occu­pied in improving herself and her children, and in attending to such amusements as a retired country life affords, and she felt no wish for other amuse­ments. Hope was not totally banished from her breast, though its rays glimmered there but faintly; and lord Arlington's affectionate kindness to her lightened all her cares. But that source of conso­lation she was now to lose; his health had been ra­ther declining for some time: the consciousness of [Page 39] which made him more anxious than ever to hear of his son; and that anxiety again preying on a debili­tated constitution brought on his dissolution, though at no very advanced age.

This stroke called forth all mrs. Percival's philo­sophy to support with fortitude. Though almost adoring her husband, and half distracted at his de­sertion of her, yet while she still had lord Arlington to look up to as a friend, counsellor, and assistant in the education of her children, she felt not quite so desolate, as her situation now appeared to be. She had, however, one friend yet left, doctor Schom­berg, who had for more than two years been a con­stant inmate in the house, and whom she desired to continue as such; wisely setting at defiance any cen­sures, which a babbling, ill-natured world might pass on her, for acting thus contrary to its arbitrary laws, which she considered as trifles, when put in compa­rison with the solid advantages, which she hoped would result to herself and the children, from having such a man constantly with them.

Lord Arlington left his whole fortune in mrs. Per­cival's power, while his son continued to absent him­self from his family, but made many provisions in case of his return; none of which, however, are ma­terial for the reader to be made acquainted with.

Thus was mrs. Percival left for the present, sole arbitress of a large fortune, with the charge of educat­ing two children, and providing by her example, and instruction, for their future respectable appearance in life. There scarcely could, perhaps, be a more ar­duous situation for a woman to fill with propriety. Young and handsome, an object of admiration, round whom, had she chosen to shew herself in public, thou­sands of flatterers would have flocked; yet deserted by her husband, whom still she could not cease most ardently to love—even uncertain, whether that hus­band were yet alive—with two children to educate, one of whom was not her own, and to whom, from [Page 40] the circumstances in which she was thrown into her care, many women would have conceived an uncon­querable dislike—with a large fortune solely under her management—she was in a situation truly per­plexing. Yet all these concurrent sources of embar­rassment, which would have weighed down some minds, and rendered them almost incapable of action at all, only served to tender her's more vigorous, and to make her double her exertions to go through her task with prudence and propriety.

She determined to inform her children precisely of the true situation of the family, when she thought them of an age to be capable of receiving the story as she wished, and reasoning properly upon it: but 'till then she thought it better to conceal from them how they were circumstanced, nor to let them have any other idea than that they were really brother and sister. And she trusted that when they had been educated in such habits of friendship, as should subsist between brother and sister, that those habits would continue, even when their true situations were known to them; for she equally dreaded that a change of the ideas they had been accustomed to entertain of each other, should operate either to an alienation of their mutual regard, or to carrying that regard beyond the limits of fraternal affection, against which Theodore had, in his letter, given the strictest caution.

When, sometimes, in the innocence and simplicity of childhood, they would enquire whether they had no papa, she always told them that their papa was gone abroad into foreign countries; and she was afraid that he was dead, as she had not heard of him for a long time. Nor was she at all apprehensive, that Antoinette might learn by accident, any hints of her own story; for before she was of an age to have attended to them, [...]hat story was almost forgotten in the neighbourhood. She was called miss Percival, as Theodore had requested; and, as she was gene­rally believed to be a natural child of his, and it was [Page 41] supposed that he was gone off with her mother, after the neighbourhood had amused themselves with the affair, as long as they found amusement in it, which was no longer than 'till a more novel circumstance superceded it, it was thought of no more.

They continued at the castle, 'till Henry had com­pleted his seventh year; when Antoinette was sup­posed to be approaching to the end of her ninth. Mrs. Percival now began to think that it was time for them in some sort to emerge from the close re­tirement in which they lived; and she determined, therefore, to go over to England, for the purpose of completing their education, and introducing them to more knowledge of the world, a knowledge which she considered as an essential part of their education.

Her great difficulty was in what way best to dispose of Henry, [...]till she thought him old enough to travel with advantage and improvement, which could not be 'till he was sixteen or seventeen years of age. As to Antoinette, she had not a doubt, that it was best to keep her entirely under her own care, procuring only proper masters to instruct her in such things, as none but professed masters could properly instruct her in; such as music, drawing, and all that are generally de­nominated genteel accomplishments; and as these were to be best procured in London, she determined to reside there during the winter, and seek out some pleasant retreat in the country for the summer.

After much consultation with doctor Schomberg, it was determined to find out, if possible, some eligible situation for Henry, among that description of gen­tlemen, who undertake the education of such a num­ber of boys only, as they can educate themselves; which is, perhaps, the best situation a boy can be placed in, to obviate the objections which he against an entirely private education, and the still stronger objections which subsist against a public school. When this was determined on, doctor Schomberg wrote to a friend in England, [...]o make enquiries after [Page 42] such a situation; and was by him recommended to a gentleman in Hampshire, who took only eight boys at a time, and who had just then a vacancy. The account given of this gentleman's character, learning, plan of education, and general manners, being such as exactly corresponded with the ideas of mrs. Per­cival, she immediately agreed on terms with him, and determined to carry her son thither the ensuing spring.

She, accordingly, arranged all her affairs in Ireland, and having consigned the management of them en­tirely to the steward, mr. Mac-Allen, whose fidelity had been long tried and approved in the family, she left Arlington castle about the end of the month of April, attended by doctor Schomberg, Henry, and Antoinette, and arrived at the house of her son's fu­ture tutor, mr. Sidney, in about three weeks after, she having made many little stops by the way, to shew her children such things as she thought worthy of their observation.

Having mentioned to mr. Sidney her intention of seeking out some country residence for the summer months during the time that she should think it pro­per to continue in England, he told her of a pretty retired place about ten miles from his house, which was then to be let, and which he thought would suit her exactly. She, accordingly, went to see it, and finding it quite the kind of place she wished to have, she hired it, and immediately settled herself in it, with her good friend doctor Schomberg, and the amiable little Antoinette, leaving Henry under the care of mr. Sidney, with whose appearance she had been ex­tremely pleased.

After spending a very pleasant summer in Hamp­shire, mrs. Percival went to London for the winter, where Antoinette was put under the tuition of pro­per masters, and made a rapid progress in her various attainments. Mrs. Percival entered, in a very small degree, into what are called the gaieties of London; [Page 43] but her house soon became the great resort of men of genius and talents, whose society she was eager to cultivate, and who always met with a welcome re­ception from her.

After a winter spent thus pleasantly and ration­ally, in the very spot where the generality of women waste all their time in folly and dissipation, she, re­turned in the summer again to her cottage in Hamp­shire, accompanied only by Antoinette, doctor Schom­berg being gone to Ireland, on private business of his own.

CHAP. V.

IN a few days after mrs. Percival's return, her son came over to spend the day with her. He had not been long in the room, before he pulled out a gold watch, and putting it into her hand, 'I hope, mamma,' said he, 'you won't be angry with me on account of this watch; but I really could not help taking it.'

Mrs. Percival, at sight of the watch, turned as pale as death; her hand trembled; and she could scarcely hold it, for she immediately knew it to be her hus­band's, and that he had taken it away with him; but [Page 44] unwilling that the children should perceive her emo­tion, she immediately recovered herself, and said, 'I am sorry, my love, that you have accepted such a pre­sent. Who was it gave it to you?'

'It was the strange man, mamma.'

'The strange man, my love!' said mrs. Percival,

'What do you mean?'

'Why, mamma, he was a man, that came twice into our field, while we were all at play; and he looked for all the world like a beggar: but, however, he never begged, and he would make me take this watch.'

'I am sorry you did take it, my dear; you know I ordered you never to accept presents, without mr. Sidney's leave; and I dare say, he did not give you leave to accept this?'

'No, mamma; for I had not an opportunity of asking his leave; but he knows I have it; and he bid me shew it to you. I'll tell you all about it. The first time he came, we were all at play at cricket; and he came up and said, so, my lads, you seem all very merry; but you have gotten a very bad ball; I have a much better here in my pocket; try it; and then he pulled out a ball, and gave it to one of the boys; and then he began asking all our names; and when I told him my name was Henry Percival, he asked me, whe­ther I had a papa and mamma alive; and whether I had any brothers and sisters? And I told him that I did not know, whether I had a papa or not, but that I had a mamma and a sister: and then he asked me, how it came about, that I did not know whether I had a papa? and I told him, that he had been gone away a long time, and my mamma was afraid that he was dead, because she did not hear from him. Then he asked me, my sister's name; and I told him it was Antoinette—and a great many more questions he asked me; and he desired I would read to him, if I had a book in my pocket; and so I took out Gay's [...]ables, and read him one or two; and then he asked [Page 45] if I could read Latin; and so I read him some of Ovid; and then he patted me on the head, and said I was a good boy, and bid me behave well to my mamma and sister: and he enquired where you lived: and I told him at London in the winter, but you would come down again into Hampshire in the summer, to a place about ten miles off. And he asked, if you had al­ways lived in London; I told him no; we lived at Arlington castle in Ireland 'till last year, and then I came to mr. Sidney's, and you did not mean to go back to Ireland, 'till I was to leave mr. Sidney again.'

'And what sort of a looking man was he?' said mrs. Percival.

'Why, he was but a queer looking man, he had such a great beard, mamma, as long as Isaac the Jew's, at Killarney. Oh, and I forgot to tell you, mamma, that he asked me to let him cut off a lock of my hair, which I did, and he put it up in his pocket-book.'

'Well, my love,—but the watch?'

'Oh, mamma, I shall come to that presently; that was not 'till the second time that he came. I don't remember any thing more to tell you about the first time he came. But we were talking about him at dinner; and mr. Sidney said it was very odd, and he told us if ever the man came again, to let him know, and he would come and speak to him. Well, the next morning, he came, and he pulled out this watch; and asked me, if I liked it. And I said, yes; I thought it a very nice one; and then he said, he would give it to me; but I told him, that I was sure my mamma would not like I should take it, then he said, he was sure my mamma could not be angry with me for such a thing as that; and then I said, that she ordered me never to take any present without mr. Sid­ney's leave; but that I would go and ask him what I should do, for he seemed so earnest that I should take it, mamma, that I did not know how to refuse; and, just as I was going to see for mr. Sidney, I saw him come to the gate of the field, and then the man laid [Page 46] the watch down on the ground, and ran away into the wood, and we soon lost sight of him, and he never came any more.'

'And how long ago was this, my love?'

'Why, mamma, it was only last week; I was go­ing to write to you, and tell you all about it; but mr. Sidney said, that I had better wait, and tell you all about it when I saw you, as you was coming down so soon.'

What a field of speculation was here opened to mrs. Percival: that this man was her husband, she could not doubt for a moment; but how strange was his behaviour, and how resolute he still seemed to keep himself concealed from her! Alas! that woman that went off with him!—she knew not what to think—but mr. Sidney was to come over in the af­ternoon to fetch Henry back, and then she might, perhaps, hear more. When he arrived she took him aside, and mentioned what her son had told her, en­quiring at the same time if he knew any thing farther about this extraordinary man.

'He is an extraordinary man indeed, madam!' said mr. Sidney: 'Yes, madam, I can give you some farther particulars of him. When first I heard the young gentlemen's account of him, the same idea struck me, which, pardon me, madam, you no doubt entertain, that this was indeed mr. Percival (for mr. Sidney knew his story) and for that reason I desired to be immediately summoned, if he should appear again. I was summoned accordingly; but as you already know, madam, he ran away on seeing me approach; I followed him into the wood, but could not see any thing of him. I immediately made en­quiries about the village, if such a man had been seen; and found that he had been about for two days: but no one seemed to have concerned themselves about him. He never spoke to any one, except at the public house, when he asked for what he wanted, and they could not tell where he lodged. I, with some diffi­culty, [Page 47] madam, traced him to your parish, and from thence to Southampton, but there I quite lost him. I have however deputed a man whom I can trust, to make farther enquiries there; and pray heaven they may prove successful!'

'But, you did not see him, sir, when he was in your fields?'

'My view of him was indeed very imperfect, madam. I could see that he was tall, and that his clothes were very much tattered: but I enquired of one of the boys, a youth of sixteen, what kind of a man he was; and he told me that he had a very dark swarthy complexion, remarkably fine eyes, a large black beard, and a great deal of long black hair, which hung very much about his face and shoulders, as if studiously to assist in disguising him.'

'Ah! too surely it was my husband!' said mrs. Percival, 'but—still cruel, still dark and mysterious in his conduct. Oh! sir, you have been kind and friendly indeed, in the search you have made for him. What more can be done to discover him?'

'I know not of any thing farther to do,' returned mr. Sidney. 'You may depend on me, madam, that every exertion possible shall be made to gain you far­ther information; but allow me, madam, to suggest, whether it will not be better, that you should remain quiet in this affair, and leave all enquiries to me; you may depend on my activity in your service; and my exertions will not occasion the speculations, that any made on your part might do.'

'Oh! how just is your reasoning, and how more than commonly friendly is your conduct!' said mrs. Percival. 'Yes! dear sir, I agree with your opinion, and will myself make no stir about the matter: but oh! my husband, how unkind is your conduct!—How have I deserved!—But no—I have deserved it all!— I will not dare to murmur.' She could not refrain from bursting into tears; but her fortitude soon rose superior to all weakness, and restraining her emotions, [Page 48] 'No,' she said, 'this weakness must not be allowed!' and after a few minutes, she returned with mr. Sidney to the children.

Day after day, however, passed over, nor was mr. Sidney able to give mrs. Percival any satisfaction on the object of her present anxiety. He could learn no tidings of him, and, at last she sunk again into a des­pair of his ever returning to her. She had just abandoned hope, when doctor Schomberg returned from his journey to Ireland; and she imparted to him what had passed during his absence. As she fi­nished her relation, he exclaimed, 'Poor unhappy man, and so he has been in England also!'

'How!' said mrs. Percival, 'Do you then know any thing of him?'

'Indeed, I have now no doubt, that I do,' returned doctor Schomberg. I had, before I heard your re­lation, the strongest reason to suspect that he had vi­sited Arlington castle, just before I went there, and you, madam, have confirmed me in the truth of my conjectures.'

'Oh! quickly tell me all you know,' said mrs. Percival, eagerly.

'I will, madam,' replied the doctor; 'I had, in­deed, hesitated within myself, whether I should im­part the story to you or not, lest it might only be a renewal of your troubles, but as you know so much already, I will conceal nothing from you.

'When I arrived at Arlington castle,' he conti­nued, 'I found mr. Mac-Allen busied in making en­quiries after a person, who had been there the week before, of whom he gave me the following account:'

'I spent last week, sir,' said he, 'at Limerick upon some business of my own; and at my return, mrs. Simmons, the woman who takes care of the house, told me, that she had been sadly plagued for three days, by a madman she believed, at least, she hoped he was mad; for [...]othing else could excuse his beha­viour. The first time he came,' said she, 'which was [Page 49] the day you went away, he spoke very civilly, and desired to be permitted to look over the house, which, as he looked like a gentleman, I immediately com­plied with. He was very quiet, till he got into the library, when all on a sudden he took a knife out of his pocket, and run it through mr. Percival's picture, saying, that he looked so disagreeable, he could not bear to see him. I did not know what to do for my part,' said the house-keeper; 'for he began to look so wild, that I thought, to be sure, he was quite crazy. But I thought it better not to let him go any farther; for there was no knowing what other freaks he might take into his head; so I told him, that as he did not know how to behave, I could not show him any more of the house: and then he began to be very angry in­deed, and said, he would see it; and that neither I nor any body else should hinder him; and he pro­mised he would not do any more mischief, but as for that man he could not bear to see him, and he won­dered my mistress would let the picture hang there; so as I found that nothing else would pacify him, I went on, and he was very quiet 'till we came to my mistress's dressing-room, and then when he looked at miss Percival's picture, stood stock still, just as if he was a statue.

'After he had looked at it for about five minutes, he asked me, whose picture it was?—And I told him it was miss Percival; and then he asked, 'Is she as beautiful as that picture?' 'Oh, yes,' says I, 'and a great deal handsomer too.'—'And she is as sweet tem­pered as she is beautiful: I dare say,' says he—'That she is, to be sure,' says I. 'Then he stared again at it for some time, and away he walked, without asking to see the rest of the house. Well, the next day he came again, and begged I would let him go up stairs to have another look at miss Percival's picture; but I positively told him he should not see it; and if he did not go away, I'd call the men, and have him turned away: and then he threw himself on the ground, and [Page 50] said, there h [...] [...], 'till he had seen the picture, and I told him there he might lie, for he should not see it.

'Well, there he did he for [...]ve half an hour; and then hearing somebody come, he [...]mped up, and ran away. But the third day he came again, and told me that it was in my power to make him the happiest of men, by letting him take a copy of the picture; and if I would do that; he would promise not to trouble me again. So, at last, I thought it was the best way to let him have his wish, and get rid of him, and I shewed him up stairs▪ and he took out a pencil, and a bit of paper, and soon copied the picture: then kissing it eagerly, he put it into his pocket-book, and as he was putting it in, a paper dropped; but I took no notice of it, and when he had shut up the book he ran down stairs, and he was out of the house, and out of sight in a moment; then I went up into the dressing-room again, for the paper I saw him drop [...] [...]d here it is, said she, putting a paper into my hand; and I have never seen nor heard any thing more of him; and glad enough I was to get rid of him.'

'Such,' said Mac-Allen, 'was the house-keeper's account to me, which surprised me very much. I opened the paper, which I found to contain some verses, which I was very sure were mr. Percival's hand writing. Do not you think they are, sir?' added he, giving them to me. 'I looked at them, and perfectly coincided with his opinion.' 'Well, sir,' said he, 'I hardly knew what was best to be done in such an odd affair, for I thought it seemed certain that he was a little crazy: however, I determined to make what enquiries I could after him, but all I could learn about the country was, that such a man as the house-keeper described, had been for a week at the public-house at Airville, and the people there all thought him crazy. But there was a young man,' added Mac-Allen, 'who was in the house at the same time, staying there for some days in order to see the [Page 51] country, and he told me that he had been exceedingly interested by this stranger, and thought there must be something particular in his story. His figure, he said, was strikingly fine; his eyes beautiful, though carrying in them an expression of the deepest melan­choly. He had a large black patch on one cheek, which appeared, as if put on for a disguise; and then he wore his hair very much about his face, appa­rently to conceal it. The young man said, that hav­ing watched him very much, he twice found him sit­ting on a piece of rock by the side of the lake, ear­nestly intent in gazing on a picture which he always wore fastened round his neck with a riband; and every now and then he eagerly kissed it, but as soon as he found he was observed, he hastily returned it into his bosom. He had attempted to enter into con­versation with him two or three times, from mere mo­tives of sympathy, but the stranger always shunned all communication with him, and he had not now seen any thing of him for three days. This was all the intelligence,' continued Mac-Allen, 'that I could gain, for as to the route which he took on leaving Airville, I could get nothing but the most vague con­jectures; some thought he went to Kinsale; some to Cork; some to Waterford; some to Dublin; but no­thing of certainty could be acquired.'

Such was the relation which doctor Schomberg made to mrs. Percival, and producing the verses to her she read as follows:

'Yes, most surely it is my Theodore's writing,' said mrs. Percival, when she had finished them, 'and his whole conduct shews too plainly that he is disor­dered in his mind; I fear too his derangement pro­ceeds from the oppression of concealed anguish. Oh! that any charm could allure him back to my arms! With what affection would I soothe his sorrows, and endeavour to restore to its right tone, a mind formed by nature for every thing great and noble, but which circumstances have thus disfigured!—And how long do you say it is, sir, since he was at Arlington castle?'

'It is now about six weeks, madam; for it was just before I arrived there.'

'Yes, the time too corresponds with his visit to mr. Sidney's; they must have been made by the same person. But, alas! his heart seems still alienated from me! Antoinette alone engrossed his attention at the castle:—To what hard trials is my duty, my love, to that child put? But let me preserve both unsul­lied; she is not to blame, that she engrosses all the attention which I would wish to share, nor shall she suffer for it. But, sir, was the search continued after you got to the castle?'

'It was, madam, but to no purpose; but, indeed, we know now what route he then [...]ook.'

'It is true,' said mrs. Percival; 'Well I will think no more about it, but all my wounds have been opened afresh; I had settled into a perfect calm, but this af­fair has raised a tempest again in my soul—but I will subdue it, I am determined.' The event, indeed, proved, that mrs. Percival promised no more than she had resolved to perform. She soon returned to her [Page 53] accustomed routine: and though placed in one of the most trying situations that a woman could be placed in, her mind rose superior to all trials, and she con­ducted herself with such exemplary prudence, that the tongue of slander did not dare to utter a word against her.

CHAP. VI.

MRS. Percival continued to visit Hampshire in the summer, aad to live in London in the winter, 'till her son was arrived at the age of fifteen, when she sup­posed Antoniette to be approaching to seventeen, a time of life when it was proper she should be brought out into the world, if that was ever to be done. But difficulties arose in mrs. Percival's mind with regard to the line of conduct, which it might be proper for her in this case to pursue. Her Theodore had desired that she might be so educated, as to be fitted to adorn the highest station in life, or to be able to get her bread in the lowest; and she had, therefore, instructed her in every thing, which she thought was intended to be included in those directions.

[Page 54]But, could he mean, that with the accomplishments thus bestowed on her, she should be shut up from the world?—No, surely—that could not be his object.— Mrs. Percival wished she had been more fully in­formed as to his intentions: but he, probably, at the time he wrote, hardly knew himself what his views were—perhaps, indeed, had no views at all. Her counsellor, doctor Schomberg, could not advise her in this affair; it was a nice point to decide, and she must decide it entirely for herself. After well weigh­ing the matter, she determined, at last, that in the ensuing winter, she would introduce her into a world, which she was so formed to adorn; well assured, that her mind was too well guarded against the allure­ments of that world, to be intoxicated with its plea­sures, or to be unwilling to relinquish them, should that hereafter become necessary.

But, before she was thus to be brought forth into public notice, mrs. Percival thought it would be right, for many reasons, to make her acquainted with her own history. It might, among other reasons, be ne­cessary, in order to put her properly on her guard against forming any attachment, which might, from her peculiar situation, be liable to draw her into dif­ficulties. This discovery therefore, she determined to make, the first favourable opportunity that pre­sented itself: and she did not doubt, but many such would occur in the course of the ensuing summer, which it was her intention to spend in Ireland. She had been so long absent from that country, that she wished much to visit it again, and, indeed her pre­sence was for many reasons much wanted there. She left London, therefore, rather earlier in the spring, than usual, and after a short stay in Hampshire, where she was joined by her son, who, she intended, should accompany her, she set off for Ireland, and arrived at Arlington castle the middle of May, just seven years since she quitted it.

[...]ntoinette had not lost the impression which the [Page 55] romantic scenes of Arlington, and, indeed, of the whole environs of the lake of Killarney, had formerly made upon her young mind; and now perfect mis­tress, as she was, of the art of drawing, they appeared to her, beholding them with a scientific eye, ten thou­sand times more beautiful and sublime than when she left them. She had been always taught by mrs. Percival, to be above the idle fears of her sex; and not to think it necessary that she should have an attendant with her whenever she stirred out. She, therefore, often rambled about by herself, and took sketches of such scenes as most struck her active fancy.

One day, not very long after their arrival at the castle, mrs. Percival being gone out for the day on business, and Henry and doctor Schomberg for a visit some miles off, Antoinette, left alone, amused herself with one of these rambles, taking a different route from any, which she had gone before. She had wan­dered, at last, into a delightful little valley, through which ran a small rivulet, which meandered beauti­fully through a sort of meadow, surrounded with woods, except at one small interval, which opened on the lake, and where the rivulet emptied itself down a gentle slope into the lake itself.—It was a spot, which seemed formed on purpose for the pencil; Antoinette was sorry she had not provided herself with her im­plements for drawing; she determined, however, to bring them the next day, and, in the mean time, to survey the valley round, in order to fix on the pic­turesque spot. Having, at last, determined on one, she was turning about to go home, when her attention was suddenly arrested by the appearance of a man, who came out of the wood just by the spot where she stood. He was clad in a long, tattered, thread-bare cloak, tied round him with a cord, at the end of which hung a crucifix; on his head he had a coarse woollen cap, from under which appeared a few locks of per­fectly silver-hair; and he had a long beard, which with with his eye-brows were also perfect silver. He [Page 56] leaned on a staff, which seemed hardly able to sup­port his tottering limbs; and his whole appearance was that of extreme want and wretchedness.

When he perceived Antoinette, he suddenly started, by which means his staff slipping he fell down;—she immediately hastened to his assistance, and having set him again on his feet, he looked stedfastly up to hea­ven, 'Great God! I thank thee,' said he, 'for this mercy. I am unworthy to meet with such compas­sion; but of thy goodness there is no end. Thou hast spared my life to enjoy this blessed moment, and I shall now die content.—Blessed be thy name, Oh God, throughout all nations and generations!'—When he had finished this ejaculation, he turned again, and looking stedfastly at her, he was seized with a fit of trembling, and fell again to the ground;—she again held out her hand to assist him, but in a moment raising himself on his knees, and lifting up his hands and eyes to heaven in the utmost ecstacy, he exclaimed, 'And is this the angel form, which my soul has so long panted to behold?—Heaven and earth!—Can it be?—Let me look at her again: Yes, yes! 'Tis she herself!—Those eyes, that lovely bloom.'—He was overcome with agitation, and sunk down again on the ground.

Antoinette was motionless with astonishment, at all she heard and saw; nor could tell, what she ought to think of it.—She had heard of strange effects pro­duced by religious enthusiasm; but could this most unaccountable sally proceed from that cause only? She, however, held out her hands again to assist him.

'My good friend,' said she. 'What is the mat­ter?—Are you ill?—Accept of my assistance.'

'Ah!' said he, 'from such hands, who could re­fuse it? Yet, oh! will it not contaminate thy pu­rity to touch a wretch like me?' Then making a great effort he raised himself up, and leaning upon his staff—'Resolve me, sweet angel,' said he, 'from whence do you come?—Where do you live?'

[Page 57]'Just by,' she replied, 'at Arlington castle.'

'And are you the daughter of lord Arlington?'

'I am.'

'No more, no more!' he cried, ''tis too much, too much! This tide of joy, I cannot bear!—Leave me, leave me, at present, but'—and here he gave a look of the most anxious solicitude—'May I ask it? —Will you keep this adventure secret, and meet me here this time to-morrow?—You need not fear me—there was a time when, indeed, you would not have been safe in my hands—but now for worlds I would not harm you—to-morrow I shall be more composed; this interview has quite overcome me.'— He paused, as expecting her answer.

'I shall come to this spot again to-morrow.' Then he added, 'and may I hope? Yes, heaven will surely inspire you with confidence to meet me—Your heart is, as I have witnessed, the throne of benevolence; three times to-day have you stretched out the arm of charity to raise a fallen wretch; heaven bless and re­ward thee!' So saying, he returned into the wood, from whence he had come, and Antoinette soon lost sight of him.

She remained for some minutes fixed to the spot where he had left her, lost in astonishment, at what had passed; at last she turned homewards, pondering in her mind whether she should comply with the old man's request or not. At length she determined so far to swerve from it, as not to keep the matter secret, but to impart it to mrs. Percival, when she should re­turn home, and be determined by her opinion whether to meet the old man or not. But before that opinion could be obtained, Antoinette was called on to act from her feelings, rather than from deliberation.

About a mile from the castle lived a catholic priest, a man of the utmost worth and benevolence, whose time was wholly employed in working all the good in his power in the neighbourhood. As he had re­sided in the same spot for some time before mrs. Per­cival [Page 58] had left the country, he was well known to her, and had occasionally been at the house; he was, there­fore, no stranger to Antoinette, and had, indeed, al­ways taken particular notice of that amiable girl, who on her part, was always pleased with, and re­turned, his attentions.

She had not been returned home above two hours, before this benevolent man came to the house, and desiring to speak with her, was immediately shewn into the room where she was sitting. As she had not seen him before since her return, she sprang forward with great eagerness at hearing his name announced, and taking him by the hand, expressed the greatest pleasure at seeing him again; and he, on his part, expressed equal delight at her return into those parts.

'But, my dear miss Percival,' said he, 'we must not waste time in compliments, I have business of importance to impart to you.—Have you not this morning seen, and conversed with an old hermit?'

Antoinete answered, that she had, and that he had requested her to meet him on the same spot again to­morrow, which she intended to do, if her mother should approve of it.

'I have just now left that old man,' said the priest, 'who seemed very near approaching to his last mo­ments, and who expressed the most anxious desire to see you again before he expires. Will you grant his request, madam? I am sure it will calm his last mo­ments—You may trust yourself to me, my character is well known to you— I will conduct you to his cell —it is little more than a mile from hence, and I will be responsible for your safety.'

Antoinette was more and more astonished—'Me!' she cried, 'What can he possibly want with me?'— But he shall be gratified; you would not ask me, I know, to do what is improper—I will then accom­pany you.' She immediately put on her hat and cloak, and set out with the priest. As they walked together, she enquired of him, who this man was, [Page 59] and how long he had been in the country?' When he gave her the following relation.

'It is now near seven years, madam, since he first appeared here, in all which time no one has been able to learn any thing of his story. When he at first came he took up his abode entirely in the open air, lying down at night on the ground amongst the woods, not even taking shelter in the cavity of a rock, and living in every respect a most austere life. I had often met him by chance, before I ventured to speak to him; but, at last, I broke silence, by observing, that he seemed to have no habitation, and, as winter was coming on, he was in danger of perishing, if he con­tinued thus exposed to the inclemencies of the wea­ther.'

'He replied, that a wretch like him, could not be too much exposed to hardships—Penances and mor­tifications were the only road by which he could hope to reconcile himself to an offended deity,' adding, 'the world hardly contains such another wretch, such a monster as I am!'—He then fell on his face to the earth, but started up again, 'No,' said he, 'I dare not pray!—prayer from me would be downright blasphemy!—Pray for me, father, your orisons may be accepted; mine never can be.' After some fur­ther conversation with him, finding that some actions of his life filled his soul with anguish and remorse, I pressed him to unbosom himself to me, and make me his confessor, and in time he might obtain absolution.'

'No,' said he, 'I have an oath registered above, a solemn oath—I have sworn by the most high God, the ruler of heaven and earth, never to reveal my secret, unless—" Here he paused—he remained motionless for some minutes, with his eyes fixed upwards—'No,' said he, 'absolution I cannot have—Even the mercy of the Almighty can never pardon a wretch like me; and shall man then dare to pretend to it?'

'I listened to him with astonishment, horror, and pity, but pressed him then no farther—but I have [Page 60] since that time had much intercourse with him, and with some difficulty prevailed on him at last to fit himself up in a cell in one of the rocks which sur­rounded the lake, where at first he would only have a little straw to lie on, and one chair, but by degrees I have persuaded him to get a bed and some other conveniencies. Frequent conversations have passed between us, in all of which I have found him a man of polished manners, with a great knowledge of the world, and no inconsiderable share of learning. His favourite topic of conversation is, the dreadful effects of giving way to one's passions and appetites, even in the smallest degree, and I am convinced he has been guilty of some dreadful crime, in consequence of not having controlled his passions; but what that crime may be, or whether, indeed, it is one crime in parti­cular or that in general he has seen horrible effects arise in various ways, from his suffering those pas­sions to rule him at all times, I cannot with any de­cision determine: but I rather think that there is some one particular offence, which thus weighs him down.

'He is a wonderful adopt in languages, and speaks both French and English so equally well, that I do not know of which country to guess him to be, though I rather suppose him to be of England, or Ireland, be­cause he s [...]ems perfectly well acquainted with the history of lord Arlington and his family. During the seven years he has lived here, he has never to my knowledge suffered any food or drink to pass his lips, but bread, [...]ots, fruit and water; and when he first came here, he would frequently inflict on himself the s [...]crest bodily discipline, though he has much relaxed of late in that species of rigour.

'Once, when he was very ill, I accidentally hap­pened [...] to his [...]; when he expres [...] the greatest satisf [...]d [...] seeing me [...] and thus addressed me:

'My [...], my benevo [...] friend, heaven has shewn an extraordinary degree of mercy in sending me such [Page 61] a companion as you have been, to soothe my latter days. I am deeply indebted to you already for a thousand little offices of friendship. May I yet ask that friendship farther?—I feel my end approaching:' Then taking a casket from under his pillow—'My story will not die with me,' said he: 'this casket—take it when I am gone—the paper which is tied on it will give you all directions concerning it.' He then re­turned it to his pillow; but recovering from his illness, he has never since spoken to me on the subject.

