CHAPTER I.

THE inſtant he departed, Patty la⯑boured to convince Sir Guiſe, that her father had been blaming himſelf without cauſe, though the Baronet had moſt likely ſomething within, that overturned all her pious argu⯑ments on that ſubject; ſhe then told him, "that as their lodger would not be at home till late in the day, her mother thought it might be more agreeable to ſit in the room above ſtairs, which," ſaid Patty, "is more plea⯑ſant, as it looks into the ſtreet, and if Sir Guiſe pleaſed, ſhe would ſhew him the way," adding, "that even if their lodger ſhould happen to arrive, he was ſo good a gentle⯑man, ſhe was ſure he would not be diſ⯑pleaſed."

Sir Guiſe having few reſources within him⯑ſelf to which he could apply with any hope [2]of conſolation, accepted the propoſal, and followed his amiable guide into a ſpacious dining apartment which opened into a drawing room, and that again into a more extenſive bedroom, than the front of the houſe ſeemed to promiſe; "nor is this the beſt part either, ſir," ſaid ſhe, "for beyond this chamber there is another apartment as large again as this, but our gentleman—'tis all his own furniture you muſt know—has filled it ſo with goods of one ſort or another, that it is never uſed, and I often ſay to my⯑ſelf, what a pity it is ſuch beautiful, grand things as are in that room, ſhould be put out of ſight:—It is generally locked, but I ſee the key is now in the door."

Sir Guiſe, feeling his curioſity excited by this eulogium, expreſſed a deſire to look at what had been ſo favourably deſcribed.

Patty ran haſtily to open the door, and begged he would walk in. The Baronet entered; but in the next moment, abruptly receded with every mark of horror, as at the ſight of ſome dreadful apparition. Of dreadful apparitions, indeed, we have been [3]told with all the aweful pageantry of cir⯑cumſtances; and thoſe who have wiſhed to affect our imaginations or agitate our paſſions, by making us wiſh, yet dread to approach the phantoms they have conjured up, have at laſt wound up our hopes and fears to the expectation of ſomething tremendous: but without uſing any of theſe arts of heightening, never ſurely, has the human eye been ſtruck with a ſight, nor the human ſoul appalled with a ſenſation more terrible, than Sir Guiſe Stuart experienced on beholding the objects now diſplayed to his view.

In the apartment from which the Baro⯑net drew back, were placed thoſe very arti⯑cles, which, we have already obſerved, were ſaved from the general wreck of the abbey ſale: and Sir Guiſe ſaw a ſpacious room crouded with objects, which, though inani⯑mate, might rive the hardeſt heart. Here was the bridal-bed, which admitted him as an unworthy partner, when the good and beautiful Matilda became his wedded vic⯑tim. Here alſo was depoſited the family⯑piece that contained the portraits of her [4]parents, wreathing around her virgin form garlands of flowers; ah! little ſuſpecting then, they were ever to be diſplaced by thorny fetters; the ſacred couch too, where⯑on, after the points of thoſe thorns feſtered in her heart, ſhe breathed her laſt;—even the cradle which lulled awhile the cares that were in ſtore for her unhappy children, the ill-treated Charles and Caroline. "How?— how came theſe here?" aſked Sir Guiſe, in a voice that communicated the terrors it expreſſed to the trembling Patty.

"I know not, an pleaſe your honour," ſhe replied. "I was at ſchool far away when they were brought, and I never aſked or heard where they came from: but, as they belong to our lodger, my mother, I dare ſay, can tell."

"Who then is your lodger?"

"Sir John Fitzorton, pleaſe your honour, is his honour's name."

Inaſmuch as it was poſſible to augment the emotions of Sir Guiſe, they were in⯑creaſed by this intelligence. "John Fitz⯑orton!" reiterated he in faultering accents, [5]"is he the owner of theſe goods, and the occupier of theſe apartments? and where is he? when does he come? perhaps he may be even now in his way hither:—hark! hark! child! there is a knock at the door; doubtleſs it is him—he muſt not ſee me go out; open the window; O if it be him! where can I go? will he ſtay long? is there any other way out of the houſe? O hide, O hide me from the eye of John Fitz⯑orton!"

As he uttered theſe queſtions, he was run⯑ning wild as it were with dread about the rooms; and it was in vain that Patty aſſured him, "it was only her father come back;" but this information, Sir Guiſe ſeemed not even to hear. He continued to traverſe the apartments, and had got into the ſtore-room with an idea of ſeeking a hiding place; but there, yet more afflicting images ſmote his view, and again drove him back in conſter⯑nation, and he exclaimed, "Oh God! thoſe objects are more terrible, even than John Fitzorton! I had rather brave the ſight of [6]him, his whole family, and hell itſelf, than be cloſed in that place!"

Without attending to the aſtoniſhed Patty, who ſuppoſed that the madneſs he had ex⯑hibited the night before had returned, he precipitated himſelf down ſtairs; ruſhed in a diſordered manner by Robert and his wife, and ſtaring wildly at them without ſpeaking, got into the ſtreet.

CHAPTER II.

THE ſurpriſe which behaviour of this kind produces in the ſpectators, takes off for a while all power of action; and Sir Guiſe had gained the pavement and was running along it at full ſpeed, like a man dreading purſuit, before either the huſband or wife could impart their ſuſpicions to each other. Both however agreed, when they recovered ſpeech, that his raving fits had returned; and when the daughter came, with an air ſcarcely leſs diſtraught than his own, to give in her evidence, by relating his ſtrange de⯑meanour in the rooms above, they were [7]unanimous not only in their ſentiments, but in their commiſeration.

"And no wonder," cried Robert Irwin: "what that poor man has upon his mind, is enough to drive the devil himſelf out of his wits, and if he had ſeen what I did juſt now in Groſvenor-ſquare, he would have been madder ſtill. Behold ye, when I got there, his ſine lady-madam, had but juſt got into bed, and ſome of the ringleaders of her gang were keeping it up over the dice-boxes, and the beſt wines out of poor Sir Guiſe's cellar; the porter, whom I waked out of his great chair, and, who is the only man I knew, told me that the ſervants, men and women, were aſleep, or dead drunk on chairs and ſophas and carpets in the dif⯑ferent rooms, lying among one another pig faſhion.—O what a curſed thing it is to be a bad man, eſpecially a wicked father, my Patty!"

"Poor gentleman, how I pity him!" ſaid Patty.

"But you have got ſomething there, for his honour," obſerved the wife.

[8]"You ſhall hear," reſumed Irwin; "as nobody but the porter could ſpeak, he told me, he was ſorry for his maſter's misfortunes, but it was more than that place was worth, to diſturb her ladyſhip ſo ſoon after ſhe was gone to reſt: and to tell you the truth," whiſpered he, "a little bit of a rumpus hap⯑pened in courſe of our grand doing laſt night, between our Squire Vally, as we call him, and a new Spark madam has juſt taken a fancy to; and ſo Vally, who is a deſperatious man, gave his rival, who is a bit of a lord too, they ſay, a box on the ear: whereupon, the Lord talked pretty much about ſwords and guns. Maſter Nicky Dabble, who is moſtly here of late, ſeemed to think that lawyering him a little would be beſt; but ſome how, they huſsled Nick out of the houſe, and as my lord,—what a plague is his name!—is a new viſitor, and juſt come to his eſtate,—you underſtand me, Robert: there was a confabulation betwixt Vall and our madam Tempeſt, as we call her; and the upſhot of it was, that ſhe wheedled, and he begged pardon; and I fancy, my Lord [9]and my Lady agreed to ſettle the difference above ſtairs, and Vally and Nick are as merry as grigs below. There, you may hear them laughing away now."

"Well, I am glad they have made it up, however," obſerved Patty, with the utmoſt innocence of thought, "only I wiſh her poor diſturbed huſband had been there when the quarrel was made up; that he might have ſhared it too."—"That might not have been quite ſo well, mayhap," replied Robert, wink⯑ing at Margaret.—"But to finiſh my ſtory; the porter adviſed me to go as I came: for moſt folks, Robert, ſaid he, laughing, go away empty from this houſe, even if they come into it loaded."—"No matter for that," ſaid I; "then I'll ſee if I can't make a bit of a change in the old place: I ſuppoſe the maſter of the houſe has got a corner of it above or below where he puts his things; now as he wants ſome of them, and has fallen into a bit of a ſcrape, I ſhall thank you to ſhew me where it is." "Why how you talk, Rob⯑ert!" ſaid the porter, "this is not Sir Guiſe's houſe, nor madam Tempeſt's neither, no, [10]nor Vally's, 'tis in ſhort, nobody's houſe, and every body's;—properly to ſpeak, it belongs," added he, laughing, "to one King Faro, harder than his name-ſake of old; for Tempeſt, and Vally, and Nick, and the Ot⯑leys, who are now at the top of the tree, and fifty others, are only his ſubjects, and he plays the deuce with 'em all ſometimes: and as to Sir Guiſe, he has been at peep-bo with his and my lady's creditors ſome time; and, except a ſmall bundle which was brought here late laſt night, by one of Nick Dabble's chaps, ſaying it belonged to Sir Guiſe, who had given his chum the ſlip, I don't think he has a rag belonging to him in the houſe: if you think that will be of any ſervice, you may take it, as nobody but I have ſeen it, for they were all drinking, dancing, diceing, and maſquerading when the chap brought it for Nick, and I think it is as well ſaved out of old Nick's hands as not;" whereupon, the porter went to a cloſet in the great paſſage, took out the bundle and gave it me; and here it is wife, and that's all I got for it: ſo I came running off as faſt [11]as my legs could carry me, juſt as if I had eſcaped from a den of thieves."

"I never heard ſuch ſhocking doings in my life," ſighed Patty; "but indeed, father, I cannot think but that Mr. Dabble, as you call him, tells things that are not true of his maſter and miſtreſs;—but all this time, poor Sir Guiſe is running diſtracted through the ſtreets." "That's true child," ſaid Robert, "here, take this till I juſt ſtep into the par⯑lour; Margey, give me the key of the bu⯑reau, I muſt take a little caſh with me for fear of accidents."

CHAPTER III.

WHEN Robert had haſtily furniſhed himſelf, he ſaluted his wife and daughter, bid them "get ſomething good and comfort⯑ing for dinner," and taking the bundle, pro⯑miſed to return as ſoon as he could.

Two hours did poor Robert Irwin, from the pureſt principles of compaſſion, uninſpired by one grain of eſteem, ſearch in vain for his object: at length, ſlackening his pace, and [12]returning home with dejected looks and diſap⯑pointed face, the ſhouts of a mob attracted his attention; and advancing to explore the cauſe, he perceived a man harranguing the croud with the utmoſt violence, while he held another man by the collar, and bawling forth, that "he would take his oath to the perſon being the one who had eſcaped from his brother officer the day before, and that he was therefore his priſoner, becauſe they were in partnerſhip; and he would for that reaſon, as ſoon part with his right hand as with the man;—for to tell you the truth, I ſuſpect there has been a kind of colluſion betwixt partner and priſoner, aye, for aught I know, maſter Juſtice too, and d—n me if I find them out, if I don't hang them all like ſo many onions on a ſtring: for if they cheat me, they have but another to cheat; I had a right to my thirds and never took a farthing."

The face of the priſoner thus aſſailed, was covered by his ſpread hands, and the reſt of his body was ſo encircled by the crowd, that very few of thoſe whom curioſity had drawn, could diſcern their object. At length a [13]voice from the multitude, called aloud, "who owns this velvet cap?" which the perſon ſpeaking had placed at the end of a ſtick elevated above the heads of the people; "I do," anſwered Robert Irwin, working his way through the crowd:—"I own it, at leaſt I know the head it was upon a little while ago: aye, and there is part of the head now in that fellow's hands."

Irwin elbowed on, and recognized Sir Guiſe Stuart. The mob, who had ſided with the latter from the time the aſſailant had talked of colluſion, his thirds, &c. &c. now began to take an active part in favour of the party aſſailed, and ſoon diſengaged the Baro⯑net's hair from the gripe of the enemy: while they were doing this, Robert held down the head of the aſſailant by a manoeuvre of the ſame kind, rendering thereby the releaſe of Sir Guiſe leſs difficult, the aſſailant having ſoon enough to do to attend to his own head.

Meanwhile a gentleman riding through the ſtreet, where the mob had gathered together, ſtopped his horſe, and deſired to know the [14]nature of the affray? The perſon of whom he made the enquiry anſwered, "Why we hardly know what to make of it, Sir; but it ſeems to be a falſe arreſt, and upon the perſon of a poor man out of his ſenſes." With great earneſtneſs and a voice of command, the gentleman ſignified that he was a magiſ⯑trate, and ordered the croud to make way. The priſoner firſt caught his eye, and imme⯑diately muffled himſelf up in the flap of his coat, with a trembling caution that would have juſtly marked him with ſuſpicion had the action been generally obſerved. "By what authority fellow," queſtioned the gentleman, "do you hold that perſon in cuſtody?"— "By that of the law; I have a writ againſt him at the ſuit of Mr. Nicholas Dabble, the attorney."—The gentleman ſtarted, and ſeemed ready to leap from his horſe: "Let me look at the writ."—"Partner has it, but I knows my man, and I'll have him to lock⯑up-houſe in Shire-lane, and then to Newgate, if he do not pay the money, and moreover clear up another little affair." At this inſtant Irwin ſeemed deſirous to conceal himſelf alſo, [15]and going up as by ſtealth to Sir Guiſe, he put the bundle into the Baronet's hand, ſay⯑ing, in a whiſper, "Take this, Sir, it will bring you off, but don't ſay any thing about Robert." After this, Irwin mixed in the thickeſt of the croud.

The gentleman now alighted from his horſe, went cloſer to the parties; in his way to whom a general whiſper had circulated, touch⯑ing the name and authority of the magiſ⯑trate. This whiſper ſoon caught the bailiff. The late furious aſſailant would have relin⯑quiſhed his prey, conſcious he could not legally hold it, and gone quietly off, but the gentleman, who had an eye upon all his movements, commanded him to tell his name and addreſs, together with that of his partner. —Now the commands of this gentleman, though depending very little on the ſofter arts of perſuaſion, were the leaſt refuſable in the world. The trembling catch-pole obeyed, attaching to his obedience this curious de⯑fenſe, on which he relied for future favour, "I am ſure your honour, if my partner in this buſineſs ſhould turn out a rogue, and if [16]Mr. Nicholas Dabble ſhould prove he has outwitted himſelf, I muſt be an honeſt man: I was looking for a coach while partner took huſh-money of the priſoner, and boaſted of it to my face. Yes, and I went and left a bundle I had the care of at the priſoner's houſe, though I did not get a farthing of my dues out of the huſh-money; for, thought I, if I can get the priſoner to ſwear bribery to partner, betwixt us both, partner may be hanged for taking money not to ſee, and cheating me into the bargain. Thus your worſhip obſerves plainly what ſort of an honeſt man I muſt be."

"I do," anſwered the gentleman, "and you may go about your buſineſs."

During this converſation the priſoner neſtled himſelf, as well and as long as he could, amongſt the mob; but the gentleman, who had hitherto conſidered the aggreſſor in this affray as the principal object, had now leiſure to advert to the aggrieved, in whom he ſoon diſcovered the perſon of Sir Guiſe Stuart.

[17]Many, we truſt, are the readers who, judging from themſelves, will be able to conjecture, what muſt have been the feelings of an honeſt man, ſuch as John Fitzorton— for he was the magiſtrate, on this diſcovery: Few, we hope, judging from themſelves, will know how to form any adequate idea of the ſenſations of the perſon diſcovered.— They were, however, ſufficiently expreſſed in his behaviour. Concealment no longer poſſible, humiliated by preſent, and degraded by paſt circumſtances, all of which came with an overwhelming force upon his memory, he bowed ſubmiſſive to his protector as to the acknowledged virtue of a ſuperior being. He bent his eyes to the ground, and, as if dreading to be ſeen by thoſe of John Fitzorton, he held the bundle which Robert had put into his hand, before his face, and then ſlunk away.

John Fitzorton, after he had received his horſe from the perſon, who had been walking him about, re-mounted and rode on.

Robert Irwin, believing he had eſcaped unſeen, haſtened home almoſt immediately after [18]he had given the parcel to Sir Guiſe, and on reaching his houſe, related the adventure in the ſtreet to his wife and daughter, obſerving, that though his honour Sir John would not be diſpleaſed at him for going of a meſſage for an unfortunate man, yet to be ſeen with Sir Guiſe Stuart, after the ſhocking thing that had happened at the caſtle, might offend his honour. "Heaven forbid!" ejaculated his-wife. "Surely," obſerved the daughter, innocently, "if people knew what the world ſuffered from bad actions, they would try very hard to be good: but, thank God, father, people who have been bad may live to be good again."

"I hope I ſhall be a proof of that Patty," ſaid Irwin, with tears in his eyes: "all things they ſay are for the beſt, love; and, perhaps, Sir Guiſe having come to our houſe in this manner, and ſeeing the judgment that is upon him may make me better all the reſt of my life; I am ſure I will try, Patty: I will, indeed, love."

Here Robert moſt affectionately renew⯑ed his endearments; and Patty returned [19]them. "Yes," ſaid her mother, whoſe apron had been to her eyes ſome time, "'tis a long lane that has no turning; you have but one fault in the world, Robert, and as to that, if you, when you are in your paſ⯑ſions, would ſtrike me, and not hurt my child, I ſhould think nothing of it."

"I'll not ſtrike either, and do nothing but love and cheriſh you both for the time to come, as I do now in this manner"—"d—n me, if I do!" ſaid Robert, with increaſed emotion, "and poor dear Patty's huſband ſhall ſleep in her arms to night."

Juſt as this peace-reſtoring diſcourſe ended, John Fitzorton reached his lodgings, and without diſcovering any thing particular in his air, or manner of ſpeaking, went up to his apartments. Our little family, therefore, were completely happy, in which ſtate we will leave them to taſte the joys of domeſtic reconciliation, the crowning of which was the enlargement of Patty's huſband.

CHAPTER IV.

WE will now follow the ſteps of one who knew no ſuch comforts, and who, alas! had no hope ever to enjoy them.

Sir Guiſe Stuart was thrown into ſuch additional diſorder by the unexpected ſight of the man, whoſe eye, even in the proudeſt period of his life, he moſt ſought to avoid, and whoſe family he had ſo irreparably in⯑jured, that, to meet him under ſuch circum⯑ſtances, and to receive that ſervice from his equity which could not have been expected from any other motive, ſunk deeper into his mind, and ſeemed harder to bear than any thing that had attended him ſince he became an outcaſt. His reſcue from the gripe of the law, ſo much wiſhed before, was now but a ſecondary object of felicitation: it dwindled even to nothing in compariſon of the grand eſcape from John Fitzorton, who, indeed, was armed with terrors no villainy could brave or endure.

[21]After long wandering about without any ſettled direction, he found himſelf in Mon⯑mouth-ſtreet, and as he ſurveyed the dif⯑ferent dreſſes there hung out at every door, a ſudden thought induced him to accept the eager invitation of one of the traders to walk into a ſhop. The trader ſeeing a bun⯑dle under his arm which, more mechanically than from conſciouſneſs, he had ſtill carried, ſuppoſed he was come rather to ſell than to buy, and deſired to ſee his goods.

Sir Guiſe, thinking it might promote his plan, favoured the motion; and inſtead of bartering his watch for ſomething he wiſhed to purchaſe, he untied the bundle, which he knew was the ſame that he had haſtily packed at his lodgings in the Minories, and he ſup⯑poſed Robert Irwin had taken it from the bailiff; it contained a change of thoſe things of which Sir Guiſe ſtood much in need: but on the parcel being opened, a ſmall pacquet looſely wrapt emptied its contents on the floor.—"Good heavens!" exclaimed our Baronet, "how came this money here?" Now this exclamation, and the diſordered [22]ſurprize with which it was made, and the general air, as well as the particular look of Sir Guiſe Stuart, and more than all his ap⯑pearing without any covering on his head, his velvet cap having been ſomehow purloined after Robert owned it, did not prepoſſeſs the tradeſman in his favour. Indeed he ima⯑gined them to be neither more nor leſs than ſtolen goods, which the thief wiſhed to turn into money, and that the money itſelf was amongſt the plunder. A few queſtions, and particularly one, touching his bare head, and ſlipper'd feet, produced confirmations of this ſuſpicion. Whereupon being a man of very nice honour, as to ſtolen articles in caſes where the odds were againſt his holding them with any ſecurity, he ſaid, "he ſaw plainly how that bundle had been obtained, and unleſs a better account was given than had yet been offered, he ſhould feel himſelf called upon, as an honeſt man, to apprehend him as a rogue— for, pray, how came you to be ſo much ſurprized to find thoſe five guineas, if they were your property?"

[23]"Becauſe," ſaid the Baronet, very truly, "I knew no more of them than you did."

"That is rather ſingular too," obſerved the clothier, "how they ſhould get into an honeſt man's bundle without his knowledge. Secondly, be ſo good to tell me where you came from? and, thirdly, who you are?"

To neither of theſe queſtions could Sir Guiſe give any ſatisfactory reply. In truth, he did not even attempt it, and his ſilence was interpreted into a tacit confeſſion of his villainy.—"Well, come," ſaid the trader, "there is ſome ſhame in you however, and as you may live to ſee your error I will let it paſs. As to the linen in that parcel 'tis out of my line, nor ſhould I chooſe to buy it if it were not. 'Tis a diſagreeable thing to put things forth, and have them owned, but if you wiſh to purchaſe any articles you ſee in the ſhop or at the door"—here the trader caſt a longing eye at the five guineas which Sir Guiſe had picked up—"why I will deal with you as if you were as honeſt a man as myſelf."

Sir Guiſe wanted not ſagacity to perceive that the laying out part, at leaſt, of the money [24]which had thus, unexpectedly, crept into his bundle, would be the only thing to ſave him, and he was glad the matter had taken that turn.—"I came into your ſhop, Sir, not to fell but to purchaſe, and though you have wronged me by your ſuſpicions I will deal with you. I have a particular occaſion for a drab coloured coat and waiſtcoat, I noticed hanging at your door, and the broad brimmed hat I perceived on a peg over it." "Here they are, but here is a ſnug brown bob goes with them—better have that, and you'll be all of a piece," ſaid the dealer, who did not doubt but our adventurer was going to take refuge from his purſuers for the late or former of⯑fenſes, in the dreſs of a quaker. Sir Guiſe approved of the wig extremely, "and what think you of theſe brown worſted ſtockings, and as to ſhoes I can fit you in a trice—there, Sir, I'll be bound for their fitting as well as if they were made for you—but, perhaps, you had rather have boots," obſerved the trader, who had now got into the ſpirit of trade—"I can ſuit you there too—I call my ſhop every body's warehouſe—Lookee, Sir, [25]and here's a curious pair of ſtocking breeches juſt of the colour—and now you are ſet up— unleſs you ſhould like this horſeman's coat, which, you perceive, is juſt in the ſame ſtyle."

The Baronet agreed to the whole lot,— "well then," ſaid the proprietor, "I'll be at a word—for I never make two prices— they are your's for the five guineas which ſo much ſurprized you juſt now."

"You may put them up," ſaid Sir Guiſe, "but I do not ſee how I ſhall carry them— could I not get ſomebody to take them as far as—" "O, yes, any where," in⯑terpoſed the dealer—"there's a fellow going by the door who will I dare ſay be glad of the job—ſhall I call him?" "If you pleaſe," anſwered Sir Guiſe. The man expreſſed his readineſs to attend the gentleman; he ſaid he was very poor, and had been looking in vain all the day for employment. The goods were ſoon packed ſo as to go into the bundle, except the brimmed beaver, which the dealer, facetiouſly ſaid, would be moſt eaſily carried on the new owner's head, [26]"where," added he ſmiling, and thinking he might take any freedom with a gentleman as honeſt as himſelf, "where I perceive there is a peg for it." The five miraculous guineas being paid into the long opened palm of the dealer the porter took up his load, and the purchaſer deſiring him to follow, the buſineſs ended not a little to the ſatisfac⯑tion of all parties.

Thus Sir Guiſe, who within a few hours, had been taken for a madman and a thief, eſcaped by good luck from being carried into cuſtody in either of thoſe characters: yet the laſt ſix and thirty hours had been the moſt diſ⯑aſtrous of his life. They were the firſt he had ever paſt in the ſchool of adverſity, where he was taught the rudiments of what, to ſuch diſpoſitions, is only to be learned in that academy.

CHAPTER V.

THE intereſting objects which our ad⯑venturer ſaw at the hoſpitable Robert Irwin's, and the different impediments he had met [27]with in his way, had conſumed ſo much time that the ſecond day of his wanderings was far ſpent before he found himſelf extricated from the ſeveral ills which had annoyed and threatened him.

At length the world was once more free before him: yet he was no leſs perplexed, and uncertain what road to take, or what plan to purſue, than at the firſt moment of his emigration. In truth, his embarraſſment had conſiderably increaſed. In each of the diſaſters that had overtaken him, he col⯑lected ſomething of the general and honeſt ſenſe of mankind reſpecting his character. This might be gathered from the diſcourſe of the rabble at lady Tempeſt's faſhionable rout, and even from the reflections of the ſons and daughters of riot in a common night-houſe. Even the bounty of his old ſervants, the Irwins, was but the alms of charitable natures whoſe pity was excited, on general principles, while the impreſſion of their abhorrence of him, as an individual, re⯑mained in full force. In the neglect and malignity that he experienced from the friends [28]and partners of his miſdeeds, he felt that vice cannot be faithful even to its choſen aſſociates; and in the accidental good office which had been afforded him by the ſuperb John Fitz⯑orton, he could not but perceive that the ſervice rendered by the magiſtrate was diſ⯑tinct from the ſentiment entertained by the man, and that while the juſtice of the one be⯑ſtowed official relief, the other exhibited, even in his ſilence, the profound of contempt.

It was, indeed, under this accumulated conſciouſneſs of his own unworthineſs, thus ſucceſſively forced upon him, that he went into the ſecond-hand cloaths ſhop, the direct⯑ing idea being ſimply to purchaſe ſome dreſs that might ſerve as a ſcreen to veil him from general obloquy. Shame, fear, and, we will hope, ſomething like regenration of virtuous emotion, even though that emotion had been in a manner wrung from him, went to the formation of this idea.

Behold then our Baronet followed by his temporary ſquire, ſallying forth with as little arrangement what point of the compaſs to ſteer by, as the ſquire or knight of Cervantes. [29]In woefulneſs of countenance, indeed, there was ſome real reſemblance betwixt the im⯑mortal Quixote, and our forlorn Baronet, but, alas! none either in their diſpoſitions, or motives of enterprize. Sir Guiſe Stuart had neither the knight of la Mancha's extrava⯑gance of honour, nor his wiſh of acquiring fame by heroic deeds: by the reſcue of in⯑nocence oppreſſed, or the voluntary encounter of dangers and of death. Indeed, our Baronet's ſole deſign, in the purchaſing his coat of mail, was to eſcape the wounding eyes of thoſe whom he himſelf had outraged: and had the honeſt, the miſguided, hero of the Spaniſh ſtory, met him in his career, and been previouſly made acquainted with his courſe of life, he would have been thought a giant of guilt and necromancy, more de⯑ſerving of the avenging lance than any monſter he had contended with in the pro⯑greſs of his adventures.

His attendant ſquire, indeed, had no trace of the merry-hearted Sancho; but followed the ſteps of his employer with gloomy fide⯑lity, from one place to another, till the [30]ſhades of evening, and ſome more powerful circumſtances induced him to aſk our hero whither he was going? This queſtion re⯑ceived no anſwer, becauſe it was found un⯑anſwerable: Sir Guiſe had been long rumi⯑nating what he ſhould do with himſelf. The adherent ventured, at length, what follows: "Poſſibly, Sir, you have loſt your way, or may be you overheard what the man ſaid to me in the ſhop about you, and ſo don't like to go into your old haunt, wherever it may be, leſt I ſhould run back and tell him. Now if this ſhould be the caſe I will tell you a ſecret. I am a diſtreſſed bit of a gentle⯑man myſelf, and when an odd thing lies in my way, ſuch as a ſtray bundle, a few looſe guineas, or what not, why I have no objec⯑tion to it, and for all I am in ſuch a pickle now, am as keen a fellow as you can be. In a word, I am one of the ſort—and, therefore, you have nothing to fear from me: For all that perhaps you don't like we ſhould join forces—ſome, in our line, like doing buſineſs alone; others are for partnerſhip.—If you prefer the latter we muſt take a loving pot, [31]or bottle together, and ſay good luck to one another. We are near to the ſign of the Hand-in-hand, where ſome of the ſort meet; it lies juſt cleverly for the great weſt road, has good ſtabling, a knowing oſtler, and a⯑man may be in town or country, horſeback or on foot, in five minutes."

This diſcourſe might have terrified a ſtouter heart than that of Sir Guiſe, not, perhaps, on account of the thing itſelf, for he had long aſſociated with probably more guilty peſts of ſociety than the poor rogue then at his elbow. Indeed had our Baronet been made of more courageous materials it is not impoſſible but that the ſlight hold which conſcience yet had of him, and an al⯑moſt deſpairing ſituation, might have then united him with the ſociety to which his aſſociate alluded: but a certain dread that ſeized his joints, and the faſting and fatigue, which weighed upon his limbs, extorted from him, in a ſort of half uttered, and half re⯑preſſed way, this heart-riving apoſtrophe, "O! Sir Guiſe, Sir Guiſe Stuart, that you ſhould be brought to all this!"

[32]To uſe the beſt and moſt appoſite language of the inmoſt deſcriptions of the paſſions and emotions of nature, "as if that name ſhot from the deadly level of a gun had mur⯑dered him,"—"Great God!" apoſtrophiſed his aſtoniſhed companion! "and is it poſſible I ſhould again be in the ſame place with Sir Guiſe Stuart? I thought, indeed, I knew ſomething of his face, disfigured as it is by time, and by that long beard."—Indeed the latter was then of three days' growth, being routed by the bailiſſs before the dreſſing hour, and having had ſcarce a moment ſince, that could be devoted to adornment.—"Ah! Sir Guiſe," continued the follower, "if you are really he who had the great hall, in Somerſetſhire, where I knew you, and are owner of the abbey in the weſt of England, you are the bittereſt enemy I ever had in the world, and have brought me to this paſs— but, as it appears you have brought yourſelf to nearly as bad, I won't—no—d—n me, I won't ſay any more—we muſt now both of us live as we can."

[33]"And who are you?" faultered out Sir Guiſe, ſcarcely articulating.

"See," replied the other, "how things come about—Don't you remember Giles Smith, though that's not the name I go by now—Don't you remember the combuſtible buſineſs that brought to the ground old maſter Atwood's houſe? and don't you re⯑member ſmuggling off his daughter Jenny? a d—mn'd affair that—my firſt devil's work as I may ſay for you—and though you gave me all the work of the hall—I was a maſon too you know in the next pariſh—I never throve ſince, but took to thieving, and if I ſhow my face again at the Old-Bailey 'twill go hard with me. I did but juſt nick it laſt time. Take care how you get there, Sir Guiſe, if you have been at the bar before. They mark their men out of a ſet, as ſportſ⯑men do a bird out of a whole covey. They had winged me before—but mum—I won't do you any harm—Walls have ears, and this is a notorious part of the town we have got into.—But what am I to call you? you don't go by your own name of courſe.—The [34]ſhopman whiſpered he would make it worth my while if I would call, and let him know where you took me to, but I'd be d—d firſt—though you have been my ruin—for as I ſee you are one of us—and upon the ſhift— I'll not be the man to bring you up before your time. If we can't be true to one another 'tis very hard. I don't aſk what you have got in this bundle beſides the cloaths you bought of the Monmouth-ſtreet man, I find you picked it up by the way of Cheap⯑ſide, ſo perhaps you hardly know yourſelf. But you ſee the condition I am in, and if you can help me to a trifle for back and belly I hope you will; for, to tell you the truth, I am as poor as a rat, and as tired as a dog, and what is worſe have not broke my faſt to day."

"Nor have I ſcarcely," ſaid Sir Guiſe, "and if you have any place where we can ſtop, without any danger of being diſturbed, I will," added he with a heavy ſigh, "do what little I can for you."

"As to that," obſerved Smith, "we can't be better than at the Hand-in-hand at [35]preſent. 'Tis juſt between the hours: thoſe who are for the country are off; and the town chaps won't meet till midnight, after all the public places are ſhut. Give me your hand, this is the ſnug door: Lord how well I know him—but don't tremble ſo—Though I am no better than I ſhould be to be ſure, I. am true to my ſet as you can be.

CHAPTER VI.

EXHAUSTED by what he had already undergone in body and mind, Sir Guiſe felt for a moment, an indifference to what be⯑came of him, and ſuffered himſelf to be led into the houſe. The ragged condition of the one, and the ſhabby gentility of the other, aſſiſted by the broad brimmed hat, aſſorted well enough with the different appearances aſſumed by the nimble-fingered race, and on calling for a bottle of port with biſcuits and ruſks, they were ſhown into a private room. When the wine was brought, its price was to be paid on the ſpot; "a rule, which may perhaps, ſurprize you," ſaid Smith to Sir [36]Guiſe, when the waiter was gone; "but if you conſider the precarious ſituation of the cuſtomers who frequent this houſe, many of whom are taken away to priſon without a moment's warning"—

"To priſon!" repeated Sir Guiſe.

"You will not wonder," continued Smith, "that every thing here is for ready money only." "Are there no perſons that frequent it but of the deſcription you allude to?" aſked the alarmed Sir Guiſe. "O yes," an⯑ſwered Smith, "but it is a rule of the houſe, to ſet down every man as a rogue whether he be ſuch or not; but don't alarm yourſelf, for at any rate we are ſafe; I am an old cuſtomer, and was once a leading member of a club held in the room above, and you will of courſe, be taken for my friend." "I ſee," cried Sir Guiſe, "that circumſtances have rendered me obnoxious to miſtakes, where⯑ever I go, I aſſure you, Smith." "Pſhaw, don't vex yourſelf about that," interrupted Smith, who was ſettled in his faith about Sir Guiſe, and had begun on the wine and biſ⯑cuits, [37]with great diligence; "we are liable to miſtakes: come, come, do as I do."

While the Baronet ſteeped his ruſk in ſome wine, Smith adverted again to the contents of the bundle, and aſked, "for what purpoſe he had made a purchaſe of the quaker-ſuit of cloaths, and the drab riding-coat? Come, Sir Guiſe, open your heart at once," added he; "you were always a cautious man: a ſhy cock, as we ſay, you know—whatever prank you have played, that dreſs will bring you through, ha! ha! ha!—a good thought —who will ſuſpect a prim quaker to be a bundle-ſtealer?"

Sir Guiſe not reliſhing this ſuſpicion, told Smith the adventures of the laſt eight and forty hours.

"Curious," ſaid his comrade, "a very curious ſtory: yes, I always thought what would come of your marrying that terma⯑gant." Another ſupply of wine and biſcuit was ordered. "Apropos, what ſay you to a ſlice of butter? ruſks and buiſcuits are dry eating by themſelves," ſaid he. "I ſee clearly now what you are upon: you think [38]you may have better luck in a new dreſs; your old one, I gueſs, is too well known; to tell you the truth, I ſhould like to adopt your plan: ſuppoſe therefore," ſaid he, as ſoon as the waiter again diſappeared, "I caſt this old ſkin of mine and put on yours, while you make yourſelf into a Simon Pure.— Obſerve, I can draw the bolt of the door and it is done in a twinkling."

Sir Guiſe, who anxiouſly wiſhed an oppor⯑tunity to put on his diſguiſe, agreed to the propoſal. "Strip then is the word," ſaid Smith, faſtening the door and dropping his tatters with a diſpatch, yet with a compoſure that ſhewed he was familiar with expedients. But Sir Guiſe, though no leſs diſſolute, had moved in the higher paths of diſhonour; had been accuſtomed to more ſplendid viciſſi⯑tudes, and could not eaſily diveſt himſelf of the external manners of a gentleman. He was therefore, more impeded in his progreſs, and not a little embarraſſed at making an entire change of apparel before the man, whom in the proud day of authority, he had made a ſubordinate inſtrument in the moſt [39]atrocious actions. An obſervation, however, from Smith, on hearing a noiſy party coming into the next room, and calling riotouſly for half a dozen bottles from the "good-luck⯑bin," ſoon quenched the few bluſhes of inge⯑nuous ſhame that ſtood in the way of our Baronet's diſpatches, and he was equipped in a few minutes at all points fit for the taber⯑nacle. "I take it," whiſpered Smith, "there is one of the early gangs come in, and by their ſpirits I judge, have been pretty ſucceſs⯑ful. —'Ecod I like myſelf ſo well in this green coat and ſcarlet waiſtcoat, that I am half tempted to make a little tour of my own acroſs the country. I do think I ſhould have ſome luck in your coat, my old friend, eſ⯑pecially, if I ſtood in your ſhoes, or ſlippers, which is the ſame thing, and red-morocco will not at all ſuit your dreſs: theſe ſhoes of mine will ſet you on your legs famouſly; well, what ſay you, ſhall we try our fortunes? Who knows?—There is no moon.—Nice and dark: we are juſt off the ſtones; the lamps are never half lighted at the ſkirts of the town:—at any rate, we had better be off [40]now, unleſs you are determined on the third bottle."

Sir Guiſe declared, "that he had not any more money, and did not think, till he had rummaged his pockets, he could have found enough to pay for the two former." "No," ſaid Smith, incredulouſly: "what the deuce ſhall we do about the waiter?—O! I have it;—ſtop, let me do up your parcel:—there, it will be much lighter for you now.—Do you ſtay here, and I will go and ſpeak to Scuttle the waiter, who is a good natured fellow, and when I have ſettled it with him, I will come and fetch you: for between ourſelves, ſome of the hue-and-cry gentry will be taking their rounds preſently."

Sir Guiſe felt uneaſy at the thoughts of being left alone, and as rogues are exactly as ſuſpicious as honeſt men are confident, he aſked tremulouſly, "why they ſhould not go and ſpeak to Scuttle together. I will give him one of the handkerchiefs, or cravats out of the bundle: will not that do? ſaid the Baronet." "No, I will tell you how it ſhall [41]be; I ſhould not have thought of giving that fellow a thing of that value."

Smith opened the door, looked into the paſſage, where not ſeeing any body, he took the hand of Sir Guiſe, who had, indeed, taken Smith by the ſkirts of the coat, and moving quietly, they gained the ſtreet with⯑out any interruption. "And now," ſaid Smith, "we muſt determine on ſomething; do we part, or do we keep together?—See, people are pouring apace into the Hand-in⯑hand. Suppoſe we croſs over the way, and then we can think. Plaguy dark. Mind how you go; and for fear we ſhould miſs one another, when you get on the pavement, cry hem."

Being arrived on the other ſide, Sir Guiſe gave the ſignal; pauſed a few minutes, then repeated it to as little purpoſe: and after a longer interval hemmed once more. His companion, who had in the firſt inſtance, been kind enough to carry the bundle for Sir Guiſe Stuart, now carried it for himſelf. In a word, Smith inſtead of croſſing over, figured into the very houſe which he affected [42]to quit by ſtealth, and left his aſſociate from whom he had nothing more to expect, to go where he thought proper: perfectly ſatisfied he would never either think or dare to look for him, the ſaid Smith, in the Hand-in-hand hotel.

Thus was Sir Guiſe, after having made another diſcovery of the extent of his wide ſpreading ſeductions, again driven unpro⯑tected into the ſtreet. What is far worſe, that conſcience, which, had it been clear, might have darted a chearful ray of light from within, told him, his lot though hard, was merited. Incapable of choice, he took the path in the direction it lay, from where he had croſſed; an afflicting ſight broke from his heart, and he continued his route in one un⯑deviating line for many hours, during which, he was ſo abforbed in an abyſs of reflection on the events of the paſt and preſent time, that his fearful nature had no leiſure to yield to any apprehenſions from ſolitude and dark⯑neſs.

The fate of Sir Armine, the exile of Charles, Caroline, Denniſon and the Monk, [43]the flaming cottage of the Attwoods, the plots upon Jane, the treachery of Miles, Dabble, and their banditti, the tyranny of lady Tempeſt, and the ſcorn of John Fitz⯑orton; all haunted his midnight path, and impelled him forward, almoſt without know⯑ing that his feet were in motion.

At day break, he perceived himſelf on a road he had often traverſed, under all the ſmiling auſpices of fortune and of power; by mere accident he had ſtruck into the broad high way that led to the county in which ſtood the abbey.

Yet, to what end ſhould he go farther in that road? to what purpoſe ſhould he take any other? was there in any part of the town or country a being of either ſex, whoſe eye would gladden, or whoſe heart would bound to greet him? to whom, either his proſperity would be welcome, or his misfor⯑tunes endearing? Should he purſue his preſent track, even to the abbey, that venerable manſion, he thought, was now a miſerable ruin like himſelf, and even that ruin not at his command. Although Henry and Olivia [44]might be at the caſtle, would they afford him ſuccour? it was madneſs to ſuppoſe it. Should they be abſent, was not an indelible mark ſet upon him by every member of their houſe⯑hold? Could he return to the hoſpitable houſe of the Irwins? there, the terrifying furniture of his diſmantled abbey roſe to his view, and there, yet more tremendous, was John Fitzorton!

Such were the queſtions he put to himſelf, and ſuch their replies: while both ſerved but to point the forlorn ſtate of his character, and condition. "Whither then ſhall I go, and what will become of me?" ſaid he, ſmiting his breaſt.

But, all this time, he went rapidly on, and having neither the wiſh nor the means to ſtop, he out-travelled in the courſe of the day all that had partially got the ſtart of him for a while.

Towards evening the weſtern coaches paſ⯑ſed him, and ſtopped to change horſes, at about an hundred yards after they left him behind. As ſoon as he came up with them, one of the coachmen as he was going by, [45]exclaimed, "Egad maſter, you have got a brave driving coat there which you don't ſeem to know what to do with." "Have you any inclination for it?" anſwered Sir Guiſe, who had found it unwieldy to bear on his back, and intolerable to carry under his arm. "You'll aſk too much for my pocket, I fear, but I will tell you what I will do with you, I know you quakers don't uſe many words. I will give you his majeſlty's picture in gold, and a ride any where on this ſide Plymouth, if you are going that way: I have but one paſſenger, who I believe is in his firſt ſleep; what ſay you, friend?"

Our adventurous Baronet approved the firſt part of the propoſal very well; for though the great coat might at ſome future period be uſeful, the offered guinea would be ſo immediately; he did not ſee the advantage of the offered ride, and yet it being neceſſary to go ſomewhere, he thought he ſhould, during that ride, have a better opportu⯑nity to think, and come to ſome concluſion, eſpecially as it was likely to be a ſtormy night, in a coach than on foot. "Well, [46]friend," ſaid the coachman facetiouſly, as he was coming out of the houſe, where he had been taking his dram; "ſhall thee and I ſhake hands upon it, a ſpike and ſpan new guinea, look'e, and as eaſy a coach as ever man ſlept in: if you have a mind for a nap, you will think yourſelf ſwinging in a commo⯑dore's cot." "There is no bed to be had here, ſir," ſaid the landlord of the inn, "we have been obliged to turn ſome of our cuſto⯑mers away, and ſo I think you can't do bet⯑ter than accept the coachman's offer." "It ſhall be ſo then," ſaid Sir Guiſe, delivering the coat. The driver opened the door, and helped our quaker-ſeeming hero into the coach, where he was ſcarcely ſeated, though it was too dark to make any uſe of his eyes, when a moſt violent ſnoring aſſailed his ears. "Perhaps," ſaid the landlord, "the gentle⯑man would like to take ſomething." "Pleaſe to bring me a roll, or a cruſt of bread, and a glaſs of brandy," ſaid the Baronet; but while they were gone to fetch them, he regretted his having given the order, reflect⯑ing he had no money to pay for it, and he [47]could not preſs for the guinea ſo abruptly; when it was brought, he aſked with ſome heſitation, "whether the landlord could give him change." "No, d—n it, don't change for a cruſt and a glaſs of brandy and water," ſaid the coachman, "I hate dry bargains: I always think they never thrive with a body;—ſet it up to me, landlord." Sir Guiſe aſked if he would partake of it. "Enough is as good as a feaſt, friend: warm your own inſide with it, and let me warm my outſide by hanſelling the coat, for it begins to mizzle." While the coach⯑man folded himſelf up in his new purchaſe, Sir Guiſe finiſhed his repaſt, which was in truth much wanted; and after the uſual adieus, the vehicle continued its journey.

CHAPTER VII.

FOR the firſt three or four miles Sir Guiſe thought intently, but the very intenſity of that thought, his former violent exerciſe, both of body and mind, and the lulling motion of the coach, diſpoſed him, at length, [48]to imitate his unknown fellow-traveller by falling aſleep.

How long he remained in this comfortable oblivion of himſelf, and of his misfortunes, cannot be known; but, ere it was yet day, a ſudden jerk of the vehicle ſhattered one of the ſide glaſſes from the frame, and both our ſlumberers awoke at the ſame inſtant. This brought on a ſhort converſation between the paſſengers, one of whom ſaid he was happy on waking out of a nap to find he had got a companion; "not," added he, "that I am properly an inſide paſſenger, only as there was not any one in the ſtage, and as I am an ac⯑quaintance of the coachman's, and 'twas likely to be an ugly night, he gave me a lift; but if you have any objection, Sir, as I am but a ſervant, and in a manner, out of my place—if you'll pardon the joke, I'll turn out, and get upon the box."—Sir Guiſe, whom recent events had taught ſomething of humility, told his fellow-traveller there was no occaſion; whereupon the former ſpeaker continued: "Going into Devon, I hope, Sir? as I ſhall then have more of your good com⯑pany. [49]I ſtop a few miles on this ſide Dart⯑mouth. If you are of thoſe parts I dare ſay you may know either me or ſome of my maſters, God bleſs their honours, and all the family!—ſuch a family as would do your heart and ſoul good to know them: the Fitzortons, Sir, I mean; a brave old houſe their caſtle; we ſhall ſee it a few miles on this ſide Dartmouth: a noble park too, and as fine gardens as you ſhall wiſh to look at; but what are they? nothing!—not worth thinking about in compariſon of the family they belong to. A houſe, park, and a garden, are fine things, and God gave them, and God be praiſed for it; but where they are placed or built there they ſtand like ſtocks; but good people, who can move about to find people, who have only a cottage and bit of garden at the end of it, are better to my thoughts than all the gardens and caſtles in the world."

A profound and audible ſigh now caught the ear of the perſon who had been ſpeak⯑ing, and a pauſe enſued on both ſides, in the courſe of which, the ſigh was repeated.

[50]"I don't know why, but it is a ſhocking thing to hear any body ſigh," obſerved the other paſſenger: "it always makes me ſigh too. May be your honour may be uneaſy at ſomething that is on your mind, and do not like to hear talking. Some do and ſome don't. Our Mr. Sir John can't bear to hear a word ſpoken by man, woman, or child, when he is vexed or uneaſy, but muſt have it all to himſelf, though it laſts for a week. If you do but ſay a word, he will frown and growl at you, and go and lock himſelf up; but Squire Henry, God love his dear tender heart! the more kind things you ſay to him the more he loves you, and though he may ſometimes be too heart-full to make you any anſwer, when he comes to himſelf he will ſpeak to you ſo kindly, and thank you for your love and trouble, that it would make you cry like a child, I am ſure it has me a thouſand times, to hear him. Now as I don't know which of theſe ways is your way, ſir, if I offend, or make you worſe by talking, only ſay ſo, and I will not ſpeak another word all the way."

[51]The generous ſpeaker having waited ſome time without receiving any check, imagined converſation might amuſe and relieve his fel⯑low traveller, on which idea he proceeded; "Ah! good ſir, we have all our ſorrows, and the beſt often the moſt, as I dare ſay you know by yourſelf. Why even moſt of our family at the caſtle have had terrible tryals. To begin with Sir Armine, all the world has heard of his goodneſs, for all that, he had his enemies, and one who I fear ſhort⯑ened his life."

"I fear ſo too," faultered a voice that ſtartled the ear of the obſerver.

"You have heard of the ſtory then, and no doubt," reſumed the other ſpeaker, "know many more ſad ſtories that go along with that affair. If ſo, you can be no ſtran⯑ger to the ſhocking doings amongſt ſome neighbours of ours.—Thank God Almighty, the ſtorm is pretty well blown over now: but there will be a long account for ſomebody to ſettle by and by. Doubtleſs then you know the abbey-family?"

"I do," anſwered the perſon addreſſed.

[52]"Aye, I don't wonder at your ſighing," obſerved the other, "they have made my heart ach many and many a time. Then I dare ſay, you are no ſtranger to Sir Guiſe Stuart:—there's a monſter of a man for you! I do not think there is man, woman, or child, in the whole world, that cares whether he is dead or alive."

"O yes, there is," continued the perſon, heavily ſighing, "more than one."—"May be you know miſs Caroline, his daughter, ſir, as kindly, dutiful, and pretty a creature as ever broke the bread of life. God knows where ſhe is now; and I am acquainted with another as good and handſome as ſhe, who wiſhes this monſter of a man well: but I find it has all come home to him at laſt. Such a ſtory did I hear of him yeſterday in London, at an old ſervant's of his, one Robert Irwin, where I went to take orders for the caſtle from our Mr. Sir John, who has lodgings at Robert's:—ſuch a ſtory!—Ah good ſir, the wicked never proſper long together. This very Sir Guiſe, is, I find, gone all to ruins, turned out of houſe and home, and with five [53]guineas, which Robert, out of pure charity, put into his bundle, is now roaming about, God knows where. There is a change for you, ſir! yet how could he expect any better?"

"A change indeed!" cried his auditor with pathetic energy.

"Yes, reſumed the relater, "I would not have a, a, a,—friend of mine told of it for the world; nay, I would not wiſh any of our family to know of it, 'ſpeciouſly Squire Henry; and I am ſure, Mr. Sir John will not mention it to him for reaſons good. The wicked man is going about under God's judgments: I ſhould not at all wonder if we ſhould hear in a little time he were hanged, ſhould you, ſir?—And yet," continued the narrator, "poor man, I can't help pitying him. If I had not received orders from my maſter Mr. Sir John, and you know, ſir, when a ſervant has got his orders, he has only to do them outright in town or country, I ſhould have tried to hunt him up; for though I think him the worſt creature that lives, I have my reaſons why I would not let him [54]want a mouthful of bread, and a drop of drink, and a bed to lie upon, while I had it of my own to give. He is now with the Almighty's angry finger upon him, for it is not us, but he, you know, ſir, to puniſh people; to my thoughts, ſuch a wicked man as Sir Guiſe Stuart is more to be pitied than an honeſt man in the time of his trouble: becauſe you know, ſir, conſcience ſays ſuch comforting things to the one, while the other can find nothing but taunts and torments within and without. And now I'll ſay no more about him; for you muſt know, we never mention his name, nor have not done a long while at the caſtle; and for my part, I ſometimes wiſh the abbey was ſunk under ground, that none of our folks might look at it, then we might be happier even than we were. Indeed I ſhould not have run on thus now, for I am no very great talker; but as I heard you ſigh, and as I think a man had better ſigh for the diſtreſs and wickedneſs of another man than for his own, and as I imagined you liked to hear rather than ſpeak, I have gone on. See, ſir, day is beginning [55]to break. Come, good ſir, we ſhall have the ſun up preſently, and then we ſhall be able to look about us."

CHAPTER VIII.

IT is not eaſy to conceive any mortal man in a more comfortleſs ſituation than Sir Guiſe Stuart during the time this harangue was carrying on by the ſpeaker, with a moſt ſincere hope of affording him relief. In all the ſimple truth of an honeſt heart, he here heard himſelf at once commiſerated and de⯑ſpiſed. The cauſe and effect of all he had ſuffered was placed in natural order before him, and all this from a man who avowed himſelf in a ſtate of ſervitude, but whom he knew at the ſame time, to be arrayed in all the majeſty of virtues, which made the once lofty Baronet ſhrink in the compariſon. The only favourable circumſtance was the dark⯑neſs, which had veiled him from the eye of his accuſer, and that darkneſs was paſſing away.

[56]The morn had no ſooner rendered objects diſtinct, than it appeared to the companion of Sir Guiſe, that he had been addreſſing himſelf to a quaker. This accounted at once for the little that had been ſaid in reply, and that little expreſſed with ſo much energy of pity for the guilty wanderer; moreover, the diſguiſe was more friendly than the wearer of it had conjectured, for the harang⯑uer, even when the deciding beams of the ſun ſhone full upon every thing, had not the moſt remote ſuſpicion that he was in company with the man he had delineated. The caſe was reverſed with reſpect to the delineator, who not having an atom of diſguiſe about him, body or mind, was inſtantly diſcovered to be True George, who had upon the whole, more reaſon to quarrel with the conduct of Sir Guiſe, than any of thoſe whom its crook⯑edneſs had involved, but who was perhaps, amongſt thoſe that moſt compaſſionated him.

About an hour after the ſun had riſen, the vehicle made its uſual ſtop to breakfaſt. George opened the door, leaped out, and with the reſpectful manners that marked his [57]character, took off his hat and offered his arm to his companion, then directed a waiter to ſhew the gentleman into a parlour, and modeſtly betook himſelf into the kitchen.

Our unfortunate knight now meditated an eſcape from his fellow-traveller, by inſinua⯑ting that he was arrived near the end of his journey, and that he would perform the little that remained on foot.

As he was projecting this over the firſt cup of tea, the coachman made his appear⯑ance with the purchaſe-money of the coat, which he laid upon the table, and then ſaid, pointing to a ſmall packet of letters tied to⯑gether, "and I ſuppoſe, friend, theſe are your property, at leaſt they were found in the great-coat pocket and are of no ſervice to me."

Sir Guiſe on receiving them, read on the ſuperſcription of the outer letter his own name and addreſs, and remembered ſhifting them from the dreſs he gave to Smith at the Hand-in-hand. "Very well," obſerved he with an air of attempted indifference, "you may lay them down there, they are of no [58]conſequence." "That you know beſt. Friend George, the young man who rode with you, ſaid, he thought they were, and talked of coming in to aſk you whether you can give him any tidings of the perſon they are direct⯑ed to. You know him no doubt, or elſe you would not have ſo many of his letters to keep. He is but a bad bargain be where he will, and I wonder you quaker-folks ſhould have any thing to do with him: but that is none of my affair, friend; your ſervant, the horſes will ſoon be ready:—I will keep my word;—you may ride as far as you like. I wanted George to read one of the letters to us, but the devil a bit. I don't ſuppoſe that fellow would read a word now of a letter that had not his name at top on it, an' though it were all againſt himſelf. I never ſee'd ſuch a chap: we'll make haſte wi' breakfaſt. We've a long pull yet, and all up hill; ſo I'll now go and take a ſup with George, and then jehu!"