'He had often enquired, madam, with great anxiety, whether lord Arlington had a daughter, and expressed his wonder that the family never came to the castle. When the first intelligence arrived here of mrs. Percival's intention to spend the summer amongst us, I informed him of it; he seemed rather agitated. I also told him of the family's arrival, as soon as I knew of that event; but he seemed to take little notice of it at the time, though I have observed that ever since that time, he has appeared restless and uneasy more than usual, and has almost always been rambling about, which is contrary to his usual practice.

'This morning I met him at the entrance of his cell, pale, agitated, tottering, and with every symptom of approaching death; I supported him into the cell▪ when he sunk down on his bed, and grasping my hand, said,'

'My dearest friend, my spirit is departing, but I die in peace—I have seen—I have seen—sweet angel, yes, I have seen her.'

'I was astonished at his words, and could not, at first, comprehend their meaning—he lay still and silent a few minutes, then starting up, he exclaimed,

'In peace!—No. I cannot die in peace, unless I see her again—Will she come to me?'

'I begged of him to explain his words—he was silent for a little while, and then calmly said.'

'It is past; I am myself again; but the shock has been too much for me.'—He then related to me the [Page 62] particulars of his interview with you, madam, this morning, and concluded with saying—'My friend, the hand of death is now upon me—go to her—beg her to let me see her again before I die—'tis of im­portance both to myself and her—no time is to be lost —I do not know even now whether I can live 'till she shall arrive.'

Antoinette listened to the priest's relation with the utmost astonishment, nor could form in her mind any idea, which could give her the least clue to so extra­ordinary an affair. Perhaps, had she been acquainted with her own story, suspicions might have arisen in her mind, that she was about to hear great discoveries; but ignorant as she was of that, the matter seemed totally inexplicable. At length she arrived with her conductor at the cell; on entering which, they found the hermit stretched on his bed in the agonies of death, yet still with so much sense, as to give a look of satisfaction at seeing them. Antoinette sat down by him, and involuntarily took hold of his hand; it was cold as the rocky floor of his habitation. He fixed his dying eyes upon her. Twice he essayed to speak: but the overflowings of his soul were too mighty for utterance. He made a sign to the priest to take the casket from under his pillow, which having done, he again made a sign that it should be put into the hands of Antoinette, and making a great effort he just ut­tered, in a voice scarcely audible, ''Tis of impor­tance to you.' He then raised his hands and eyes to heaven—'Heaven bl—;' a blessing hung on his lips —he was unable to utter it—his hands fell—his eye­lids closed—his bosom heaved— he expired.

Antoinette, by an involuntary impulse, again took hold of his hand, and pressed it to her bosom. What a scene was here formed for a painter's eye!—the hermit stretched on his miserable bed, a breathless corpse; his aged and sorrow-worn features yet dis­playing the mingled emotions which agitated his part­ing soul; one hand fast locked in that of the lovely [Page 63] Antoinette, whose fine eye spoke all the feelings of pity, astonishment, and benevolence which then filled her bosom; while at the feet of the bed stood the philanthropic priest, endeavouring to suppress tears which nature would have called forth, but which phi­losophy and religion forbade him to shed.

It was some time before this interesting and affect­ing scene received any interruption; but the priest at last taking Antoinette by the hand, proposed her returning to the castle; to which she assented, and taking the casket with her, they proceeded thither together in perfect silence,

CHAP. VII.

MRS. Percival was just alighted from her carriage, as the priest and Antoinette arrived at the door. The moment she looked at Antoinette, she exclaimed, 'What is the matter, my dear child?—you look quite agitated!—Has any thing unpleasant happened you?'

'Not very unpleasant,' returned the priest, 'but a dying scene is always affecting to a mind of sensi­bility; and such a scene miss Percival has been wit­nessing—perhaps, too, it was one of the most affect­ing scenes of the kind which she could have wit­ [...]essed, the death of a penitent, whom sorrow, (so [Page 64] I guess at least) more than years, has brought to the grave.'

'You surprise me much,' said mrs. Percival, 'Has Antoinette then been attending the death-bed of any one?—Tell me how it has happened?—Your looks, your words, seem to indicate that it is something par­ticular which led her to this scene.'

'Indeed, madam, you are right,' returned the priest. 'The story is an extraordinary one.— Come, madam,' then he continued, addressing himself to Antoinette, 'Shall I leave mrs. Percival and you to talk it over at your leisure?'

'Oh! no,' answered Antoinette, 'Pray do not leave us:—I shall want you to assist my recollection with regard to the poor hermit—I will tell my mo­ther all that I know; but you, perhaps, will recol­lect some further circumstances with regard to his abode in these parts.'

'Come then into the parlour;' said mrs Percival; —they all went in, and being seated, Antoinette re­lated what had passed that day relative to the old man; and concluded with producing the casket, which, she told mrs. Percival, she had determined not to open but in her presence.

Mrs. Percival heard the relation with no less asto­nishment, than the whole transaction had excited in Antoinette. The first thing that suggested itself to her mind was, that this extraordinary personage was her long lost husband—But if he was so, how morti­fying was the reflection, that his only anxiety was to see Antoinette; he had not even mentioned the names of herself or her son!—Could he be her Theodore then?—yet circumstances strongly confirmed her sus­picion that it was so.—It was near seven years that he had lived in that spot;—he must therefore have arrived there soon after the time when she was well assured that her husband had been both in Ire­land and England—his conduct too was then so ex­ [...]raordinary, that no turn he could afterwards take [Page 65] seemed surprising—besides, it was evident too at that time, that he wished to remain in concealment. Yes, she was convinced it must be her Theodore.

But, why not satisfy herself at once by visiting the corpse?—she should then no longer remain in doubt: The priest said too that sorrow, rather than age; seemed to have brought him to the grave. Alas! how much had her Theodore been a prey to sorrow, even before he left her? And what havoc might not fifteen subsequent years of sorrow have made in his frame? All these reflections passed rapidly in her bo­som: for to Antoinette, who was yet unacquainted with the true state of the family, she could not ab­ruptly impart these suspicions: she sat therefore re­volving them in her mind, without uttering a word; but at times clapping her hand on her forehead, as if absorbed in meditation.—At length she begged of the priest to accompany her into another room.

When they were arrived there she asked him 'Whe­ther he had never any reason to suspect that this man was her husband? Yet why do I ask that question? she added. 'Had you ever entertained such suspi­cions, you would surely have communicated them to me.—Nay, indeed, you must at once have known my Theodore.'

'Pardon me, madam,' he answered, 'You will recollect that I did not settle in these parts 'till very soon after mr. Percival's abrupt departure; but hav­ing, at my first coming here, heard much of that tragical affair, as it was then the principal topic of conversation in the neighbourhood, and consequently being no stranger to the story, I own I have been sometimes led to suspect that this might be the hus­band who has cost you so many hours of sorrow. And I have therefore been always particularly atten­tive to catch at any thing which might remove or confirm my suspicions. But he has been so uniformly wary in all the conversations I have had with him, that I have never had, in my opinion, sufficient grounds [Page 66] for [...]ing your feelings, by communicating to you the extraordinary circumstance of a total stranger tak­ing up his abode here in such a way.

'I did indeed long ago impart the story, by letter, to doctor Schomberg; at the same time consulting him whether it should be imparted to you or not, and desiring him to act in the affair according to his own discretion. But he agreed with me in opinion, that without more grounds to go upon, it was better not to harass your mind at all on the matter. Doctor Schomberg, since his arrival here, has several times attempted to see the old man; though, as he said, mr. Percival was so little known to him, that he should have had difficulty in recollecting his features, espe­cially under so different an appearance; but, madam, as the hermit, contrary to his usual custom, has scarcely ever been in his cell since your arrival at the castle, doctor Schomberg has never been able to ob­tain a sight of him.'

'But,' said mrs. Percival, 'has Mac-Allen never seen him?'

'Yes,' replied the priest, 'he has seen him very frequently; but he has always said he did not think he could possibly be his master; for though, to be sure, he was about his stature, and very much resem­bled him in person, excepting that he was bent, with weakness, he does not think that eight years of sorrow and fatigue could have given a man of mr. Percival's years, such an appearance of age, as this hermit had, even at his first arrival.—Of this, however,' continued the priest, 'I am well assured, from many circum­stances, that the hermit knew a great deal of mr. Percival, if he was not mr. Percival himself; and I have also good reason to suppose, that he was not so old as his first appearance led one to imagine him.'

'Well,' said mrs. Percival, 'I am determined to be satisfied; I will go and visit the corpse. You will perhaps be so kind as to accompany me thither.'

'I think you are perfectly right, madam,' answered [Page 67] the priest; but as it now grows late, and would be quite dusk before we could reach the cell, will it not be as well to defer your visit till the morning? You will then find me at the cell.'

'Well, then, it shall be so,' answered mrs. Perci­val, 'to-morrow morning we will meet there; in the mean time, I must go through the painful task of open­ing to my dear charge her true story. It must no longer be kept a secret from her. Perhaps I have been wrong in not imparting it to her before; but I have always dreaded, lest the knowledge of it might be a means of abating the friendship in which we have hitherto lived.'

The priest now took his leave; and mrs. Percival returned to Antoinette, who, filled with astonishment at what had passed, sat impatiently waiting for her; she could not conceive the reason why her mother had not made any remark on the story of the hermit; or why she should so immediately desire a private con­ference with the priest; yet as she knew, that there was something rather mysterious relative to mr. Per­cival's conduct, she began to have confused suspicions wandering in her mind, yet of she scarcely knew what.

Mrs. Percival, on entering the room, saw plainly what was passing in the mind of Antoinette, and that she wished to know much more than perhaps she thought it was proper for her to enquire. She, there­fore, after a pause of a few minutes, in which she was summoning all her resolution to her aid, to commu­nicate what she dreaded to impart, but what she thought it would be criminal any longer to conceal, began the conversation by saying,

'You are, perhaps, surprised, my love, that I have not yet made any remarks to you on the extraordinary story you related to me—Alas! my child, you know not with what sensations it has inspired me.'

'Oh! my dearest mother,' said Antoinette,—'I fear—I know my father.' She could not arrange her ideas sufficiently; tears burst from her involun­tarily, [Page 68] though she scarcely knew what produced them. —She looked earnestly and anxiously at mrs. Perci­val, but her eyes only, not her tongue, could speak; she seemed at once to wish and dread to hear more.

Mrs. Percival took her hand; 'Antoinette, my love, my child,' she said, 'it has been my earnest en­deavour to store your mind with virtue and fortitude. —The latter must now be put to a severe test.— Tell me, my love, can you attend with unshaken nerves to a story, which, would to heaven I could for ever bury in oblivion, but which must one day be revealed to you,—which, perhaps, can never be better revealed to you than at this moment, when your mind, called into a state of exertion, is fortified to re­ceive so great a shock.—What do I say▪—never better revealed than at this moment! Ah! If I were to let this moment slip, when would my courage be again equal to the arduous task—to the dreadful task of wounding, as I shall do, my Antoinette, the sensi­bility of a soul like your's?—Tell me, is your mind, my love, armed to hear it?'

'Ah me!' said Antoinette, 'What is it that I am to hear!—But tell it me at once, my dearest mother, be it what it may.—I am armed to hear it; and trust, that I shall never in any action of my life disgrace the excellence, which has trained me up, and taught me by example, as well as by precept, to bear with like equanimity of temper, the bewitching smiles of pros­perity, or the sharp frowns of adverse fortune.'

'Well, then,' said mrs. Percival, 'listen, my child. —You have been told, even from the first moment, when reason dawning in your tender mind, led you to enquire with infant curiosity, if you had no papa, that the fate of that father, of whom you thus en­quired, was unknown.—But in telling you that, how little, alas, did I disclose to you!—My husband's, my Theodore's fate, is indeed unknown; but heaven only knows, my love, whether that Theodore be really your [...].'

[Page 69]Antoinette turned as pale as death—her head swam round—she rested it on the shoulder of mrs. Percival—a pause of some minutes ensued—all was silence—Antoinette, at last, raised her head again —''Tis past,' she cried. I am recovered. My senses had almost forsaken me—but go on, my dearest—what shall I say?—Mother!—my tongue would fain utter that dear sound—but—'

'Alas! you are right, my love.—I am not your mother. But never, never, can I cease to love you as a child. So saying, she eagerly kissed her trem­bling hand, and pressed it to her bosom; then added, 'Shall I go on, my love? Shall I not quit the subject for the present; perhaps, 'twill be too much to tell you all at once?'

'Oh! no,' said Antoinette, 'let me hear all:—I have recovered the first moment of agony and weak­ness, and have no fear of a relapse; but oh! my —' she paused, she hesitated. 'Mother,' said mrs. Percival. 'Let me not lose that tender appel­lation; and even she who has a claim to it from you, can never love you with more partial fondness than I do—But I will pursue my story.'

She then related all the particulars of her marriage with mr. Percival;—of his strange departure, and re­commendation of her (the infant Antoinette) to the protection of herself, and lord Arlington; and con­cluded the relation, with giving Antoinette the letter, which Theodore sent with her, and which would vouch for the truth of the story she had been telling.

If Antoinette had been surprised with what had passed relative to the old hermit, how much more was she astonished, and how much was she shocked at what mrs. Percival had now imparted to her! she fetched a deep sigh as mrs. Percival concluded, and, 'Alas!' she exclaimed, 'What a change has a few minutes made in my situation! But now and I was—'

Mrs. Percival interrupted her. 'Do not talk of a [Page 70] change, my love,' she said. 'Believe me, your situa­tion is no ways ahead; I cannot cease to love you, and cannot bear the idea, that you should feel a degra­dation in your own eyes. Observe the words of my Theodore, 'Her [...]th is lawful, her parents illus­trious;' and, let us hope that it may be a part of the scheme of Providence, that you should one day know them.—Why then suppose yourself degraded, by finding that you are not my daughter? Be comforted, my child, be assured. —Here they were interrupted by the arrival of Henry, and doctor Schomberg, who returned from their day's excursion.

Henry was entering, with all the ardour of a youthful mind, delighted with his day's entertainment, and eager to relate the particulars of it;—but his ar­dour was damped in a moment, when he beheld Antoinette in tears, and with all the symptoms, in her countenance, of the deepest affliction, and mrs. Percival, with the tenderest affection, endeavouring to console her. His eyes, which had sparkled with pleasure, were in a moment expressive of nothing but anxiety.

'What is the matter with my dear sister?' said he, eagerly.

'My love,' said mrs. Percival, 'You shall know presently.'

'I hope so,' said he. 'I hope my sister will never know a sorrow, in which her brother will not be al­lowed to participate.'

Antoinette gave him a look full of gratitude and affection, but could not make him any other reply.

'Come, my Antoinette,' said mrs. Percival, 'You and doctor Schomberg will, perhaps, take a walk in the garden; you may talk freely with him, and the air will be of service to you—I would have half an hour's conversation with Henry alone.'

Doctor Schomberg went out with Antoinette, when mrs. Percival related to Henry all that she had before imparted to his supposed sister. He heard the story [Page 71] with no less astonishment, than she had, done: and when his mother had finished, he looked at her with the most earnest mixture of anxiety and apprehension.

'But I hope we are not to lose Antoinette?' he said.

'Heaven forbid, that we should!' returned mrs. Percival.—'No, she will still be my daughter.'

'And my sister too?' said he, anxiously.

'I hope so,' she answered. 'I hope, my love, you will not cease to regard her as such.'

'Oh, no,' he replied, 'I should dread nothing so much (next to losing you, dearest madam, as a mother) as losing Antoinette for a sister. We have been edu­cated under the same roof, as brother and sister, and have lived in the purest friendship as such; and life would be but a blank to me,' said he, putting his handkerchief up to his eyes, 'if that friendship was to be destroyed.'—Here he could contain himself no longer, but fairly sobbed out, and let his tears have their free course.

Mrs. Percival saw them with delight, nor could she forbear to mingle hers with them: and taking her son's hand, 'Ah! my Henry,' she said, 'dear as you have always been to my soul, I never loved you to the excess I do at this moment.—This affection for your sister—'tis charming—'tis enchanting!' She eagerly kissed him. 'How have I dreaded this moment!' she said. 'It was one of the greatest con­solations of my life to see your affection for each other. I dreaded lest this discovery should interrupt it.—Go then, my son, hasten to Antoinette. She will anxiously expect the event of this interview; and your renewed assurances of fraternal affection, will be one of the best of cordials to her wounded heart.'

Henry went out immediately to seek for Antoi­nette: and mrs. Percival retired to her room, in or­der to compose her spirits, after the affecting scenes she had gone through. She had not been arrived there many minutes before she saw—the fading light of evening just serving to display the interesting scene— [Page 72] Henry run up to Antoinette, who, whih doctor Schombergh, was seated on a bench in the garden, and clasping her in his arms, kiss her with the utmost warmth of fraternal affection. Mrs. Percival, quite overcome, burst into a torrent of tears, which she did not for a while endeavour to repress. Her feelings had been wrought up to a pitch which required, that they should have such a vent: and she found her mind grow more composed by giving way to them for a while.

Henry, in the mean time, gave Antoinette the strongest assurances of his unalterable affection for her; assured her that he could never cease to consider her as his sister, and to love her as such; and conjured her still to love him as a brother. She returned this burst of affection with reciprocal assurances on her part, that nothing could wound her bosom more deeply, than the thoughts of losing his friendship; and soon after this family of harmony assembled round the supper table with, if possible, even increased af­fection to each other.

After supper, Antoinette proceeded to examine the casket, which she had received from the hermit. She, therefore, unbound the paper, which was tied upon it, which only contained a request to the priest to de­liver the casket into no other hands, than those of Antoinette, daughter to Theodore, lord Arlington, and which seemed only meant as a provision, in case he had not the opportunity of placing it in her hands himself. On opening the casket, Antoinette found a letter directed to herself; a sealed packet of papers, a cross of very splendid diamonds; and a very small miniature picture of a lady; the extreme likeness of which to Antoinette struck every one present. The letter contained as follows:

'In your hands, unfortunate maiden, I place a sacred deposit, these papers, this cross, and this pic­ture: let not the former be opened, 'till you have found a long lost father, whom I have made wretched; [Page 73] in placing these in your hands, however, I endeavour, as far as lies in my power, to atone for the injuries I have done him—for the misery which he as endured in consequence of my giving way to uncontrolled passion. Oh! would to God, that the past could be recalled! But if fifteen years of misery and remorse can atone for my offences, I may hope hereafter to find that peace, which I have never known on earth. Wear the cross, and picture, constantly about you! —They are precious relics; had their former own­ers been alive, how dear would you have been to them! May the God of Heaven ever bless you, sweet maid, and may he have mercy on my soul!'

New wonders were now opened to them; and mrs. Percival felt more and more convinced, that this man was her Theodore; he talked of fifteen years of misery and remorse, and it was just fifteen years since he left her.—But what could he mean by having made the father of Antoinette wretched?—Could Joanna have been seduced by him from her husband? And could Antoinette be the child of Joanna by her husband? Yet, surely, Theodore had a soul incapa­ble of so great villany; he had always appeared to have a high sense of moral rectitude!—She was perplexed beyond measure, as she revolved these things in her mind, and was impatient for the morn­ing, when she should see the corpse.

The morning, at length arrived, when mrs. Per­cival, accompanied by Henry, Antoinette, and doc­tor Schomberg repaired to the hermit's cell, where they found the benevolent priest singing a r [...]quiem for his departed soul. Mrs. Percival earnestly exa­mined the features of the corpse. She thought she discovered some faint traces of those of her husband. But age was imprinted on the countenance of the de­ [...], beyond what she could possibly expect to have [Page 74] found in him. Yet why? sorrow and fatigue will produce the effects of age on the form and features, and fifteen years were a long time for those causes to have operated.—She looked again. She asked doctor Schomberg's opinion.—He had not much knowledge of mr. Percival, and was, therefore, but an indifferent judge; but he owned, he thought there was a considerable resemblance; that is, that the coun­tenance of the hermit was such as mr. Percival's might be supposed to have become from age and mis­fortunes.

Mrs. Percival looked again and again at the coun­tenance. —She grew more and more convinced that this object of misery was the once charming Theo­dore Percival; and in this conviction, almost invo­luntarily, took his clay-cold hand, pressed it to her lips, and bathed it with her tears; and with this con­viction she returned home, ordering that the corpse should be deposited in a private manner, in a vault belonging to the family of Arlington.

Yet amidst all this conviction, one doubt still arose in her mind.—She could by no means, if this was her husband, account for his thus leaving her in doubt, as to his fate; but, again, she recollected that he had told the priest that his story would not die with him; and there might be reasons, why he would not yet have it developed. The priest called again;—he had been searching the cell, but could find nothing in it, except the little furniture he had, a Latin Bible and Testament, and the Roman Missal; which three books he had brought to Antoinette, as the hermit seemed to have selected her for the depôt of his few effects.

Mrs. Percival took this opportunity of putting some farther questions to him concerning the object of her curiosity, but could gain little more information. The hermit was active and diligent to excess (the priest said) in administering to the wants of the neighbouring poor, a [...] [...] as his [...]ans would allow; [Page 75] but his means seemed slender, and I could never make out, madam, continued the priest, from what source even the little he had, was derived. He used to teach the poor children to read, purchasing for them such little books as he could procure at Killarney; and the children were always fond of him, and used to gather round him whenever they saw him: but, except for purposes of benevolence, he seldom left his cell. I have often gone there, and conversed with him; and at first, in those conversations, I endeavoured to give them such a turn, as might draw him insensibly into revealing his story; but he was aware of my designs, and always eluded me, and, at length, one day said, 'I see your drift plainly, my good friend; but you will not succeed. I have told you that I have an oath re­gistered above, never to disclose my story during my life, unless I am so fortunate as to see—.' There he paused—looked earnestly at me, but without any appearance of anger; then continued, 'Do not then entertain so ill an opinion of me, as to suppose that I shall not be watchful strictly so observe that oath. I have been wicked—very wicked. Few people in the world, perhaps, have greater enormities to account for than I have—yet I know how to revere an oath— I might be rash in making it. On that matter I will not pretend to determine; but as I have made it, the world united, should not force me to violate it.'

'There was something so uncommonly impressive and energetic in his manner, as he spake these words, that I could never afterwards think of attempting to draw his secret from him. But I have always watched his countenance and manner, when any species of crime has become the subject of our conversation; yet, though he at such times would express the greatest horror at the crime mentioned, I could never observe him more agitated by one thing than another. But free in his censures of vice in general, and of his own conduct in particular, he has still observed such [Page 76] uniform caution, that I could never perceive one sub­ject particularly touch him.'

From all this mrs. Percival could find nothing satis­factory—nothing which could tend to assure her either of the truth or falsehood of her conjectures. She thanked the priest for the trouble he had taken in this affair, and entreated him, if ever he gained any intelligence, which could tend to throw light on it, that he would immediately impart it to her, which he promising to do, retired.

CHAP. VII.

FOR some time this affair entirely engrossed the at­tention of mrs. Percival and her family. But no fresh incidents concerning it occurring, it, at length, sunk gradually, though not into oblivion, yet into that kind of state, that it was no longer talked of, nor inter­rupted their attention to other concerns, and they rested in silent hope, that time would make farther discoveries.

They now began to be visited by the neighbours, [Page 77] amongst whom were many people, whose society they found very pleasant. But the family, whose com­pany was most agreeable to them, was that of a mr. Delaval, who had hired mrs. Percival's house at Air­ville, where, it will be remembered, she had lived with her father before her marriage. Mr. Delaval was a widower, with one son and one daughter, the latter about the age of Antoinette, the former four years older than his sister.

Mr. Delaval had some years back been resident in Italy for a considerable time, on account of the ill state of his wife's health, who died at Florence soon after the birth of Caroline Delaval, but he remained at Flo­rence for some time after that event. At his return from Italy, he settled near Dublin for some years, and had taken Airville house only about four years before the time we are now speaking of. His being tenant to mrs. Percival, of course brought the two fa­milies together, when they became near neighbours, and congeniality of disposition soon improved their ac­quaintance into the closest intimacy.

Mr. Delaval and his family were all of a very mu­sical turn; he himself was a very fine performer both on the violin and violoncello. Francis, his son, ex­celled on the flute, and could also play a good second to his father on the violin, and Caroline sung charm­ingly. When this family and mrs. Percival's were together, therefore, they made very pleasant little con­certs. Henry Percival, whose taste for music was not inferior to that of his mother's and Antoinette's, had for some time practised on the hautboy, on which he had attained a considerable degree of excellence, and could join with his voice in a glee: and mrs. Percival and Antoinette, as has been said already, both played on the piano-forte, and sung in a very superior stile.

They were particularly fond of exercising their mu­sical talents in little parties on the side of the lake, or upon it, where the echoes reverberating from the sur­rounding mountains, added a fine effect to the music, [Page 78] which effect was much heightened by two excellent French-horn players, who lived at Killarney, and whom they usually hired to be of their parties on such occasions.

One afternoon they had been on one of these par­ties upon the lake, and the weather being remarkably fine, they were induced by it to lengthen out their ex­cursion 'till moon-light, when perhaps a more sooth­ing and captivating seene could hardly be witnessed. The air was perfectly still, no breeze rustled amongst the surrounding trees, or ruffled the serenity of the waters, on which the moon bea [...] played with the most beautiful lustre, except where the lengthened shadows of the over-arching rocks cast a deep gloom on them, which only served, by contrast, to heighten the beauty of the scene; at intervals they sang and played pieces and songs adapted to the scene; at others, no sound intervened but the dashing of the oars in the water.

As they advanced towards the shore, Antoinette began to sing the song of 'Sweet Echo,' from Milton's beautiful poem of Comus, when a hautboy from the shore answered her with sounds that seemed to come from one of more than human mould; it conveyed an idea of the music of the spheres. The company were astonished, were enchanted;—again, as she proceeded, she was answered by the same sounds, or even sweeter than before. Mrs. Percival trembled and turned pale—she knew that her husband had been a per­former on that instrument, when first he returned from his travels, and though he had never pursued it, from want of spirits to go through any such exer­tion, yet she did not know what might have happened during his absence, to draw him on such a pursuit; and being always eager to catch at any thing like a shadow of hope on the grand subject that occupied her mind, without, at the first impulse, absolutely knowing a good reason for the idea she harboured, she exclaimed, 'Good heavens! who can this en­chanting [Page 79] musician be?'—but she recollected, and checked herself—when mr. Delaval said, 'Oh! What melody! sure never was any thing so fine;' —again he listened—again exclaimed—'What a strain was that,—Oh! if I were on the silver Arno, instead of the lake of Killarney, I should say that it must be count Marsini himself; for never did I hear such strains but from him.'

Antoinette finished her song, and in a minute or two the hautboy began playing again, an Italian air, in strains still more and more melodious—'Hea­vens!' said mr. Delaval, starting up in the boat, 'it must be Marsini, and he has at last remembered his promise, made so many years ago. Hasten, rowers, to the shore. The sound seems to come from near yon creek.'

Mrs. Percival fetched a deep sigh. The sounds were accounted for: and her hopes, if such a chaos of ideas as filled her bosom might be called hopes, were crushed again. As they drew near the shore, the music ceasing, mr. Delaval called 'Marsini! count Marsini!' No answer was made, but the hautboy began again, and they soon discovered the musician, seated on a rock, just above the creek, to which they were rowing.

Mr. Delaval again called 'Marsini!'—still no an­swer was made but by the music.

'Heavens!' cried mrs. Percival, 'He answers not to you!—It is—it must be!—' she stopped. She thought she had been indiscreet; but fortunately the attention of the company was too much engaged with the music, to attend to what she said; and it was unnoticed, except by her own family. The boat, at length, reached the shore, and mr. Delaval was has­tening to the musician, who sliding down the rock, met him half way, and in a moment the names of 'count Marsini,' and 'signior Delaval,' were ex­changed; for he was indeed the count Marsini, whom mr. Delaval conjectured him to be.

[Page 80]This count Marsini was an Italian nobleman, with whom mr. Delaval had been very much acquainted during his residence at Florence, and from whom he had received very great attention and kindness in va­rious ways. He did not, however, continue at Flo­rence all the time mr. Delaval was there, which was near three years, for he had been unfortunate in losing a very amiable wife, after he had been married to her less than a year, which circumstance had affected him so much, that it had a visible effect on his health; in consequence of which, his friends persuaded him to travel about, in order to turn his thoughts, if possible, into a different channel. It was on this scheme, that he quitted Florence before mr. Delaval had left it, promising, however, at his departure, that when mr. Delaval was returned to Ireland, he would visit him there. But so many years had elapsed, since the pro­mise was made, without its being fulfilled, that mr. Delaval began to be in despair of ever seeing him.

He had, however, arrived at Airville house while mr. Delaval, with his son and daughter, were absent on the above-mentioned party, and being informed by the servants where their master was, and conducted by them to the spot where it was probable the com­pany would land, he sat himself down to survey the beauty of the scenery, when his attention was taken off from that subject, by the fine voice of Antoinette, and a thought instantly occured to him to announce his arrival by the responsive strains of his hautboy, which he did not doubt mr. Delaval would soon re­cognize.

These things being explained, mr. Delaval intro­duced him to the company and he was, by mrs. Per­cival, invited to sup with the rest of the party at Ar­lington castle; to which place they all immediately proceeded.

It was on their arrival there, that Marsini first had a full view of the countenance of Antoinette, on which he no sooner cast his eyes, than he started, and was [Page 81] scarcely able to take them from her again. Then, as if aware of his rudeness, he turned them away; but during the whole evening, they were perpetually wandering towards her, and it seemed to require the exertion of all his self-command, to keep them one moment from her.

Nor did this admiration cease with the first inter­view: but it seemed to increase every time he saw her, which, on account of the intimacy subsisting be­tween the two families, he did very often.

Marsini was now in the fortieth year of his age, nineteen of which he had been a widower, and, per­haps, no man ever possessed greater attractions. His countenance, and person, were such as to prejudice every one strongly in his favour; for the former had in it an irresistible benevolence, and animation, and the latter was genteel and well formed. He had been, as we have already hinted, a great traveller: and from the knowledge he had thus acquired of men and manners, was a most entertaining and instructive companion, and had the true Italian taste for music and painting, in both which arts he was a great adept.

These talents recommended him extremely to mrs. Percival and Antoinette, who were both passionate ad­mirers of excellence in any way, and both great profi­cients in the arts, in which Marsini particularly excelled. But Antoinette was always the chief object of his at­tention, nor did he ever appear so happy as when in­structing her. Was music her employment? Marsini was still by her side at the piano-forte, improving her stile and execution, both in singing and playing. Did nature's charms woo her all-excelling pencil? Marsini was always at hand to point out the most beautiful spot amongst the romantic scenery around them, as an object for its exercise. Was her attention engaged by the sublimity of Tasso? by the sweetly melting lays of love-lorn Petrarch? or by the be­witching harmony of the elegant Metastasio? Marsini instructed her in cadence and articulation. Marsini [Page 82] gave grace, feeling, and expression to all. Still it was silent admiration only which he bestowed on her. She never was the topic of his conversation, any far­ther than as the family at Arlington were often made the subject of discourse amongst mr. Delaval's family, when Marsini would, in general terms, speak in ad­miration of them: and though every one saw that he was deeply struck with the lovely Antoinette, they saw it only; they never heard it.

Francis Delaval saw, and not without regret, how deep an impression she had made on the count; not, that he seemed to have made the like impression on her; but Francis, who had himself too susceptible a heart to have seen Antoinette with indifference, dreaded lest the perfections of the count should over­balance with his mistress the disproportion of their years, and at last make a conquest of that heart, which he wished to retain for himself. He felt, at the same time, so strongly, that the count was so every way de­serving of her, that he could hardly regret it, should she bestow herself on him.

However, he was determined not to yield up this prize to a rival without any resistance; and he was, therefore, not at all behind hand with the count in his assiduities. As he was well acquainted with the country, which he had explored very much since his residence in it, he contrived parties for a day's excur­sion, to any spot which he thought worth viewing; and in these he had sometimes the inexpressible plea­sure of having Antoinette's company with him in his chaise. At other times, he made parties to dance on the lawn, either at Airville or Arlington, when he shared, at least, with Marsini, the hand of Antoinette. Various other amusements, too, he contrived, in hopes of recommending himself to the object of his affections; who, on her part, received his attentions, as well as those of Marsini, with an easy politeness, but without the least appearance of preference, or partiality to either.

[Page 83]Francis, one day, in one of the excursions we have mentioned, conducted the company to a very curious cell, in a rock, which hung over the sea, and which was called Alfred's cave, and to which, he said, a very affecting story was attached, as he had lately disco­vered in looking over a volume of poems, called the Muse of Killarney; which story he would, if agree­able, read to them, when they were all seated in the cell. Accordingly, they all sat down on seats inge­niously hewn out of the solid rock, when Francis read as follows:

CHAP. IX.