The moment the coachman departed, the Baronet, who had been groaning in ſpirit at the mention of the letters, turned to a large [59]glaſs that hung on one ſide of the room, and thought he could place the wig and hat to much greater advantage. To which end he took them haſtily off, and was juſt folding his own hair ſo as to make it lie ſmoother under the wig, when with nimble, yet re⯑ſpectful ſteps, True George came running in, and ſaw the very man he was going to make ſo many enquiries after; ſo that inſtead of aſking the ſuppoſed quaker what was become of Sir Guiſe, it would have been more in point to have enquired of Sir Guiſe, what he had done with the quaker?

The diſmay of Sir Guiſe was not incon⯑ſiderable, but the perſon by whom he had been detected, had not talent, or at leaſt no reliſh for that ſort of ridicule which expoſes misfortune, however merited; and to inflict pain, was as oppoſite to his nature, as to deſerve its infliction on himſelf. "Bleſs God! then," ſaid he, "you are found with⯑out looking for you any further: as to your dreſſing like a quaker, ſir, I can eaſily gueſs you would wiſh to be any thing but Sir Guiſe: and as to what I have ſaid of you, ſir, I wiſh [60]it was not true with all my heart; but we may as well pretend to ſay it is night when it is broad day; truth is truth."

"For God ſake leave me!" ſaid Sir Guiſe, powerfully moved, "let me ſtop here."

"No, not here: no, no, get into the coach again, and then if I may ride with you, ſome⯑thing may be thought of;—ſee, ſir, the horſes are put to, and the coachman will be here in a moment. Come, I will help to put your head to rights again. So,—that's good, ſo much for the wig,—there,—now for the hat.—Now you are as good a quaker again as ever you was."

The good-natured fellow had juſt made him up, when the coachman came with his ſummons. "Coachee," ſaid he, "the gen⯑tleman is ſo kind as to permit me to keep my ſeat in the inſide a little longer, and ſo with your leave, I'll"—"Aye, that you ſhall, Mr. George, and welcome, though I were to pay for you an inſide from London to Plymouth." George gave him his hand in thanks; then out of that abundant loving⯑kindneſs with which his blameleſs heart [61]overflowed, he opened the coach-door to Sir Guiſe, as he had done before, and got in after him.

Whether attracted unawares by the charm of integrity and worth, as it was conſpicuous in this eſtimable young man; or whether urged by motives of deſpair ariſing from a ſurvey of his own ſituation, brought about by varied duplicity; or whether his heart was preſſed by a load that impelled him in mere relief to diſburthen itſelf; Sir Guiſe, at length, treated George with a candour to which that heart had long been a ſtranger. "O! Mr. True," ſaid he, "after what has paſt it would be vain to conceal my deplora⯑ble ſtate any longer; and I will, therefore, in this deſolation of my affairs, aſk you what courſe you think I can purſue to ſave me from the world and from myſelf?"—He then unfolded the whole of his diſaſtrous adven⯑tures; and concluded by obſerving, that to undergo again all that he had ſeen, heard, and endured, for the three paſt days, would be worſe than death; ſince every moment of that time had proved to him he had not a [62]friend on the face of the earth, and con⯑vinced him he did not deſerve one.

The degree of ſelf abaſement to which a human being muſt be reduced before ſuch a forlorn declaration can be extorted from him, cannot eaſily be imagined. It preſuppoſes a condition ſo deſtitute, that perhaps before the idea of it can gain admiſſion into the mind of man, all that ſuſtains, or elevates his nature, muſt have taken its flight; yet the confeſſion could not have been truſted to a heart more full of good faith and charity, than that of the honeſt creature, who heard, and who could not but believe it was as ſincere in the feeling, as he had but too many reaſons to know it was true as to fact.

A more daring offender, or more properly to expreſs ourſelves, a man with like aban⯑doned principles, but ſuſtained by more con⯑ſtitutional audacity than Sir Guiſe Stuart, as in the caſe of his compeer Valentine Miles, might have reſiſted the rapacious tyranny of a proſtitute, exalted into a wife; he might have contended with all the viprous train that envenomed that alliance: poſſeſſed [63]of more animal courage, he might have anſwered force by force, foiled ſtratagem by ſtratagem; and, by uniting the ſpirit of the tyger with the wiles of the fox, he might have ſtruggled for his rights, ſuch as they were, and perhaps regained them. But find⯑ing himſelf beſet on all hands, and ſtrongly purſued even by the beaſts of prey that had fed upon his honour, peace, and fortune, his heart died within him and he fled.

True George was for many a mile as taciturne as he had been before loquacious: at length he fervently ejaculated—"The Lord have mercy upon all miſerable ſinners! Oh! Sir Guiſe, I would not be you for all that is on the face of the earth, or at the bottom of the ſea."—To this another long pauſe ſuc⯑ceeded, which made Sir Guiſe ſuppoſe that even this genuine child of pity had aban⯑doned him. But the ſame principles that in⯑duced the worthy adherent of the Fitzortons to attempt the relief of a ſuppoſed ſtranger in diſtreſs, by converſation that might be⯑guile the way, led him to preſerve ſilence, now that perſon was known, leſt he might [64]advert to any thing which could increaſe affliction.

He did not again break ſilence till he knew by contiguous objects that he was approach⯑ing ſcenes which muſt greatly increaſe the ſhame of his convicted fellow traveller: A little to the left ſtood the hall of the good Partington, and the comfortable farm-houſe of the bounty-guarded Atwoods—the fa⯑mily of the injured Jane were almoſt in view.

"I think Sir," obſerved George, drawing a green blind before the window of the coach, at the ſide on which theſe objects lay—"I think, Sir, the light may be rather trouble⯑ſome, and the country to your right, juſt where we now are, is more open than this to the left." In this remark the good creature had no view whatever but to prevent the in⯑fliction of pain to a heart already over⯑charged; for every lineament of the Baro⯑net's countenance, the former comelineſs of which we have before particularized, de⯑noted, beyond all queſtion, variety of ſuf⯑fering. But the deſign of the good-natured [65]George being thus anſwered, another long ſilence took place; at length leaping at an idea that made him ſtand almoſt upright in the coach, he exclaimed, "I have it, Sir! I have it!" and then a fourth pauſe, as if to ſhape and arrange this new idea. "Good heaven!" thought George, "and is this poor ſinful being without houſe, home, money, or friends? and not any body to ſpeak to him but his conſcience, which muſt needs be angry with him? Why he has nothing for it but to knock himſelf on the head to get out of his own way, and that would not anſwer his purpoſe either; for he is no more fit to die than to live: yet if he ſhould lay violent hands on himſelf now that all the world frowns on him, as to be ſure he deſerves, I ſhould never reſt in my bed, nor, perhaps, would ſomebody elſe either; and ſhe might even hate me for letting a poor wretch die in his wickedneſs, when by a little chriſtian charity I might have made him live to repent."

CHAPTER IX.

SUCH were ſome of the reflections that occupied the mind of George during thoſe ſtops in converſation, which the conſcience of the perſon, who was the cauſe of them, tranſlated ſo differently.

But the journey was now almoſt performed, and ſome deciſive meaſure was to be purſued. "Sir Guiſe," ſaid George, "it does not ſignify talking; while a man is in the world he muſt live, whether he is good or bad; I am but a ſervant, and you are a Baronet, but as you don't ſeem to know what to do with yourſelf at this preſent ſitting, will you be ruled by me?"

Sir Guiſe aſſured him he would; but that he did not care what happened to him.— Truly to ſpeak, the Baronet was ſunk to a degree ſo extreme, that fear and hope equally forſook him, and he might have been led about at the pleaſure of enemy or friend.

No ſooner, therefore, had George, who had been watching the mile ſtones, with his [67]head out of the window, gained the ſpot, than he called to the coachman to ſtop, jumped out of the vehicle, hat in hand, as before, and when Sir Guiſe had followed him, "Will," ſays he to the driver, "I find the quakerly gentleman does not cleverly know the road he is to go, and may loſe his way, except he is with ſomebody that can help him out a little; we ſhall go together, and if we ſtrike into the foot path at the end of that lane, we ſhall ſave near two miles; and as the gentleman is rather ſick with his ride, a little walking may do us both good: So I wiſh you a good journey, Will, and many thanks for your kindneſs. Our caſtle has al⯑ways ſome good ale in it you know: Good⯑day, though it's getting dark enough to ſay good-night."

While George was talking to the coach⯑man, Sir Guiſe had an opportunity to look about him, and, however fatigued, it was not without conſiderable anxiety, that he per⯑ceived he was at a point that conducted both horſe and footman by a bridle way, or a cut acroſs the fields, either to that pariſh which [68]was once his own, or to that which ſtill ap⯑pertained to the Fitzortons. His apprehenſive nature caught alarm at this, and he fearfully aſked George if he was going to diſcover him? condemning his own abſurd feelings for ſuffering him to be drawn ſo near the place in the world he would moſt avoid.

"As to that, Sir," obſerved George, "I take it all places are pretty much alike to you juſt now, only I have my reaſons why I think that where I am going to take you to will be the beſt; as to diſcovering you in that dreſs, I don't think that your own poor dear baniſhed child, miſs Caroline, nor ſomebody elſe I know in the world, could make you out in that dreſs, if you keep your hat and wig on: For," added he, "you are no more like what you was, in any ſhape, than you are like my ſquire Henry, God love his heart! and beſides you promiſed me for once you would be ruled by me." "And ſo I will," ſighed out Sir Guiſe, following George, who had been getting through the lane all the time he converſed: "Only one thing I have to obſerve, Sir," reſumed George, "as [69]ſoon as I have houſed you, where I mean, you muſt let me run off to deliver Mr. Sir John's orders at the caſtle, and when I have done there, for I am but a ſervant as I ſaid, I will come and ſee you ſettled better."

"As you think fit," anſwered the humi⯑liated Baronet.—" Then pleaſe to take hold of my coat, and pull at it as much as you will I'll get you on.—Hark! we ſhall now hear how time goes—Is that your clock or ours?—I beg pardon—is that from the abbey or caſtle? But that's no matter. 'Tis ſix o'clock you hear. How ſhort the days get! Another quarter of an hour, and our noſes will ſmell the fire I hope, and ſee the faggot ſparkle, and hear the kettle ſing to make us a diſh of tea.—All you have to do is to mind your wig and hat; leave the reſt to George. O'd! ſave us! if all men that an't ſo good as they ſhould be, were to be kicked into the ſtreets to ſtarve, I don't, for my part, know what would become of the beſt of us; the more wicked a man is the more time he wants. God knows very well what he is doing, and throws a man a plank, when the [70]man himſelf thinks he muſt go to the bottom. Mayhap now I may be one of thoſe planks, and ſo catch hold of me Sir Guiſe, and let us jog on. One thing is for certain, you can't be worſe off than you are, and you muſt own you may be a great deal better— Mind that I'll call you—I'll call you—what ſhall I call you? We muſt have no more Sir Guiſes at preſent. And yet what ſignifies lying?—I'll call you nothing only ſay, 'Sir,' and the 'quakering gentleman,' who travel⯑led with me, though 'tis ten to one if we ſee any body to-night, but a perſon who can't know you, and her ſervant-maid who is a new-comer, and who don't know you from our father Adam."

This ambulatory diſcourſe was accompa⯑nied by ſuch encouraging tones, that the drooping ſpirit of our helpleſs adventurer could not but be cheared, even in the midſt of the moſt cutting humiliations.

"There, Sir, now get over this ſtyle, and you are on your own—no I beg pardon—on the abbey ground—but we muſt leave that and turn more to the right—Aye, aye, come [71]out Mrs. Luna, as my ſquire Henry calls you, though he has many more fine names for you, madam Cynthia, miſs Phoebe, and the like—He's one of your poet gentlefolks you know, Sir, and ſo I believe is his lady madam Olivia. Come out then, and we ſhall ſee our path plainer. Keep always to the right—Look'e the caſtle is all to the right. There's the lights about it—bleſs its old face! I have not been away but four days, and long to ſee it again—Look, look, how the lights are moving about the rooms. Don't you ſee them through the dear brave old windows. That yonder is madam my lady's apartment: And that juſt over it is a room where— where another of the family ſleeps—Heigh ho! hark how the dogs begin to bark!—Don't be afraid, moſt of them are faſt: But if they were all looſe they all love me, bleſs you; and, therefore, whoever is along with me, that's George's friend, they'll think, poor fools. By the ſame token don't you re⯑member poor little Fitz? The old caſtle to my thoughts always looks gay at night⯑time, juſt as if 'twere full of luminations. [72]But what a ſad figure the poor old abbey cuts of late years!—ſee not a farthing candle: —hang it what am I ſaying?—I'm talking like a fool!—but the ſight of home always puts me in ſuch ſpirits they run away with me.—But do you ſee a candle through that copſe—that's blind Goody Brabſon's, one of our madam Olivia's father's old ſervants, paſt work now. So lives eaſy in one of madam's cottages; the ſquire and ſhe have a round dozen often there altogether, ſix for men, they are ſquire Henry's, and three for women, thoſe are madam's—with a ſervant a piece to 'tend them, and a ſpare bed for a friend—Pray ſtep on, Sir,—Yes, as I was obſerving, a ſpare bed,—for as madam Olivia ſaid to the builder—all my cottagers muſt have a bed room for a friend: how lucky 'twas I thought of that: Pray, Sir, don't you think God Almighty puts theſe things in our head juſt when we want them? For my part I as much believe he put it into my head to take you to Goody Brabſon for a night or ſo, till we could turn about, as if I had heard his voice. It does one's heart [73]good, and 'ſpecially when one lies in bed of a dark night to think you hear God Almighty's voice. I hope you will hear it one time or other. I mean in the way I ſpeak of; not as they ſay wicked people often do. O! then a clap of thunder muſt be nothing to it; even though nobody elſe can hear it!"

CHAPTER X.

SUCH converſation carried them over the flowery meads, and along the moon-light paths of Fitzorton, with the uſual expedition of True George, who bore the half-fainting burthen of the paſſive Sir Guiſe at his ſkirts; and they ſoon arrived at the little neighbour⯑hood of cottages, which were amongſt the many good works of Henry and Olivia, to employ their fortune and their time ſince their union. That theſe cottages might be under the immediate eye of their founders, they had been erected only a quarter of a mile diſtance from the caſtle, and received, either from their patron or patroneſs, a ſmiling viſit almoſt every day.

[74]"This is Goody Brabſon's, Sir," whiſ⯑pered George; "'twas not her having no eyes, but her having a good old heart, got her here. She was good to ſome folks when they were burnt—by ſome folks—out of houſe and home; and ſhe ſaved—ſhe ſaved—ſomebody's cat from the flames; and I know who has got a kitten of that cat now. But Lord how I run on! See we have got into Goody's garden—there's ſuch a like ſlippikin of garden as this to all you ſee—and for that reaſon its called Eden-place. Eden was one of God's gardens you know, Sir, when the two people he gave it to were good; and madam never puts any but good people in our Eden. Well, here's the little door, how ſweet the jeſſamy and honey ſuckles ſmell that grow round it! I know who ſet ſome of theſe with her own pretty hands—Not a ſoul ſtirring—all as ſtill as the moon-ſhine. I told you we ſhould ſee no⯑body —ſtep in, ſtep in, they all know me: this little parlour is our plan. Mind hat and wig, that's all. O! here is Sally the maid— ſo Sally, where's Goody? and how does ſhe? [75]here's a gentleman travelled down with me who an't ſo well as he ſhould be, and can't go farther to night for fear of getting worſe: ſo I have brought him here to have Goody's ſpare bed. He can have that, Mr. George; but Goody is in bed, and ſhe has been in bed theſe two days. Madam and the ſquire have been here to ſee her but now, and were to ſend ſomething which I expect every minute." "Poor Goody, I hope ſhe'll be better to⯑morrow," ſaid George. "I muſt go home now with my orders: but I'll be here betimes in the morning."

This whiſpering dialogue was held in the paſſage, and Sally was juſt deſiring the ſtranger to ſtep into the parlour while ſhe aired a pair of ſheets, as the latch of the houſe door was lifted up, and in came two perſons who brought their well-come in their hands; for each bore a baſket of the good things of this world. As Sally ad⯑vanced with the light to meet them, the one proved to be a fellow-ſervant of True George's, and the other the object of his firſt and laſt pure affection, Jenny Atwood.

[76]"O! my good gracious!" exclaimed the latter, reſigning her ſhare of the pleaſing bur⯑then to Sally, "how glad I am to ſee you come back!" which aſſeveration was con⯑firmed by her throwing out both her hands to George, who, on his part, was hurried out of all things elſe—indeed out of himſelf; by that aſſurance, and the ſudden ſight of the ſole object of his heart. "But how is it you did not come firſt to the caſtle: what does this mean, hey, Mrs. Sally?" queſtioned Jane, ſmiling; "perhaps you can anſwer me that queſtion—yes, yes, I ſee how it is: Mr. George likes a cottage better than a caſtle."

This playfulneſs, which ſincere and unex⯑pected ſatisfaction called forth, was ſoon checked by ſympathizing enquiries after Goody Brabſon, for whom, ſhe ſaid, the lady Olivia had ſent a little of every good, and would herſelf repeat her viſit in the morning.

All this time George was drawing Jane and her companion nearer the door. "Well, then," ſaid he, "we had better make the [77]beſt of our way home now, as I have orders to deliver from Mr. Sir John.—Hope ſquire Henry and my lady are well, Jenny?"— "Charmingly," ſaid the latter, "thank heaven!—well and happy.—"God keep them ſo!" anſwered George—by this time in the garden, Sally following with the light.— Good-nights were now plentifully exchanged; and after George had deſired Sally to re⯑member what he had ſaid to her, and to make things as comfortable as ſhe could for the ſick,—pronouncing the laſt words very emphatically—he ſet off with the two meſ⯑ſengers of bounty for the caſtle.

The beams of the moon have ſeldom ſhone on three worthier perſons; for the ſervant who made the third, was one who had, from his earlieſt youth, lived in the family of the Clares, and had been amongſt the moſt ſelect of thoſe who had been trans⯑ferred to the caſtle for his good behaviour, on which account there had long ſubſiſted a friendſhip betwixt him and True George.

When our loving trio, therefore, had gained the ſtep-ladder kind of ſtyle, that led [78]by a back way to the caſtle, "Do you know," ſaid George, "that the firſt thing I did when I got within ſight of our houſe was to give a look at your chamber window, Mrs. Jane; and I could not help ſaying to—a—a— perſon that was with me—"A perſon?" queſtioned Jane, "you had company then,— one of the neighbours I ſuppoſe,"—" no— no—yet 'twas a neighbour too—that is."— "Hoity toity!" cried Jenny, reſuming her ſportive ſuſpicion, "why you ſeem in a flurry, George—If poor Goody Brabſon had not been ſick in bed, I ſhould have thought that pretty Mrs. Sally had taken a moon ſhiny walk to meet you."—George laughed: "Aye, you may laugh, Mr. George," obſerved the fellow-ſervant, "but lads, even though they have been in London, like a pretty country laſs by the light of the moon, as the ſong ſays, ſpecially when they are new faces. But I can tell you friend George, if you go moon-lighting to Goody Brabſon's Sally, you'll ſtray upon my grounds.—"O, ho! is that the caſe," ſaid George, repeating his laugh.

[79]Theſe little rebounds of jocularity, which were rare indeed with Jane Atwood, but which were excited by returning health, ſomewhat better ſpirits, the benevolence of her late errand, the unexpected ſight of her preſerver, and the continuance of comfort at the caſtle, which they were now approaching. Henry and Olivia Fitzorton, attracted by the mild beauty of the evening, and yet more by the ardour of their generous hearts, had walked forth arm in arm to meet the meſ⯑ſengers of their loving kindneſs.

Scarcely had the enquiries, reſpecting the health of Goody Brabſon, been made, and anſwered, when a diſcovery of their-favourite domeſtic—whoſe return they did not expect for ſome weeks, as he had been lent to their brother John for a month—brought on inter⯑rogatories ſeven-fold. Theſe, alſo, being anſwered with only a little mental reſervation in George, touching his delay—which was ſet down by the queriſts to the account of love, though the reader knows it proceeded from a leſs ſelfiſh nature—the whole party went ſatisfied into the houſe: Henry and Olivia [80]to peruſe the deſpatches John had ſent them, and the fellow-ſervants to regale themſelves in Jane's ſitting-room.

CHAPTER XI.

HOW far the wretched object of our good Samaritan's bounty was capable of en⯑joying the comforts, thus procured, may be eaſily conjectured, as well as with what emo⯑tion he muſt have ariſen at the return of day. He beheld from the chamber window of the widow womar, that manſion, the very path to which had, by one atrocity or another, been formerly watered with the tears of his vic⯑tims, and the manſion itſelf converted into a houſe of mourning. Nor did the miſery of theſe ſenſations yield to thoſe which muſt ſcourge his heart at the proſpect of his own ruins. Goody Brabſon occupying a corner-houſe of the building, her ſpare bed-room had a remote view of the abbey, particularly of thoſe invidious ſcreens of clay, and blank walls, which abject malice had reared, as has been noticed in the early part of this hiſtory, [81]to deſtroy the proſpect of the worthy dwel⯑lers of the caſtle. This memorial of his miſerable mind had been left either from neg⯑lect or inattention, even ſince part of the premiſes had undergone the benevolent and reforming hand of the excellent Olivia; and the ſight of it brought thus morally under his eye, ſtruck him as a monument which his own hand had erected to the diſcredit of his unmanly character, But, perhaps, the acuteſt ſmart he had yet felt from the ſting of adver⯑ſity, was the ſight of the innocent girl he had attempted to deſtroy in return for the pure virgin heart ſhe gave him: to ſee her too re⯑covered from his ſnare, and likely to give happineſs to the very man on whoſe charity her betrayer was thrown for bread.

But while the proſpects of Sir Guiſe were thus dark and cloudy, thoſe of the compaſ⯑ſionate youth, who had taken pity on him, were ſcarcely leſs perplexed and involved: His night was not leſs interrupted than that of Sir Guiſe, though from far different cauſes; and while his ruminating head yet preſſed his pillow, what, after all, he ſhould do with the [82]man to whom he had been induced, by reſiſt leſs circumſtances, to promiſe protection? was the great queſtion. To mention him to any perſons of the pariſh, as a proper object of their bounty, would, he knew, be madneſs; to diſcover him to Henry Fitzorton would be, perhaps, to revive images which it had been the labour of years to keep under: to breathe an accent that ſhould poſſeſs Jane Atwood with the ſecret, would be wild and raſh: yet, ſome active meaſure muſt be purſued, and that without delay.—"He cannot remain where he is now," ſaid George, "more than a few hours." He remembered that Olivia had promiſed Goody Brabſon a morning viſit.— He knew, beſides, that the former was an early riſer, while autumn had a flower to beſtow towards the making up her Henry's breakfaſt bouquet—a cuſtom ſhe had never forſaken, when health and the ſeaſon permitted, ſince the exchange of the flowers of Henry's fancy, for thoſe of the garden, on the memo⯑rable anniverſary of her birth.

All theſe conſiderations drove George from his bed at the dawn of day, by which he [83]gained nothing more than the being in readi⯑neſs to follow up any favourable plan that might offer itſelf to his revolving mind.— "The worſt of it is that I could not," ſaid he, "have picked up and brought home any man but this in all the world, whom our family would not have been willing to keep out of trouble: but for Sir Guiſe Stuart!— I don't know a ſoul—except, indeed, one who muſt not know of it—who would not as ſoon ſee almoſt the devil—God forgive me!—in their houſe as he.—Heigho! I don't know what's to be done with him, that's the truth of it. And yet one man ſhould not let another man ſtarve, or drive him on to more wickedneſs neither. There is ſome⯑thing ſhocking in that."

Here ſucceeded a cogitating fit of another hour, when the caſtle clock ſtriking ſeven, ſtartled him for the condition of Sir Guiſe, who would think himſelf neglected, and, perhaps, be thrown into deſpair. "O! what ſhall I do with him? where ſhall I hide this poor miſerable ſinner? Money I could give, and food I could buy, but a houſe [84]—What ſhall I do for a houſe to put his head in?"

As he aſked himſelf this laſt queſtion he had ſat down at his window, from whence he obſerved Olivia already in the garden. It was her cuſtom on a beautiful morning, ſuch as then it was, to glide from her apart⯑ment without diſturbing any body; for the comfort of her whole houſehold—in all which that word of the greateſt importance in family arrangements, was the point which both ſhe and her huſband deſired to gain—and is, indeed, one of the moſt rare to be ſeen in the annals of domeſtic life—namely, SUPERIORITY OF STATION, but EQUALITY in HAPPINESS.

CHAPTER XII.

AFTER Olivia had taken two or three turns up and down the ſhrubbery neareſt the houſe, and had marked the fragrant objects of her morning-offering, ſhe ſtruck into the path that led to her cottages. George no ſooner perceived this, than he left his room, purſued her ſteps with incredible ſpeed, and having overtaken her, followed the impulſe of the moment, and with fainting eagerneſs addreſſed her thus. "God knows, my lady, whether I have done right or done wrong."— "Right, I dare ſay, my good fellow," anſwered Olivia, a little ſtartled: "but what is the matter?" "Right or wrong, my lady, it can't be helpt now; I have met with one of my dear maſter the Squire's enemies, and your ladyſhip's enemy, and Mr. Sir John's enemy,—my enemy,—Jane Atwood's ene⯑my, and I believe every body's enemy upon earth:—but I met him, my lady, unawares,— the ſight of him took away my breath, almoſt my ſenſes,—and ſcarcely knowing what [86]I ſaid or did, I,—I,"—"Heaven's what!" demanded Olivia, "what did you do? not murder him, I hope?" "No, my lady, not murder him: though that I ſuppoſe, is what a true ſervant ought to have done;— inſtead of which, I never touched a hair of his head, but contrary-wiſe, as I found he was juſt at death's door, no food to eat, nothing to drink, and no bed to lie on;—all his fortune gone, and his heart ready to break—that, though I knew him to be one of the worſt wretches that lives, and told him ſo twenty times over, I could not bear to leave him as I found him,—and ſo—pray, pray, my lady, forgive me. I e'en brought him home with me, got him into a bed; I know he had not been in one for ſeveral night's before; and,—do pray, forgive me: upon my ſoul I could not help it,—I,—I,—I have him on the premiſes at this moment."

"Thank God, and thank you, my good George for it!—but who can you mean?— I have no notion of any of the perſons you have mentioned having an enemy upon earth."

[87]"Except him, my lady, or his gang, I don't think they have: but, for all that, as I ſaid before, I have brought him among us, and uſed him as if he was a friend."

"Well then, ſuch treatment will, I hope, make him one: but you obſerved, he was found in a diſtreſsful condition, and it could not be wrong to afford him your pity. I will juſtify you by adding mine."

"If he had been the devil, my lady, and I had heard ſuch ſighs and groans as I did, I ſhould have done as I have. Not that I want to make him a burden to any body. 'Twas I brought him, and I'll take care of him. I only want a little houſe-room ſomewhere at hand, and nobody to know of it, my lady."

After this exordium, George related, ac⯑cording to his manner, every circumſtance of the caſe, from his firſt meeting with Sir Guiſe in the ſtage-coach, to the introduction of him at Goody Brabſon's, with the contin⯑gent adventures of encountering Jane Atwood. "Therefore, do pray, my lady, excuſe my boldneſs in taking ſuch a kind of a perſon into your Eden; you may think it is as bad [88]as the devil thruſting himſelf in Eden of old: but God help us, my lady! if all wicked ſinners were to be hunted from one place to another, and then were to be leſt to roam about the world, why they would run at us like mad bulls for want of a reſting-place, and ſomething to eat—for 'hunger will break through ſtone walls:'—no, no, much better to my thoughts, give them wherewithal to lay their head, and a little victuals to eat: and as they are not ſit for better company, let them ſway themſelves; and though to be ſure, my lady, you can't, as the ſaying is, make a ſilken-purſe out of a ſow's-ear: yet, if by a little kindneſs, under God's aſſiſt⯑ance, we could get but ſome of the devil out Sir Guiſe before he gives up the ghoſt, why that would be no ſmall matter. You know, ſome folk who were once a little out of the right path have come into it again. You and I, my lady, know ſomebody who is now a pattern for any lady in the land to cut out by; heigho!—and though this wicked, aban⯑doned ſinner, whom, I cannot tell you half what I think of, never can be fit to touch the [89]hem of that ſomebody's garment,—you know who I mean, my lady—he may take up a little, and a chriſtian ſhould try to do good, or elſe what ſignifies their being chriſtians: and we are bid every ſunday, your ladyſhip knows, 'to raiſe up them that fall.' God knows Sir Guiſe is fallen low enough. O do, do then, my lady, let you and I try to raiſe old Sir Guiſe up without a ſoul being the wiſer; for after all is ſaid and done, God knows what help the beſt of us may want before we go out of the world."

Olivia chilled and glowed at various paſ⯑ſages in our child of nature's account, and at the comments his ſimple and upright heart made on it; and although ſhe did not know all the dark and deadly offences of Sir Guiſe, ſhe knew more than ſufficient to engrave his name even on her forgiving heart, in charac⯑ters never to be eraſed. Abhorrence of the ſin, but by no means to the excluſion of pity for the ſinner. She therefore aſſured George that ſhe ſo entirely approved of all he had done, not only in regard to the relief he had offered, but in the ſecrecy of it, that ſhe [90]ſhould readily join him in all his worthy endeavours. "The only matter," obſerved ſhe, "that will diminiſh our ſatisfactions, is the impoſſibility of calling in on my part, my beloved Henry, or the amiable Jane on yours; as, though I am convinced they would both aſſiſt, and take delight in a benevolence of this kind; you are ſenſible there are rea⯑ſons why we muſt at preſent, refuſe our⯑ſelves and them this ſatisfaction, to ſee the father of his dear Charles Stuart, and of my Caroline, degraded and reduced, would ſhock too much my dear huſband's gentle nature: and, alas! you know, though bleſſed be God, in general much reſtored, he has not ſtrength to bear ſurprizes of any ſort."

"As to that," interrupted George, "I know, my lady, that only the thought of what this wicked creature may one of theſe days come to, has often been too much for Mrs. Jane, and if ſhe ſhould know that day was come already, and that he was but the day before yeſterday without a bit of bread in the world, or a bed to lie on, and now on theſe premiſes, I ſhould fear worſe would [91]come of it than even what happened in the wood. Do you know, my lady, if it had not been for ſtaying on my errand, I ſhould have taken him back to London, where I firſt met with him in this miſerable way, and put him out to board and nurſe, juſt as one would a baby; but thinks I, what is to be done with my orders from Mr. Sir John? they may or may not be of conſequence: that is nothing to a ſervant: an order is an order. It an't his buſineſs to ſtop, and if he is ſent ſometimes on a fool's errand, that is nothing to him, he is not the fool. Had it not been for this, can any body go to think I would have let him come here, betwixt two fires, as a body may ſay, the abbey and the caſtle? I am ſure when Jane came in with your ladyſhip's comforts for Goody—lord love your heart! though I am always ſo glad, I could cry like a child to ſee the face, or to hear the pretty voice of Jane Atwood—don't you always think ſhe has a nice way of ſpeak⯑ing, my lady?—I was frighted almoſt out of my wits, leſt ſhe ſhould find out the make⯑believe ſick quaker, for all his brown wig and [92]ſlouched hat: though to be ſure, as I told your ladyſhip, I could never have hit them off myſelf if they had been on: no, not if I had been a year in his company, which, God forbid I ever ſhould be; for if he could have gone about the world without falling into the clutches of ſome of his own gang, even though he had not a farthing in the world, don't think, my lady, I would have brought him even within fifty miles of either the caſtle or the abbey!—no, my lady, I would have given him what money I had to ſpare, and kicked him out of my company as I would a football, or a nuiſance, or what not."

"My good George," exclaimed Olivia, "your mention of the abbey has put a thought into my head, about a place for this poor wretch: you know the abbey is now ours on leaſe, and though Henry and I have made a point of delicacy and feeling, not to go into it, and as ſeldom as poſſible to walk near it; which could only revive the thoughts of its former ſtate, when graced by Caro⯑line and Charles; and though I have ever locked up the key to keep it out of the ſight [93]of the friends who loved thoſe dear unhappy wanderers, whom my continual reſearches could never find; there were ſent, you re⯑member, ſome few beds and other general conveniences into the upper part of the building, by way of temporary hoſpital when the ſmall-pox raged ſo cruelly in ours and ſome neighbouring pariſhes; and the par⯑ticular apartments which were fitted up for our apothecary, the worthy Mr. Burton, whom we engaged to inoculate as many as friends or parents choſe to ſend, were directed to be proper for the reception of a gentleman. I have an hundred times had it in my mind to order this furniture to be turned to ſome uſe, had not the dread that attaches to every idea of the unfortunate abbey, made me lay aſide the thought, but I ſhall now be very glad if you imagine they might anſwer our preſent purpoſe: for it will be eaſy to get one of the cottagers who does not know Sir Guiſe, to attend him. I only mean this for a ſhort time, till we can think and conſult each other about a leſs expoſed ſituation. My only fear is, that the dreadful change he will find in [94]every thing from the day, alas! when a good and dutiful family ſurrounded him, may grievouſly oppreſs his heart: yours and mine it would break in a moment; nevertheleſs, if we are the authors of our miſeries and diſ⯑graces, we muſt try to bear them. The matter is, will this temporary abode do?"

"Do, pleaſe my lady," ejaculated George, who had been ſhaving off the exceſſes of his eager nature upon his nails, buttons, and neckloth, and twitching every thing in his way, ſince the idea was ſtarted. "Do, my lady! yes, it will do wonders! let me have the key—let me have the key; I'll abbey him, toſs up his bed, boil his kettle, throw him on a faggot, open a ſaſh or two, give him the bible and teſtament, lock him up again, put the key in my pocket, and ſo feed him and leave him, and leave him and feed him, juſt as I would an old fox, or a ſick kite, or any other wild wicked thing I had picked up, and did not like to knock on the head. As to his finding a great change, that is what he ſhould do: for if he were to be made as gay and great as he was before, I [95]ſhould fear he would get to his old pranks again. No! no! I'll tell him to bleſs God and your ladyſhip it is no worſe, and then if he growls, I'll ſay, mend yourſelf wherever you can, for God knows you want mending bad enough; and even if he ſhould be ſeen, as I'll always take care to leave him wigged and hatted, quaker-faſhion; why ſhould he not paſs for a ſad, ſick, ſorry, poor man, who has as much occaſion for an hoſpital as another? I am ſure there will be no ſtory in all that."

Long before our benevolent domeſtic had got to the end of his ſpeech, Olivia had turned her light ſteps towards the caſtle: George purſuing her track and his remarks, which latter finiſhed juſt as the walkers had gained the ſpacious ſtone entrance into the great hall. There, deſiring George to wait a few moments, Olivia aſcended the lofty ſtair-caſe that led to the upper apartments. Thoſe few moments were employed by the Hermes-footed George to collect the hiſtory of the morning; he heard that Henry had not yet come down; he ſaw that Jane [96]Atwood was pleaſingly buſied in the nurſery with Olivia's children; her own little one, of unfortunate memory, was, perhaps, luckily, among the victims to the ravages of the very diſorder which occaſioned the con⯑verting part of the abbey into an hoſpital, that was now to become a charity-houſe.

He got back into the hall juſt as his lady was coming down ſtairs, and, ſmilingly de⯑livering what ſhe went for, wrapt up looſely in a paper, ſhe begged he would remember her name was not to be on any account men⯑tioned to the quaker, but whenever neceſ⯑ſary to be conſulted, ſhe would be ready. "And now," ſaid ſhe, "I muſt go make up my ſlowery tribute for the beſt and deareſt of men." "And I," ſaid George—reflect⯑ing a playful air and ſentiment from his miſtreſs, "muſt go and put out of ſight my bundle of weeds: for I think—an' pleaſe you, my lady—ſo we may call our ſham-quaker, whom, to my thoughts, is juſt as bad as Squire Henry is good."

"Pray tell Goody Brabſon," ſaid Olivia, as ſhe and George were ſeparating, "I will [97]call on her after breakfaſt, and indeed this fair morning, I mean to make the tour of Eden's buildings, and pay a how-do-ye viſit to all my dear cottagers. I hope," added ſhe, "my huſband and our children will accompany me. My Henry looks ſo very happy when we are on theſe ſtrolls, and I wiſh to make the little ones as like their father as poſſible. Adieu, George. I ſhall keep Henry and Jane Atwood to myſelf, at leaſt for an hour to come, ſo you will have time to put your ſtray ſheep into the fold."

The ſmile with which the ſpeaker accom⯑panied this, juſt as ſhe took her way again into the flower-gardens, and the tear which the hearer dropped in her path, are two of the many things in this world to be felt, and not deſcribed. We can only offer it as our firm belief, that as the one was ſweeter than the faireſt of the flowers Olivia Fitzorton could hope to cull; the other was foſter than the dews that wait upon and increaſe their fragrance.

CHAPTER XIII.

SIR Guiſe Stuart, meanwhile, a priſoner in the chamber, was literally a partaker of the widow's mite, which indeed like her's of ſacred ſtory, was ſupplied by a ſource that would never ſuffer her cruſe of oil to waſte, nor her morſel to fail. He had for ſome hours expe⯑rienced all the horrors of ſuſpenſe and appre⯑henſion, ſuperadded to the miſery of ſurround⯑ing proſpects, and the ſevere reviews of his own mind upon them. He had ſeen from the weſtern window of his apartment True George, and Olivia Fitzorton, the wife of the man who had ſo many reaſons to execrate his tyranny. They were in earneſt converſation, walking backwards and forwards, with what, to his ſickly fancy, appeared angry and complot⯑ting ſteps; and having no rule to judge by in the meaſure of generous actions, he did not doubt but that he was to be given up to the malignant triumph of a family, whoſe honeſt diſdain he had ſo often experienced; and he now rebuked his own credulity for [99]having thus ſuffered himſelf to be trepanned into the cuſtody, of even more powerful ene⯑mies than his wife and her aſſociates.

In the midſt of theſe injurious contempla⯑tions, True George, coming in with a baſket under his arm, changed their direction from the perſons accuſed to the illiberal accuſer: and yet there were ſome gleams of returning grace in the latter, obſerving, "I am afraid, Mr. George, I have wronged you." "O yes," replied George, "that you have Sir Guiſe, and every body elſe in our family often enough, but that is nothing; good for evil, you know, is beſt: ſo if you wiſh to have a ſnug birth in your own houſe that was, and there live quiet, and be ſeen only by me, till we find what can be done, and how matters turn, why you will come along with me;— hat and wig cloſe tho', or we ſhall have all the pariſh about your ears, and about mine too, for bringing you amongſt them. Nay, now don't ſtand thinking about it: needs muſt, you know, Sir Guiſe, when the devil drives, and I'm ſure he is driving you hard enough: and now if I can but put you in the way of [100]preventing his carrying you clear off to the otherworld, and there caſting you into a much worſe place than I am going to take you to, why I think I ſhall have done a pretty tight job. But it gets late, and I muſt houſe you before people are abroad. If you ſhould once be ſeen it will be all over with us."

Independently of other reaſons, this latter ſuggeſtion was all-ſufficient to quicken the Baronet. He repaired his diſguiſe, while George went down with the lady Olivia's meſſage to Goody Brabſon; who, in anſwer to kind enquiries, ſaid, ſhe was much re⯑covered; and in a very few minutes after, Sir Guiſe Stuart, once poſſeſſor of the rich domain through which he was now to paſs, ſet forward under the patronage of a ſervant, and that the ſervant of a man he had irrepara⯑bly injured, for the manſion which, in two ſucceſſive periods of his life, had been the ſeat of his tyranny and of his diſgrace, and was now to be his refuge from penury and deſpair.

Theſe laſt evils, however, the commiſe⯑rating George, notwithſtanding, at ſome [101]moments, his honeſt indignation at the re⯑membrance of paſt vice got the better of his pity for preſent wretchedneſs, did all he could to blunt the edge of. On the way, he explained to Sir Guiſe as much as he could, without committing Olivia, the arrangement which had been made for his uninterrupted ſecurity, and for his ſup⯑port. George acquainted him, that though he muſt conſent for the ſake of his being ſafe, to be his ſole and abſolute priſo⯑ner; yet, that by the time he had amuſed himſelf with what he had brought in that baſket, he would be forth coming again. "In a few days, the weather will, I ſuppoſe," cried George, "make us look about us for a good fire, and that you ſhall not want. You will be lonely to be ſure: but then that is better than wicked company, and you know you could not have even that now, if you had all the world before you: ſo that, in the main, you are, to my thoughts, better here than any where elſe: ſo try, Sir Guiſe, to make it ſit eaſy, and as I have a hundred things to call me away, I wiſh you good [102]thoughts till I ſee you again; but I muſt not forget to tell you I have put a good book or two in the baſket."

Notwithſtanding all theſe alleviations, and the comfort to be derived from a compariſon of the preſent with the paſt, the ſituation of Sir Guiſe was truly forlorn. He eluded, it is true, the haunts of his robber-wife, and of all her looſe companions; the wiles of the bailiff were no longer to be dreaded, the day no more exhauſted in wandering, or the night ſpent in the public ſtreets, or in commixture with thoſe who infeſt them; the apprehenſion of famine, and the terror of meeting in every face a foe, were alſo at an end; all theſe he had eſcaped, but his ſecluſion from the ſpecies, offered him full leiſure to become acquainted with himſelf.

In the duſk of the evening, George paid his priſoner a ſecond viſit, and mentioned more particularly the plan of his eſtabliſh⯑ment. Being in a hurry, however, he ſaid little of the internal furniture of the abbey, except to obſerve, that though Sir Guiſe would, doubtleſs, find great alterations in it, the [103]whole range of it would be at his command, and what it might want in other reſpects would be made up in perfect ſecurity. "You are ſafe," obſerved George, "not only be⯑cauſe I ſhall always have the key of you in my pocket, but becauſe you muſt know there is not a man, woman, or child, in the three pariſhes, who could be perſuaded to put their heads into this houſe beſides myſelf, even if the doors were left wide open: for the ſtory goes, that the houſe is haunted by the troubled ſpirit of your dead lady, who comes from the little chapel where ſhe is buried, and walks all over the rooms every night, and has been ſeen go in from the tower at the top, and ſo get down one of the chimneys; though as to that, they can as eaſily fly in at a key hole, as if the ſaſh was left up on purpoſe,—but that's nothing;—you would not be afraid of your dead wife, if you were to ſee her; ſhe never did you any harm when ſhe were living in this very abbey; and I dare ſay, if ſhe might be permitted, for I am told, ſir, apparitions have their orders, and may not do always what they [104]like—ſhe would, if ſhe were here this mo⯑ment, rather pity and moan over you, and do ſomething to ſhew you ſhe forgave you, and wiſhed you well, than to hurt or frighten you. "See, ſir," continued George, "I have brought you ſome candles, and a tinder-box: we will have a light in a minute;—aye, and I have a bottle of wine for you, as good as any in Fitzorton cellar: and here's a pair of ſheets for your bed, as fine as my lady her⯑ſelf lies on. I can tell you, I've had a good look out to bring them off without being ſeen. There—we've got a light, you ſee: but the wind does ſo ſcud about theſe old apart⯑ments, there is no keeping in a candle. I think it feels dampiſh too. To morrow I'll get in ſome wood, and you can have a fire; 'tis a bluſtring night, is not it, ſir? but what is this to the nights you have made Squire Henry and I paſs in the woods about this eſtate! Bad as you may think the room where you are, I'd have given ten year's wages to have got my poor maſter into it, inſtead of which, there has he ſtood for hours in the middle of the night, in hail, rain, or [105]ſnow, to look at the place where his heart's firſt love was. O, Sir Guiſe! Sir Guiſe! Sir Guiſe!—but we muſt not think of theſe things; he is very happy now, but where is ſhe, poor thing!—O, Sir Guiſe! Sir Guiſe! well, I'll ſay no more. You look ſadly pale, do take a glaſs of wine, it will chear you up a-bit; there, ſir,—and look'e, here are ſweet biſcuits: O, if you knew who made them! and a cold fowl, and a neat's-tongue, and in ſhort, a little of every thing: and a nice clean cloth too. I'll make you up a ſupper in a minute, and you may either eat it while I go put the ſheets on the bed, or you may take it after I am gone."

"Stay as long as you can, George," ſighed the Baronet, "I will, ſir," replied George, "and am ſorry I can't be oftner with you, or longer at a time; for indeed, Sir Guiſe, I am very ſorry to ſee you in this way, and to leave you in it all to yourſelf: I could hardly keep from crying as I went away from you in the morning; after all, ſaid I, it muſt go very hard with a gentleman who has lived as he has lived, and had once a houſe full of good [106]people about him, to come to this!—but I'll get a good bed ready, that is always a com⯑fort to a man; have you found one that ſuits you, ſir?"

"No," anſwered Sir Guiſe dejectedly, "I have ſcarcely ſtirred from this room ſince you left me."

"There's a good one ſomewhere I am told, and I'll find him out as ſoon as I've lighted another candle. But you have not yet drank the wine I poured out, do pray, ſir. There— I know it will do you good, for it is Ma⯑deira, and older than I am:—ſo, now for the bed."

The different movements of Sir Guiſe's ſoul during this diſcourſe, and the reflec⯑tions that preceded and followed it, had ſo deſtroyed every bodily conſideration, that the unhappy man ſat abſtracted from all thoughts of ſuſtenance, though for many days paſt, he had not been compoſed enough to enjoy one comfortable meal. On George's return, he ſaw, for the firſt time, the cheeks of Sir Guiſe Stuart bathed in a torrent of tears. His worthy attendant—forgetting that [107]the object of his care had ever offended either God or man—felt his pure heart ſhake within him at the ſight, and as he gazed on the quivering lip, ſtreaming eye, and dimi⯑niſhed figure of the Baronet, "O, good dear ſir," he cried, "don't be caſt down, don't be diſheartened, pray, pray, don't. God is very merciful, and bringeth light out of darkneſs; only look in that book, ſir, I brought you this morning, particularly where he ſays that, 'he deſireth not the death of a ſinner, but rather that he ſhould turn from his wickedneſs and live!' and moreover that, 'the ſinner who repents, is better than ninety and nine perſons who have never been guilty.' How comfortable that is! Would to heaven, good father Arthur were here now!"

"Have you found any bed?" queſtioned Sir Guiſe, "I do not feel very well."

"I am afraid, ſir, you are very ill; but, with the bleſſing of God, I hope you will be better to-morrow; perhaps you would like to get into bed before I go, ſir."

[108]"If you pleaſe," anſwered Sir Guiſe, riſing with difficulty.

"Take my arm, Sir; but pray one more glaſs of wine—at any rate we'll take the bot⯑tle with us—you may wiſh for a little in the night. I have got you a decanter of nice water freſh from your own pump; and made out things as well as I could. All this is woman's work you know, Sir. I am but an aukward chamber-man—But I'll do the beſt I can, I will indeed; and will help you to pray to God, with all my ſoul, to make you better every way."

George had, in the courſe of this ſpeech, and the intermediate pauſes which he made, con⯑ducted, or rather carried Sir Guiſe through many apartments to that where he had pre⯑pared the bed, being the room fitted up for Mr. Burton at the time of the inoculation, and which Olivia had mentioned. At the moment of entrance Sir Guiſe drew back.— "I wiſh you had not happened to fix on this chamber," ſaid he.

"None of the others have ſo good a bed," replied George.

[109]"I ſhould have preferred them neverthe⯑leſs," ſaid Sir Guiſe in broken accents—"but 'tis no matter."

George retired till the Baronet got into bed; then aſked Sir Guiſe if he could do any thing more for him? aſſuring him that he would remain with him all night, but that it would be noticed at the caſtle, and ſpoil all. He then deſired to know whether he choſe to have the candle left burning, or be put out. "O, put it out," anſwered Sir Guiſe, "I can change my room to-morrow.

"I will put the ſheets on another bed if you think you ſhall ſleep more comfortably. I think nothing of the trouble," ſaid George.

"It does not matter for to-night," anſwered Sir Guiſe, "perhaps it is better as it is."

"Then good reſt to you, Sir; and may God hear your prayers, as I hope he will mine. Your name will be in all of them, I do aſſure you, Sir."

The good creature drew the curtain, re⯑peating his greeting, but did not leave the chamber, or the houſe, till he had put all things in order—ſo that in caſe Sir Guiſe [110]ſhould riſe before he could return in the morning, he might not want any accommo⯑dation the ſituation and circumſtances af⯑forded.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE apartment hinted at by Sir Guiſe, was that in which he had firſt received the blooming form, and laſt obſerved the pallid corpſe of lady Stuart his wife, and to which the bed and furniture, he had ſeen at Robert Irwin's formerly appertained; and it was the impreſſion made by this latter circumſtance, aſſociated with other affecting ideas, which produced his reluctance to ſleep there.

A thouſand promiſcuous and polluting ſcenes might have paſſed in that apartment ſince; when the ſons and daughters of diſſi⯑pation held their midnight revels at the abbey; but confederate guilt derives confi⯑dence from example, imitation, and num⯑bers: the terrors of the individual are ſilenced or put to flight by general audacity: far removed from theſe, Sir Guiſe Stuart was [111]now thrown upon himſelf. In the abode of his former enormities he was left to paſs the night where dreadful ſights had been ſeen, and tre⯑mendous ſighs had been heard—even in that chamber where all that was lovely, and in⯑tereſting in life, had felt his cruel arm, en⯑countered his furious eye, and aſſailed his unpitying ear.

Such is the ſympathy of painful as of pleaſ⯑ing ideas, that with theſe ſeemed to aſſemble in the mind of Sir Guiſe, a thouſand others no leſs afflicting. Memory brought forward, in terrible array, the moſt oppreſſive images of his atrocious hypocriſy: and the different, yet dire events of the little chapel of the inn at Adſell, of Edgecombe-hall, and of the Atwoods, came hurrying into the retroſpect—at once the figures of all thoſe whom he had wronged —a numerous band—poured upon his affrighted fancy. The wind had ariſen, and howled with more than uſual violence through the almoſt empty apartments. Sir Guiſe re⯑gretted that the candle had been extinguiſhed. Heavy pauſes of death-like ſilence were ſuc⯑ceeded by vehement burſts of the hurricane, [112]in which the looſened tiles fell into the areas, the caſements rattled, and ſome of the doors ſlapped to and fro amidſt the chaos of ſounds. He imagined he could diſtinguiſh human voices at one moment loud, and menacing, at another in moaning and whiſpered complain⯑ings. To theſe his fears, his fancy, and his conſcience, gave appropriate perſons. It was now the faultering accent of the dying Matilda; then of the injured Sir Armine; now the groans of Charles; and then again the ſwoonings of Caroline. Exhauſted by continued exertion he ſunk into a momen⯑tary doze, out of which he ſeemed to be arouſed by a legion of furies that bore to his diſtempered mind the ſhapes of Valentine Miles and his colleagues, led on by the furi⯑ous lady Tempeſt. In the midſt of a con⯑flicting ſtruggle with theſe, he thought he diſtinctly heard footſteps paceing along an adjoining apartment. Unable to ſupport the ſhock of this idea he leaped from his bed, and opening a door, that led from the ſound, he ran through the rooms which lay in the eaſtern direction of the abbey, where ſtop⯑ping [113]awhile, and every noiſe ſeeming to ceaſe, he ſought about for ſomething whereon to repoſe. After traverſing the place in vain ſeveral minutes, he perceived he had got into a part of the abbey which had always been left unfurniſhed; but he at laſt found a ſeat which projected from the window, and ſat down. The wind had much abated, and a heavy ſhower of rain falling ſoon after ſank it to a perfect calm—all was ſtill without, and a dreary ſilence prevailed within. En⯑couraged by this, he was riſing from his ſeat, in the hope of returning to his bed, when the noiſes ſuddenly were renewed, and to his infinite terror he heard one of the antique folding-doors, of a ſpacious apartment be⯑neath, open and cloſe. Sinking down again on the bench with affright, he obſerved from the window, which commanded a view of ſeveral of the rooms in the ſecond ſtory, a light moving from room to room with a ſtrange celerity that chilled his blood. Such was its ſpeed that, like lightning, it caught his eye only by flaſhes. Sir Guiſe left the room, and, without knowing what path to [114]take, ran forward by hazard rather than de⯑ſign; but turning to the left, he recovered the ſuite of rooms from which he had wandered, Making a trembling pauſe, in one of theſe, he heard a voice reverberate in hollow echoes one unvaried kind of cry. On lifting his eye to the window, he perceived the ſame light going as it were before the voice. The light vaniſhed, the voice continued—in a ſhort time the ſounds came evidently nearer, and in their advance rendered them not more loud than diſtinct: Sir Guiſe ſoon heard his own name pronounced, and repeated with a vio⯑lence that denoted at once miſery and deſpair. A heart more intrepid, and leſs criminal, than that of our recluſe, might have quaked at this —a noiſe, as of one running diſtractedly for⯑ward, accompanied the voice—the door of the apartment where Sir Guiſe ſtood, ſupporting himſelf by one of the pillows of the chim⯑ney, opened abruptly, and the figure of a man, bearing a light, ruſhed in, ſtill repeat⯑ing the name of Sir Guiſe Stuart.

CHAPTER XV.

THESE terrors, which certainly wanted not the power of guilt to render them more terrible, proceeded only from True George, who, on reaching the caſtle, had an unob⯑ſerved opportunity to inform Olivia of the manner in which he had placed, ſerved, and left their mutual charge.—"Yet I don't think, my lady, the poor man will get any ſleep, there does not ſeem a wink in his eyes, nor indeed any thing elſe but tears."—Olivia expreſſed a wiſh, that before George had gone off with his baſket, ſhe had thought to have put into it a cordial, which had proved of ſuch uſe to her beloved Henry whenever he ſuffered for want of ſleep. "I am ſure it would have procured him a good night's reſt, which, in any miſery you know, my good George, is a balm from heaven."—"It is too late now," continued Olivia, "to-morrow morning, my good George, you ſhall take it to him."—"I am ſorry your ladyſhip thinks it is too late, for I don't; and when the ſquire [116]is gone to bed if you pleaſe, my lady, to give the good ſtuff to me, and tell me how much our poor quaker ſhould have at a doſe, I'll ſtep with it to the abbey; and if I ſhould find him aſleep, as I ſhall not make much noiſe, why I'll leave him as I found him, and it will be ready for another time."

"But you ſtand in need of reſt yourſelf, my poor fellow," ſaid Olivia.

"I do ſo," anſwered George, "but to my thoughts I ought never to wake again if I were wicked enough to go to bed till I had carried a poor ſinful ſoul, locked up by him⯑ſelf in a huge houſe, like a deſerted town, ſomething to give him ſtrength to go on praying God to make him better."