FRANCIS received the thanks of the company for the entertainment he had given them; they paid 'the mournful tribute of a tear' to the misfortunes of Al­fred and Helen, and then proceeded to examine the cave. It was very curiously cut out of the solid rock into various conveniencies. In the interior was a re­cess, which seemed designed as a chapel, where an urn was erected, on the pedestal of which was an in­scription, the characters of which were so much de­faced by time, that it was perfectly illegible: but it was supposed to be a tribute to the memory of poor Helen.

After they had sufficiently examined the monu­ments of industry and sorrow, which this cave pre­sented, the company returned to Airville, where they were to pass the evening. There Marsini found a letter from Italy, which having read, he said, address­ing mr. Delaval,

'What think you, signor, of our friend the mar­quis Vellorno being married to a young woman only sixteen years of age?'

'Is it possible?' answered mr. Delaval,

'Why, Vellorno himself cannot surely be less than fifty?'

[Page 93]'You are quite right,' said Marsini, 'Vellorno is now in his fifty-first year.'

'Besides,' said mr. Delaval, 'it was always supposed that he was waiting for the death of count Durazzo, to marry his widow.'

'Tis true,' said Marsini, 'that such was the general idea, but it now appears that it was an un­founded one.—But you shall hear what his cou­sin, count Carletti, writes to me.' Marsini then read as follows:

'How much will you be surprised, my dear Gia­como, to hear that our friend, and my cousin, the marquis Vellorno, has given his hand in marriage, not to the handsome widow of Durazzo, whom, dur­ing her husband's life, he had so long served in qua­lity of cicesbeo, and whom every one supposed, at the death of her husband, he would have advanced to the rank of marchioness Vellorno; but to count de Portici's daughter, who is only thirty-four years younger than himself! This match is now the uni­versal topic of conversation and speculation, and it is supposed by some people▪ that there are private rea­sons for it, of a political nature, and that the poor bride's inclinations have been little consulted on this occasion. Others, however, are of opinion, that the young marchioness has, at least her share in the am­bition of the house of Portici, and that she would have married a man, even twenty years older than Vellorno, for the sake of the rank, to which she is raised; while another description of people strenu­ously assert, that it is entirely a match of affection on both sides.'

'Affection?' exclaimed Francis Delaval, 'Impos­sible! How can the bloom of sixteen be united, through affection, to the frozen bosom of fifty?— No, no: attachment cannot subsist between people of such disproportionate years. Oh! how I pity the lady, if she has been made a sacrifice to political [...]iews! but I could almost find in my heart to curse [Page 94] her, if through ambition she could form so unnatural an union.'

'Why, I own, indeed,' said Marsini, 'that there does seem rather too great a disproportion of years in this instance, especially considering the extreme youth of the marchioness. But I have heard many ladies of twenty, or even under twenty, declare, that they thought the manners of a man of forty, or near it, commonly much more interesting and attractive, than those of men nearer to their own age. I must beg pardon for having just fixed on my own age as the most pleasing; but you will allow, that one cannot help feeling a little vanity in the hopes of catching the attention of the young and beautiful amongst the other sex.'

'Francis during this speech, had particularly watched Marsini's eyes, but did not find them stray once towards Antoinette. He answered; 'No apo­logy is necessary on this occasion, my dear count, and I will freely own, that if all men of forty were like you, I should not at all wonder at the preference you seem to think the ladies in general give to men of that age.'

Marsini interrupted him: 'I meant not, my dear sir, to ask for such a compliment, of which I feel my­self undeserving. I only meant to observe, that, in general, I think the superior knowledge of the world, which accompanies superior years, is more pleasing to the female mind than the mere gaieties of youth, however enchanting they may be at times.'

'Neither did I mean to pay a compliment,' re­turned Francis. 'I spoke what I really thought: and I perfectly agree in the opinion, that where a man of sorty has made a proper use of his advance in years, he must be far more captivating than a very young man. But it must altogether depend on the use that he has made of his superiority of years, whether or not he shall be this formidable rival of youth: for if he has not used it in the acquisition of knowledge▪ [Page 95] and improvement of his mind, the empty rattle which is scarcely to be endured, even in youth, is absolutely insupportable in more advanced years.'

'Most certainly,' answered Marsini, 'no general rule can, in this instance, be laid down. The only thing that can be said, is, that, where the disposition for improvement is the same, the man of forty must have this advantage over the man of twenty; that his years have given him greater opportunity of acquiring those sources of entertainment, which must recom­mend him very much to every sensible woman.'

''Tis true,' said Francis; 'and here we meet pretty much on the same point, that, where the spirit of improvement is wanting, the man of forty has no ad­vantage over his juniors, but a manifest disadvantage, in that he has lost the agreeableness of youth, to which, after all, a certain charm is attached, without having attained any of the advantages of years. But, I beg your pardon, sir, I fear I have engaged rather arrogantly in this argument.

'Oh! by no means.' returned Marsini. 'I rejoice to hear you inclined to enter into such kind of discus­sions, which few young men ever will engage in; and I am persuaded they are a great source of in­struction, as well as of entertainment to both parties.'

'I rejoice to hear you say so, signor,' replied Fran­cis; 'for I think one great cause of the general stu­pidity of all parties, is, that people banish from them all topics of speculative discussion, and confine them­selves to talking over passing occurrences, which I think the most tiresome of all conversation.'

'Ah!' said Marsini, 'How much do your senti­ments recal to my recollection a young man, whom,' said he, addressing mr. Delaval, 'you remember, sir, no doubt, as he was with me, I think, for some time after you came to Florence, the chevalier de St. Foix —he was passionately fond of an argument of this kind, and a most extraordinary talent he had for it. I have known that young man, at the age of only [Page 96] twenty, completely baffle many of our sages, both in churcn and state, by the soundness of his reasonings, and the depth of his observations. But perhaps, you will think, that less splendid talents than his, might have sufficed to beat them off from ground so untenable, as the doctrines of our church, and the principles of our government. However, he was a rare gem.'

'So he truly was,' said mr. Delaval 'I scarce ever saw such brilliant talents; but he came, I think, to an untimely end.'

'Alas! he did indeed,' answered Marsini 'he quitted me to go to his sister, who was, at that time, suffering a cruel persecution from her father, on ac­count of a marriage he had agreed on for her, to which she would not consent; and the poor chevalier was killed in a duel with this lover, after which, I was told the sister was shut up in a convent by her father, whose passions, as I well know, were of a most un­governable kind.'

Marsini seemed much agitated; he fixed his eyes for a few moments upon Antoinette, who sat directly opposite to him, but withdrew them rather in a hurried manner, and resuming the discourse, said,

'But we are wandering wide of our original ques­tion, which was, Whether it could be supposed possi­ble for a young woman of sixteen, to marry a man of fifty, from attachment only. What is your opinion, mrs. Percival?'

'I think it not only possible,' said mrs. Percival, 'but even very probable, that she may do so; and I am inclined to be of opinion, that a woman has a bet­ter prospect of happiness with a man some years older than herself, than with a very young man, who though he may be very much attached to her at the time she marries him, yet from a sickleness of temper, often attendant on youth, may possibly abate in that attachment in a few years, and his heart may wander [Page 97] after other objects.—But, why do I say this? For at this moment I could cite many instances of happy, and many of unhappy, matches, both where there was a great disproportion of years, and where there was nearly an equality in that respect. Indeed, with one of the happiest couples I know, the disproportion of years is on the other side from what we have hitherto been discussing: for the lady was thirty-two years old when she married, and the gentleman only twenty-four. Yet their regard for each other has appeared continually increasing during twenty years, which they have now lived together.'

'Well, then,' said Marsini, 'on the whole we may conclude, that it must depend on other circum­stances, rather than on the relative ages of the parties concerned, whether a marriage shall turn out an happy one or not.'

'Most certainly,' said mrs. Percival, 'if they are but strongly attached to each other, the ages are of small importance: but no happiness can be expected on any other foundation than that of mutual attach­ment; and for this reason I am inclined to think, that those mariages are most likely to be happy, which are the result of long habits of intimacy with each other, and where the foundation for love is laid in friendship; for in fact, conjugal attachment is the most refined species of friendship.'

'You now surprise me much,' said mr. Delaval; 'for I have always inclined to the opinion, that a very long previous engagement was rather inimical to matrimonial happiness.'

'Mistake me not, sir,' answered mrs. Percival. 'I do not mean by long habits of intimacy, a long engagement. I perfectly agree with you in opinion, that a long engagement has often proved a gulph, which has swallowed up all conjugal happiness. I only mean to say, that I think those have the best prospect of happiness in marriage, who have been long acquainted with each other before any engagement takes place. [Page 98] But when an absolute engagement is entered into, it cannot be too soon fulfilled.'

'But I am afraid,' said mr Delaval, 'that it is not often, that people can come together on those terms.'

'Perhaps so,' replied mrs. Percival. 'But happy are those to whose lot such a connexion falls. Long accustomed to place their happiness in each other's so­ciety—to share the same amusements, and the same occupations—to see, and make allowances for each other's failings; and to know how to prize each other's good qualities: I can conceive no happiness equal to marrying under such circumstances. But where one side is indifferent to the other, 'tis madness to sup­pose any happiness can ever exist; and 'tis the most dangerous of all self-deceptions, to expect it.'

She had gone too far in this last speech. It brought home to her mind, rather too forcibly, her own si­tuation. She began to hesitate, and to falter in her voice.

Marsini saw she was agitated. He knew enough of her story from the Delaval family, to guess the cause of it; and willing to divert the subject from the course which it had taken, addressed himself thus to Caroline and Antoinette:

'And, what do you think, signore?' he said, 'You have not yet given your opinion on this subject, and perhaps you are the best judges in this case, as you are about the very age we are speaking of. Do you really think you could marry a man of fifty years old, from motives of attachment only?—though perhaps, it is hardly a fair question.'

Caroline replied without hesitation, that he had, perhaps, gone too far in mentioning fifty; but she thought it very possible for a young woman to marry a man of twenty years older than herself, from no other motive but that of strong affection.'

'So far,' said Marsini, 'the answer is favourable for my side of the question. But now, miss Perci­val, [Page 99] what do you say? May we not hope to have your sentiments?'

'Indeed,' said Antoinette, 'You put a question to me, signor, to which I hardly know how to give an answer.—A sensible man of forty or fifty may be, nay, certainly is, a most desirable companion and friend for a young woman; perhaps, there hardly can be a more advantageous circumstance to her, than to have such a friend. Yet I own, for a husband, it seems to me a great disproportion of years; and I should think it more desirable for a man and woman to be united in that happiest of all states, with a pros­pect of neither of them much out-living the other. For my own part, nothing could weigh in my mind against the dreadful idea, that my husband might die twenty years before me.'

During this speech, her eyes had wandered invo­luntarily towards Francis Delaval; but she soon re­collected herself, and turned them again to the per­son she was addressing. Francis's eyes sparkled with delight, whilst Marsini appeared somewhat chagrined, but Henry Percival soon drew the whole attention of the company, by exclaiming,

'Well, I am glad to hear that my sister is of that opinion, for I began to be quite alarmed, lest if the young women were all for taking the old men, we young men should be reduced to take the old women; and I honestly confess, that I should not wish for a wife thirty years older than myself.'

This honest declaration of Henry's raised a general laugh, and so put an end to the conversation.

CHAP. X.

BUT, though Marsini had heard this declaration of the sentiments of Antoinette, which certainly was no encouragement to him to continue his pursuit of her; he did not in the least remit his assiduities: but, as she began to perceive their tendency, although at first she had received, and encouraged them only as those of a friend, she found it necessary to alter her conduct, and she began, therefore, rather to shun him. When he invited her to the piano-forte, she was not inclined to play, but had something to write, or made some other excuse. Did he ask her to accompany him to take some view?—She had already so many unfinished sketches, that she did not choose to begin any more 'till some of them were compleated. Did he invite her to read Italian with him?— She had read so much lately, that she wished for a respite; and by these means she eluded being alone with him; which, be­fore that time, she had never scrupled to be.

Marsini saw and felt mortified at her coolness. He wished for an opportunity of speaking with her in private; but it was plain, that she cautiously avoided affording him the opportunity he wished. She sel­dom walked out by herself—employed herself in her own apartment, that she might avoid seeing the count, who scarcely ever passed a day, without calling at the house; and she even made excuses to stay at home when the rest of the family went to Airville. But, though this behaviour on her part, was sufficiently [Page 101] discouraging to his hopes, Marsini was drawn to her by such an irresistible attraction, that he determined, at all hazards, to have some private conversation with her.

One day, therefore, when mrs. Percival and her family were to attend a concert at Airville, the count watched, in his apartment, for their arrival; and, seeing that Antoinette was not with them, he immediately took his horse, and rode to Arlington. Antoinette, unsuspicious that he would take this method of seeing her, had taken no precautions to prevent his gaining access to her; and he was, therefore, without hesi­tation, shewn into the parlour where she was sitting, practising a new song, which had been just sent her from London.

She was so intent upon her employment, and so un­suspicious of interruption, that she did not perceive Marsini's entrance, 'till he came close to her, and said,

'I hope my Antoinette has not now a letter to write, but will stay and hear what I have so long wished to say to her.'

'I am astonished, count Marsini,' she said, 'at this intrusion. It is what I could not expect from you, whom I have always considered as a true gentle­man.'

'I own, madam,' said Marsini, 'that my conduct is hardly to be justified; but believe me, I have not thrust myself thus into your presence, with any inten­tion to persecute or distress you, but merely with a wish that we may come to a right understanding of each other. And I faithfully promise, that if you will for this time give me a pa [...]ent hearing, I will never again, if it shall be your desire, mention the subject on which it is my desire now to open my mind to you. I will even quit this country, if you shall wish it, and never again incommode you with the presence of one who is so disagreeable to you. Tell me, then, may I now speak out?'

Antoinette hesitated.

[Page 102]'You pause, dearest maid,' said he. 'I will take my leave of you this moment, if you require it.'

'No, no,' she replied; 'You must, I think, be a man of honour, nor will say any thing, which I ought not to hear. Therefore, speak on.'

'Well then,' he said, 'dear Antoinette, I think you cannot but have perceived, how deep an impres­sion you made on me, even the first moment that I saw you.' Tears almost started into his eyes. 'An­toinette, I was married at only twenty years of age, to a woman whom I loved to a degree beyond the power of words to express, and which none but those, who have loved to an equal degree, o [...] form an idea of. But fate separated us in less than half a year after we were united! Oh! Antoinette, when I first saw you, I thought I beheld my poor Gabrielle returned from the tomb, and could scarcely refrain from clasp­ing you to my bosom, and welcoming a dear and long lost friend. My sensations at that moment were in­describable. I had, since the death of my Gabrielle, been quite insensible to female charms. I now, again, powerfully felt their influence, and had soon no pleasure, when absent from your society. I wished you had been my daughter—with what double trans­port then, should I have been your instructor!—have cherished your virtues, and corrected your failings, though for that you would scarcely allow me any op­portunity! With what transport should I have beheld your cultivated and enlightened understanding, daily advancing nearer and nearer to perfection!—you would have been the solace of my life, which has been a burden to me since my Gabrielle was taken from me. But my daughter you could not be: yet I knew not how to live without you, and, pardon my presumption, I therefore wished to make you my wife.

'Here, then, dearest Antoinette, I offer you my hand and heart. The latter is entirely devoted to you; and I make this offer, for the first and the last time. I believe you far above the common female [Page 103] coque [...]y, which loves to sport with the passion of a lover, devoted; else would you never have inspired me with that passion; and I shall, therefore, deter­mine to conquer it, if your answer now is discourag­ing to my hopes. I know you have seen my love for you, for I could not conceal it. This offer can scarcely, therefore, be unexpected; and you must, already, have well weighed in your mind, what answer you should give to it. Tell me then, my lovely girl, am I to hope, or must I make up my mind to bear with disappointment?—It will be a hard task, believe me; but, at least, if I must not be your husband [...] let me be your friend. It will be death to me to [...] you en­tirely; your late coolness has, indeed, half killed me.'

He paused▪ and taking her hand, seemed to expect her reply. But the pathetic tone and manner in which his last words were delivered, had dissolved the heart of Antoinette so much, that she had burst into tears, and at first could not speak; but when reco­vered, she said,

'Count Marsini, you have pleaded your cause in the most eloquent manner that words could have pleaded it; and your open and undisguised explana­tion of your sentiments has made a much deeper im­pression on my soul, than all the artificial harangues commonly used on such occasions could possibly have done. Let me be as ingenious as yourself. Believe me, I most sincerely revere your virtues, and esteem your character. I feel the most lively gratitude for the preference with which you have honoured me; and nothing can be more grateful to my bosom, than al­ways to cherish you there as a friend; but think not of any thing farther. I can love you as a friend: but were I disposed to enter the marriage state, I must candidly own, that with all my esteem of, and regard for, you, I could not think of you as a husband. But even supposing my heart would lead me to accept the hand you offer, I have powerful reasons which would still make me decline it.—It is impossible, believe me, [Page 104] count Marsini, it is impossible, that at present I should marry at all.—Heaven only knows to what scenes of sorrow a hasty union on my part might lead. I am obliged, therefore, to guard my heart with an ada­mantine shield, and to teach it lessons of stoicism, that shall enable it to resist every impulse of attach­ment which might be inclined to arise there.'

She burst again into tears; for sorrowful reflections were called up in her soul.

Marsini listened with astonishment. 'Dear An­toinette,' he said, 'how mysterious are your words?— Not marr [...] at all!—Heavens! What should prevent the daughter of lord Arlington from bestowing her­self in marriage on a man whom her heart might ap­prove?—Did he then, at parting, leave any cruel in­junction?'

'Oh! no,' she said, interrupting him, 'it is not an injunction from him that prevents me; but ask no more. It is enough, dear sir, for you to know, that I not only cannot be your wife, but that at present, I cannot be the wife of any one.

'Well then,' he said, 'I am satisfied; but dear­est Antoinette, let me be your friend, your father! Do not, oh! do not shun me: it kills me to see your cold and averted looks. Let me still instruct you— still enjoy your sweet society; believe me, it will not be dangerous, either to you or to myself. I can con­trol my wishes so far as never to aspire higher than to your friendship; but I know not how I could re­concile my mind to being banished from any place in your heart; yet, if you command my absence, I must, I will obey, whatever it cost me.'

'Indeed, sir,' answered Antoinette, 'I do not wish your absence; and after the assurances you have made me, I have no fear of giving up my soul to you in the most unreserved friendship.—Yes, I will again be your pupil, your elêve; I owe much to you al­ready, nor shall you ever find me ungrateful, either for your past, [...]uture kindness.'

[Page 105]'And since I must not hope for more,' said he, 'believe me, that friendship will be the greatest happi­ness I can know; for oh! I shall still fancy you the child of my Gabrielle—I shall still think, that had my Gabrielle lived, I might now have been possessed of such a daughter; and sure no daughter could ever have the features of a mother more strongly impressed on its countenance, than are those of my Gabrielle on your's.'

Antoinette looked earnestly at him. She knew not what to make of his words. Her parents were unknown to her. How was it that she bore so strong a resemblance to Marsini's deceased wife?—Her thoughts were confused—she wished to ask a thousand questions, but prudence forbade her to speak—time might unfold more: but, in the mean time, she stored up carefully in her bosom the things she had heard.

'Well, then,' he said, 'on these terms we now se­parate. As a friend I still may love and regard you, but never shall a more aspiring thought find a place in my heart. Adieu, therefore, for the present, dearest young lady; and though this interview, which I have so long anxiously sought for, has not ended precisely as I could have wished, yet I go away more and more convinced of the excellence of your heart and understanding, and easier in my own mind, for being released from a painful suspense, and knowing exactly the extent of my prospects with regard to you.'

So saying, he took her hand gently, which he pressed to his lips, and with a look full of anxious af­fection, withdrew, pondering all the way home, on what she had said, earnestly wishing to unravel the mysterious meaning of her words; yet unable to form any conjecture which might lead to a probable solu­tion of them.

When mrs. Percival returned home, Antoinette re­lated to her all that had passed, and received from her the warmest approbation of her conduct, and thus matters rested for a short time. Marsini resumed his [Page 106] character of instructor to Antoinette, and she no longer shunned his attentions; all which Francis Delaval, who did not know what had passed, regarded with a jealous and envious eye.

Francis, however, was soon in some sort relieved from his anxiety, by finding, that though he had no prospect himself of succeeding in his wishes, yet that the count's prospect was no better; and some conso­lation is always to be derived from the knowledge, that a rival has no chance of possessing the treasure which we ourselves have in vain endeavoured to obtain.

Francis had long cultivated an intimacy with Henry Percival, perhaps, at first, in the hope, that an inti­macy with the brother might assist his views with re­gard to the sister; but it was afterwards continued out of regard to the youth himself, who certainly was highly deserving his friendship. Francis, therefore, resolved to sound Henry on the subject of his sister's inclinations, and try if he could learn, by that means, whether he might entertain a reasonable hope of her lending a favourable ear to his addresses.

One day, therefore, when they were walking out together, Francis, as if quite undesignedly, drew the conversation round to Antoinette, and after it had been carried to some length, at last asked Henry, 'if his sister was not going to be married to count Mar­sini, for he said it was generally supposed that the match was agreed on: and,' said he, 'although strange to say, Marsini, though our guest, has never hinted a word to us on the subject; yet I can nevertheless scarcely doubt of the truth of the report, as he and miss Percival so much are together.'

Henry replied, 'That he believed the count would be very glad to marry his sister: but, indeed,' said he, 'I think he is too old for her, and I know very well that my sister is determined not to marry at present, whoever might offer to her; she says she is too young yet to undertake the care of a family; besides—'

[Page 107]He stopped: he thought he had said a word too much.

'Besides what?' asked Francis eagerly.

'O nothing,' said Henry. 'But I am sure my sister would not marry now; and perhaps she may never marry at all.'

'You astonish me,' said Francis. 'How can such a charming young woman have made so strange, so cruel a resolution?'

'Why, she has not made it without good reasons,' answered Henry. 'But come, Frank, don't be so over curious. You have, some how or other, made me say too much already.'

Francis said no more: but Henry's words sunk deeply into his mind. There was an air of mystery in them, which astonished him exceedingly; but as he found that Henry did not like to be questioned, he was too much of a gentleman to importune him on the subject.

Soon after, in the course of their walk, passing by the cell which the hermit had inhabited, Francis sud­denly exclaimed,

'Ha! I wonder whether the hermit be still alive? —I have not seen, or heard of him, for a long time, and had almost forgotten him.' Then, addressing Henry, 'Did you ever hear of him?' said he.

'Oh! yes,' answered Henry, 'and I can tell you that he died very soon after we came to the castle: —What an extraordinary old man he was!'

'Extraordinary indeed,' said Francis. 'I often tried to get into conversation with him; but I never could get him to say much: sometimes I could hardly even obtain an answer to any question I asked. But once he asked me, with great anxiety, if I was related to lord Arlington? and on my answering in the ne­gative, he shook his head, and did not say any thing more.—Could you ever get him to talk?'

'I never had an opportunity of trying,' answered Henry. 'I never saw him 'till after he was dead.'

[Page 108]'Ha!' said Francis, 'What, did he drop down as he was walking about?—And did you find him?'

'Oh! no,' said Henry, 'He died in his cell: and I went there on purpose to see him.'

'And how happened that?'

'Why I went because I had heard such a strange account of him from my sister, and because she had some conversation with him, that excited our curiosity about him very much.'

'What then, he would talk to your sister?—Old as he was, he could not resist her attractions?'

'Pho,' answered Henry, 'No, no,—attractions— pho—no—but my sister had seen him fall, and helped him up, and so he began talking to her. But come, Frank, let us find some other subject of conversation; for though I love my sister—dearly love her, yet I don't like to be always talking of her.'

Francis saw more and more plainly, that there was a something relative to Antoinette, which Henry did not like should be too closely investigated. He was distressed about it; but at the same time, felt a secret pleasure, in finding that he should not have the mor­tification of seeing her in the arms of a rival.

They soon after arrived in the grounds belonging to the castle, where meeting with mrs. Percival and An­toinette, the conversation soon became general.

CHAP. XI.

IT was not many days after the two conversations had passed, which are related in the preceding chap­ter, that an event occurred, which, while it confirmed Francis in the belief, that some mystery hung over the fate of Antoinette, at the same time seemed, in sort, to unravel it: I say seemed, for though there was a specious appearance of developement as to her birth, enough of cloud still remained, to leave her mind far from satisfied of the truth of what was ap­prehended to be discovered, and far from thinking it right to crown, at that time, the wishes of her lover, [...]ever her inclinations might have prompted her to it.

One day when the two families were met together at Arlington castle, a conversation arose which occa­sioned the company to wish to refer to the Romish Missal in order to ascertain a point on which they were doubtful, and which, Marsini said, could immediately be decided by a reference to that book, if one could be produced. Antoinette recollecting that which had belonged to the hermit, and which had been in her possession ever since his death, immediately brought it, and gave it into the hands of Marsini.

He no sooner cast his eyes on it, than he exclaimed,

'Good God! signora! How came this book into your possession?—These are the arms of St. Foix!' pointing to the arms in gilding, on the outside of the book.

[Page 110]Antoinette replied, 'That he must excuse her an­swering that question; that a history belonged to that book, which she did not care to relate; and perhaps,' she added, 'I have done wrong in producing it, and exposing myself to any questions that might be asked concerning it.'

'Nay; but for heaven's sake, dear Antoinette, tell me all you know about this book;' said Marsini, 'These are indeed, the arms of St. Foix!—too, too well do I know them; I cannot be mistaken.—Look at them mr. Delaval▪ you know the chevalier:—You must have seen the arms frequently.'

Mr. Delaval looked at the book; 'Most assuredly these are the arms of St. Foix,' he said, 'They are too remarkable to be mistaken; and, pardon me, miss Percival, but I have always thought, that there was a great resemblance between you and our truly amiable friend, the chevalier de St. Foix.'

'Oh! and has the likeness struck you, then?' said Marsini, 'Oh! she is the perfect resemblance of my wife, my Gabrielle de St. Foix, and she was the exact counterpart of her brother.'

He got up from his seat; he walked about the room for some minutes in a violent agitation; then sat down by Antoinette, and eagerly grasping her hand, 'Pardon me, pardon me, dearest creature,' he said, 'I am on the rack! Oh! release me, and say how that book came into your hands!'

Antoinette looked anxiously at mrs. Percival, as if to ask her advice what she should do, which mrs. Per­cival observing, said,

'You seem to wish for my opinion, my love, and I will freely give it. We are surely amongst people who will not betray what passes here, and, perhaps, the imparting to the count what you know concerning this book, may lead to important discoveries. But, my Antoinette—the picture and the cross: You have them about you, no doubt—Might you not shew them also to the count?'

[Page 111]Antoinette immediately drew from her pocket a little case, in which she always kept them, and open­ing it, presented the picture to the count, who ex­claimed,

'My wife!—my wife!' and fell senseless on the floor.

The company looked all astonishment; they imme­diately applied themselves to assist the count, but it was some time before his senses returned; when they did, he exclaimed,

'Merciful God!—And could then, what I have hitherto considered as a vile calumny, be really true! —Yes,' said he, looking first at the picture, and then at Antoinette,—'It must be so—I cannot doubt any longer;—But Antoinette, dearest Antoinette, tell me, whence had you these things?

It was impossible to resist the agitation of the count any longer: and Antoinette begged of mrs. Percival to relate her story, which she immediately did; and, at the conclusion of it, she desired Antoinette to shew the cross to Marsini, which he had not yet seen.

Astonishment at the story he had heard held the count for some time in perfect silence. He looked earnestly at Antoinette for several minutes, and at length, casting his eyes on the cross, which she held in her hand, he cried out,

'It is St. Foix's! by heaven it is St. Foix's!"

He was again silent a few minutes; and then said, 'Come, I will endeavour to compose myself, that I may tell my story; and I think, dearest maid,' address­ing Antoinette, 'that I can point out to you one of your parents at least.'

He went out of the room. He walked a little while about the garden; then returning, and seating himself by Antoinette, he began thus:

'I have already told you, my dearest creature, that I was married when only twenty years of age. My wife was the eldest daughter of the baron de St. Foix, a French nobleman, who have taken an unaccounta­ble [Page 112] and unreasonable dislike to her, sent her to live with a relation of his at Milan, where I become ac­quainted with her, and was irresistibly charmed with her. Good God! that a father could find any thing to dissike in so amiable a creature;—she was faultless! (I, at least, thought so) I soon solicited her hand in marriage; and the baron being indifferent as to her fate, said, in a cavalier kind of way, 'That I was welcome to take her if I wished it; but he should not give her any fortune.' Fortune, however, was not my aim. I wished only for Gabrielle, and was soon after married to her. The baron continued to treat both me and my wife with the utmost contempt, nor would he suffer his youngest daughter to come near us; but the chevalier de St. Foix's son, who was in every respect a perfect contrast to the baron, came to Milan, to be present at our marriage, and always treated us with the greatest respect and attention. Indeed, from our first meeting, the strictest friend­ship commenced between us, which ended only with the untimely death of the chevalier,

'We had only been married a fortnight, when I was obliged to leave this dear wife, (whom I loved beyond expression) to attend some business at the court of Naples. I wished to have taken my wife with me, and should certainly have done so, but as it was quite uncertain how long I might be detained, and whether I might not be obliged to take frequent journeys be­tween Naples and Florence, it was judged best for me, to leave my wife, whose health was rather deli­cate, with my father, at Florence, and go to Naples, accompanied only by the chevalier de St. Foix.

'Ah! How little did I think, when I parted from my beloved Gabrielle, to take this journey, that I was never to see her more! but so, alas! it happened. I was detained at Naples for more than five months, and judge, if you can, of my sufferings, when the night before I was to set out on my return to Florence, an express arrived from my father, informing me of [Page 113] the sudden death of her, in whom my whole happiness was centred. I returned, however, to Florence; but heaven only knows the torments I endured on my arrival there.

'I found my poor father almost as much affected with the loss of my Gabrielle, as I was myself. He spoke of her in terms of the highest esteem and af­fection; but I always found him unwilling to enter on the subject of her death, which I then thought was owing to his finding it too affecting a subject; alas! I fear there was another cause for his thus shunning the conversation. He did not, indeed, long survive a scene, which seemed to have occasioned him such bitter affliction, for he died in about half a year after.

'St. Foix continued with me for about a year after the death of my wife, when he was called away in the manner I have mentioned some time ago; soon after which, to my no small additional regret, he met with his untimely fate.

'But now, my dear Antoinette, to come to that part of my story, which I suppose to relate to you.

'Some time after the departure and death of the chevalier, and while you, mr. Delaval, was resident in Florence, a strange rumour reached my ears, that my Gabrielle died in child-birth, and that the child was conveyed away, in order that the affair might be kept secret from me; and was then alive; that this circumstance was known to my father, who thought it better that it should be concealed from me; for as my poor wife had atoned for her fault with her life, it was unnecessary that her memory should be black­ened.

'This strange report, I at first totally disbelieved, and even disdained to make enquiries into it; but strong circumstances afterwards appearing to lead me to suspect, that it was not absolutely without founda­tion, I endeavoured, privately, to investigate the truth of it, with intention, if I could find out the [Page 114] the child, with sufficient proof, that it was really my Gabrielle's to adopt it as my own, and educate it ac­cordingly.

'Perhaps, this may appear to many people an odd resolution; but doating on her as I did, while she was alive, and having so long cherished her memory in my bosom, as a model of perfection, I could not feel the indignation which it may be thought I ought to have felt at the deception she had practised on me. In short, I had so long been accustomed to live upon the idea of my Gabrielle, that I should have been more rejoiced at having a representative of her, to love, cherish, and protect, than chagrined at finding that another had shared those beauties with me, which I had been accustomed to consider as exclu­sively mine.

'But after the most diligent search, I could not find out the child I fought for, nor could I find either a complete confirmation, or contradiction of the story I had heard. The circumstance which seemed most of all to confirm the truth of the story, was, that a woman who had attended on Gabrielle, disappeared immediately on her death, taking with her, as was supposed, a number of jewels, which were missed at the same time. This, at the time, I attributed en­tirely to the dishonesty of the woman; but I now con­ceive that it might be with a view of providing for the child. After all, the affair was so dark and mysterious, that I hardly knew what to think of it, but have al­ways been inclined to believe, that the character of my dearest Gabrielle was falsely aspersed.

'But now, my Antoinette, I see in you her per­fect likeness;—I see you in possession of articles, which I know must have belonged to the house of St. Foix, from which she was descended; and cannot, therefore, but suppose, that there are people who know you to belong to that house. Your story is en­veloped in a cloud of mystery; and all these cir­cumstances convince me, that I now behold the [Page 115] child, whom years ago I sought for in vain, but whom chance has, at last, thrown in my way; and that you are indeed the daughter of my Gabrielle,—shall I, without offending, hazard the conjecture?—by lord Arlington himself; nor can I any longer be surprised at the strong affection I have felt for you ever since I first saw you; for the child of that dear creature could not fail to be dear to me.'