Olivia gave him the cordial with due di⯑rections, and George ſet out juſt as the ſhower began to fall, for a ſecond nocturnal excur⯑ſion to the abbey. On his arrival he unlocked the great door, and opened every other with the greateſt caution, paſſing with ſtealing ſteps through the ſeveral long apartments, till he reached that in which he had left the Baro⯑net: but his conſternation at finding it [117]empty, aggravating his fears, brought to his mind the condition in which he had parted from his priſoner, eſpecially the regret he had expreſſed at ſleeping in that apart⯑ment, and made him adopt ſome of the ſuperſtitious, and horrible things ſuppoſed now to infeſt the abbey. He ran through every room in the caſtle, lantern in hand, till he found what he ſought in the manner, and condition we have recorded.

Long and reiterated, however, were the efforts of the protector of Sir Guiſe, before the latter could be reſtored to ſenſe or motion; and it was lucky that the gentle, and conſide⯑rate Olivia had added a ſmelling bottle of reſtoratives to the cordial. By the application of the former the wretched man ſufficiently recovered to diſtinguiſh the perſon who aſ⯑ſiſted him; and this producing confidence, he was, in due time, able to be conducted back to his bed, by the ſide of which George ſat, and having diminiſhed fear by gradual expla⯑nation, his charge was at once compoſed and grateful. "Now then, your Honour, for a little of this good ſtuff, which a good friend of mine [118]—I beg your pardon—a perſon of my ac⯑quaintance, who would not hurt a worm— gave me, and which will make you ſleep like a top, and ſo it ought, ſeeing the time my bringing it has kept you awake."

George mixed up the cordial-draught, ac⯑cording to rule and meaſure, in half a glaſs of the Madeira; and after Sir Guiſe had taken it, our good domeſtic ſeated himſelf by the bed-ſide to watch its operation.—"I hope there will be no more noiſes, Mr. George," ſaid the Baronet faintly—"as to noiſes, I'll tell you what, I never believed in theſe ſort of things in my life, till I came and ſaw you had left your warm bed, which, in the condition you were, I thought nothing but the devil himſelf could have perſuaded you to do—and I own when I could neither ſee nor hear any thing of you above or be⯑low, I began to imagine you were really car⯑ried off; and conſidering all things, one could not have wondered at it if you had. But now I have found you again, I come back to my old thoughts, that there are no candles going about without hands of fleſh and blood [119]to carry them, and no noiſes by day or night, but what are made by poor mortals, like you or I. A man's conſcience, to be ſure, will conjure up theſe things, and a perſon had better be haunted by a whole church-yard of glariſh ſpectres, as ſquire Henry called them—yea, though there were to come one or more out of every grave, than be haunted by that:— Now don't you think ſo?"

"I do indeed," anſwered Sir Guiſe, pa⯑thetically.

"And, therefore, Sir," reſumed George, "never mind any other lights or noiſes."

"I think," ſighed Sir Guiſe, "I need not trouble you any longer, at preſent, as I feel heavy, and might, perhaps, ſleep if I were alone."

"There then, Sir, is the ſmelling bottle on the chair juſt by you: day is almoſt at hand, ſo a candle will be of no uſe—I'll leave it, however, in the chimney i'the next room. I hope I ſhall find you faſt when I come again, but I'll not wake you; for to my thoughts 'tis one of the ſins to wake any body—Sleep is ſuch a nice ſoft comfortable [120]thing. Good morning, Sir, for 'tis long enough paſt twelve."

George now again withdrew, but waited in and adjacent room till he had manifeſt tokens of Sir Guiſe being in profound ſlumber. The good youth, at length, went home, where he ſought his own pillow; and if conſcious goodneſs did not ſoon after ſeal his eyes, con⯑ſcious goodneſs could alone beſtow the happy emotions that might keep them open.

CHAPTER XVI.

OLIVIA'S cordial draught had its full power on the corporal functions of her patient, for it produced an uninterrupted repoſe of many hours; indeed, of nearly the whole of the day—for the ſun was gilding with its ſetting rays the painted figures of his antique window as he aroſe from his bed.

But to what did he awake? The never⯑reſting worm was at length feeding on the breaſt which had long defied its envenomed tooth. The hour was come when he could no more deceive himſelf or others. Conducted to [121]the chief ſcenes of his iniquity,—the only ones, perhaps, in the whole range of the univerſe where conſcience could exert herſelf on a hard⯑ened heart: and ſtretched inceſſantly on the rack of conviction, he was by degrees humbled by chaſtiſement to renounce hypocriſy, even while he felt that he had in every other inſtance been a hypocrite.

Yet all that could be effected by per⯑ſevering goodneſs and pity, was done by Olivia Fitzorton and True George; and the forlorn object of their cares had continued under their guardianſhip ſome months,—during which no ſights were ſeen or voices heard in the abbey, but thoſe of compaſſion and good will. Yet the health of Sir Guiſe declined, and all the ſymptoms of a diſeaſed mind were noticed in his conduct. He paſſed ſud⯑denly from a violent and tumultuous to a ſet⯑tled malady on the ſpirits. His intellects were no way impaired. His general melan⯑choly was increaſed, but his raving pa⯑roxyſms were leſs frequent. He roved at in⯑tervals over every apartment of the houſe, and ſeemed to live moſt in thoſe which at [122]his firſt ſecluſion were avoided as objects of terror. The bed-chamber of lady Stuart, which had ſeveral times been changed for others, became at laſt his place of conſtant repoſe: thoſe of Caroline and Charles were viſited by turns; and in one or other of theſe his guardian George would often diſcover him bathed in tears.

He was one day found buſily employed in faſtening up a ſuite of apartments in the weſtern wing of the abbey, and on being aſked the reaſon, with a brief aſperity that might have rather been expected from John Fitzorton, he anſwered—"becauſe they are accurſed! They were my wicked wife's:" ſo he had for ſome time paſt called lady Tem⯑peſt, to diſtinguiſh her from lady Matilda Stuart, whom he termed bleſſed! But, at length, he moved from the chamber of the former, becauſe, he ſaid, he was unworthy to occupy it.

A report of all theſe changes was faith⯑fully made by George to Olivia: "But for all this my lady," ſaid George, "the man muſt die, unleſs he has ſome help beſides [123]yours and mine. I can ſee plainly he wants a doctor; but the worſt of it is we can't paſs him off to any body of that ſort as a quaker, becauſe 'tis not now one time in twenty that I find him either wigged or hatted: He will ſit you in the old green ſilk wrapper which he found, he ſays, in one of the lumber cheſts;—and which, he ſays, was ſomething belonging to his bleſſed firſt lady, as he calls her,—and he has got ſomething of a ſaſh or girdle about his waiſt, that he one day told me he was ſure he had ſeen worn by miſs Caroline—ſo that whoever goes to attend him muſt know him at once: not by his face neither ſo much, for that's not like the ſame; but he talks about himſelf and his wicked⯑neſs, and calls himſelf as great a villain, God knows, as he is! Oh! my lady, if you had heard what he ſaid laſt night about Jane At⯑wood: —he ſaid, ſhe was like an angel of light, and he like a fiend of darkneſs—poor man! I have thought better of him ever ſince I heard him ſay ſo—But for ſure, ſomething in the doctoring way he muſt have, or he'll be gone."

[124]"You terrify me, George; and why not let the good Mr. Burton go to him? He is honeſty itſelf. In him we may confide, and nobody ſave himſelf will know but that it is one of his patients, afflicted with ſome diſorder that requires he ſhould be alone, which is, you know, alas! the truth,— and ſo has borrowed a room in the abbey to place him within reach:"—"hey, my lady?" ſaid George—"Yes, and even if my dear Henry ſhould hear of it, for mine and his children's ſake, if the apothecary obſerves it may be infectious, he will eaſily be prevailed upon not to indulge his curioſity, and there it will end."—"The very man, my lady! O! what a clever lady you are to think of him! not a ſoul will know it from Mr. Doctor Burton I am ſure. I'll go to him the firſt time I can ſlip out for an hour; 'tis but a ſtep of a few miles—But then, my lady, ſhould we not tell Sir Guiſe about it? Poor Gentleman, we ſhould take more care than ever now he's getting good not to throw him back again: Well, I'll take care [125]of that. Thank you, thank you, my lady, two heads are always better than one."

The point was ſoon ſettled; the worthy apothecary was entruſted, and his patient reconciled to receive his viſits; and, indeed, it would not have been eaſy to have found a third perſon more fitted to the taſk of con⯑ſoling a ſick and ſolitary recluſe, than the good Burton. He was, truly, as the reader has ſeen in the ſeveral glances he has had of his manners and character, one of the moſt aſſiduous, affectionate, true-hearted beings in the world, full of pity and forgiveneſs, and by no means unſkilful in his buſineſs. By his own induſtry, foſtered by his patrons at the caſtle, he had contrived to bring up his very large family, though but a village apo⯑thecary, where, as Jonathan obſerved, there were few people to be either ſick or ſorry. Of two-and-twenty children there remained alive fifteen, but of theſe only the two daughters, and three of their youngeſt bro⯑thers, were on his hands—the reſt of the males had been comfortably diſpoſed of by John, Henry, or James Fitzorton—the [126]females were provided for by Olivia. So that though the apothecary, from long habi⯑tude and attachment, remained in the little village where he had firſt eſtabliſhed, and ſtill carried on buſineſs with his uſual unre⯑laxed attention, even in the very ſhop where laxed attention, even in the very ſhop where Jonathan Armſtrong, in his maſquerade rags and ſtumps, paid him a viſit, he was conſi⯑dered as a man riſing above all domeſtic in⯑cumbrances, and laying by little yearly gifts and gettings for his children:—yet with a hand ſo clean, and a heart ſo open, that no honeſt diſtreſs within his reach, either of body or of mind, but found an adviſer and a friend in Mr. Burton of Brixom. And all this progreſſive good fortune aroſe from the very ſlight beginnings of his interview with the pretended lame beggar, whom he followed to Fitzorton to return a ſixpence that was paid by a miſtake for the memorable bottle of hartſhorn.

Slight, and ſometimes too nice for inſtant obſervation, are the means which bring about the moſt important ends; as the proudeſt rivers may have their ſource in the humbleſt [127]vales, and iſſue from the ſcantieſt rills. It is true, that before Jonathan's adventure, our friend Burton was, upon principles of general benevolence, included in the bounty liſt of the caſtle, as an oppreſſed and ſtruggling man, to be occaſionally aſſiſted; but the ſplendid ſixpence brought his heart into action and notice, and, by aſcertaining its worth, created an intereſt for him in every lover of virtue. The drawing of the man had been looked at tranſiently before, it was then placed in an unfavourable light, but it was this ſimple ſixpence that ſhifted the picture to a ſpot where its colours could be feen and be appreciated.

Prior to our apothecary's viſiting Sir Guiſe Stuart, the diligent George had related to him ſuch parts of the hiſtory of that unhappy outcaſt as were neceſſary to excite his entire commiſeration; ſo that although Burton was amongſt thoſe who had conceived the moſt unqualified deteſtation of the Baronet's former practiſes, he was by no means prejudiced beyond the power of penitence to change [128]his ſentiments in the proportion that the of⯑fender changed his life.

Although Burton had for ſome time paſt been an almoſt daily viſitor at the caſtle, his being all at once obſerved to take his ride, or walk, into the proſcribed and deſolate abbey, excited general enquiry into his motive, but the reaſon hinted at by Olivia to George, and adopted by the apothecary, was ſo natural, and, in effect, ſo true, that the apprehenſion of any epidemic malady not only prevented the enquirers from aſking any more queſtions, but made the ſwains, and other perſons of the ſurrounding villages, go to ſeveral places by round-about paths rather than cut through the abbey paſtures, or come within a mile of its ſuppoſed tainted air.— Indeed ſome thought it not very ſafe to come into contact with Burton himſelf, and we know not whether his attendance on this one patient might not loſe him many others; for the natural gathering of a ſtory had increaſed the malignity of the abbey invalid from a putrid fever to the ſpotted peſtilence; and the good folks made it a kind of pariſh [129]buſineſs not to ſend to Burton, if it could poſſibly be avoided, till he had done with the man that had got the plague.

George, however, was obſerved to ven⯑ture in more than once: ſome blamed his fool hardineſs, and ſome praiſed his huma⯑nity; while others ſaid, if he regarded not his own health, he had no right to hazard that of his neighbours; and the plague, they had underſtood, was a thing that, like a per⯑ſon charmed, would kill at a touch,—nay, and at a mile diſtance.

Thus then was the abbey under a double proſcription; firſt, on account of the vices of Sir Guiſe Stuart; and, ſecondly, from the diſeaſes of a contagious man—perhaps had the country people known the man was that very Sir Guiſe Stuart himſelf, they would have held the manſion in yet greater dread, and have left the county to ſettle beyond reach of the peſt.

Our good apothecary, however, and True George, frequently met at the apart⯑ments of the Baronet, and took the active management of his health and comforts [130]between them; while Olivia, like ſome re⯑compenſing, yet inviſible power, ſuperin⯑tended their office, and encouraged their zeal. Burton had contrived to fix in the abbey kitchen an old woman, who knew ſomething of cookery, and who undertook to live in ſome of the rooms below, provided the plaguy gentleman would promiſe not to come near her; and on being ſolemnly aſſured by the apothecary that it would be impoſſible for her to catch it, while ſhe kept out of his way, and attended only to her own buſineſs, accepted the office. Nothing, however, could induce her to go near him. True George, therefore, continued the office of gentleman of the bed-chamber, and thus the economy of the houſehold was perfectly well ſettled.

The object of their cares, however, often wanted more than bed or board, or than all the drugs the materia medica could furniſh. His mind was ſtruck! his conſcience was in arms! and the ſpirit of the man was departed from him!—yetevery chearing, every ſuſtaining art was tried, and ſometimes not without ſucceſs. [131]Now and then the apothecary would ſeduce him into a game of back-gammon, and ſome⯑times aſſiſt him to take half an hour's exerciſe in an area of the court yard, that was ſhaded from obſervation by the abbey wall. George would occaſionally play him a tune on the flute, lead him into momentary ſports, tell him a merry tale, and by a thouſand ways beguile him from himſelf. The Baronet would often ſpeak his thanks by a ſmile, but oftner by a tear. In general, however, he declined motion, though he found it difficult to reſt. He would take his ſolitary rounds of the caſtle, ſhift his viſits from the room of his Matilda to that of Caroline or Charles. He would paſs lady Tempeſt's door with every mark of ſcorn, and once ventured with Burton to go into what had been the general breakfaſting-room, and from thence into the library; but a ſudden thought drove him haſtily from both theſe, and the reſidue of the day on which he had hazarded this experiment, was unuſually melancholy.

CHAPTER XVII.

IT was in that breakfaſting-room, the imperious huſband, and cruel father, had fallen upon his knees to CURSE the beſt and moſt obedient of wives; and it was in that library, he had impoſed his hard commands on the moſt obſervant and dutiful of daughters. The bell with which he had ſummoned her into his preſence, was amongſt the few fix⯑tures that remained, and as he caſt his eye upwards to ſurvey it, though the wires were broken, and nothing ſeemed entire, but the part on which he had preſſed his tyrannic hand, it ſtruck his heart with a ſound more aweful than the knell of death. So acute is the memory of guilt when quickened by conſcience.

But an impreſſion more intolerable for him to bear, even than theſe, though accompa⯑nied perhaps, from its profundity, with leſs actual violence, proceeded from the unex⯑pected ſight of Jane Atwood at Goody Brab⯑ſon's. Attached to this young woman were [133]ſo many terrible tranſactions; the deluſion of youth! the deſertion of age! the lying lips! and the never-conſuming fire! the excellency of True George! whoſe conduct ſhone forth in the character of a protector, contraſted with his own hateful behaviour as a ſeducer! Hence a glimpſe of the injured Jane, though but momentary, acted upon him as the com⯑miſſioned lightning acts upon its object, over⯑whelming the proudeſt faculties of our nature, and preſerving memory only to torture him with partial recollection of his crimes.

He had been under the infliction of feelings like theſe, ſome days, when, making his accuſtomed call, the apothecary perceived he had been writing, and finding him much agitated, "truly, my good ſir," ſaid he, feeling his pulſe, "this will never do. You can do yourſelf more harm in a ſingle hour, than I can do you good in a month: and unleſs you will preſcribe a little for your⯑ſelf—"

"No, ſir," replied his patient, with a feeble voice, but earneſt manner; "you can, on the contrary, contribute more to the [134]health of my body, and peace of my mind, in one hour, than I can in the reſidue of life."

"Then I am ſure, if I can, I will," ſaid the good man ardently, "that is," a little correcting his warmth: "if I imagine what you have to propoſe will be really for your good, becauſe you know, my good ſir, pa⯑tients are not always the beſt judges of their own caſe, nor of the remedies beſt adapted to their cure."

"But mine can be effected only one way," anſwered Sir Guiſe, with augmented emotion. He then took from under his wrapper a written paper, which he read aloud, though in every line it criminated him⯑ſelf. Often did he drop the ſcalding tear of ſharpeſt remorſe upon the pages, and at length he exclaimed, "Oh! if you would ever wiſh me to remain long enough in this world, to make my peace in another, deliver this as it is addreſſed. You know the reaſons why I cannot aſk this favour of Mr. George: for though there are not any ſenti⯑ments that can interrupt the happineſs of that [135]good young man, I have tried, in vain, to mention to him even the name of the injured girl to whom this letter is written: In pity take it, then, and grant my requeſt."

"I will, ſir," anſwered Burton, wiping his eyes and receiving the letter, after the trembling hands of the Baronet had folded it up again, and put under it a wafer. "I expect to ſee her this very evening: it is her birth day: we are all to meet on it, and drink to her health."

"Are you?" queſtioned Sir Guiſe, with quivering lips: "I,—I,—will drink it too; alas! alas! Mr. Burton!"

Sir Guiſe ſmote his breaſt, and it was a conſiderable time before the kind hearted apothecary could compoſe him. He re⯑mained, however, in his pious endeavour till long after the anniverſary-feſtival at the Fitzorton-arms was begun; he had ſet apart that evening for gaiety and grateful pleaſure amongſt his friends and benefactors; but he could not feel himſelf in a ſituation to enjoy ſociety till he had adminiſtered to his now intereſting ſolitary, all the comfort in his [136]power to beſtow. What were the pleaſant events and diſcoveries that awaited his heart, as if to reward him for his worthy deeds, previous to his joining the party, the ſympa⯑thizing reader already knows; and juſt before the company broke up, he performed his promiſe, by giving the pacquet to Jane. At⯑wood: taking care to put it into an envelope, that the hand writing might not immediately be diſcovered, and as he gave it into her hand, he ſaid, "this is for your own pretty eyes; it is the caſe of a patient of mine, and a friend of yours, who has long been in a very bad way, and who had been given over: but who, I am in hopes, will do better after all; if you can aſſiſt a little in the cure, I am ſure you will."

"From ſome of my lady's cottagers, I ſuppoſe," ſaid Jane, putting the pacquet into her pocket; "I will certainly attend it, Mr. Burton, before I go to bed."

CHAPTER XVIII.

THUS, by a retroſpective view, having brought forward ſome principal figures, which had been a conſiderable time in the back-ground of this our family-picture, we will now carry back the pencil to a groupe, which, we feel aſſured, will always be looked at with complacence, whether painted in the deepeſt ſhades of diſtreſs, or in the gayeſt colourings of proſperity.

The honoured, and, ſurely we may now be permitted to call her, the honourable Jane Atwood,—after crowning the long fidelity of her worthy lover with hopes that filled his honeſt heart with joy,—was no ſooner left alone, than ſhe took from her pocket the pacquet, concerning which the good apothe⯑cary had excited her curioſity; nay more, had moved her pity. But what were her emotions, when, on opening the envelope, ſhe ſaw the well-known characters of Sir Guiſe Stuart! Since the hour of her eſcape from the raſh action ſhe had committed on [138]his account, ſhe had never ſuffered even his name to paſs her lips; and being at length thoroughly convinced of his unworthineſs, ſhe had exchanged the ſofter ſentiment in his favour, for as much of diſlike as was conſiſtent with a nature ſo gentle as hers.

But the very addreſs of the letter,—'To the moſt injured, from the moſt penitent,'— was, of itſelf, ſufficient to create very power⯑ful feelings; this intereſting ſuperſcription, however, did not occaſion a moment's balance in her mind on what to reſolve, as to the letter itſelf. "I hope," ſaid ſhe, "from my ſoul, that it is dictated by penitence; but be the motive of writing it what it may, worlds ſhould not tempt me now to read it; and ſurely it was wrong in Mr. Burton, who, alas! is but too well acquainted with our ſad ſtory, to deliver it; and from whence could he receive it? Where is this unhappy—this ill-fated man? Perhaps he is in the heavi⯑neſs of ſome deep diſtreſs, or of a dire ſick⯑neſs. Mr. Burton ſpoke of his having been given over, yet mentioned hopes of doing [139]well. Praiſe be to God, he is not fit—ah, none of us are fit to die!"

Reflections like theſe forced their way to her trembling lips; her ſtreaming eyes were fixed on the direction of the letter; and when her apoſtrophe ended, True George tapped at her door to gratify himſelf with one more look before he retired to reſt. She was preciſely in the ſituation above deſcribed, when he entered her apartment; and, ſeeing a letter in her hand, ſtood aloof, leſt he ſhould ſeem to be obtruſive or impertinent; but without aſking the cauſe, he tried what⯑ever affection could ſuggeſt to remove the effect. "And I left you, Mrs. Jane, in ſuch good ſpirits, juſt before I anſwered the Squire's bell!" cried the poor fellow. "George," ſaid the afflicted girl, holding the letter near enough for the addreſs to be read; "I have received a pacquet from—but, you ſee by whom it was written."

"Ye—ye—yes, Mrs. Jane, ye—yes, I—I do: from Sir—Gui—Guiſe—Stu—Stuart!" replied George in a ſtammer; after which, and a ſtop to take breath, he added, rather [140]more connectedly, "I—I—don't now won⯑der then, Mrs. Jane, that you—you are in the way I ſee you; but don't think, Mrs. Jane, I can bear to ſee you cry,—and what⯑ever may be in that letter to make thoſe tears fall ſo faſt, don't think any kind words Mr. Partington may have forced you to ſay, per—perhaps againſt your will, ſhall make True George hold you to what you ſpoke in his favour. I have often heard what firſt love is, that it goes to the grave with ſome folks, let other folks be never ſo falſe-hearted, heigho! I think it will go to the grave with me: but indeed,—indeed, Jane, I had rather ſee you happy with any body you liked, than unhappy with any body you don't, a thouſand thouſand times over, though it were myſelf, heigho!—ſo you are not to think of what Mr. Partington made you promiſe."

"Made me!" repeated the deeply penetra⯑ted Jane: "no, dear and generous George, the promiſe I gave was willing and ſincere; this hand is yours;—this heart—would it were more worthy,—is every moment more [141]ſenſible of your unremitted goodneſs to me, or if I have deſerved any ſhare of that good⯑neſs, it is from having kept you from a hand, which, alas! never, never can be again what it was;—what,—for your ſake as much as my own,—I wiſh it were!"

George uttered not a word, even though the purified and precious hand thus again given had been at his lips ſome moments, but ſoon after the fair and trembling form of all he loved ſunk into his arms.

"As to the letter," exclaimed Jane, on recovering, "it was my ſettled purpoſe not to read it; before you came into the room, Mr. Burton delivered it with every mark of caution; but I gather that the un⯑happy writer of it has been dangerouſly ſick. The letter will doubtleſs mention particulars.' Thus, giving it to George, ſhe ſaid, "I here place it in the beſt way to ſerve the unfortunate writer; my deareſt George will look over it with a good and merciful eye: offer his aſſiſtance to—to the unhappy—ſhould it be within his power, and either impart or ſuppreſs its contents to his Jane, as he [142]judges it right:—ſo good night, deareſt George."

Jane Atwood had left the room before George could make any reply, but had ſhe remained longer, it is probable her lover would not have felt himſelf either willing or able to ſpeak; the three ſtrong ſpells which in two little words accompanied his name, "my deareſt George," had bound him ſo faſt, that he appeared almoſt to be fixed in an entire charm on the ſpot where it was wrought. But when he could ſufficiently attend to mortal things, he opened Sir Guiſe Stuart's pacquet and read what follows.

Theſe ſentiments affected the generous heart of True George, ſcarcely leſs power⯑fully than they would have done that of Jane Atwood; and it was the firſt impreſſion on the former, to make the latter partaker of them, and that with the beſt intentions in the world; to place the preſent repentant ſtate of Sir Guiſe in the faireſt and ſtrongeſt light to the woman he had wronged. But after revolving the matter on his pillow, he thought it his duty to conſult his coad⯑jutor, Olivia, on the ſubject; and was favoured with an opportunity, in the courſe of the ſame morning, while Henry Fitzorton took a walk with his children: " 'An it pleaſe you, my lady," ſaid he, "tho' there was nothing new under the ſun in king Solomon's time, I think times are altered, and that a miracle, as they call it in the ſcriptures, is at work at the bleſſed minute I am talking to my lady." In proof of this aſſertion, [145]the good George, in his way, gave a hiſtory of what attached to the Baronet's epiſtle, by way of introduction, and then preſented the epiſtle itſelf.

The colour varied in the cheeks of Olivia, ſeveral times, during the peruſal, as the emotions of pity, regret, and wonder, were excited in her breaſt. "We have been ſome time preparing ourſelves for a change of this happy kind you know," ſaid he. "Poor man! It is never too late to be good my truſty friend; but, I think, it may be as well not to ſhew our friend Jane the letter, for the preſent: I am going to join my deareſt huſband and children, who are ſtrolling, this fine morning, ſomewhere about the park and gardens; and as I walk along, I will think what ſtep ſeems moſt diſcreet for us to take; and if you will come into my dreſſing⯑room, after dear Jane has left me, we will confer."

"Yes, my lady, I always know when Mrs. Jane is coming, before I ſee her pretty face," ſaid George.

[146]"Indeed!" exclaimed Olivia, "how ſo?"

"By her ſtep, my lady. I dare ſay your ladyſhip knows the ſquire's ſtep from a thouſand."

"Then you are within hearing, are you?"

"Your ladyſhip knows that my little cloſet for whips, and ſpurs, and angling rods, and nets, and other little odd gimcracks, is juſt under the great ſtair-caſe." "And ſo," obſerved Olivia ſmiling, "you angled for her heart, and then put the poor thing in your net, did you? That is the way you caught her, is it Mr. George? Well, as I'm ſure you will uſe your captive kindly, I hope you may be in your gimcrack cloſet when ſhe next comes down ſtairs."

"With God's bleſſing, my lady, I hope I ſhall," ſaid George, making his bow and exit in high ſatisfaction.

Olivia again read the penitentials of Sir Guiſe Stuart. An idea ſtruck her as ſhe was putting the pacquet in her pocket which agi⯑tated [147]her extremely, and at length ſuffuſed her ſweet eyes in tears. She ſat down on a bench in one of the windings of the ſhrubbery, to recover herſelf, but the idea ſeemed to gain ſtrength. The ſound, however, of well known voices, which would at any time have cheared her drooping heart—for they were thoſe of her huſband, ſon, and daughter— ſoon made her ſpring up, and run, with all the earneſtneſs of unaffected conjugal and maternal love, to meet them; Henry per⯑ceiving her, had aſſiſted the children to hide: the little ones concealed themſelves amongſt the ſhrubs, while the father ſtood behind ſome laurels; and juſt as Olivia paſt, Henry ran, from this poetical retreat, into the arms of his wife. Soon after, the little John was diſcovered through the emblematic leaves of a young ſir, and his ſiſter ſuffered herſelf to be eſpied, ‘Half in a ſhower of cluſt'ring roſes loſt.’

Olivia's tears became, in a moment, ſofter than the dew; yet they were ſtill to be ſeen [148]on her cheek, Henry was the firſt to obſerve them, for he felt them on his lips. "My dear Olivia has been weeping," ſaid he, "how is this?" Ere ſhe had time to anſwer this queſtion, which breathed more melody and ſoftneſs than the plaining notes of aerial muſic—an innocent ſtrife between the children, demanded the adjuſtment of their mother. Little Caroline, who, in her walks, was continually in ſearch of ſome⯑thing beautiful and ſingular in its kind, whether animated or vegetable, and who diſcovered an early taſte and delicacy in the ſelection, had found what ſhe deemed im⯑portant, and came running with it in her cloſed hand towards her brother, aſking, at every ſtep, "How much he would give for a ſight of what ſhe had found?" "No⯑thing," anſwered John; "I can ſee it without paying for it, if I thought it worth while." Caroline defying him, John proceeded to actions, which diſcovered more of reſolution than gallantry. Olivia obſerved "he ſhould never be rude to young ladies, who were objects of protection, not of aſſault." [149]"Beſides," ſaid Henry, "it is not pretty to ſteal ſecrets, when people offer to ſell them; but, if they did not, a ſecret is a thing ſacred, and it is mean and wicked to pry into it." Before his father had done ſpeaking, John deſiſted; and yielding his point,—juſt as his uncle, on any ſtronger occaſion, would have yielded,—he ran to kiſs the pretty hand that held the object of contention. Caroline, hereupon, would vo⯑luntarily have let him into the ſecret, which, in truth,—was only a captive graſhopper,— had not Henry repeated his remark, as to the ſanctity of a ſecret.

But no ſooner was harmony reſtored amongſt the little ones, than Olivia ſaid with ſome vivacity: "You think then, my Henry, that even brothers and ſiſters, which are, in a manner, parts of one another, may have their little reſerves?"—"Un⯑doubtedly," replied Henry, "and, as they grow up, their great ones too; ſecrets ought to be inviolable. For my part, I know not how to forgive any body, who would inſidiouſly rob me of what I judged [150]right to conceal."—"But then, I preſume," obſerved his wife, tremulouſly, "you do not extend this reſervation to married peo⯑ple: you would not excuſe a man or woman, bound by ties ſo near and dear, to have an uncommunicated action, or even a thought, of any conſequence?"

The emphatic manner in which Olivia ſpoke, proceeded from a certain delicate conſciouſneſs in herſelf, but made Henry, once more, tremble for his own ſecret, and he heſitated; which his lady interpreting againſt herſelf, obſerved, ſhe felt his anſwer in his ſilence. It was, in truth, an idea of this kind which had at firſt brought tears into her eyes, and was now ſtarting them again. "I confeſs," ſaid ſhe, "I have, for ſome time, treated my Henry with guilty unkindneſs, by ſhutting up, in my own breaſt, a certain tranſaction he had a right to know, and no other excuſe have I to offer, than that, as it did not immediately connect with any thing eſſential to his repoſe, I thought the diſcovery of it might be made when it would be more ſatisfactory to him [151]Pray, pray, forgive me, my deareſt love, and you ſhall have the knowledge and hiſtory of it inſtantly," continued ſhe with equal ſweetneſs, and was juſt about to draw the explanatory letter of Sir Guiſe Stuart from her pocket.

"I will only excuſe you," anſwered Henry, much relieved by finding the ſecret had ſo well ſhifted ground, "by your pro⯑miſing to nurſe, fondle, guard, and enter⯑tain it in your own boſom, till you think it is in the ſtate to give both of us, and all whom it may concern, the moſt pleaſure; but I would not hear it now for the world."

"Heigho," ſighed and ſmiled Olivia, "well, then, as I do ſtill think it may be better by-and-by, I believe I muſt accept your conditions. But I wiſh you had a ſecret too, Henry; perhaps you have."

Henry was again embarraſſed, but as ſpeedily releaſed, by her innocently ſaying, with a gaiety that cleared every cloud of apprehenſion, "But if you have not got one, I beg you will provide yourſelf as ſoon as you can, and not tell me a word of [152]it; and then, when it is juſt as you wiſh it to be, we will make an exchange."

"A bargain," anſwered Henry, "and I ſeal it with a kiſs."

"And theſe dear things ſhall be witneſſes o the compact," exclaimed Olivia, em⯑bracing her children.

"Yes, and ſign and ſeal it, in like man⯑ner," ſaid Henry, catching them from her arms. Thus the little family party were all good friends, though each kept their ſecret. The firſt notice was now given by the dinner bell; and the flowery ſcenes, where the treaty of pacification had been made, and he articles agreed upon, were left for the caſtle.

CHAPTER XIX.

NOTHING could have fallen out more favourably than the little domeſtic occur⯑rences, above related, for reconciling the truly delicate Olivia to her benevolent plan, and encouraging her to purſue it. Under theſe cheering circumſtances, ſhe turned her thoughts towards the unfortunate Ba⯑ronet's preſent ſituation, with more energy: and gave, to the 'genial current of her ſoul,' an uninterrupted courſe. She was, however, unuſually reſerved, even though uncommonly happy, during the whole time of dreſſing. She gave no anſwer to Jane's wiſh, to know what ſhe would be pleaſed to put on. "Have I been unfortunate enough to offend my deareſt miſtreſs?" queſtioned the gentle attendant. "O! no, I have only been in a ſort of day-dream, dear Jane," ſaid her miſtreſs, "in which my mind has been ſo much employed, that I quite forgot my perſon; and yet, though I did not chat as uſual, I don't know that I [154]ever thought of you more, ſince I began to love you; and that is, you know, now many years ago." The grateful Jane bowed her head ſo lowly, that her cheek reached her lady's hand, which ſhe ventured to preſs to her lips. Olivia then fixed on the ornaments of the day, and her toilette being finiſhed, juſt as the preparation bell gave the laſt ſum⯑mons, "I have ſomething to ſay to our good George," ſaid Olivia, "do ſtep and tell him I want to ſpeak with him; poſſibly you may find him in his watch-box of guns, traps, angles, and other little odd things, underneath the ſtairs; I have heard of his being there a little before dinner; but be he where he will, I know I cannot make him hap⯑pier than to ſend for him by ſuch a meſſenger."

Olivia's orders were ſmilingly given, and ſmilingly obeyed; and when George made his appearance, his lady in the ſame flow of good ſpirits, and good humour, informed him, that after beſtowing on the ſubject, in which they were mutually intereſted, all the attention of which ſhe was miſtreſs, ſhe could not but confeſs there was a difficulty [155]in it, that inclined her to believe much good might ariſe from calling in a third perſon as auxiliary; and the only point to ſettle was who this ſhould be—to Jane, to Henry, to Parlington, or to the apothecary, ſhe had her objections. "In the imme⯑diate ſtage of the affair we ſtand in need of ſome one, my good fellow," ſaid ſhe, "who, by his diſpaſſionate wiſdom, may inſtruct us how to proceed in a matter which I take to be of real importance; for I cannot but look upon the letter of this wretched man, as the forerunner of ſomething extraordinary. Now if it were any way poſſible, to prevail on my brother John Fitzorton, to hear any thing which relates to one, againſt whom his wrath has been ſo often juſtly kindled, he is the man in the world to be reſorted to on this occaſion."

"An pleaſe you my lady," ſaid George, "if it was the devil himſelf—God forgive me for ſpeaking of him before your lady⯑ſhip—Mr. Sir John would ſee that the devil had his due, though he defied him and all [156]his works; and if ſo be my lady as you think we want a little help in this buſineſs, Mr. Sir John is your man: only we muſt not ſay any thing to Sir Guiſe about it, as he would be frightened out of his wits, for he has always been mortally afraid of Mr. Sir John."

Olivia ſaid ſhe would turn the matter in her mind again, deſired he would continue, meanwhile, his attentions to Sir Guiſe, and particularly to aſſure him that he might de⯑pend on the prayers of the good Jane.— "You know, my friend," ſaid Olivia, "we may very ſafely promiſe him this, eſpecially as I will myſelf undertake, at a fit time, to make her acquainted with the ſentiments of his epiſtle."

When Henry took his afternoon wood walk, from which Olivia excuſed herſelf, ſhe ſat down to addreſs John Fitzorton in behalf of the man on earth he held moſt in con⯑tempt. The reader, however, will believe that the cauſe could not have fallen into better hands, and that it would not have been poſ⯑ſible for an advocate to have had greater [157]power with the heart of the perſon addreſſed. But the heart of John Fitzorton, in a caſe of conſcience, was not, as we have already ſeen, to be biaſſed by love itſelf.

While the fair pleader was ruminating what arguments to employ, the good apothe⯑cary craved audience, to relate a very pathe⯑tic ſcene, of which he had juſt been a ſpec⯑tator at the abbey. He informed her, that the thick melancholy which had for ſome time ſettled on Sir Guiſe, had, at length, brought on ſo utter a deſolation of ſpirits, that much of his day paſſed in tears; and when theſe refuſed to flow, an anguiſh little ſhort of madneſs ſucceeded: but on every return to reaſon he called out on his children, and the injured Fitzortons, and could he live to re⯑ceive the pardon of theſe in this world, his puniſhment even in the next would be made more tolerable, and ſaid if he could converſe but five minutes with Sir John, he would tell him ſomething for the good of ſquire Charles, and miſs Caroline.

"Indeed! then tell our good George to be in readineſs to take diſpatches to the poſt-houſe; [158]and do you Mr. Burton draw up the caſe of your unhappy patient, juſt as you have ſtated it to me. Let us loſe no time my worthy friend—in the next room we ſhall find all writing materials."

CHAPTER XX.

SUCH a letter then was written, enclo⯑ſing ſuch a caſe, as brought John with all ſpeed to the caſtle.

"My dear, dear brother!" ſaid Henry, who happened to be walking in his park as John rode by, "how kind is this viſit! how unexpected! what a treat will it be to my dear Olivia and our children! you cannot think how your little nameſake grows, and more like his uncle every day. Ah! may he prove as worthy! I languiſhed to tell you how infinitely ſenſible I am of your goodneſs in your diſpatches brought me by George, and of my wife's incomparable excellencies, and if I am not even yet as happy as—I ought to be,—it is the ſad infirmity of my nature, and you muſt not chide. Olivia remains [159]bleſſed, our children are healthy and happy: their father is not wretched. No, he is af⯑fectionately grateful—and now his dear John is added to the family groupe—all—all—will be as it ſhould be."

Theſe expreſſions were uttered with all the accuſtomed ardour of the ſpeaker, while he walked by the ſide of John's horſe, claſping his brother's hand: yet John could perceive, even in Henry's account of happineſs, the traces of infelicity, but he knew it was like the touches of an old, and, probably, incurable diſorder, whoſe virulence being paſt, nothing but a weakneſs remained—he, therefore, heard Henry's effuſions without adverting to the lets and hindrances which accompanied them; congratulating him on the health of the children.

"And here they are," ſaid Henry, "coming with their dear mother to give their uncle welcome."

The day was paſt amidſt domeſtic ſatisfac⯑tions, which did not allow John any opportu⯑nity to confer with Olivia, or purſue the ob⯑ject of his journey, but at tea he obſerved [160]that he ſhould not make his appearance any more till ſupper, and that he ſhould have oc⯑caſion for George. Having thus ſecured the intermediate hours, he ſet out as ſoon as it was duſk, attended by George, for the abbey; at the gate of which the good apothecary was juſt remounting his horſe, after having paid his evening viſit to his patient: he expreſſed infinite ſatisfaction at the ſight of John Fitz⯑orton, but ſaid, Sir Guiſe's perſonal health went much more rapidly to decline than he expected, and that a nervous kind of terror had, ſince the evening, ſeized his mind, which called for ſomething compoſing, and for that he was going home.

Though John ſtill diſtruſted the Baronet's profeſſions, and determined to judge for him⯑ſelf, he did not prevent Burton from ſetting off full ſpeed with every mark of alarm and ſolicitude. George obſerved that he never ſaw the doctor look more in a fright.

"Let us go into the abbey," ſaid John, "I know not the way through theſe ruins, and you muſt conduct me."

[161]When they had gained the great hall they were accoſted by the woman who had under⯑taken the office of cook—"O! Mr. George," exclaimed ſhe, "this poor quaker man is, I fancy, very bad to night. He moans and takes on moſt piteouſly: I never go within ſight of him you know, but he made my old heart ake to hear him juſt now.— However I believe he is ſafe for the night, as I heard him go into the room where he ſleeps a little while ago, and ſince that, I thought I heard the curtains draw backwards and for⯑wards, and for my part I think you had better not diſturb him to-night, for he does not often get any reſt."—George, receiving a nod from John Fitzorton, continued his way through the apartments till he came to that of the Baronet.

The door of his bed-chamber was left open, and a voice from the bed was diſtinctly heard pronouncing theſe words:—"O! my poor, poor children!—my murdered wife!—my injured friends!—why do I yet live to empoiſon the air ſhut up like the ghoſt of ſome murderer in the manſion where my foul [162]deeds were committed?—here am I left to be haunted by my own guilty ſpirits. Would I had died when the generous John Fitzorton firſt avenged his father.—To what am I re⯑duced! but how much more to be envied is the corpſe of Sir Armine in the honoured tomb of his anceſtors, and his pure ſoul taking its reward in heaven, than the vile body of Sir Guiſe, a burthen to himſelf, and a ſtain to his poſterity, ſtretched on this bed of wretch⯑edneſs, and his guilty mind in terror of the hell it merits."

The ſelf-accuſing ſpirit, in which every part of this was uttered, the tone that gave energy to every upbraiding, and the deep groans that ſucceeded, chilled the very heart of George True, and even awed the mind of John Fitzorton. "Yes, theſe are genuine —even Sir Guiſe Stuart no longer deceives. Theſe demonſtrations of awakened conſcience are to be relied on. Let us advance."

In trembling ſilence George obeyed, and was in an inſtant by the ſide of the Baro⯑net's bed begging him to be comforted, and to put his truſt in God, for that we were told [163]he would pardon the wickedeſt creature that ever lived they if repented.—"Impoſſible! either that God or man can pardon me," anſwered Sir Guiſe, ſtarting up. "But, oh! Mr. George, if thoſe whom I have moſt wronged could ſee me, at this moment, they might well be ſatisfied—even John Fitzorton might relent, and while he triumphed in my woes might almoſt pity them."

"He does!" exclaimed John, who had gone to the other ſide of the bed, where the curtains were cloſe drawn, as if unwilling to ſurprize the wretched man; "John Fitz⯑orton does relent and almoſt pity."

Sir Guiſe heard, and took ſhelter in the arms of George; then turning his head towards the place from whence the voice proceeded, and not perceiving the perſon to whom it belonged, "O, God!" exclaimed he, in a fearful kind of whiſper, "how conſcience delights to torture me. I thought George I heard Sir John Fitzorton ſpeak to me as plain as I ever heard him ſpeak in my life, and in a voice of compaſſion;— alas! it was but my diſtempered fancy: how [164]indeed, ſhould it be any thing elſe? He, of all mankind moſt ſcorns"—

"And perhaps moſt commiſerates you," reſumed the voice in yet milder accents.

"Again!" cried the Baronet, "but I ſuppoſe you heard nothing."

"Yes I did, ſir; I heard Mr. Sir John himſelf, who came on purpoſe to ſee what could be done for you, having heard your melancholy caſe, he is in the room now, but don't tremble ſo, for pity's ſake."

"In my room!" reiterated Sir Guiſe, "yet you would not have the heart to deceive me!"

"He deceives you not," ſaid John, gently moving the curtain, and ſhewing himſelf. "The hand of the Lord God ſeems now to be upon you, and that of a feeble mortal is no longer neceſſary. It would be preſumptive. Your wiſh to ſee me was a far greater motive of my viſit in this place, than any wiſh to ſee you in additional afflic⯑tion."

"O, ſir," anſwered the now truly peni⯑tent Baronet, "if any thing could add to it, [165]it would be this unmerited goodneſs from you. Can you, ſir, extend your bounty ſo far as to tell me, whether my offended chil⯑dren are alive?"

"They are," replied John.

"Bleſſed be God!" exclaimed the Baro⯑net, "may I aſk, ſir—"

"Farther queſtions might at this time fatigue you," interpoſed John: "compoſe yourſelf. Mr. Burton will ſpeedily be here to aſſiſt that endeavour, and if it will ſeem more eaſy to you, George ſhall remain till he arrives."

Sir Guiſe was indeed exhauſted, and could hardly articulate his thanks, but begged George might attend his maſter home.

"I ſhall probably repeat my viſit ſhortly," ſaid John, nothing ſternly: "in the mean time I recommend you to cultivate more and more your acquaintance with the Power, who is all-ſufficient to reſtore the body and the ſoul whatever be their condition."

Sir Guiſe claſped his hands together in a ſupplicatory manner, bowed his head, and kept his eyes fixed alternately on John Fitz⯑orton [166]and True George, till thoſe ineſtimable men had left the room.

CHAPTER XXI.

GEORGE had ſcarcely opened his lips during the whole of the preceding ſcene, nor did he at all preſume to break ſilence while he went home; as he knew, by the length of his ſteps and violence of his move⯑ments, that John was hard at work, and would not brook interruption. By an involuntary impulſe, however, he exclaimed, "Poor Sir Guiſe! a man had better be an innocent dog, than a chriſtian ſinner, when conſcience has once got hold of him."

No remark being returned to this burſt, he had nothing more to do than try to keep pace with his maſter, who ſtrode on furiouſly, and without the utterance of a word, till juſt as the latter aſcended the caſtle ſteps, he ſaid, "I ſhall have no farther occaſion for you to-night; I ſhall not appear at ſupper; let me not be expected."

[167]George obeyed with his uſual taciturnity on theſe occaſions. John in his philoſophi⯑cals, as he uſed to call them, he ſeldom pre⯑ſumed to hazard even an opinion: but, in the poeticals of Henry, he frequently re⯑lieved himſelf from this ſuppreſſion by pour⯑ing out all that was in his mind.

John Fitzorton was extremely ſtruck with the ſituation of Sir Guiſe Stuart. He came prejudiced againſt his penitence, and pre⯑pared for his hypocriſy: but the conſcious ſtruggles, mental horror, and bodily decay, in which he found that unhappy culprit, his ſelf-execrations, his inceſſant callings out on the injured, and more than all, his bearing to ſee and looking ſteadily at any of the ever⯑dreaded Fitzortons, threw him into a train of reflection which laſted almoſt till the dawn of day: even in that chamber, which had been the ſcene of many a powerful contention with himſelf, and of many a virtuous reſolve. "What, although," ſaid he to himſelf, "I hope my life would never have eaten the bread, nor my head repoſed on the pillow of a foe, whom I had wronged; I can conceive [168]conſcience to be ſuch a puniſher, that when once its ſcourge is applied in earneſt, the affair is taken out of the hands of man;— and the ſentiment of commiſeration, the aggrieved then feels for the aggreſſor, is a part of the attribute of mercy, which God excites in the breaſt to attemper his own divine blow."

John roſe to purſue his muſings in the ſhrubbery, on his return from which, he met Olivia. After a little bound of the heart, and flutter of the ſpirits, which he always felt at the ſight of this amiable woman,— and receding a ſtep or two, he haſtily ad⯑vanced, took her hand, and related every circumſtance of his abbey adventure, cloſing the whole with a repetition of the ſentiments, which had formed his ſoliloquy; "And which may be conſidered, my dear Olivia," ſaid he, "in ſome meaſure as a juſtification of what you have done for the man, who has been the peſt of his own family, and the deſpoiler of ours."

"O, doubt it not, my noble brother: I feel that we have been acting under an influ⯑ence [169]mightier than our own," anſwered Olivia. "Do you know, laſt night I dreamed, that every weed in our garden turned into a flower; the air and ſkies were as we may fancy thoſe of Paradiſe; and, while I was yet gazing at the celeſtial and unclouded blue, which ſpread to the extent of the horizon, methought a ſudden glory ſhot immediately over my head, and an angel of light, that took the form of a new born babe, held forth a tablet of precious gems, on which the rays of the glory played, and on which I read theſe comfortable words.—'Bleſſed are the merciful, for they ſhall obtain mercy.'—Then the cherub, whoſe face had to my imagina⯑tion, exactly the ſhape and lineaments of my Henry's, beſtowed on me a ſmile that made him look ſtill more like my huſband, and with one hand pointed to heaven, while the other turned the tablet, I ſaw, on the reverſe, engraven in letters of ſapphire, under a crown of glory—'I have blotted out as a thick cloud thy tranſgreſſions, and as a cloud thy ſins; return unto me, for I have redeemed thee.'—So that you may be certain [170]we are not doing any thing diſpleaſing to the fountain of mercy, by raiſing up ſuch as are fallen:—and if I was not afraid you would laugh at my ſimple notions, I could almoſt believe this viſion had been ſent by our angel parents to imitate their forgiveneſs. —But, how hard it is, that our Henry is ſtill ſhut from his ſhare of what his boun⯑teous nature is ſo fitted to enjoy!—He ſaid laſt night, he thought that you and he had changed characters,—that he was philoſopher Henry, and you poet John, and muſed and wandered more than himſelf;—What would I have given to have told him my dream! but I thought it beſt to ſee you firſt, and take your wiſdom on it, for you were always, you know, my oracle."

"In the ſpirit of which," anſwered John, much affected with what had been related, and with the manner of the relater, "I muſt ſtrictly enjoin you to a little more forbear⯑ance, and—"

True George came at full ſpeed, with the remains of what breath his ſpeed had left him to ſay, "Breakfaſt, pleaſe your honours, [171]will be ready in a few minutes, and the ſquire is come down; but, O your honours! there is ſhocking news brought by Mr. Burton of the poor quakeriſh gentleman,—he has ſat up with him all night, and I thought he would ſometimes have gone raving mad, and he ſaid, 'his poor ſoul would be in burning hell very ſhortly, if his children did not come to for⯑give him.'—Huſh—I ſee Mr. Henry at the caſtle door, your honours."

George vaniſhed.

"O! what a cruel thing it is, none of us can diſcover where theſe dear wanderers have betaken themſelves!" ſighed Olivia. "What a conſolation muſt it be for children to ſee and to forgive a truly penitent parent; and what an encouragement for that parent to perſevere in well doing! Ah! ſurely the Almighty will guide us by ſome directing ray to theſe worthy creatures: they muſt be under his protecting eye. But, alas! what vain trials have I not made to find them! Yet, as their ſubſtitutes, let us perſiſt in our good offices to ſave this dreadful example of divine ven⯑geance."

[172]John declared he felt himſelf much diſ⯑ordered, and a cup of coffee might do him good. Olivia affectionately took his arm, preſſed it to her ſide, and led him in to break⯑faſt.

CHAPTER XXII.

AMONGST other pleaſant conſequences that had happened to the good apothecary, growing out of the ſplendid ſixpence, was, his being promoted to the office of family-apothecary to the Fitzortons, on a handſome yearly ſtipend—alſo general medical inſpector of Olivia's cottages, at a diſtinct ſalary paid out of that lady's privy-purſe, and a deſire that he would conſider the caſtle as his home at bed or board whenever he was on duty, at, or near Fitzorton. Thus, full half of his time was paſſed with Henry and Olivia, and it was as cuſtomary for Burton to be ſeen at nine o'clock in the winter, and eight in the ſum⯑mer, as for the clock to ſtrike the hour. Indeed, ſo good humoured and ſincere a creature had he proved himſelf on many [173]occaſions, that the maſter, miſtreſs, chil⯑dren, and domeſtics of the manſion, ſeemed to miſs him more when profeſſional buſineſs intervened, than if that clock had been carried from the cupola which encloſed it. He was, at length, become a neceſſary part of the caſtle, and went in at the time of the morning repaſt as duly as the repaſt itſelf. Of late, in their own perſons he had little practiſe. The Fitzorton family were in the general enjoyment of good health, and what⯑ever Henry ſuffered from occaſional ſinkings too low, or riſings too high, was imputed to Nerves,—one of the moſt convenient maladies that ever bore the blame of the head or heart, and in ſhort, the beſt excuſe that ever offered itſelf to the phyſician, when he cannot find out the complaint of the patient, and to the patient when he does not wiſh his caſe ſhould be diſcovered by the phyſician.

Our apothecary, however, always made mechanically a morning tour of every pulſe in the room, watch in hand, and obſerved ſo pleaſantly on ſurrounding objects, or contrived by other relations ſo to intereſt the [174]family, that he was himſelf the principal cauſe of the irregularity, of too quick or too ſlow; and the pulſation ſeldom went on, in the orderly way he declared it ought to do, till he had done talking, laughing, or crying; in which pulſe-affecting operations —he had the art of producing univerſal ſympathy.

He was in the act of counting the throbs of Henry's animated little time-keeper, when John and Olivia came in.

Little John, in ludicrous imitation, was applying his hand to Caroline's wriſt; Olivia was in ſmiles till ſhe came near enough to perceive that her huſband was in tears.

"They have been produced by joy, my Olivia," ſaid Henry, "Mr. Burton has been giving me ſuch an account of the gra⯑titude of your cottagers, who have, it ſeems, agreed amongſt themſelves, on the day that you next bleſs me as a father, to have a fête of their own; all your old women, and my old men are to dance together, even though ſome of them ſhould be carried from their bed to their ball-room, which is to be [175]at Goody Brabſon's, who is to be miſtreſs of the ceremonies, and who, I am glad to find, has got quite ſtout again. I am ſo pleaſed with this generous thought, that I and the children will go, the moment we have breakfaſted, and give our hands to every one of them. I muſt not ſuffer you to venture, my love, the walk is too long; and as to the coach—no—you would be too much affected —and as for our philoſopher—"

"I cannot attend you this morning, it is true," ſaid John, "becauſe I have other employments; but I deſire you will be⯑ſpeak Goody Brabſon my partner; as I am reſolved, for the firſt time in my life, to dance on that occaſion alſo. And if the founder of the feſtival ſhould chance to be of Olivia's ſex, I intreat that her name may be Angelica, and if of your's, Raphael.

"O' my conſcience, 'tis as I ſaid," ob⯑ſerved Henry, ſmiling on Olivia, who had been bound in happy ſilence, "my brother has got into my character. Angelica of Raphael! I proteſt, I ſhould ſooner have [176]expected from my brother John, a recom⯑mendation for Aminadab or Rebecca."

"Why, you are to know, I have heard a dream lately interpreted; and, I think, thoſe names would ſuit ſome of the characters in the viſion," ſaid John.

Olivia coloured yet more highly—the alluſion ſtruck her—"The names are, however, beautiful," ſaid ſhe, "and our John makes ſo few requeſts, that—"

"If we did not grant them," ſaid Henry, catching a hand of his brother and wife, kiſſing, and then joining them, "we ſhould be moſt unworthy."

The breakfaſt was no ſooner ended, than Henry and the children ſet out for the cottages. John then begged to be cloſeted a few minutes with the apothecary, after which he returned to Olivia, and told her that Burton's account of Sir Guiſe Stuart made it, as he conceived, proper to take ſtrong and immediate ſteps; of which he would undertake the guidance, if ſhe would promiſe to follow, unqueſtioned, the plan he ſhould lay down. Olivia promiſed.

[177]"In the firſt place then, and this is the hardeſt thing to conſent to, you muſt let me diſpoſe of your huſband at Mr. Partington's; and, as I preſume, it will be as difficult a point to get Henry from you, as you from Henry, it is neceſſary for me to go myſelf to the Bury, in the firſt inſtance, that I may make Partington confidential; and then an object will not be wanting, on which to found an invitation to the Bury, ſo preſſing that Henry ſhall not know well how to refuſe; and, if he did, Partington is not the man to take a denial."

"Heigho!" ſighed Olivia, "but I am ſure 'tis to ſome good end—elſe at ſuch a time as this—when—when—perhaps in a few months—"

"You may be able to preſent us with an infant Angelica or Raphael, lovely as that in your viſion," ſaid John, very tenderly. "I own matters run very untowardly juſt now—I could wiſh—in ſhort, not to deal in myſteries beyond the abſolute neceſſity of preſerving them—know, that the project I [178]am engaging in, is to bring this, at length, conſcience-ſmitten father to his children," "His children!" repeated Olivia, "but, in Pity's name, how are they to be found?"

"Be that my endeavour," ſaid John, "as Burton aſſures me it would be at the hazard of life and reaſon, to move the parent to the children, we muſt try what can be done, that the children may go to the parent. But as Henry has been ſo long kept out of theſe tranſactions, the ſudden appearance of poor Charles Stuart, and the horrors that now hang over the living ruins of the abbey, might be too much for my brother's tender heart to bear."

John roſe and rang the bell, True George appeared. "My horſes," ſaid John. George diſappeared. "In three days expect my return," ſaid John to Olivia; "tell Henry I give him leave to think what he likes. He has rambled long enough. 'Tis now my turn to be a rover. Let him have his laugh. For you, Olivia, dear good Olivia, for you I promiſe I will rob you of [179]your beloved Henry but a few days. I ſhall aſk but ten, from the day I ſteal him from you. If, in that ſpace, I ſucceed not in my efforts, he ſhall be returned to you; and if I ſhould bring my points to bear, the worſt that can happen, will be your giving an Angelica or Raphael to the world at Part⯑ington Bury, inſtead of Fitzorton caſtle. What matters it where a cherub is born, my friend?"

George entering rapidly, exclaimed "The horſe, your honour." John bade Olivia adieu, with a voice ſomewhat obſtructed; for ſhe had been heaping bleſſings upon him, and his undertaking; called him by the endear⯑ing names, truly indeed applied, of "guide, philoſopher, and friend," and ſealed her wiſh, for his health, long life, and long happineſs, with a preſſure of the hand, that thrilled every fibre of his ſtruggling heart.

CHAPTER XXIII.

A CONSIDERABLE time has elapſed ſince any mention has been made of the fugitive part of the abbey family, and yet we feel that Olivia, or even Henry Fitzorton, cannot, upon principles of general good-will, wiſh more to hear of their welfare, than ſuch of our readers as have hearts to follow the fortunes of perſecuted virtue.

On our bidding them a melancholy adieu, indeed, we prepared ſuch readers for a long abſence; but the party was formed of too many oppreſſed and intereſting beings, to leave the ſympathizing mind ultimately with⯑out a wiſh, that in the courſe of the hiſtory they might be heard of again. The hints which were thrown out in the laſt chapter, however veiled, cannot have failed to reani⯑mate that hope: for the reader is aware, that John Fitzorton was not a man to raiſe expec⯑tation without endeavouring to gratify it; nor to ſport in romantic viſions, or fold himſelf up in myſterious enterprize, unleſs [181]for ſome important end, alike rational and honourable.

Although Olivia had no ſuſpicion that her brother-in-law was in the ſecret of the reſi⯑dence of thoſe wanderers, which her ſearch could never find, our readers, who are in the poſſeſſion of more family ſecrets even than Olivia, have not a doubt but to him they ſhall look for intelligence on this ſubject.

In truth, father Arthur's little ſociety, from almoſt their firſt movements to their final eſtabliſhment, had been governed by John Fitzorton.

Soon after the departure of the good Charles and Caroline Stuart, from the pol⯑luted abbey, John met them on the way, when introducing Mrs. Herbert, and the young Johanna, he thus addreſſed Caroline: "Youth and age now offer themſelves to your notice. They have many years been under my immediate protection. I am now ambitious to place them under yours. The itinerant ſituation of a ſoldier, has often made the truſt difficult to me; but, after [182]much ſearch, I have found a pleaſant aſylum for them, where it is my wiſh Johanna ſhould paſs another year or two of retreat, under the care of Mrs. Herbert, before ſhe ſteps into the world. The receſs I have choſen appears formed for an inſtructive and virtuous, yet ſocial ſolitude. But it is on too large a ſcale for two females; and I have been puzzling how to bring the abode and eſtabliſhment within compaſs. The Providence which gave to my protection theſe two perſons, in the firſt inſtance, now ſeems to direct, in the ſecond, that I ſhould transfer part of thoſe pleaſing cares upon you and yours; becauſe, I judge, they may mitigate your own, while they alleviate mine. I had thoughts of placing them, with ſome of the deareſt parts of my own family, at the caſtle; but thoſe ideas, on after reflection, have been aban⯑doned. What ſay you then, my friends, will you receive two more unfortunates into your party, and in a flowery unobſerved receſs, make a little world of good beings? Driven, unjuſtly, by a female fiend, out of one paradiſe, will you, my worthy exiles, ſuffer [183]female innocents to conduct you to an⯑other?"

Johanna's unſullied looks, and Mrs. Her⯑bert's engaging deportment, and the know⯑ledge of John's recommendation, ſpoke the aſſent of Caroline, who embraced both the ladies: Arthur and Denniſon ſmiled a wel⯑come.

"I have but one fear," ſaid Caroline, preſſing the hands of Johanna, and Mrs. Herbert—"is it quite fair—is it not, indeed, cruel for us to carry our ſorrowing hearts into a reſidence your virtue has prepared for the happy? or, even if we were inclined to this ſelfiſhneſs, might not yet more troubled ſpirits detect our privacy, and again expel us from Elyſium?"

"And if they did," ſaid Johanna, "we ſhould not be expelled from one another, and methinks, in this ſocial retirement, aided by the counſels of my honoured guardian, ſo he has now permitted me to call him, we could not be unprotected, or unhappy, in any part of the earth."

[184]"They are my children from this mo⯑ment, and for ever," exclaimed Arthur.

"And the ever dear friends of Caroline and Charles," ſaid the afflicted brother and ſiſter.

"And long may they live as the honoured ladies, of a feeble, but, I hope, faithful, old ſervant," ejaculated Denniſon.

"And Floreſco ſal be their ſlave, and ſal get ſtrong great big man to workey till him is older as Mr. Denniſons," exclaimed the little Indian, leaping as he ſpoke.

"Reſpecting monaſteries, and remote con⯑tinental excurſions," reſumed John, "curio⯑ſity is more at work in theſe than nearer home; and I pledge myſelf that the ſe⯑queſtered ſpot which I have fixed on though not more than two or three days' travel from hence, ſhall baffle enquiry, and effectually ſcreen you from every wicked obtruſion ſo long as may be neceſſary."

John's ſcheme was adopted, and after ad⯑juſting military buſineſs at quarters, he gave ſome comfortable finiſhings to his benevolent [185]plan, and returned to father Arthur's party, whom, with an adroitneſs peculiar to all his deſigns when once ſettled, he con⯑ducted to their new abode in the romantic iſland of Guernſey. There having ſtaid, to ſee that no accommodations were wanting which his power might ſupply, he preſſed alternatively the hands of each individual of the groupe, and returned to the caſtle.

In John Fitzorton's receſs then, the abbey party remained, not only during the whole period of Henry and Olivia's continental ex⯑curſions, without an idea entering into the mind of either that Charles or Caroline Stuart were under his guardianſhip. Al⯑though, in one of their tours, the travellers had paſſed almoſt within view of the leafy retreat which concealed them.

Their ſocial ſolitude was eventful to ſome of its members. In Johanna's gentleneſs and improvements, and in Mrs. Herbert's aſſi⯑duous good offices, Caroline found ſome balm,—the balm of friendſhip,—for the deep wounds of her diſappointed heart. Charles found yet more. The laws of romance are [186]ſo frequently at war, not only in the writer's book, but in the reader's mind, with the laws of nature, that we fear ſome will think the cha⯑racter of this young hero much degenerated, when we obſerve that he found his fate extremely ſoftened by the ſociety of the in⯑tereſting Johanna. The laws of truth, how⯑ever, demand the information; and the ob⯑ject was well calculated to lighten the burthens of the wretched.

The party, indeed, all lived in the moſt perfect immaculacy of minds and manners, each contributing a due ſhare to the ſtock of general accommodation; imperceptibly ſoothed the paſt, reconciled the preſent, and frowned not on the future. The patriarchal goodneſs of Arthur, the approved honeſty of Denniſon, the experienced wiſdom of Mrs. Herbert, the touching ſimplicity of the little Indian, and the charms of Johanna, with the patronage of John, who paid, by ſtealth, an an⯑nual viſit, were all called into action, while Charles and Caroline were happily amuſed by theſe their friends, or ſtrengthened, by private communication, the virtue of each other; and [187]thus the time paſſed on, if not without trou⯑ble, free from thoſe paroxyſms of deſpair, which would have embittered a ſtate deſtitute of ſuch ſocial reſources. And, in order to give permanent tranquillity to the eſtabliſh⯑ment, which John had thus generouſly formed, the houſe was taken in the maiden name of Mrs. Herbert, retiring with her fa⯑mily, on a plan of oeconomy, ſo exact, that country viſitings, and the inſipid formalities which connect therewith, were all excluded: and here they might have continued unex⯑plored, undiſturbed, even till their graves formed part of the flowers that bloomed about their reſidence.

Nor was the prime contriver, and con⯑ductor of this ſocial ſequeſtration, without ſome rich conſolements—Alas! none more wanted conſolation! Self-baniſhed from the ſight of her his ſoul adored, even while he was perpetually invited to remain where he might both ſee and hear the object of that adoration, John Fitzorton had proved that nothing but the moſt vigorous exerciſe of a determined mind, forcing itſelf into deeds [188]that muſt, at leaſt, divide the thoughts, could prevent an indulgence which would mingle ſhame with ſorrow. A combination which he, of all human beings, was the leaſt able to endure.—"All I have for it," ſaid he, on leaving the caſtle, "whether in peace or war, at home or abroad, is occupation: the mereſt trifle whereon this can be formed, is better than that ſolitary indolence of the ſoul, or what is yet worſe, that ruinous activity of the paſſions, which with the ſharpneſs of unavoidable misfortune blends the turpitude of voluntary guilt."

Reflections like theſe were revolving in his mind, when the departure of the deſerving children of a worthleſs father, and of an in⯑famous ſtep-mother was reported to him. He caught at it as one of the occaſions want⯑ing to his own virtue, and reſolved to make it ſerviceable. The good literally wanted "a local habitation, and a name." He ſup⯑plied them with both. They ſtood in need of thoſe ſocial aids which the innocently wretched derive from communion with the worthy. Such communion could John afford: [189]he could enrich the groupe by two beings whom he knew to deſerve father Arthur's aſſociation. Many things met together to render this arrangement no leſs agreeable to the objects of his protection, than to thoſe whom their more recent misfortune had re⯑commended to him.

The blooming daughter of the ill-fated Maria, and the hapleſs widow of a no leſs ill-fated gentleman, had been long remaining at the village where the faithleſs mother of Johanna had been buried; but the frequent viſits of John had been marked by curioſity, and miſrepreſented by malice; and a certain myſtery in the fortunes, both of Mrs. Her⯑bert and of Johanna, ſeemed to give colour to ſuſpicion, who not being able to move the cloud, drew upon John ſome reflections, and upon the objects of his protection yet more.—"So far as this trumpery reſpects myſelf," ſaid John, "I ſhould laugh it to ſcorn; but the innocent beings I have beck⯑oned from the ſtorm, one of whom, alas! I have widowed, muſt be no leſs defended in their fame than in their fortunes. The flight [190]of Caroline is an opportunity not to be ſlighted. I will endeavour to profit of it ſo as to ſerve mutually the protectors and the protected. When I promiſed the helpleſs Johanna, at the foot of her mother's grave, that ſhe ſhould not want a parent, it was a promiſe to ſtand beyond the date of my life, and to the extent of hers, and poor Herbert's relict is the death-bed legacy of a murdered friend."

CHAPTER XXIV.

WE feel that it would be cruelty to proceed in the hiſtory of the Abſentees with⯑out accounting to our readers for the expreſ⯑ſion which cloſed the laſt chapter, and for another, yet more ſtrange, in the ſame page, viz. that John Fitzorton had been the cauſe of widowhood to an innocent being, and that Herbert was the legacy of a murdered friend. John was himſelf the murderer—a charge which we will ſettle in the words of Mrs. Herbert, who, one day after much ſolicita⯑tion, gratified her ſequeſtered friends with a [191]ſummary account of this fatal circumſtance. "It is the only ſubject on which I truſt I need be ſolicited," obſerved the widow, "for wherefore ſhould I grieve thoſe whom I love.

"Colonel Herbert was at once my guard⯑ian, my lover, and my huſband. He had honour in the profeſſional part of his charac⯑ter, and truth, tenderneſs, and worth, in every other; but his nature was precipitate, and who in haſte is prudent? He com⯑manded a regiment, when John Fitzorton,— to relieve an uneaſy mind,—droop not, my Johanna,—firſt aſſumed the ſword; but the mind of Mr. Fitzorton, whether happy, or in diſtreſs, owned no ſuperior. My dear Herbert felt the high pretenſions of the youth, and admitted him of equal rank in the dignity of ſenſe and virtue. The colo⯑nel and enſign were, therefore, boſom⯑friends. The man of forty, and the ſtrip⯑ling of eighteen, were inſeparable com⯑panions. But once, in an evil hour, my Herbert yielding, on ſome trifling occa⯑ſion, to ſudden anger—the ſole error of his noble nature,—taxed his young companion [192]with having miſtated a fact.—A miſtater of facts, ſaid the enſign, is a lyar.—Con⯑ſtrue as you may, boy, ſaid the colonel, you have miſtated a fact, and if that forms a lyar, you may apply it.—The man who dares to tell me ſo, retorted the enſign, ſhall waſh away the ſtain either with his blood or with mine.—In one moment their ſwords were drawn, in the next the blade of the enſign's broke in the tendereſt of human hearts; but even as life was flowing from it, a perſon who had been expected, came into the room to confirm the truth of what the enſign had aſſerted. My poor Herbert, ſenſible of his error, in⯑ſtantly made voluntary oath before that perſon, of his having provoked the enſign beyond the bearing of an officer or a man,— I was ſent for, but alas! entered the room only to receive the laſt farewel.—Amelia, ſaid the expiring Herbert, yours is the hardeſt lot; my friend muſt be acquitted with honour; eternal coward muſt have ſtuck to his name had he tamely borne my raſh re⯑proaches;—but what is to become of my [193]wife?—all your own fortune went by your own deſire to relieve part of our families:— mine was that of a ſoldier, and depended on my life,—and yet, I have raſhly lived as if I never were to die. Alas! Amelia, I fear when the honeſt claims upon me are ſettled, and my body put into a decent grave, you will have reaſon to curſe the hour you gave your hand to an improvident man whoſe pro⯑fuſion has been as unbounded as his love."— "Oh! I ſhall bleſs it ever as the happieſt and moſt honoured moment of my exiſtence, ſaid I."—"Wretch that I am!" exclaimed the enſign, "let the curſe be directed to me, who have impoveriſhed the wife, and murdered the huſband."—"Fitzorton," ſaid the unfortunate Herbert, alternately preſſing my hand and that of the enſign, to his quivering lips.— "It was unavoidable; befriend my widow."— The pang that took him out of the world immediately followed. The enſign, dropping on his knees, ſwore he ſhould inſtantly de⯑liver himſelf up to juſtice, but if acquitted, would make all the miſerable reparation in his power.—And, O my friends! if it were [194]permitted me to tell you with what ſanctity he has kept his oath, and how, in my ſickneſs, my ſorrow, my almoſt inſanity, he has ſaved my reaſon, my life, and laboured the good of my remoteſt relatives as well as thoſe of my huſband,—and if you could hear even ſtill, how often he bemoans the inevitable wound which inexorable honour impoſed, you would, if it could be poſſible, honour him yet more."

"That is not poſſible," exclaimed the overwhelmed Johanna.

Every body admitted this, yet every body tenderly pitied Mrs. Herbert. Floreſco wiſhed he had been killed inſtead of the colonel. "Bleſſed be my huſband, and bleſſed be John Fitzorton!" ſaid the bereaved Amelia, "God orders, it is ours to obey."

She wept and bowed her head.

CHAPTER XXV.

JUSTIFIED by the inexorable laws of honour, which ‘Not the firm philoſopher may ſcorn;’ acquitted, likewiſe, by the laws of the land, the author of Colonel Herbert's death was ſtill found guilty before that tribunal, at which he tried, with almoſt unexampled ſe⯑verity, every action of his life. "Dire and calamitous event," would he often exclaim, as he ſurveyed her whom he had widowed; "and yet, if the huſband I have robbed you of, had poſſeſſed a thouſand lives, I muſt have been condemned to hazard a ſimilar murder upon each, had the offence been repeated a thouſand times. So imperious, alas! are the compacts of ſocial men! We may deplore, but dare not violate them,"

Unhappy John! yet the angel which bluſhed at the death of Herbert, ſmiled on thy adoption of the orphan Johanna, and of [196]thy protection of the mourning Amelia: nor ſhall thy generous ſolicitude for the honour and happineſs of Olivia,—innocent cauſe of many a bitter pang to thee,—be forgotten, where thoſe good works which glorify the father, are treaſured up and had in remem⯑brance!

In truth, the care of Mrs. Herbert, and of Johanna, of Charles and Caroline Stuart, of Henry and Olivia Fitzorton, and the un⯑wearied attention he paid to their ſeveral neceſſities, were the grand remedies which John made uſe of to mitigate the various incurable ills which afflicted his mind. They were not only as the cloudy pillar to conceal, even from himſelf, the darkneſs of his fate, but the pillar of fire, to give him at once light and ſtrength in the way that he ſhould go, even as if a heavenly-guide had gone before him.

We are, indeed, firmly perſuaded, that, could thoſe who are under heavy afflictions, from whatever cauſe, but eſpecially from a ſtrife of the paſſions, imitate John Fitzorton in their adverſity, they would gain a temporary [197]refuge from themſelves; and the return to their own ſtate would be ſoftened by the con⯑ſciouſneſs that the time of their trouble has been a period of comfort to thoſe, whom, in the ſeaſon of proſperity, they might have neglected. Thus would their ſympathy be repaid by the oblivion which the exerciſe of ſocial virtue throws over ſelfiſh ſorrow.

Inflexibly fixed to his point, neither the ſorrows of Henry, nor even the anxious wiſhes of Olivia, to explore the haunts of his fugitives, could prevail with John Fitzorton to ſhare a ſecret, on the ſanctity of which he believed was founded, not only the repoſe of his relatives at the caſtle, but of all the other objects of his care. Indeed, a caſe of the laſt neceſſity only, could have tempted him to draw any of the aſſociated company from their peaceful retreat. The one which now preſented itſelf he deemed to be of that kind. The unequivocal contrition of Sir Guiſe Stuart, was he thought, a grand operation of conſcience on the ſoul of man. He marked it as an important inſtance of the power of that wonder-working Providence [198]which can bring the moſt hardened hypo⯑crite to repentance, break down all the apparently ſtrong holds of proſperous vice, and convert the very ſhame and ruin of the guilty to the raiſing up of the innocent; and, deteſtable as the very name of Sir Guiſe Stuart had been to John Fitzorton, even from his boyiſh days,—dupe of his diſſimulations, as he had himſelf been, he now felt for him a ſentiment of compaſſion, and a wiſh to ſave his life, for the purpoſes of more com⯑pleat reformation; and to deny his children the honeſt joy of becoming inſtrumental in that good work, he thought would be to withold from them the rights of nature and the rewards of virtue.

While he was on his way to the Bury, he put into train a variety of important mea⯑ſures; as a preliminary to which, he reſted at an inn on the road, and wrote as follows, to True George; ‘The bearer will conduct you to JOHN FITZORTON.’ and while the meſſenger was gone, he em⯑ployed [199]himſelf in preparing letters to the parties concerned:

In a ſeparate billet to the ſame perſon, he wrote, ‘ASSOCIATE IN DISAPPOINTMENT! Attend not the ſummons, if yet an unruly ſentiment remains in your boſom, if your whole heart is not yet in the government of my Johanna, whom as a balm to your wounds, I permitted you to cultivate; but remember that I have no ſuch balm to pour over my own wounds—remember too, that you are now ſummoned to duties that en⯑large your virtues. O, forbear to narrow [200]them! Olivia remains the happieſt of wives:—our Henry devotes himſelf to her, and cannot be wretched; yet warned by a knowledge of his ſoft diſpoſition, care will be taken to remove him from temptation. You, I hope, are to be truſt⯑ed; if not, let your ſiſter come alone, and bear away the honours which nature calls on you to ſhare. But I injure you in the doubt. Forgive my unkindneſs; puniſh me by ſhewing how much my fears have wronged you. Perhaps I have argued on a conſciouſneſs of my own weakneſs,—come then, my friend, and give me ſtrength.’

When George arrived, John exclaimed, "My opinion of your honeſty is in⯑cluded in my confidence: I entruſt you with the delivery of this pacquet to Charles and Caroline Stuart, whoſe ſecret abode you will ſee marked on the ſuperſcription. You are a youth of action, and I need not exhauſt more time in words. I ſhall tell Henry I have employed you." The faith⯑ful [201]George anſwered by an energetick nod, and followed his inſtructions.

CHAPTER XXVI.

NOTHING material for the reader to know happened to either of the travellers till they had reached the place of their reſpective deſtination. The interview of Colonel Fitzorton with Partington laſted ſeveral hours; for it was by far the moſt arduous part in the plan of the former to convince the latter that any thing like peni⯑tence could proceed from the heart of Sir Guiſe Stuart. Although John ſaid, and with ſome reaſon, that if he was himſelf con⯑vinced in that point, every other perſon might be. "Depend upon it, you inſuffer⯑able ſcoundrel," ſaid the ſquire to John, "Sir Guiſe, is ſtill a moſt honourable gen⯑tleman, and deſerving every attention"— bowing—"the gallows can beſtow; and you are again deceived by appearances, although you have taken it into your head to imagine that he is a good for nothing [202]ſcoundrel, who means what he ſays." At length, however, the colonel painted the forlorn con⯑dition of the Baronet ſo much to the heart of Partington, that he was brought to the criſis of the moſt abuſive impatience, and execrated Le Maitre for not putting ſome things into his portmanteau, before the leaſt mention had been made of a journey: called the groom and poſtillions caitiffs of the firſt order, for not coming round with the horſes and carriage before any direc⯑tions had been ſent to the ſtables, and helping himſelf to prepare what he thought neceſſary; he in a manner forced refreſh⯑ments down the throat of the colonel, crouded ſome wine and fruit into the chaiſe, and hurrying in John, he deſired the raſcals would make the moſt haſte they could to Fitzorton caſtle: ordering Le Mai⯑tre to ſend a ſervant with the colonel's jaded horſe, when he had been as well taken care of as his atrocious maſter.

On their arrival at the abbey, Partington ſeized upon Henry, after having expreſſed his joy at ſeeing him by a volley of kind [203]ſcurrilities, and then exclaimed, "You are all promiſe-breakers, and caitiffs—men, wo⯑men, and children—none of you having kept your word, ſince your return from vagabondiſm, to make me a viſit at the Bury. I have given you credit, for this debt, too long already, and now arreſt the father and daughter, in my own name, and by virtue of my own ſupreme authority; and when I think fit to releaſe them, will have the other two little villains; ſo take a ſhort leave of one another, and to priſon with you."

"Egregious John," ſaid he, "will ſettle the reſt; and take heed that we are off by break of day—a few radiſhes, mean while, and to bed.

Henry had, indeed, been long in viſiting arrears with the worthy Partington, for whom he continued to feel the moſt ſincere reſpect: and ſuppoſing that his friend had taken a journey to the Caſtle purely to fetch him, agreed to become his captive, and to be led to the Bury in the chains of friend⯑ſhip; and gained the conſent of his wife, to [204]ſuffer little Caroline to be his companion; to which, on ſome previous hints from the colonel, ſhe acceded. Partington, who con⯑ducted every project with all the ferment of his diſpoſition, hardly ſuffered the dawn to ſhew itſelf, ere he arouſed his culprits, as he called them, declaring, that "if they had not had their nap out, it might as well be finiſhed in a chaiſe as in a bed, with⯑out loſs of time or hindrance of buſineſs."

While Partington was thus conveying away Henry and his daughter, his wife and ſon were the aſſociates of John; the firſt care of whom was to make Olivia acquainted with part of the hiſtory of the Abbey Wan⯑derers, and with True George's embaſſy to them in their inſulated receſs. She ap⯑plauded the part of the plot which had been aſſigned to Partington; and declared that for the high delight, which, ſhe truſted in hea⯑ven, would, in the end, be offered to her Henry, in the ſight of his boſom friend, ſhe would forego his dear ſociety, though it ſhould continue for a whole week. "But, alas! there will be no time for preparations, [205]my dear colonel," ſaid ſhe, "it is impoſ⯑ſible that the abbey can ſo ſoon be fit to receive the lovely Caroline. Could ſhe not be here? The ſudden ſight of her ſick unhappy father, even though endeared to her by returning virtue, will be too ſevere a trial. Let us then contrive how beſt to ren⯑der theſe hard taſks ſupportable."

"All that will be taken care of," anſwered John.

He now inſtructed her in ſome other par⯑ticulars of George's miſſion, and of the ſecluded party; ſtill ſuppreſſing the ſhare he had himſelf taken in their happy ſequeſ⯑tration.

Olivia's generous heart, bounded with benevolent expectation; and, under the in⯑fluence of ſuch bleſſed feelings, ſhe gave way to felicity that even called for the relief of tears.

Recollecting the adventure of Caroline's miniature, her joys were, however, daſhed by apprehenſions; and as John was about to leave the room, ſhe caught his hand, and, in a ſympathiſing voice, demanded [206]"whether his intrepid heart was armed to meet, unmoved, its moſt precious object?" for ſuch, ever ſince the diſcovery of the picture, ſhe had ſuppoſed miſs Stuart. "Pardon me, my dear good friend," ſaid ſhe, in yet more conſoling accents, "for adverting to a circumſtance which my ſelfiſh tranſports had before abſorbed; which I had, indeed, pledged myſelf no more to renew. But how can any of us be happy, if there exiſts any circumſtance whereby you are made wretched? For although, perhaps, you may nobly labour to conceal the cauſe, I, who am, you know, in your heart's ſecret—"

"I perceive," anſwered John, "you have ſettled matters your own way; and ſo I here take off the embargo I had laid on this ſubject; for whatever I might aſſert concern⯑ing it, would probably be uſeleſs. Admitting the point alluded to poſſible, tho', obſerve, I by no means own it, methinks, were it for the good of an object beloved, I could, at leaſt I hope I could, live in the daily, hourly, ſight of her, and not diſcover—a—a ſenti⯑ment [207]—which might, if known, involve her in unavailing ſorrow, or interrupt the per⯑formance of her domeſtic duties. The taſk, to be ſure, would be difficult—but— ſurely—"

The broken ſentences, and disjointed arti⯑culation which embarraſſed John's ſpeech, while the very object of ſuch a ſentiment was before his eyes, and the caſe actually his own, was naturally enough conſtrued by Olivia, together with the releaſe from her promiſe, into the effort of a noble mind ſtruggling with a ſtrong but inhibited paſſion; and, hereupon, feeling a real pity for the ſufferer, ſhe exerted every gentle power, of a ſincere and tender friendſhip, to ſooth him. She tried to cheer him with the hope of happier times; and at once applauded and honoured his conduct in the mean while.

Theſe ſoothings, however, encreaſed John's emotions to a degree, that, after various con⯑flicts with himſelf, and ſometimes driven almoſt into a declaration that Caroline had never ap⯑proached his heart, he ſuffered the idea to [208]proceed; and had, in a manner, but from the worthieſt motive, encouraged it; but on Olivia's proceeding alſo in what ſhe thought conſolations—offering to his diſappointed feelings, every balm that tender amity could deviſe—he became nearly ſuffocated with the repreſſion of his real ſenſations; and was, at length, obliged to break away from her generous endearments. While ſhe, on the other hand, conſidered his emotions as an⯑other reſiſtleſs proof of his love for Caroline; and, therefore, looked upon him almoſt as great an object of her ſympathy, as he really was. And in this mutual contention, it was alike difficult for both to nurſe their agitated minds into compoſure.

But in a few hours after, John had turned, to ſo much advantage, one of his mind-reſtoring ſecluſions, that, as the laſt notice for dinner was ſounded, Olivia obſerved him from her dreſſing-room window walking on the terrace, where he was ſoon after joined by his little nephew, and nameſake, who was not more near than dear to him, and whom he [209]caught up in his arms, in which, the youth playfully ſtruggling, a ſort of loving ſtrife enſued. This ſoon grew into a pitched battle: for the uncle going by retrograde ſteps, from the gravel path to the green ſwerd, the nephew conſidered him as a retreating foe, and the uncle, giving into the fancy, ſuffered himſelf to be overtaken; but though he put himſelf into a poſture of defence, he contrived to fall on receiving the firſt ſportive blow. He then acknow⯑ledged himſelf completely vanquiſhed, to the inexpreſſible delight of the little conqueror.

Olivia beheld this amicable contention, and trifling as it was in itſelf, ſhe felt it to be full of importance, as it tended to reſtore her noble brother and friend to his wonted tranquillity. Availing herſelf of the auſpi⯑cious moment, ſhe haſtily finiſhed her dreſs, and deſcending into the garden joined the combatants, even while John the Great was yet ſtretched on the ground, and John the Little was proudly ſtanding over him.

"O fie for ſhame!" exclaimed Olivia, [210]"What generous victor ever triumphed over the fallen?"

"And a poor unarmed man too," added the uncle.

The nephew ſeemed to feel the rebuke, in every fibre of his little frame. He bluſhed—held out both his hands—endea⯑voured to raiſe the captive—begging his mother's aſſiſtance, and when they had mu⯑tually ſucceeded—the captive lending his ſecret endeavour at the ſame time—the con⯑queror aſſured his mother it was all "make⯑believe —but for all that," ſaid he, "if you had but ſeen how my uncle wanted to get the better of me, and when he found he could not—how he tried to pull me down after him—you would have ſaid, that's right Johnny, now you have him make the beſt of him."

"This ſally carried the frolic to its due point; John took his nephew's hand and kiſſed it, in token of his looking on him as a generous foe; and then expreſſed his obli⯑gation to Olivia, for coming to ſee fair play."

[211]Thus the party formed at dinner a much more agreeable and harmonious trio, than the diſcordant notes, which had been heard at breakfaſt, ſeemed to promiſe.

CHAPTER XXVII.

RESUMING his benevolent employments for others, John again obliviated himſelf. There were various points, in bringing his plan to perfection, yet to be gained. The utmoſt circumſpection was neceſſary, to ap⯑prize the characters of the drama, he was conducting, what each had to perform; leſt a miſunderſtanding in the parts ſhould con⯑fuſe the whole. And to this end, a kind of general private rehearſal of the piece was requiſite. His ſagacious and active mind pondered on theſe matters, and he prepared, without imprudent delay, to take the execu⯑tive direction.

The abbey emigrants, meanwhile, yielding obedience to the ſummons of John, under the ſanction of father Arthur, in due time reached their firſt projected pauſing place, [212]viz. the apartments of colonel Fitzorton, in London, where they were moſt dutifully received by their old ſervants, the Irwins; a circumſtance which found its way to the hearts of their maſter and miſtreſs. And the reciprocated gratulations on this occaſion, ſhaded, as they were, with many ſad re⯑membrances, is more readily to be felt than deſcribed.

But Caroline's anxiety, reſpecting her father, broke through all obſtructions, and ſhe ſoon began to overwhelm Robert and his wife, and daughter, with interrogatories, from the preſſure of which, guarded as they were by a previous leſſon of caution, they would have found it impoſſible to eſcape, without diſco⯑very of more than was then mature for com⯑munication, had not the colonel made his appearance, in time to re-enforce their almoſt exhauſted evaſions. For True George had no ſooner ſeen them ſafely eſcorted to the metropolis, than he ſet off with the news of their arrival to Fitzorton; and theſe tidings being imparted, almoſt with equal ſpeed, by John to Olivia, the former haſted inſtantly to [213]the apothecary in the poſſible chance of Sir Guiſe being ſufficiently recovered to be conveyed to his children; "as there are," ſaid the Colonel, "numberleſs good reaſons why it would be more deſirable to have the interview in London than in the country: and, indeed, any where rather than at the abbey or the caſtle: in which hope I have landed my groupe near the metropolis rather than the coaſt of Devonſhire.

But every ray of ſuch a hope was extin⯑guiſhed by the account which Burton gave of the Baronet's condition. "Alas!" ſighed the good man, "the very fiends might com⯑miſerate him: his voice ſeems no longer of uſe but to groan, nor his eyes but to weep."

"Your own eyes, your own voice," ſaid John, "too ſtrongly prove the ſtate you de⯑ſcribe. Haſten then to him. Give him hope that his children may be found—but proceed with caution, while I endeavour to forward their interview, which muſt be at the abbey, I find, after all. Heaven will diſpoſe the event."

[214]"Returning to Olivia," he ſaid, "I have ſcarcely a moment to bid you farewell.— Perhaps the life or death of our ſoul⯑goaded charge depends on my ſpeedy journey to London, and as ſpeedy return."—"As for you, my poor fellow," ſaid he to George, who appeared to the ſound of the bell, "if you wiſh to ſee a ſinful man, in whoſe return to virtue you have been inſtrumental, receive pardon from the children he has wronged be⯑fore he dies, you muſt enable me to begin my journey by taking care my poſt-chaiſe is at the door in half an hour; but as it may ſeem hard to hurry you away again ſo ſoon, you may let any of the other ſervants attend me; or, indeed, I can do very well with the driver, and you can follow when able."

Within the ſpace limited, however, ſhort as it was, the aſſiduous lover of Jane, unwearied in good offices, obeyed his orders in regard to the chaiſe, and had equipped himſelf with a clean ſhirt and boots to attend it; allowing himſelf only time to look in upon his Jane;— to aſſure her he was alive, that he loved her, and that although he was, to be ſure, [215]going out again on Mr. Col. Sir John's buſineſs, he would think of her all the way going and coming, till God willing, he might ſit down and reſt.

The ſpace between the caſtle and place of rendezvous being in a manner barren ground, we ſhall paſs to the latter, and repreſent, as fatisfactorily ae we are able, the meeting of John Fitzorton, and his friends. It had even more of intereſt for his heart than he ex⯑pected; for Mrs. Herbert and Johanna were of the party. The moment he entered, Johanna was at the feet of her ſecond father, whoſe honoured hand ſhe impreſſed with many a kiſs, and bathed with many a tear.— Caroline would have followed her example, but that ſhe was prevented by the impetuous emotions of Charles, who inſiſted on his ſharing the embraces of their guardian friend. Father Arthur would have bent that knee, which had hitherto bowed only to God, had not the extravagant wildneſs of joy that ſud⯑denly ſeized Floreſco, at beholding the man of whom he had conſtantly heard ſo much, divided his attention; while Mrs. Herbert [216]teſtified her ſenſations, even as the Colonel manifeſted his own, by an eloquent ſilence that ſpoke the language of the ſoul.

"Be not ſurprized, Sir," ſaid Caroline, who firſt found a voice, "at ſeeing almoſt the whole family. We were twined together too fondly for ſeparation. It was with diffi⯑culty we prevailed on the aged Denniſon to remain at the receſs, each aſſerting an equal right to ſhew their duty and their love."

"Not equally," ſaid Johanna ardently, as John raiſed her to his arms—"not equally! Mine ſurpaſſes every other claim."

"Ah! can it exceed that of Charles and his ſiſter," ſaid Caroline, who are to owe to him a renewed father?—"O! generous, ge⯑nerous, friend! where is he?—what is his preſent ſtate?—forgive, forgive, our impa⯑tience! —does he live?—is there a hope?— dare we tell our terrified, yet delighted, hearts."—

"Tell them every thing," anſwered the Colonel, "that filial love, corrected by devo⯑tion ſhould moſt deſire.—If your father reco⯑vers he will live I truſt to virtue; and if he [217]dies, his penitence, though ſhort and late, will be carried by the angel of truth to the throne of mercy. I revere your eagerneſs, ſweet maid, too much to check it.—Our friend George, whoſe heart is in our concerns, and who I have, therefore, admitted into our confidence, will now follow ſuch inſtructions as he received on the road; and truſting that you will place yourſelves, with father Ar⯑thur's permiſſion, under my government, I dare to promiſe you ſhall hear the penitent ſighs, and feel the conſcious tears of Sir Guiſe Stuart ere it be long. Dear and ſubtle as has been his hypocriſy, the hour of truth is come."

"Follow him, in all things, my children," exclaimed Arthur.

The brother and ſiſter promiſed the moſt implicit obedience. The Indian, who had ſometimes on tiptoe-ſtep advanced cloſe to him to devour up every word, and ſome⯑times retreated at aweful diſtance, now haſtily approached, and paſſed his trembling hand along the arm of John as if to ſee whether he was indeed mortal.—Johanna could not re⯑ſtrain her frequent homage.—Mrs. Herbert [218]kiſſed the hand which had made her a mourn⯑ing widow—and True George had vaniſhed like lightning at the firſt hint of his maſter, wiſhing with all his ſoul, that inſtead of af⯑fixing harneſs to the horſes he could have hung wings.

Previous, however, to their departure the Colonel held a conference with Mrs. Irwin and Patty: "May I depend," ſaid John, "that Robert has ſtrictly obſerved my direc⯑tions in regard to what was to be done at the abbey, and how the buſineſs was to be con⯑ducted? I know he received my orders, but did he underſtand them?"—"I am ſure," ſaid Patty, curtſeying, "my dear father will do every thing juſt as your honour ordered him; for tears were in his poor eyes at the thoughts of doing any thing again to ſerve his good young maſter and miſtreſs."

John returned well pleaſed to his aſſo⯑ciates —True George ſoon came to announce the carriages at the door, and when John had filled them as he thought proper, the journey began.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

"HAVE you taught our Johanna," queſtioned the Colonel, "amongſt other good things, Mrs. Herbert, the important duty of placing any thing truſted in the moſt ſacred foldings of her heart?—have you ſtrengthened her mind to reject a confidence while it can be refuſed?—to receive it with regret even when it cannot be with-held?— to retain it with unbetraying ſanctity when it has been received?"

As Mrs. Herbert was about to reply, John peruſed the countenance of Johanna, and then continued his diſcourſe:—"Although I am not in the habit of reading human hearts through human faces, nor, in truth, of be⯑lieving eyes or lips either, I will, for once, give credit to the honour that ſeems to mark the features of this young woman."—"Your place of repoſe," obſerved he, "muſt in the firſt inſtance be at the caſtle, from which Henry Fitzorton is abſent.—Our Olivia will be prepared to receive you.—Indeed little [220]preparation will be neceſſary; her heart is the aſylum of ready hoſpitality—beſides ye are not altogether ſtrangers to one another, and her gueſts will be her friends. But ſhould any of our fellow-travellers, either in the ſpirit of friendſhip or folly, have imparted to you, Johanna, any family ſecrets, of which you may imagine the knowledge might too much affect or intereſt Olivia, I expect you will give me an inſtance of your diſcretion by guarding them in your own boſom."

"Does my face ſtill anſwer for me, my reverend protector, or muſt I uſe, another language?"

"I am ſatisfied with its reply," ſaid John: "and though I have never taken any man, or any woman's, affirmation on ſuch truſt ſince"—Here John ſtopped, ſighed, and, with tears in his eyes, left a chaſm in his ſentence—to be filled by every reader with the name of Johanna's mother.— "Yes," reſumed John, "I am as perfectly ſatisfied, dear girl, as if you had ſworn a thouſand oaths—as if I had tried your fidelity by the teſt of a thouſand years." "Your [221]charge," continued he, addreſſing Mrs. Her⯑bert, "is grown very lovely—I am of opinion too, with Charles Stuart, that her beauty reſembles that of our Olivia—Poſſibly the lieutenant may have mentioned this—Yes, I perceive he has."

As John threw a ſcrutinizing look on Johanna her reſponſive features gave in an evidence ſo roſy, that he exclaimed—"For once I have been a true phyſiognomiſt.—Un⯑leſs perfectly convenient, Johanna, to your feel⯑ings, it will henceforth be perfectly unne⯑ceſſary to anſwer by words any queſtion I may put to you—they would be mere re⯑petitions."

"So the lieutenant has often told her," ſaid Mrs. Herbert.

"Has he?" queſtioned John, "well then no more need be ſaid about it."

John perceived the crimſon accumulate in the cheeks of Johanna, and relieving her by obſerving, that he conſidered the lieutenant to be, at leaſt, as good a phyſiognomiſt as himſelf, changed the ſubject.

[222]The reſidue of the journey was undiſtin⯑guiſhed by further matters, requiſite to its hiſtory, till they came to the laſt ſtage at a town about fifteen miles from Fitzorton.— Here John propoſed a change of companions, taking Charles Stuart in the place of Mrs. Herbert and Johanna, with whom he had before aſſociated himſelf. George was now ſent forward with a letter to Olivia, announcing her new gueſts—and while the horſes were changing at the door a waggon ſtopped, and the company ſoon aſcertained the waggoner to be Robert Irwin.

"If you are come from the abbey, tell us," exclaimed Caroline, "how you left my father?"

"In as fair a way, my lady, as he can go."

"Bleſſed be God!"

"Yes, bleſſed be God indeed! for none but he could have put him there—I know that by myſelf, my lady."

"Put him where, Robert?"

"Why in a fair way of recovery.—Yes, miſs, of recovering his ſoul, and mayhap his body alſo: though he does not ſeem much [223]to care now what becomes of that, ſo as it will ſerve to hold his ſoul in it till he ſees your honours."

"Have you ſeen him then?"

"O yes, bleſſed be God for that too! I would not but have ſeen him for all the worth of the abbey. He knew me at ſight, took me by the hand, and then aſked my pardon, ſo then I aſked his, and he ſaid, I had done his ſoul good, and I told him, he had done mine full as much; ſo we thanked one another; and if Mr. Burton had not been in a hurry to get me away with this bit of a letter to the colonel Sir John, I ſhould have talked longer with his honour."

"You have talked too long," ſaid the coloned, who had been ſome time in fear of Robert's loquacity.

"Thank heaven, the horſes are ready," exclaimed Caroline, handing Johanna and Mrs. Herbert into one of the chaiſes, and hurrying the reſt. Seeing John, however, open the letter, ſhe pauſed while aſcending the carriage to caſt an enquiring look on the colonel.

[224]"It is from a friend of Sir Guiſe," ſaid John, in reply to the look, "from, indeed, every body's friend;—our good apothecary, who writes, that all is as well as can be expected."

The travellers, a good deal relieved, pur⯑ſued their journey.

When the colonel and the lieutenant were ſhut up together, the former ſpake as follows. "Your forming one of the party is a ſufficient reply to the improper doubts of my letter; yet, the frequent ſight of an object, of which our frail nature is in danger, and yet, whom a complicated duty places in our view, is a taſk which your virtue has been ſpared, my friend. But ſome perſons who have endured abſence with philoſophy, have found every energy melt away on a return to the object which had before enthralled them. If you appre⯑hend this may be your caſe, as much caution ſhould be obſerved to prevent an inter⯑view between you and Olivia, as there has been taken to hinder the meeting of Henry and Caroline: and ſo environed indeed, is [225]the path we are all going, that could I have brought your repentant, and perhaps, dying parent, to his children, I would have appointed the interview at the diſ⯑tance of the poles, rather than on the ſpot to which we are haſtening. Let not, however, the neceſſity I am under, of thus leading you into temptation, be augmented by your own indiſcretion. The abbey is ſufficiently ſeparated from the caſtle to ſtand betwixt your weakneſs and your ſtrength, if any of the former remains: and when your duty is fulfilled at the one, the ho⯑nours you have thereby acquired may be preſerved untarniſhed by returning to your receſs, or to more active ſcenes, which, in truth, you have but too much and too long neglected. We err as fatally, my friend, from having too proud as too humble an opinion of our virtues: and from too great as too little confidence in ourſelves."

"If," replied the lieutenant, "I have to boaſt of any ſtrength on this occaſion, it is not my own;—and, did I not fear you would accuſe me of inconſtance, I could [226]ſatisfy you that, although I am now moving on trembling ground, I advance with nerves that can no longer ſhake, with a heart that no longer palpitates:—but ſecond impreſ⯑ſions are deemed ſo ſlight, ſo faithleſs, even by the romantic—"

"By the romantic they may," interpoſed John Fitzorton, "yet thoſe who are at all converſant with the powers of circumſtance, of time, and chance, operating on humanity, will pronounce the poſſibility at leaſt of ſecond impreſſions taking firm root in a ſteady heart: nay, of their being more cogent than the firſt; and although this may trample on the laws which romance has impoſed on caricature-loving fancy, it is within the boundary of nature."

Charles acknowledged that he felt relieved on a ſubject he had not dared to open.

"You ſhould not only have dared to diſ⯑cloſe, but have ſent both your friends at the caſtle, the earlieſt confidential accounts of it, and correct; and did I not enter into the mo⯑tives of your ſuppreſſion, imputing them to a ſincere, yet falſe pity for Henry and myſelf, [227]I ſhould aſſert you had uſed us moſt un⯑kindly: ſince to with-hold a good example is to with-hold, often, the means of virtue. And yet, poſſibly, it might have been loſt on us: for there is no making human beings reach, or attempt to reach, ſimilar ends by ſimilar means. I have endeavoured with unceaſing diligence to wean my affections, and have been elaborating a lover's cares for every thing I ſaw that deſerved attention, from the glow-worm at my feet, to the lark at the extent of my viſion,—and to divide my heart amongſt all the gradations of inter⯑mediate beings, till I could abſorb the one which had ſo long annihilated the reſt; but finding that all other parts of nature had leſs congenial magic for my heart, than the attractive particles that conſtituted that one, I could at beſt only take care that the feveral objects on whom I employed myſelf were the better. And thus, were our ſepa⯑rate conſeſſions made known to the world; both our characters would fade in the page of romance: yet without appealing, my friend, either to writers or readers, let us [228]do juſtice to ourſelves. It pleaſed heaven to ſet in the eye of your conſtant remark, an object ſufficiently beautiful and good to draw you imperceptibly to itſelf; and though I have not had the ſame advantage, the heaven by which you have been favoured, has ſo far extended its bounty to me, that if I continue to think more highly, perhaps more ten⯑derly of Olivia, than of any other woman; it is tenderneſs I have directed every way to her honour and happineſs; and although I admit this furniſhes no inſtance of victorious energy, it offers to a heart beſet by tempta⯑tions from which it could not eſcape, the only innocent mode of conſolation; and, O! forgive me, ſacred ſource of my life, if in this deſpairing hour,—after many a year of unavailing effort,—forgive me, ſpirit of my father! if I obſerve, but with fond remem⯑brance of all thy virtues, that the ſtill ago⯑nized hearts of thy children, ſupply to pa⯑rents a leſſon of aweful caution!"

"With regard to myſelf," obſerved the lieutenant, "all merit is precluded by the very circumſtances which have enabled me [229]to transfer an unfortunate to a happy choice. The ſteady example of my deareſt ſiſter, who, without affecting to have gained a ſudden or eaſy conqueſt over herſelf, pre⯑ſerved a ſilence, which, in my preſence, was ſeldom broken, even by a ſigh; her patient ſubmiſſion to deſtroying languors which have, as you muſt have noticed, invaded her frame"—

"I obſerved it," ſaid the colonel.

"The care ſhe took to extend an example, not of obdurate philoſophy, nor yet of hypo⯑critical indifference, but of chaſte reſigna⯑tion; her unfeigned regrets and prayers for her father, while ſhe knew him unworthy of the name;—this, my dear colonel, in the firſt inſtance endued me with a patience greater than my own. Thus, from a female, and one of the tendereſt of her ſex, has a ſoldier learned to ſuffer. The ſweet Johanna, meanwhile, at once kept alive, while ſhe was imperceptibly ſubduing an unfortunate paſſion. Nature had given to her features a ſimilitude, which—"

[230]"But," interpoſed John, ſtrongly, "un⯑leſs it ſhould turn out that you can love Johanna for herſelf, independent on all com⯑pariſon, ſhe never muſt be yours: for I muſt not have her ſecondary in her huſband's eyes, even to Olivia."

"Secondary! ah, ſhe is the firſt and deareſt to my ſoul!"

"Perhaps, however," anſwered John, "it may be as well after all, that Mrs. Fitzorton and you ſhould meet; for let romancers ſay what they will, I have ſeen many inſtances, and experienced one, where a ſecond love has effaced, improved, and obliviated the firſt: I have likewiſe known both men and women imagine them⯑ſelves in love much oftener than they are; and Johanna muſt never condeſcend to be⯑come a ſubſtitute; neither am I yet ſuf⯑ficiently acquainted with the particulars of the paſſion to ſanction it; but I love you both."

The lieutenant bowing gratefully, turned the diſcourſe by making enquiries as to the ſtate of his friend Henry's affections, "which [231]I cannot but hope," ſaid he, "are as com⯑pletely transferred to Olivia, as are mine to my deareſt Johanna."

"His conduct is meritorious," anſwered the colonel, "but it will be beſt to keep him from unneceſſary trials,—and therefore, when the fate of your father is determined, which, to deal candidly with you, I think an almoſt immediate event: the return of your whole party either to your former receſs or to ſome other, muſt by no means be retarded. For you, indeed, Charles, whatever may be the iſſue of your wiſhes towards an alliance with Johanna, I think a more active ſcene might be adopted. Alas! my friend, both you and our Henry have been too long idle.— In that reſpect, my plan, under at leaſt an equal difficulty, has been better con⯑trived. I have found or made time for the performance of official duties of very dif⯑ferent kinds: and though, alas! I performed them often amidſt the wailings of hu⯑manity, and the throbbings of my heart, I determined they ſhould be done, and [232]that they ſhould contribute to my private relief, while they effected, I truſt, ſome public good. But Charles Stuart is ſtill a ſubaltern, and Henry Fitzorton carries about a mind which by long habit of indulged ſoftneſs is unfitted for exertion, and inſtead of being eminent as a divine, and celebrated as a poet, his nobleſt effuſions, even in his occaſional attempts to preſerve the charac⯑ter of the latter, ſink to a querulous elegy that moans his own diſappointments, or dwindles to a ſonnet that veils in an addreſs to Delia, or Cleone, his inextinguiſhable paſſion for the real, though involuntary object of his heart."

"I thought," ſaid the lieutenant, "you had pronounced his conduct merito⯑rious."

"As a huſband, as a father, he is irre⯑proachable: but as a man, he has no character at all. It has evaporated in ſighs and tears. I too have ſighed. I too have wept, but I have not forgotten that I had engaged in public employments."

[233]"Alas!" anſwered Charles, "my Henry is not, by nature, endued with the ſtrength of John."

"And what," replied the colonel, "is John's ſtrength? rather ſay, that he has taken a leſs perilous mode of nurſing his weakneſs. Perhaps, my friend, we are all equally wrong to have felt any weakneſs at all: and as paſſion wounded us, reaſon ſhould make us whole. But the beſt efforts do not always meaſure to duty,—rather let us utter a prayer that—"

The colonel was proceeding in theſe reflec⯑tions, when the poſtillion ſtopped the chaiſe to give notice he was within a mile of the place; and while he was ſpeaking, True George came up to "aſſure their honours, that the lady Olivia would be ready to receive all the worſhipful good company."

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE gate which the colonel had marked as the firſt point of direction, ſtood on the ſide of the road, which all the party muſt neceſſarily paſs; and juſt as the chaiſes, con⯑taining the ladies intended to be the caſtle gueſts, were drawing up to it, the midnight moon preſented to view not only the caſtle itſelf, but a much nearer proſpect of its lovely miſtreſs. The fair hoſteſs, anxious to give to hoſpitality its moſt attractive grace, had ventured, through the dews of night, near a quarter of a mile, in complete oblivion of herſelf, and attended only by the faithful Jane, to offer the warmeſt welcome of her bounteous heart.

And difficult would it be to find words ſuitable to the ſhort, but intereſting, events which her courteſy produced. Every glaſs was, in a moment, let down—every door thrown open—every carriage was emptied— and every affectionate and grateful expreſſion was given and received. "O that I had [235]power to tell you," exclaimed Olivia, "how welcome you all—all are! and how I envy myſelf the miſerly joy of receiving you, for the preſent, alone; my dear huſband being, as doubtleſs you have heard, from home; but, I truſt, we ſhall have him amongſt us ſoon, and meet to part no more."

While ſhe uttered this addreſs, in a voice that mingled the muſic of an affectionate heart with every word, ſhe diſtributed her careſſing hands to each of the party. She ſaid the kindeſt things to Charles. Caroline ſhe embraced many times—and, although this was her fondeſt point of friendſhip, neither Johanna, nor Mrs. Herbert, nor the good Monk, nor Floreſco, had cauſe to be jealous of a preference; and ſhe earneſtly deſired that the caſtle might be honoured by all preſent, at leaſt for that night."

"This is againſt all rules, all plans, all reaſon," ſaid John, "nay all promiſes, and what is worſe, the fair promiſe-breaker has made it impoſſible to chide, even though ſhe is betraying us."

"Ah! forgive—forgive me, my dear [236]brother," ſaid Olivia, "my emotions are too ſtrong to be contained."

Whatever were the particular and appro⯑priate ſenſations of each individual, on this ſudden rencounter, there was no time for explaining them. John hardly allowed op⯑portunity for the exchange of general cour⯑teſies: the meeting and ſeparating were alike abrupt; and under cover of this hurry in their movements, and the ſhading of the moon light on their features, the ſecrets of every heart were commodiouſly veiled.

A ſhort converſation now taking plaec, a little farther in the park, betwixt John and Olivia, the former wreathed the arms of Mrs. Herbert and Johanna, within thoſe of Mrs. Fitzorton, and deſiring George and Jane to take care of one another, that divi⯑ſion of the party went forward to the caſtle, while John's party returned to their carriage and proceeded to the abbey.

The urbanity of Mrs. Fitzorton, however, was felt and acknowledged; after which a profound ſilence prevailed; broken only [237]by an impatient wiſh from Caroline that they had gained the end of their journey.

Agreeable to the colonel's inſtructions, the carriages ſtopped at a ſtyle that led through a coppice, to that grand avenue, already ſo eventful in this hiſtory. And while John was charging the poſt-boys to remain till the ſteward, meaning True George, returned; that diſpatchful youth came, with almoſt winged ſpeed, to inform the colonel he had ſeen the ladies ſafe into the caſtle. "Remain then with your horſes," ſaid John to the poſtillions, "till this young man, who muſt attend us, gets back to you from the place to which we are going. There is a poſſibility we all may return with you; but, whether we do or no, I rely on your being found here till you hear from, or ſee us again."