He accompanied these last words with ardently pressing the hand of the trembling Antoinette to his bosom.

She had listened to the story with [...]ed emotions of grief and astonishment; and the whole company, indeed, were deeply affected with his interesting nar­rative, and, particularly, with the extraordinary be­nevolence he had shewn with regard to his Gabrielle and her chil [...].

Mrs. Percival was the first to remark on the story, by questioning Marsini, with some emotion, 'What had occasioned his conjecture relative to lord Arling­ton?—and if he knew of any intercourse having ever subsisted between him and the house of St. Foix?'

Marsini replied, 'Indeed, madam, I do not know that lord Arlington ever had any acquaintance with my dear wife's family. That idea was suggested to me by the anxiety which he seemed to have for the fate of Antoinette, and his thorough knowledge of her story; besides that, his lordship, according to what I understand, from the relation you gave me, must have been abroad at the time I speak of.'

'Still,' said mrs. Percival, 'I am far from being satisfied as to this affair. My Theodore, in the letter he sent with Antoinette, says, that, She is not the offspring of illicit love.'—This is irreconcileable with what you suppose; and, I think, he would not have imposed on me in such a manner. My affection to the child, and my attention to the request of a husband I so much loved, would not have been less, had he waved the subject of her birth entirely, and that, I [Page 116] think he must have known me well enough to be as­sured of it.'

'Yet,' said Marsini, 'I cannot give up my belief, that I have discovered the mother of Antoinette.— That picture,—Oh! 'tis my Gabrielle herself!—Ne­ver did painting bear a stronger resemblance to the original;—nor ever did child bear so strong a resem­blance to a parent, as Antoinette does to my dear de­parted wife. Oh! then, let me consider her as my child; and, how happy shall I be in such a child, to be my comfort and support in my declining years! Say, Antoinette, can you from henceforward consi­der me, live [...]h me, as a father? Believe me, you never shall repent it.'

'Oh! moderate your transports, my worthy friend,' said Antoinette. 'You have, indeed, short as our acquaintance has been, shewn to me the kindness, the affection of a father;—but, What do you now mean? I will love you still as a friend: but, How ca [...] we live on any other terms together, than as we do now? —Consider, dear sir—'

'True, oh! true,' said Marsini, interrupting her. 'I see what you would say;—forgive me, I was transported beyond all bounds—my senses were well nigh gone;—but I am cool again. I believe still, that I have a dearer interest in you, than I was at first aware of. But time will, no doubt, develope all; and to time we must consign it, and patiently wait the event.'

The conversation continued some time longer; but the more the matter was talked over, the less reason did there seem to be for Marsini's belief, that he had discovered the mother of Antoinette. Notwithstand­ing which, Marsini continued in that belief, and de­clared, that he should always consider her as his daughter; and thus the company broke up for that evening; Antoinette, greatly affected with all that had passed, and more strongly than ever confirmed in her resolution, not to marry while the story of her [Page 117] birth remained unknown;—and mrs. Percival more distressed than ever, at the conduct of her husband, in suffering a matter of so much importance to re­main so long in clouds and darkness.

CHAP. XII.

THE summer was now on the decline, and autumn began to [...]inge the surrounding woods with her varied hues, which made mrs. Percival turn her thoughts towards returning to England, where it was her in­tention to spend the next year and half, when she meant Henry should go abroad. When she first men­tioned to Antoinette her idea of leaving Arlington, she desired her, at the same time, to say whether she would like to pass the winter in London, or whether she would prefer remaining in Ireland; strongly sus­pecting, that the latter would be her choice: and as her principal object in returning to England, was to introduce Antoinette into the world (for Henry, she thought, in very good hands, under doctor Schom­berg), if her wish was rather for retirement, she would certainly not think of taking her out of it, con­trary to her inclination.

[Page 118]Antoinette said, 'Since you, my dearest madam, are so kind as to leave this matter entirely to my choice, I will freely own, that my wish is, at present, to remain where I am. I think, while I am here, I have more chance of making discoveries relative to my own story, than if I were to be at such a distance as London, where I should constantly be haunted with the idea, that something was passing here of import­ance to me.'

These reasons were quite sufficient for mrs. Perci­val, as, indeed, would the bare expression of An­toinette's wish have been, without her assigning any reason at all for it; and she resolved to give up all thoughts of England.

Marsini, whose whole soul was wrapt up in An­toinette, when he found she was likely to remain at Arlington, took a small house, which was then va­cant in the neighbourhood, at which, however, he spent but little of his time; as he was every day, and almost all day long, at the castle; but his behaviour to her was changed entirely from that of the lover, to the father. This attachment furnished an ample topic of conversation to all the neighbourhood, and occasioned the long forgotten story of Theodore's abrupt departure to be revived, as an appendage to that of Marsini and Antoinette; and many were the expressions of astonishment used, whenever the affair was canvassed, that Marsini, circumstanced as he ap­prehended he was with regard to her, should enter­tain a partiality for her;—an astonishment which, I doubt not, has been anticipated by many of my read­ers; for, according to all established forms in the world, the deception, which he was well convinced, had been practised on him by his wife, ought to have rendered Antoinette the object of his hatred, however strongly her youth, beauty, and, above all, her bene­volent and amiable disposition, might plead in her behalf. I will not pretend to apologize for his thus transgressing the rules of custom. I only give the [Page 119] fact, as it is, although I am sensible that it will lessen Marsini in the estimation of most people.

Francis Delaval, who had at first felt the greatest transports, when he found all ideas of rival [...] be­tween Marsini and himself done away, did not, how­ever, find, as time moved onwards, that the removal of that obstacle had greatly brightened his prospects. He became more and more enamoured every day: yet, to his mortification, he did not find that his [...] ­remitted assiduities seemed to forward his progress in gaining the affections of his mistress, whose obscure fate had not, in the least, abated his wish of possessing her. A ray of hope did, sometimes, break in upon him, that he was not absolutely indifferent to her; but despondency was generally the prevailing feature in his mind. He lost his spirits; he became thoughtful, absent, and fond of solitude, often wandering about by himself for hours together. One day, in walking on the sands by the sea-shore, he wrote the name of Antoinette on the sands, and then composed the fol­lowing

Mr. Delaval saw his son's situation with the deepest concern. It was plain that his happiness depended wholly on the possession of Antoinette: and he would [Page 120] have done any thing in his power to forward an union between them: but he saw plainly the strong reasons she had to guard her heart against any ap­proaches of a passion, which might, if indulged, ul­timately involve her in ruin and wretchedness.

Things were in this situation, when an event hap­pened, which threatened to hurl mrs. Percival and her family from the height of wealth and affluence, to a comparative state of poverty, by depriving them of the estates annexed to the barony of Arlington, which, as the greatest part of mrs. Percival's fortune had been sunk in freeling them from incumbrances, were now almost their only possessions.

The next heir to the estates and title of Arlington, supposing Theodore to have died childless, was a distant relation of the family, who had lived for some years at Marseilles: as the cheap living in that southern part of France, enabled him to support a better ap­pearance, with a very small fortune, than he could have done in England or Ireland. This man hav­ing, in his youth, quarreled with the father of Theo­dore, no intercourse had subsisted between the two branches of the family from that time, and mrs. Per­cival, though she had heard of such a person, did not know whether he was alive or not.

This man now suddenly appeared at Dublin, to lay claim to the estates and title of Arlington, under the plea that he had sufficient evidence to bring forward, that Theodore was married, during his residence abroad to a French lady, who was alive at the time that he married miss Conolly, consequently, that the marriage with her was illegal, and the son he had by that marriage, could not inherit; and that Theodore having died some months before in the West-Indies, the title and estates of course devolved upon him.

This was a stroke so sudden, so unexpected, and carrying such dreadful consequences in its train, that it would have broken down the minds of the gene­rality of females; but that of mrs. Percival was su­perior [Page 121] to most of her sex. She saw plainly, that if mr. Thomas Percival could substantiate the facts which he had alleged, the case was clear, and she must submit to her fate; to the hardships of which she could not be insensible, but which she was resolved to meet with fortitude. She was inured to troubles, and had learnt by them, lessons of philosophy, which would enable her to adapt her ideas to any situation in life, convinced that there is none so elevated, as to be ex­empt from troubles; nor any so low as to be devoid of comforts. She could not charge herself with any thing culpable in her conduct, unless it were the marrying Theodore, when she was sensible that she was not the object of his choice. But with regard to her son, though his birth might not be legal, she was guiltless in that respect; for her mind had no share in the transgression, which, therefore, in the eye both of God and man, could not be considered as one.

With these, and various other reflections of the like kind, she fortified her mind against the storms which she had now to encounter; and with the most unshaken firmness and composure, ordered every thing to be prepared for her immediate departure with her family to Dublin.

When Francis Delaval heard of the situation into which the family that contained his adored Antoi­nette, was likely to be thrown, he immediately applied to his father for his consent, that he might throw himself at her feet, and offer her a heart and hand devoted to her, and by accepting which, she would be placed out of the reach of those shafts, which the malice of fortune was aiming at the unfortunate mrs. Percival and her son. And this consideration, added to the still more powerful one, that she might then be enabled to make some acknowledgment, more solid than in words only, for the immense weight of favours, which she had received from the hands of mrs. Per­cival, Francis hoped would operate on her mind, as an inducement to her to lay aside her scruples, and [Page 122] accept an offer, which, under other circumstances, she might have refused. He [...]s not, too, quite without hopes, that the generosity of temp [...]r, which this offer would carry on the face of it, might ope­rate in his favour, on a mind so open as that of An­toinette, to every virtuous impression.

Mr. Delaval, whose disposition was not behind hand in generosity with his son, entered with ardour into all his feelings and views, and ordered him imme­diately to proceed in the affair, as his own wishes should dictate to him; though he observed, at the same time, that Antoinette had a friend in Marsini, who would prevent her being involved in the fate of mrs. Percival and her son.

Francis lost no time, but immediately repaired to Arlington castle, where, enquiring for miss Percival he was told, that she was in the garden, where he would find her. To the garden, therefore, he re­paired, where she was taking a solitary walk, in­dulging in the melancholy reflection, that it was, perhaps, the last she might ever take there. He opened his errand by saying, 'I come not now, dearest madam, to intrude unseasonably on your sor­rows; but I could not support the thought of your leaving this place, to which, alas! you may perhaps never return, without laying open my mind to you.'

'Surely, fair Antoinette,' said he, taking her hand gently, which she had not power to withhold from him, 'my outward actions cannot have been such unfaithful interpreters of my internal feelings, as to leave you any doubt of the ardour of my affection for you. I know very well,' he continued, 'the reasons you have for wishing to keep yourself free from any engagement of the kind, which my heart pants to propose to you; but, dearest Antoinette, consider, that your scruples in this instance are quite done away. Though you are unfortunately a stranger to your con­nections, mine are well known; nor can you, in uniting yourself to me, run any risk of forming a con­nection, [Page 123] which the ties of blood would prohibit. No secret connections on the part of my father or mother, have rendered my birth doubtful; it can therefore no ways interfere with your's. Surely, then, my An­toinette, I have removed all obstacles to our union on that account; and, will you not, therefore, per [...] me to hope, that the offer I here make you, of a heart and hand devoted to you, may not be unfavourably received? Believe me, and I speak no common cant, but what I say comes from the bottom of my heart, that my future happiness or misery depends on your acceptance or rejection of my proposals. I wait your answer,' said he, pressing her hand to his bosom, 'Oh!' let it be favourable.—I have sometimes dared to hope, that I was not absolutely indifferent to you.'

Tears flowed fast down the cheeks of his fair au­ditor, while Francis made this harangue, to which she replied,

'Had any doubts existed in my heart, mr. Dela­val, of the true generosity and sweetness of your dis­position, and of the sincerity of your affection for me, the present moment must at once have dispelled them; but I wanted not this instance to convince me, that your soul is the seat of benevolence and philanthropy.—Oh! that you had not taken me at a moment, when sorrow had loosened the chains with which I have endeavoured to guard every avenue of my heart!—But I cannot now dissemble.—Yes, mr. Delaval, I will own it, my affections are solely, wholly, your's. I wish I felt less forcibly the truth of this confession; but let me intreat you to be con­tented, at present, with the knowledge of my regard for you, nor press me farther to enter into engage­ments, which I must absolutely refuse.

'I grant the justice of the observations you have made, with regard to my principal objection to mar­rying, and that objection, I own, is entirely done away in my mind, with regard to giving my hand to you;—but still I must at present refuse, absolutely [Page 124] refuse, to listen to your su [...] ▪ I cannot bear even the appearance of taking advantage of the moment of en­thusiasm, to accept a proposal, which, in your cooler moments, you may repent of having made.'

'Oh no,' exclaimed Francis, interrupting her. 'Tis impossible. I never did, and I hope never shall, repent of following the dictates of an open, undisguised heart, which has not a thought that it wishes to conceal from the world.'

'Yet consider,' returned Antoinette, 'if not for your own sake, for mine at least, consider, my present situation. My benefactress, my more than mother, is likely to be reduced from affluence to poverty; and though, from the kindness and affection of count Marsini, I have a prospect of not being involved in her ruin, yet consider whether you can, yourself, think it a proper time for me to accept your propo­sals.—Oh! no: assure yourself of my ardent affection for you, but forbear to urge me to an engagement, which my judgment tells me I ought not to enter into. Should the generous sentiments which you now profess for me, continue some time hence. I may then, with more propriety, accept your proposals, if you should think proper to renew them:—but at present, I entreat you, as you value my peace, to urge me no farther.'

Francis silently acquiesced in the sentence, which Antoinette had thus passed on him. He entered into all her feelings on the subject, which he could not entirely disapprove; and as he had gained an assur­ance from her own lips, of her affection for him, his heart was much more at ease. After taking a most affectionate leave of her, therefore▪ he withdrew, to bid farewel to the rest of the family, who were to set out for Dublin the next day.

CHAP. XIII.

FRANCIS, the next day, saw his beloved Antoi­nette, with an aching heart—saw her depart from Ar­lington castle, and in the evening sitting down by the side of the lake, he wrote the following stanzas:

Francis was, however, comforted for the loss of his mistress, by hearing his father declare his intention of going to Dublin very soon to spend the winter there.

When mrs. Percival arrived in that city, her first care was to engage, on her side, some of the most able men in the law department, by whose advice she solicited an interview with her antagonist, which re­quest he positively refused to grant, saying, 'That the only intercourse which could possibly pass between them, must be by means of their respective agents.' Several meetings accordingly passed between them, by which mr. Byrne and mr. Fitzpatrick, mrs. Per­cival's [Page 127] two principal council, got an insight into the evidence which the claimant had to bring forward.

The witnesses to be produced to the marriage, were Pierre Dupont, and Jeanne Berger, a man and wo­man who had been servants at the Celestine convent of Sainte Marguerite, on the banks of the Rhone, about fourteen miles from the city of Vienne, in the Province of Dauphiné. The account they gave of the affair, and which they said they were ready to depose on oath, was 'That a rumour arising in the convent, at a time which they mentioned, (and which was about eighteen years before that, at which they were giving in their relation) that some days before one of the nuns had been married to a gentleman at the cell of the confessor of the convent, which gen­tleman was secretly introduced at night, by the con­nivance of one of the superiors of the convent, to the chamber of his wife; they determined, if possi­ble to investigate the matter, in hopes, as they said, of bringing wretches, who could be guilty of such profanation, to condign punishment. The confessor died suddenly very soon after. They went, therefore, immediately to his cell, in hopes of finding something there, which might lead them to discover the truth of this dark affair.

In the cell they found a paper, containing the fol­lowing memorandum, which they brought away with them, and which was to be produced in evidence on the trial:

[Page 128]This paper was also signed by two witnesses, as be­ing present at the marriage, under the names of Cle­ment Sequin, and Marianne de Mercier; the former of whom, as the servants said, was a friar of a neigh­bouring monastery, who was often with Anselm, and the latter the superior, who was reported to have in­troduced the gentleman into the men's chamber. This paper, they said, they intended to have given to the lady abbess, and at the same time to have related to her the report they had heard; but having had a quarrel with her very soon after, for which they were dismissed the convent in haste, they, in revenge, kept the story secret. But, some years after, Pierre Du­pont coming to visit some friends in the neighbour­hood of the convent, heard that the nun and Marianne had just made their escape from it together.

The fact of Theodore's death was to be attested by two French sailors, who could depose, that about a year or a little more back, a person, who was called Theodore Percival, was brought strongly guarded to Rochelle, and put on board the ship to which they belonged, which was one of a fleet of merchant ships bound to St. Domingo; that he remained on board all the time of their passage to St. Domingo; and after he was landed at that island came frequently down to visit the ship; but after some time he caught a fever, and died there. The description they gave of the person of this man, exactly corresponded to that of lord Arlington; and his own extraordinary conduct, threw a shade of probability over the whole narrative, which left no room to doubt of its truth.

'And what evidence had the defendants to bring on the other side?—None—the case seemed, there­fore, a lost one. But, notwithstanding, mr. Byrne and mr. Fitzpatrick advised mrs. Percival to stand the trial, as it was possible that contradictions might arise in the depositions of these witnesses, which might tend to invalidate their evidence.

On the whole, however, it appeared to mrs. Perci­val, [Page 129] that she had nothing now to expect but the loss of her fortune, and that, in consequence, her son and herself would be reduced to very strait circumstances. She experienced, however, a great consolation in the friendship of Marsini, and of the Delavals, who were come to Dublin. The former made the most kind and liberal offers of an asylum to the whole family, in his country, if affairs should take the ill turn that was to be expected; and both he and Francis Delaval offered to take a journey, to the convent of Sainte Marguerite, to gain, if possible, some farther insight into the extraordinary transaction, which was reported to have happened there.

This was mentioned to mr. Byrne and mr. Fitzpa­trick; but their opinion was, that it was best, at least, to delay the journey, 'till they saw more pl [...]y what turn the business was likely to take; and if a verdict was given against them; it was then possible that evi­dence might be collected there, on which to ground a motion for a new trial. But if they were to go at that time, it was scarcely possible they could return before the day fixed for the trial; and on the whole, it was better to let the cause have a hearing, before they proceeded to any farther steps, and to rest on the pos­sibility of the evidence produced by the claimant not being deemed sufficient by the judge and jury, to ob­tain a verdict in his favour.

At length the day of the trial arrived. The depo­sitions of the two servants of the convent were to the effect above-mentioned. When they were cross-ex­amined by the defendant's council, it appeared that they had quitted the country immediately after they were discharged from the convent, and that the only reason Pierre Dupont had for saying that Antoinette de St. Foix had eloped from the convent some years after was, his hearing there that one of the nuns had escaped with Marianne; and as she was a witness to Antoinette's marriage, he concluded the nun to be no other than that lady herself. A bold conclusion, [Page 130] which could by no means stand as evidence in a court of law however strong the presumption might be, that he was in the right.

There was no evidence, therefore, to prove that Antoinette was alive at the time that Theodore was married to miss Conolly; but neither, on the other hand, was there any evidence to prove her death be­fore that time; and as the fact of the first marriage was established, it became the part of the defendant to prove, that the second marriage had not taken place 'till after the first was dissolved by the death of one of the parties.

Pierre and Jeanne were next examined, as to the manner of their becoming acquainted with mr. Tho­mas Percival at Marseilles, and for what reason they had put the paper in question into his hands. They answered to these questions, that they went to Mar­seilles about two years after they had left the con­vent, having lived, during that two years, at Lyons; and as their view in going to Marseilles, was to get into service there, Pierre, at the recommendation of a friend, was soon hired as footman into mr. Percival's family. As the name of his master was the same as that of the gentleman, the certificate of whose mar­riage they had found in Anselm's cell, he consulted with Jeanne, whether they should not offer him the paper, (which might, perhaps, be of value to him) if he would give them a good sum of money for it.

This being settled between them, the offer was made, and mr. Percival readily consented to purchase the paper, at the price they demanded; and they be­lieved it had never been out of his possession since. They had, however, thought no more about it, 'till not long since, when mr. Percival had asked them to accompany him to Ireland, for the purpose of attesting all they knew, relative to the marriage, of which, that paper was the certificate; and told them, they should be well paid for it; upon which they readily con­sented to his request.

[Page 131]These people also positively swore to Anselm's hand-writing in the certificate, having often seen him write during three years, that one had lived in the convent, and two years, that the other had been en­gaged in its service.

Mr. Percival himself was then examined, as to the reason of his having kept the certificate of Theo­dore's marriage so long concealed, and at last produc­ing it.

He said, 'That he thought his reasons for doing so, must be obvious to every one, nor should he at­tempt to disguise them. He had first purchased the paper, and afterwards kept it for the very purpose for which it was now produced. He knew himself to be the next heir to the Arlington estates, if Theodore died without lawful heirs; and he therefore con­ceived it very possible, that it might be of great ser­vice to himself, to be possessed of a paper, containing a certificate of a marriage of that same Theodore's, in such a secret way; and that when once possessed of it, he had kept it with care, 'till the moment should arrive when he could turn it to his own advantage, which moment he conceived to be at length arrived.

The two French sailors were next called, who were to prove the death of Theodore, the heads of whose deposition have been already given. In their cross-examination, they too were questioned as to the man­ner in which they became known to the claimant, of which they gave the following account:

That at their return from St. Domingo, after the voyage, when they had carried over Theodore Per­cival, they quitted the merchant of Rochelle, in whose service they had been, on account of a quarrel which they had, in their return home, with the captain of the ship; and one of them having relations at Mar­seilles, they went thither, in hopes of getting employ­ment in their profession.

They had not been many days at Marseilles, be­fore they became acquainted with Pierre Dupont, [Page 132] who had not long been known to their relations; and hearing him often mention his master, by the name of Percival, it brought to their mind the unfortunate man of that name, who had been passenger in their ship, and who died at St. Domingo; and in the course of conversation one day with Pierre, they mentioned that circumstance, but with no other view, than as relating a story, which a similarity of names had brought to their minds.

Not long after this, Pierre told them, that his mas­ter wished to speak with them; and when they went to him, he questioned them closely respecting the story which they had told to his servant; in consequence of which, they gave him a full detail of all that they knew respecting Theodore Percival; but at that first interview, nothing more passed. They afterwards frequently saw mr. Thomas Percival, and he always examined them about the story, and at last he asked them, 'If they would be willing to go with him to Ireland, in order to make oath, before a court of law, of the several circumstances, which, at different times, they had related to him; to which they readily consented.'

They were then asked by mrs. Percival's council, what reward had been promised them for the trouble they were to take. They hesitated at first; but then affirmed, that they were to have no recompense, only to have their expenses paid, and a remuneration for their loss of time, and were to be furnished with em­ployment, if they should choose to stay in Ireland ra­ther than return to France. On being hard pressed, however, it appeared, that the remuneration for their loss of time, was to be at a most extravagant rate, for they were to be paid about ten times the sum per day, that they could have earned in their usual occupation; and at last it was dragged forth, that if by their evidence, the claimant should obtain posses­sion of the contested estates, they were each to have a considerable annuity settled on them for their lives.

[Page 133]This was, alone, enough to shake the credit of the evidence given by these fellows. But when they were more particularly and separately examined, as to the circumstances of Theodore Percival's death, they were neither consistent with each other, nor with their own former depositions, in the account they gave of it; neither did they agree in the time that elapsed be­tween his being landed at St. Domingo, and his death. On the whole, the evidence of these men was de­clared by the judge, and thought by the whole court, to be of too a doubtful a nature, to carry any weight with it, 'till unfortunately a paper was brought for­ward, for the purpose of corroborating their testimony, which, in a moment, turned the face of affairs. This paper purposed to be a copy of the minutes taken by the captain of the ship in which Theodore was a pas­senger, during his voyage to St. Domingo, his stay at that island, and return home, in which was a circum­stantial detail of the illness and death of Theodore, intermingled with strong expressions of sorrow for his fate, and encomiums on the goodness of his heart and understanding, and on his affable and pleasing deport­ment during his passage: and two men, one the cap­tain's mate, and the other his steward, swore to it as a faithful copy.

This was evidence not to be resisted, when deposed in court on oath; though still a suspicion pervaded the minds of many of the auditors, that there was some vile collusion practised. By some it was sus­pected, that mr. Percival, the claimant, was even the murderer of his relation; but others were content to suppose, that he had not only taken care to remove him out of the way so far, as that he might never be in danger of returning to bring him to shame; and it was thought, by these, not improbable, that he might be sold as a slave in St. Domingo. Few people thought that his fate was really known.

But whatever private opinions might be formed on this interesting subject, private opinions could not in­fluence [Page 134] a judge and jury. They could be guided only by the positive evidence, which was such, that they were under the necessity of giving a verdict for the plaintiff.

Marsini, who had attended in court during the whole time of the trial, in order that he might early the first tidings of the event to mrs. Percival, no sooner heard the verdict given, than he departed, to acquaint her with it. She heard it with unruffled se­renity, and only observed,

'Well, then, I must adapt my ideas, and teach my children to adapt theirs, to live on the little we have remaining, and my Henry, instead of leading an idle life, must work for his bread. We are atoms in the immensity of creation, and must perform the part allotted us, nor will it be performed in vain. One thing, however, is by those means cleared up to us, and we know, at last, who are the parents of our dear Antoinette!'

'Indeed,' said Marsini, I think we must now con­clude, (for it can scarcely be doubted) that Antoi­nette is the daughter of lord Arlington's first marriage.'

'It is surely so,' answered mrs. Percival, 'and wisely did he direct that she should be taught to gain her living by her own industry, if necessary. Per­haps he even foresaw the probability of the present event taking place. One thing only wounds me, that he could be so ungenerous as to pretend to marry me, when he had another wife alive. What motive could he have for such base conduct?—What motive in­deed?—Alas! I wrong him; he could not do so; I am sure he could not?—He was miserable, I know, too well I know it—but even now I cannot believe he was guilty. Perhaps there are yet many circum­stances in his story, with which we are unacquainted, for it is still dark and mysterious—time may discover more, and if it is part of the scheme of Providence, that more should be discovered, no human arts can conceal it.'

[Page 135]'Indeed,' replied Marsini, 'I am so well con­vinced that some vile collusion has been practised, that I am resolved to go immediately myself to the convent of Sainte Marguerite, for the purpose of far­ther investigating the whole business of the marri [...]ge; and, if I find no satisfaction there, to pursue my searches to such other parts, as afford a prospect of opening any light to us. In the mean time, madam, I insist that you form no new plan for yourselves, 'till my return. I can supply you with every thing you want at present; if you recover your estates, I will then be repaid, and if not, my fortune is sufficient for us all. As for Antoinette, I have considered her as my child, because I really believed her the child of my wife. That belief is now shaken; but in whatever relationship she may appear to stand to me, I can never cease to dote on her, and to do every thing in my power for her advancement in virtue and happi­ness.'

Mrs. Percival, who had heard with perfect equani­mity of temper her terrible reverse of fortune, could not, with equal calmness, attend to this speech of Marsini's. His friendship and kindness to her, and her family, seemed now arrived at their acme, be­yond which it was impossible for friendship to be car­ried, and she burst forth into tears and sobs of ac­knowledgment, which the count endeavoured, as much as possible, to calm, saying, 'that he only con­sidered himself as performing his duty, in rendering himself as useful as possible to his fellow-creatures.'

CHAP. XIV.

MARSINI communicated his intended journey to mr. Byrne and mr. Fitzpatrick, who declared their approbation of it, saying, 'That they had good rea­son to hope, that evidence might thus be procured, which would set aside the present verdict; for they were well convinced, that the witnesses brought by mr. Thomas Percival, were a set of perjured rascals, and only wanted some one who could confute them, to be proved so.'

When Francis Delaval heard of Marsini's inten­tions, he immediately begged to be permitted to ac­company him; to which his father and the count very readily consented; and accordingly, they set off together, in a very few days after.

They arrived at the convent of Sainte Marguerite, without meeting with any occurrence worth relating. They requested to see the lady abbess, to whom they were immediately introduced; when they re­lated to her their story, and communicated the er­rand [Page 137] they were come upon. When they had done, she exclaimed,

'Heavens! what a wonderful coincidence!—Yes, gentlemen, you will indeed receive here all the sa­tisfaction you can wish for, and much more than you can have dared to expect. The marriage you mention, did indeed take place, and the unfortunate lady died in less than a year after; but what is more than all, know that the very man whose death has been so positively sworn to, is now in the chapel of the convent, weeping over the tomb of his beloved wife. —If you will follow me, I will conduct you to him.'

She arose. Marsini and Francis followed her. On entering the chapel, they beheld, at the upper end of it, a pale, wretched, emaciated figure, standing by a small monument, on which he rested one elbow, while his head reclined on his hand, and in the other hand he held a picture, on which his eyes were im­moveably fixed. Near was an old nun, kneeling be­fore an altar, who seemed enthusiastically absorbed in her devotions; both together forming a solemn and affecting spectacle, for each was too entirely occu­pied with their own meditations, to appear to notice the other, or even to be sensible of the entrance of the abbess, Marsini, and Francis.

As they approached Theodore, 'Behold,' said the lady abbess, 'the man, whose existence will put an end to your troubles.' Then coming up to him, she said, in a voice loud enough to be heard by the old nun, 'Mr. Percival.'—The nun started up, as if struck by an electrical shock;

'What do I hear!' she said, 'Rep [...] that sound again.'

'Mr. Percival,' repeated the abbess.

'Great God!' exclaimed the nun, 'Theodore Percival.'

'Yes, Theodore Percival,' replied the abbess.

'Awful heaven!—My son — my son!' cried the nun, and fell senseless on the pavement.

[Page 138]Her last words roused Theodore from his lethargy. 'What did I hear,' he cried, 'God of heaven! Is it possible!—after so many years! —he sprang forward, caught the nun in his arms, and raised her from the ground▪—'Can it be?' he said,—'Can this be my mother?'—Then observing the count and Francis, 'Who are ye?' he said, 'Tell me instantly,—is she indeed my mother?'

'We know not,' said the abbess. 'We know no more than the words she has this moment uttered.— But let us take her to the parlour, and endeavour to recal her senses.'

'Ah! sir,' said Marsini to Theodore, who still held the nun in his arms, though from his own weak­ness, he was scarcely able to support her, 'Let me assist you: you are incapable of supporting another, you seem scarcely able to support yourself:—you seem very ill and weak.'

Theodore, who at first looked rather wild, now composed his countenance;—'Yes, I am ill indeed,' he said, 'sick both in body and mind—overcome with astonishment— Can this be indeed my mother?'

The abbess, by this time, had fetched a chair, and the nun was conveyed to the parlour, where, on pro­per applications being administered, she began to re­vive. The first words she uttered, were,

'Where is he?—Where is my son—my Theo­dore?'

Theodore took her hand, 'And, is it then,' he said, 'my mother, whom I now behold?—Oh wonderful event! — after a separation of above thirty years, in all which time I knew not whether she were alive or dead!'

'Yes,' she said, 'I am indeed your mother, the infamous wife of Edward, lord Arlington.— Oh! Theodore! How little did I suppose, that the wretched object I beheld on entering the chapel, was my son—the child whom I so shamefully deserted.— But ah! answer me quickly, how is it that I behold [Page 139] you thus?—Have you been the innocent sufferer for my guilt?—Is it for my sake?—Has your father?—I know not how to ask—but indeed, when you was born, I had not been faithless to his bed.'

'No,' answered Theodore, 'Harass not yourself, dearest madam, with that idea—true, I have been a sufferer, a severe sufferer, b [...] I do not owe one atom of those sufferings to you—they were all, alas, self-in­curred.'

'Well, well,' she said, in a hurried manner, 'Tell me all, then—tell me, does your father yet live?'

'No,' answered Theodore, 'He has long been at rest; long been a tenant of the peaceful grave, whi­ther, a thousand, and a thousand times, I have wished to follow him.'

'Have you then been so very wretched?' said she, 'But say, my Theodore, did your father, in his close of life, ever think of me? —Ah! he would have been a kind husband, had I known how sufficiently to prize him.'

'Alas!' replied Theodore, 'I was not a witness to the latter scenes of his life;—I closed not his eyes;— I received not his parting breath;—I was then, and have been ever since, a voluntary exile from my home, my family,—I have been a wanderer for more than fifteen years;—I have ill-treated an excellent wife;— like you, too, my mother, I have deserted my children. —But those days are past; I shall soon return to them, beg their forgiveness, and hope to end my days in peace amongst them.'

Marsini, who had been deeply affected with the whole of the interesting scene which was passing, could not here forbear to exclaim,

'Thanks! thanks be to heaven! Oh, what joy will your presence diffuse in your family!'

Theodore looked astonished; he had yet no idea who Marsini was, or what was his errand; but his attention being thus suddenly arrested, he, in an eager and hurried tone, cried,

[Page 140]'How?—Do you know them then?—Tell me? —Are they all well?—Will they see me?—Speak— my heart is bursting.'

Marsini was alarmed, he thought that he had been too hasty; he saw that Theodore's whole frame was convulsed; weak and exhausted as he was, he could ill bear such agitation. But Marsini had now gone too far to recede.

'Yes,' he answered, 'I but lately left your wife and children at Dublin; they are well;—but, dearest sir, let me entreat you to attend to yourself; you shall hear some other time; let us take you hence, you are weak and ill;—Come, sir, come with me.'

'What! and leave my mother just as I have sound her?'

He answered with a quickness, that proved in the clearest manner the contest of feelings in his bosom.

'But be it so; perhaps 'tis best; my head turns round;—support me.—I have not slept nor rested from fatigue for three days and nights.'

Marsini saw, indeed, that he was perfectly exhausted, and therefore, proposed to him, to accompany him to an inn, at a short distance from the convent, to which he was recommended by the abbess.

'Ah!' said Theodore, on hearing the inn named, 'I know the place well;—how many days have I spent there!—days of sorrow and anguish!—but no matter! 'tis over.' Then taking his mother's hand, he said, 'I will return to-morrow, I want nothing but rest, and then we can exchange together our res­pective stories;—mine is a chain of disasters.'

He had just power to raise her hand to his lips, and then, supported by Marsini and Francis, got into the carriage, and went with them to the inn. They got him there some refreshment, after which he retired to rest, and arose the next morning much refreshed and amended.

It was now that he first enquired of [...]sini and Francis, who they were; what had brought them to [Page 141] the convent; and how it happened, that they seemed at once to have taken so deep an interest in him and his concerns. To which enquiries Marsini answered, by relating to him all that had happened to his family since his departure. 'And now, sir,' he added, 'let us lose no time, but immediately return to Ireland, and there put an end to the long years of anxiety which your family have suffered on your account.'

'Yes,' said Theodore, 'I will use all the speed in my power, but I dare not take the shortest route for my return; I am not in safety while I continue in France; I have run a very great risque in coming into the kingdom again, but I could have had no peace of mind without it. It was my purpose, after my visit to Sainte Marguerite's convent yesterday, im­mediately to have set off for Geneva, as the shortest way out of the French territories, and after resting there a short time, to proceed on my journey, by the shortest and safest route I could plan. But the ex­traordinary occurrence of meeting with my mother, determines me to go again to the convent, and after having seen her, and dropped a tear once more over the tomb of my Antoinette, I will proceed as fast as possible from this scene of peril.'

'Well then,' said Marsini, 'since it must be so, we will take the shortest way to return to Ireland, and carry to your wife and family the welcome news, that you are on your way back to them. Oh! with what transport they will receive me, when I am the bearer of such tidings?'

'And, can my wife, then, wish to see me,' answered Theodore, 'after all the sufferings I have occasioned her?—But I know her worth, and, though I deserted her, I have never ceased to esteem her.'

'Doubt not,' said Marsini, 'of the joy your pre­sence will occasion; but,' he continued, 'cannot you give us some token by which more effectually to con­vince her, that we have seen you?—Will you not write to her?'

[Page 142]'Yes,' said Theodore, 'I will instantly do so;—he sat down and wrote a letter to her, then taking from his pocket-book a lock of hair, and putting the letter and the hair into Marsini's hands, 'Take these,' said he, 'my Henry will remember, that I cut this lock of hair from his head some seven years ago, 'tis the best token I can charge you with.'

'And your story,' said Marsini, 'may I not be charged with that too?'

'No,' answered Theodore, 'it is long and full of disasters:—Spare me the repetition of it now; at my return to Ireland, my wife shall know all; when she will own that though in some respects I am the ob­ject of censure, in others I am an object of compas­sion.'

'Adieu, then, for the present,' said Marsini, 'I shall set out immediately; and trust, that you, sir, will use no unnecessary delays. You will possess yourself of all do [...]uments that may be wanted from the convent; and I will take care that every thing be put in a proper train for the business relative to your estates and marriage, so that every thing may imme­diately be settled on your arrival at Dublin.'

Theodore then embraced Marsini and Francis, making the warmest acknowledgments for their kind­ness, and then set off for Sainte Marguerite, while the latter proceeded towards Ireland.

When Theodore arrived at the convent, he found his mother tolerably composed from the agitation oc­casioned by the affecting scene of the preceding day; when she told him, that after the elopement from his father (as mentioned in the early part of this history) she continued for some time with the man who then se­duced her, and accompanied him to France; but he growing tired of her, consigned her over to a French officer, with whom she lived for two years in af­fluence, though not in comfort; for,' said she, 'I was often haunted with remorse for my past conduct, and as often wished I could recal my innocence, and the [Page 143] affections of my husband: but ah! How difficult is it to retrieve one false step! Much as I wished to re­turn to him, I did not dare to attempt it, but, at length, the officer I lived with dying, I was turned out of doors by his heir, perfectly destitute of every thing, but the clothes on my back, and the little money I had in my pocket, which did not altogether amount, to so much as a louis-d'or.

'In this distress I knew not which way to turn; many times did I resolve to seek out my husband, throw myself at his feet, and beg his protection and forgiveness, but, destitute as I was of the means of taking such a journey, I knew not how to set about it, and, with shame I own it, I was also, in part, withheld by a false pride, which did not know how to bend to the humiliation I must undergo. I, there­fore, at last, took refuge in the greater humiliation of prostitution, in which course I continued for several years, enduring miseries which no imagination can conceive, that has not experienced them; 'till at last, I was roused by an extraordinary circumstance to a shocking sense of the life I led, and to [...] resolution to abandon it▪ and take refuge in a clo [...]er, where I might hope by prayers, penitence and mortification, to wash out my offences.

'The circumstance I allude to, was no other than the dreadful idea, that I had been led into a connexion with my own son; with you, my Theodore. Oh! Never shall I lose the remembrance of that moment, when first the idea flashed on my mind! Hell! hell itself, can have no greater torments, than I than suf­fered! I was preparing to fulfil an appointment I had made, when it was first suggested to me—Oh God! Oh God!—I rolled on the floor for some time with agony, then starting up, I ran out of the house, not knowing whither I went, nor what was my design. In this state I was met by a man, who seeing me look wild and distracted, took compassion on me, and car­ried me to his house, which was a small, but neat ha­bitation, [Page 144] in the suburbs of Paris. He asked me many questions, but it was a long time before I could give him a rational answer. At last, when he got to a knowledge of the cause of my distraction, he said, he would go and investigate the matter, and, leaving me under the care of his two servants, he set forth on his benevolent purpose.

'He returned, after an absence of about four hours, bringing with him the welcome news, that my fears were totally without foundation. The young man, whom I had apprehended from circumstances to be you, my Theodore, was in fact an Irishman, but I was perfectly convinced quite a different person from him, whom I had dreaded finding him to be. The impression left on my mind, however, was such, that for worlds I could not have returned to my for­mer course, and an impulse of penitence and remorse having thus seized me, I instantly resolved to quit a world, in which I had incurred so much guilt and misery.

'I communicated to my benefactor the resolution I had made, who encouraged me in it; and in order to assist me in carrying it into execution, applied, in my behalf, to the lady abbess of this convent, who consented to receive me; and here I have been ever since, which must now be at least fifteen years▪ dur­ing the whole of that time, I have practised the most rigid austerities, and been unremitted in my devo­tions▪ and, I hope, I ha [...] now made my peace with God, since he has been so gracious as to bless me with a sight of my son, before my eyes are closed for ever.'

She ceased.—'Alas!' said Theodore, 'To what dreadful scenes will a single error often lead! And how forcibly is that position illustrated, by the fates of my father, my mother, my wives and myself! My father erred, in supposing, that the only thing necessary to attach a woman to a life of retirement, was, that she should be educated far from the luxuries [Page 145] and vanities of the world. You erred, madam, in not exerting your resolution to follow the fortunes of my father, whatever situation they might throw him into. I erred, in entering secretly into a matrimonial connexion, which I ought to have imparted to my father in an unreserved manner. My first wife erred, in assenting to, or even more than assenting to, in advising the secrecy I observed; and my present wife erred, in accepting my hand, when she knew that my heart did not accompany it. And the long train of important and disastrous consequences that have en­sued from each of these respective errors, will suffi­ciently shew, that man can never deviate one inch from the straight road of sincerity, or endeavour to substitute false rules of right, for those immutable and infallible ones, laid down by the creator and lord of all things, without suffering the punishment which every such deviation necessarily draws along with it. Listen, madam, to my story, and own the truth of what I have advanced.'

Theodore then related to her the history of his life, even from his boyish years; but as we shall have oc­casion to relate it elsewhere, we forbear to give it a place here.

After some hours of conversation, in which he en­deavoured to persuade his mother to let application to be made for a release from her vows, that she might come and end her days with him in Ireland, to which she could by no means be brought to consent, Theo­dore took an affectionate leave of her.

He then visited again the tomb of his wife, and procured an attested copy of her death, from the re­gister of the convent; when having settled all his af­fairs in those parts, he proceeded on his journey, and arrived safely and expeditiously at Geneva.

CHAP. XV.

MARSINI and Francis met with no interruption in their journey, and arrived again at Dublin after so short an absence, that mrs. Percival could, at first sight of them, scarcely believe that they had been to the distance which they intended at setting out; but when they assured her, that they had been at the con­vent of Sainte Marguerite, she said, with a look of the most eager anxiety;

'May I not hope, then, that your speedy return is an indication, that you bring good news?'

Marsini, with his eyes sparkling with delight, ad­vanced to her, and taking her by the hand, said,

'I know by experience, dearest lady, that the thunder-stroke of adversity has no power to shake the firmness of your soul;—but the gushing tide of joy's overflowing cup is harder still to bear;—Say, can you support that too with equanimity of temper?'

'Oh, yes, yes, yes!' she said, her heart palpitating all the time, as if it would burst the case that enclosed it: 'I can, indeed, I can.—Tell me then at once, that my Theodore lives:—I read it in your eyes— your manner.'

'He does live, indeed,' said Marsini.

'Then heaven be praised,' she exclaimed, while convulsive sobs and tears of ecstacy, in which she was joined by Henry and Antoinette, prevented her say­ing [Page 147] more; nor could the sympathizing count and Francis themselves refrain from joining them. At last mrs. Percival recovering herself, said,

'Come, then, tell me all:—the burst of transport is over, and I can now hear your story with calmness.'

'Can you?' said Marsini, 'But what says my child, my Antoinette?—Will it not overcome her? And, can this dear youth, can Henry bear it?'

'Oh! yes,' they both sobbed out, 'indeed we can; you need not fear us.'

He then proceeded to relate all the particulars of his visit to the convent, and ended, with saying, 'That he did not doubt, but that lord Arlington would soon be in Ireland.' Then producing the let­ter, and the lock of hair, 'and for a farther proof, madam,' he added, 'that I have seen your husband, he charged me to be the bearer of these: my Henry,' he said, 'will remember, that I cut this hair from his head seven years ago.'

'Yes, well do I remember it,' said Henry: 'but, how little did I then suppose, that it was my father, who asked such a boon of me!'

Mrs. Percival read the letter, which contained such pathetic expressions of regret for all the sufferings he had occasioned her, and such anxious wishes for the future happiness of her, and his children, that she could not read it without tears.

The next thing to be attended to, was to settle every thing with mr. Byrne and mr. Fitzpatrick, to whom Marsini immediately repaired, and imparted all the intelligence he had acquired; in consequence of which, they proceeded according to the forms ne­cessary to be observed. A new trial was moved for, on the plea that lord Arlington was still alive, and would soon be in Ireland; and a day was appointed for rehearing the cause, at such a distant period, as it was thought would leave no doubt of lord Arlington's being arrived before that time.

But fortune seemed determined to sport with the [Page 148] feelings of lady Arlington to the last moment. Day after day passed over, and no lord Arlington appeared. Post after post arrived from the continent, but they brought no news of lord Arlington. The day ap­pointed for the trial approached; still he was absent. Lady Arlington grew uneasy—this negligence in her husband was worse than all his former conduct.— How could he be so barbarous as to raise her hopes to such a height, only to dash them down again with a ten-fold violence? Marsini, too, blamed himself very much for having left lord Arlington;—a thousand unpleasant ideas crouded into his mind with regard to him;—lord Arlington's health was such, that he might, perhaps, have sunk under bodily debility;— at any rate, he wanted some attention to be paid him, Francis Delaval might have been dispatched to Ire­land, and he himself have staid to attend on his lord­ship.—Again, it was possible, that lord Arlington wanted to get rid of them, and, therefore, framed the story of his not being safe in France, only that he might be left to himself; and this suspicion gathered confi [...]mation, from his begging to decline relating his story to him. In fact, he thought, that if he had reasoned properly on the subject, he might have seen, that lord Arlington for many reasons was by no means in a proper situation to be left without any one with him, and he wondered, that such an idea had never struck him at the time; but all was then hurry and confusion; he could not, however, excuse himself for such a piece of inattention.

Reflections, such as these, frequently passed in Marsini's mind, though he never uttered them to lady Arlington.

Mr. Percival, in the mean time, who had deter­mined not to give up the contest, 'till it should appear to be impossible for him to maintain it any longer, saw, with a secret exultation, that his opponents seemed to have deluded themselves with false hopes. Every day he anxiously watched at the port for the [Page 149] arrival of ships; and every day saw with a transport, which he scarcely attempted to dissemble, ship after ship arrive, but no lord Arlington with them.

It was now but the day before that appointed for the trial;—mr. Percival was taking his usual stand at the port, when the arrival of a vessel from Leghorn, was announced by three huzzas; and very soon after he saw two men come on shore, one of them a middle aged man in appearance, and immediately enquired for the house of count Marsini. Mr. Percival was seized all over with a trembling; he did not know lord Arlington's person, but he had no doubt, that he beheld the man whose presence he so much dreaded, and wished it had then been night, that under the veil of darkness, he might have given him a push from the boat, that should have sunk him be­neath the waves for ever.

He heard the bye-standers give the strangers di­rections to find Marsini's house, and following them at a distance, saw them enter there. All day did he hover about in the environs of that spot: he could hear nothing to relieve his uncertainty, nor did he retire to his own habitation till after midnight. [...]ere he threw himself on his bed; but sleep fled his eye- [...]s; he lay restless and uneasy 'till day break, when he again repaired to Marsini's house, and seeing a person come out of the house, whom he knew to be a servant at an adjacent inn, he resolved, if possi­ble, at once to satisfy his anxious soul, and enquired, therefore, of the man, 'If lord Arlington had not ar­rived at the count's house the day before?'

'Who, who said the fellow?'

'Lord Arlington;—did he arrive at count Marsini's house yesterday?'

'I know nothing of their names, there was two outlandish folks came;—but if you want to know their names, I'll ax the servants.'

A servant then coming to the door, 'Pray if you please,' said the fellow, 'this jontleman would be glad [Page 150] to know the names of those two out-landish lords, that came to your house yesterday.'

The servant, who was an Italian, replied, 'That they were count Carletti and his servant.'

A drop of water to the parched lips of the fainting, wounded soldier, could not prove a greater cordial, than this reply did to the harassed soul of mr. Perci­val. He flew back to his habitation, eat his breakfast with alacrity, and then dressed himself for his appear­ance in court; whither he repaired at the hour ap­pointed for its meeting.

Not quite so pleasant were the feelings of lady Ar­lington, on the arrival of that hour, to which she had once looked forward as the termination of her trou­bles. But that event seemed now far off, nor could it be calculated, when it was likely to arrive.

The court, at length, met;—mr. Byrne arose, in order to solicit a farther delay of the trial; but he was scarcely on his legs, when a confused murmur run through the court, of, 'He is come—he is come,' and immediately appeared at the bar the same death-like emaciated figure, which Marsini had long before be­held at Sainte Marguerite.

He begged to be heard for a few minutes, and then said, 'That he had been detained at sea more than double the usual time for the passage from Bil­boa, which was the last port he left, by a leaky vessel and adverse winds; and at last, the ship, which was bound to Cork, was driven into Limerick, where she had arrived two days before, having been kept above water for three former days, only by dint of incessant pumping, in which every passenger had been neces­sitated to take his share. He hoped, therefore, to be indulged by the court, with an adjournment of two days; for he had left two people at Limerick, who would be important witnesses in the cause, and who could hardly reach Dublin before the evening of the next day.'

The judge replied, 'That such an indulgence [Page 151] could not be refused, when properly applied for by council.' The motion of adjournment was, there­fore, made in due form, and the court was adjourned accordingly.

Lord Arlington, then, requested of mr. Byrne, to accompany him to an inn, that he might have some conversation with him on the impending business, and that he might have a little time to rest and compose himself before his first interview with his wife and fa­mily; 'For,' said he, 'notwithstanding the fatigue I had undergone for three days before my landing, I could not stop at Limerick, [...]t got on horseback im­mediately, nor rested, 'till [...]rived in Dublin, when I learnt that the court was [...]at moment assembled on my business.

Mr. Byrne desired, that instead of going to an inn, lord Arlington would accompany him to his house; to which he consented; and, as soon as they arrived there, they agreed to send for Marsini, (who knowing that nothing material could be done in court on that day, had not attended there) in order to impart to him the arrival of lord Arlington, that he might prepare his family to receive him.

Mr. Fitzpatrick, however, who was present when this was settled, said, 'That he would go himself to lady Arlington's house, from whence he would dis­patch Marsini to mr. Byrne's, and would himself stay with lady Arlington, 'till the count should return, in order to keep guard, that no intelligence of her lord's arrival, might come too abruptly upon her.'

Mr. Fitzpatrick, accordingly, went to lady Arling­ton's, (for by that name we shall henceforth call that lady) where, as he expected, he found Marsini, and told him, he was wanted at mr. Byrne's, whither Mar­sini immediately went, and mr. Fitzpatrick continued with lady Arlington, talking to her on various sub­jects, 'till his return, which was in about an hour, when mr. Fitzpatrick took his leave.

When he was gone, Marsini said, 'At length, ma­dam, [Page 152] I hope we are arrived at the wished for haven, and all our troubles are at an end.'

'Lord!'—She could not give him time to pro­ceed, but exclaimed, 'is he arrived then?'

'He is, madam.'

It was almost too much for her;—after a separation of above fifteen years; after many weeks of anxious watching and expectation, the husband, whom she so much doted on, was at last in the same town with her:—she gave an involuntary scream of ecstacy.

'But, why do I suffer this?' she cried; 'No, let me bear this too with temper, with fortitude:—But where is he?—What has detained him so long?— —When shall I see him?—You have seen him, no doubt.'

'Yes, I have seen him, indeed, madam: but, if possible, he was even a more affecting sight than when I saw him before. He has undergone dreadful fa­tigues;—he is pale, emaciated, languid, yet he hardly seems to know it. His mind has been so long in a constant agitation, that he seems rendered insensible to bodily feelings, 'till nature is perfectly exhausted; he has had a dreadful voyage, and a hurrying journey from Limerick, by which he is, indeed, nearly ar­rived at that acmé, where nature can proceed no far­ther.

'When I entered the room at mr. Byrne's, he was stretched on a sofa, from which, however, the mo­ment he saw me, he sprang forward, while his eyes seemed to ask me a thousand questions at the same instant; they seemed to say, tell me of my Horatia, my Antoinette, my Henry! but in a moment after he sunk exhausted again on the sofa. I enquired, if he had taken any refreshment, since his arrival, to which mr. Byrne answered, that he had been urging him to do so, but had not been able to prevail▪ I then added my entreaties to those of mr. Byrne, which were, at last, effectual, and he seemed much revived.'

'Alas! then,' he said, 'What can you have thought [Page 153] of my long delay?—I must have been strangely cul­pable in your eyes; but I have been unfortunate in it, not faulty.'

He then enquired, 'If I thought his wife would see him?'

'Doubt it not for a moment,' I answered; 'she will fly with transport into your arms.'

'Well, then,' he said, 'Why delay a moment? —Let us instantly hasten to her.'

'I begged of him not to think of seeing you at this time, but to wait 'till he was refreshed with rest, for I really thought him too much exhausted to go through such an affecting scene.'

'Oh! do not name rest,' he cried, 'I cannot rest, 'till I have seen her!'

'Well, then,' I answered, 'Follow your wishes, for every moment of delay is a moment of rapture lost to one of the best of women.

'We, accordingly, came hither together, and, ma­dam, he is now below, waiting my permission to come to you; and I have only kept you thus long in con­versation, to give you both a little time to compose yourselves.'

Lady Arlington scarcely heard these last words— she flew down stairs, and in a moment found herself in the arms of her long-lost husband. Who can des­cribe this scene?—But it was a scene not to be des­cribed; it was only to be felt. They mingled tears for a while in each other's bosom, which for some time were the only language which could find vent. —At last Theodore faltered out,

'What goodness to meet me thus!'—he loosed his hold —He sunk back in a chair. Lady Arlington sat down; she took his hand affectionately;

'This scene is too much for you I fear, my love,' she said.

'Too much, indeed,' he replied. 'Oh! had you met me with frowns and [...]aidings, I could have borne it,—have knelt at you [...] feet, and sued for par­don; [Page 154] —but, thus to rush with ecstacy into my arms! ah! 'tis indeed too much!'

A silence again ensued—then holding out his hands,

'Come, my children,' he said, 'You too must seal your father's pardon.'

They approached him;—they eagerly seized the hands he extended to them;—he raised his eyes up­wards,

'May heaven bless both my children!' he said, 'For ye both are indeed my ch [...]

They knelt by him—they pressed his hands to their lips, and bathed them in their tears, with all the elo­quence of the most impressive silence.

'No, rise,' he said, 'and let me sold you in my arms.'

They arose, he embraced them tenderly.

'Yes!' Antoinette,' said he, 'You are indeed my daughter;—hereafter you shall know all;—and you, my Horatia, you are indeed my wife; the mother of that dear child was no more, when I pledged my faith to you. I have not strength now to relate my story, for I have undergone great fatigues, since I parted with that good man (pointing to Marsini) Oh! when we parted in France, how little did I know of the endless obligations which we owe him? but I have learnt it all from mr. Byrne. But let me not disgrace his friendship, by a too great profusion of acknow­ledgments. My Horatia, misfortune has not ceased to pursue me 'till this moment;—when you know all that I have gone through, you will not wonder at the state in which you see me.'

'Come, then,' said lady Arlington, 'let us not pro­tract a scene, which must wear and harass you. Con­sent now to attend solely to yourself; endeavour to take some rest; to-morrow we will share in your at­tentions.'

'You make me selfish,' he replied, 'but, indeed, at present I believe it must be so.'

CHAP. XVI.

LORD Arlington arose the next morning, much recovered from his fatigues; he had enjoyed a repose, rendered doubly sweet by having seen his wife and children, and having found them in such good dispo­sitions towards him. When he entered the breakfast room, he found lady Arlington already there; she met him with looks of the most enchanting sweetness and tenderest affection, and taking his hand, said,

'What pleasure it gives me, my Theodore, to see you look so much better! I begin, indeed, to see my husband again,—yesterday I hardly knew you.'

'I do not wonder at it, my love,' he answered: 'Slavery, imprisonment, toils by sea and land, eternal anxiety; these, my love, endured for fifteen years, are enough to subdue even the strongest constitution: but these are over now; one unhappy passion is con­quered, my heart is now wholly your's, and for the rest of my life I do not doubt, but I shall find that happiness in being united to you, which formerly my estranged heart was unable to taste.'

These words were followed with so tender and af­fectionate an embrace, that lady Arlington, who had never before experienced such symptoms of affection from a husband, whom she doted on, lost, in that moment, all sense of the sorrows which she had gone [Page 156] through, and thought of nothing, but the happiness to which she trusted she might now look forwards.

'Alas!' she said, 'Have you then undergone all that variety of troubles?—Oh! How often has my anxious heart been torn with conjectures on your fate, and wished it could share and soothe your sorrows! —But let us not talk any more of them;—let us only now endeavour that the next fifteen years shall be productive of as much happiness, as the last fifteen years have of misery.'

'Ah! my Horatia,' answered lord Arlington, 'We have but one path to pursue, to attain that desirable end;—follow sincerity and reason in every thing; 'tis to deviations from them, that we owe all our unhap­piness; but I trust that we have both learnt lessons for our future conduct, and the cause being removed the effect will cease.'

The conversation continued some time, in which lord Arlington gave unbounded scope to the esteem and affection which he now really felt for so valuable a wife as his Horatia, and, perhaps, never was a mo­ment so likely to impress a man of any feeling, with an extraordinary affection for a woman;—he had deserted her in a strange and abrupt manner, nor had he, for more than fifteen year, ever made her the object even of his smallest attention; yet at his return, she received him not merely without a frown, but with an overflow of tenderness, which, not to have returned, must have stamped him as a monster, be­low the brutes.

At last they were joined by Henry and Antoinette. This interview opened a fresh scene of tenderness, which, however, in a short time was broken in upon, by the arrival of Marsini, who apologized for his in­trusion, but urged, in excuse, his anxiety to hear of his friend;—but, he added afterwards,

'I will own that I am a little selfish too in my visit; I was anxious to ask a question of lord Arlington; I would have my answer from his mouth, [Page 157] although I anticipate in my mind what that answer will be.'

'I can scarcely refuse to answer any question put by count Marsini,' said lord Arlington.

'Well, then,' returned the count, 'You have al­ready declared yourself the father of the lovely An­toinette: Who, then, was her mother?'

'Her mother,' he replied, 'was Antoinette de St. Foix, daughter to the baron de St. Foix, a French nobleman.'

'It is enough,' said Marsini, 'her likeness to my Gabrielle is accounted for, and she, I doubt not, was really faultless.'

'How?' said lord Arlington, 'And are you then the husband of Gabrielle de St. Foix?'

'It is even so,' returned Marsini.

The conversation was here put an end to, by a note from mr. Byrne, requesting lord Arlington to attend at his house as soon as possible, to meet mr. Fitzpa­trick, in order that they might arrange the business of the succeeding day. To this note lord Arlington re­plied, by going immediately to mr. Byrne's; but at parting from his family, expressed the deepest regret, that he must leave them, probably, too, for the greatest part of the day, as he anxiously wished to ask them a thousand questions, and hear from their own lips, every circumstance that had happened during his absence; for he was not half satisfied with what he had learnt from Marsini, when they met in France.

When he was gone, Marsini burst forth into re­newed expressions of affectionate attachment to An­toinette:

'I have called you my daughter,' said he, 'you are indeed my niece;—but be my child still;—I can­not give you up;—you shall have two fathers.'

He could not help clasping her in his arms and kissing her.

She returned his kind expressions, with like ex­pressions of regard, declaring, 'That she was truly [Page 158] rejoiced to find that she really could claim to be re­lated to him; though had no relationship subsisted, his kindness had formed a much stronger claim to her regard, than any other ties could form.

In the course of the day arrived the two witnesses from Limerick, whom lord Arlington had said, he expected;—these were Clement Seguin, and Ma­rianne de Mercier, the people who were present at his marriage with Antoinette, and with whom the reader will, in a short time, be better acquainted.

When lord Arlington was informed by mr. Byrne, of the names of the two French sailors who had sworn to his death, he said, 'He knew them well, and knew them for a couple of complete rascals, who were corruptible to any purpose, for which they might be wanted; and he thought it probable, that they had, therefore, been corrupted to swear to his death, for which story there was not the least foun­dation, as he had not been materially ill during the whole voyage from Rochelle to St. Domingo, which island he left again, only two days after his landing. But that circumstance they did not know, and, pro­bably, concluded him to be kept prisoner on the island, for it was the general idea in the ship, that such was to be his fate; and it was, also, probable, that the idea of his being under a confinement, from whence he was not likely to escape, had tempted them to swear so positively to his death.'

This clue being given to the council, they, on the day of trial, put such questions to them, as drew forth, at last, the following confession.

'That so much of their former deposition was true, as related to the manner of their becoming known to mr. Thomas Percival; but,' they now added, 'That he, in his conversations with them, often questioned them very closely, concerning the probability of Theodore's ever escaping from St. Do­mingo; and, when they constantly affirmed, (as in­deed they believed) that he never was likely to es­cape, [Page 159] he began to sound them on the subject of swearing to his death, offering them large rewards, if they would accompany him to Ireland, for that purpose. That, allured by the prospect of exchang­ing a life of labour, for a life of idleness, which, by their agreement with mr. Percival, they were to be enabled to do; they consented to swear to whatever he should require of them. They said, also, that the paper which had been sworn to, as a copy from the captain's minutes, was an absolute forgery, provided only, in case their (the two sailors) evidence should be deemed insufficient; and two people from Marseilles, were hired, under the assumed characters of the cap­tain's mate, and steward, to swear to it.'

After this ample confession, minutes of which were taken down in writing, and which had disclosed a scene of villany, that would be almost incredible, were not similar instances but too frequent, the sailors were conducted out of court, under a proper guard, that they might be kept from all farther intercourse with the claimant, or his party, and he (the claimant) was summoned into court.

From the moment of lord Arlington's arrival, the state of his mind had been such, that malice itself could not have wished him a greater torment; he saw all his aspiring hopes at once dashed to the ground, and in the first paroxysm of rage and despair, had flown to the sea-side, in order, there at once to close the scene of his guilt and misery. But when he cast his eyes over the wide extended main, his soul shrunk within him, at the thought of what he was about; the boundless ocean before his eyes, seemed as a type of that ocean of futurity, in which he was going to plunge; he thought of the shoals and quick­sands he might there encounter;—his courage failed him, and he returned wild and distracted to his own apartment. He laid himself down on his pillow, but the pillow proved not the friendly counsellor, which it is generally thought to be;—no; he there medi­tated [Page 160] new mischief, and determined to endeavour to prove lord Arlington an impostor.

For this purpose, he had again recourse to the two sailors, and by fresh promises, had engaged them to fresh perjuries. But when these men were exa­mined, and found that matters were likely to take a turn, which their employer did not expect, like true rogues, who are never faithful to each other, they thought it better, by betraying him, to endeavour to save themselves.

Trusting, however, to their fidelity, mr. Percival appeared in the court, with the most unbounded con­fidence; but when the confession of the sailors was read to him, his countenance, in a moment, fell;— he was taken unawares;—his presence of mind to­tally forsook him—he looked abashed, ashamed, and in vain attempted to falter out a denial;—but his con­fusion spoke too plain;—and when he was told, 'That if he attempted to deny what the sailors had advanced, they would be brought up to confront him,' he saw that all was over, and, therefore, took refuge in confession. He owned, that all they had advanced, was true, and said, 'That if the court would forbear to question him, and let him depart, he would, in pri­vate, communicate farther particulars to lord Arling­ton.'

The court acceded to his request, and all things being now sufficiently clear on the side of the defen­dant, the former verdict was annulled, and lord Ar­lington was restored to the quiet possession of his title and estates.

When the court broke up, lord Arlington desired mr. Percival to follow him to mr. Byrne's house, and when they arrived there, mr. Percival confessed, that from the moment when he first heard of his (lord Ar­lington's) strange departure, which he did by means of a correspondent at Limerick, whom he made a sort of spy on the family, he conceived hopes, though he hardly knew why, that it was a circumstance, which [Page 161] might one day turn out to his advantage; and he had, therefore, ever since kept continually on the watch, for any thing that might tend to feed these hopes.

The paper offered him by Pierre Dupont, he con­ceived might be of use to forward his views; and he, therefore, resolved to purchase it at any rate: year after year, however, elapsed, and he gained no ground; yet he carefully kept the paper, as the golden ear from which he one day hoped to reap a plentiful har­vest. He heard from his correspondent at Li [...]erick regularly, five or six times a year, and knew from him every occurrence that happened in lord Arling­ton's family.

At length, the two sailors arrived at Marseilles, and from the first moment when he heard their story, he was continually plotting how he might use it to his own advantage. The death of Theodore without lawful heirs, would secure to him the possession of rank and fortune, and he therefore turned his whole attention to the best method of procuring his death, and the illegitimacy of his son; and for effecting this purpose, he had followed the plan which had ulti­mately tended to lay open the whole scene of his vil­lany. He concluded his confession, by throwing himself at the feet of lord Arlington, and earnestly begging his forgiveness, using the strongest expres­sions of contrition for his past conduct, and promises of reformation for the future.

Lord Arlington assured him, that he bore ma­lice against him; that he pitied his errors, and would be glad to assist him in carrying his good resolutions into effect. He told him to come to him the next morning, when he would have some farther conver­sation with him, and then departed to his family, where mutual congratulations passed on the preceding events;—all care, all sorrow, seemed now banished from amongst them, and they sat down to dinner, which was received by lady Arlington, with a r [...]lish [Page 162] that she had not known for many years, in having her husband at the table with her.

After dinner, at which Marsini, his friend count Carletti, whose arrival has been already mentioned, Clement and Marianne, were guests, lord Arlington, with an apology to those guests, for making themselves the principal objects of the company, begged of lady Arlington to gratify him, by telling him all that had passed in his absence.