The party now paſſed through the grove, led by John Fitzorton, and followed by True George; and they came into the avenue, at the very ſpot where Henry firſt betrayed his heart. The abbey clock ſtruck one in the morning, and was almoſt immediately an⯑ſwered [238]by that of Fitzorton, and the Chapel houſe.

'As if an angel ſpoke they felt the ſolemn ſound.'

Arriving at the lodge, that divided the park from the back garden, over which, as if to welcome, by a light from heaven, the angel-like train returned, the moon caſt a ray ſo pure and clear that every object became diſtinct. Hereupon, ſeveral ſighs broke involuntarily from the party, but in ſo mingled a ſound that it would have been difficult to appropriate them. Arthur, how⯑ever, as he paſſed the portal, which George held open, exclaimed, "Bleſſed be our entrance into that well-known manſion!" "Amen," added the little Floreſco, drop⯑ping on his knee and raiſing his arms. Charles and Caroline were ſupported, indeed almoſt carried, by colonel Fitzorton. The brother's feet faultered at every ſtep; the ſiſter's trembling limbs claimed the ſupport [239]which even the firm frame of John could ill beſtow; but the generous Burton, from his appointed ſtation in the ſummer pavilion, marked by many an indelible record, haſt⯑ened to their relief. "My patient is not yet dead," exclaimed the worthy man, willing to remove a fear which his preci⯑pitate appearance might occaſion. "Not yet!" exclaimed Caroline, "then he is dying—!" and without waiting a reply, ſhe ran towards the houſe with a ſpeed as if proceeding from a renovation of nature. Alas! it was but the exertion of one of thoſe moments, in which it is ſome⯑times permitted to the immortal ſoul, to aſſert its independence over the mortal body, and to mount with an energy ſublime over every exhauſted power of our common nature. At the foot of the abbey door ſhe was ſaved from falling, in a manner lifeleſs, on the edge of the marble ſteps, only by the little Indian; whoſe ready humanity outflew that of his companions. "Pray, good dear lady, forgive poor ne⯑gro [240]boy, for hims boldneſs in touching you with black hand—but only till white maſſers come up." The generous and timid youth reſigned her to the arms of her brother and the colonel, the inſtant they arrived. True George ſoftly opened the abbey door, to follow his maſter's inſtructions, and ran to ſummon thoſe whom the colonel had appointed to receive the gueſts; and when Caroline recovered, ſhe obſerved, in the perſons of the females who had been buſied in reſtoring her, two of the ſervants who had conducted themſelves moſt to her ſatisfaction, both before and after the death of her mother.

CHAPTER XXX.

IN vain, however, did theſe faithful ad⯑herents, and the generous John Fitzorton, who had ſought for, and provided them—in vain did the tender Charles, and the pious Arthur, counſel our Britiſh daughter to take a few hours of repoſe before ſhe had ſeen her [241]father. It was not without difficulty the good apothecary could prevail on her to go, and ſee whether her viſit might be proper—"It muſt, it muſt, be proper," cried ſhe, "let us go, my brother, the ſight of us muſt calm, may perhaps reſtore, him." "It may be even dangerous," obſerved John. "Per⯑chance fatal," added Mr. Burton, and went forward. Caroline turned even paler than before, and remained in terrified ſuſpence till the return of the apothecary, who brought the comforting tidings, that both himſelf and the nurſe, were in profound repoſe. "O! conduct me to him," exclaimed Caroline, catching the reporter's hand—"my ſteps, my very breathing ſhall not be heard—for pity's ſake let me ſee the ſtate he is in, and I will be ſatisfied—indeed I will."

Her appeals were not to be withſtood— with the lightneſs of the air itſelf ſhe no ſooner received permiſſion, and underſtood where her father was repoſing, than ſhe moved to the chamber, the door of which being half open ſhe reached the foot of the bed unper⯑ceived. [242]The day had been ſultry, and the curtains were undrawn.

Ye who have ever beheld the parent whom ye left in vigorous health of body, though covered with crimes of the ſoul, and to whom filial piety has brought you, after ſharp re⯑morſe has made that mind its victim, and ſickneſs has almoſt devoured that body, ah! recal the ſenſation of your hearts at the ſight of a father under theſe circumſtances—then will you have a juſt image of Caroline on the firſt view of the deeply-changed Sir Guiſe Stuart! It is true that ſhe ſaw him ſleeping, but ſhe ſaw the wildneſs of deſpair entrenched in the untimely furrows of a face, colourleſs and ſhrunk as death itſelf—ſhe obſerved the ſymptoms of unquiet reſt in the catch of the features, and the ſtarts of the whole frame; his eyes too, opened and cloſed abruptly: but at length, his countenance ſettling more regularly, ſhe went round to the ſide of the bed, and bending over his pillow remained in that poſture ſome moments.

Fearful of diſturbing him, and yet more [243]afraid of the effects of a ſurprize ſhould he awake and perceive her unprepared, ſhe truſted not the meltings of her pitying heart with a voice, ſcarcely with a ſigh—but, after having for ſome time hung over him, the tears which ſurcharged her eyes dropt on his pale cheek, and following each other faſt before ſhe was conſcious where they had fallen, ſhe was wiping them gently away, when his eye half unfolded met thoſe of his daughter.

"O, God! O, God!" groaned he, "there then is one of them—but it cannot be ſhe— no—thoſe lips will never return my curſe."— "Ah, no, no," exclaimed ſhe, dropping on her knees, and folding her upraiſed hands— "never, never! ſhe is come to bleſs you— to crave your bleſſing—to nurſe you into health—into felicity—into an aſſurance of eternal duty—eternal love!—eternal hap⯑pineſs!"

"And your ſon is come with her," an⯑ſwered Charles.

John Fitzorton, Father Arthur, and the [244]little Indian, had ſtolen, under the guidance of the apothecary, unſeen into the chamber.

"Yes, we are all come, Sir Guiſe, to bleſs you," ſaid the Colonel, "becauſe we hope and believe you continue to deſerve it!"

"And to intercede with the all-merciful to grant you his benediction alſo," cried Ar⯑thur, kneeling at the foot of the bed.

Floreſco imitated him in a remote corner of the apartment—George ſtanding meanwhile at the door, but wrapt in pureſt contem⯑plation.

The ſick man laboured to hold himſelf half raiſed, while he ſtretched forth his hand, and bowed his head to John Fitzorton—ſaying eagerly, but feebly—"This, under God! is your work, ſir. I—I—I thank you. You are juſt come in time, my children, to ſee the death, alas! of a ſinner, but of a peni⯑tent."

"Yet of that death the all-merciful is not deſirous," ſaid Arthur.

"And if you will try to compoſe your⯑ſelf, ſir," ſaid Burton, "your children and [245]friends, after a weary journey, will reſt them⯑ſelves alſo: and when I aſſure both them and you, ſir, that this is neceſſary to your life and their happineſs, all parties will, ſurely, ſubmit to my direction."

Sir Guiſe, unable to ſpeak from the fulneſs of ſenſation, bowed aſſent to whatever ſhould be thought proper: then laid his head on the pillow, but kept his eyes in a fixed gaze on his children.

On a whiſpered promiſe from the apothe⯑cary to be again admitted when her father was refreſhed, and to be ſummoned if any thing ſhould happen, Caroline was prevailed on to leave the room with the reſt of her friends, and afterwards, being indeed worn down with fatigues both of mind and body, and underſtanding the reſt were properly ac⯑commodated, ſhe ſuffered herſelf to be con⯑ducted to her ſleeping-room by the other female attendant: Arthur went to the good apothecary's, accompanied by his Indian; and the lieutenant, though he had hitherto de⯑ported himſelf with the utmoſt decorum, ſeemed doubtful whether he ſhould go to the [246]various claims which attracted him at the caſtle, or liſten only to the ſingle duty that faſtened upon him at the abbey. John left him to his own election. "You will ſay every thing moſt good, moſt dear, for me, Colonel," ſighed he after a ſhort pauſe, "where you are going; I feel that I ought to remain here for the night." "I believe you are right," cried John. "It is already near the day; all, I hope, are at reſt in the caſtle; and, to tell you the truth, my friend, my thoughts and feelings have been ſo long upon the ſtretch, that I ſhall be glad of a little ſleep too: you ſee matters have turned out ſo that it would be a heart-breaking effort to drag your ſiſter from her father ſo ſoon, though we leave him ſo much better than might be expected. We muſt give up, there⯑fore, the idea of returning to town with the chaiſes—George muſt go round, and diſpoſe them, late as it is, at Fitzorton, but with proper cautions, and, in the courſe of to⯑morrow, or more correctly ſpeaking, of to⯑day, let us hope all the good propoſed by my long, and your yet longer, journey, may be [247]accompliſhed: we may then get back to London, without hazard of curioſity carry⯑ing our adventure, at leaſt in a ſuſpicious ſhape, to my brother Henry:—Lieutenant, farewell."

Charles and the Colonel ſhook hands, and the latter, with the ever-active George, took their circuitous route to the caſtle.

George had not uttered a ſingle word during the ſacred interview of the father and children, although he had wept and ſmiled, kneeled down, and leapt up, according as grief, or joy, reverence, or activity, ope⯑rated on his impreſſive nature. Finding him⯑ſelf now only with the Colonel, or, perhaps, forgetting a moment that he was ſo, an excla⯑mation burſt from him, which induced John to aſk him what was the matter? "Why I was thinking, your honour, that if poor Sir Guiſe went on every day getting a little better and better all ways, he would be good enough in time for one that he has uſed the worſt, though ſhe is one of the beſt, to ſee him too, and beg of God to bleſs him before he dies, as well as the reſt. She'll forgive him I'm [248]ſure. Lord help us, your honour, ſo little while as we be in this world, and ſo long in another, that is to ſay for everlaſting, none but a fool, one would think, would be wicked: and yet, for my part, it ſeems to me that the more ſenſible the more ſinful. Lord help us, ſaving your honour's preſence, we are all of us a pack of poor little things."

The Colonel took George's arm and put it within his own, and notwithſtanding the timid reluctance of Jane's lover, who would reve⯑rentially have withdrawn it, John walked in that endearing way till he came to the poſtil⯑lions, both of whom were ſhut up faſt aſleep in their chaiſes, while the horſes ſilently fol⯑lowed their drivers' example as to napping, with their heads nodding, and noſes bent al⯑moſt to the ground, only one of them was cropping twigs from the green hedge near which they had drawn up.

Familiar, however, to every ſudden ſum⯑mons, they were eaſily arouſed—George had brought, out of pure good nature, both man and beaſt ſome refreſhments from ſtable and [249]pantry, on his return from eſcorting the ladies, and whiſpering that a ſecond part of the ſame tune now awaited them at the caſtle, they were not only awake but on their horſes in an inſtant. The Colonel croſſed the corner of the park on foot, leaving the poſt-boys to the diſcretion of George, and when he heard from the ſervant, who ſat up for him, that the ladies were but juſt gone to their rooms, he tapt at Olivia's chamber door in paſſing to his own, ſimply to ſay all's well, and went into his apartment.

"We are all viſible," cried Olivia open⯑ing her door, and tripping into the gallery that parted off the chambers—"Do pray tell us how you found poor Sir Guiſe," ex⯑claimed Mrs. Herbert, following Olivia's example—"And how ſweet Caroline, our Caroline, dear John, how did ſhe bear the meeting?" continued Mrs. Fitzorton.—"And how did my honoured patron leave the—the—the lieutenant?" ſighed Johanna—"but, perhaps, he is come, that is, perhaps,—'All well!' repeated John from his citadel, and then drew another bolt acroſs his door.

[250]"I ſuppoſe you know, ladies, that ſhuts out all further arguments," ſaid Olivia play⯑fully: "we ſhall not get another word from him to-night, though we were to die for it— ſo as 'all's well' we muſt be contented."

They wiſhed John, cordially, a good night, notwithſtanding his neglect of minute gallantry, and, embracing each other, re⯑turned to their chambers.

CHAPTER XXXI.

THE morning greetings, however, atoned for the deficiencies of the farewell negative. The Colonel joined them at early breakfaſt, and while they were yet partaking, and converſing over it, with thoſe renewed ſpirits which temporary death returning to blameleſs life generally beſtows, ſeveral little agreeable events happened in ſucceſſion. The indefatigable apothecary paying his morning devoir, and ſaid that the truſty Jonathan, who had been the watch of the night, had with giant ſtrides already given in a favourable report of his patient, that Jerom had relieved guard [251]at the fourth hour, and that therefore the good fellow thought it beſt to take the news to Brixham before he went to reſt. "You muſt know, ladies," ſaid Burton, "Jonathan thought we ſhould all ſleep the better after it"—My Sally overheard this account, for the giant has a marvellous good voice, and though ſhe was yet in bed, ſhe cried out to her ſiſter,—who is her bed-fellow:—Do you hear that, Heſter? God bleſs the bearer. Yes, ſo ſay I, God bleſs Jerom for that, cries Heſter, waking.

"Aye, you have been dreaming about my Jerom, I ſuppoſe," anſwered Sally, "but the news happens to be brought by my Jonathan." "Well, don't quarrel about it," vollied Jonathan, "there's my pretty laſſes, couſin Jerom ſhall bring the next account, and then we ſhall expect a kiſs a-piece and double it." This produced a hearty laugh both above and below ſtairs. I ſkipped up and made dear oldiſh wife laugh too—the giant then tucked him in a truckle in the back parlour, where, as I may ſay, he and Jerom ride and tie in ſleep, as they take [252]turn and turn, as Sir Guiſe's nurſery men, as I call them;—the girls got his meſs of milk ready by the time he waked, wife took t'other nap, and here am I come for my cup of comfort, and ſlice of converſation. But odſo, time will not ſtop a moment, although we are often enough obliged to wait years for him,—that is, for the merry⯑time,—ſo as your faces have declared the ſtate of your pulſes, my good friends—

"O yes," interpoſed John, as Burton was going round, "as all's well, no more need be ſaid on the ſubject."

The ladies interpreted the arch look to which the all's well applied, and laugh'd al⯑moſt as much as the apothecary's daughters, and the giant: and then Burton, the beſt natured of living beings, joined in chorus, without having any other reaſon for it than the genuine joy he had in ſeeing his friends joyful. He then ſet off to viſit Olivia's cottages in his way to the abbey.

Theſe diurnal journeys were always per⯑formed on his medical pad, who, as briſk and bonny as himſelf, and perfectly ac⯑quainted [253]with the doctor's language, trotted, cantered, or ſet off full gallop, according to the calls of life and death, or only the gentle indiſpoſitions, or the megrims of a patient. Indeed, it was a ſort of a pariſh-poney, for all the little boys and girls within ten miles of Brixham had been upon its back, and ſometimes two or three of them together; when the good man was viſiting a father or mother, the children of the family, or a little neighbour would have a ride on the doctor's pad, ſo that the poor little fellow had as much employment, and got no more reſt than his maſter. The urchins would take him from the gate, hedge, door, or manger to which he might be faſtened, and hurry away with him ſometimes in the middle of a nap; now and then, it muſt be owned, the youngſters would lead him into a clover-field, meadow grounds, or con⯑duct him even into the garden to graze on the ſward of the walks, or graſs-plats: and ſometimes they would purloin the oats from the corn-bin, and the hay from the ſtacks, and ſo reward him for their paſtime; while [254]a few generouſly took delight to ſee him at feed, without mounting his back; and ſome⯑times too the apothecary would receive him at their officious hands, wantonly bedecked with flowers wreathed in his mane, or braided into his tail; Burton accuſtomed to their ſport, and always pleaſed with it, would then diſtribute ſome of the nuts, plumbs, or apples, with which his pockets were uſually ſurcharged, and then man and beaſt would ſet off to the next on the ſick liſt, whether in town, hamlet, fine houſe, or humble hut.

Scarce had the apothecary reached his firſt pauſing place, ere a pacquet was de⯑livered to Mrs. Fitzorton, who with extatick accents, cried out, almoſt the moment of receiving it,—"From my dear, dear Hen⯑ry!"— She bowed for permiſſion to read, and was opening the letter while ſhe bowed. Her ſatisfied heart panted to communicate, and John auguring from her happineſs, that all was well too in that quarter, did not check her. "You know all about Henry,—only [255]hear," ſaid ſhe, proceeding immediately with the contents.

"You are, perhaps, unacquainted with Mr. Partington's humour, and might therefore think him," ſaid Mrs. Fitzorton, "one of [256]the moſt ill-mannered men in the world, whereas, he is one of the moſt friendly, and moſt blameleſs, and only ſcolds thoſe whom he loves."

"We have often heard of him," ſaid Mrs. Herbert. Olivia then gave to their peruſal the following curious poſtſcript to Henry's letter.

"The gentleman is a humouriſt," cried Mrs. Herbert, ſmiling.

"Surely it is very unnatural," ſaid Johan⯑na, "to abuſe one's beſt friends."

"Perhaps, you would think it more ſo to hear him laviſh praiſe on his worſt ene⯑mies," obſerved Olivia, "which he does invariably."

"That is more unnatural ſtill," ex⯑claimed Johanna.

"Not, my little wonderer," ſaid the colonel, "if you were to ſee the look, and hear the voice in which he addreſſes both."

"Still 'tis unnatural," added Johanna.

"Rather ſay it is ſingular, for 'tis in nature, I aſſure you: we are very apt," remarked Olivia, "to call that unnatural, which never came within our obſervation.—O, but here's a little nota-bene for you, Colonel."

Being in the letter to Olivia, John knew it might be read aloud. He therefore heard [258]what follows.—'Tell the inſufferable Colo⯑nel John, to take heed—ſat: ſap:—a word to fooliſh fellows is enough.'

"O, but if you knew," ſaid John, warmly, "as we know this ſcurrilous being!—if you knew that he hath in his heart no enmity but for vice, no friendſhip but for virtue: that his oaths are aſpe⯑rities on the ſurface, and ſeem like ſmall knots on the bark of the oak, mere idle peeling, but the heart is ſound and good to the bottom,—you would think of, and love him as we do."

"I love him in your report," ſaid Mrs. Herbert.

"Pray, dear ſir," queſtioned Johanna, "do you think there is any chance that I ſhall come in for a ſhare of his ſcurrility?"

"If you go on improving, I think you may hope," anſwered John.

"O yes, depend on it," obſerved Mrs. Fitzorton, "you will be one of his moſt abominable little caitiffs."

This ſort of chat went on for ſome time, and thoſe who ſuſtained it were thereby more [259]familiarized and endeared to each other. It was then propoſed that while Olivia with⯑drew to write to Henry, Little John and Jane Atwood ſhould ſhew the park and gardens to her amiable gueſts; the colonel having ſignified his intention to ride to the abbey, after he had ſettled ſome buſineſs with his privy counſellor True George.

CHAPTER XXXII.

THE morning ſo generally chearful in the Caſtle, took a different colour at the Abbey: the paſſing hours there had reflected many hues. It was there, indeed, as an April morn, in which a ſudden but ſoft ſucceſſion of cloudings, and ſun-beams—of light ſhowers, with now a dark ſhadow, and now a vivid ray, alternately cleared and obſcured the face of things.

Bright, however, was the beam that, at early dawn, viſited the chamber of Caroline Stuart; for it was uſhered in by tidings that her father had paſſed a better night than any he had enjoyed for many weeks: [260]and that he was ſtill in the arms of ſleep, guarded by Jerom, the nurſe, and one of the female attendants.

Cheared by this intelligence, and not a little renovated by the ſlumbers into which ſhe had herſelf fallen at intervals, ſhe was at leiſure to attend to ſome of the other circumſtances that accompanied this ſtrange reverſe of fortune. Some of theſe, indeed, were immediately under her eye: ſhe found herſelf once more in the chamber where ſhe herſelf firſt opened her eyes, and where her deareſt mother's were cloſed for ever. Her brother had reported to her, long ſince, that the Abbey was in ruins; that its blooms were all deſtroyed, and that whatever it contained had been, even like the wreck of an inſolvent, variouſly diſperſed; yet ſhe had been repoſing on, probably, the ſame bed, certainly ſurrounded by the ſame fur⯑niture, even to the ſlighteſt ornaments, which had graced it in her own natal, and in her poor parent's mortal hour. The very portraits of her grandfather, and of her mother lady Matilda, then a child, deco⯑rated [261]as before, the chimney-piece. "If the rumour," ſaid ſhe, "of the ſale was not falſe, it muſt ſurely be magic—unleſs—perhaps"—

She hurried from a very tender idea, not at leaſt to be encouraged, by going to the window; but from thence a continuation of ſimilar objects ſtruck her eye, and penetrated her heart. The chamber which both the mother and daughter had alternately occu⯑pied and reſigned, was immediately over the flower garden. This, on her throwing up the ſaſhes, welcomed her return with every fragrance, and regaled her with every florid bloom of the ſeaſon.

"How is all this poſſible?" ſighed ſhe, "I certainly wake—I certainly ſpeak—I move—" One of her women, whom ſhe had enjoined to bring reports from her father's room, entered as ſhe uttered this. Caroline had half begun a queſtion, which ſhe broke off by obſerving, "it was of no immediate conſequence—another time, per⯑haps, ſhe might trouble her with it—and requeſted to be left a little."

[262]As her filial terrors began more to ſubſide, cloſer and acuter recollections thronged to her memory. By a reſiſtleſs force, and natural approximation, as well as celerity, her thoughts travelled from the abbey to the caſtle, and back again as faſt.

By nature and by habit firm, ſelf-denying, and ſteady to her principles, ſhe had forborn to mention the names, either of Olivia or Henry, to her brother, even though from his new attachment he might poſſibly have heard them unmoved. But aware that human ſtrength is baby weakneſs, if it inflates us with a daring confidence, or braves tempta⯑tion, ſhe had avoided every thought, as much as poſſible, that led to Henry Fitzorton.

Incapable, however, of change, ſhe could not, like her brother, transfer her feelings, or compromiſe with her heart. She retained her ſentiments of preference, without pro⯑poſing, thereby, any idea, but that of carry⯑ing to the grave an original impreſſion, unmixt with any image, external or interior, that ſhould debaſe or ſully it; to live in a [263]ſtate of ſinglehood and ſeparation, far from an object who was ſolemnly and for ever diſ⯑poſed of; wiſhing both him and the ſacred being, to whom he was bound, all human good in this world, and all bliſs in the next. This comprized the whole plan of her exiſtence; if we add only her unwearied prayers for an alteration in the former pur⯑ſuits, and conſequent practiſe, of her father, and her attentive affection to her brother's heart, which, when ſhe found it capable of a change, ſhe conducted by the moſt gentle and generous means, to that of Johanna.

In the performance of theſe ſeveral duties, and in obſervance of the laws ſhe had her⯑ſelf inſtituted, for the government of her own heart, the receſs in which ſhe had paſſed the laſt few years, became, ſhe thought, the moſt proper ſhe could have found. So entirely ſuited, indeed, to her feeling was it, that, ſweetened by friendſhip, and ſoftened by ſympathy, ſhe ardently deſired to remain there, to the remoteſt period of her days.

[264]Summoned, however, at length, by a voice which ſhe would have followed, though it ſhould lead from an earthly paradiſe to the gloom of a dungeon, the voice even of nature—breathed from a repentant father—ſhe had again to approach ſcenes and objects, over which it had been the ſolemn buſineſs of her ſoul to draw an oblivious veil. She had long ſeen them in retroſpect—every day added to their diſ⯑tance. The piety of Arthur, who pointed to higher proſpects—the reſignation of his ſable attendant, who caught from his maſ⯑ter's precepts the virtue of ſubmiſſion, even to the eternal loſs of her he had left in the Indian world—and the purity of her own mind, had all a ſhare in quieting her ſpirit, and in directing her ideas. But every thing was ſuddenly and unavoidably brought back. Inanimate and living objects, each intereſting to her heart, encompaſſed her about; and John Fitzorton, relying on the force of her character, had not even made the conqueſt of her former attachment to [265]his brother Henry a queſtion: ſo that many things, which ſhe could not but ſee—which ſhe could not but feel, were wrapt in clouds of myſtery.

Several points, however, were palpable, and to theſe her mind, always ſubmiſſive, turned for relief as often as ſhe could draw it from more uneaſy and perplexing reflec⯑tions. She again beheld the ſun gilding the ſcenes of her youth. She was reſtored to her father. Her brother's indignant feelings for him were changed to duteous pity. She had again received the careſſes of Olivia. A little choſen band from her former houſe⯑hold ſmiled on her commands, and John Fitzorton, whom ſhe had once ſuppoſed the greateſt foe of her houſe, alas! with but too much cauſe, had approved himſelf its nobleſt friend.

Yet even to John Fitzorton, her heart aſſigned not the honours of preſerving to her the ſacred reliques, by which ſhe ſaw herſelf ſurrounded. "Ah!" ſighed ſhe, with a ſoftneſs that thrilled her frame, "if theſe well-remembered objects have ever [266]been diſlodged—by whom were they re⯑placed? My brother, Denniſon, Arthur, and our Indian, were far remote—yet who even knew the particulars, or the appropriate places of all I now ſee in this conſecrated apartment? The inventory can have been taken by no careleſs hand. Yes, ſacred image of thy bliſsful years!" continued ſhe, lifting up her eyes to the portrait of her mother, "Thou, the prime ornament of all about me—thou did'ſt not regain thy ſtation here by means of one who was a ſtranger to thy virtues, or to their eternal impreſſion on thy children:—doubtleſs, my mother, ſome friend to us both it was—and—bleſſed be his name—for ever."

Turning from contemplations which had been forced upon her, ſhe opened her door and paſſed into ſeveral of the other apart⯑ments. The naked walls, the half rotted caſements, ſhaking from their frames—the damps that had lodged in the ceiling, and chilled the floors—the darkſome look of moſt of the cloſed windows, acroſs which the bars had ruſted—and the duſt which the [267]winds had beat up, and the froſt hardened upon the ſaſhes which had been left unfaſtened—with the woof of the ſpider, on which hung obſcenely many a victim, the wily artificer ſtill lying perdue in the centre of his ſnares:—theſe were all but ſo many confirmations of her former opinion, with reſpect to the care which had been taken of her apartment.

At this inſtant the lieutenant appeared at the bottom of a ſtaircaſe that led to another diviſion of the chambers on the eaſt ſide of the abbey. Caroline ran to him, ex⯑preſſing a hope that he was comfortably lodged? "Well lodged, my ſiſter? yes, in truth, too well for a ſoldier. But the furniture muſt be from the caſtle; nay, part of it, I think, from colonel Fitzorton's chambers. I'll ſwear to ſome of the articles. How did you find your own?" "Too well furniſhed, likewiſe, conſidering all things," ſaid Caroline, "but not—from— from the caſtle."

Caroline's heſitation incited the lieutenant's curioſity; and, without any more queſtions, [268]he followed his ſiſter back to her own apartment. No ſooner had Charles caſt his eyes around the room, than he exclaimed, "O this can be done only by Henry! I ſee him in every circumſtance."

In a moment he felt Caroline's hand trem⯑ble within his own, and a cold paleneſs came over her face, like that of death—yet expelled as ſuddenly by a burning bluſh. "Pardon, ah pardon, my cruel raſhneſs," cried Charles, "but I thought—" She preſſed his hand kindly, and, elaborating a ſmile, hoped he would attend her to Sir Guiſe. He obeyed in ſilence; yet her agitation both diſtreſſed and ſurpriſed him.

We muſt explain this. Altho' it had been a ſettled point with Caroline, never to aſſiſt in reviving the image of Olivia, by men⯑tion of her name before Charles, even after ſhe had reaſon to believe his affections had taken another bent; he had been equally circumſpect, only while he felt an equal con⯑ſciouſneſs of the mighty powers that aſſociate with the name of a beloved object. When his gliding heart had once deviated from the [269]point at which, as is common to all lovers, he thought it would fix for ever, he not only ſpoke of Henry and Olivia, with leſs and leſs irreſolution, but even called Johanna his ſecond Olivia, either from her real or fancied reſemblance to that lady; and as Caroline had never teſtified, or at leaſt as he had never noticed, any confuſion ſimilar to what he now obſerved; he preſumed there lay no more danger in the name of Henry, than he himſelf found in that of Olivia: ſo prone are we to judge the ſeelings of others by our own. Alas, the lieutenant wholly forgot the different conformation of human minds. The young, the delicate, the intereſting Johanna, had taught him, indeed, to forget every thing ſave herſelf; but had he conſulted the great painter of minds, he would have known, that altho' he had adopted the advice of the merry⯑hearted Mercutio, by taking 'a new infec⯑tion to his mind,' by the force of which 'the poiſon of the old had died,' his leſs mutable ſiſter, who, though ſhe gave her ſorrows no voice, nor, at a diſtance from [270]their ſource, ſcarce knew herſelf how deep⯑ly that ſource was ſeated;—might, in a nearer advance to objects long unſeen—and ſtudiouſly ſhunned—and at ſuch a criſis of her ſoftened thoughts—feel as if the name of Henry

'Shot from the deadly level of a gun Had murdered her.'

"Finding her agitation increaſe, as ſhe walked along, ſhe begged the lieutenant would leave her a few moments to herſelf; but catching his hand eagerly, before ſhe ſuffered him to depart, ſhe exclaimed, "O! let me not be miſtaken—It is the remembrance of a generous and diſintereſted heart—it is the unexpected ſight of its bounty, its pity, and its goodneſs: it is a combination in which are thoſe ſacred perſons who are above and under the earth; and no object, no image, leſs hallowed than theſe has over whelmed your Caroline."

The lieutenant embraced her, and being now in an ante-chamber that joined her father's room, he ſaid he would prepare Sir Guiſe to receive her.

[271]She did not, however, remain long after him. He who calms the raging of the ſea, can raiſe the innocent flower which the ſtorm has beaten down. With him ſhe communed; to him ſhe bent the knee, and offered up the prayer which was accepted.

She roſe tranquillized, and hearing herſelf called by a voice which, even when it ſum⯑moned harſhly, ſhe had never diſobeyed; ſhe ſoon aſſiſted the pious offices of a recon⯑ciled ſon by blending with them thoſe of an exemplary daughter.

And now for ſome hours they had both the ineffable delight of teſtifying the bleſſed effects of a contrite ſpirit. The rock was ſoftened, and the tears which guſhed from thence, as from a pure ſource, were as living waters to cleanſe the polluted ſoul. Sir Guiſe avowed his crimes, owned his ſorrow, and his regret—confeſſed that he had erred beyond what the blameleſs minds of his children could image of wrong, but that now they were reſtored to him he had ſome aſſurance their innocent mediation would be accepted. Avowals like theſe he had made [272]before, and with fraudulent deſign, but the reign of hypocriſy was paſt, and conſcience had at laſt aſcended her rightful throne.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

CHEARED by theſe appearances, and anxious to improve them, the good brother and ſiſter ſat on each ſide of their father's bed, and tried every thing moſt likely to continue the happy ſymptoms. In anſwer to ſome kind queſtions Sir Guiſe had aſked, re⯑ſpecting the worthy old Denniſon, whom he conſidered as amongſt the firſt on the long liſt of thoſe he had injured, Caroline pro⯑duced a letter with which the veteran ſteward had charged her at parting, and which ſhe promiſed to bring forward when it might moſt gratify the ſervant and the maſter. And this appeared to her the moment that it would ſet forth, in the ſimplicity of nature, the unaffected good wiſhes, and good will of an honeſt heart. Of this Caroline, from a long knowledge of the writer, was perfectly aſ⯑ſured —but fearing that, in the unfolding theſe, there might be ſome expreſſions which a [273]mind, ſore from the wounds it had inflicted on itſelf, would feel too pointedly—ſhe pro⯑poſed to ſpare her father the trouble of peru⯑ſing it by conſigning it to her brother's read⯑ing, obſerving, that he might, at ſome future early opportunity, either report the ſubſtance or give the whole. Jerom and Jonathan, who had been keeping watch over the Baro⯑net, offered to withdraw, but Sir Guiſe, with ſome energy, ſaid—"as his improper beha⯑viour to that much-wronged old man, and to every other perſon, had been public, ſo ſhould be his confeſſions, his ſhame, and repentance." "I know," continued he, "my dear child's generous motive, but I muſt entreat to have the letter immediately, and will try to read it myſelf. For this pur⯑poſe Sir Guiſe raiſed himſelf in the bed, and made many ineffectual efforts; but he had taken too wide a meaſure of his corporeal powers, or rather he had miſtaken a momen⯑tary ſupply of ſpirits, from ſeveral chearing circumſtances, for bodily ſtrength; and unable even to bear the poſture neceſſary to trace the characters of the letter, he was conſtrained [274]to lie down, and intreat his ſon to read it; as his deſire to know the contents remained, and was, perhaps, increaſed by the difficulty of procuring them. The lieutenant having broken the ſeal, and unfolded the paper, began to read, but ſtopt in the middle of the firſt ſentence. In vain did his father im⯑portune him to proceed. Caroline gueſſing, indeed perceiving, in ſome meaſure, the cauſe, from what ſhe had already heard, now regretted ſhe had mentioned the letter till Sir Guiſe had gained a little more ſtrength. He agreed to this, and, feeling himſelf ex⯑hauſted, ſaid he wiſhed to be alone.

The lieutenant and Caroline obeyed, and when they were gone Sir Guiſe made another ineffectual trial. "I ſee you are main willing, your honour, to hear what daddy Denniſon ſays," cried Jonathan, who had returned into the chamber with Jerom—"and I," ex⯑claimed the latter, "will read it, were it as cramp and crooked as our own." "Aye we'll make him out I warrant," anſwered Jerom, "an if it be long, why we can ride and tie you know, couſin. You a bit and I a bit." "Od's zookers, now you are got on the [275]right ſide the poſt, your honour ſhan't be on the fidgets for the value of reading a letter; and ſo as the ſquire and young lady ſeem ſhilly-ſhally about it, what little book larning we have is at your ſervice if you like to have it."

Taking the ſilence of the baronet for con⯑ſent, though, in truth, he was ſilent becauſe he had not recovered himſelf enough to ſpeak, Jerom received the letter and began:

What is that word Jonathan—he's as long as my leg.

[276]"And a pretty deal more crooked," anſwered Jonathan, looking over his couſin's ſhoulder, "but I have him for all that— pokrifal, you fool, pokrifal, who's the beſt ſcholar now I wonder?"

Jerom, clapping him on the ſhoulder, ſaid, "You are a fine old Greecein to be ſure," and proceeded: "Now that I take to be pokri⯑fal —for firſt it's new to ſee, your honour, what I hear, with great joy, you now are beginning to be, that the ſun, old as he is, mayhap ſhall hardly ſhine on the like again— and, ſecondly, ſo bad as you have been many long years, nothing but a marvellous miracle could make a good chriſtian man of you again—for 'tis eaſier for a leopard to change his ſpots—you underſtand me, your honour— ſo I dare ſay that, under God's favour, a miracle, and no ſmall one, has been made on purpoſe for your honour."

"Daddy Denniſon is a brave, ſenſical, old youth, an't he coz," ſaid Jonathan.

"Don't put me out," anſwered Jerom— [277]"O, ſir, were the dear, good, real, lady Stuart, whom you—you—"

"Better ſkip the next word, I fancy, coz," ſaid Jerom, heſitating—" ſee here, juſt where I have put my finger."

"It's the devil's own word to be ſure," ſaid Jonathan, "but the ſteward meant it ſhould be read, or he would not have put it down, beſides the thing's true, and ſo what ſignifies mincing of it?"

"Read on," ſaid Sir Guiſe, Jerom con⯑tinued, "Real Lady Stuart, whom you MURDERED, as a body may ſay by inches, were ſhe alive to witneſs this good turn, ſhe would almoſt die again with joy, but for that matter ſhe does ſee it where ſhe now is; and my old heart bounds to think there is now a chance you may meet her: how muſt your honour alſo feel when you have got a little over the ſhame on't to have your all⯑good ſon and daughter by your ſide to forgive you, and to make your bed in your ſickneſs, as the ſcripture ſaith. Your honour ſhould have old Denniſon about you too, but that I am rather dim ſighted of late, and moreover [278]could no otherwiſe but by ſtaying behind to keep houſe, and nurſe my age, prevail on young maſter and miſtreſs to go in com⯑fort. So I thought the only way to ſhew my love, at this great diſtance, would be to indite my thoughts in a letter that your honour might know I was not the leaſt glad to find you ſuch an altered man—and from being the greateſt—the greateſt—

"Here's another word," ſaid Jerom, checking himſelf, "which his honour may not like—looke."

"Lord you are ſo ſqueamiſh—come I'll finiſh it," obſerved Jonathan, taking the let⯑ter and reading on—

—"And from being the greateſt ſinner, I think, I ever knew, are getting to be the greateſt penitent; and heaven can tell it ſhould be ſo, elſe the one can never be able to ſet off the other: I mention theſe things now out of pure kindneſs, that you may not imagine you have repented enough—for, alas! if your honour ſhould live to the age of Mathuſalem, and go in ſack-cloth and [279]aſhes all the time, it would not be too much, ſeeing what is paſt."

A groan here iſſued from the boſom of Sir Guiſe. Jonathan whiſpered to Jerom, "That the groan was a good omen: but that he was glad he had come almoſt to the end of the letter, becauſe," ſaid he, "you ſee the poor man's face is covered with tears, and 'tis a pity to whip a horſe to death when he ſees his fault, and, after all his freaks, is going the right road. Here's only a bit more to end with, your honour."

"And now honoured, and praiſed be God, as I ſaid in the beginning,—honour⯑able, old,—and as I may ſay—new maſter, wiſhing you may go on with the good work, ſo that although your ſins have been as ſcarlet, they may become white as ſnow, which we are told in holy writ, ſhall be the caſe to all true repenters, I am, always, Your old faithful ſervant, to command, NESTOR DENNISON."

[280] "But there's a poſtſcript," obſerved Je⯑rom, "only a few lines though"—

"We have all, young and old, lived here, as I may ſay, like people taken out of a peſt-houſe, and put all at once into a paradiſe; but this, your honour, will hear from better hands. All grace to your honour, and no more at preſent, but love to every thing at the old abbey, and to little old Fitz if alive;—I dare ſay, if little Fitz knew how your honour had mended yourſelf, he would come and 'tend you too. As to ſquire Henry, and madam Olivia, I ſhall ſay nothing,—but heaven make 'em happy.—Your honour has not a little to repent of in that quar⯑ter, —but I have done."

"And its time you had, old boy," ſaid Jonathan, folding up the letter and return⯑ing it to the baronet, who had felt the truth of every paſſage at his heart, but made no other comment than that which was writ⯑ten in his ſighs and tears: both which [281]much affected the young kinſmen, who uſed every means in their power to conſole him, though, in fact, ſome of thoſe intended conſolations, like Denniſon's epiſtle, probed, to a ſalutary end indeed, the deep-ſeated wound.

Meanwhile, Charles and Caroline had been trying to conſole one another: as it was a point pre-ſettled by the colonel, that they were not to go beyond the walled-garden at the weſt-end of the houſe, for fear of being ſeen and known by any of the villagers: they wandered without, perhaps, knowing their feet were in motion, over ſeveral parts of the houſe itſelf. In this ramble, they inſenſibly came to the room which Caro⯑line had appropriated in happier hours, for its parallel ſituation to the caſtle. The inſtant, however, ſhe had ſet her foot into it ſhe drew back, as from ſudden recollection, and would have taken another path, but the lieutenant arreſted her ſtep, by telling her that he ſaw from the window ſeveral per⯑ſons coming down the grand avenue.— "Good heaven!" exclaimed Caroline: "per⯑haps [282]I mean, heaven forbid that—did you ſay ſeveral perſons, brother?"—

While ſhe aſked the queſtion, ſhe was mechanically moving forward in a direction which would have enabled her to anſwer it herſelf, for ſhe approached to the window, rapidly caught a view, not only of the walking porter but of ſeveral well known objects. "I fancy, my dear Charles," ſaid ſhe, trying to diſguiſe her ſenſations, "it muſt be ſome of the family, with perhaps our own Iſlanders."—"Yes," anſwered the lieutenant, looking eagerly, "I think I can diſtinguiſh at this diſtance my mountain⯑daiſy, Johanna."—"Let us prepare to re⯑ceive them," obſerved Caroline, repreſſing a ſigh, but taking her brother's hand, and leaving the chamber, which had alſo ſome pieces of its ancient furniture, and par⯑ticularly a little cabinet which ſhe had not time to bring away, but which ſhe now took under her arm.

When they had got back to her own apartment, one of the maids came up to inform her that True George was come [283]with all manner of good things from the caſtle, and with a meſſage of love from his lady, ſaying, that ſhe and her friends were coming to aſk permiſſion to partake of them. "They are not far off, ma'am," added the maid, "I, and Letty, ſaw them ſome time ago. They left their carriage at the park gates."

The queſtion betwixt the brother and ſiſter now was, where to receive them. "I ſuppoſe it muſt be in one of the chambers, for none of the lower rooms I underſtand have any furni⯑ture." —"O yes, ſir," anſwered the maid, "the little ſaloon and parlour on the right hand are as nicely fitted up as ever, though not with any thing that was in them before."

New wonders ſeemed to take poſſeſſion of Charles and Caroline. They exchanged looks, neither ſpoke, but followed the maid down ſtairs into the ſaloon, where the lieute⯑nant recognized many of his old acquaintance of the caſtle, in the articles that adorned it.

But before they had leiſure to form their feelings on the occaſion, into any thing but deſultory exclamations, the party, which [284]conſiſted of Mrs. Fitzorton, Mrs. Herbert, Johanna, the colonel, and little John, were announced as juſt entering the abbey. Each brought ſome teſtimony of loving-kindneſs. One a baſket of flowers, another of fruits. John Fitzorton had loaded his hands and pockets with food for the mind, while his nephew and ſiſter-in-law carried between them a ſmall wicker-pannier, which, the moment after their entrance, was laid at the ſeet of Caroline Stuart. "I wiſh I could tell you the happineſs I have in rendering up my truſt," ſaid Olivia, "were my Henry here, he would do it for me,—he, who has an eloquence proper for every occaſion; but in his abſence, as none of theſe good people ſeem willing to help me out, I muſt e'en truſt to your known goodneſs, ſweet friend, and ſee whether the offering itſelf can ſupply my defects."

Olivia took the peg from the cover of the pannier, and the lid being laid open, uproſe to the view of the company, the now almoſt withered, but ſtill ſilky head of Caroline's favoured ſpaniel, poor old Fitz: his eyes, [285]like Denniſon's, were dim; his deep brown and once redundant ears, the hair of which was wont to curl like a cupid's head, hung languid down, and, although he had ſhared every delicacy with Henry and Olivia, the waſting power of time had made his face look meagre, while the other parts of his body, even amidſt every ſign of care and love, bore the marks of decay. He was ſtill, however, ſleek: to his protectors he had been intereſting, and the tokens of a good old age were in his countenance. He was received by his long abſent miſtreſs with all the cordiality that attached to him: in⯑deed, ſo many were the ſenſations, that the unexpected ſight of him brought into her mind's eye, that her corporeal one could not hold its tears, while the cauſe of them him⯑ſelf, after being lifted from his downy bed in the pannier, and often paſſing his face over the lovely hand that careſſed him, began to ſhew ſigns of grateful recognition.

"I aſſure you, my dear Caroline, if it had been poſſible," cried Mrs. Fitzorton, "I [286]would have reſtored him to you in all the beauty that graced him at your departure, and had you ſeen how anxious Henry has been to keep him from ſuffering, even by the power of time—alas! the ſpoiler of us all!—you would have loved him for it. And the dog loved him for it too—for I am in favour only when my huſband is abſent. Yes, Fitz," continued Olivia, "you know, when your maſter is at home, I am but a kind of ſecond-beſt with you.—He, who, as one of his favourite bards expreſſes it, was 'made to engage all hearts' is your firſt love; ſo he is mine, and yet though you have been my rival I forgive you."

While Olivia thus talked to, and fondled little Fitz, Johanna and Charles had got into a little tête-à-tête in another part of the ſa⯑loon— as had the colonel and Mrs. Herbert. With reſpect to Caroline, although nothing could be more apparently trivial than what had dropped from Mrs. Fitzorton, on the topic of the four-footed favourite—an old, decrepid little animal—ſhe felt it of the ut⯑moſt [287]importance, and had never known an event in her life that required more manage⯑ment to prevent its being noticed, that, ſhe paid the circumſtance a diſproportionate at⯑tention.

Little John, with that acute remark which belongs to children, aſked his mother, "if the lady was not taken very ill; and I am ſure, ſaid he, 'tis a pity ſuch pretty eyes ſhould ever weep—yet, any body may ſee, there are tears in them now.—Except your⯑ſelf, mamma, I think I never ſaw ſo hand⯑ſome a lady—and I dare ſay, papa would think ſo too. I'll write to him about her."

Caroline over-heard part of this: ſome of it caught the ear of John Fitzorton, who walk⯑ed reſtleſs about the room, then deſiring Johanna to join Olivia, he ſaid to Charles, in a governed voice, "Lieutenant, I fear your ſiſter is ſtill unhappy! You ſhould have told me this." "I knew it not myſelf," an⯑ſwered Charles.

"It muſt appear ſtrange," cried Caroline, [288]as if conſcious ſhe had excited converſation, "that I ſhould have beſtowed on this little brute ſo much more than is his due, while I am in the preſence of ſo many perſons who have higher claims to my grateful attention; but the truth is, I am every way ſo ſurround⯑ed by thoſe invaluable claimants, and feel ſo powerfully the impayable debt I owe them, that I ſhrink under the conſcious weight of unnumbered obligations, and deplore the in⯑ſignificancy of my powers to expreſs my feelings."

"Expreſs them only, ſweet Caroline," ſaid Olivia, "in being happy—in thinking that you are part of ourſelves—in believing that Providence has, at length, heard our mutual prayers—your's in rendering a parent worthy of your love; our's in bringing you, after many a fruitleſs wiſh, within reach of friends ſo very precious to us. I cannot be ſurpriſed at your preſent emotions: I know full well they muſt partake equally of pain and pleaſure; but the former, I truſt, will hourly decreaſe, and the latter receive ſome large additions."

[289]The air of ſoothing, and the accents of encouragement, with which the admirable Olivia ſpoke this, the generoſity of its mo⯑tive, and the ſoft blandiſhments which illuſ⯑trated, by tender action, every heart-felt word, wrought powerfully on the grateful Caroline, who ſuffered herſelf to be heard: and on Olivia's expreſſing a hope that ſhe found Sir Guiſe better, and the abbey a little more like its former ſelf than fame had rumoured it, Caroline ſaid, ſmilingly, "that ſhe ſhould have thought it all the work of ſome good Genii, had ſhe not long known that a race of beings, ſuperior in benevolence to every fabled creation, reſided in Fitzorton caſtle, and diſperſed their bleſſings to all around— and to ſuch magicians ſhe attributed the en⯑chantments which awaited her own, and her brother's return to the abbey.

Thus by a happy and innocent compli⯑ment to the family in general, did Caroline throw a timely veil over the particular cauſe of her late perplexity.

John Fitzorton, however, ſtill appeared anxious, and traverſed from one party to an⯑other [290]without fixing near any body long enough to begin diſcourſe. His diſquietude was ſilently noticed by Olivia, who, imput⯑ing it all to tender emotions in the preſence of his beloved Caroline, ſtole towards him with an "aſſurance, that all theſe inevitable aſperities would in time ſoften, and that though ſhe would not betray his ſecret for the world, ſhe could not but think many things which had dropped from Caroline, admitted an interpretation in his favour.— Theſe ſhe promiſed to impart when ſhe got home; and as Sir Guiſe was now reſtored to virtue, ſhe hoped her dear John would not ſhut up his mind againſt any kind impreſ⯑ſions."

While John was conſidering whether it would be beſt to let Olivia continue this miſ⯑take, or to correct it in part, Mrs. Herbert came forward to ſay, that Caroline had been ſuggeſting the impoſſibility of quitting her father ſo ſoon, and had intreated her to in⯑tercede with the colonel for her and her party remaining ſome time longer. "O, by [291]all means!" interpoſed Olivia, "grant her filial wiſhes, ſend away the carriages at once, and let us all aſſiſt in the recovery of the now good parent, and the conſequent felicity of his children!"

Johanna and the lieutenant again got to⯑gether. "Ah! my Charles," exclaimed the former, not in jealous, but in conſciouſly humble accents, "would I had never ſeen the lovely Olivia! your affection for me, you have often ſaid, was grounded on a fancied reſemblance of her, and if ſo, O how muſt the poor ineffectual copy fade in your eye in a compariſon of the original, which, ſure⯑ly, is grace and lovelineſs itſelf!—I have ſhrunk, even in my own idea, ever ſince I firſt ſaw her in this meridian ſplendour of her charms. Even in her infancy ſhe was faſcinating; but how little was I pre⯑pared for the attractions which now ſur⯑round her.—'Tis true, ſhe is the wife of your friend, and you hold her ſacred and appropriate—but if you love me only for my ſimilitude to thoſe features, my hopes to re⯑tain [292]your heart muſt be faint even as that ſimilitude; yet were the ſight of her to rob me of your heart, could I forbear to love the au⯑thor of my deſpair, when I ſee her thus arrayed in every grace—in every virtue?" Charles could only reply to this by an ardent glance, and gentle preſſure of the hand, for Arthur, Floreſco, and the apothecary came into the room, with a ſummons from Sir Guiſe Stuart, who underſtanding there were ſome of the caſtle family below, ſaid he ſhould think himſelf honoured if any of them would deign to attend his ſon and daughter into his chamber, that he might pour before them his true thanks for their unbounded goodneſs to him and his. Burton ſaid he believed the viſit would act upon the ſpirits of his patient, as a richer cordial than any he could preſcribe for him. Arthur inſiſted it would be an act of ſpiritual charity. Caro⯑line pleaded eloquently, without uttering a word. Olivia took the hand of the latter, and ſaid, ſhe would anſwer for the aſſent of Johanna and Mrs. Herbert, to every thing [293]Arthur had pronounced charitable: "John, I am ſure," added ſhe, "cannot refuſe to promote his own good work." "No," ſaid his nephew, "though my uncle is a philoſo⯑pher, he can juſt laugh and cry like a little brat, as I am; I have made him often do both myſelf—ſo has ſiſter Carry."

Beſides wiſhing to do every good he at⯑tempted, effectually, John deſired to ſee how the long-implored, and, at length, granted requeſt of Sir Guiſe to ſee his children, had operated, "if the lieutenant leads," ſaid he, "the colonel ſhall follow, although contrary to military etiquette."

"I thought," obſerved Olivia, "that in all the little matters of this great world, we women were the commanding officers, and that wherever the ladies led, not only cap⯑tains and colonels, but all their armies were proud to follow; however, as we depute lieutenant Charles and colonel John our aid-de-camps on the occaſion, we order them to go forward."

[294]"If poet papa had been here," cried little John, "I know what he would have called them." "What!" queſtioned the colonel, "not aid-de-camps, but gentlemen of the bedchamber, uncle, and if I can get to the room firſt, I ſhall be the page in waiting, you know."

Little John, bribing the apothecary to accompany him, ran out of the ſaloon, and if there had before been any difficulty, his apt and playful alluſion would have ſettled it: the feelings of the party, which had been ſomewhat entangled in a labyrinth, by the preceding converſation, now concentrated in one generous point, and they were conducted by Charles to his father's chamber.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

NEITHER little John, however, nor his friend the apothecary, though both nimble-footed beings, were the firſt perſons of the groupe who reached the aforeſaid apartment. [295]Arthur's Floreſco no ſooner underſtood, from a whiſper of his maſter, that it was the in⯑tention of the party to indulge the baronet in his deſire, than he ſlipped imperceptibly out of the ſaloon, while the company were ſettling the order of their going: he luckily met True George, to whom he imparted the news, and both flew with it to Sir Guiſe, who no ſooner heard the tidings, than he begged George would aſſiſt him in ſome little preparations for their reception. Ex⯑erting, therefore, all his force, and aſſiſted not only by George and Floreſco, but the egregious letter readers, Jonathan and Je⯑rom —the good apothecary, and his young companion, found the valetudinarian faint, from the labours of equipment, or rather of ſupporting the fatigue of being equipped, but arrayed in one of the comfortable changes of an invalid's wardrobe, which the diligent and pious love of Caroline had purchaſed on her way, in addition to what had been ſupplied by the conſiderate friendſhip of co⯑lonel Fitzorton and Olivia.

[296]The party on entering were pleaſingly ſurpriſed to obſerve Sir Guiſe Stuart able to receive them in that manner. He teſtified the fulleſt ſenſe of obligation to all in gene⯑ral, but repeatedly called the colonel the re⯑ſtorer of his children and himſelf. Some— he obſerved, looking firſt at Olivia, then at George, were abſent—whom he dared not expect to ſee, but for whom he had poured his daily, hourly prayers.

"He means my beloved Henry, and dear Jane Atwood," whiſpered Olivia to Caro⯑line.

"Yet if all now preſent will chear my throbbing heart with the ſounds of forgive⯑neſs, undeſerved as I feel it is, I may ſtill hope that the pardon of the abſent, great as have been my offences to them, may in time be added unto me."

He next inſiſted upon kneeling under the ſupport of his children, to receive the for⯑giveneſs of the company, and when he was led to True George, that humble creature, unable to ſee his ſuperior in ſtation in any [297]poſture that implied condeſcenſion, without meeting him on equal terms, bent his knee to the baronet at the ſame time, and aſſured him in a generous whiſper, "that it ſhould not be long before his forgiveneſs was ſealed by both the certain perſons he had alluded to; mean⯑while he begged him to believe that, he could anſwer for it, neither the one nor the other bore him any malice."

Floreſco had thrown himſelf into a ſuppli⯑cating poſition, in a quiet corner, almoſt folded in the bed curtains.

The good Burton was very deſirous to ſhorten this ſcene, which, he obſerved, was becoming much too ſtrong for his patient: but the moſt trying part which the latter had allotted to himſelf was yet to be performed. "Grant me, I pray you," ſaid the almoſt exhauſted man, "the indulgence of another moment,—while in the preſence of thoſe I have wronged, I now publickly ſolicit what has already been privately granted to me, the forgiveneſs of the two beings I have the moſt injured. O pardon, pardon my children, the author of your lives, as of all the tyrannies, [298]torments and frauds which have rendered thoſe lives intolerable. Pardon him who has deprived you of health, peace, fortune, and, ſeverer than all, of a parent worthy of your loves, good, virtuous, and ſincere. Pardon him whom you ought to execrate, pray for him whom you ought to deſpiſe, deſert, and curſe, in return, O God in juſt return, for the curſes he has poured on you!"

Sir Guiſe had ſunk from the arms of his children on his knees, and folded his trem⯑bling hands, and lifted up his ſtreaming eyes. Finding it in vain to attempt checking the effuſion of his ſurcharged heart, his ſon and daughter knelt with him, and by every ten⯑der evidence their own ſituation allowed, ſtrove to convince him he had atoned for every thing. Charles importuned him for pardon on his own impetuous, and perhaps unfilial errors, inſtead of imitating his meek and uncomplaining ſiſter. Caroline, wholly regardleſs of ſo many obſervers, was only intent to raiſe her father from his humiliating poſture; and this being effected by means [299]of the colonel and True George, Jerom and Jonathan having left the room, he was no ſooner replaced on the bed, than Caro⯑line entreated the company would leave him to compoſure, in the care of herſelf and Charles. She then concealed her father from obſervation, by drawing the curtains round him, knelt by his ſide, and while ſhe uſed every ſoothing power of her ten⯑der heart, conjured him to believe that he had not only conciliated the reſpect of all who had heard, all who had ſeen his diſ⯑treſs, and poſſeſſed her own and her brother's tendereſt love; but that he might be con⯑vinced the angel ſpirit of his wife, and the ſpirit of God himſelf would be his propi⯑tiated guardians.

Father Arthur confirmed this in the name of the Almighty.

With great difficulty John got his ſympa⯑thizing friends out of the chamber. Every one offering to be the nurſe of the father and aſſociate of the child. Burton, however, ſuggeſting that the very life of ſir Guiſe, who, he ſaid, was in a much more perilous [300]ſtate than they imagined, depended on their obſerving the wiſe and delicate requeſt of his daughter, they went down ſtairs. The company waited in the ſaloon till the apo⯑thecary had again viſited his patient, and as he perceived the only reſtoratives to be hoped were reſt and quiet; he had intereſt enough with the party to perſuade them to return home, which they did after one of Caroline's women, following the orders of Olivia, had ſoftly taken up little Fitz into Caroline's own chamber.

CHAPTER XXXV.

IN this exhauſted ſtate however, the lulling powers of the apothecary's preſcrip⯑tion, and of ſlumber, gradually reſtored ſir Guiſe, of whoſe comparative recovery a meſſage was taken by the worthy Burton himſelf to the caſtle, after his evening viſit to the abbey; but the baronet's ſituation was pronounced, in anſwer to John's ſtill earneſt enquiries, too precarious either for his [301]removal to any other place, or for with⯑drawing the conſolation of his children.

It was, therefore, neceſſary for John to ſend away the carriages, and that the drivers might not commit any blunders by unneceſſary goſſipings on the road, it was determined that, as True George might be wanted at home, Jerom and Jonathan ſhould, on pretence of having buſineſs that way, ſee them ſafe back to town: for, although when Irwin recommended them, he ſaid they were to be truſted—the colonel had frequently expreſſed regret on the journey, when it was too late to make new arrange⯑ments, that he had not thought of Jerom and Jonathan, and even Irwin himſelf, rather than confide in any perſons more imme⯑diately out of the family: but, alas! ſuch is the imperfection of human foreſight even in the moſt ſagacious minds. The plan, how⯑ever, of diſmiſſing the chaiſes, appearing the firſt beſt meaſure to be taken, the two truſty couſins ſportingly told their ſweethearts at Little Brixham, they were going to Lon⯑don to buy them gingerbread huſbands, and [302]receiving due inſtructions from the colonel, began their journey in the duſk of that very evening.

But this meaſure went to the removal of only one, and that an inconſiderable perplexity, in the project with which John Fitzorton had embarraſſed himſelf. Prompted, in the firſt inſtance, by the exhilarating thought of encou⯑raging penitence, of obtaining a victory over that hate, of which he now thought the remains ought not to harbour in his boſom, againſt a puniſhed foe, who ſought his mercy, anxious to mitigate the dire pangs of two worthy children, who were hiding their heads from an iniquitous parent, and flat⯑tering himſelf that the gratification he wiſhed to gain for both parties, might be carried on, and completed without any counteraction of events, he forgot to provide againſt many points of which his heart, though uſually provident, had not ſuffered him to ſuſpect the danger. Henry himſelf could not have precipitated a benevolence with a more fervid but perilous rapidity.

[303]The time of Mrs. Fitzorton's confine⯑ment, from the proſpect of a third child, drew near; the return of her huſband could not, in affection, or in propriety, be long protracted; Olivia grew daily more and more fond of Caroline's ſociety, and he himſelf became ſhocked at the idea that he might have led the latter into an inevi⯑table relapſe of ſenſibility, on the ſharp point of which, though her principles would remain unſhaken, her heart might receive an involuntary wound. He knew from him⯑ſelf the poſſibility, of uniting the weakneſs of ſenſation with the ſtrength of practical vir⯑tue: and he felt by experience alſo, that as a ſoldier and a man, retreat was often the only meaſure of ſecurity: and as to the doctrine of annihilating the paſſions of the ſoul, while their ſovereign objects were brought cloſe under the eye, he allowed the duty of inculcating it, and felt the neceſſity of the ſentiment, of daily praying not to be led into temptation: for though every im⯑pure thought will be expelled, even if, for a moment, it ſhould dare to approach the [304]truly virtuous mind, the thought may be pure, while the heart, the very ſource of that purity, ‘May bleed and agonize at every pore.’ He was not altogether at eaſe with reſpect to the ſtate of the lieutenant's affections; his own had long been under the deſpotiſm of his determined ſway: he continued a tyrant on himſelf, and wrenched the ſceptre from each unruly paſſion as it made head againſt him. But he ſoon ſaw that the ill-ſmothered affections of Henry, the half-reſtored peace of Caroline, and the hitherto well managed happineſs of Olivia, were all again at hazard, and made ſo even by a project of his own.

Reflections of this kind began to haraſs him as he returned with his party to the caſtle, after the intereſting ſcene in the baro⯑net's chamber.

Every ſucceeding day increaſed the appre⯑henſion, and there was not one with whom he could ſhare the confidence, ſave the [305]lieutenant, who, except in his own caſe, ſaw clearly the danger, but no immediate way of removing it; as his father alternately recovered and relapſed, and though his life would not probably be long, he felt it a kind of parricide to ſhorten it by leaving him.

Olivia alſo began to be importunate on the ſubject of Henry. She allowed every merit to John's original motive, but ſaid, that matters at the abbey had taken upon the whole ſo happy a turn, that ſhe thought it would do her huſband rather good than harm to make him partaker of the general felicity. She ſubmitted to John, whether there was not ſomething cruel in thus ſhut⯑ting him out of his ſhare of joy in the return of Henry's friend? As John did not well know how to get rid of theſe reaſonings, he remained ſilent, which being taken for a ſpecies of aſſent, ſhe followed up her ſup⯑poſed advantages, ſometimes by the aid of Mrs. Herbert and Johanna, and ſometimes Olivia would call in Caroline herſelf as an auxiliary; and ſhe attributed the embarraſſ⯑ment [306]which ſhe diſcovered in that young lady to an unwillingneſs to oppoſe any mea⯑ſure in which John Fitzorton did not ſeem heartily to concur.

And as if theſe entanglements wanted yet another twiſt, Olivia hinted to John her perfect aſſurance that he would find in her huſband the warmeſt friend his paſſion for Caroline could wiſh, and that even upon that account his preſence was deſirable. Although, ſaid ſhe, the uncertain ſtate of ſir Guiſe's health, would make it indelicate and unſeaſonable to point to ſubjects of that kind, I have omitted no occaſion ſince her arrival to do juſtice to your merits, of which, indeed, I find her impreſſed in a manner the moſt favourable.

This opinion was now ſo fixed in Mrs. Fitz⯑orton's imagination, that at every opportu⯑nity ſhe ſpoke of her brother John's various excellencies—and although, ſaid ſhe, "that beloved being, who, I hope, will ſhortly be amongſt us, yields to none the palm either of genius or goodneſs, and ſeems every hour to gain new attractions, by a certain peculiar [307]tenderneſs that attaches to all he ſays or does—pardon me, for paying him in abſence this paſſing tribute which riſes from my full heart.—I know not any head, or any heart, but thoſe of Henry, which can vie with John Fitzorton's."

Glad of a ſubject which might give a re⯑lieving turn to that which Olivia had excited, Caroline faſtened with an eager haſte on the merits of a man who luckily ſupplied her with abundant ſources of eulogy. Finding that Mrs. Fitzorton only knew, partially, the hiſtory of the colonel's protective goodneſs to herſelf and friends, ſhe gave the particu⯑lars of this patronage in the moſt generous and glowing colours. Warmed by the honeſt theme, ſhe roſe above all ſelfiſh emotions, and drew the character of that exalted man, till ſhe affected her fair auditor even to tears; and although Olivia conceived ſomewhat leſs of John's conduct, as to its diſintereſtedneſs, even than it deſerved, thinking the grand agent therein to be love, and allowed leſs merit alſo to Caroline's encomiums, which, [308]inſtead of confining to gratitude, ſhe im⯑puted to love alſo; ſhe ſaw clearly her bro⯑ther's manly hand, and beneficent heart, in various characteriſtic diſplays. When Caro⯑line's incenſe was paid, Olivia felt herſelf called upon by the voice of equity, and of love likewiſe, to mention the part which her Henry had taken in the affairs of Caroline and Charles.—How often we have traced your paths, pauſed in your ſhades, praiſed your virtues, wept at your misfortunes—your's, and the lieutenant's!—abroad and at home, you have mingled in our hopes, our fears— and although, from a generous apprehenſion that my Henry, whoſe health and ſpirits are of late uncertain, might feel too powerfully from the ſudden ſight of friends ſo long de⯑ſpaired of, the excellent John has projected a temporary abſence; doubt not, but when we have prepared him for the joy of ſuch a meet⯑ing, Caroline, that his happineſs will be ſupreme. Meanwhile, though I acknow⯑ledge that our brother has entitled himſelf, by more important ſervices, to the firſt place, [309]as Eſau appropriated the birth-right, my Henry has a claim to the ſecond: nor muſt I forget to inform you, that a little ſtranger, who is now with her father, our firſt born, is honoured by bearing your name, and I hope ſoon to preſent her.

John Fitzorton joined them abruptly, juſt as Olivia finiſhed, and thinking it the mo⯑ment in which he would appear in luſtre before Caroline, would have left them toge⯑ther, but that the colonel expreſſed a haſty and eager deſire to confer with Olivia on ſome diſpatches he had received from Par⯑tington. She therefore took an affectionate leave of Caroline, and attended John home.

On the return of our amiable Caroline into the abbey,—for the preceding interview had taken place in the flower garden;— ſhe was accoſted by the good Arthur, who was juſt deſcending from the oriſons he had been offering up in the baronet's apartment. The report he made of that unfortunate man's mind was no leſs favourable than what the apothecary had been able to ſend her of his body. "He has had another comfortable [310]repoſe," ſaid he, "and his piety is uniform even when his health is irregular. And I have received a welcome preſent this morn⯑ing, my dear child, upon which I am ſure you will congratulate me—obſerve," conti⯑nued he, taking a ſmall parcel from his pocket—"folded in this careful envelope, and wrapt literally up in cotton—obſerve, my child, the keys of my chapel-houſe, chapel, and the hallowed ſanctuary to which it leads: on the outſide of my parcel you ſee is written, in fair and legible cha⯑racters, words that deſcribe at once— benevolence and truth. 'Sacred depoſits.' "The hand," exclaimed Caroline, "is"— "No matter whoſe the hand," ſaid father Arthur,—"the heart that governed it was bountiful, noble—and reſtores to me more than recovered empires. Dear and holy ſcenes! I will offer the tribute of my thanks to the generous beings who have ſaved you from prophanation, and although, haply, I may find in you the marks of a deſolated, long abſent friend, thy altered ſtate ſhall but the more endear thee to Arthur."

[311]"And to Caroline," ſighed ſhe.

"And poor Floreſco ſhall make thee all as him was uſed," cried the little Indian, who bounded at the thought of once more ſeeing the ſcenes of his early care; and as Arthur delivered to him the keys, he preſſed them to his lips, to give them welcomes.

The colonel, who had received them from Olivia, preſented them to Arthur, only intreating that if they were made uſe of, it might be late in an evening, to avoid that diſcovery which he now found ſo diffi⯑cult, yet ſo neceſſary to be prevented. Ca⯑roline's ſecret thoughts, however, had gone to the moſt holy places to which theſe keys appertained, almoſt immediately on her ar⯑rival, and though ſhe did not know how to give thoſe thoughts a voice, from the fear of ſeeming to preſs on the colonel's exhortation to keep within the bounds of the immured flower-garden, and abbey, ſhe hailed the proſpect of having her ſollicitude on this ſubject granted without importunity. Her wiſhes being now made known to the good [312]Arthur, he readily gave his promiſe to be her conductor on the very firſt evening ſhe could be ſpared with ſatisfaction to herſelf from her attendance on Sir Guiſe.

Arthur himſelf, however, reſolved to de⯑dicate the coming night to his ancient abode. It will be beſt that I and my little white-hearted black man ſhould go firſt, and make our little preparations. Floreſco embraced, as uſual, his maſter's robes, at finding him⯑ſelf included in the viſit to the ſpot where he had received the firſt precepts of chriſtianity, and the firſt pure idea of a God.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

MEANTIME the trials of Caroline accu⯑mulated from every quarter. They frequently purſued her into her father's chamber, where, as ſhe watched the too languid or too fervid pulſe, or held the now parched, and now humid hand of Sir Guiſe, he would fre⯑quently lament, amongſt the other cauſes of [313]his regret, the diſingenuous part he had acted, in regard to herſelf and Henry Fitzorton; in reply to all which, though ſhe felt the truth of every word, like a poiſoned arrow, whoſe barb had been left to rankle in her heart, ſhe would unmurmuringly "beg him to be comforted on every part of that ſubject, as the perſon he mentioned, not only conſtituted the happineſs of one of the moſt amiable of human kind, but was, ſhe truſted, ſupremely happy himſelf; and when a more particular review of theſe afflictive circumſtances made it impoſſible for her to anſwer, ſhe would pour the balms of ſilent forgiveneſs on her ſelf-execrating parent, by aſſuring him, that ſhe conſidered Mrs. Fitz⯑orton's goodneſs, manifeſted both at the caſtle and the abbey, as deſerving every bleſſing heaven could beſtow, and that ſhe loved, revered, and honoured her, beyond any woman then living:" in which aſſu⯑rance ſhe exceeded not the truth.

On returning to her father's apartment, from her converſation with Arthur, ſhe had the heart-felt comfort of finding him ſo [314]much mended as to converſe on ſeveral to⯑pics he had never before agitated. He re⯑quired from his attendant children, the hiſtory of their wanderings, and as Caroline ima⯑gined the knowledge of John Fitzorton's guardianſhip of herſelf and party, would tend to eſtabliſh a reconciling ſentiment, ſhe re⯑peated to her father what ſhe had told to Olivia. It is not poſſible to paint the mingled emotions of admiration and reſpect Sir Guiſe now felt for the colonel, or the ſenſe of ſhame and ſelf-abaſement for himſelf. At a more compoſed moment, however, of the ſame day, he eaſed his now ſinking and now over-flowing heart, by entering into a detail of the conduct of Olivia and True George towards him, as it had been reported in dif⯑ferent converſations by the apothecary.

The brother and ſiſter now heard all that part of the benevolent ſtory which appertained to Olivia, and which ſhe had omitted in her own narration; freſh cauſes of admiration and of grati⯑tude to both Olivia and George were hence diſ⯑covered, and it was made manifeſt what mighty [315]bleſſings theſe two excellent beings, under the conduct of John Fitzorton, had beſtowed. The good Burton's own benignity was next the ſubject of the baronet's eulogy: the vo⯑luntary attendance of Jonathan and Jerom had their due ſhare of his praiſe—and, in fine, from this evening's diſcourſe, in addi⯑tion to what ſhe had before gathered from Olivia, a complete hiſtory of the tranſactions of the abbey and the caſtle, from the time of her departure even unto that moment, was in Caroline's poſſeſſion.

Her whole ſoul was filled with wonder, and with praiſe; and combining the bounty and protection which ſhe and her deareſt friends had received from the ſame ſources, ſhe roſe in pious thought, and as her meditation aſcended from ſinite to infinite, her ſpirit communed with that power, who out of darkneſs and anarchy, natural and moral, can educe light, and bring forth order.— "Ah, aſſure yourſelf, my deareſt brother, and my honoured father," exclaimed ſhe, "while all of us have thus been in the care of heaven's beſt creatures, they have been [316]wrought on in our favour by heaven it⯑ſelf! all of us were in need of divine aſſiſt⯑ance, and the manner in which the effects have been brought about cannot leave us a doubt of the cauſe."

"Bleſſed be his holy name," ejaculated Sir Guiſe.

Soon after this, the baronet confeſſed he felt much relieved by having paid the debt he thought due to the patrons of his repent⯑ance: and although the length and interrup⯑tions of his narrative had wearied his body, his ſpirits were lighter, and his mind more refreſhed than it had been for ſome time.

In this tranquil period father Arthur came into the apartment, and entered on the veſ⯑per duties of his office; theſe being ended, the baronet declared his wiſh to devote the reſt of the night to that repoſe which he au⯑gured he ſhould beſt enjoy, if his ſlumbers were unbroken by the idea that his too diligent children were loſing their own neceſſary reſto⯑ratives: and this being a point inſiſted on by the apothecary, who had come in with Ar⯑thur, Sir Guiſe was left in the care of a ſingle [317]attendant, and the reſt of the party re⯑tired.

They retired, but not to ſleep. Too many aweful images impreſſed the boſoms of the brother and ſiſter to permit them to in⯑dulge even the thoughts of repoſe. Father Arthur too, and his Indian, were wakeful: the former told Caroline, that a ſudden meſſage brought by True George from the colonel, who requeſted to have back the keys, put a ſtop to his intended viſit to the chapel-houſe; but that Mr. Burton had now brought word from the caſtle, "if any of the party felt it material for the quiet of their minds to reſort thither, and had no objection to the pre⯑ſent evening, he and George would be their conductors, and guide them by a ſecret way.

It is ſcarcely poſſible to expreſs the eager⯑neſs with which the whole party caught at this propoſition. Caroline enquired earneſtly after the ſecret way which Burton had inti⯑mated, and when the ſubterraneous paſſage which led from the uninhabited part of the abbey, and which had been in ancient days the ordinary path from thence to the chapel-houſe, [318]and which all had frequently heard of, they ſeemed much to wonder it had not occurred in relief of their late embarraſſment: forgetting their minds had been engroſſed by a multiplicity of abſorbing objects which kept every power in action. True George obſerved to them that his maſter, Henry, had often paſſed more time than he ſhould mention in ſome of the receſſes of that very paſſage, and, to his knowledge, gone at midnight all alone, as he thought, by that path to the abbey.

A univerſal wiſh to profit of the preſent opportunity poſſeſſed every one, and O let us not loſe a moment! breathed in a deciding whiſ⯑per from Caroline to the reſt. George placed a freſh candle in the lantern with which he had been conducting Burton. Lead, ſaid the lieu⯑tenant. George was in motion: Franciſco took the robe of Arthur and followed: Caroline was conducted by her brother and the apo⯑thecary. The night was dark, but they paſſed along the ruins without any im⯑pediment, and gained the trap-door which [319]ſhut from obſervation the ſteps that led by a very deep deſcent into the ſubterraneous way. George now begged the company to pauſe until he lighted a torch, which he ſaid he had left a ſtep or two father on. They ſtopt, but what was their ſurpriſe when he re⯑turned to them ſaying, that "the torch had been taken from the place where he had put it." 'It muſt have fallen down,' ſaid Caro⯑line, 'but the lantern will do, my good friend, perfectly well.' They went forward ſlowly; the maſſes of ſtone, mortar and fragments that had fallen in the path, in many parts, made it very difficult to paſs; and the light which was afforded by the taper in the lantern but dimly ſhewed the obſtructions. Cautiouſly, however, purſuing the path, which, though not in the ſtraight line, was ſuffici⯑ently broad in general, they came to a ſtone ſeat, projecting from the wall, where Arthur propoſed they ſhould reſt a moment. He prevailed on Caroline to ſit down.

"Ah! my dear good young lady, if you knew how often a certain perſon had been on that very ſeat," ſighed George! "Pray, [320]let us go forward," ſaid Caroline, riſing, "I am perfectly able to proceed."—As they came to a curve in the paſſage a little farther on, and which George, holding the lantern, had gained firſt, he exclaimed,—"Good heavens! look, look, there's my torch, as ſure as I am alive." Nothing of this, how⯑ever, appearing to the company, as in the next inſtant they turned the angle, it was attributed to fear, or rather fancy; for George had nothing of the former in his nature. Preſently they came within ſight of another receſs, as they approached which, a dark ſhadow, reſembling a human figure, palpa⯑bly aroſe from the ſeat in view of the whole company, and ran with great ſpeed along the paſſage. On referring to one another it was admitted, that every one had ſeen it at the ſame moment, and in the ſame point of view; but without making any reflection they preſſed onward, and with very little in⯑terruption arrived at a large circular open⯑ing within a few paces of the correſpondent trap-door.—"There is the torch again," cried George,—"look, it is now going [321]away through one of the gaps in the wall!"

It was, indeed, viſible to all for ſome mo⯑ments, and then diſappeared.

"It is very ſtrange," ſaid Arthur; "yet it cannot be an illuſion to us all: neither can it, if not imaginary, be of ill augury to be⯑ings ſeeking a place of peace and holineſs— ſo let us go fearleſs on."

"Perhaps," obſerved Franciſco, "it may be the evil ſpirit that once haunted the poor gentleman in the abbey, and is now wander⯑ing about this dark diſmal ſpot under ground without any body to ſpeak to it, or keep it company, becauſe of its wickedneſs."

"As ſure as can be that is it," aſſerted True George, "and it may go on walking and wail⯑ing that way theſe thouſand years; but as his reverence ſays, if it be the devil himſelf, it can have nothing to ſay to us—ſo here we go again." "I rather apprehend it to be," ob⯑ſerved Burton, "if it really be not a decep⯑tion of our ſenſes, ſome of the—" as the apothecary was proceeding in his con⯑jecture—

[322]"Hark! huſh!" cried the lieutenant, "I certainly heard ſome body ſpeak."

They broke ſhort their ſteps, but all was ſtill; they walked forward to the trap-door, when a ſecond noiſe of voices, not their own, induced them to liſten, and the word murder diſtinctly iſſued from one of the cor⯑ners of the circular opening.

"In the name of God," demanded Ar⯑thur, advancing,—"what is your pur⯑poſe?"

By this time George had gained the trap, and opened the door that led to the ſecret ſteps that conducted to the edge of the foreſt, near which ſtood the chapel-houſe. And juſt as Caroline was preparing to aſcend the ſteps, while George held the lantern to clear her path, the figure which had been ſeen ſoon after they entered the paſſage, now more decidedly human, accompanied by two others, flitted along, and though every one followed and attempted to ſtop them, they gained the top, and were loſt in the foreſt almoſt in⯑ſtantly.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

BUT theſe myſterious appearances were ſoon ſucceeded by magic of a different kind, for taking the wood-path, the little gothic gate that ſeparated the chapel-houſe front garden from the foreſt, preſented the object of their midnight ramble. The monk, pre⯑ceding the action by a ſpontaneous effuſion of his truly pious ſoul, approached the door of his beloved manſion; and after aſſuring his friends that whatever unhallowed things might be permitted to hover without its walls, he was certain all within was pure, and holy.

The door opened while he was yet ſpeak⯑ing as if by an inviſible hand; for on enter⯑ing, after a ſhort pauſe, no one appeared; but in the next inſtant freſh ſcenes of wonder roſe before them. In the firſt compartment of the chapel-houſe the ſacred lamp was lighted that hung over the benetiere. The crucifixes in the ſcriptorum, and in every other part, bore ſhining marks of conſtant and even of reverential care. The dormitory could ſtill [324]boaſt its wholeſome couch for the Franciſcan, and the attendant pallet by its ſide was in⯑vitingly ſpread for the faithful Floreſco—but how ſhall we duly deſcribe what preſented itſelf to our aſtoniſhed gueſts in the refec⯑toire? how repreſent their ſenſations on be⯑holding the table covered modeſtly, yet abundantly, with every fruit and flowret of the ſeaſon? and while their admiring eyes were fixed on theſe, a ſweet and ſolemn breathing ſound as of aërial muſic, accom⯑panied by a voice of ſofteſt melody, invited their attention. All ſeemed enchantment! and the ſacred ſpell was yet ſtronger when they found both the words and the air, were deſigned to gratulate the long-abſent father of the chapel-houſe and his friends to their modeſt reſting-place. As they ſtood, even at the door of the refectoire, liſtening, and obſerving on theſe, forth iſſued, from a ſmall receſs at the bottom of the room, the en⯑chanters themſelves—Olivia Fitzorton and Jane Atwood.

The ſurprize and effect of this encounter upon the whole company, at ſuch a time, [325]and in ſuch a place, was extremely affecting. Divine and human ſentiments ſeemed to mix. "Do not imagine," exclaimed Olivia, ad⯑vancing, "that you are under any conjura⯑tion. Every thing you ſee and hear has fallen out quite in the common way. I expected that the return of the keys, and the good apothecary's offer, would immediately bring you hither; we buſied ourſelves therefore in making our little preparations: when all was ready, we perſuaded the colonel to conduct us, unknown even to Johanna and Mrs. Herbert, for the delight of a little ſtratagem of this kind is its myſtic ſecreſy; and here have we been ever ſince ſadly afraid that our commander in chief would return to eſcort us back before you came. Pray pardon the deception, and enjoy the reality.

"Fair and virtuous lady," ſaid Arthur, "had I not before had reaſon to believe that the veritable author of all good can inſpire ſome of his creatures to kinder actions than were ever painted by mere human fancy for the fabled Arcadia, I ſhould, perhaps, believe that I was tranſported into fairy land, and [326]that you and this fair damſel, were the bene⯑volent Genii; but I had rather do homage to God's own creations than to the beſt and brighteſt of mere imagination. It is real ex⯑cellence, real philanthropy, to which I now bow my knee, and before whom I now pour forth my heart." Every one followed the example, and reiterated the effuſion of the holy father.

But, in pure obedience to heaven-taught feelings, the ſable child of nature, not con⯑tented with ſimple kneeling, fell proſtrate at Olivia's feet, then preſſed the hem of her gar⯑ment to his lips, kiſſed the ſacred earth near which ſhe ſtood, and, indeed, almoſt every well remembered object in the chapel-houſe, running rapidly from one to the other. Jane Atwood took the earlieſt opportunity to queſtion Caroline how ſhe had left her father, then joined the ſide of her True George, well ſatisfied with the information ſhe had received. Charles was wrapt in ſilent admi⯑ration. Arthur now paid his viſit of greet⯑ing to other objects dear to recollection— the ſtoried windows, ſacred figures, ſculp⯑tured [327]effigies of the virgin and the redeemer, and found them all in the moſt perfect pre⯑ſervation— the emotions of his innocent heart mounted to his eyes as he made this ſurvey. Floreſco accompanied him, and having in⯑dulged his firſt ungovernable emotions, fol⯑lowed the lead of his maſter in ſimilar ſilence, and with ſimilar feelings—the words: "Oh, bleſſed ſaviour! oh, hallowed Maria! oh, Lord of earth and of heaven! make us worthy of theſe thy benignities," were reiterated at almoſt every ſtep.

Meantime, Olivia again ſtruck the harmo⯑nious chords, and, by an air yet more ſolemn, carried the ſoul ſtill nearer to the ſkies.— "Lady," obſerved Arthur, "the words of both the ſtrains, with which you have ho⯑noured us, ſeem to me well meriting the melody in which you convey them to our hearts." "Ah, they deſerve a far better harmoniſt, ſacred ſir," anſwered Olivia— "they are the effuſions of my own Henry's muſe: we had always, as you have already heard, our hopes, that you would again take [328]poſſeſſion of this little ſanctuary, and in our frequent day-dawning or twilight viſitations, we conſulted one another what would find moſt favour with the owners, and what be moſt worthy of the place—yet they were not con⯑ſultations, holy ſage, ſo much as impulſes— we have ſometimes dared to think them in⯑ſpirations, and in one—a very—very recent one;—of theſe, my huſband, at my urgence, wrote for me the beautiful words to which you have done ſo much juſtice in your appro⯑bation—to theſe I attempted the imperfect ſounds you have honoured with ſuch wel⯑come flattery." "If," continued Olivia, with uncommon fervor of air and accent, "if they have the ſmalleſt portion of the poet's fire it was reflected from him, and a ſincere deſire not to diſgrace the ſubject. Methinks there wants but the ſociety of the poet to render it one of the moſt bleſſed points of time that ever hath been, or, in⯑deed, ever can be expected to happen in mortal life!"

Caroline had left Olivia's chair, behind [329]which ſhe had placed herſelf during the air, and had gone ſomewhat haſtily to another part of the room—from thence ſhe moved onward till ſhe reached the private door that communicated with the chapel. Over this door was a projecting arch that formed a ſmall porch, in which two ſeats were carved, gothic faſhion, in the ſtone work. She had moved the curtain which was uſually dropt betwixt the refectoire and the entrance of the chapel, and, retiring from obſervation, had at firſt ſat herſelf down in one of the ſeats.

The enchantments, which Olivia had been ſpreading, caught every ear and every eye, but the inſtant ſhe had ceaſed to ſpeak ſhe miſſed Caroline, and found her kneeling at the door of the chapel.

"Ah, my ſweet ſuppliant," exclaimed Olivia, ſuppoſing Caroline to have been pray⯑ing, "doubt not every wiſh, every prayer of your pious ſoul will, in due time, be granted! The whiſpering of angels throng⯑ing about my own ſoul aſſure me it will be ſo—but this night muſt be devoted only to feſtal gladneſs: the penſive pleaſures will [330]have their hour: but let not this, I pray you, be one of them."

Olivia looked round her with much ſolici⯑tude. Caroline ſeemed terrified. Olivia ap⯑peared anxious to ſay ſomething apart to her, but checked herſelf. "O! may her every deſire be followed by obedience like mine," ſighed Caroline, riſing with difficulty under Olivia's ſupport, and rejoining the wondering party. Olivia, wiſhing to give Caroline time to recover herſelf, prevailed on her friends to partake of her repaſt. Caroline found her terrors abate, but continued agitated.

Senſation is often too mighty for the mere appetites of nature: and, in a thouſand inſtances, the mind aſſerts its dominion over our bodily frames. The collation was bleſſed, admired, and untaſted—but the health and happineſs of the fair foundreſs of the banquet, of the bard, and of the har⯑moniſt— of all within the domains of the caſtle, and the abbey, were propoſed by the grateful monk, and accepted by all, in a glaſs of the Burgundy, which Olivia aſſured the company, bending over Caroline, was [331]part of the reſerve which had been made for the anniverſary of the day of her own honoured birth—when the aſſembled houſes of Fitzorton and Clare, reiterated their bene⯑diction on Henry and Olivia. "It has ever," Olivia continued, "been ſacred to bleſt events: always conſecrated to love or to friendſhip. It marked the day eternally reſpected—that gave me the hand of Henry Fitzorton. It noted the birth of our dear, dear children, and now it is brought forth to diſtinguiſh the reſtoration of thoſe whom Olivia and her Henry, and their excellent brother, moſt honour, and moſt love." When this irreſiſtible toaſt had gone its round, the door of the refectoire was opened by John Fitzorton, who, accompanied by Mrs. Herbert and Johanna, came, he ſaid, "to reclaim his fugitives;" not without excul⯑patory hints on his own raſhneſs, for allow⯑ing Olivia to engage in ſuch undertakings, in the immediate ſtate of her health. Olivia, however, was too ſocially happy to have any fears for herſelf, and when Johanna [332]and Mrs. Herbert ſportingly arraigned her for keeping them out of her plot, ſhe made her peace by an avowal of her ſelfiſhneſs, and a promiſe to be more confidential in future. Johanna then conferred with the lieutenant, and the party were, by this addition, yet more intereſtingly blended one with the other. Caroline tried hard to rally. At length John intimated the neceſ⯑ſity of diſperſing, and undertook himſelf the arrangement of the ſeparation. To the ladies who had attended him, were united Olivia and Jane Atwood, and with thoſe he ſought the caſtle, leaving True George, and the apothecary, to eſcort back the inhabitants of the abbey. "Ah! father of ſpirits," ſighed Caroline, ſecretly, "if in⯑deed a viſion, what a ſhadow was the laſt?"

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

BUT ſcarcely were the colonel and his friends departed, ere father Arthur ſuggeſted the duty of returning a general thankſgiving to the Fountain of all Good, in a leſs uninterrupted way, and in a yet more holy place—even in the chapel. Caroline's myſtic terrors were reſumed, but ſhe ſtill laboured to conceal them.

They all entered the chapel, prayed, and returned into the refectoire. Caroline, who had been much diſturbed, petitioned ſtrongly for an excluſive privilege of paſſing a few moments in it alone, and of paying the homage which had been preſſing on her heart, ever ſince ſhe had regained her father's houſe, and her father's love. "O! ſuffer me, holy Director, to offer the devotion of a daughter, to my long-neglected mother's aſhes." "Not excluſively, deareſt ſiſter," ſaid the lieutenant, "I muſt put in my equal claim." "On this occaſion we muſt all aſſert our privilege of pious love," inter⯑poſed [334]the monk, "you muſt allow us all to ſhare with you this tributary offering, my dear child." The plea was too ſtrong to be rejected, and Arthur leading the way, his party followed to the cemetery of the Stuarts.

Here too every aweful object diſplayed the ſame hand of tender care, which had exerted itſelf in the chapel-houſe, and chapel. The lamp which, like the everlaſting fire, depended from the centre of the burial place was lighted; and the coffin of lady Matilda was diſtinguiſhed from the reſt by an holy taper, placed on a ſmall pillar of white marble at its head. This having been erected ſince their departure, every obſerver felt, at the ſight, an aweful curioſity. As they approached nearer to the pillar, they read, engraved on the marble, theſe words in honour of the dead:—'O, till parents, children, and the friends, who ſhall be found worthy of them, quitting this troubled earth, meet in the heaven of heavens, farewell! farewell!'

The groupe of friends and relatives now [335]encircled the coffin, and never, perhaps, aſcended to that Power, who alone can read the thoughts of mortals, a more ſincere or fervent offering. Yet Caroline ſtill looked anxiouſly and carefully around, as if in expectation of the viſion ſhe had alluded to— but none appeared.

They roſe—embraced each other—and returned into the chapel—Caroline only lingering behind, and begging again a few moments, went back to the remains of her mother.

Her heart was ſurcharged with ſtrong emotions—and there ſhe hoped to relieve them. "O thou! who haſt been the bo⯑ſomed companion of thy Caroline, remote as near," cried ſhe, embracing the coffin fervently—"behold, once more, ſhe returns to thy venerated relicks—returns to them with better hopes, that he, whoſe miſtakes we have both ſo often deplored, ſhall be all thy pure ſpirit can wiſh. Haply thy interceſſions for him have brought about this bleſſed change!—Continue them, I implore thee, till every pain of body, and error of mind, [336]be eraſed from the records of eternal pity!— And, O! extend thy influence to Caroline herſelf—to her, who, alas! too ſoon be⯑reaved of thy bright example, has not yet learned the unrepining, unmurmuring reſig⯑nation, which made thee, even while on earth, ſcarcely a being of this querulous world. Ah! endue me, immortal ſpirit! with a more perfect gratitude, for the varied and unexpected turns of relenting fortune which have of late attended me!—Enliven my ſenſe of the mighty bleſſedneſs of being reſtored to the affections of a parent!—O! beſeech the ſource of every good to give thy Caroline a more unmixt ſenſibility of the benefits ſhe is hourly receiving from the hand of friend⯑ſhip —to make her more truly thankful, for beſtowing on her the power of returning to this ſolemn ſpot, where ſhe ſeems to commune with the ſpirit of her angel parent, —and for being conducted to it, when every fading power of nature warns her ſhe ſhall ſhortly fill the ſpace, even that whereon ſhe now kneels—long ſince fondly appropriated —beſide her mother's—her Matilda's aſhes."

[337]As if by this aſpiration the powers in⯑voked had liſtened to her prayer and ſuddenly become viſible, Caroline lifted up her hands towards heaven as ſhe aroſe, and gazing earneſtly for ſome time, ſpread out her arms as if to receive the deſcending object, while a more than human ſmile pervaded her own countenance. Then continuing her poſition till ſhe ſeemed to feel ſtrengthened in the conviction, it was permitted the ma⯑ternal ſeraph to impart the heavenly pro⯑miſe to her child: ſhe bowed her head in acknowledgment, and exclaimed with an exulting voice, "Bleſſed, bleſſed aſſurance! in its faith will I live and die!"

She joined her friends with a mind renewed, and as ſhe returned thanks for their patient attendance, plainly indicated to father Arthur the pious cauſe from whence her complacence had been derived. Recovering gradually the tone of her mind, ſhe communicated her acquieſcence to the reſt. She preſſed them to partake with her of the repaſt: a pious ſerenity of heart was ſpread from one to the other, and they returned by the arched [338]paſſage to the abbey, without encountering any more impediments, real, or imaginary. "Perhaps then," ſaid Caroline, ſoftly to her own heart, "it was but a phantom of my brain." Jonathan who with Jerom had returned from his journey, was waiting at the abbey door eager to inform them, that when they arrived to reſume their ancient poſition in the ſick chamber, they found the Baronet in a ſtate that appeared to them ſomething worſe than delirious: and in that condition he had left him in the care of his couſin Jerom, while he ſhould have gone in ſearch of the apothecary. The latter part of this intelligence was related while the perſons to whom it was addreſſed made the utmoſt expedition to the Baronet's chamber, where they diſcovered Jerom and the old nurſe, and both the attendants ſtruggling to hold Sir Guiſe in their arms.

On the entrance of his friends, Sir Guiſe ſeemed perfectly to diſtinguiſh them, but in vain attempted to ſpeak, and continued to contend with, and almoſt break from, the efforts of Jerom, though now aſſiſted by [339]Jonathan. At length he was exhauſted, and then ſeemed to have gained the point for which he had contended by covering his head in the bed cloaths. They gathered with difficulty from the broken and feeble expreſſion of the nurſe, that, about an hour after their departure, as ſhe went down ſtairs at the Baronet's requeſt to prepare ſome drink for which he was impatient: ſhe only ſtaid about a quarter of an hour while the drink was warming, and on her return up ſtairs ſaw the poor gentleman in ſtrong con⯑vulſions, but why ſhe could not tell.

The ſoothing attention of his children and their aſſociates, each of whom joined their conſolements, at length ſucceeded in recover⯑ing the Baronet ſo far as to expreſs his joy in ſeeing them.

"O! my dear children," exclaimed he, "I thought never to behold you more. The moſt terrible apparitions, if indeed they were not more terrible realities,—have affrighted—afflicted me;—methought they entered my very chamber, approached my bed, threatened me with the moſt agonizing [340]death, if I uttered a ſyllable;—then, me⯑thought two of them advanced to the head of my bed on each ſide, each planting a naked poniard at my throat, if I refuſed their requiſitions.—I was in total darkneſs, but methought, one ſaid to the other, we may go ſafely into Caroline's room: we know ſhe is from home. I ſaw her"—

"Saw her!" exclaimed Arthur, looking at his friends.

"Yes," anſwered Sir Guiſe, "and there⯑fore they ſwore it was the time moſt fit⯑ting." —"Fitting for what?" demanded Charles.—"I know not," anſwered the Baronet, "but I was, methought, preparing to make ſome anſwer, when, thank heaven! the two young men with the other attendant you have provided me, came to my ſuccour. I muſt confeſs," added Sir Guiſe, "my thoughts had been heavily wandering; it is certain there was no appearance of any body afterwards."

"To be ſure," ſaid Jonathan, "his honour was ſo diſtracted mad with fright, that we had all enough to do to look after [341]him: ſo that fifty men, or devils, either, might be in the houſe, and we never the wiſer; but when I went down ſtairs and waited ever ſo long for your honour, I peeked and pottered about the premiſes, but ſaw never a living ſoul but little old Fitz, who had taken it into his head to come after me."

The reſt of the company confirming this, it was conjectured the Baronet had been actually wrought upon, either by a diſtem⯑pered fancy, a freſh attack of his remorſeful feelings, or a diſordered ſleep interrupted by horrid viſions. Indeed, his weak ſtate of body, and nerves, and his habitual fearful⯑neſs, which had ſtill its degree of force, though his mind had of late known an unuſual energy, ſeemed to give a colour to this ſup⯑poſition. The apothecary declared it was phyſically poſſible. "As to that," ſaid Jerom, "don't you remember, couſin Jonathan, when you were one night in the clutches of the night-mare, that you cried out, the furies were hunting you with red⯑hot-pokers! and, as the peſt would have it, [342]I was your bed-fellow at that time, and a fine time I had of it; and by the ſame token, you gave me ſuch kelps in the ſtomach, ſwearing you had hold of one of 'em how⯑ſomdever, and would make him pay for the reſt.—Yes, your honours, he took his own innocent couſin for one of the devils that had got into 'un, and ſo, no wonder Sir Guiſe ſhould think he ſaw the incarnates who uſed to haunt him, which is natural;— poor gentleman, he has been hag-ridden long enough broad awake, and has at laſt dreamt about it."

Theſe remarks, with a quaint joke or two from the apothecary, threw over the ſo⯑lemnity of the circumſtance a ludicrous air, which the apothecary and Arthur thought it beſt to encourage, and ſo well carried on, that Sir Guiſe himſelf, in the end ſmiled at his own chimera: the ſubject was diſmiſſed by George, declaring, that he had heard much of ſuch devil's works, and believed he had in his time ſeen ſome of them: but that he was very ſure if all the imps below, with the old one at the [343]head of them, were to appear before a perſon who was reſolved to be good, and with the grace of God upon him, he might be juſt as ſafe amongſt them, as if they were ſo many kittens." Jonathan and Jerom, however, for the baronet's more entire ſatis⯑faction, determined both to be his life-body⯑guards the enſuing night; and Floreſco promiſed to ſit open-eyed on the outſide of his maſter Arthur's door, to give notice if any body approached; "Ickle Florrey uſed to be fright at every thing," ſaid he, "but now only fraid of God." True George and the apothecary now went to their reſpective reſidences; the lieutenant and Caroline with⯑drew to their chambers, but not till the latter had tenderly aſſured her father ſhe could anſwer for the interceſſion of his wife being added to that of his friends and children for every good that mortal could enjoy in this world, and angel in the next.

It is however, to be noted, that although none of the abbey party which had returned from the chapel-houſe, made mention to Sir Guiſe of any of the ſtrange appearances [344]they had ſeen or heard in their way thither; nor, indeed, had alluded to any ſuch fancies or facts to any of their friends of Fitzorton caſtle; being, on the one hand, afraid of increaſing the alarm of the baronet, and on the other, too much wrought upon by the impreſſive realities which awaited them in the chapel-houſe: the circumſtances could not but recur to them, while that unhappy invalid was deſcribing their dreadful influ⯑ence on his mind and imagination; nor could the whole party help thinking there was a ſtrange yet incongruous analogy betwixt what they had themſelves ſeen, and what Sir Guiſe had related: and thus, while they imputed much of the overcharged colourings, and conſcious perſonifications of the one, to a diſtempered mind and body, they con⯑cluded there was more ſubſtance than ſhadow in what had aſſailed their own eyes and ears.

And in this deduction they were not a little confirmed by the report of the apothe⯑cary, as they were ſeparating. "Had not one of the ſingular ſights, we have ſeen, [345]put a ſudden ſtop to my diſcourſe," ſaid this worthy man, "I was going to inform you, what I had, indeed, before mentioned to colonel Fitzorton, that notwithſtanding all that gentleman's precaution, and my own, to have it ſuppoſed I was in expectation of more patients, as well as ſome kinsfolk of the ſick quaker; and although your journey hither was performed with the utmoſt pri⯑vacy, and you arrived at the dead of the night, a very general curioſity, concerning you, had been excited in the neighbourhood. The waggons too, and the appearance of Robert Irwin, and a more frequent reſort to, and return from, the abbey, in the Fitzorton family, particularly the viſits of Olivia, which could not be altogether private, much increaſed the maſs of wild conjecture, which flew from one village to the other. Yet the ſuperſtition of the villagers, covered every thing ſoon after. Tribes of gypſies who, as you muſt remember, uſually inhabited the foreſt, diſappeared ſoon after their benefactors left the abbey; but of late a new ſet has been obſerved to lurk about the woods, and [346]hover near the houſe. Nay ſome have, as the report goes, been ſeen to come out of it. Now it ſtrikes me, that the figures we ſaw moving, about our underground path, were ſome of thoſe very gypſies, who may there, occaſionally, take up their lodging, and who were poſſibly more alarmed at us than we at them." Caroline ſhook her head and ſuppreſſed a ſigh.

Arthur inclined to Burton's opinion. The lieutenant ſaid, "it was more probable that ſome of the friendly party at the caſtle, had included thoſe ſeeming apparitions in the general magic of the evening, but rather did not chuſe, or forgot, to mention it." "But then," ſaid Caroline, "how are we to account for my dear father's terrors hap⯑pening on the ſame evening? And almoſt at the ſame period? And the dreadful word, murder! None of the friends at the caſtle would extend the ſpirit of a fearful frolic to the ſick chamber of him they now ſuc⯑cour and protect. On the contrary, they would rather carry into it every amicable and ſoothing gueſt. No ſpirit of darkneſs [347]could, even in mockery, proceed from them. Doubtleſs fancy may greatly deceive by her illuſive creations. Methought I myſelf, very lately, ſaw a ſpirit of light—but, alas! it ſoon flitted away."

CHAPTER XXIX.

IT is now the time for us to explain alarms and appearances, of a different na⯑ture, which happened, about the ſame criſis, at the caſtle, and with which ſome of thoſe at the abbey are materially connected. When colonel Fitzorton was returning home with Olivia, from her interview with Caroline, thereby breaking up a very intereſting con⯑verſation, he was extremely thoughtful and ſpoke little; but on gaining the caſtle he informed his fair ſiſter-in-law, who was always terrified at the ſilence of John, that he had received accounts from Partington, by expreſs, intimating Henry's reſolve to return. When they got into the library, Partington writes thus, ſaid John, preſenting the following letter:

"Well," exclaimed Olivia, as ſhe returned the letter, "why may he not return? You muſt own I have been all patience and ſub⯑miſſion. But ſurely you have apprehended, though from the kindeſt motive, more than was neceſſary. For my part, as Sir Guiſe is ſo much better, and both his children [349]amongſt his nurſes, I think the ſight of a boſom friend, and of my ſweet Caroline, muſt be what Henry's heart could moſt wiſh, and I augur from it every good to his health, as well as happineſs." "And I every ill," anſwered John. "I know his nature, and its limit of bearing ſuddenly any exceſs, either of joy or ſorrow. Grant me another week, my deareſt ſiſter, and if at the end of that term—" "I yield up," interrupted Olivia, "wholly, my judgment to yours. It ſhall be ſo, and I will, though it feels very unnatural, iſſue ſuch mandates as you think neceſſary, to keep far from me him, whoſe preſence is the ſupreme joy of my life." "Long may he remain ſo!" cried John, very tenderly. It is only that his joy may be ſecured to him for years, that I deprive him of hours and days." Olivia's eyes ſhone with grateful tears, and begging pardon for her impatience, marked with a ſubmiſſive hand, the ſentiments which the colonel dictated: he added ſome reaſons of his own, confided in a ſeparate letter to Partington, and the expreſs ſet off. Olivia [350]then related a plan ſhe had ſketched, in concert with Jane Atwood, to make the good Arthur's return to his beloved chapel-houſe, and perhaps that of Charles and their favourite Caroline, a little more fitted for their reception. "Now as all this is ſettled in our own minds as to what is to be done, and, indeed, almoſt every thing prepared, I do not aſk you to take any active part on the occaſion, my dear colonel, but as you know, I can fancy no undertaking of mine, however trifling, goes on well, or as it ſhould do, till it has your ſanction on it—next to the bleſſing of my beloved huſband, and my God— and as you have thought fit to deprive me of my Henry's council, and James is abſent, you muſt be their repreſentative to throw out ſuch a lure as the party may not be able to reſiſt." She recapitulated all ſhe had done to obey John, and expected a reward.

John Fitzorton was not the man, with all the aſperity we have ſeen on the ſurface of his character, to refuſe virtue its recom⯑pence; or to chill the ſpirit of benevolence by a frown. He ſmiled aſſent; offered every [351]aſſiſtance; and the apothecary coming to the caſtle, with ſome good tidings from the abbey, it was reſolved nem. con. after he and True George, the ready auxiliary of every good, to call in the two laſt mentioned perſonages as aſſiſtants. A few more words paſt, as to the ſubterraneous paſſage, and the couriers ſet off. Their conduct on arrival has been already related. But the events that, in the intermediate time, took place at the caſtle are yet to be told.

"When our little project has ſucceeded ſo far as to bring the party together," ſaid Olivia to John, "and they are all as happy as I ſincerely hope the arrangement will make them, you can bring dear Johanna and Mrs. Herbert to ſee the effect. And thus every thing will be right but the abſence of our Henry: for after all, it muſt be allowed that, no man living—no, nor woman either— could give ſo much grace and ſweetneſs to a plot of this kind, the ſole point of which is to ſoften for a moment, the wounds of the unfortunate and good."

[352]Scarcely had her ever faithful heart poured forth, audibly and ardently, this tributary effuſion to its firſt and deareſt object, ere that object made his appearance. He had been, for ſome time, in a cabinet adjoining Olivia's, the library where ſhe and his bro⯑ther had been converſing, and of that con⯑verſation every ſyllable had met his aſto⯑niſhed ear; for although the door that communicated with the library was ſhut, a ſmall window, which looked into it was open, and only a thin ſilk curtain parted the ſpeakers from the hearer. The latter had, indeed, entered the cabinet very ſoon after the former by another, and, indeed, the uſual door that opened into the library. Henry had, moreover, met the expreſs, juſt as he entered the park, received his own letter, and underſtood from the courier that John and Olivia were both well, and, indeed, when he was called into the library, to receive his commands, "their honours ſeemed main merry." As Henry, therefore, met no body either in the ſtables, or court yard, [353]but ſuch ſervants as were immediately em⯑ployed there, he paſt directly from thence into the houſe, and gained the ſuite of apart⯑ments that communicated with the library, without being obſerved by any of the family. Not, however, as the reader who has long been intimate with all his feelings, and all his merits, will eaſily believe, with deſign to ſteal any intelligence, or purloin any ſecret by that ignominious method many huſbands, and, perchance, ſome wives alſo, have thought a fair accommodation betwixt con⯑ſcientiouſneſs and convenience to adopt; but purely to give his return all the pleaſure his generous nature would wiſh to impart. Hap⯑pening, however, to gain his ſtation in the cabinet juſt as his wife began to read Parting⯑ton's letter a ſecond time, and aloud, with the ludicrous ſpirit in which it was written, he ſat himſelf down quietly to hear himſelf abuſed; but, ſoon finding there was going to be formed a conſpiracy againſt him, he thought it but fair to fortify himſelf with as much of his friendly enemies' deſign as he could. Yet their deſigns were woven with [354]ſo many other plots of infinite concern to his feelings, that he was bound to the ſpot by ſpells more potent than any the conſpira⯑tors were preparing to throw within the chapel-houſe, or, indeed, any which had viſited, in their moſt myſtic ſhapes, either the ſubterraneous paſſage, or the abbey. Every ſyllable that reached his ear, and not one could eſcape, went immediately to his aſto⯑niſhed heart, and the whole formed a chain of wonders and of miracles, that nothing but the voice of the guileleſs being that revealed them, or that of God himſelf, could have made him credit.

Irreſolute what courſe to take, he remained awhile concealed, after his Olivia had teſtified her eternal ſenſibility of his merit abſent as preſent; but that freſh evidence of her gene⯑rous love called forth a grateful repetition of his vows to live only for her, and with this aſſurance he opened the library door, and notwithſtanding all he had heard ran into her arms. There, to the diſmay of his brother, and to the delight of his wife, he ſaid, that he felt himſelf ſo unjuſt, unkind, wicked, to [355]be wandering from home when his Olivia was in circumſtances that aſked for the care of ALL her friends, that he traverſed the wiles of his dear abuſive Partington to detain him, left the Bury in an adventurous manner in the middle of the night, and left little Caroline in pledge, and a note to ſay, "if his friend had not had enough of him, he muſt follow to the abbey." The inexpreſſi⯑ble ſweetneſs with which Mrs. Fitzorton re⯑ceived theſe kind motives of the run-a-way; the fondling of little John who-ſoon came into the room, with the animated tokens of good will that ſat on the face of every do⯑meſtick, when the myſtery of his firſt entry was removed by Olivia's ringing for ſome refreſhments, and the cordial welcome of John, who, in the midſt of all his embar⯑raſſments at this ſudden event, was rejoiced to ſee the marks of ſo tender a meeting, gave to Henry's ſalutations a more than uſual energy. He felt himſelf able to ſpeak of the plots upon him, and to explain the fair ſtratagems always taken in wars, by which he had diſcovered them. But when he pro⯑ceeded [356]to ſhew that ſuch diſcovery went to ALL the family ſecrets they were carrying on at the caſtle, the chapel-houſe, and the abbey, and in dilating all this, that the ſame, or rather a more redundant, and unobſtructed flow of ſpirit and expreſſion, animated him, to the infinite bliſs of Olivia, who conceived it very naturally to be the effect of the ſeveral cauſes of her own happineſs, from the penitence of Sir Guiſe, the reſtoration of the ſon and daughter, his oldeſt friends, the joy of which ſhe had ſo long wiſhed him to partake—the fears even of the Colonel were, perhaps, for the firſt time, extinguiſhed by ſome bright hopes, that, at length, the reconciling affec⯑tion of the wife had emancipated the very heart of Henry from all former ſlavery, as effectually as a newer miſtreſs had obtained the freedom, or rather a more lawful capti⯑vity, for the heart of Charles.

"There can now then be no earthly ob⯑jection," cried Olivia, "to your brother's taking an active part in our darling plan, my dear Colonel. Nay no philoſophy—I want poetry, and ſong, and muſic, and all manner [357]of things from earth and heaven. O, Henry! you could not have come back at a moment in which you and your muſe, were ſo much wanted. I have myriads of things to tell you—a long, long, hiſtory of all that belongs to the dear perſons who are now amongſt us, and you ſhall have it all before we go, but at preſent Jane and I muſt beſtir our⯑ſelves, for we have yet ſomething to do towards our little fête—I have alſo to preſent ſome new friends to you here at the caſtle— but we will not ſay a word to your old ones at the abbey about your return till the exact moment."

Imagining ſhe, ſaw negatives begin to cloud John's before aſſenting face, ſhe caught the hand of her ſon, and Jane Atwood, and left the library.

CHAPTER LIV.