'The outline of the story, it is true, I already [...]now,' said he, 'my Horatia; it remains for you to [...]dd all the little touches, which must make it a fi­nished piece.'

Lady Arlington would have waved the relation, [...]ut was urged by the company, who were all of them [...]ufficiently acquainted with many circumstances, to make them interest themselves in all: to gratify there­ [...]ore, at the same time, lord Arlington, and every one present, she complied, and omitted no circumstance, or incident, which she thought worth relating. Of­ten, during the relation, would a tear involuntarily steal down her cheek, when she dwelt on the many anxious moments she had suffered; and often did sympathetic tears start into the animated eyes of her husband; particularly, when she recounted, which she did with peculiar energy of expression, the thousand apprehensions she had endured, on account of her children;—the ardour with which she had watched the openings of their infant minds;—the joy she felt at every virtuous propensity which they dis­played;—and the pangs that rent her bosom, when she feared that she had discovered any of the deformed features of vice lurking about their hearts;—but those fears, she owned, never tormented her for any length of time, for virtue had ever been the prepon­derating principle in both of them.

When she came to the time of Antoinette's meet­ing with the hermit, she desired her to take up the narration, which she did, and described her two in­terviews [Page 163] with him, with an energy and pathos, that bespoke a soul full of animation an [...] sensibility. At length, the story being brought to a conclusion, the two narrators received the thanks of the company, and they, in their turn, entreating lord Arlington not to keep their curiosity ungratified any longer, he fetched a sigh,—

' 'Tis a tale of woe,' he said, 'that you ask for, but I will endeavour to go through it.' He paused a minute, and then began, as the reader will find in the next chapter.

CHAP. XVII.

WHILE I was absent on my travels, and during the time that I was detained at Vienne, by the illness and death of my worthy and respected tutor, mr. Lewson, I became acquainted with the baron de St. Foix, who had a very fine chateau near Vienne. The baron was one of the true French noblesse, haughty, arrogant, supercilious; full of his own greatness, and of the antiquity of his family, and devoted to whatever he considered as tending to the aggran­dizement of that family, of which he was so proud. His father had been for some years resident in Eng­land, while the baron was quite young, where the [Page 164] latter learnt the English language so completely, that he could speak it as well as the French, and where, also, he contracted a partiality (as far as he ever con­tracted a partiality for any thing, but himself) to the English nation, which led him to treat all subjects of the British empire, who could claim the rank of gen­tlemen, with an affability and attention which he rarely condescended to shew, even to his equals in his own country.

In consequence of this condescension in the baron, I was admitted freely as a guest at his house; and, indeed, my situation at that time seemed even to have touched him with a kind of compassion, so as to make him wish to contribute, as far as was consistent with his dignity, to my comfort, in my then afflicting cir­cumstances. He gave me free leave to walk in his grounds, whenever I was inclined; and even permitted me to have a key of a gate to his park, which was close by the city of Vienne, and by means of which I had a much readier access to his house, and grounds, than by the common road.

His famil [...], at that time, consisted only of himself, a son, and a daughter. The son was in Italy, with, I suppose, count Marsini, and was, as I understood, a most amiable and accomplished gentleman. The daughter, the charming mademoiselle de St. Foix, need I say more of her, than that she was then, in every respect, what Antoinette is now, both in person, face and mind?

To a soul so full of sensibility as her's, my situation soon became very interesting; I was on the point of losing a friend, to whom I was under the greatest ob­ligations, and whom I truly loved and esteemed.—I saw him daily sink under the pressure of accumulated ills; and, being far from all my friends, and in a country to the manners and customs of which I was nearly a stranger, such a loss would be much more severely felt.

She always, therefore, seemed to endeavour to be particularly animated in my company, in order to dis­sipate, [Page 165] as far as was in her power, the melancholy, which I could not conceal; and her attentions were too pleasing to pass unnoticed by me.

Sometimes, when she saw me taking a solitary walk in the garden, she would join me, and by the bril­liancy of her conversation, chase from my thoughts, for a while, the subject that distressed me.

Ah! fatal attentions to my peace!—while she strove to drive one uneasiness from my bosom, she paved the way for the introduction of a thousand others. In short, I had not long been acquainted with her, before I loved her to distraction; and having some reason to hope, that I was not quite indifferent to her, I was revolving in my mind how I might lay open my heart to her, when a blow fell on us, which at once crushed our rising hopes, and which, at last, terminated in the death of Antoinette, and in my own worse than death, in the total overthrow of my hap­piness for a long series of years.

A correspondence had been for some time carrying on between the baron de St. Foix, and the marquis de Lamoignon, a nobleman no less proud and arrogant, than the baron himself.

One day the baron called Antoinette into his room, and told her, 'That he had a glorious piece of new [...] to impart to her; that he had just agreed on a match between her, and the count de St. Pol, son to the mar­quis de Lamoignon;—that the count would be at his chateau that very afternooon, and that she must pre­pare herself to receive him as her lover and future husband. You will see, my dear Antoinette,' he added, 'how much I have consulted your interest, and happiness alone in this match, since I have engaged to give you a very large dower, in consideration of the son of a marquis condescending to unite himself to the daughter of a baron only; not but my family is more ancient than the marquis's: but deference is certainly due to rank like his.'

The astonished Antoinette, who had not, 'till that [Page 166] moment, the least idea of what was going on, lost, by so sudden and unexpected a shock, all power of speech. Indeed, she knew too well, her father's imperious and violent temper, to have dared to make any direct op­position to him, unless driven to it by the strongest necessity; and she thought the best way was, to ac­quiesce in silence, that she might gain time to consider how she could best counteract a design, against which her heart revolted. Not that at that time she was ac­quainted with the count de St. Pol, for even his per­son was unknown to her; but his character was by no means such, as could make her think an [...] union with him desirable;—added to which, there was some­thing perfectly revolting in being thus bargained for, not only without her consent, but even without her knowledge;—and, perhaps, more than all, if I may say so, without vanity, her heart was too partial to me, to endure the thoughts of marrying another. She made no reply, therefore, to the baron, but with­drew to give vent to the emotions of her bosom, in a retired part of the garden.

I was then availing myself of the baron's permission to resort to his gardens at any time, and was walking in the very part, whither Antoinette had turned her steps. She did not, however, perceive me, and I saw her sit down on a bench, d [...]owned in tears. This was a moment which I could not resist; I approached the seat; she scarcely seemed to attend to me; I sat down by her:

'Alas!' said I, 'What can thus afflict the charm­ing mademoiselle de St. Foix? A soul like her's should surely be exempt from sorrow.'

'Oh! sir,' she replied, ''tis the curse of our sex, that we are never to know what happiness is. Man may sometimes be free, but woman, unhappy woman, is eternally a slave to some tyrant or other; man is sometimes allowed his choice in a partner in the mar­riage tie; but woman must submit to be sold to the first person who thinks her worth the purchase.'

'Curses light on the heart that could be so har­dened, [Page 167] as to think of holding up to sale such a trea­sure as Antoinette!' said I, boiling with indignation.

'Oh! hold,' she said, 'Curse him not, for still he is my father, and much is due to that sacred charac­ter, though he may abuse his power;—I would resist his tyranny, but cannot bear to sit by and hear him cursed.'

'Pardon my rash and hasty tongue,' I replied, 'I acknowledge my fault, and the justice of your re­proof; but, Oh! dearest Antoinette, surely my eyes have not been such unfaithful interpreters of my heart, as to leave you any room to doubt, that that heart is wholly, solely your's. Tell me, then; can I do aught to rescue you from your present embar­rassment? I cannot know a joy equal to serving you; —speak, lovely creature! —I have sometimes been presumptuous enough to hope, that I was not quite indifferent to you.'

She looked earnestly at me, and after a silence of a minute or two, said,

'I know not whether you may not deem me too forward in the confession I am going to make; but circumstance, powerful circumstance, demands, that I should be explicit;—Yes, mr. Percival, I will own, that I have seen your partiality for me—seen it with a pleasure, which I will not attempt to dissemble, and have been induced to think, that the greatest happiness I could know, was to spend the remainder of my days with you. Judge, then, what my feelings must be, at receiving a positive command from my father, to receive the count de St. Pol, as my lover and future husband;—a man, whom I never even saw, and whose pride and arrogance are the theme of universal detestation, by all who are not as proud and arrogant as himself. And this marriage has been agreed upon by my father, without his ever having even mentioned the subject to me. What can I do? Misery must await my refusal of this detested marriage; and mi­sery must, in all probability, await my consent to it; [Page 168] but that I am determined never to do. If I must be miserable, at least I will not have to reproach myself as the author of my own wretchedness.'

It is not necessary to detail at large the particulars of this interview; it is sufficient to say, that it became at last so interesting to us, that we exchanged reci­procal promises of unalterable fidelity to each other. and that we would preserve that faith at all hazards. She said, 'she must see St. Pol that afternoon, for a refusal to do so, would be a foolish irritation of her father, which could serve no good purpose; but was determined not to give him any encouragement:' and when we parted, she appointed me to to meet her at the same spot early the next morning, that she might tell me how matters were going on.

Accordingly, we met the next morning, when she told me, 'That her interview with St. Pol had only confirmed her resolution, never to be his; for she found, that the world had not done him injustice in the character it had given him. He was insolent be­yond conception, and in that first interview, had treated her with all the arrogance and contempt, which are too often shewn by the husband to his wife: but are seldom practised by the lover to his mistress.' She then proceeded to say, 'When the count left us, a most painful scene indeed ensued, be­tween my father and me, in which I very plainly told him, that I could never think of giving my hand to a man, who could not behave with decent civility to me, even at our first meeting; and after the specimen of his behaviour, which he had just been giving me, I saw very plainly what I had to expect, when the mar­riage tie should have given him a legal right to tyran­nize over me: that, in short, rather than give my hand to a man, so destitute as St. Pol, of every quality of mind, on which to form any rational hopes of happi­ness, I would take refuge in the even less i [...]ksome fet­ters of a cloister.

'I cannot describe my father's rage,' she conti­nued, [Page 169] 'when he heard me utter these sentiments, in a tone so firm and decided, as could leave him no ex­pectation of my resolution being shaken: he stamped on the ground, and foaming at the mouth, was ren­dered, by passion, incapable of utterance; and I know not to what lengths his ungovernable temper might have carried him, had not a domestic fortunately en­tered at that moment, and informed him, that a mes­senger was arrived at the chateau, with dispatches from the court. He, therefore, hastily dismissed me, with orders to retire to my chamber, and not to stir from it, but to be ready to attend his summons, as soon as his business with the messenger was dispatched. No such summons, however, has arrived, nor have I seen or heard of my father since.'

We passed an hour in sweet, but melancholy con­versation, when Antoinette said, 'That she must leave me, for she dared not stay any longer;' and we parted with renewed protestations of fidelity to each other; Antoinette promising, 'that I should hear from her, when she had any tidings to communicate,' and begging, at the same time, 'that I would not attempt to see her 'till I had heard from her.'

She then turned her steps towards the house, and I returned to my hotel at Vienne, to the melancholy task of attending my poor friend, whose health I saw every day declining more and more rapidly, and to whom, on that account only, I never imparted my affair with Antoinette, which otherwise, I should not have thought of concealing from him.

For five days I lived on the rack of expectation; but did not hear a word of my adored Antoinette. At last, a confused rumour reached my ears, by means of the physician who attended mr. Lewson, that she had been carried away by order of the baron, and no one knew what was become of her. What horrible images did this report raise in my bosom? I pictured to myself the object of my ardent affection, betrayed by the very person, who ought to have protected her [Page 170] from all outrage, into the arms of a man she detested; for I concluded nothing else, but that the baron had forced her into the power of St. Pol.

I flew in an agony to the chateau, where the first person I met with, was an old female servant, wife to the porter of the chateau, who had known An­toinette from her childhood, and loved her as well as she loved her own daughter. I asked, with trembling anxiety, 'If her young mistress had left the chateau?'

'Oh! yes, sir,' she replied, and burst into tears: 'She has, indeed, and we none of us know what is become of her!'

'What is it you tell me?' I cried, 'You do not know what is become of her?'

'Alas! No, sir,' said she, 'It is now five days ago, since the baron and she had a very great quarrel; after which he ordered the coach to be got ready, and made my young lady get into it with him, and he returned a few hours after in the coach by him­self, and the next morning he and all his servants went away to Paris, and that is all I know about the matter, sir.'

For me—I cannot describe my feelings at this ac­count of the old woman's.—Excuse me, my Horatia, my dearest wife, 'tis a remembrance, that gives me such agony. Lord Arlington paused;—he got up; —he walked to the window;—he stayed there a few minutes, then returned to his [...]eat, and resumed his narration; but saw that tears trickled fast down the cheeks of some of his auditors.

I enquired of the old woman, 'If she could tell me which way the coach went?'

'She knew not what road it took,' she said, 'after it got out of the park, and the coachman who drove it was gone to Paris with the baron.'

I then thanked the old woman for the information she had given me, and went to enquire in the neighbourhood, if they could give me any intelligence of the route the coach had taken, that I might trace [Page 171] out, if possible, what was become of my dearest An­toinette. After much enquiry, I at last learnt so far, as that the coach passed a house about five miles from Vienne; and there I stopped my enquiries for that day, as I had been longer than usual absent from my friend, whom, notwithstanding all my anxieties on another subject, I could not bear the idea of appear­ing to neglect.

At my return to the hotel, I found that he had such so much in the last six hours, that it was very improbable he should live the night through; and my fears were right: he expired before the morning, to my unspeakable regret, for in him I lost such a friend, as I could scarcely hope ever to have again. Never, surely, was a man so well calculated to execute, with propriety, the office of travelling tutor, which he had undertaken, and I can only wish my Henry the exact counterpart of mr. Lewson, if ever he shall set out on the plan that I did. But I forbear to dwell farther on his virtues and my loss; my letters always bore honourable testimony to his worth, and my obliga­tions; and, perhaps, I lost him at the most critical moment that such a loss could be sustained, for had he lived, prudent council might have assisted me in winding my way more judiciously out of the labyrinth in which I was involved.

The next morning, after I had given such orders as were necessary, in consequence of the melancholy event which had just taken place, I set out again on my pursuit of my lost Antoinette, and, by dint of un­remitted enquiries, at last traced her to the convent of Sainte Marguerite, fourteen miles from Vienne. Thus was I well assured of the situation of my beloved, and was even comforted to find her only shut up in a convent, after having pictured her to myself in the so much more dreadful situation of the legal prosti­tute of St. Pol. But, how was it possible to arrive at any intercourse with her?—Supineness and inactivity, however, I was well assured, could do nothing for [Page 172] me;—exertion of mind was the only thing likely to assist me in my present situation; and I was resolved, that as soon as I had [...]id the last sad duties to poor Lewson, I would take up my ab [...]de in the neighbour­hood of the convent, that I might be in the way to watch opportunity, and to act immediately on any emergency.

For this purpose, I secured a lodging at an inn, only a mile from the convent, and which was the nearest place that I could possibly get one at; and, as soon as I had seen my friend deposited in the peaceful grave, and settled all his, and my own concerns, at Vienne, I returned to my inn, and there took up my abode.

I had not been settled there more than two days, when I became acquainted with this good man (pointing to Clement, who sat on the opposite side of the room) then a friar, and who was the intimate friend of father Anselm, the confessor of the convent. After some few conversations with him, and getting what insight I could into his character, which I found was that of one of the most honest and benevolent of men; I thought I might venture to trust him so far, as to tell him I had reason to suspect that a young lady, to whom my heart was entirely devoted, had been hurried by her father into the convent a short time before, and I entreated him, if possible, to learn, whether any one had lately been lodged there, who might answer to this description.

He readily engaged to make the enquiries I wished, and said, 'That he did not doubt but by means of Anselm, he could gain me the information I desired; expressing, at the same time, (as though forgetting, for a moment, through benevolent feelings, that he was a friar) the greatest abhorrence of that barbarity exercised by parents so frequently, in throwing off young and helpless females, whom they were bound to protect, not to persecute, into a situation, which must preclude her from all possibility of enjoying real [Page 173] happiness; sentiments which did honour to his head and heart, and which long experience has abundantly testified to me, were not the flimsy cant of the mo­ment, but the settled principles of his soul.

On the morrow, I had another visit from my friend Clement, who told me, 'He had made the enquiries I desired of his brother Anselm, and had heard from him, that a young woman of consummate beauty, and possessed of a firmness and loftiness of soul, beyond what is to be found in the generality of her own sex, and in very many of the other, was brought there about ten or twelves days before. That she seemed in deep affliction, but instead of uselessly yielding to, and drooping under it, she exerted all her resolution to sustain herself with dignity and fortitude. That she was watched with more than usual strictness; one of the superiors (sister Marianne) having orders never to leave her; that she was never suffered to appear at the grate; and that it was understood in the convent, that as soon as her year of noviciate was expired, she was to take the veil.'

So far fortune seemed to have favoured me in my researches. I now ventured to proceed farther, and to sound Clement, Whether I might not, by means of Anselm, get a letter conveyed to my unfortunate Antoinette. He undertook this business too, as readily as he had undertaken the other, at the same time giving me the strongest assurances, that I might depend on both his own, and Anselm's se­cresy.

I accordingly wrote to Antoinette, informing her where I was, and by what means I had come to the knowledge of her situation, and obtained the means of communication with her, entreating her, if possible, to write to me, and let me know all that had befallen her since our last meeting.

This letter I gave to Clement, who immediately re­paired to the convent, and returned to m [...] [...]n a few hours, telling me that he had given it to Anselm, [Page 174] who would take the first safe opportunity of conveying it into the hands of Antoinette.

Clement spent the rest of the day with me, and every time I saw him, I became more and more pleased with his company and conversation. I have always found him sensible, liberal, and well-informed, open and ingenuous, not cunning and crafty, like most of his order.

'Excuse me, sir,' said lord Arlington, addressing himself to Clement, 'I must pay you the tribute you deserve.'

The two succeeding days passed over, without see­ing Clement; and I began rather to wonder at his long delay: but on the morning of the third, he came to me, and said,

'That he had just parted from Anselm, and learnt from him, that he had given the letter to Antoinette, who received it with transport, but that it was im­possible she should answer it; she could only send through him assurances of her love and fidelity.—But sir,' said Clement, 'Anselm bade me ask you, if yo [...] dare shew your love to your mistress, by running some hazard to procure an interview with her?'

'Hazard!' I exclaimed, 'Is there any danger, that I would not brave to see her?'

'Well, then,' said Clement, 'I will procure a friar's habit for you, and in that dress you shall ac­company me to-morrow morning to the convent.'

Clement then appointed me a place of meeting, whither I eagerly repaired the next morning, and sound him waiting for me. I arrayed myself in my disguise, and we set forward to the convent, where we arrived without any interruption, and went imme­diately to Anselm's cell.

CHAP. XVIII.

NEVER was I so much impressed with the fight of any one, as when I first cast my eyes on father An­selm. His countenance was the perfect picture of sorrow, resignation, and benevolence. He seemed to be of a very advanced age, but his eyes still full of animation, and he was perfectly upright. His whole appearance, in short, spake the remnant of manly beauty, both in face and person. On my entering, he accosted me with a benedicite, uttered in the most emphatic tone, and then said to me,

'Young man, you behold before you one, who was in his youth the devoted victim of parental per­secution, as I fear, alas! is too often the case with such as are engaged in the life, to which I have been for so many years devoted. We are some of us com­pelled by our parents, to take upon us the religious vow; and others take refuge in it, when deprived, by persecution, of all worldly happiness. I was one of the latter description; —I loved, and was beloved again, but my Adeline was torn from my arms, by a cruel father, who thought her beneath me, nor know I, to this moment, whither he conveyed her.

In despair I resolved to forsake the world, and [Page 176] seek for refuge in the bosom of my God: but oh! my son, let not despair ever drive thee into the same course; 'tis a mistaken idea; Oh! Adeline, Adeline! I thought, that when I was deprived of thee, no earthly object could ever interest my soul, and I sought therefore to fill it wholly with heavenly ones.—But, it will not do; solitude has but fed a passion that de­vours me; and while I have seemed devoted to my God, I have been devoted to my Adeline.'

'Then, Oh! my son, if thy passion should end as unfortunately as mine did, do not follow the course I have done, but seek, by reading and reflection, and, above all, by leading an active life, to mitigate your sorrows. But, hark! I hear the steps of some one! —'Tis your mistress, I doubt not; she comes this morning to confession.'

A gentle t [...]p at the door confirmed him in the truth of his conjectures; he opened it, and in a moment I clasped my beloved Antoinette in my arms.

Anselm then conducted us into a closet adjoining to his cell, which belonged to him, where we could converse freely, without fear of interruption. She then related to me all that had happened since our last interview, in the following words:

'When I was returning to my chamber, after I had parted from you, I met my father on the stairs leading to it; at sight of him, I was ready to sink into the earth; he sternly asked me, where I had been, and, how I had dared to stir from my room without his permission?—I replied, that I had been in the garden:—he took me by the arm, pulled me forcibly into my room, and then said,

[Page 177]'I have found you out, madam; this reluctance to wed the man, whom I had chosen for you, I find arises from the basest motives.—Oh! could I have supposed that the daughter of the baron de St. Foix, could ever have harboured such grovelling ideas,—I would have seen that rascally Irishman hurled to the bottom of the ocean, before he should have been per­mitted to enter my doors.'

'I saw plainly by this harangue,' continued Antoinette, 'that my father had really discovered our attachment, and wondered much by what means it had come to his knowledge; though, as I afterwards learnt, he had gained his information from one of the servants, who had watched us, and overheard some of our conversation that morning, unobserved by us.

'My father then burst into a torrent of the most violent invective against you, and against me; and at last said,

'But I am resolved, madam: and you shall find, that I can be as obstinate as yourself; either you shall swear to me this moment to give your hand, at the time I shall name, to the count de St. Pol, or this in­stant you shall be carried to a cloister, from whence, mark my words, it is my fixed, my unalterable deter­mination, you shall never come out alive.'

'He then took up a Bible, which lay on the table, and coming up to me, attempted to put it into my hands. I shrunk back: I entreated him to pause, and reflect on what he was about;—that it gave me pain ever to be obliged to contest any point with him, but that I never would consent to be the wife of St. Pol, who was not merely an object of indifference to me, but the object of my thorough contempt and aversion.

'I begged him only to allow himself a few days to reflect on this affair, when I could not but hope he would view it in a different light. That with regard to yourself, though I did not know by what means he had discovered my attachment to you, yet I certainly should not disavow it, as I thought it a passion rather [Page 178] to glory in, than to be ashamed of. That I could not understand what he meant, by calling it a base pas­sion; that you were of an illustrious family in your own country; and that he had himself often acknow­ledged, with the warmest encomiums, that your per­sonal and mental accomplishments were almost une­qualled.

'He seemed to hesitate.—I threw myself on my knees, and taking one of his hands, which I pressed to my bosom, entreated only three days delay, be­fore he proceeded any farther in this affair.— I con­jured him to consider the dreadful consequences that might ensue from hurrying matters on;— that he would not only, by that means, endanger the total de­struction of my peace of mind, but would, perhaps, lay up for himself a store of misery for the remainder of his days; — misery which he could not avoid feel­ing, if ever reflection should come across his mind; —and he should consider, that instead of being the protector of his daughter, he had been her tyrant, perhaps her murderer.'

(Tears here stole down the cheeks of the young Antoinette; she called to mind the death of the her­mit of Killarney, and suspicions arose in her mind, that her mother's words had been prophetic of the fate of the baron. She gave an expressive look at lady Arlington, who seemed to enter into what was passing in her mind, and nodded her assent to it. Lord Arlington observed them: 'Yes, doubtless,' he said, 'it will hereafter appear, that the words of thy mother, my dearest child, were prophetic;' and then he proceeded in his narration.)

My Antoinette continued her story thus: 'For a moment my father seemed deeply impressed with what I said; but then hastily snatching away his hand:'

'No,' he said, 'my honour is engaged to St. Pol, and cannot be recalled;—delay is impossible;—I am summoned to court;—I must set out for Paris to-mor­row; [Page 179] —either this moment then repeat the oath, which I shall dictate, or a cloister shall receive you; from which, I repeat my words again, you never shall come out alive.'

'Seeing him thus determined, and that neither arguments nor entreaties could more him, I found nothing remained for me, but to be equally decided. Well then, sir,' I answered, 'Since such is your cruel determination, hear mine;—You may make me miserable, but my own lips shall never seal my misery, by consenting to a prostitution which my soul abhors; —I am resolved never to be the wife of St. Pol.

'Never shall I forget the look which my father gave me;—it was a mixture of unutterable rage and astonishment;—of astonishment, to find such reso­lution in a female bosom;—and of rage, at finding himself thus thwarted in his favourite plan of aggran­dizing his family, for so he considered the misery to which he would have doomed me.

'He burst from me, opened the door, then violently clapped it to again; — looked sternly at me:'

'And are you thus resolved?' he said, 'But take care, for if you now let me quit your appartment, without taking the oath which I demand, the world united cannot save you from my just indignation.'.

'I went up to him, took his hand, and was going to kiss it, but he spurned me from him.'

'I will not be thus fooled,' he said, 'Take the oath this moment, or I am gone, and then—'

'He paused, and looked for my reply.

'I cannot, dare not, perjure myself:—Can my father wish that I should?'

'You will not take the oath then?'

'I can never yield to be the wife of St. Pol;—Yet hear me, oh! my father!

'I caught hold of his coat; he flung me from him, so that I fell on the floor; he then burst open the door, went furiously out of the room, and locked it after him.

[Page 180]'I lay for some minutes on the floor, almost with­out sense or recollection; stunned scarcely less by the ferocity of my father, than by my fall. But the more I recollected myself, the more I was convinced of the folly I should be guilty of, were I to give way to despondency, at an hour which called for the most ac­tive exertion: that it was my duty, as well as my in­terest, not weakly to sink under my troubles, but to endeavour to combat them; and that though others might oppress my body, my mind could never be conquered without my own consent.

'With these reflections I fortified my soul against the storm, which I saw approaching, and rising from the floor, began to arrange my concerns for a fate which seemed inevitable.

'In about half an hour my father returned to me, attended by two of the servants.'

'Take her,' he said to them, 'and carry her to the coach.'

'It is unnecessary to use force,' I said, 'I shall make no resistance.— I walked down stairs with com­posure, and seated myself in the coach, into which my father also got, and we drove hither. Not a word passed between us on the way;—my father seemed much agitated, but he never once looked at me.

'When we arrived here, we were immediately shewn into the parlour, which we found empty. My father then looked full in my face, for the first time since our leaving the cheateau, and taking me by the hand.'

'Antoinette,' said he, ''Tis not yet too late; but this moment must seal your doom;—the oath;—you may still save yourself.'

'Not at that price;—Would my father have me seal my own damnation?'

'Oh! invincible obstinacy!' he exclaimed; 'Then here it must end.'

'So saying, he rushed out of the room, and I saw [Page 181] no more of him; nor did I see any one else for about an hour, when, to my surprise, he again entered the room.'

'You are resolved then, Antoinette,' he said, 'to be immured here for life?'

'I am resolved never to marry the count de St. Pol.'

'Good heavens!' he said, 'Could I have thought it?'—He turned towards the door; he looked at me again;—'I am going, Antoinette,' he said.

'And, cannot I recal you, my father!'

'Yes, Antoinette, there is one way, and only one;—my honour is pledged, and that I cannot sa­crifice.'

'Nor can I ever wed as you desire.'

'Good God! Good God!' he cried, and went out of the room violently agitated; and in a few mi­nutes I heard the coach drive off.

'I was immediately put under the care of one of the superiors, who has orders never to leave me, ex­cept when I come here to confession;—but she is kind to me, and really seems to compassionate my situation. I am not permitted to see any one, and, at the expiration of a year, orders are given by my fa­ther, that I should take the veil.'

Such was the relation given me by Antoinette, of the contests which she had had with the baron, and the baron with himself; in which it seemed apparent, that the latter had suffered false notions of honour, at last to overcome paternal affection, though that had maintained the contest to the last moment; and it was even probable, that the baron himself was scarcely less a sufferer from the conflict, than the victim of his persecution. I then imparted to An­toinette, how much I had been urged by my father to return to Ireland, as soon as ever, by the d [...]ath of poor mr. Lewson, I should be released from my atten­dance on him; for he earnestly wished me to reach Ireland against the time when I was to come of age.

[Page 182]She begged me earnestly not to let my attachment to her interfere with this wish of my father's, and urged me to set out immediately on my return, and leave her to her fate.

'How can my Antoinette,' I said, 'suppose that I could desert her at a moment like the present? But I would suggest a plan, which I hope would make us mutually happy, and end our troubles at once.'

'And, how can that be?' she asked eagerly.

I then ventured to suggest to her the possibility of our being privately married in Anselm's cell; and that by his assistance also, I thought it possible that we might accomplish her escape from her convent, when she might accompany me to Ireland, where she would be under the protection of my father and myself; and as to my father, I doubted not of obtaining his ready forgiveness for the step I had taken.

She paused and hesitated what answer to make to my proposal, and at last said, 'She could not then de­termine what to do, but bade me meet her again in three days at Anselm's cell, by which time she would have taken her resolution, and if it should be to comply with my wishes, the ceremony should at that time be performed; but bade me not be too sanguine in my hopes; that even when united, our troubles would not be at an end, for she saw nothing but rocks and shoals around us, on some of which it was scarcely possible but that we should sp [...]t.' We then took our leave of each other for that time, as she said she did not dare stay any longer, and after agreeing with Anselm that we should meet again in three days, she retired to her room, and I returned with Clement to my inn.

At the expiration of the term agreed on, Clement and I hastened to the place of appointment, where I had not been arrived many minutes, before Antoi­nette appeared, accompanied by the superior, to whose care she was entrusted. I started on seeing another person enter with her, but she said,

[Page 183]'Do not be alarmed, my Theodore, the compas­sionate Marianne has entered warmly into our cause, and will promote the success of our schemes to the utmost of her power. I come now in the presence of her, and father Clement, to receive your faith, and to pledge mine to you.—Haste, Anselm, perform the ceremony, let me not have more time for reflection.'

The holy man pronounced the proper vows and blessings, and in a short space of time I was blessed with the delightful reflection, that Antoinette was my wife. She told me to remain with Anselm, and at night Marianne should conduct me to her apartment, and then hurried away, almost overcome with the va­riety of feelings which agitated her soul. To myself, I can hardly describe my sensations.—One moment all other ideas were absorbed in the happiness I felt at being united to Antoinette;—the next moment I was almost weighed down with anxiety, at looking for­ward to the many dangers and difficulties we might have to encounter, before we could really enjoy the possession of each other.

In these alternate hopes and [...]ears, I spent my time, 'till the arrival of Marianne, under whose conduct I arrived safely, by various turnings and windings, at Antoinette's apartment, and returned by the same means to Anselm's cell the next morning, from whence I departed undiscovered to my inn, after he had opened to me a plan, which Marianne and he had been concerting, for Antoinette's escape, in which Marianne meant to accompany her, as she ardently sighed to quit her monastic life; and this project, he said, he hoped would be more matured, when I should return in the evening, which he allowed me to do.

In the evening, then, he imparted to me the whole plan which they had concerted, and which was to be carried into execution in three nights from that time. I passed the night again in Antoinette's apartment, when we agreed to meet no more, 'till she was without the walls of the convent. Every thing was settled [Page 184] with Anselm, before I departed in the morning, and a place was agreed on, where I was to attend with a chaise, on the night appointed, from whence we were to proceed, with all possible expedition, to Marseilles, and there take shipping on board any vessel we could find, which would convey us to a place of safety.

Those, and those only, who have been in a like situation, can form an idea of my feelings, during the painful interval of suspense, between the settling of this scheme, and the time of action. Oh! How truly did I feel the force of the great poet's observation,

Only six hours were remaining to the appointed time of my meeting with Antoinette, when Clement came to me, and with a voice and countenance, which sufficiently spake the interest he took in the melancholy news, of which he was the bearer, told me, that Anselm had that morning been found dead in his cell. Of this event a vague rumour had reached his (Clement's) ears, which caused him to go imme­diately to the convent to inform himself, whether it were true or not, when he received a full and melan­choly conviction, that the rumour he had heard was founded in fact. He had obtained a moment's in­terview with Marianne, who had only time to tell him, that in consequence of this event, all thoughts of their flight from the convent, must for the present be at an end, and that Antoinette would, if possible, convey a letter to me in a day or two; and, in the mean time, she charged me, as I valued our mutual safety, not to attempt coming to the convent.