HENRY and John Fitzorton, were now brought together in the moſt critical period of their domeſtick hiſtory—and it was not till after they found they were thus by themſelves [358]that they became fully ſenſible of it: yet the ardour of the former, in a great degree, ſtill marked his language and his look, and a ſen⯑timent that bleſſed the innocence, and un⯑ſuſpicious goodneſs of Olivia followed the parting ſteps of his wife. "And thanks to heaven, and to you, ſhe is as happy as ſhe is good," obſerved John. "My dear, dear, brother," cried Henry, ſmiling in tears, "to heaven, and to you would have been truer language—Let us—let us—converſe a little on the almoſt incredible events which lead to what I have juſt heard. Give them to me naturally and ſimply; juſt as they have been; juſt as they are." John managed this requi⯑ſition with admirable addreſs; he paſſed lightly over ſuch parts as would, he knew, have too much intereſted his brother's feel⯑ings, and detailed, at length, whatever was likely to give energy, or example, to his mind. At the ſame time there were few inci⯑dents of importance with which he did not make him acquainted, ſo far as reſpected the penitence of Sir Guiſe, and the amiable con⯑duct of his ſon and daughter, in their rela⯑tive [359]characters, as children, and in all other particulars. He took blame on himſelf for excluding his brothers from the pleaſure he was conſcious they would have had in join⯑ing him, in his ſeveral plans, for the eſtabliſh⯑ment of thoſe who were certainly no leſs objects of pure love and care to them than to himſelf: but that, in truth, he conſidered himſelf as performing the part of guardian for the general good, and in that character thought it would turn out moſt for the advan⯑tage of his wards to keep them out of the trouble of very difficult and perplexed affairs, till he could ſee how far it would be poſſible to clear off incumbrances, and deferred lay⯑ing before them the hiſtory of his truſteeſhip for their real felicity, till he could deliver with it a correct eſtimate of what, in ſuch poſſeſſions, they were worth. But ſince it had turned out, that their worth in the tried virtue of ſome of their deareſt friends, in the corrected vices of one of their fouleſt enemies, and above all in the daily, hourly, proof of the love of a ſiſter and a wife, beyond all price, he hoped he ſhould be [360]pardoned. He thence took occaſion to en⯑large more particularly on the behaviour, and tranfactions of Olivia, as connected with his own in the affairs of the abbey. He ſhewed her commiſeration for the ſuffering wicked, her honour of the good, her friendſhip for the friends of Henry, her forgiveneſs even of his foes, when they repented them of their enmity, and her love of Henry—a love, ſaid he, pure and permanent, blended with every thought, wove into every action, mixed with every object, and joined with almoſt every word. In ſhort, a purer, or more eloquent, appeal for penitent vice—a more generous offering to perſevering virtue, or a more honourable diſcharge of fraternal duty, amidſt private heartfelt diſappointments, has rarely ſurpaſſed that which was then paid by John Fitzorton.

Henry Fitzorton had a ſoul to feel it. He felt it, indeed, in all points but the one which gave luſtre to the reſt. Of many touching, and trying features in the character and conduct of his brother, Henry was ſtill ignorant: yet he knew enough to be con⯑vinced [361]John Fitzorton was to be ranked amongſt the firſt of wiſe, juſt, and honour⯑able men, and that to him he ſtood indebted for the neareſt and deareſt obligations: and in the preſent inſtance, he felt moſt pro⯑foundly the generous principles on which he had acted, and ſaw clearly into the motives from which he had ſpoken; and when the narrative cloſed with the eulogy of Olivia, although by a thouſand ſilent emotions he reſponded to all the preceding particulars, he drew the eulogiſt to his boſom with a fervor that after a thrice repeated embrace he dropt from the arms of a brother on his knees to God—"It is thou, thou only muſt I ſupplicate, O fountain of all power, to make me more worthy of ſuch friends—of ſuch a brother—of ſuch a wife! on each, on all be thy everlaſting bleſſing!"

"Deareſt Henry," ſaid John, while he raiſed him, "I am beyond all payment in your debt: your conduct is at once my re⯑buke and my glory. Inſtead of winding my way from one myſtic path to another, with a [362]caution that might ſeem leading to the haunts of infamy, rather than to the receſſes of innocence, and really trembling from fear of diſcovery at every opening of my laby⯑rinths, as much as if I were actually carrying on a plan of fraud, I might have gone on in the ſtraight and direct line of amity and con⯑fidence, and gained from your copartnerſhip the ſame end, by more expeditious and eaſy means. The apology, therefore, that I have already found it neceſſary to make to Charles Stuart, I now repeat to Henry Fitz⯑orton —for every pleaſure your Olivia would have ſhared with you on the points I have conducted, have been withheld from you by me, and I was even in the act of projecting new concealments, in order to keep you"— "From old misfortunes," interpoſed Henry.

"It remains with you," reſumed John, "to act as your judgment may decide, as to the immediate ſcheme at the chapel-houſe. It is too late to recal the invitation, and if it were not, there could no ſtrong reaſon be given for the cruelty of with-holding the [363]pious father Arthur from his offerings in the little temple, which his poor heart has con⯑ſecrated; nor for checking Olivia in the glowing career of what her poor heart has projected. I think it, however, likely that ſome of the abbey family will remain with Sir Guiſe, and a ready reaſon to be given for your declining to go is"—"Brother," interpoſed Henry, "I am rejoiced, though ſurpriſed at my dear Charles's transfer; yet on that ſubject there is much to be ſaid. The transfer to the ſecond was made in a long abſence from the firſt object."— "There, to be ſure," anſwered John, inter⯑ſecting the diſcourſe,—"both you and he have had an advantage over—over—many others." The words, 'many others,' were ſubſtituted for a name that hung trembling on the verge of the ſpeaker's lips. "Ah, my deareſt John," obſerved Henry, "had my friend, the lieutenant, been expoſed to the temptation of ſeeing before his eyes the ſcenes of his former paſſion,—had he poſ⯑ſeſſed only the faintly imitated, the inanimate likeneſs of the features that firſt won his [364]heart"—"Brother Henry," anſwered John, "it is very poſſible—I—know it is—a—a friend of mine was—unfortunately—once in a ſituation of that ſort—I—therefore know it is very poſſible—to be in the almoſt conſtant habit of ſeeing, and ſpeaking to the originals of ſuch pictures—and whether the affections were transferrable or not—I am certain he never harboured a thought that"—The haſty, and lucky entrance of Olivia put a ſtop to John's obſervations. She came to relate the farther progreſs ſhe had made in her project—but added, ſhe had inſtant em⯑ployment for the muſe of her darling Henry. The reader already knows the nature of that employment—and juſt as ſhe had placed be⯑fore him, pen, ink, and paper, and had whiſpered the ſubjects, deſiring John would go down ſtairs with her, and leave the bard to the inſpiration of friendſhip, Mr. Parting⯑ton, preceded by a volley of accuſations, ſet forth in his moſt vehement ſtyle, burſt into the room, calling out, "An eſcape, an eſcape! the caitiff has robbed, and plun⯑dered [365]me of my treaſure—taken out of my houſe a thing I choſe to ſet a value on—his abominable ſelf, and thoſe who harbour him are as bad as himſelf." "My dear railer," ſaid the colonel, jocularly, "I am afraid I ſhall be henceforth entitled to your polite⯑neſs, for I have led you, amongſt many others, into theſe ſtrange round-about miſ⯑takes." John then entered into ſome partial explanations, after which, taking the ſquire by the hand, he exclaimed, "And now, my good friend, if you will accompany me into the ſhrubbery, and grant half an hour's pa⯑tience, I will relate to you the reſt." Par⯑tington eaſily ſaw he had heard as much as could ſafely be confided in the preſence of Olivia, and went out with the colonel, ob⯑ſerving, as he took off his hat with unuſual civility—"yes, I begin to think you are one of my worthy gentlemen!"

CHAPTER XLI.

WHEN John Fitzorton had told his friend Partington all that it was neceſſary for him to know, he introduced that gentleman to his protegees, Mrs. Herbert, and his Jo⯑hanna, aſſuring him they were candidates for his moſt diſtinguiſhed incivility, and that they were as likely as any women he knew to deſerve it. "O, I have not the leaſt doubt," anſwered Partingron, when he was firſt preſented,—"but I ſhall be obliged to ſet them down in my liſt of abominables: I ſee it in both their faces." "Indeed, ſir," ſaid Johanna, trembling, betwixt fear and hope, "you cannot think how uneaſy I have been leſt you ſhould take it into your fancy to be polite to me." "And for my part," obſerved Mrs. Herbert, "I ſhould look on myſelf as a loſt woman were you to pay me a compliment, or make me a bow." Par⯑tington had long ſince heard their general, and ſome of their particular misfortunes; [367]and therefore, though he never ſaw either of them before, he clapped on his hat, which, in truth, ſeldom quitted his head, but to ex⯑preſs his averſion, and walked off with them into the library, arm in arm, abuſing them all the way, as an earneſt of what might far⯑ther be expected. The colonel followed, and ſeeing the cabinet door open, they ſtop⯑ped there.

Henry was ſitting at his deſk with the pen ſtill in his hand, Olivia leaning over, and ſuiting what he had written to her guitar, alternately running to another part of the library, to try it on her harp.

"Huſh!" whiſpered Partington, "we muſt not diſturb the raſcals, I ſuppoſe, while they are in that ſort of mad fit."

The poet and muſician proceeded in a ſubject that touched every chord of their hearts; perhaps neither of them heard the obſervations, or ſaw the obſervers; yet tears, which by the poſition he who ſhed them concealed from Olivia, filled the eyes of Henry, and were not eaſily prevented from dropping on the lines he had compoſed: [368]ſimilar drops ſuffuſed the lovely face, and trembled in the voice of Olivia as ſhe adapted them to ſpontaneous harmony: the genuine poeſy of nature animated by the muſic of a benevolent heart. Olivia, with diffident ſweetneſs, propoſed the adoption of an epi⯑thet in one of the verſes, as more auſpicious to ſound, but feared the ſenſe would be in⯑jured: the ſound was her own, the ſenſe Henry's; Henry ſubſtituted, and confeſſed the ſenſe was much improved. To the bloom in Olivia's cheek on this compliment, there is no deſcription. It was the bloom of gratitude and love. Who can paint it? Henry, in turn, improving on himſelf, al⯑tered a thought, and gave it poetic expreſ⯑ſion. It occaſioned the change of a whole diſtich, and its aim was to prove that the recovery of a loſt treaſure was a richer poſ⯑ſeſſion than if we had never been bereaved. "O, heaven! what an idea," exclaimed his wife, "and ſo it is—you mean the recovery of the little chapel-houſe—the treaſure of Arthur's heart—it extends alſo to the cha⯑pel itſelf, and what is yet more ſacred, to [369]the ſolemn burial-place of the Stuarts—the treaſure of our Caroline's heart—Ah, how ſhall I give ſound to this? help, help your deſpairing Olivia, my dear, dear Henry: let the poet inſpire the muſician; or, O, ra⯑ther, let the fountain of every pure and bounteous idea who beſtowed the thought, aſſiſt its melody: it deſerves the muſic of the ſpheres, and to be ſung by its angels."

"Then it ſhould be ſung by Olivia," ex⯑claimed Henry, riſing from his chair, and folding her with enthuſiaſm: "none but an angelic nature can, ſurely, attribute to every thought, and word, and deed, the beſt and pureſt motive. By Providence, I ſwear, every moment of my life convinces me that I can never, never merit thee." "Not merit! O, ingrate to that Providence," an⯑ſwered Olivia, "you merit every thing that is good."

The cloſeted auditory now came from their receſs. They advanced even to Olivia's harp without ſpeaking, or being ſpoken to. John had been weeping, and was ſtill extremely ſoft⯑ened; O, thought he, can it be in nature that [370]Olivia ſhould love more tenderly than ſhe is beloved!—Mrs. Herbert's boſom throbbed at the remembrance of recollected happi⯑neſs—her eye inſenſibly turned on John; but ſhe ſuffered it not to tarry. Johanna, almoſt ſhrinking from herſelf, timidly ſighed to her own heart as ſhe approached Olivia, "Ah! Charles, Charles! how canſt thou ever fancy any reſemblance betwixt thy poor Johanna and Olivia?" Partington had ſtruggled be⯑twixt his nature and his habits a conſiderable time; and as the one or the other obtained the maſtery, he was now ready with an eja⯑culation of unmixed tenderneſs, or began a bleſſing with its inverſing accompanyments— at length, he got ſufficiently into his old hu⯑mour to exclaim, as he took the hands of Olivia and Henry,—"I can only ſay, that if you do not quite murder me before I get back, I will here grant an act of oblivion to all the abominations that are paſt." Parting⯑ton demanded a ſhare in Olivia's plot— "Unleſs," ſaid John, looking ſignificantly at Henry, "you think it beſt that you and Partington ſhould ſtay and abuſe one another [371]comfortably at home." "Moſt readily," anſwered Henry, with generous earneſtneſs —"our little gratulatory offerings are juſt finiſhed, and then—" "What! not go to ſee and hear the effect of your ſweet ode, and beautiful hymn?"—"My brother," ſaid John, "may be fatigued after his journey, and with his unexpected flight to Parnaſſus: the air for odes, you know, is very far, in⯑deed, up the poetic mountain, ſiſter." "And hymns, I ſhould think," obſerved Parting⯑ton, "being heavenly, can blow only from the ſummit;—Is'n't it ſo, you clambering cai⯑tiff?" "Fatigued!" cried Olivia, reſpond⯑ing to the humour, "O! how little do phi⯑loſophers and gentlemen farmers know the unwearied ſpirit which poeſy inſpires!—But I feel the reaſon that induces the bard to de⯑cline honouring us with his company. He is aſhamed of his muſician."—"Aſhamed of her!" ejaculated Henry,—"I would ſhew her, with pride, to the hoſt of heaven!" "I am ſenſible," reſumed Olivia, "that ſhe has by no means done him juſtice—but, on a meeting of ſo many dear and unexpected [372]friends—methinks, I beg pardon.—I dare ſay, you are all right—but I had ſo ſet my heart on his preſence—the very laurel—yea, the crown of my poor little project, elſe, I hope, I ſhould not have been quite ſo unreaſonable."

And then, perhaps, for the firſt time, in all the years of their—to her, bleſſed—to him, alas! unhappy marriage! Olivia Fitz⯑orton dropped on her huſband's hand, which ſhe held to her lips, a tear of diſappointment, and Henry was the innocent cauſe!—"Go, brother," whiſpered John. "O! ever dear, too tender and too good," cried Henry, "I thought Mr. Partington might want com⯑pany— I thought that my ſudden, and un⯑expected appearance might, perhaps, in a manner, derange the plan."—"Or, per⯑chance," cried Olivia, correcting herſelf, "might alarm our beloved friends—Caro⯑line is, indeed, much out of health; and her ſpirits have ſuffered. You will hardly know her, Henry, I am aſhamed not to have thought of this—forgive my precipitance. It would be wrong—Yes, I ſee it would." At theſe words ſhe walked backwards and [373]forwards in the room, by which ſhe relieved not only herſelf but the reſt of the company. John's hopes revived, as to Henry's remain⯑ing at home, and he was collecting arguments and reaſons as to the propriety of that mea⯑ſure, on the ground of Olivia's own re⯑marks; and Partington was gathering toge⯑ther a round of ſcurrilities to back the colonel; while Henry, with very worthy feelings, ſat down to the vain attempt of finiſhing his poetry—In the midſt, however, of his employment, which, alas! was rather that of making long, crooked marks, than legible words, he ſaid to John—ſtill mark⯑ing, and the tones of his voice as irregular as the ſtrokes of his pen—"He hoped Caro⯑line Stuart was not very ill—not—not—not in any danger?" This was the only time he had mentioned her name to his brother, or any of his friends, or even given an alluſion to it, except when his wife's converſation made it inevitable, ſince the time he inti⯑mated a wiſh, ſanctioned by Olivia, to have ſome of the abbey furniture bought in for the former owners, and even then it was [374]by letter. John making, therefore, full allowance for a queſtion, which tender friend⯑ſhip ſtrictly warranted, he preſſed the hand of Henry moſt affectionately, and returned in whiſpers a conſoling anſwer. Olivia, after walking, had ſat herſelf down by the ſide of her harp, bending penſively over it, and now and then drawing from it a ſaddening note. Suddenly, however, ſhe ſtruck the chords to happier ſounds, and, looking at her friends through the ſpaces of her harpſtrings, ſtill enlivening the air, ſhe pauſed to exclaim,— "I believe there is ſomething of magic even in an inſtrument of muſic. It has, this moment, inſpired me with a thought to turn all the jarring of our late objections, as to dear Henry's being of our party, into har⯑monious concord."

The reſt of the company were again thrown out of their arrangements.

"You may rememember," reſumed Olivia, ſpringing up, after preſſing her lips on the harp, and proteſting ſhe loved it dearly as a friend, "you cannot indeed forget the weſt door that leads from the little cypreſs walk [375]to the cemetery, and thence aſcends by ſteps to the chapel. Of that door, knowing it is never opened but at the time of ſepulture, I have not yet delivered the key, but I know where to find it in a moment. Henry and I had occa⯑ſion for it ſeveral times when we were carrying on our monumental labours. There, my Henry, you may ſee, yet be unſeen. I will drop the curtain before the door of the cha⯑pel-houſe, and as I mean that to be the boundary of the firſt evening's exhibitions to the oblivion of as much as may be of every melancholy thought that lies beyond, there will not be the ſhadow of a reaſon to ſhut my Henry out of a ſight of the hap⯑pineſs to which he has ſo largely contributed, while we are all ſhielded from what we were apprehenſive of before. What a lucky thought! Now don't fall into your philoſo⯑phies again, dear John; and pray do you, Mr. Inſufferable, ſtand prepared to join my brother, in eſcorting the ladies of the caſtle, when 'tis their cue to ſwell the ſcene. The poet I ſee has not a diſſentient word to offer, and ſo the muſician will go fetch the ſacred [376]key, and ſummon Jane to conclude the pre⯑paratives." She left her aſſociates to finiſh her generous plan, and left them too with⯑out a reaſon to check her. "That abomi⯑nable villain," cries Partington, "carries all her points. After all, the lordly oak, man, is but as a ſwitch to that little twig-looking ſhrub in bloſſom, called woman. Heigho! I ſhould not wonder if one of theſe days a thing of this kind ſhould ſteal the heart out of my tough old trunk. By the bye, where is that Mrs. Herbert gone? From ſomething I ſaw, I take that lady to be an arrant ſcoundrel. Well, I'll have no hand in this matter. You are a couple of wife caitiffs, and I leave it between you. Settle it, and let me know; I'm ready for any miſchief you propoſe." How ſhall it be ſettled, my very dear and good Henry?" moſt affectionately enquired the colonel, when Partington went out, "you ſee our predicament." "Beſt of men and of brothers," anſwered Henry, "truſt me as far as I will truſt myſelf. I am clear, even at this moment in which the pulſes of my head and heart beat with a violence I can neither help nor account for, I am clear that it [377]would not be in the power of any earthly being—no not the being neareſt to omnipo⯑tence, in potency over my ſoul—to draw me from the honour, eſteem, reverence, and almoſt worſhip, due to my angelic wife, and which it has long been my pride to make happieſt of the happy. But I know not, as yet, my weakneſs or my ſtrength, whether to conſider the thronging emotions that now fluſh my cheek, ſhake my frame, and poſſeſs my boſom, as ſymptoms of terror, or of triumph."

Henry manifeſted vehement and tumultu⯑ous agitations while he ſpoke. "Perhaps the ſenſations which are now penetrating the central manſions of my ſoul," reſumed he, catching eagerly the the hand of John, "may be the reſult only of too many ſur⯑prizes ſuddenly accumulated, and mingling together,—perhaps I only want tranquillity to arrange, ſelect, and ſeparate them,—per⯑haps—and O join me in ſupplicating God that it may,—perhaps the love, the virtues, the good faith, the guileleſs mind, of my dear, dear Olivia, may riſe paramount, the unri⯑valled [378]victor, and lawful ſovereign of my breaſt. Perhaps the eye, and voice, and hand, of long loſt friends, will encounter mine, with gentle and ſalutary greeting, cor⯑dial to each, to all. Brother, I am deter⯑mined on the trial, the viſible and inviſible method propoſed is favourable. Fear me not. I will glide with the ſilence of death along the well-known manſions of the dead; and if I find that my hour is not yet come, for the only ſort of aſſociation which the holy peace of my Olivia requires I ſhould form with any other human creature, and which is alone what I ought to give or to receive, in that moment I will retire unheard, unſeen, and never again be led into a ſimilar tempta⯑tion."

Amidſt all the fiery wildneſs of this ſpeech, the inconceivable rapidity with which part of it was uttered, and the fearful ſtarts that attended much of the action, there was, on the whole, ſuch a genuine and generous vir⯑tue in the idea, and ſuch connexion in the plan, that John, who had been more depreſſed by fear than elevated by hope, now came to [379]a kind of compromiſe with thoſe paſſions, and thought it beſt to let the propoſal take place, and truſt the direction of the event to that Providence, which, when human circumſpec⯑tion proves inſufficient, and ſometimes, alas! counteracts, as if in mockery, its own too attentive care, can render the dreaded cir⯑cumſtance the cauſe of producing the very effect of which ſhallow plotting, laborious mortals, ſuppoſed it would be utterly ſub⯑verſive.

CHAPTER XLII.

THUS have we explained one of the extraordinary appearances which met the eye of Caroline Stuart; giving at the ſame time a view of Henry Fitzorton's return to the caſtle; and we have unfolded theſe points and the incidents with which they connect after, rather than before, their taking place, that the reader might enjoy the like impreſſion of the magic ſcenery of the chapel-houſe, unbroken by anticipations. But events, alſo, of great moment, happened in the houſe of [380]Fitzorton after theſe chapel-houſe ſcenes were over; and having ſettled thoſe tumults of the Stuart family that fell out about the ſame period, this is the due place to go on with progreſſive circumſtances.

Caroline Stuart was not the firſt who had bent the knee at the tomb of her mother. Henry Fitzorton had done homage there before her. But that was not his immediate devotion. When the conference betwixt himſelf and the colonel ended, he repaired to that hallowed ſpot where his own pro⯑genitors lay inurned, and where the ever-friendly Fitzortorns and Clares, united even in death, mingled their ſacred duſt. There, ſometimes with Olivia, but oftener alone, had he directed his ſteps. There, would he recite the ſtruggles of his head and heart, his infirmities, his fortitude. There, con⯑ceal his tears from the living, and, confide them to the ſpirits of death. His laſt viſit was of a milder ſort: he ſought the aſhes of Sir Armine in ſmiles: for he ſought it to pour forth his congratulations; to aſſure the aweful inhabitants, which ſurrounded [381]him, and chiefly they whom it moſt con⯑cerned, his honoured parents, that after ſtruggling with ſolitude and ſociety, with the powers of love and of inſanity, with the rooted paſſion of his heart, and the hor⯑rible ſuggeſtions of murder—ſelf murder, all, all the ſad effects of one dire miſtake, the conſtrained diſpoſal of his hand; the virtues of Olivia, had weaned him from the fell intents of deſpair and death, and won him back to reaſon and life. He no longer loathed the earth; his heart had become ſuſ⯑ceptible of comfort; he honoured the choice which his father had made for him; he had ſacrificed his own; he loved his chil⯑dren; his brothers were parts of his own exiſtence; his neighbourhood was dear; and, bleſſed be God! he could at laſt ſurvey all its objects without terrour. The dark cloud that ſeemed to cover the heavens and the earth, again admitted ſome rays of light, even as if re-created to his eye; it chiefly beamed from the power he ſtill had to bleſs his wife; for himſelf, the die had been caſt; the bolt would rive where it ſtruck; he was [382]a wreck, but he had, perhaps, been the plank to ſave others from ſinking: and he was thankful.

Such were Henry's confeſſions in the vault of his fathers, when he firſt felt the influence they deſcribe. But motives of a ſtill more affecting kind now drew him to thoſe man⯑ſions. "O, my father! my father!" cried he, in rapid and earneſt ſupplication, kneel⯑ing by the coffins that held the relicts of both his parents; "now aſſiſt your ſon;—now ſtrengthen your Henry;—let not the deep ſcar that has ſeamed the wound, be again torn open. Spare, I conjure you, the ſon whom your miſguided,—but bleſſed hand, has laid long ſince on the altar.—And you, my mother, whoſe cold duſt, is more precious than the vital power which warms theſe claſping arms, aſſiſt thy huſband's prayer.—O! let not the victim who has ſo lately ſurvived his ſacrifice be bound again! Driven back on all he loved,—on all he feared,—alas! on all he ſhunned! Oh, ye ſpirits of heaven! who once inhabited theſe holy ruins, do I invoke!—and thou, O venerable father of [383]my Olivia! do thou become a ſuppliant with the God of Power in the cauſe of thy beloved child!—Pray alike for the huſband, and the wife, and all their little ones!"

Having breathed theſe aſpirations, he returned to the caſtle: there waited for him her, for whoſe felicity he had importuned the dead, and the ſpirits that live for ever. Lovely, and ſcarcely leſs pure than one of thoſe,—ſhe preſented to him the fatal key that was to give him once more the view of Caroline Stuart. "All is on my part ready, my Henry," ſaid Olivia, "but ſurely you are unwell,—unquiet,—the approaching ſcene will chear you: come, deareſt, let love conduct you to friendſhip. You muſt not feel theſe things too ſtrongly." She led him to the weſtern door, then paſſed haſtily through the place of Sepulture, aſcended the chapel, ſhewed him the man⯑ner how Jane and ſhe had contrived the curtain ſo as to give him ſight into the chapel-houſe, and a ſecurity from others; then after many a tender expreſſion, went tound to the other door, accompanied by [384]her Jane, and with a heart throbbing with benignity, waited to confer happineſs, impa⯑tient of delay, only as it retarded the com⯑munication. The cauſe of that delay on the part of Arthur and his friends, has been made known to the reader. On the part of Mrs. Fitzorton and Jane Atwood, it was filled by rendering their preparatives more ac⯑ceptable: while Henry gliding with ſteps now well ſuſtained, and now faltering, cor⯑reſponding to the riſings or ſinkings of his ſpirit, alternately ruminated in the burial place, at the tomb of lady Matilda, and at the altar of the chapel.

At length, the moment came, and that moment was deciſive. He heard again the ſound of Caroline's voice: he ſaw from his ſecret ſtand her downcaſt eye, her ſainted air, her ſacred form: and he ſaw the change which ſorrow, long-ſuffering, corroding cares, and perpetual vigils, had cauſed. He haſtily deſc ended into the burial place, and concealed his heart-felt groans, and ſhed his burning tears on her mother's coffin. "Soon, ah! ſoon, muſt ſhe join [385]you here, O mouldered beauty!—but, alas! her figure has already been the prey of the tyrant. The canker of grief, I ſee, has eaten into the core of her heart, and with immiti⯑gable tooth is ſtill devouring her alive!"

He returned to his place of obſervation. The room was filled with objects dear to his thoughts: yet he faſtened but on one; his trembling eye, now deluged with tears, and now parched by a fever of the ſoul, fixed on, and followed Caroline. Olivia's muſic was unheeded: his own poeſy extinguiſhed: all that beauty, love, and benevolence had done to grace the ſcene, was covered from his view as with the mantle of death.

Almoſt ſuffocated with ſenſations, and their proper reliefs controuled, he again deſcended into the chambers of darkneſs: he wept, ſupplicated, and again returned. Exhauſted, at length, he ſat down on one of the ſeats of the porch. Scarce had a minute elapſed, ere the other ſeat was filled alſo: filled by Caroline. The mourner had there attempted to weep and to pray, unobſerved by the happy. Her ſight was dim, and her [386]hands croſſed over her eyes. A heavy ſigh broke from her heart, and penetrated that of Henry. Alas! he was within its breath. An anſwering ſigh heaved his own boſom; and he roſe; Caroline ſtarted. Henry had moved ſome paces, and was half loſt in the darkneſs of the chapel; but a ſaint light from the refectoire, by the aperture in the curtain, and the opening which Caroline had left on effecting her concealment, gleamed indiſtinctly on the chapel. A figure moved before her more aweful, more affect⯑ing than all ſhe had ſeen in the ſubter⯑raneous paſſage. It had the motion of Henry: but in the next moment it ruſhed forward and was ſeen no more.

CHAPTER XLIII.

HENRY pauſed awhile in the burial place, to wiſh he had been numbered amongſt its inhabitants, before he had witneſſed the ſcene—from a farther view of which he was hurrying—and then paſt on. He reached the caſtle a conſiderable time before the reſt [387]of the party—before, indeed, the colonel and Partington, with the ladies, could have got to the chapel-houſe, in order to eſcort Olivia. He luckily, therefore, gained his chamber, which was that his father had uſed, without interruption. The very ſword with which John had puniſhed Sir Guiſe Stuart, hung over the chimney piece. Henry looked at it, and traverſed the apartment with wild and irregular ſteps. On the flaſh of a ſudden thought he cloſed the windows on the inſide—locked and bolted his door— He took down the ſword, drew it from the ſheath, and examined its point—"No," ſaid he, "this—this—may not be the inſtru⯑ment. The blood which was ſhed in defence of a father, ſhall not be waſhed out by that of a ſon, even though that father has made life inſupportable."—He replaced the ſword—but his ſenſes were ſtill unſettled, and the dire image of ſelf-deſtruction appeared ſtill to poſſeſs him. Perceiving a movement about the bed—he leaped up, and throwing aſide the curtains, demanded furiouſly who dared to interrupt him? "Only little John, [388]papa," exclaimed a ſoft voice, "Your own dear little John, who has crept into your bed juſt to get a kiſs, and a good night, from you and mamma—when you came home—as you all ran away from me, and left me to myſelf, a whole—whole evening, juſt as if I had no papa or mamma at all— which God forbid—for what would poor little John, or great John either, or even ſiſter, with all her beauty, do without them?"

"A voice—yes, it was a voice from heaven," exclaimed Henry, running to the bed. "Dear, dear boy, you have ſaved your poor father—you have ſaved him from—" "From what papa? O! how cold you are!—do come to bed; little John ſhall warm you in his boſom—juſt thus," ſaid the ſon, carrying his father's hand to his breaſt. "Ah! let us warm one another's hearts, papa. And I have not ſaid my prayers yet—ſo we may ſay them together."

"And ſo we will, my bleſſed deliverer!" cried Henry, tenderly kiſſing the child, and laying down by his ſide, "and Johnny ſhall [389]beg of God to love—to forgive his father—and God will hear him." "Oh, that he will, and you too, papa—for he hears all good people. I can ſay all you ſet me by heart—mamma has heard me every night ſince you were gone. The belief, the lord's prayer, and the ten commandments, without miſſing a word—now only hark." Hereupon the innocent prattler repeated thoſe holy ordi⯑nances, in which Henry, with repentant ſpirit, fervently joined: and when he came to the inhibition of murder, an icy horror ſhot through his conſcious heart, and as he thrice repeated the words—"O! wretched man!" he cried, "what did thy raſhneſs meditate?—Wouldſt thou have put to death, at one ſtroke, father, wife, children, and friends? and expoſed thy immortal ſoul to the wrath of the Eternal?" "O! what wicked man would have killed all thoſe, papa? Do let us ſay over our prayers again —to beg God Almighty to forgive him too: for, mamma ſays, the good ſhould pray for the naughty, if they be ever ſo wicked. O! how often have I heard her pray for that [390]bad—bad Sir Guiſe of the abbey: very often, indeed, but not ſo often as ſhe has bleſſed good papa. Ah! how ſhe does love papa!— not more than Johnny though."

Saying this, the ſoother threw his arms fondly round his ſelf-rebuking parent; drew him, by many a fold, cloſer to his little heart, and compoſed the troubled ſoul to ſenſations of piety and peace. The inter⯑ceſſion of a ſpotleſs child was offered up for the evil thoughts his deſpair had induced. And after he had, again and again, ſuppli⯑cated the throne of mercy and of grace, the kind reſtorer of haraſſed nature ſunk him to repoſe.

When the company returned, Olivia's firſt enquiries were directed towards her huſ⯑band. Somewhat alarmed at hearing he had not been ſeen, ſhe ran through the rooms it was uſual with him to frequent, and at laſt coming into her chamber ſhe found both the father and the ſon faſt aſleep in each other's arms.

Tenderly impreſſing a kiſs, and breathing a ſigh of pride and happineſs on them both, [391]ſhe made her report below ſtairs, to the comfort of the anxious colonel, and to the ſatisfaction of all.

As Henry awoke he ſaw his brother John ſtanding by his ſide. "And how fares my dear, and ſtill good, Henry?" enquired he, with generous ſolicitude.

"Well—yet not good. Well—yet moſt wicked. But queſtion me not to-night; in the morning I will unfold myſelf."

"Shall we not ſee you amongſt us? Will not your abſence ſeem ſtrange?" aſked the colonel.

"Let the fatigue of my journey, and ſubſequent walking, watching, &c. explain and excuſe it. I am unequal to company at preſent; but if Olivia brings me a glaſs of wine, after your repaſt, I will drink her dear health in it—but not till the with⯑drawing hour. Meantime, I will to bed, and this bleſſed boy, to whom I owe more than life, muſt be our companion for this one night. I cannot endure the thoughts of his removal now—do tell his mother ſo. [392]See how ſound he ſleeps, brother. Such is the repoſe of innocence."

As Henry made theſe reflections, he careſſed his ſon—repeated his obligations to him—took his little hand from the ſpot where it was laid—on his father's breaſt— to preſs it to his lips—then replaced it; while John, delighted by the effect, without knowing there was any thing aſtoniſhing in the cauſe—Henry being at all times an exem⯑plary father—went down ſtairs, and with faithful pleaſure related what he had heard and ſeen.

When Olivia ſoon after withdrew, ſhe found that her little John and Henry had again fallen aſleep, and ſincerely uttering a prayer for both, including in it her abſent daughter, and all the friends whom ſhe pre⯑ſumed ſhe had made as happy as herſelf, ſhe crowned a day of benevolent exertion with a night of undiſturbed repoſe.

CHAPTER XLIV.

HENRY, when he awoke, complained of an extreme head-ach, and imputed it to the heat of the apartment. Alas! the heat was in himſelf: for it was towards the end of October, and the air had been ſharpened in the night by a froſt. "It is very early, I believe, my ſweet Olivia," ſaid he to his wife, whoſe pure and light ſlumbers were eaſily chaſed away, although they had been ſerene, "yet I think," continued he, "that a turn or two in the garden will do me good." "I will riſe and attend you love," anſwered Olivia. Henry over-ruled this. "Conſider," ſaid he, "I ſtole home to bed long before you, and it is but fair that you ſhould be even with me: another thing is, I propoſe to return preſently, and beſides the dear boy, you ſee, ſleeps ſtill. Huſh, we ſhall diſturb him, poor fellow. Tell him, if he ſhould wake before I come back, to remember me in his morning prayers, and kiſs him for me a thouſand times, for his [394]evening ones—and O! tell him too, that I live only for himſelf, his ſiſter, and his mother."

The fondeſt, deareſt, wiſhes of Mrs. Fitzorton being ever included in performing thoſe of her huſband, ſhe begged him to guard againſt the early air, which however warm it might ſeem to him in the chamber, would be different out of doors, and then ſhe reſigned him tenderly to himſelf.

At the foot of the great ſtaircaſe that led into the grand hall, from which there were two doors, the one commanding a view of the woodlands of the abbey, the other lead⯑ing to the grounds and park of the caſtle through the ſhrubbery; he ſtood for a few moments, divided in his thoughts, at which of the doors to go out:—as if follow⯑ing the impulſe of nature, his firſt movements were towards that which led to the manſion of Sir Guiſe Stuart: yet turning from thence abruptly, even while his hand was upon the bar that faſtened it, he hurried to the one which led into his own grounds, as if in obedience to the dictate of duty and reaſon. [395]But he was much ſurpriſed to obſerve, either that ſome one of the family had gone forth even ſooner than himſelf, or that his ſervants had been very negligent, for the door was not only unbolted and unlocked, but very ſlightly cloſed.

He entered the park, croſſed into the ſhrubbery, and walked up and down the firſt path that preſented itſelf. His mind crouded with thought,—a miſt blending with the froſt, had rendered objects dreary and indiſ⯑tinct. Every drooping ſhrub, and every flower in the train of autumn were loaded with heavy dew half diſſolved and half con⯑gealed. As the haſty ſteps of Henry bruſhed them away, he exclaimed—"Yes—all nature is in tears!" he ſighed and paſſed on. The ſun roſe, and gradually diſperſing the fog, diſplayed the later beauties of the year more clearly, but ſhewed them in their decline. Henry, after exerciſe too violent for either felicity or health, ſtood leaning againſt an alcove on the outſide: he ſaw the withering leaf fall alike from the loftieſt tree, and the moſt lowly ſhrub—"Such is man!" thought [396]he, "and ſuch the equal fate of the ambitious and the humble!" As his eye ſurveyed the different objects within its reach, and beheld on all the viſible ſigns of ſickneſs and decay: "All nature is dying," cried he aloud—"ſee! even at the point of death! then what is man!"

"Immortal!" anſwered a voice imme⯑diately from behind the place where he ſtood. It was the voice of John Fitzorton. The brothers embraced. "For once," ſaid the colonel, "my dear Henry, I am a more early wanderer than yourſelf. My night was unquiet, but, I truſt, your's was ſweet: and yet the remarks I heard you juſt now make, or rather the tones in which they were ex⯑preſſed, ſeem not the reſult of a refreſhing ſleep."

"Deareſt brother," cried Henry, "if ſleep, which is but for a night, is ſweet, what muſt be the ſleep of death?"

"Still ſweeter," anſwered John, "for that is eternal waking—I have wholly re⯑covered the tone of my mind, Henry, ſince I came into the garden. Obſerve the wide [397]ſpreading ravage of the vegetable world as it lies around us in ruins."

"I have obſerved it with a ſinking heart, and it has made me deſcend, atom as I am, into a more modeſt ſenſe of my own inſigni⯑ficancy, brother," ſaid Henry, with an air of ſelf-abaſement.

"And my heart, on the contrary," re⯑ſumed John, "it has elevated from this low earth to the heaven of heavens—from things periſhable to powers that ſhall never know corruption—from my decaying body to my everlaſting ſoul. That proud oak, my bro⯑ther, may, in this poor world, maintain its ſtation far longer than its lord, even though the honours are now falling from its top, but when its very roots ſhall be trampled into duſt, by the power which putteth all mortal things under his feet, I truſt, in the pardoner of offences, and the recompencer of virtue, that Henry, John, and James, Fitzorton, and all who are dear to them, will be rejoicing in the unfading bliſs of eternity. Be proud then, my brother; aſcend to the dignity of your⯑ſelf [398]—riſe to the ſublime height of your own nature."

The eyes of Henry were ſtreaming with tears, yet they were raiſed to heaven, and, "O!" he cried, "it is from the pardoner of offence! not the recompenſer of virtue! that Henry muſt have hope in death.—My brother," continued he, "I am weak as childhood—but, alas! without its innocence! Yet what have I not attempted—what will I not attempt to fulfill every duty—to avoid every ſnare? O thou my brother, and my friend—thou chriſtian—philoſopher—guide and conduct me back to ſcenes of leſs agoni⯑ſing thought, and keep me there.—Forbear, ah, ſtill forbear to queſtion me. I have kept within the conditions. I aſcended from the gloomy repoſitories of death, and ſaw the one created being moſt afflicting, moſt dear to ſight—ſaw her ſcarce living—about to be numbered with their cold inhabitants, yet I did not ruſh into her preſence. I felt her heart-ſick figh upon my cheek. I ſaw her ſink almoſt at my feet—yet raiſed her not to [399]my arms—but left her—left her on the cold ground, and with ſavage ſpeed ruſhed from her fainting form. You had my promiſe, and it has not been broken. So far virtue and my brother are obeyed. But I muſt move again from hence. Beings far, far more valued, more valuable than myſelf, demand it—my wife! my dear wife! my children! my friends!—yet I know not how, or where— nor can I think—O think for me!—Some⯑thing, and ſpeedily, muſt be done, or all muſt be loſt—this throbbing head, this pant⯑ing heart—all—all—foretell it!"

He clung round his brother's neck—then ſtarted from him, and then again enfolded him—now incongruous, now coherent, as he ſpoke—and woman's love, no, not the love of his Olivia, could more fondly return his embraces, ſoothe his wandering, pity his weakneſs, or confirm his hope, than did the rugged John Fitzorton in this trying moment. He kiſſed his cheek, wiped away the tears he found upon it, yet bathed it with his own. "Ah, my unhappy Henry, my deareſt, and ſtill good, brother—virtuous even in agony: [400]yet, O! be comforted, think on the more diſaſtrous wretch—alone and hopeleſs—to whoſe ſad fate I pointed in our late conver⯑ſation, ſhut for ever from his object, by bonds yet ſtronger—bonds which even death could not remove—yet forbid the privilege of eſcape, and condemned by inexorable ne⯑ceſſity—even by virtue—ſtrange myſterious fate! to ſee her for months, for years, the only form that could ever truly enchant his eye, to hear the only voice that was ever muſic to his ear—not like the voice of the Syren that once lured and betrayed,—and to obſerve the only mind which has ever con⯑veyed to his idea the moſt perfect image of truth and goodneſs; ah, think on him—on him, not culled from fancy's painted ſtore—but one, whom I have known, a real victim, and had you known him too, you would have wept his ſorrows, and if not forgot your own, have owned that they were bleſ⯑ſedneſs to his. Indeed you would. Yet never, never ſhall ſhe know the cauſe of his deſpair."

[401]All the powers of wonder and of pity ſeem⯑ed ſuddenly to overſpread the face of Henry! and as he examined the countenance of John, with an earneſtneſs he had never looked into it before, retiring gently from his arms, he appeared to puzzle awhile betwixt conjecture and diſcovery, and then run again into his brother's embraces.—"Shall ſhe know!" exclaimed the aſtoniſhed Henry! "Is he ſtill exiſting? ſtill one who ſees that form, who hears that muſic, who obſerves the work⯑ings of that heavenly ſoul?—then is he a wretch indeed! O brother, I ſhould commiſerate that man were he a villain! but were he good, and juſt, and virtuous, even ſuch a man as thee, my brother, I ſhould mix ado⯑ration with my pity, and do homage to him as to a wounded god, could ought of divinity receive a wound!"

Henry appeared to be ſinking from his bro⯑ther's arms, and had bent one knee on the ground as he ceaſed ſpeaking:—even as though he thought his cloſing words applied: but John hurrying him up, as if not unconſcious of his meaning yet more than he expreſſed, cried [402]with a voice of ſome trouble, "Huſh, brother, for heaven's ſake huſh: we are obſerved!"

"Yes, indeed," ſaid little John, who came running up the alcove walk, followed by Olivia, "you can come into the garden to hug my uncle, Mr. papa, but leave poor mamma and I to ourſelves."—"I am come here, my deareſt Henry, to invite you to a diſh of coffee, which, on account of your early riſing and walking, may do you good, ſo I got up to make it myſelf; and if the colonel has been as early a rambler as your⯑ſelf, it will be of ſervice to him likewiſe."— "Nor ſhall it be refuſed my ever good Olivia," ſaid Henry, "I will anſwer for us both: and this bleſſed boy ſhall partake,— yonder too, I ſee Partington and his ladies. Let us loſe no time then."

A tranquil, nay, a pleaſant breakfaſt en⯑ſued, even to the ſurprize of Olivia herſelf, who, from little John's perplexed account, and the laſt night's diſcourſe, and from her own morning obſervations, had her fears that Henry was again out of health or ſpirits. [403]John was at firſt the moſt taciturne on this occaſion of the whole party, but reſumed himſelf in the courſe of the repaſt; and Henry, from whatever motive, was for the whole of that day, more tranquil than he had been at any period ſince his laſt arrival at the caſtle. Partington, whoſe ſpirits were always elated or depreſſed by the fair or ſoul weather of thoſe he loved, now found the Fitzortons, who had long been his grand barometers, more calm and temperate, than from the late ſtormy violences he had reaſon to expect; he therefore gave a looſe to his accuſtomed ſcurrility, mixed with a thouſand good humoured turns, with ſuch effect, as ſettled him in the beſt opinions of Johanna and Mrs. Herbert, who, on their part, contrived alſo, by their endearing behaviour to Olivia, to be ſet down amongſt his moſt atrocious incorrigibles.

CHAPTER XLV.

ON the day following, however, the tempeſt, which had thus blown over, re⯑turned: it had rolled to a diſtant quarter, but rolled back to its point. Henry, in great diſorder, ſought a ſecond conference with John. "My brother," ſaid the former, "there is no bringing all men's minds, any more than their perſons, to an equal ſize, or ſtrength. I honour the greatly good and greatly ſuffering being, who lives unſub⯑dued by temptation; but I cannot reach his virtue; I cannot profit by his example. I will not diſgrace myſelf or diſtreſs you by telling you where theſe truant feet, guided by my erring heart would have led me in the twilight of yeſterday, when, you remember, I petitioned for, and obtained a ſolitary hour."

"To the abbey, no doubt," anſwered John, much diſcompoſed. "Fatal was the hour in which my erring heart conducted thither its old inhabitants. You have paid them a [405]viſit, I preſume, and in one moment brought to nought the laboured project of many a diligent hour. Shallow thoughted mor⯑tals! behold, here, another leſſon to humble the pride of human foreſight! I am fallen with the fabric I raiſed, and ſhall bury my friends, brother, ſiſter, and all whom I would have ſaved, in the ruins!"

"O no, my brother!" anſwered Henry, "you have erected a temple to pity, friend⯑ſhip, honour, and, I truſt in God, to hap⯑pineſs! I, and I only, feel myſelf unworthy to enter its ſacred gates and do homage there! Miſtake me not—weak, fragile as I am, I have not invaded, by willing raſhneſs, the ſanctuary where your generous hand has placed the penitent and the mourner. But, bluſhing I confeſs, that I bent my miſguiding ſteps that way:—Yes, I took a forbidden path, the one rarely trodden,—and yet, even there, I met my dear, my long loſt"— "Caroline!" ſaid John. "No, her bro⯑ther," ſaid Henry. "I am ſorry for it," obſerved the colonel, "the lieutenant was raſh, and forgot the bounds preſcribed; [406]the bounds of honour."—"Within thoſe bounds I ſaw him," anſwered Henry. "Then the raſhneſs was yours. Yet you ſaid, you had not intruded." "Nor did I, the rencontre happened in a place where I could expect to meet only the form of melancholy;—the ſubterraneous paſſage.— Even there my friend ruſhed upon me una⯑wares from an angle almoſt at the cavern's mouth. So far from expecting, he furiouſly ſeized my throat, demanding the name of the lurking ruffian, the midnight robber he had at laſt detected? A drawn ſword was in his hand,—and, in the next inſtant would have been in my heart, had not the well⯑known voice and name of Henry Fitzorton arreſted the ſtroke. 'O gracious heaven! I ſhould have murdered my friend, my dear, dear Henry Fitzorton!' ejaculated he in an agony, and as he ſpoke, a groan.—No doubt the work of terrified fancy ſeemed to ſound near the place where we ſtood. He threw down the inſtrument of death, and preſſed me to his boſom. My friend was in my arms. 'I aſk not, O, my Henry!' ſaid he, [407]'the ſtate of your heart,—you, no doubt, have heard the ſtate of mine: but if your's be not all Olivia's, or, even if it be, for⯑bear, I conjure you, to invade my ſiſter's peace!' He then hurried to other ſubjects, talked to me of fearful ſights, of frightful founds,—told me that ſuch an air of myſtery had there inveſted the abbey, both within and without,—he was himſelf that night come forth armed to attempt a diſcovery, and had encountered ſtrange appearances, which eluded his purſuit. He informed me that Jerom and Jonathan, with the intrepid Arthur and his fearleſs Floreſco, were alſo on the watch in their different ſtations. He concluded, alas! by giving me credit for virtues I have never poſſeſſed; applauded my conſiderate, my god-like benevolence, as he called it, in adminiſtering comfort to the wretched, myſelf unſeen: and then ended by obſerving, that as the proſperity of his family had been derived from the kindneſs of John, ſo would the peace of his ſiſter, dearer than all other poſſeſſions, be protected by Henry Fitzorton!—Ah! my beloved brother, I [408]could only anſwer by ardently ſtraining him to my boſom; pouring out my bleſ⯑ſings on his houſe; on my knees aſſeve⯑rating, that if the power were mine, I would watch and combat for years un⯑wearied to repel its enemies,—and then, alas! unequal to farther converſe, I ran back with trembling ſteps from the cavern into the foreſts, diſguiſing my agitation in ſudden illneſs, and yet, heaven knows, that was not counterfeit.—Behold the hiſtory of my unſought treſpaſs;—behold, dear John, and prevent its repetition. I have loſt all confidence in myſelf; others, therefore, ſhould not truſt me.—O! think of ſome means to ſave me then from myſelf. Your plan for that ſafety ſhall be mine."

"Generous Charles, and worthy Henry! I truſt a fair reward awaits ye both," cried the colonel.—"Your narrative, brother, has filled me with various objects for reflection; but the one which more immediately preſſes, is that which regards yourſelf—the grief of this poor, conflicting boſom." Here John, in his uſual way, ſat himſelf down to ſolitary [409]thought, while Henry perceiving his ſon at ſport in the garden, went to his little con⯑ſoler and preſerver, as now he called him, hoping to gain compoſure enough to bear ſuch endearing ſociety before he returned to his wife.

Although the time advanced more near when Olivia would naturally require and re⯑ceive the tendereſt ſupport from the atten⯑tions of her huſband; yet, as it was altoge⯑ther improper to convey her, at ſuch a mo⯑ment, from her comfortable home, where all had been long ready for, perhaps, one of the greateſt trials of human nature, even though human kind is thence continued on the earth; yet, as the preſſure of unforeſeen events and ſurrounding circumſtances, had made the environs of the caſtle and the ab⯑bey more perilous to all the inhabitants even than they had ever been before; and, as on every poſſible ground of diſcretion, Henry's virtuous and manly propoſition ought to be adopted, it was ſettled by the good colonel, that his brother ſhould again be ſtolen by Par⯑tington—that little John, in order to be ex⯑changed [410]for little Caroline, who was ſtill at Bury, ſhould be of the runaway party;— that Mrs. Herbert ſhould be truſted with the ſcheme; and that juſt as it was about to take place—the coach at the door, and trunks packed—John ſhould betray the conſpiracy, and undertake to bring about Mrs. Fitzorton's conſent.

This arrangement was only part of what was forming in the colonel's mind. He be⯑lieved that now Sir Guiſe was much recover⯑ed, the whole abbey family might be re⯑moved, at leaſt, beyond the track, and out of the obſervation of his brother: and this, he thought, would be a wiſe meaſure, free of all other conſiderations, as it would con⯑vey them from a ſpot ſurrounded with dan⯑gers. He imagined Henry might then come back, and that while his worthy mind was employed, as he well knew it would be, in the ſoothing offices of which his Olivia would then ſtand in need, he ſhould have no aching void left for the diviſion of a wandering image: and, indeed, he began to think it would be beſt for the caſtle family to ſettle [411]elſewhere, when ſuch a meaſure could ſfely be propoſed.—All of this plan, which was then proper for Henry to know, was im⯑parted. Henry yielded, and was much ſooth⯑ed by the idea of little John being his com⯑panion —"and yet, alas! my brother," ſighed he, "what have I to hope from the preſervation of a few days, or months, or even years!"

"Every thing, even from a few hours," anſwered John. "The evil which has been growing for half the life of man, may, by the Providence of God, be in a moment removed. Let us rely on that Providence, and, by taking what at leaſt appear the beſt meaſures, hope, that they will be directed to that end." Henry ſighed, and aſſented.— Partington was ductile to every generous aim. All was prepared with ſecrecy and diſ⯑patch; and while Partington was handing his party into the coach, railing and raving in whiſper—the colonel, who had been con⯑ducting his impeachment, and detailed his charges, brought round Mrs. Fitzorton to aſſiſt him in apprehending the conſpirators.— [412]"I ſeize you ladies and gentlemen," ſaid John, "in the name of Olivia." "O thou moſt incorrigible good-for-nothing traitor!" exclaimed the Squire, bundling in little John, who enjoyed the ſcheme at his heart; and ſeeing Johanna with Olivia, "I have a good mind to have that handſome huſſey into the bargain." Then ſhutting the door, after he had leaped in himſelf, he flouriſhed his hat, crying—"aha! this is trick for trick! one runaway job for another. Let the raſcal ſee if he can eſcape again—I have him now, father and ſon, old dame Partlet, and the family-coach into the bargain—Drive on caitiffs—drive on, and never ſtop till you get to the end of the world."

The poſtillions, ſetting it all down as a new frolic of their old ſquire, who was a great favourite with them all, obeyed orders, and away they drove. But tears ſtood in the eyes of Olivia.—"It is but for a day or two—and to bring back my ſweet little niece, and Partington's brother, the phyſician, who is daily expected at the Bury, from the Eaſt-Indies, and, in ſhort, to ſtrengthen and en⯑liven [413]our party on the ir return—and ſo e'en let them go, deareſt ſiſter," ſaid the colonel. "Well then," ſighingly, anſwered Mrs. Fitzorton,—"we muſt endeavour to do with⯑out them a little; but ſtill I know not the time when I could ſo ill ſpare them."— "Would to heaven I could any way render the loſs of their ſociety leſs irkſome," ſaid the ſoft and diffident Johanna; "but, per⯑haps, the good lieutenant, and—ſhould the baronet's health permit—that of Caroline might do much."—"Truly, ſweet maid," anſwered Mrs. Fitzorton, "if any thing in nature could fill the void which the abſence of my huſband and children always leaves, the conſolations you propoſe to me would have their effect; yet, under the moſt gloomy ſenſations, ſuch ſociety muſt be moſt wel⯑come to my heart."

"I will myſelf go to the abbey," ſaid the colonel, "and make report how far our ſociety may be admiſſible."

CHAPTER XLVI.

HAVING thus, in ſome ſort, reconciled both the ladies under his protection, John Fitzorton directed his ſteps to the abbey, where, however, many objects of increaſing difficulty remained to be adjuſted. For, al⯑though the generous conduct of his unhappy brother, the tender diſplay of the true and modeſt feelings of Johanna, and his own ſtill unyielded power of mind, had ſoftened the paſt ſcenes, the proſpect of the future roſe to his view, convolved in clouds, the diſ⯑perſion or even clearing of which ſeemed to require an energy greater than any he had yet employed.