[Page 185]Thus, in one dreadful moment, was the cup of joy and transport, which I had been flattering myself with the idea of draining to the bottom, at once dashed from my lips, and I was left a prey to the most horrible apprehensions for her, whom my soul doted on to such excess.—But let me not think of it:—I really was half frantic, and, I believe, that nothing but the kind and friendly attentions I received from Clement, preserved to me any portion of my senses. He promised to do every thing in his power to assist us, and bade me hope that this delay, how­ever dreadful it appeared, would prove only a tem­porary disappointment; and he promised to go the next day to the convent, and collect for me, if possible, some new [...] of my Antoinette.

Three days, however, elapsed, during which time he constantly hovered about the convent, before he could bring me any intelligence of her. But on the third day the porter of the convent told him he was wanted in the parlour, whither he accordingly went, and found Marianne there, who put a letter into his hand, and bade him be gone again directly.

He lost no time in bringing the letter to me, which I opened and read with as much eagerness as the parched traveller feels, when he spies a lonely shell with one single drop of water standing in its cavity. It contained many assurances of her affection, and lamentations for our late disappointment; but she earnestly entreated me not to think any more, at that time, of her escape, for it was then a matter of im­possibility.

This letter was not calculated to compose into a calm a mind so tossed by storms as mine then was. I resolved, however, to comply with the injunctions of my Antoinette; had it been my own safety only, which my stay would have endangered, I should not have hesitated a moment to brave any dangers, rather than quit the spot which contained that dearest object of my affection; but she told me, that my stay might endanger her safety too, and this was an argument not to be resisted: I, therefore, took my leave of Clement, who engaged to let me have frequent and faithful accounts of the state of affairs at the convent, and immediately set forwards for Ireland, and as you well know, my Horatia, arrived at Arlington castle two days before that on which I compleated my twenty-first year.

CHAP. XIX.

IT is needless to relate the public events which fol­lowed, on my arrival in Ireland; you, alas, my Ho­ratia, knew them but too well; it is sufficient that I relate those secret events, which are known to myself alone.

Week after week passed over my head, still finding me in anxious expectation of hearing from my An­toinette, and still leaving me disappointed. I knew not what to think of it; I thought it unjust to Cle­ment, to suppose that he had deceived me, and been unfaithful to his promises; but I knew not how to ac­count for his silence. A thousand times was I on the point of disclosing the whole affair of my marriage to my father, but the secrecy enjoined me by my An­toinette, as often with-held my tongue. I wished to have left Arlington castle, in order to have thrown, if possible, a greater damp on [...] plan, which I saw my father so eagerly pursuing; but I did not dare to stir, while I was kept in such uncertainty, as to my Antoinette; and while my absence from the castle might have endangered a letter falling into hands that I should not wish.

At length, after six months spent in most dreadful suspense, a letter arrived from my Antoinette, which brought me the pleasing intelligence, that by the as­sistance [Page 188] of her brother, the chevalier de St. Foix, a plan was formed for her escape from the convent, which was to be carried into execution in the course of a few days, from the time of her writ­ing; and that the chevalier would conduct her to Ireland, where he would stay 'till he heard the event of the baron's being made acquainted with their proceedings. Still she wished that the affair should be kept secret from my father, 'till her arrival in Ire­land, which she hoped would be in about a month.

She told me too, that various plans had been form­ed for her escape, but obstacles had occurred, to pre­vent their execution; and hinted the additional anxie­ty she felt to get away from the convent, on account of her own situation, which made her stay in it every day more and more unsafe for her. There were al­lusions also to a former letter which she had written to me, and to two letters from Clement, none of which, as I have already said, I had ever received.

My anxiety for my Antoinette was not at all re­lieved by this letter; I had still every thing to fear for her, and yet it was impossible for me to attempt going to her assistance; I was vexed and fretted too, at her continuing her injunctions of secrecy, for it placed me in a most painful situation with regard to my fa­ther, to whom I earnestly wished to lay open my heart; but as Antoinette desired me to be secret, I was determined to be so at all hazards.

If the first six months, however, had been a stare of dreadful anxiety to me, judge what I must have suffered, when near six months longer elapsed, with­out my hearing any thing farther of the object, for whom all this anxiety was suffered. You know too well, my dear Horatia, to what extremities matters were brought between me and my father;—a thou­sand times had my secret been ready to burst from my lips, but as often did I revolt from a disclosure, which I found I had every reason to dread. I, however, certainly should have told all to my father, at the mo­ment [Page 189] when he had passed the dreadful sentence on me, 'That I should consent in three days to wed as he desired me, or be banished his presence for ever:' had he not gone so hastily out of the room, that he left me no time to collect my spirits for the painful communication, and all my thoughts of that communication were immediately after put an end to by the events that followed.

My father had not quitted the room more than five minutes, when a servant came and informed me, that a woman desired to speak to me in private I ordered her to be shewn to my own room, whither I immediately went myself, when the woman told me that she brought me melancholy news of my Antoi­nette: but as the story was long, she hoped I would excuse her imparting it to me then, but begged me to meet her at an inn she named at Killarney. I would have accompanied her thither, but she said, 'It is better that we should not go together.' She therefore departed, by herself, and I set out in a few minutes after, taking a different route from that which she had pursued.

When I arrived at the place of appointment, she conducted me into a parlour, where sate the mistress of the inn, with a child in her arms. Joanna (for that was the name of the woman who had requested my attendance there) took the child from her and then desired her to leave the room. When she was gone, Joanna drew from her bosom a sealed packet of papers, and placing them, together with the child, in my arms,

'Behold, sir,' she said, 'the dying present of your dear Antoinette!—She charged me to deliver this infant, and this packet, into your own hands, and here I discharge my trust.'

She then burst into a torrent of tears;—I pressed the infant to my breast, and fell back in my chair al­most senseless.

Lord Arlington rose up from his seat;—he walked [Page 190] up and down the room for a few minutes, violently agitated, then sat down again.

'Excuse me,' he said, 'I cannot dwell on this s [...]ene; no words can describe it; and I can hardly bear to think on it. After a long silence, I desired Joanna to tell me the whole story.'

'Those papers, sir,' she replied, 'contain it as far as the departed angel could tell of it;—what is wanting there I will supply.'

I opened the packet, which contained a detail from Antoinette, of the events that had happened to her since her last letter to me, which was in substance as follows:

She got safe from the convent at the time appoint­ed by her brother, but was unfortunately, at last, obliged to leave Marianne behind, for only two days before that appointed for their departure, she had broken her leg by a fall, which made her flight, at that time, impossible; and as it was equally impossi­ble for Antoinette to delay her departure, she was obliged to escape by herself. She found her brother in waiting for her with a chaise, about a quarter of a mile from the convent, and they got to Marseilles without meeting any interruption. They there agreed for their passage in a ship, which was to sail for Lisbon next morning; but in the evening, as they were get­ting from the boat which conveyed them to the ship itself, another boat which they had perceived to put off from the shore very soon after theirs, came up, and four men from it jumped into their boat, and seized on the chevalier and Antoinette, exclaim­ing, that that they were their prisoners.

The chevalier attempted to make some resistance, in which he was seconded by the men belonging to his own boat, and a severe scuffle ensued, in which the brave, but unfortunate chevalier was pierced through the breast, by the sword of one of the assail­ants, when he staggered against the side of the boat, f [...]ll over-board into the water, and was seen no more.

[Page 191]'Good God!' exclaimed Marsini, 'And was such the fate of the most amiable of men?—I had always understood that he was killed in a duel.'

'So it was reported,' said lord Arlington, 'but the fact is as I relate to you; he fell a sacrifice to fraternal affection, which, from the account given me of him, by my poor Antoinette, he carried to a height far exceeding the usual level of that amiable dispo­sition.'

'Oh, she told you truly!' said Marsini; 'But I beg your lordship's pardon for this interruption.— Pray go on.'

Lord Arlington proceeded.—This dreadful disaster cast such a damp over the minds of every one, that no farther resistance was made, and Antoinette was car­ried off by the ruffians; who, without regard to any thing but their orders, hurried her away, nor stopped 'till they had deposited her safe in the chateau de St. Foix, where she was doomed to meet alone, and un­friended, the frowns and menaces of an enraged father, to mourn the untimely fate of a brother, whom she doted on, and who had fallen in her service;—and to reflect on the dreadful situation to which an infant, she was likely soon to bring into the world, would be exposed.

An unfortunate circumstance had attended the flight of Antoinette, which she could not foresee or prepare against. The baron, whom she believed still at Paris, nor likely for some time to return to the chateau, had suddenly arrived there the evening of her flight. He knew that his son had been for some time returned from Italy, and had been resident at the chateau, and he therefore inquired for him im­mediately on his arrival there, when he was told that he had gone that morning to the convent, to see his sister, and he perhaps would not return for two or three days.

As the baron was really anxious to see his son, who had so long been absent from him, he resolved [Page 192] to go very early next morning to the convent, where he did not doubt but he should meet with him, and where he should also see his daughter, and find what temper she was in, after some months of confinement. He, accordingly, set off, and arrived at the convent just after the first alarm had been spread, that An­toinette was missing; and just as intelligence arrived, from two scouts who had been sent out to make en­quiries, that a chaise had been seen going in great haste the road to Marseilles, which was supposed to contain the fugitives. The baron therefore lost no time in sending four men after them, who succeeded in their errand but too well.

Antoinette was all astonishment when she beheld her father, whom she supposed to have been at that moment so many miles off. He approached her with eyes sparkling with rage, and vented the most bitter reproaches against her;—but soon after, his reproaches were changed into expressions of the most poignant affliction for the death of his son, who was, he said, the only support in a direct line of his ancient house, and his titles and estates would now go to a collateral branch, twenty degrees removed from himself.

Thus, in alternate reproaches and bewailings, he gave vent to his feelings, 'till, at last, he ordered An­toinette to her chamber, and told her to prepare her­self, for returning, in a few days, to the convent.

'Yes,' said Antoinette firmly, 'I will prepare my­self to return thither, and shall go with the l [...]ss concern, as I know my captivity cannot be of long duration, for the grave will soon release me from it.'

The baron looked sternly at her; 'Yes,' said he, 'That is the common cant of your sex, when they are thwarted in their perverse inclinations; but I am not to be so fooled; but 'tis in your own power, madam, to shorten your captivity as much as you please; con­sent to marry St. Pol, and it is at an end; otherwise, at the end of the year you take the veil.'

[Page 193]'And I would rather,' she replied, 'take the veil, than consent to so detested an union.'

She was then conducted to her chamber, and a servant, devoted to the baron, was ordered to attend her, and strictly to guard her.

In this confinement, however, she was not absolutely destitute of comfort. Joanna, daughter to the porter of the castle, was just then come on a visit to her father. She had, by means of the baroness de St. Foix, re­ceived a much better education than young women in her situation usually obtain, and being but little older than Antoinette, had been much her companion; 'till Joanna, when she was about seventeen, went to live with a relation, who was in a very profitable branch of trade at Lyons, where she married a young man in the same line of business as her uncle, but who died about a year after their marriage, and left her with a very fine boy, and it was not more than three months from the death of her husband, that she, with her child, came to the chateau de St. Foix, to visit her father.

She well knew the unfortunate situation of An­toinette, and when she found that she was to be kept in such strict confinement at the chateau, she deter­mined, at the hazard of the baron's anger, to admi­nister all the consolation to her that was in her power, for she was a young woman of more than common spirit and resolution, and whose affection for Antoi­nette was such, that nothing seemed formidable to her, when she thought she could render her any ser­vice, as the sequel of my story will shew. This young woman's attentions alleviated the confinement of Antoinette, while she remained at the chateau, and when she was carried back to the convent, which was in about ten days, she promised often to come and visit her.

But all this time, the baron never appeared to have any suspicion of his daughter's situation: he, indeed, saw her but seldom, and when he did see her, he was [Page 194] always much more occupied in bewailing the loss of his son, than in attending to her. He several times mentioned the match with St. Pol; but she as constantly refused to hear any thing he had to say on that sub­ject. When he talked of carrying her back to the convent, she pressed him to let her continue at the chateau for the short remainder of her days, offering to give him her solemn assurance not to attempt es­caping from thence.

He ridiculed the idea of her not living much longer; —said that the ruddy hue of her cheeks did not look as if her end was very near; mistaking the hectic flush of fever, for the florid bloom of health; and as to her promises, he said, he knew very well how far a woman's word was to be taken; and that, as he was obliged to return again to Paris very soon, he should choose to place her where he knew she would be most effectually secured, and he should take care that she should not have it in her power to escape again from the convent.

These cruel taunts wounded poor Antoinette even more deeply than all the other cruelties her father had exercised towards her. She plainly perceived that her health was daily declining, from the fatigues of body and anxiety of mind which she had undergone, and only dreaded, that she should not live to bring her infant into the world. With emphatic expressions of these feelings; with the warmest expressions of her regard for me; with ardent wishes for my happiness, and an anxious recommendation of her child, if it should live to come into my hands, to my love and protection, she closed the interesting narrative she sent me, which Joanna then pursued to the following effect.

Lord Arlington's voice had several times been al­most choaked with stifled agony, while he went through this affecting recital; but the most distressing part still remained untold.—He paused;—he wiped away tears which he could no longer repress, and, at [Page 195] length, proceeded thus, speaking in the person of Joanna, by whom the latter part of Antoinette's story was related to him.

I had frequently visited Antoinette at the Con­vent: for the abbess, more sensible to the alarming state of her health, than the baron, was desirous of affording her every possible comfort, and, therefore, allowed me to have free access to her. She had of­ten talked to me of the persecution she had received from her father on St. Pol's account, and appeared as if there was more she wished to say to me, rela­tive to herself, but that she hardly knew how to give it utterance. At last, one day, when I found her particularly ill and dejected, I pressed her much to unbosom herself entirely to me, as I saw there was something sat heavy on her mind, which it would be a relief to her to disclose; indeed, from her appearance, I had no difficulty to guess, in part, the secret which she seemed hardly to have power to disclose. She sighed and hesitated what answer she should make, but at length, said,

'My dear Joanna, you ask for a story which I have scarcely power to relate; but I have received such kind attention from you, as encourages me not only to tell my story, but to communicate a request which I have for a long time ardently wished to make to you;—the boldest, sure, that ever was made, but which I have reason to believe your resolution, and strong affection for me, will induce you to comply with.'

She then related to me all the particulars of her connection with you, and concluded with saying,

'I feel, Joanna, that it is impossible I should survive my approaching confinement; can you re­solve to take my child under your protection as soon as it is born, and if I should die, to carry it to Ire­land, and place it in the arms of its father?'

To this request I yielded a ready, a hearty assent; for the dangers of the undertaking seemed nothing to [Page 196] me, when it was to gratify the wish of Antoinette▪ and never shall I forget the transports which sparkled in her eyes, at the assen [...] I had given.

''Tis vain,' she said, 'my dearest Joanna, for me to attempt to thank you: How poor are words, to express my obligations to you, or the gratitude I feel for them?—the heart, which, like your's, is ca­pable of performing such an action as you have undertaken, can alone feel what is due to it for the action it performs: nor would I disgrace you by offer­ing only the common effusions of a grateful mind.'

She gave me many directions concerning the child, and said, 'that she had expressed her wishes with regard to it, very fully, in her letters to her husband▪ which she should give me to carry with the child.' She often too, after this, talked to me of her husband, mentioning him with the most ardent expressions of affection, and regretting all the uneasiness which she had occasioned him.—'He was happy,' she would say, ''till he knew me: would to heaven he had ne­ver known me!'

At length the moment arrived, when in the pre­sence only of Marianne, myself, and a surgeon, whom we had privately engaged for the purpose, this sweet infant came into the world▪ Antoinette survived her delivery, but it seemed scarcely possible that she should survive it for many hours; a rapid consumption had preyed upon her for some weeks, under which she was apparently sinking. She called me to her bedside; I had the child in my arms;

'Let me give her one kiss,' she said, 'It is the first and the last she will ever receive from her unfor­tunate mother.—Take her, Joanna, take her to my Theodore, place her in his arms, and tell him 'tis the dying gift of one who fondly and faithfully loved him, and who will bless him with her [...]atest breath.'

I took the child; I was so wounded in my heart, that I could not bid the mother farewel, although I was convinced that I should never see her more; I [Page 197] wrapped the child carefully in my cloak, and having lulled her to sleep, conveyed her away unobserved from the convent.

I carried her to my father's house, and I deter­mined, that as my own child was perfectly healthy, and did not want my nursing, I would transfer that nourishment from him, to the infant Antoinette, for so I called the child, after her mother; and the next day I went to the convent, where I learnt, that An­toinette had expired about an hour before my arrival there: but I did not see Marianne.

I now began to plan all things for my intended journey. I told my father and mother what I had undertaken, and desired them to carry my child to my uncle at Lyons, who had often said he would adopt him as his son. They thought me rash, but if any thing could excuse it, they said certainly the obliga­tions they had to Antoinette would. My journey was hastened too, by a rumour which came that very day to the chateau, that the baron would be there in a day or two; and I thought it would be highly imprudent in me to delay my departure 'till after his arrival.

I accordingly set out two days after the death of An­toinette, and arrived safely at Marseilles, where I had a cousin, who was master of a ship in the Lisbon trade, and by his means I got a passage on board that ship, which conveyed us to Lisbon, and by means of my cousin's connexions there, I was recommended to a captain of a ship, bound from Lisbon to Cork, at which place I arrived two days since; and, according to the directions which I received from Antoinette, came on to Killarney, and have thus, I hope, faithfully discharged the sacred trust which she committed to me.

Lord Arlington had, with difficulty, got through the latter part of this narrative;—he now got up▪ —'Oh! Excuse me,' he said, he went out of the room;—it was some time before he returned. On entering again, he said, 'I am ashamed of myself, but I will go on▪'

CHAP. XX.

MY attention was now turned entirely to considering what course I had best pursue, with regard to my dear infant, and to the union which my father was so earnest to accomplish. At length I resolved to comply with him, and for the present to keep my child in concealment. Joanna promised me to stay with her at least as long as she wanted a nurse, and I therefore looked out for a situation for them, and soon engaged mrs. Roberts to take them. How many tears did—no, why tell my folly?—At the end of the time my father had allowed me to consider of the point he had urged, I declared to him my readiness to obey his commands, and soon after was united to one, with whom I ought to have been happy.—But no more of that.

The letter which occasioned my abrupt departure from you, my Horatia, and which you so well remem­ber my receiving, was to the following effect, as near as I can recollect.

'Good God!' I exclaimed, when I got out of the house, 'And is this greatest of miseries reserved for me?—Am I then the husband of two wives?'

I flew to Killarney, to mrs. Roberts's house, and enquired of Joanna, whether it was she who had brought the letter to me? and by what means it had come to her?—She told me that it came enclosed in a parcel to her from her father; and that as she knew I was to leave Arlington castle the next morning, she immediately carried it there for me, never suspecting what the contents might be.

I immediately resolved to set out without delay for the convent, that I might satisfy myself of the truth or falsehood of what had thus been communicated to me; for I could not bear the idea of remaining for a moment with my second wife, while there was a possibility that my first might be yet alive. When I declared my design to Joanna, she said, 'She wished I would find some means of disposing of my child, and let her accompany me, as she was desirous of return­ing to her own child and country.'

This request was too reasonable for me to hesitate a moment about complying with; it was one which indeed I could not refuse; my only difficulty was, how to dispose of my Antoinette. I revolved many plans in my mind, and at last determined on that which I executed; and having written my letter, and given my directions to mrs. Roberts, Joanna and I set off for Limerick, where we got on board a vessel bound for Bilboa, front whence we determined to cross the Pyrenees into France.

[Page 200]In the bay of Biscay we were overtaken by a violent storm, which drove us out of our course, and after encountering dreadful perils at sea, we were at last wrecked on the coast of Portugal. We then made the best of our way to Lisbon, where we agreed for a passage to Marseilles, on board a Lisbon ship; but after we had passed the streights, we were overtaken by another storm, more violent than that we had en­countered in the bay of Biscay, and which drove us towards the coast of Africa. Our ship rode it out for a considerable time, but at last the captain bid us all repair to the boats, for the ship could not hold to­gether for two hours longer. The boats were ac­cordingly hoisted out, and as many of us as could, got into them; but here I met with another disaster, which rea [...]ly almost made me think that there was a something in myself, which was contagious to every one who had any concern with me, and that I and misfortune were so coupled together, that whoever was connected with the one, must inevitably expe­rience the baneful influence of the other. As my faithful and friendly Joanna was descending from the ship, her foot missed its hold, she fell into the sea, and a vast billow in a moment swept her from our fight.

We had not left the ship many minutes, before we plainly perceived her foundering, and in a short time she vanished for ever. We got safe, however, to the coast of Africa, but there we all were made slaves by the Algerines. I had the good fortune, however, to fall into tolerable mild hands, so that I had, from the first, a prospect, that I might, by indus­try, one day work out my freedom; and so, in fact, I did. After a servitude of seven years, I had, by care and prudent management, a [...]assed a sum sufficient to purchase my freedom, and procure myself a passage to Marseilles: and this I managed too, without part­ing with my gold watch, which I had the fortune to conceal at my first landing, and the loss of which I should have regretted, as much as one who had so [Page 201] many deeper causes of sorrow, could have regretted a bauble.

I no sooner found myself again on French ground, than I hastened to the chateau de St. Foix, in order to seek out the father of Joanna; but I met him strag­gling about, looking very melancholy, before I reached the chateau. He knew me the moment he cast his eyes on me, and lifting up his hands and eyes, thanked heaven that he had seen me again, and eagerly en­quired for his daughter, whose sad fate I related to him, cloathing it in as tender terms, as so sorrowful a tale would admit of. He was deeply affected by it, but said, at last, 'That it was more satisfactory to him to be certain of her fate, than to live on in the dreadful uncertainty about her, in which he had spent the last seven years.'

I asked him then, 'Whether the baron was at that time at the chateau?'

'Alas! sir,' he replied, 'the baron is in a melan­choly situation; deranged in his mind, I fear.'

He then proceeded to tell me, that he had very lately sold all his moveables, and as much of his estates as was in his power; and that the rest of his estates he had consigned over to his next heir, who was a distant relation; that he had then discharged all his servants, and went away himself by night, nor did any one know what was become of him; 'And thus, sir,' said the porter, 'I am thrown out of a place, where I had lived for so many years, and never failed in my duty, that I know of: to be sure, it makes me a little heart broken; but thank God I am not starving; I have enough, however, to live upon, and that is, at least, some comfort.'

I then mentioned to him the letter I had received, which reported Antoinette to be still alive, and en­quired how it came into his hands, as it was through him that it was transmitted to me. He said, 'That he perfectly well remembered transmitting me a letter at the time I mentioned, and that it was brough [...] to [Page 202] him by a perso [...] in the dress of a peasant, who told him that somebody at St. Margueri [...]e's convent, bade him bring that letter, and desire me to transmit it to my daughter.

'As to the death of Antoinette,' said he, 'I never heard the truth of it doubted; but convents are strange places, and we don't always know what is going forwards in them. But my master made a great storming when he came here, and found that his daughter was buried at the convent; and he threat­ened to have the body removed to his own vault, in the chapel of the chateau; but however, he never had it done:—but to be sure, his lordship was very strange then, and so he was from that time 'till he went away; but at first he was all anger, and there was no such thing as pleasing him, and he would swear and storm for nothing almost:—but then, all on a sudden he grew mild and melancholy, and was always moping about;—and then he▪ used to go for ever to the convent, and would come home with his eyes swelled with crying; and it's my opinion now, that he is gone on some penance.—But then,' said the porter, starting, 'to be sure madame Antoinette must be dead, for my lord has put up a grand monu­ment in the chapel for her, and his other two chil­dren.—I could get you a sight of it, if you like.'

Though I by no means thought with the porter, that the erection of this monument was an indisputa­ble proof of the death of Antoinette, which from his whole story seemed to me indeed to be very doubt­ful, yet I wished to see the monument he mentioned, and therefore accepted his offer. He then took me with him to his own house, and said 'he would go and see how the land lay for getting to the cha­pel, as we could not go if monsieur de St. Foix was at home.' He presently returned, and said, 'that if I would accompany him, we might then see the mo­nument.'

We accordingly went:—it was indeed a beautiful [Page 203] piece of sculpture, but the inscription on it was of so singular a nature, that it rather confirmed me in the idea, that Antoinette was still alive, and was known by her father, to be so. On a sarcophagus are three busts, in white marble, of the chevalier and his two sisters: the chevalier in the middle, Gabrielle on the right hand, and Antoinette on the left; and below them is the following inscription:

The body of the third is enclosed within the walls of St. Marguerite's convent!—What an equivocal kind of expression! thought I within myself, as I read it, and I determined if possible to be better informed about the matter. I, therefore took my leave of the porter, and immediately set forwards for the con­vent.

My first enquiries, when I arrived in its neighbour­hood, [Page 204] were, for my worthy friend Clement; but I learnt that he had left the place a short time before, without mentioning his intended departure to any one. I was then entirely at a loss how to proceed: I would have applied to the lady abbess, but I thought that I should hardly receive any satisfaction from her; and, if my Antoinette really was alive, and in the convent, enquiring of the lady abbess would put suspicions into her head, which might tend to frus­trate any plan, that might be formed for her escape.

I continued to hover about the convent in a pil­grim's garb, which I had procured at Vi [...]nne, for the purpose of a disguise, 'till I at last attracted the notice of the porter of the convent, who, like the generality of his profession, was of a very talkative dispos [...]n.

He asked me many questions relative to my pil­grimage, and from whence I came, and whither I was going; to all which I gave him rather evasive answers, and afterwards drew him into conversation on the affairs of the convent, which he seemed very willing to communicate: and amongst other things he told me, that they had had a very great bustle in the convent, two or three weeks before, for one of the superiors had escaped, and taken a young nun away with her.'

I instantly caught at this story, and inquired the names of the fugitives; he said the old one was called Marianne, and the other, he believed Agnes; but he was not sure of her name. He did not know how long either of them had been in the convent, for he had been there but two years, and they were both in before he came. I made particular enquiries, then, concerning the precise time of their flight, which the porter, after a little recollection, and tracing back a few circumstances, and laying them together at last, fixed to a certain day, which he named to me. When I had made all the enquiries I wished, I took my leave of the porter, fully con­vinced [Page 205] that Agnes, as he called her, was my dear Antoinette, who had very likely changed her name, as it was common to do on taking the veil.

I did not doubt, likewise, that Clement had ac­companied them; but I was determined to be ascer­tained of that, by enquiring into the exact time when he disappeared; which, by diligent investigation, I at last made out to be the very time, when the two nuns escaped from the convent; and I had, therefore, no doubt remaining, that the three were all gone to Ireland, whither I was determined immediately to follow them.

For a short time joy, at receiving full conviction, as I thought I had done, that my Antoinette was yet alive, entirely superseded all other sensations in my bosom; but the dreadful reflection soon obtruded it­self, that if so, I had then, alas! two wives in exist­ence at the same time; a thought that filled me with the deepest horror. I however resolved, at all events, if possible, to find my Antoinette, and I accordingly travelled from the banks of the Rhone to Brest, with almost incredible swiftness, considering that I went every step of the way on foot, preferring that mode of travelling, as that, in which I could best be concealed, and for which my pilgrim's dress was well suited. When I arrived at Brest, the weather being remarka­bly fine, I got on board an open fishing boat, in which I was safely conveyed to Cork, where I was no sooner landed, than in spite of all my fatigues, I proceeded onwards, nor stopped 'till I arrived at the public house just by the entrance of the grounds belonging to Arlington castle.

I cannot, by description, give any idea of the feel­ings which agitated my soul, when I came within sight of the mansion, which I had so strangely left many years before. I was well convinced that I should now again, in a few hours, behold my long lost Antoinette: but alas! in what a situation was I to see her?—nor was that the only uncomfortable [Page 206] sensation I felt; for I not only was to meet my An­toinette as the husband of another, but I was to meet the averted looks of a justly incensed father, and of an injured wife?

Such were my reflections;—but, alas! none of these things were to be encountered. On making en­quiries, I found that the fugitives I was in search of, whom I wished, yet half dreaded to see, had never arrived in those parts; that the father, whose anger I feared to encounter, was no more; and that my wife had left the castle half a year before, and was not likely to return to it for several years. I wished however, to see the house; it was an odd kind of curiosity, but I knew not how to suppress it, nor can I give the least reason for it. But, as I did not like to appear in my own character, or any one that I thought would lead them to suspect who I was, I feigned myseft to be disordered in my mind.

But it is needless to dwell on this part of my story: you know my strange behaviour, my Horatia, both at Arlington Castle, and at mr. Sidney's house. In­deed, I have often looked back with wonder at my conduct at that time, and been tempted to excuse it to myself, by believing, that I really was what I feign­ed myself to be, disordered in my senses, I was in­deed wounded to the soul, that I could not find the least trace of Clement, Marianne, and Antoinette having being either in England or Ireland, and I was determined not to give up the pursuit of them, till I had either seen them, or arrived at some cer­ainty with regard to them.

Yet much I wished to see my wife and children, and leave them some testimony that I was yet alive, and had not totally forgotten them. I, therefore, went to see my Henry at the place, where I had learned he was fixed for his education; and drawing from him that his mother and sister had a house not far off, I went thither, in hopes of seeing them; but there I was disappointed. I then went to London, [Page 207] in hopes of meeting with them there; but there too again I missed them; and I durst not return into Hampshire, for fear, after the alarm which I knew I must have raised there, I should be in some manner secured, if I was to be seen there again; and I was firmly resolved not to remain in England, or live with my Horatia, while a possibility re [...]ained, that I might have another wife alive; though, when I found the people I was in pursuit of, had never been in Eng­land or Ireland, I began much to doubt whether An­toinette could really be one of them, as I could not bear to think that she would not, immediately on her emancipation, have endeavoured to find me out. Yet on the other side, she might think, that she had just cause of offence against me, as I must appear to her to have been very negligent, when so many years had elapsed since the time of the letter being sent to me, which announced her being still alive, without her hearing or seeing any thing of me. All these doubts, however, only made me more and more re­solved to continue the pursuit I was then engaged in; and, for that purpose, after a few weeks stay in Lon­don, where I know I could be concealed, I once more crossed the seas, and for the third time in my life, landed in the kingdom of France.

CHAP. XXI.

BUT when I was landed, I was utterly at a loss what course to take, in order to accomplish the end, which I was pursuing, and almost left it to fortune to decide my route.

At length, without knowing why, I took the road to Paris, at which city I soon arrived; but when there, was quite as much at a loss as ever, in what way I was to proceed, whether to stay there, or whe­ther to go on; and if I went on, which way to go. I was exhausted with uneasiness and vexation. I felt, that I wanted something, but I hardly knew what▪ day after day I wandered about the city, not know­ing what to do with myself, and hardly knowing which way I went: indeed, scarcely in my senses. Often did I stand, with my eyes fixed for many mi­nutes together, on some person or thing, till some­thing roused me, and I perceived, with chagrin, what I had been doing.

In one of these rambles, I wandered one morning into the Fauxbourg St. Antoine, where I was sud­denly struck with finding myself under the walls of [Page 209] the Bastile. A thousand occurrences, relative to that horrible dungeon, crowded themselves in cunfusion into my mind, and I voluntarily fixed my eyes on the mighty fabric; it was to me like the basilisk, and I was like the bird

So my eyes once attracted by the fabric of despo­tism, could not turn aside from it:—there they re­mained immoveably fixed, till, like the poor bird, I dropped into the mouth of the fell monster; for I was only roused from my lethargy, by finding my­self seized on by two men, and without any ceremony hurried within the walls I had been contemplating, and given in charge to the governor, to be kept a close prisoner, as a dangerous man to the state. I in vain urged, that I had no ill design whatever, and that, at the moment when I offended, I [...] as scarcely in my senses: all the answer I could get, was, that I should soon be brought to my senses there.

Thus, after the many dangers which I had en­countered, the many hours of horrible anxiety, which I had suffered myself, and which I had occasioned to others, I was, at last, likely to end my sorrowful life in a dismal dungeon, ‘'My fate unknown, my person soon forgot.'’

For two days I almost abandoned myself to de­spair; but, at last, I roused mysel [...] from it, and be­gan seriously to reflect upon the fo [...] of [...]hat [...]onduct which had brought me i [...]o such a situati [...]n, into [Page 210] which I never should have fallen, had I not given way to a despondency, which was stealing almost im­perceptibly upon me. Had I exerted a proper energy, and resisted every approach of mental debility, though I might not have been perfectly happy, yet I should have been in a state of comparative happiness to that, in which I then found myself, for I should still have enjoyed the blessed light of the sun, and breathed freely the circumambient air; I should not have been shut from human society, enveloped in 'ever during dark,' and been buried alive within impenetrable masses of stone.

These, and various such reflections, occupied me, and helped to wear away the dismal solitude in which I found myself, and to compose my mind into a settled calm; that mind, which was the only comfort the ingenious malice of my persecutors could not deprive me of, and which daily grew stronger and stronger, and enabled me, finally, to struggle, through a state of existence, which I am convinced is the most irk­some that a man can be placed in, that of total inac­tivity; for after having experienced the hardships of a slavery, which, though my master was a comparatively lenient one, was pretty severe, and those of a solitary confinement, I hesitate not to affirm, that slavery is even less galling than the horrible vacuity experienced by those, who were confined in that dungeon of des­potism to which I was condemned.

After I had collected myself tolerably well, and brought my mind into a settled state, I began to compose, both in prose and in poetry; and it was a great amusement to me to impress on my mind, and arrange into forms, the ideas, which presented themselves; and so much did I do in this way, that I have now a large collection of essays, poems, &c. which I formed in my mind during that time, and have since put down on paper, which hereafter, Horatia, you may, perhaps, like to look [...]ver.

[Page 211]But after a while I met with a companion, which proved a great comfort to me; you will smile; but this solace of my solitude, was a little mouse, which, by degrees, I rendered quite familiar. He first introduced himself to me one day, while I was eating my miserable dinner: any thing alive was a cheering sight to me, and I resolved to cultivate an acquaintance with him, if it was possible. I threw a few crumbs on the floor of the cell; he at first re­treated from them, but afterwards finding that no­thing molested him, he advanced and nibbled at them; I can scarcely express how much I was pleased to see him feeding before me; after running about the cell for a while, he at length went away, and I saw no more of him that day; but as I had watched him very narrowly, I saw whither he re­tired, and determined to court his company, by putting some crumbs near his hole the next morn­ing, when I had my breakfast; this I accordingly did, and he soon came forth, and eat the morsels I had provided for him, and in return, ran about my cell for some time. I continued the same practice for several days, and he seemed every day to grow less and less shy of me; at last, by dint of constant encouragement, grew so very familiar that he very seldom left me.

He would, sometimes, run up my leg, and sit and eat on my knee, or out of my hand, and then hide himself in my clothes, and sleep there; nor can I express how great an affection I contracted for him. I really was as anxious lest he should be discovered by the people who brought me my food, as if he had been a child; for I knew that if he was, I should be deprived of his company, and perhaps have endured the painful sensation of seeing him killed before my face, for no other offence than because he had amused my solitude. I however preserved him safe through several 'hair breath escapes,' and at last brought him in safety away with me. But, poor [Page 212] fell [...]w, he died on our passage to St. Domingo; I however embalmed him, and have him still in my possession, and it was a great satisfaction to me, that he lived to come out of the Bastile, when it was in my power to preserve him.

I was detained a prisoner there from that time, 'till about eighteen months ago, when an officer came one morning to me, and said, 'the grand monarque had been graciously pleased to allow of my release from captivity, provided I would consent to quit the kingdom immediately, and to be guarded to the port from whence I was to embark.' I was rejoiced to regain my liberty on any terms, and immediately con­sented te the stipularions required. I was accord­ingly let out of my cell, and put under the care of a guard, who had received their orders previous to my appearance, and were now only commanded to proceed with me to the place of my destination.

Never shall I forget the sensations of transport which I felt, an he [...]ring the gates of that accursed fortress close behind me, and knowing that I was at last released from the horrible and loathsome con­finement, in which I so long lingered. I was hand-cuffed, and tied by a string to one of the guards, be­fore I quitted the Bastile, and thus was I led on, taking pretty long days journeys, 'till we arrived at Rochelle; by which time my feet, which had been for so long a time totally unaccustomed to walking, were one continual blister, and I was so fatigued, that for the last few miles I could scarely get on at all.

On our arrival at Rochelle, I was immediately consigned over to the care of the captain of a St. Do­mingo ship, on board of which I was carried the same evening, and in two days after we set sail. From the moment when we cleared the coast of France, I had my perfect liberty, and ingratiated myself so much with the captain, (who was a polite and benevolent ma [...] [...]uring the voyage, that he made me the kindest offers of assistance, in seeking my future fortune.

[Page 213]I told him that my earnest wish was to get to Lis­bon, for I was determined, at all hazards, to go again to St. Marguerite's convent, and by an imme­diate application to the lady abbess, get my doubts at once resolved. But, as I did not like to communi­cate this design, I determined, if possible, to get to Lisbon, from whence I would take a passage once more to Marseilles. On our arrival at St. Domingo, therefore, the captain, as the best means of promot­ing my plan, procured me a passage to the Portuguese settlement of Rio Janeiro, on the coast of Brazil, at which place I should have frequent opportunities of making my way to Lisbon.

The captain, at my departure, trusted me with a sum of money, and letters of credit on a correspon­dent of his at Lisbon, which would enable me to take up a sufficient sum to last me till I got b [...]k to my own country, I having acquainted him who I was, and told him, that after I had settled some af­fairs at Lisbon, and at some other places, which I wished to visit, I should return to Ireland.

I made many warm acknowledgments for this kindness, and at first indeed hesitated to accept it; for I thought it almost too great a confidence for him to repose in me, as I had still many hazards to en­counter, and might not at last, arrive safe at home; in which case he would lose all that his generosity had entrusted to me. But he would hardly listen to what I urged, telling me that he had the fullest con­fidence that I should repay him, if it was in my power; and even if he were certain that he should lose every farthing, he should think himself criminal in a case like mine, to with-hold his assistance from me, from paltry motives of self-interest. I own I parted from this man with regret, but we parted with a mutual agreement, to keep up a correspon­dence, if I ever arrived in Ireland, and that he would, if possible, one day come and visit me there.

I arrived at Rio Janeiro without any interruption, [Page 214] but there I was unfortunately detained a considerable time. One day as I sat by the sea-side, when it was pretty rough, and I saw several vessels tossed about by the waves, and labouring very hard, I was touched by the sense of the dangers they were at that moment encountering; dangers which I had more than tasted, for I had even drank deeply of them; and I could not help running a parallel in my mind, between the dif­ferent sensations felt at the contemplation of calami­ties arising from natural causes, and of those arising from moral causes.

At length I quitted Rio Janeiro, and after a pros­perous voyage, arrived at Lisbon. But there I heard such dreadful accounts of the depredations of the Al­gerines in the Mediterranean, that I was resolved not to run the hazard of falling again into their hands, and I, therefore, determined rather to traverse Spain and cross the Pyrenean mountains, although I must then run the hazard of going over a larger part of the French territories, than if I went by sea to Ma [...] ­sei [...]es; but still I thought this the less dangerous expe­riment of the two; and to return to Ireland without going first to St. Marguerite, was what I could not bear even to think of.

Having purchased a mule, therefore, I set forwards on my journey; but, after a while, I parted with my beast again, for I found myself reluctant to make the animal to great a sharer in my fatigues; and yet I knew not how [...]o allow time to rest him; and I there­fore proceeded on foot, and at last, after enduring g [...]eat fatigues, arrived at the place of my destination.

I immediately desired to be permitted to speak to the lady abbess, who received me very courteously, and to whom I immediately laid open my story, and my errand, in the most unreserved manner; for I had suffered enough from reserve, to be warned against ever practising it again.

In return to my enquiries concerning the fate of Antoinette, she told me, 'that she died within a [Page 215] few hours after the birth of her child: that before her death, but when she found it was fast approaching, she desired Marianne to communicate to her (the lady abbess) under a strict injunction of secrecy, the story of her marriage, and of the birth of her child, and to entreat her to come to her bedside, for she wished to say something to her before she expired.

'When I went to her, sir,' continued the lady ab­bess, she begged my pardon earnestly for her con­duct, since she had been in the convent, which she said reflection had convinced her had been wrong;— she told me how she had disposed of her child, and desired, that when such a time had elapsed, as was likely to have placed the child out of her father's reach, I would tell him the story of her marriage, and of the birth and disposal of her child; for me said, she was well convinced that her father had no idea either of her marriage, or of the situation she was in, when she last parted from him; and she ended her discourse with desiring that she might be buried in the convent. All that she thus requested, sir,' continued the abbess, 'I have punctually fulfilled. The baron came to the chateau about three weeks after the death of his daughter, when I communi­cated to him her death, and what she had on her death-bed desired me to impart to him.

'The baron was violently incensed at hearing the story, venting the most bitter execretions against that vile Irishman who had thus seduced his dauhter, [...]nd laying all her resistance to him, upon the arts which her husband had practised, to alienate her affections from him; and perhaps, sir,' said the ab­bess, 'it is to that rage of the baron's, that you owe the letter which has cost you so much trouble; for Marianne, I am convinced, could not be the writer of it. I wish she was here herself, to satisfy you, but she has been gone from hence some years; and to you, sir, I will own, that I did at last connive at her escape, and at her taking with her a beautiful [Page 216] young nun, whose name was Agnes, and whose case I thought peculiarly hard.'

Thus was I at last satisfied of the truth, with regard to an affair which had kept me in a continued state of agitation, in a greater or less degree, for fifteen years. I inquired of the abbess, if Antoinette was buried in the convent, and she told me, 'that her body was deposited, according to her desire, in the chapel of the convent; and,' said the abbess, 'from com­passion for her sufferings, and a love for her virtues, I was tempted, at my own expence, to erect a small monument to her memory.'

When I heard the abbess mention this circum­stance, I immediately desired she would let me see the monument, and drop a tear over it, with which request she instantly complied, and led me to the chapel. You already know what passed there; it is sufficient therefore for me to say now, that I met with no interruption in my progress to Geneva, where I had not been long arrived, when as I was wandering about the town, I met with my worthy friend, Clement Seguin. I looked hard at him, and he did so at me; but I first spake; seventeen years, which was the time that had elapsed since we met, had not altered him so much as it had altered me, and I thought that I could not be mistaken; therefore I said, 'surely I see Clement Seguin.'

'Ha!' said he, 'then it must be [...], Theodore Percival.'

'The same,' I replied; he was half frantic w [...]h joy.

'And,' said he, 'what a [...]sed event, to see you again!—I thought you must have been dead long ago, as I have not heard of you for fifteen years;— but do come with me to my house;'

I a [...]ordingly accompanied him thither, when he presen [...]ed me to Marianne, as his wife. A long conversation ensued, in which we communicated our respective stories to each other, and I engaged them [Page 217] to accompany me to Ireland, as their testimonies might be of importance to me in the suit which I had told them was impending. I wished to have engaged them to settle in Ireland, but of that they would not give me any expectation; they said they were happy in their own situation; their means, it was true, were small, but they were contented with their situation, for they were free; 'And after the lives we have formerly led,' said Clement, 'to be free is every thing; for, if freedom is sweet to those who have never known any other state, how much more to us, who were, for so many years, held in a ser­vile bondage; in a bondage of the very worst [...]ind too, the bondage of the mind!'

We consulted about the best means of getting to Ireland, and, at last, agreed to go by land to Ge­noa; from thence to make a coasting voyage to Bar­celona, then crossing the kingdoms of Navarre and Arragon, to go to Bilboa, where we could take ship­ping for Ireland. This route, tedious in itself, has proved doubly so to us, for we have, in one way or other, met with endless delays; but, thanks to that power which rules the universe! we have at last got through them all; and now I shall think no more of slavery, imprisonment, or disasters, and look forward to such scenes of happiness, as in all human calcula­tion, I cannot fail to taste, surrounded as I am with numerous blessings; and enjoying, as I do, the first of all blessings, a heart perfectly at ease.

CHAP. XXII.

THUS did lord Arlington conclude the long and interesting narrative of his sufferings.—Often did he, in relating it,

Marsini, in particular, had been deeply affected by it, for his own connection with the family, to whom the narrative so particularly related, rendered it doubly interesting to him; he paid that tribute to it, therefore, of which might truly be said,

When lord Arlington ceased speaking, he ex­claimed,

'Oh! my brother; for as my brother I shall hence forth always consider you; how severely have you felt the dreadful effects of the ungovernable pas­sions of the baron de St. Foix! Perhaps my Gabrielle [Page 219] was more fortunate, in being the object of her fa­ther's aversion, than her sister was in being his fa­vourite; for he never offered to make any objections to Gabrielle's following her own inclinations in the affair of marrying, but seemed to feel the most per­fect indifference as to what become of her; but poor Antoinette, whom he professed to be extremely fond of, he did not cease to persecute, 'till her death re­moved her from his cruelties.'

'Your remark is just,' said lord Arlington: 'it was a fortunate circumstance for any one connected with the baron, to be the object of his aversion; for, when once he had got such a one removed from his sight, his aversion subsided into indifference, and he neither thought nor cared more about them; but those whom he loved, w [...] incessantly persecuted by him. It was thus, as I have heard from An­toinette, with the baroness her mother, who was compelled to marry the baron against her inclination, and who really was worn out with his persecutions, in various ways; though he did appear to he, after his own fashion, extremely fond of her.'

'And this,' said Marsini, 'I am sorry to say, is no very uncommon character, especially amongst those people, who are educated with such vast ideas of their own importance, as the French noblesse are; they think the world ought to be at the mercy of their nod, and like froward children, when any thing crosses them in their way ward humours, they perse­cute every body about them, and could even beat the post, because in their fury they had run their noses against it. Oh! could such distinctions ever be designed by the Creator of the universe?—surely not;—or if they were, 'tis only to shew mankind the folly and wickedness of them, that they may taste, with a higher relish, the time when they shall exist no longer.

'Yes,' said count Carletti, who had hitherto sat nearly silent, 'and how doubly odious does this [Page 220] peevish tyranny appear, when exercised towards the female sex, who ought to be the rational companions and friends of man, not the wretched slaves of their husband's caprices! and I trust, that, as reason pre­vails, in the world, against its hitherto too successful antagonists, error and prejudice, this truth will be better understood, and, that in future times, amongst other reforms in the state of society, the female cha­racter will be formed on such a model, that women shall be sitted to bear that important part in the great scale of creation, for which they were designed.'

'Amen, amen!' said lord Arlington, I say with all my heart: and I hope that the time is not very far distant, when we shall behold this ameliorated state of mankind, in its meridian splendour; for the early rays of that sun of reason, which will undoubtedly one day illume mankind, have already begun to ap­pear above the horizon, and we now behold them struggling amidst the surrounding vapours; in which, though they may meet with a long and obstinate re­sistance, their glory can never quite be obscured; and we may be well assured that they will, in time, repel every opposition that can be made to them. 'Nor,' said he, 'let any one presume to say, that the female mind is incapable of the highest degree of cultivation and improvement; or, if any one should dare advance such a thing, I would say, 'look there, and silence him at once;' and he cast a most affectinate look at lady Arlington.

She bowed in acknowledgment to the compliment, and was proceeding to make some remarks on lord Arlington's story, but he took her hand, and said,

'Tis a melancholy subject, my Horatia: let us, therefore, drop it, and henceforward banish melan­choly from amongst us. But,' he added, 'one thing yet remains, to search the papers left by the old her­mit, who, I think, we must all by this time suppose, will appear to have been the baron de St. Foix. Will you let us see them, Antoinette?'

[Page 221]Antoinette immediately produced them, and gave them to lord Arlington, desiring him to look them over. Lord Arlington unfolded them, and read from the outward cover these words.

"To you, oh! injured daughter of that child, whom I persecuted to her grave, are these pages ad­dressed, by one whose crimes have not been more heinous, than his sufferings have been grievous, by thy grand-father, Rene baron de S [...]. Foix. They contain a dreadful lesson to all who suffer themselves to be guided by their passions. Oh may'st thou never fall into the snares which I had not fortitude enough to resist, but let reason be the constant guide of thy actions, so shalt thou live happy, and die contented; so shalt thou obtain a seat in that blissful mansion, into which thy grandfather has never, 'till lately, dared to hope he might ever be received."

The papers contained a particular detail of the his­tory of the baron and his children; of the death of the chevalier, and of the misfortunes and death of Antoinette; with all the circumstances of the baron's life, subsequent to those events. But, as all that the former part of the narrative contained, has been al­ready related, we shall not take it up 'till the time when the lady abbess communicated to him the death of his daughter. After expressing, in the most em­phatic terms, his disappointment and bitter regret, at the death of his son, which he considered as the ex­tinction of his family, the next heir to his estate and title being of so extremely remote a branch, he thus proceeded:

"But heaven, as if determined to pour on me the most consuming phials of its wrath, now furnished me with another source of sorrow. I was scarcely re­turned again to my chateau, before I received a mes­sage from the lady abbess of St. Marguerite's convent, to say, that she wished to see me on an affair which very nearly concerned me."

Then followed a particular detail of his interview [Page 222] with the abbess, together with some other circum­stances already known; and then he went on to thi [...] effect:

"All my anger against my poor child, being thus buried in the g [...]ave with her passion, that all-swaying inmate of my bosom, immediately sought out ano­ther object, on which it might vent itself, and I now conceived mr. Percival alone, to be the guilty person; that he alone had seduced my daughter from her duty, and that if it had not been for him, she would never have made any opposition to the marriage which I proposed to her; and her own life, and her bro­ther's, might thus have been spared.

"These sentiments were continually working in my mind; they followed me every where by day;— I brooded over them on my pillow at night; if I to [...] up a book, I could read nothing but the villany of mr. Percival;—if I walked out, I saw him in every path, in every alloy, walking with my daughter, and pouring into her ears the poison of his honied ac­cents:—'till wrought up at last to a degree of phrenzy, I resolved never to rest 'till I had executed some dreadful revenge on him, for the wrongs which I thought he had done me.

"I laid various schemes for this purpose, but they were all by turns, rejected; yet still I was plan­ning new ones; and the new ones, after dwelling on them a while, were then thrown aside too; but, at last, an opportunity of revenge presented itself, which for malice, exceeded my most sanguine hopes, and I eagerly caught at it. I was walking about the gar­dens very early one morning, having left my bed at that time, tired with a sleepless night, and seeking, if I could, to walls away from myself, when I overheard two people in earnest conversation, and looking round, saw that they were seated on a bench pretty near me. I approached them without their perceiving me, as their backs were turned towards me; and almost without knowing why I did it, I placed myself in a [Page 223] situation [...], where I could overhear▪" they said▪ without the least danger of their perceiving me.

"I found that one of them was the porter of the castle, and the other was the uncle of his daughter's husband. The former was reading a letter to the latter; and from the letter, and their subsequent con­versation, I collected, that the porter's daughter had been entrusted with the care of my little grand­daughter, and was with her in Ireland, at a house not far from that in which Theodore lived with his father; and that s [...]e the death of An [...]te, Theo­dore had, purely to oblige his father, married a wo­man of large fortune in the neighbourhood; but that he seemed very unhappy, and still bitterly lamented the death of Antoinette, and often less his wife, to come and weep over his little daughter, whom he talked of introducing into the family very soon. The conference of these two people ended in the porter's telling his companion, that he should very soon send a parcel to his daughter in Ireland.

"This was enough for me; I saw plainly how I could wound the object of my malice and revenge, in the most sensible part; and I immediately wrote that letter, which, as I have found since I have been in these parts, did even more mischief than I could have dared to hope for; then disguising myself like a pea­sant, I carried it to the porter, and told him it came from a person in the convent, who desired that he would enclose it to his daughter."

Here lord Arlington, who was reading the narra­tive, paused.

"Alas!" said he, "Then absence was not always a curb to the baron's resentment; for, though I was far removed from him, I was not therefore at all less the object of his implacable persecution.—But I beg pardon for this interruption;" and then he proceeded, and read as follows:

"But the wickedness I had been guilty of was soon followed by the most poignant remorse. Oh! [Page 224] never let the angry man hope to derive real satisfac­tion from the gratification of his distempered feelings; a momentary flash of something like pleasure which dazzles his mind, may glance like lightning over it; —but like lightning, while it excites admiration, it scorches; and when the flame that dazzled us is past, nought but anguish is left behind.

Such was truly my case; conscience soon spake to my soul; not in gentle whispers, but in the loudest thunder, that I was one of the blackest of villains; that the murder of my daughter was a deed of inno­cence, when compared with the more cruel stab, which I had now given her husband; a stab, which would perhaps make him die a lingering death, in the most dreadful agonies. I grew hateful to my­self; solitude was a torment to me, and in society I was restless and miserable. I dreaded the approach of night, for my bed was hell itself to me. If wea­ried nature ever sunk me into a slumber, hideous phantoms seemed to flit before my eyes:—sometimes I saw Theodore writhing in torments, and the ghost of my Antoinette looking on, and upbraiding me for my cruelty:—when starting, I woke with a hideous shriek. At other times, I thought the day of judg­ment was arrived, and I stood before the throne of my offended God, when my three children appeared as my accusers; my son, with the blood streaming from his wounded breast, and with dripping locks pointing to them, as the effects of my brutal rage;— and when I awoke, I could hardly believe that these objects were not really before my eyes. Shame alone prevented me from having somebody to sleep in the room with me, for it was misery to me to be thus left to myself. Nor were these phantoms always confined to my sleeping moments for my imagination was sometimes wrought up to so exquisite a pitch, that I have fancied, as I sat by myself, attempting to read, rather than reading, that I actually saw the form of Theodore before my eyes, pale, ghastly, and expiring [Page 225] with grief; and have even summoned my servants, on the most trifling excuse, that my imagination might be relieved with the sight of some real object. Oh! my child! my child! May I not hope that these torments have, in some measure, atoned for my sins; for hell cannot have greater torments than I then suffered.

"Almost worn out with them at last, a sudden thought one day flashed on my mind, that my misery might be relieved by the performance of some exem­plary penance, which might appease an angry deity; and from the moment that that idea first struck me, I found it a kind of relief to my soul:—a relief which cannot appear surprising, when it is recollected, that the impression of one new idea on my mind took it off, in a degree, from the old one, which had so long entirely absorbed it; and every moment of interval from thinking on that subject, was to me a moment of comparative ease.

"I was not long in determining, what the nature of my penance should be, I resolved to turn as much of my property, as was in my own power, into gold and jewels, which I intended to consign over to the injured Theodore; and then resigning my estate to my next heir, to seek a retreat in some lonely spot; where, by living on roots and water—by dis­ciplining my body, and practising all sorts of austeri­ties, I might hope to gain a pardon for my soul.

"I immediately settled all these affairs; I sent the deeds of my estate to the person who was to inherit it, with notice, that at such a certain time, he might take possession of the chateau; and sent round to my tenants, to notify to them, that they were from that time to consider him as their lord.

"I then went to Paris, taking with me my per­sonal property, which though of considerable value, was now reduced to a small compass, and placed it in the hands of a banker there, with a provision, that he should not deliver it up to any one, unless the [Page 226] person who claimed it, should produce a paper which I then shewed him, and of which I left a counterpart in his hands.—That paper, my dearest child, you will find amongst this roll which I have bequeathed you; and it will put you into possession of all my property, whenever you choose to claim it.

"I referred to myself, however, a picture of my Antoinette, and a splendid cross, which had been presented to my son, for some services he had ren­dered to the court; which cross he had fortunately left, with some other things, at the chateau, when he went away with his sister. Both these, my dear child, I shall also consign to you; Oh that I could my­self shew thee thy mother's picture 'ere I die?

"With these, and a small sum of money which I had reserved for my own use, I came hither, having first assumed the garb of an anchoret, which I meant to wear for the rest of my life. I intended, how­ever, before I fixed on the spot for my seclusion, which I had planned to be amongst the Alps, to throw myself at the feet of the injured Theodore, to make confession of my wickedness, and by investing him with my property, to endeavour to make him all the amends in my power for the injury I had done him.

"When I arrived here, I found the sad situation to which the man, whom I sought for, was reduced: that after absenting himself from his family and country for some years, he had returned to them, in a state of distraction. Oh God! Oh God! what strokes were these to me? for I knew myself the author of all. I determined, however, to fix my abode amidst this romantic scenery, 'till something more was heard of the unhappy lunatic, or 'till I could see his daughter. Week after week, month after month, year after year, has however passed on, nor can I find that lord Arlington is yet restored to his family. Often have I anxiously enquired of my good friend the priest, who lives near me, whether [Page 227] the family were not likely to come to Arlington castle: for I should consider it as a blessing indeed to see my grand-daughter, the child of my Antoinette; but it is a blessing which I hardly dare to hope for. I trust, however, that all I have destined for my wretched son-in-law, and his daughter, will at last come into the hands of one or other of them, by means of that benevolent man, to whom I am in­debted for a thousand little acts of kindness and for contributing towards restoring me to that degree of peace I have attained since I came here.

"When first I determined on my seclusion, I, in my usual intemperate manner, made a rash oath, that I never would reveal my story, and the cause of my seclusion, to any one. This oath, though rashly made, I have strictly observed; but in leaving it thus written, for the information of those whom it really concerns, I think I can hardly be guilty of violating it; at least I think it is a case where to break the oath is less criminal than to conceal the story. I have now been here seven years, I have, at times, found my mind tolerably calm, but at other times it has been a troubled sea, tossed about by a whirlwind of con­tending feelings.

"At length, however, the bright sun of hope has dawned upon my soul. The life I had led for these latter years, has unavoidably thrown me into a train of deep reasoning and reflection;—occupied by no wo [...]dly concerns, but such as were brought on by the attention I have paid to my poor neighbours. I have spent a great deal of time in contemplating the stupendous works of creation daily before my eyes. Every object I behold assures me, that its creator must be a being of the most unbounded benevolence.— Wherefore, then, should I despond? Though I have been one of the worst of sinners, yet he knows the sincerity of my repentance, and therefore may pos­sibly extend the arm of mercy even to me.

"As far as the means which I reserved for myself [Page 228] would permit me, I have assisted the needy with my purse; but I have held, as sacred, all that I at first destined for hapless Theodore and my grandchild. I have never totally remitted my penances and morti­fications, or my bodily discipline; for though reflec­tion has convinced me, that to mortify the body can­not really be pleasing to the creator, who wishes all his creatures to enjoy, with thankfulness and mode­ration, the thousand, thousand blessings which he has placed around them, yet as bodily penance had first awakened my soul to reflection and repentance, and as I dreaded nothing so much, as a return to the slavery, in which I had formerly lived, to my intem­perate passions, I have not dared entirely to remit it, left such a remission might be attended with fatal consequences.

"I do not mean here to recommend to general practice the life I have chosen; I have found it a wholesome physic, it is true, but better, far better is it, by keeping from earliest youth, a strict guard over the passions, and subjecting them entirely to the sway of reason, never to have occasion to seek our remedy in such a bitter draught. That virtue is very imper­fect, which can only avoid falling by a cowardly de­sertion of the post of danger:—he alone, who amidst surrounding snares and temptations, has preserved his heart pure and uncorrupted, can be said to have fought a good fight, and really to deserve the crown of glory which is reserved for him."

Here followed the date when the narrative was finished, which was not above three months before the baron's death, and below the date was the follow­ing memorandum.

CHAP. XXIII.

YES, surely, exclaimed lord Arlington, as he fi­nished reading, "thy sins, unhappy man, will be blotted from heaven's holy archives, and only thy penitence, and latter deeds of charity, will remain enrolled there! Ah! Who can read this narrative, and not shudder at the thoughts of crimes, which could draw such heavy sufferings in their train!— How much do I rejoice that his wish was gratified, and that he at last saw you, my child, before he died. How affecting must the scene have been!"

"It was affecting indeed," said Antoinette, "ne­ver, never shall I forget it! I have been witness to affecting scenes since; our meeting, my father, two [Page 230] days ago was so; but the dying features of the baron have left an impression on my mind, which no lan­guage can describe. Neither could language des­cribe the emotions of his soul, which were so deeply painted on his countenance; but though language could do litttle in the description, the pencil might do much. Look here, my father," she said, taking a painting from a closet in the room, "I have tried from memory to give a sketch of his dying counte­nance: Can you trace in this penitent the features of that baron de St. Foix, whom you knew?"

Lord Arlington looked at the work with astonish­ment;—it was the first specimen he had seen of his daughter's talents in that way, and it would have been no disgrace to the first masters. He cast his eyes first on the painting, then on Antoinette; "And is it possible," he said, "that you can be the artist who has executed so finished a work. Yes, indeed, these features are the wreck of those of the baron de St. Foix; which, when not overclouded with passion, had something commanding in them, and you have given them their full force."

The introduction of this piece, insensibly turned the conversation into a different channel from that in which it at first began to flow; and the arts having been once introduced, Marsini, who was so great a proficient in them, had an opportunity of displaying his fine taste to the greatest advantage, and convinced lord Arlington how great an acquisition such a com­panion would be to him.

The next morning mr. Thomas Percival attended on lord Arlington, according to appointment, and re­newing his expressions of penitence and sorrow for his conduct, and his resolutions of reformation, lord Arlington told him, that relying on his sincerity, he would do all in his power to serve and assist him. He gave him a large sum of money towards defraying the great expence he had been at in his law-suit, and promised to assist him in amending his fortune, if he [Page 231] would go into the mercantile line, instead of leading a life of idleness, as he had hitherto done, under the idea, that being a branch of a noble family, he should degrade himself by going into trade; thus foolishly choosing rather to keep a large family▪ which he had, in indigent gentility, than to amend their situations by working himself, and making them work too.

But his mind was now so wrought upon by the generosity of lord Arlington's behaviour to him, that he thankfully accepted his proposal, and by his advice, fetched his wife and family from Marseilles; after which, he was established by lord Arlington as a mer­chant at Cork, where, by industry and frugality, he soon rose to affluence, and was, in time, enabled, even to discharge all the pecuniary obligations he was under to his truly illustrious relation.

It is now time that we turn our attention to Francis Delaval, who, the readers will scarcely need to be informed, had been no unconcerned spectator of the scenes which had been passing.

He, with his father and sister▪ were invited to dine at lord Arlington's the day following the trial; in the course of which visit, Francis took an opportunity of slipping the following jeux d'esprit into the hands of Antoinette, as a memento of his attachment to her.

[Page 232]Antoinette read▪ it, and smiled. Lord Arlington thought, during the whole of the day, that there seemed to be a good understanding between them, and saw it with pleasure, as he was much pleased with that young man. When lady Arlington and he were alone, he hinted to her what he thought he had observed; to which she replied, that he was quite in the right, and she only delayed to mention the cir­cumstance to him, 'till he was a little less harassed with other concerns, and she doubted not but the bu­siness would be opened in form very soon, by the Delavals. In this supposition she was perfectly right; Francis soon found an opportunity of renewing his suit to Antoinette, who now accepted his proposals without hesitation; and when the subject was men­tioned to lord Arlington, he as readily assented to the union, and Francis and Antoinette were soon made happy in the possession of each other.

But before their marriage was concluded, Francis took a journey to Paris, for the purpose of claiming the property of the baron de St. Foix, which had been so long in the banker's hands there. He un­dertook this journey, as lord Arlington could not him­self go to Paris; end after he had settled all affairs in that city, he went, at lord Arlington's desire, to Ro­chelle, to look for his friendly captain. Him Francis found without difficulty, and having discharged all lord Arlington's obligations to him, and made him, according to his directions, a handsome compliment besides, he embarked at Rochelle, and returned in perfect safety to Ireland. He would fain have brought the captain over with him, but he could not spare so much time from his business.

During the absence of Francis, count Carletti, the friend of Marsini, had had such frequent opportunities of improving an acquaintance with his sister, which had commenced before Francis set out, that at his return, Carletti desired him to use his interest in for­warding [Page 233] the suit which he wished to propose to Caroline; nor did Francis find his sister at all averse to receive Carletti as a lover: and his addresses having received the sanction of mr. Delaval, the same day that gave Antoinette to Francis, also joined the hands of count Carletti and Caroline Delaval.

When the property of the baron de St. Foix came to be examined, it appeared to amount to about fif­teen thousand pounds, to which lord Arlington and mr. Delaval added sufficient to enable Francis and Antoinette to live in even more than affluence, [...] profusion.—Not in the profusion of gilded trappings and costly ornaments, but in that kind of profuse hos­pitality, which while it throws a lustre over those who practise it, at the same time deals out comforts and blessings to thousands.

Marsini was also highly liberal to his dear An­toinette, whom he never ceased to love as a child. He was scarcely ever separated from her and her husband; sometimes living in Ireland, at the house he had purchased near Arlington, and at other times v [...]ting his own estate in Tuscany, whither mr. and mrs. Delaval always accompanied him, and where he was also sometimes visited by lord and lady Arlington and their family, which, in time, became numerous; and at his death, which was not till he arrived at an advanced age, he left the principal part of his fortune to Francis and Antoinette.

Henry Percival continued to grow in virtue as he advanced in years, and was in due time married to a very amiable woman, whose worth and beauty were her only fortune.

Doctor Schomberg continued in lord Arlington's family, as an assistant to lord and lady Arlington, in the education of their children, and was highly be­loved and esteemed by them both.

To conclude.—Lord and lady Arlington continued to live together many years, tasting even greater hap­piness in each other, from the contrast which they [Page 234] had formerly experienced; esteemed and beloved by all who knew them, and dealing out blessings all around them; and when death at last called them to the regions of eternal bliss, they left behind them, in their children, faithful representatives of their virtue and happiness.