To him, therefore, who can bring light out of darkneſs, he breathed an earneſt prayer as he took the way that led to the abbey: for John Fitzorton was not a con⯑vert to that weakly proud doctrine which depends wholly on human means; but always thought,—and as he thought—he acted, the [415]philoſophical, enlightened, and ennobled chriſtian character. As he proceeded towards the abbey, he encountered Burton upon the back of his little horſe Buſy, poſting to the caſtle. The whole detail of the apothe⯑cary immediately deſcribed the terrors under which his patient laboured, in conſequence of the illuſive appearances—adding thereto an account of thoſe which he and his friends had ſeen in their way to the chapel-houſe."— "I know nothing about ſuch ghoſtly fan⯑cies," cried John; "but the ſooner your patient and, indeed, all his family can get from them the better. In a word, my friend, I am projecting a general remove; for as matters have turned I ſee no tranquillity either of ſoul or of body, in this once peace⯑ful and happy neighbourhood, at preſent: our firſt operation is on Sir Guiſe Stuart; if we can but get him by any means into a travel⯑ling ſituation, I think, I ſtill ſee a path out of all our perplexities. Burton declared he had hopes, if no new phantaſms and diſ⯑turbances, real or imaginary, fell out, a few more nights' reſt would give to his patient, [416]and to all the family, the degree of ſtrength neceſſary to the occaſion."—"Meanwhile," anſwered the colonel, rejoiced at this intelli⯑gence, "as you muſt know, Henry has been hurried back to the Bury by Partington, the limits of our poor priſoners at the abbey may be enlarged; and to that purpoſe am I now going to the abbey; but ſince we have met, you, my good friend, will beſt ſettle this matter, while I return home to make preparations for the general move⯑ments." The apothecary anſwered, that he would loſe no time in ſetting the cap⯑tive brother and ſiſter free, turning round the nimble Buſy, and gallopped back to the abbey.

But neither Charles nor Caroline were in a ſituation to enjoy even the bleſſings of li⯑berty. For ſcarce had Henry exchanged the mournful, but affectionate adieus with his friend, in the ſubterraneous paſſage, ere the terrified Franciſco came to implore the lieutenant to follow his ſteps; then led him ſome paces farther along the cavern, where an object aſſailed his eyes, that almoſt re⯑duced [417]him to the condition of that object. He ſaw his beloved ſiſter ſtretched on the cold ground, and in a ſwoon. Fain would he have numbered that heart-piercing ſight alſo amongſt the viſions that ſeemed to hover around, but, alas, it was the real Caroline, and the groan which ſtruck the doubtful ears of Charles and Henry, was hers.

Impelled by her apprehenſions on the de⯑lay of the lieutenant, and auguring ill from his enterprize, ſhe had impulſively explored the winding paths of the cave, and ſhe reached a part near which her brother had taken his ſtation, even as the words— "murdered! Henry Fitzorton! my deareſt friend!" were burſting from his lips. She fell lifeleſs at the ſound—and when ſomewhat reſtored, finding herſelf ſupported by her brother, ſhe exclaimed, "what murdered! dead!"—her ſenſes ſtill wandering—"Your friend!—Henry Fitzorton! murdered him! it was then a warning voice—a warning ſhade I heard and ſaw in the chapel—O God! O God!"

[418]The dreadful image again weighed down, and cloſed every faculty, and again ſhe fainted in the lieutenant's arms. She was deaf to all his explanations. Meantime, Floreſco had ſummoned father Arthur, and his party to her aſſiſtance, and by them ſhe was conveyed, even as if the hand of death were on her, back to the abbey. In vain did the lieutenant aſſure her the words ſhe heard were only part of a ſentence, the ob⯑ject of which went to congratulate himſelf that he had eſcaped the dire murder which impended. She was beyond all ſenſe of hearing, and remained ſo for many hours. At length her ſtruggles terminated in ſleep; finding, when ſhe awoke, that ſhe was in her own chamber, with her kind attendants, to which were now added both the apothe⯑cary's daughters—ſitting round her bed, and the ſtill faithful, ſtill favoured little Fitz re⯑poſing on his carpet at her ſide, and the lieutenant anxiouſly waiting the moment to explain, the whole appeared to have really been the effect of her late diſtempered fancy in ſleep. "Yes, it muſt be a dream," ſaid [419]ſhe, "but the moſt terrible that ever fancy teemed with—has any thing happened my good friends?"

"No, deareſt Caroline," anſwered Charles, unwilling to hazard more until ſhe was more able to bear even happy tidings—"And is all well here, and elſewhere?" queſtioned ſhe. "All," replied the lieutenant, "our father mends faſt—we hope to ſee him down ſtairs ſoon." "Indeed!" ſaid Caroline, ſmiling, "and are none of our friends, or benefactors come to any thing grievous?" "None," ſaid the lieutenant—"What nobody mur⯑dered?" —"Heaven forbid!" anſwered the lieutenant, and juſt as he was going to unfold the cauſe of her fears, ſhe exclaimed, "Then certainly it was a dreadful dream, and I will try to think of it no more." Burton was of opinion that at preſent it would be beſt to let that idea continue; obſerving, that by the time it was chaſed away by a connected recollection of circumſtances, more happy effects would be derived from their de⯑velopement. This plan was, therefore, adopted, and the ſeveral confidants received [420]a charge from the lieutenant, not to hint the ſubject until, if ever that ſhould be the caſe, it was brought forward by himſelf; and even then," ſaid he, "father Arthur, or I had better relate it."

The connected recollections, however, ſoon came to the mind of Caroline, when, at her deſire ſhe was left to herſelf: every dreadful ſound was repeated to her ear, and ſmote her heart: "Yes," ſaid ſhe, "it is beyond diſpute Henry Fitzorton is murder⯑ed! —and, O heaven and earth! his boſom friend!—my brother! ſome dire miſchance! it could not be deſign! my brother has been the murderer—it was in that place of delu⯑ſion and darkneſs!—O, moſt terrible to thought! yet, alas, there remains not a hope! it could not be a dream, that, agonized by ſuſpenſe, I left my father's apartment— wandered forth into the ruins, and entered the cave of—death—of murder—murder— of the nobleſt, beſt of beings—and, alas, ere this, perchance, of thee poor widow, Olivia.—Raſh, dreadful deed! and the wound will be mortal alſo to him who gave it. [421]Will Charles put Henry to death, and ſur⯑vive the blow? impoſſible! let me not re⯑proach him—ah, rather let me try to ſoothe, to comfort, to reconcile him to life—to life! and can that be made ſupportable to the murderer of Henry Fitzorton?"

Theſe images gained ſtrength from reflec⯑tion, and from after-obſervations. She per⯑ceived the lieutenant aſſiduouſly waiting an opportunity to unfold himſelf; ſhe remarked that, on her obſerving him with unwonted ſcrutiny, he appeared to ſhrink from her in⯑ſpection, and yet that he laboured to com⯑municate. She found that he even began a kind of tale, and then broke it off ab⯑ruptly; and although this proceeded but from an obſervance of his own plan, preſettled betwixt him and Burton, ſhe referred it all to the one point moſt horrible; and there⯑upon, not doubting but that her brother was the victim of conſcious miſery, ſhe reſolved on her part, not to renew the ſubject in his preſence, but, if poſſible, to mourn it in ſe⯑cret. Accordingly, whenever a word or look from any of her attendants, or from the [422]lieutenant, eſcaped, that might tend thereto, ſhe indicated by an immediate change of diſ⯑courſe that it was unwelcome to her: and as it was hence ſuppoſed to be her wiſh there ſhould be no revival of the circumſtances, it was agreed upon by her friends never more to advert to them. But what farther eſtabliſhed Caroline in her full belief, was the never having ſeen any of the Fitzorton family ſince the ſuppoſed event. "Alas," ſaid ſhe to herſelf, "they are all deeply mourning the calamity, and ſhun, more aſſi⯑duouſly even than before, theſe ever ill-fated walls."

Her former diſtreſſes, acute and manifold as they were, the loſs of her father's love, the diſappointment of her own heart, even the untimely fate of her ever-honoured, and lamented mother, all ſeemed leſs heavy to her ſinking ſoul than the death of Henry Fitzorton.

Yet ſhe did not allow even this bitter aggreſſion to interrupt the duties which ſtill called her towards her father; the moment ſhe could riſe from the room to which her fatal [423]miſconception had confined her, ſhe paſſed her time, as uſual, in the chamber of Sir Guiſe. Her cares this way, at leaſt, were attended with a ſucceſs that carried a ray of conſolation to her heart, even in the zenith of its deſpair. Sir Guiſe daily gained ſtrength; a time was fixed for his leaving his chamber, and Burton pronounced that he might venture in mid-day to air himſelf, under the ſupport of his ſon and daughter.

Penetrated by this chearing information, Caroline exerted herſelf to the utmoſt, not to throw a cloud over this proſpect! Sir Guiſe had more than once aſked after the miniature of his injured wife, and Caroline took it from her boſom, and he preſſed it to his lips. She led him into her own apart⯑ment at his ſtrong urgence, and when his eye caught the family picture, he kneeled down to it and wept. He recognized in the furniture ſeveral of thoſe very objects which had rent his conſcious heart at Robert Ir⯑win's; the ſight of them now excited emo⯑tions leſs terrifying, but more ſalutary. His ſeelings were ſtill wounded by reflection, but [424]not harrowed by remorſe; yet he was con⯑veyed back to his apartment in a ſtate to move the pity of a foe.

Nevertheleſs the morning found him again refreſhed. In this ſituation of affairs, the lieutenant, who had received inſtructions from colonel Fitzorton to watch the firſt favourable opportunity, told Caroline, not without the difficulty, however, which the firſt ſuggeſtion of ſuch an idea to his ſiſter, in her circumſtances, would excite, that he had ſome thoughts of propoſing to Sir Guiſe a change of air. "Indeed," ſaid he, "I am of opinion, we ought all to quit the neighbourhood—and an occaſion offers, by means of a friend, for its being done almoſt immediately, and with the neceſſary caution —and that carriages have been ſome time in readineſs:"—"Carriages!" exclaimed Caro⯑line. "Yes," ſaid the lieutenant, "ſo many ſad events and ſtrange matters environ, and are hourly happening in this place, that, methinks, we cannot leave it too ſoon—and leave it for ever!" "Think of it, my ſiſter," ſaid he, and left her.

[425]If there had wanted a confirmation of the murder, this would have ſupplied it to the trembling Caroline. "He would fly from the ſpot where the blood was ſhed," thought ſhe! Her own blood froze in her boſom.— "But blood calls for blood," exclaimed ſhe. "Alas! perhaps, my brother's own life is in danger!" Rouſed by this thought, ſhe ran to the lieutenant, and eagerly, yet fearfully whiſpered, but without confeſſing her ſuſpi⯑cions, "that ſhe would be ready at any hour, but that if it ſhould be thought more ſafe for him to go firſt, ſhe would follow with her father the inſtant he was able, and a ſecure place ſhould be found. She ſpoke in great diſorder, and as the lieutenant was going to anſwer, came an immediate ſummons from Sir Guiſe, whom the meſſenger report⯑ed to be dying. Every power of Caroline's ſoul flew to this point: ſhe forgot that ſhe had another cauſe for grief in the world.

CHAPTER XLVII.

THE baronet was labouring under an internal malady, notwithſtanding all appear⯑ances, and though it had not, hitherto, ſtop⯑ped the great functions of life, had been undermining his conſtitution by a ſlow, but conſuming progreſs. After a whole day of compoſure, during which his pulſe, eye, and appetite gave, to general ſpectators, every hope of increaſing convaleſcence, he drop⯑ped into a lethargic kind of ſleep, in the midſt of which he rent the air with the moſt piercing ſhrieks, ſucceeded by long heavy groans that terminated in ſighs and tears.

The paroxyſms became more and more frequent, impairing at each return, every power of body and of mind. In truth, the conſcience of this unhappy man was arouſed beyond the power of being appeaſed by the uſual propitiations. It was the never-dying worm which ſenſibility of crime had, at length, lodged in his boſom—and in his [427]moments of reflection ſo penetrated and de⯑voured his heart, that he was, perhaps, in the only tolerable ſtate when every ray of intel⯑lect was quenched in delirium. In both theſe afflicting ſituations Caroline remained a mar⯑tyr to her vigilance, and want of exerciſe as well as of repoſe; ſhe ſeemed, indeed, fear⯑ful that the ſlighteſt movements might diſ⯑turb him. She doubled the carpeting—in⯑treated that her brother, the apothecary, and every attendant in their going up or down ſtairs, might ſtep as lightly as poſſible. With her own hand ſhe once more adminiſtered his medicines, and ſmoothed his pillow, and the leaſt creak of the door went jarring to her heart. In a word, every thing which a good and gentle nature could deviſe, did this affectionate daughter practiſe in her father's ſick chamber; though ſick herſelf almoſt unto death.

At Burton's particular requeſt and intreaty, a conſultation of two neighbouring phyſi⯑cians was held on Sir Guiſe, whoſe unuſual calm, and apparent tranquillity, had been [428]more dreaded by the apothecary than the former violences; the latter indicated, at leaſt, muſcular force, but the former de⯑noted exhauſted nature.

With very little variation he continued in this condition four days; in the progreſs of which he exhibited, at moments, ſuch une⯑quivocal marks of ſhame, contrition, and ſelf-abaſement, joining fervidly in the offices of which the pious Arthur made him par⯑taker, that thoſe whom moſt he had wronged would have felt their reſentments buried in their charity. Alas! thoſe whom he had moſt injured were, indeed, more immediate⯑ly under his eye, and moſt aſſiduouſly en⯑gaged in offering to comfort him;—for Charles Stuart, though leſs conſtant in his attendance than Caroline, was equally ear⯑neſt in trying every power to conciliate him to himſelf, to diminiſh his fear, and enlarge his hope.

But one outraged being there was who had not yet met his corporeal eye ſince the arrival of his ſon and daughter, though in mental viſion he [429]had nightly, almoſt hourly, beheld her, and while he bleſſed her name, he execrated his own—the intereſting, the good, the lovely and all-forgiving Jane Atwood, a ſincere pe⯑nitent like himſelf, had not yet been ſeen ſince his illneſs, though thrice that amiable girl, prompted by the trueſt goodneſs, had been conducted by True George to the ante⯑chamber, from whence, when occaſion fa⯑voured, ſhe entered the apartment, while the unhappy man repoſed; then, after gaz⯑ing until ſhe could endure, for pity's ſake, to look no longer, ſhe would ſteal away, leſt the ſight of her ſhould encreaſe his pangs; but ſtill remained in the ante-chamber, either until he again dropped to ſleep, or tidings of his health were brought by the lips of Caroline, or her couſins, or caught by her own liſtening ear. At length the hour of Sir Guiſe Stuart approached; but it had ad⯑vanced gradually, and as it came more near, it moved towards him with more tranquil ſteps. The forlorn ſtate, above deſcribed, had relaxed its horrors, and for ſome weeks, [430]reaſon once more viſited his mind, which, though the animal frame continued to waſte away, permitted the man, covered with con⯑ſcious crimes, to feel even in this world the bleſſed influence of penitence unfeigned. The deep-toned groans, and heavy elabora⯑tions of the breath, yielded benignly to the milder ſorrow of ſilent tears, or of ſighs, which rather relieved than aggravated his conſcious heart. The death of a ſinner was coming on, and in its progreſs furniſhed an important example to the wicked, of juſt diſtributions both of reward and puniſhment, in the preſent world. As the firſt months of his ſickneſs and confinement had paſt in the ſharpeſt pains of body and of mind, in the direſt retroſpects of the paſt, torments of the preſent, and tremendous apprehen⯑ſions of the future—in the returns of rationality, mitigated only by temporary diſtraction—in all the agonies of waking conſciouſneſs, or in the no leſs terrific viſions of haunted ſlumber; ſo when the miniſters of heavenly juſtice had fulfilled the [431]ſterner part of their commiſſion, and the heart of this modern Pharaoh was no longer hardened, but melted to the degree of duc⯑tility that is neceſſary to ſave the ſoul alive— then thoſe miniſters, like ſpirits of mercy, wore to his eye a leſs vindictive form, breathed into his ear leſs deſpairing ſounds, and on the wounds that yet lacerated his boſom, diſtilled ſome drops of celeſtial balm.

The knowledge of Jane Atwood having been already his viſitor, had been with-held from him only by the tender Caroline, who feared, from his extreme diſtreſs on the men⯑tion of her name though ſo frequently re⯑peated by himſelf, her preſence might prove too much for him to bear. At his reiterated and earneſt intreaty, however, as well to his ſon and daughter, as to Jonathan, Jerom, and to True George, the latter haſtened to the caſtle for his beloved. Jane Atwood ſoon made her appearance before Sir Guiſe Stuart, who had deſired to ſee her alone. —On her entrance he ſhook violently. [432]After gazing on her earneſtly for ſome time, his eyes cloſed in a ſhudder of his whole frame—amidſt the ſhock of which, out⯑ſtretching his arm, and pointing to heaven, he confuſedly uttered the words—"Injured being, forgive—forgive—and pray for me there!"

He remained in that poſition ſome mo⯑ments, when recovering viſion, and obſerv⯑ing Jane kneeling at his bed-ſide, complying with his requeſt by fervent prayers, in which ſhe was joined by all preſent, he ſignified by a movement of his lips, and placing his hand on his breaſt, a faint ſmile atteſting the action, that he was much com⯑forted.

He then deſired his children might be ſummoned: and being told they were both in the room, he turned his view to the other ſide of the bed, and there ſaw them engaged in the ſame interceſſion. Arthur and his Indian united their ſupplications. Alarmed by the tidings of George, Olivia, Johanna, and colonel Fitzorton had followed Jane, [433]they ſeated themſelves awhile in the ante⯑chamber, and then entered the apartment. Every eye and hand was upraiſed to the throne of the Merciful; Sir Guiſe, after many vain efforts to lift his hands to the ſup⯑pliant poſture in which he ſaw theirs, deſired Caroline and Charles to raiſe them; at length uſing all the force which parting life allowed, the dying man, amidſt almoſt whiſpered ſighs uttered the words—"Receive, O God, the ſoul of a penitent!"—and expired.

A ſilence of the moſt ſolemn kind, not⯑withſtanding the ſtrong and diſtinct intereſt in which the event was felt by almoſt every ſpectator, diſtinguiſhed this ſcene; even till Sir Guiſe had pronounced the ſentence that terminated his exiſtence: and then, as if by an unanimous feeling, that ſentence, expreſſive at once of the prayer of the dead, and the pardon of the living, was repeated by every one preſent.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

THE preſence of mind which Caroline diſplayed in the foregoing ſcene, exhibited alſo that rich trait in her character, which has emboldened us to believe ſhe may ſafely be propoſed as an example to her ſex, in what⯑ever trials they may be called upon to un⯑dergo in the exerciſe of filial virtue. But to the diſcharge of this laſt duty ſhe was ſummoned, in a moment of the utmoſt ſeve⯑rity; her boſom laboured with a ſenſe of the ſtrongeſt evils that could perhaps be inflicted on humanity,—loſs of the only being who had ever touched her heart, reflections on his ſuppoſed tremendous fate, the terrors ſhe felt for her brother's forfeited life, and the death of her father.—The expiring moments of ſir Guiſe, it is true, leſs touched the heart than thoſe of his blameleſs wife, yet, perhaps, the circumſtances of a wicked life terminating in a penitent death, has ſomething more awful in it to the ſoul, even than the departure of an innocent being. The ſeveral ſpectators [435]ſeemed to be ſenſible of this. The tutored Indian's earneſt prayers for himſelf, unmixed with thoſe which he offered up after the de⯑ceaſe of ſir Guiſe, were prayers that he might not be guilty of wicked deeds. True George found it neceſſary, with the aſſiſtance of Jerom and Jonathan, to convey Jane Atwood to the caſtle; and at length Arthur and the lieute⯑nant conducted Caroline in ſolemn ſilence to her apartment, where Burton and the phy⯑ſicians who had attended ſir Guiſe, requeſted ſhe might be left wholly to herſelf: a requeſt which, from obſervations they had made, was particularly enforced, and in which with all the ſtrength that reſted with her ſhe earneſtly joined; aſſuring, however, her brother as he left the room, but ſtill in a fearful whiſper, that the only wiſh ſhe now had in the world was, to ſee him out of danger. "Then ſhe ſtill labours with that cruel apprehenſion," ſaid Charles, following the apothecary and phyſician to the chamber door. "What apprehenſion?" queſtioned the phyſician. "Tell it below ſtairs," ſaid the phyſician, [436]drawing the lieutenant out, and gently cloſing the door.

Meantime reports were made at the caſtle of the laſt moments of ſir Guiſe Stuart, by True George, to the infinite confuſion of John Fitzorton, whoſe project to move away the abbey family, was now neceſſarily to ex⯑perience another perilous delay, if not to be wholly deſtroyed. He felt the indecency of hurrying away the children from the remains of their late father, while they were yet at the abbey. For ſome days paſt alſo, Mrs. Fitzorton had been indiſpoſed, Johanna and Jane Atwood were, of courſe, con⯑fined by their attendance at the caſtle, and now, again, the ſituation in which Jane her⯑ſelf was brought home, alike prevented either from the accuſtomed diviſion of their cares at the abbey.

All this delay, however, increaſed the alarm, and confirmed the heart-conſuming image that had haunted, and which now returned to the bleeding memory of Caroline; and her pious tears fell in mingled ſtreams, [437]for the death of her father, and the murder of Henry; and her equal prayers were offered up for the ſouls of both. "May the long repentance of one," exclaimed ſhe, "fit his altered ſpirit for the bleſſed ſociety of the other! and may it be forgotten in the friend⯑ſhip of heaven, there had been any cauſe for enmity on earth!"

But whatever be the ſtretch of our minds, our frames can endure but to a certain point; what that point is, can ſcarcely be known to ourſelves, till by many a trial ſuſtained beyond what it was imagined we could bear, we feel that neither mind nor body can ſupport more. The unfortunate Caroline had now gained that point, and ſhe fell into a ſtate at once bleſſed and afflictive from its inſenſibi⯑lity. The intervals of ſenſe were ſo tranſient, that no ſoothing idea could be received or ſafely communicated touching the great objects of her momentary thought. She rambled in wild abruptneſs from one point of calamity to another; connected and confuſed her ideas; ſeparated and mixed circumſtances, almoſt in the ſame inſtant! She combined the differ⯑ent [438]deſtinies of Henry and ſir Guiſe, then ſtretched out her arms to preſerve her bro⯑ther. She ſaw, in the troubled region of her fancy, all the forms of death, and beheld the viſionary coffins and graves of them all! But this forlorn ſituation yielded, and was ſuc⯑ceeded by a leſs troublous condition; and the ever active Burton applied with happy effect thoſe oblivious lenitives which alleviate nature in her extremity.

In the mean time the lieutenant, accompa⯑nied by his friends, paid the laſt offices to his unhappy father; the colonel aſſiſted, and Olivia, from whom the knowledge of Caro⯑line's illneſs could not be altogether con⯑cealed, and who underſtood ſhe was not able to aſſiſt at the funeral, could not be reſtrained from attending her at the abbey, while the ceremony was performing at the chapel houſe. Indeed, ſhe had long complained of the interdictions which the colonel had laid on her. She even thought them unkind, and it was almoſt in direct diſobedience to his counſels, which ſhe had uſually thought oracular, that ſhe perſiſted in her deſign to [439]make her ſuffering friend a viſit of condo⯑lence. "Shall I continue to abſent myſelf at ſuch a time as this?" ſhe argued! "If my proffered love for her had ever a motive to ſhew itſelf, it is now, my dear brother! and what has been my motive of forbearance, hour after hour, day after day? a ſlight indiſpoſition, in which I have ſuffered more from ſympathy reſtrained, than any other cauſe. Vain and unfeeling apology! and now too, when ſhe will ſtand more in need of the ſupports of friendſhip, than at any period perhaps of her life."

In truth, John had not a good plea left, which he could diſcover, and was there⯑fore condemned to add the viſit of Olivia to Caroline, to the other innumerable cares and perplexities of the time. No ſooner, therefore, had John, Jane Atwood, and True George, departed for the chapel, than Olivia and Johanna, conducted by a ſervant, repaired to the abbey. To prevent the tumult of public curioſity and clamour, as well as to conceal the tranſaction, as much as poſſible, from Caroline, the body of ſir Guiſe Stuart [440]was conveyed to the place of ſepulture, through the paſſage under ground. For, although every kind of rumour had gone forth, the one, from its inconſiſtence, deſtruc⯑tive of the other; and although in the abſence of Henry, or rather ſince his diſcovery of the myſteries, there no longer ſubſiſted any reaſon for the concealment of the tranſactions at the abbey, yet the lieutenant thought it beſt, for his ſiſter's ſake, to have every thing carried on in the moſt private manner. And thus Olivia and her friend Johanna avoided the ſight of the burial preparations, but encountered nevertheleſs an unuſual num⯑ber of the villagers, whom vague reports and half-explained whiſpers of the thickening myſteries of the haunted abbey, and the rumoured death of the pretended quaker, had diſtributed up and down the different walks, applying to one another with a fearful kind of eagerneſs for information.

Olivia however attributed all this to the ſin⯑gle event of ſir Guiſe's death, not ſuppoſing but that the myſtic aſſumption either of names or perſons had been removed, or at leaſt left [441]unguarded, for ſome time before the baro⯑net's death. The wandering, and indeed wondering groupes, therefore, were little noticed, and ſhe entered the abbey by the grand avenue.

They found Caroline aſleep;—according to the ſacred phraſe, ſhe was ſleeping from ſor⯑row: the daughters of the apothecary, and both the female ſervants, attended her. Olivia and Johanna placed themſelves on each ſide of the bed, and the attendants were juſt beginning a whiſpered account of their lady's alarming ſituation when ſhe ſtarted in her ſlumber and awoke. To break the ſur⯑priſe of their too ſudden appearance, Johanna and Olivia ſhaded themſelves a moment be⯑hind the curtains: but a little ruſtling occa⯑ſioned by this, induced Caroline to throw back the obſtructions, and ſhe diſcovered her viſi⯑tors. It would ſcarce have been poſſible to give any two perſons a more afflicting ap⯑pearance than theſe good and gentle beings now wore to the terrified eye of Caroline Stuart. From motives of genuine reſpect and good will, Olivia had put on a mourning dreſs the inſtant ſhe heard of the baronet's [442]deceaſe, and had worn it ever ſince; and from a motive yet more powerful—an attach⯑ment to the lieutenant's family—Johanna had, alſo, aſſumed the deepeſt ſables. The un⯑happy Caroline looked on this as ſo unequi⯑vocal a confirmation of Henry's being dead, that ſhe ſprung up in her bed, and claſping her hands, implored Olivia to forgive the deed. "What deed, my ſweet friend, oh! conſole yourſelf I beſeech you. Your Johanna and I are come to intreat, that when you find yourſelf able you would paſs a little time with us at the caſtle." "Ye are ſpirits of pity then," ſighed Caroline, "who are permitted to come in that ſolemn form to ſhew us mercy; but, alas! the caſtle!— "No!" whiſpered ſhe to Olivia, "that is not the place for us; the widowed dove had beſt come to the abbey; there ſhe ſhall find ſuccour; theſe poor arms ſhall be her re⯑fuge —fly—fly thou bereaved bird—haſte— haſte to thy neſt. Yes, yes,—now, now, thou art ſafe."

With wild yet tender eagerneſs ſhe clung to Mrs. Fitzorton as ſhe ſpoke, and folded her paſſionately yet fearfully in her arms, [443]"Yet, no," continued ſhe quitting, and abruptly receding from Olivia: "the abbey too is rifled, my poor, poor, father! he too is gone; nothing left here but ſorrow: but there is a place ſtill where we ſhall find both the truants, and all of us be happy—yonder, yonder, yonder."

She drew Mrs. Fitzorton again towards her with one hand, and with the other pointed to heaven. At once incongruous, and con⯑ſiſtent, ſhe proceeded in this manner for ſome time, then ſunk on the pillow. "Alas!" ſaid Olivia, "her ſenſes are unſettled, my Johanna; the loſs of her father, at ſuch a period, when ſhe might have hoped ſo much happineſs from his life reformed. "That, my lady," interpoſed the apothecary's daughter, Sally, who was ſtill with her, "is one cauſe of her preſent unhappineſs; but there is another: ſhe has taken into her imagination the ſtrangeſt fancy—" "Hark! Sally," exclaimed the other daughter, "did you not hear a great noiſe?"

Olivia and Johanna were trying to recover, or rather watching the recovery of Caroline, [444]who had fallen into a ſwoon, and they ſeemed to have no ear or eye for any other object. "No, Sally, I heard nothing," anſwered the other daughter. "There, again!" cried Sally.

"Yes, I heard it then." "Good God! what a ſhriek!" ſaid one of the female at⯑tendants. "Is there any body below?" queſtioned Johanna, then firſt hearing the noiſe.

"Only my fellow-ſervant, who is gone down to the old cook for candles: we ſhould have fetched them before but that the moon ſhone ſo bright, and my lady always bids us let ſome of the moon-light come into her chamber, eſpecially ſince ſhe has been ill; though I always think it is not good for any body, as the moon is but a melancholy com⯑panion unleſs a perſon is very happy; and then it's worth all the lights." "Huſh, I ſurely heard a foot-ſtep," ſaid Johanna. "O it is nothing but the dog, miſs, little old Fitz; ſee there is his ſhadow on the wall, he is coming round to his carpet." "All is ſtill now," ſaid the remaining attendant; "I will [445]venture to go down. But if one of the ſtrange ſights and ſounds ſhould be going about"—ſtepping back. "What can that be at one of the windows? this which is left open neareſt the bed," aſked Johanna with ſome emotion.

Every one but Olivia obſerved the object. It was palpably that of figure looking into the room, from the other ſide of the window —a human face was viſibly preſſing the glaſs —and after examining the objects in the chamber, for ſome time, part of another figure was ſeen at the farther end of the ſame window—the only one not ſhut to—and then every ray of light from the moon was in a moment extinguiſhed. "Heaven!" exclaimed Olivia, turning from Caroline, "What, my dear Johanna, can thus darken the room all of a ſudden? I can no longer ſee a feature of Caroline's face, and, me⯑thought, her colour was juſt returning." The whole company were too much terri⯑fied to reply.

"The ſervant is now coming with a can⯑dle," ſaid Johanna, "all will be well—do [446]not ſeem alarmed—we ſhall diſturb Caroline." The door of the ante-chamber was left half open, and a light, from the oppoſite ſide, gleamed from it; but the light did not advance, and the door being ſuddenly drawn to, almoſt ſhut out of the chamber the faint ſparks which had appeared. A whiſper⯑ing of different voices enſued—the voices ſtopped—the door of the ante-chamber again half opened, and a figure, folded up in a tattered dreſs, came gliding into the room, with a light that flung a ghaſtly hue on the countenance of the perſon who bore it, and on the ſurrounding objects, as from a candle burning in the ſocket. With ſtealing ſteps the figure paced round the chamber, examin⯑ing in its way every part of the furniture— then walked to the head of the bed, holding up the flaring light to every countenance— it then went back with like care, but with more precipitation; and had ſcarce regained the ante-chamber before the light went out. Olivia, with great ſtrength of mind, had enjoined the attendants to ſilence on the firſt appearance of alarm; obſerving, that the [447]life as well as the reaſon of Caroline depended on it; and partly from love—partly from fear —they had hitherto obeyed.

In the midſt of this total darkneſs, more diſtinct ſounds, and particularly what follows, aſſailed their ears:—"Now, now—or never. Our principal mark is in bed faſt aſleep."

This changed the terrors which had before been excited on the old notion of the abbey being haunted by evil ſpirits, into a no leſs dread of its being infeſted by robbers. The words which, after a ſhort pauſe ſucceeded, appeared to put this opinion beyond a doubt: "The window which was open is covered, and all are ſecured below—I tell you the reſt are gone to the chapel. We have brought round two of the horſes into the foreſt within a few ſteps of the lane that goes round to the road. We can wrap the woman in the blankets, and then the way is all clear before us. What a plague are you afraid of then? Here are the other gags. If you dally any longer, I will call up ſome of the others." A dreadful ſilence remained. In the next inſtant it was broken by a ſudden [448]uproar of confuſed ſounds from below, ac⯑companied by a cry of "Seize, ſeize the ruffians—ſecure them for juſtice—but ſhed no blood." A number of ſteps were then heard upon the ſtairs, and a murmur of voices was reſumed in the ante-chamber. Preſently ruſhed two perſons from thence into the bed-room, crying to each other "The window—the window—no way but the window—your curſed delay has ruined all."

Inſtantly the caſement was forced open, the cloth which had been ſpread over it torn away, and the moon-beams which thence fell on the chamber, diſcovered the ragged figure they had before ſeen, with his companion in like ſhabby habiliments, deſperately attempt⯑ing to throw themſelves out. One ſucceeded. Three other perſons coming into the room, one of them ran to the window, and telling the ſecond fugitive that death would be the con⯑ſequence of the leaſt noiſe, while in that apartment, he was conducted back into the ante-chamber. The other two who had en⯑tered, went towards the bed, on or near which [449]every one had remained, in almoſt breathleſs conſternation. "Fear nothing," whiſpered one of the perſons, in accents well calculated to inſpire courage, though there was now ſo violent a tumult of voices from below ſtairs, the ſoothing ſounds were ſcarcely audi⯑ble. The perſon, however, who had led off the ſecond culprit, now coming up ſoftly with a light, diſcovered, to the aſtoniſhment of every one preſent, the faces of Partington and Henry Fitzorton, in thoſe who had ad⯑vanced to the bed, and that of Floreſco in the bearer of the light. So ſuddenly, unex⯑pectedly, momentous, however, and under ſuch peculiar circumſtances, did theſe make their appearance, that it ſeemed but a con⯑tinuation of the former myſteries—a comple⯑tion, indeed, of the magic by the entrance of ſome benign Genii, on the departure of evil ſpirits. Every thing above ſtairs, and below, ſtill precluded explanation. Joy, ſorrow, hope, fear, characterized the mo⯑ment, and diſtinguiſhed it by all theſe blended paſſions, from every other in the lives of either of the parties then in the chamber. [450]Henry and his friends, guided ſurely by Pro⯑vidence, came, like guardian angels, to ſave the wife who was folding him in her arms— the mother of his children—the betrothed bride of his boſom friend—and Caroline Stuart!—from the horrid machinations of midnight ruffians—the noble-minded, yet humble orphan of a burning ſoil—one of the beings whom chriſtian maſters conſider as the beaſts of the field—as an article of ſlavery and of ſale, was appointed to become an active inſtrument in this preſervation by the power, who in a yet more glorious inſtance, even the redemption of the world, cloathed the redeemer with humility.

But to Caroline Stuart, how ſhall even this immediate interpoſition of heaven be extended?

Neither the tumultuous ſcenes from below, nor the fearful ſounds or ſights in her own apartment, had reached her ear or unfolded her eye; nor had ſhe, indeed, moved ſince ſhe fell into ſudden ſleep. "Alas! it is the ſleep of the grave," ſighed Olivia, to whom even her huſband was now, from the firſt mo⯑ment of her heart's election, the only ſecond [451]object of her attention. Every thought and every emotion went to Caroline. "O God! God! ſhe is dead—ſhe is dead!" ejaculated Henry: his accents at once frantic and im⯑paſſioned, although demanded by the occa⯑ſion, terrified all preſent. "Ah! no," ex⯑claimed Johanna, "bleſſed be God, not dead, I felt her breath, this inſtant, on my lips." "O heavens! I hear it too," ſaid Olivia, "huſh—huſh, my love—do as I have done. Henry—thus—ſoftly—and you may hear it too." Olivia guided the ear of Henry, till it preſſed on Caroline's lips, and after the ſilence of a moment, in which breath ſeemed to have forſaken the liſtening band, "No! no!" groaned Henry, "I hear it not; never ſhall thoſe lips be animated more!" "But an inſtant ago there was life on them," ſaid Johanna: "And ſo there is now—again—again I felt it on mine," cried Olivia. She importuned her huſband to be convinced, and aſſiſting him to place his face towards that of Caroline, in the manner ſhe had done her own, he ſenſibly felt the irre⯑gular, but palpable breathing of her he [452]mourned, on his cheek; and while he yet remained in that poſition, the breath gained a little acceſſion of ſtrength; and, before he changed his poſture, had acquired the force of a ſigh. "Yes, there can be no doubt of it, ſhe is alive!" cried Henry, enraptured; withdrawing from the bed and falling on his knees, in gratitude to heaven. Little Floreſco followed his example, repeating "Him is alive! him is alive! Negro boy was praying God to take hims own poor ſelf, and put him in grave, and bring back good ſpirit of good lady, to make all good peoples happy—but him is alive."

In the higheſt fervor of theſe extacies of our ſable ſon of nature, indeed on the firſt mention of life remaining in Caroline, Part⯑ington had hurried down ſtairs, but now re⯑turned with Burton, John Fitzorton, the lieu⯑tenant, father Arthur, and ſeveral others whom he met, in his headlong courſe for aſſiſ⯑tance, coming from the chapel.

A new ſcene of wonders now opened on the eyes of all the laſt comers, except Partington, who encountering his friends near the gates of [453]the caſtle, and ſurrounded by half the vil⯑lagers of both pariſhes, all in much diſorder, ſpoke only to the apothecary on the one, then moſt alarming, ſubject, Miſs Stuart's illneſs; ſo that to many of them, the colonel in particular, Partington himſelf, even before they reached the abbey, was an object of amazement; yet on that object which in a manner annihilated the reſt—on Caroline Stuart—every other ſurprize and every other care, while Olivia related the ſtory of the events ſince her arrival with Johanna, which ſhe detailed with afflictive accuracy, became ſubordinate.

The apothecary at the end of the narra⯑tive queſtioned his eldeſt daughter, whether ſhe had attended to his orders in giving the draughts regularly, both as to times and proportions? She aſſured him ſhe had ad⯑miniſtered them every two hours, not only before he went to the funeral, but for the whole of the preceding day; that none of them produced the compoſure either of mind or body her father had expected as their re⯑ſult;—for that his patient had not cloſed her [454]eyes till after every power of ſpeech and of motion was taken from her, by the vio⯑lent exertions of both, and that the laſt draught having been offered and accepted about a quarter of an hour before ſhe fell aſleep, ſhe had apprehended in her own mind, that it had proved too ſtrong for her weakened faculties; "but I dare not diſcloſe my fears to any one, my dear father," ſaid ſhe, "becauſe, I am ſure, let what will come of it, you meant it to do her good."

"No harm can come of it,—and in the end it will do her good, child," anſwered the apothecary, firmly.—"Its ſtrength has produced on her weakneſs, it is true, the alarming effects you have noticed, and in a degree far beyond my expectation, owing to the unſettled ſtate of her mind and ſenſes, and the ſight of perſons and things, which, in that ſtate, every object aggravates; the medicine was intended to act as anodyne, and I had judged a ſmall addition to its opiate quality proper to be infuſed on this day, leſt any account of, or reflection upon, the ſolemn duties aſſigned to this evening, [455]ſhould gain acceſs to her too feeling heart; ſhe is already in a reſuſcitating ſtate, though, perhaps, to you imperceptible:—but the giving her freer air, and, indeed, wholly withdrawing yourſelves, will be very pro⯑per."

Every body retired from the bed, and felt the force of the remark: yet no one ſeemed willing to be the firſt to quit the chamber. They, however, receded towards the door. The apothecary threw back the curtains, and opened one of the windows which had been cloſed. "I knew," ſaid he, "the force of the medicine was almoſt ſpent; and that the functions of nature were regaining their tone:—See—that faint tint⯑ing in the cheek, is a good ſymptom.—It might be called by Mr. Henry, the roſe-bud of promiſed return to wholeſome life:— look,—and that ſoft dew that you ſee on the temples, and which will preſently over⯑ſpread the beautiful forehead, ſhall nouriſh it."—"O! and thoſe ſweet eyes, which, praiſed be the almighty, are opening their gentle beams upon us," ſaid Mrs. Fitzor⯑ton, [456]"ſhall be as the bleſſed Sun to re⯑animate her heart and to chear ours!" Henry raiſed his wife's hand, even to his lips, but inſenſibly ſtepped nearer to the bed, that he might ſee what ſhe had de⯑ſcribed. Indeed, every perſon in the room, on the apothecary's firſt remark, had ad⯑vanced.

The progreſs of recovery from a partial trance, indeed, by means like theſe, is not ſlow: and the effect of a ſucceſsful anodyne is known frequently to produce not only unbroken repoſe in ſleep, but to beſtow on the haraſſed body and mind, even in the awaking moments, images and ideas, the very reverſe of thoſe irritable and pain⯑ful phantoms, which made the application neceſſary. Sounds and viſions of a lulling, and almoſt celeſtial kind, follow or accom⯑pany the firſt movements after the ſpell, that for a time locked up every mortal power, is unbound; and the charm acquires freſh beauty from our conſciouſneſs, when ſenſibility is in a degree reſtored. We ſeem as it were new born, and an inhabi⯑tant [457]of a more delightful world, with kind oblivions of whatever was unfortunate; and ſweet recollections of whatever has been happy in the paſt. Such appeared to have been the temporary trance, and the ſenſations which ſucceeded it in the mind of Caroline. She ſaw before her eye the forms of all who were moſt dear to her on earth: but they floated as yet before her intellectual viſion as heavenly ſhapes, as ſpirits bleſſed. She ſaw Henry and Olivia ſide by ſide, and ſmiled tenderly upon both. She gazed ear⯑neſtly at the former, bent forwards as if to gain a juſter point of view, paſſed the back of her hand over her own eyes, as if doubtful of their ſight: and then, but with timid advances, extended her arm towards Henry, and, at length, touching his ſhoulder, ſhe drew back as if aſtoniſhed to find him embodied; trembling a moment, ſhe again put forth her arm, and reaching the hand of Henry, gave it to Olivia. "There, deareſt brother," ſaid ſhe, with a faint but ſatisfied tone, "thank heaven!"—

[458]Such of the company as knew not the circumſtance of her fatal miſconception of the lieutenant's words, in which number were Olivia and Henry, looked upon this as the remains of her delirium; and thoſe who were in the ſecret of its import, did not judge the preſent by any means the proper moment to unfold particulars. John and Burton having conferred a moment, the latter renewed his requeſt that the ſociety would ſeparate. "I will agree to this," ſaid Olivia, "if I can obtain dear Caro⯑line's promiſe."—"No promiſes, ſiſter," cried the colonel, "can be aſked or granted at preſent! two importunate meſſages have already been brought up by the impatient Partington, who had again occaſion to leave us for another party." John now aſſiſted the apothecary and the lieutenant, gently to enforce obedience: and though as Caroline's fuller ſenſe returned, and objects and cir⯑cumſtances aſſumed more and more their real ſize and poſition, ſhe was nearer rationality, and in her peculiar caſe, alas! farther from felicity—the dire paroxyſms [459]were at an end, and expanding her wide⯑ſpread arms in token of unſpeakable grati⯑tude for the maſs of heart-felt attentions beſtowed on her, ſhe ſaw all her friends, except the apothecary and his daughters, quit the room without ſeeming to preſs at that moment their longer ſtay. Her eyes, however, inſenſibly ſettled on Henry and Olivia till they could be no more ſeen. But ſcarcely were this amiable pair out of ſight, even while the apothecary had required an audience with his daughters in the ante-chamber, than the female attendant who remained with Caroline, perhaps with imprudent, though well-meant zeal, took occaſion to inform her, in a looſe and deſultory way, of the peril they had all been in, even of their lives; and that in Henry Fitzorton, Caroline and all her friends had found a deliverer. To this officious information Caroline made no anſwer in words, but ſhe looked the lan⯑guage which no words have ever yet con⯑veyed to the ears of mortal man, in the utmoſt felicity of eloquence.

[460]It is from a conſciouſneſs of the inade⯑quacy of words, indeed, to deſcribe emotions of a particular kind, that we have forborn to attempt delineating the feelings of Henry in the above ſcene: ſhould there be any readers, we aſſure ourſelves there can be very few, who imagine that thoſe feelings were de⯑rogatory to the character of a huſband, a father, or a friend, even in that hour of trial, will neither do him juſtice, nor reflect honour on their own hearts.

CHAPTER XLIX.

BUT ſurpriſes of a very different nature have been waiting our leiſure below ſtairs: and which muſt needs have excited ſome degree of curioſity in the reader's mind, now it can be drawn from more intereſting objects. The woods of Fitzorton, and the abbey foreſt, had been, time immemorial, the ſum⯑mer reſort of a tribe of the Egyptian wan⯑derers; and although Sir Armine did not ab⯑ſolutely encourage thoſe who attached them⯑ſelves to the environs of the caſtle, he ſuf⯑fered [461]them to erect their local habitations in the neighbourhood of his manſion; would in⯑directly contribute a faggot to their fire, and a joint of meat to their pot, to repreſs, and, if poſſible, reform their pilfering habits: Olivia and Henry were more avowedly their patrons—the one would not ſeldom make up a little bundle of comfortables for their hedge-born children, and ſometimes allow them to inſpect her lovely hands to read the lines of life; while the former would alſo, in his early days, conſult them on the ſubject of his more difficult deſtiny, and amongſt other romantic plans had once ſerious thoughts of joining the train as well to favour his love, as to eſcape that interruption to which his rambles around the abbey domain ſo often expoſed him. But True George was the chief protector of the ſable band which eſta⯑bliſhed themſelves in the Fitzorton diſtrict; for there were two parties, the one calling them⯑ſelves the caſtle, and the other the abbey gyp⯑ſies: and what is not a little curious, they were as much in hoſtility with one another as the two houſes to which they conſidered them⯑ſelves [462]as appropriate. Had Henry put his project of the moment in execution, he would have certainly attached himſelf to the tribe of the abbey, not only from its proxi⯑mity to the ſacred chamber of the inalienable ſubduer of his heart, but becauſe the hoſtile parties in all their treaties of peace, or ſuſ⯑penſions of arms, preſcribed a line of demar⯑cation which the caſtle gypſies could not paſs without an immediate renewal of war; yet Henry had been always on good terms with both parties, and ſo of courſe had True George. The ſervants of both houſes would alternately reſort to the different tribes to have their fortunes told; although they ſeemed in general to give their own oracles the pre⯑ference. Since Sir Armine's death, however, the caſtle prophets, though patronized for a time by Olivia, were routed by John Fitz⯑orton, and even Henry yielded to his motive. "Depend upon it, my dear brother," ſaid he, "ſome of theſe days theſe yellow pro⯑tegees of yours will be divulging more than is agreeable: and although we affect incredulity, when an idea which ſelf-love, or a faithful [463]heart declares impoſſible, is poured into our ears, it is the corner ſtone ſometimes of a fatal edifice, which jealouſy can find materials to complete even to the deſtruction of the peace of innocence—I am determined to rid the country of them, at leaſt our party, and have no objection to being called cruel on the buſineſs." When Henry and Olivia were abroad, John kept his word in the very next ſummer, but paſſed them over to Partington, and not without a douceur to reconcile them to the change: and they ſoon thought them⯑ſelves gainers by the transfer, for the merry humours of the ſquire were much reliſhed: his civility to the worthleſs, and his abuſe of the worthy was ſoon underſtood, and his bounty being ever proportioned to deſert in every ſtation of life, he bowed and abuſed them into ſomething like principles, at leaſt rendered them a leſs criminal race of people, and many of them were not only penſioners on his poor-raſcal-warehouſe, but he would ſometimes buy up the half-worn dreſſes of his poor, but good neighbours during the winter, or exchange them for new articles of [464]the ſame kind, on purpoſe to lay in a ſtock for his gypſey vagabonds againſt their ſum⯑mer return to the Bury woodlands, by the ſides or in which, he had erected an occa⯑ſional hut to mark any diſcovery he had made of a worthy trait of heart or character in any of theſe wanderers; the nature of the action was written over the door of the building, and a key preſented to the party for whoſe uſe it was intended, by way of en⯑couragement. It muſt at the ſame time be confeſſed, that to ſtand as a monument of any detected baſeneſs, he would order his carpenter to run up here and there a gallows, neareſt to the place where the foul deed was com⯑mitted, and if the offending party had the hardineſs to return, or was allowed another trial, a rope was thruſt into her or his hand, with a label worked into the nooſe, holding out the threatning word—Beware!

With theſe Henry Fitzorton, on his ſecond forced march to Partington's, renewed his acquaintance. They had juſt then reſumed their leaſy retreats for the ſeaſon. On the evening of his arrival at the Bury, the leader [465]of them, with impatient earneſtneſs, ſolicited the honour of an audience: this being granted, Henry went up into what was always called by the maſter of the manſion, poet's dormitory;—ſacred to the lawyer and philo⯑ſopher of the Fitzorton family there were other apartments—when the ſubſequent con⯑verſation paſt betwixt Henry and the perſon who followed him up ſtairs.

"I am now one of the fathers and chiefs of the tribe, an pleaſe your honour, who for ſo many years enjoyed the protection of good Sir Armine, and his family: I lived in, and beſide Fitzorton woods and hedge-rows the beſt part of my long life, and have been the better for it ever ſince: your honour, and madam Olivia, and ſquire Clare, all uſed to pay me and mine a viſit, and I love Sir John that now is,—though he ſent us away from our old houſehold trees, as his good father uſed to call them."

"I remember you, my honeſt fellow," ſaid Henry—"I remember you came from the abbey-party to our's, becauſe"—

"Becauſe," interrupted the gypſey, "I [466]could not bear to be ſheltered by the leaves, or fed by the ſtolen offals of Sir Guiſe Stuart, after the good father Arthur had put us in the right way—and after I ſaw and heard what the wicked baronet was doing againſt his lady and children. And our patron, the ſquire, of late years can hardly find words bad enough to throw at me when he is loading me with good things."

"And what have you at the end of this preface to impart?" aſked Henry.

"I have to beſeech your honour to read what is contained in theſe papers immediately," anſwered the gypſey, "and to take ſuch ſteps as you may judge proper thereupon; I was juſt going to ſend to our ſquire for a paſs to Fitzorton caſtle, to deliver them to you or Sir John, when I heard you were come back to the Bury. Here they are, ſir. I have nothing to ſay more, but to deſire you will beware of gypſies, but not to think ill of Blondel Gapper, your humble ſervant, though he is one of them."

Gapper, of whoſe fidelity True George had often made fair report, and of whoſe [467]kindneſs Henry himſelf had received teſti⯑mony, now took his leave, and Henry ſat down to the peruſal of the myſterious papers. They were of a nature to call out his utmoſt aſtoniſhment and apprehenſion. He judged it expedient to make Partington a partaker of the confidence, but it was with very great difficulty he could be prevented from return⯑ing home before the ſquire had diſcovered the cauſe of his impatience: the inſtant, however, it was diſcovered, he concurred not only in thinking the impatience warrant⯑ed, but contributed all his own impetuous powers could ſupply to give it new force. "We muſt be off again directly," ſaid Par⯑tington to Mrs. Herbert—"I muſt leave theſe young villains"—meaning Carry and little John, "in your care, Mrs. Worthleſs, until we come to you again, or ſend for you to Fitzorton."

Vehement as were the agitations of Henry, they were leſs violent than thoſe of Parting⯑ton on this occaſion: though both were ſo buſied, hand, foot, and voice—now in the manſion, now in the ſtable, now in the [468]out-houſes, driving every ſervant before them, and aſſiſting to collect every weapon of attack and defence upon the premiſes, from the fire-arms in the life-and-death-room, as the ſquire had baptiſed it, to the ſpades and mattocks in the garden-houſe, and crouding them all in Henry's own coach, which ſtill remained, and into all the carriages of the Bury, that a ſpectator not in their ſecret would either have deemed them both ſeized with ſudden madneſs, or that they were arming to defend an invaded country. Even the ſervants, albeit in the practice of flying at the word of command, and inured to extraordinary expeditions, had never ſeen their ſquire in ſuch a fury of preparation be⯑fore. One of them was diſpatched to the gypſey chief, to attend at the Bury that moment with the witneſs he mentioned; and when they appeared to the ſummons, Par⯑tington abuſed them as if they were two of the plagues of Egypt, kiſſed their diſcolour⯑ed hands with more devotion than he would have done thoſe of Cleopatra, the queen of [469]their country, and gave Blondel the com⯑mand of one of the armed chariots, ordered him to ſhut up the perſon who was one of his tribe in the ſame vehicle, and then fol⯑low the lead. Mrs. Herbert alone was made, in part, confidential; and her conduct thereupon ſo gratified the ſquire, that he regretted the young knaves, Henry's chil⯑dren, muſt have a ſhe-thing to ſuperintend them, ms;ince he was ſure, from the manner in which that huſſey, mother Herbert, had put a blunderbuſs, and one of the broad-ſwords into the carriage, ſhe would ſlice off an ho⯑neſt gentleman's head as neatly as any of thoſe old tygreſſes, Boadicea, Zenobia, or Joan of Arc.

In this manner did they return to Fitz⯑orton, taking up the turnpike-man by the way. They found the caſtle almoſt emptied of its inhabitants. One of the few ſervants, however, who remained at home, told them the family were gone to the burial of Sir Guiſe Stuart; they therefore continued their route directly to the abbey, for whoſe late poſſeſſor the chapel bell ſtruck on [470]their ear as they were paſſing, but their eyes were yet more ſorcibly impreſſed by a ſight of thoſe villagers whom Olivia and Johanna had ſeen ſcattered about, but who had diſperſed until recalled in greater mul⯑titudes by the few who dared to penetrate ſo far as the chapel, into which they pro⯑teſted they had ſeen enter a coffin, which ſeveral preſent had aſſured them, contained the dead body of Sir Guiſe Stuart, and that they moreover beheld his ſon, the lieutenant, and Sir John Fitzorton, True George, and many others whom they knew, walking, all alive, as mourners behind, and good father Arthur, the popiſh prieſt, before it, with a book in one hand, and a light in the other.

This relation, which was regarded as at the top of all the miraculous things that had over-ſhadowed the abbey, the foreſt, and the whole pariſh, re-aſſembled them; until encouraged by each other, they reſolved to ſee whether the whole was viſionary or real: for although the majority determined in fa⯑vour of the popular ſuperſtition, the credit [471]given to ſome of thoſe who made their re⯑ports from the chapel-houſe, amongſt whom was the landlord of the Fitzorton arms, who received his intelligence from the young ſexton, no inconſiderable number were of opinion they had all along been deluded by their fears, as to the objects they had them⯑ſelves ſeen, or thought they ſaw. A large body of the ruſtics, therefore, were ſpirited up by the power of numbers, though one amongſt them, with ſome tremor, remarked, that a ſingle ghoſt would put to the route a whole army, though it were but the ghoſt of a ſucking child; and they took courage to move even to the abbey door, which they reached in the very moment that a violent ſhriek, which was followed by cries of mur⯑der, were heard by the party within. The blood of thoſe who were gathered together without, curdled at the ſound: yet terrifying as it was, the ſhriek was too palpably hu⯑man, and female, for any that wore the forms of men to fly from: their apprehen⯑ſions for themſelves were abſorbed in that great principle of nature, which at once diſ⯑tinguiſhes [472]and protects humanity: inſtead of receding they puſhed onward, and finding the inner doors faſtened, they were in the act of burſting them open, when Partington and his cavalcade, with Henry Fitzorton, arrived.

"Aſſiſt, aſſiſt us, my friends!" exclaimed Henry, with a voice almoſt of madneſs,— "Aſſiſt us in the prevention of dreadful horrors—of inhuman murders! now, even now, committing within that houſe!" In a moment the furious attack was made by the multitude, led on by Henry and Partington, and the abbey was filled with the defenders of innocence! A gang of infamous ruffians were thus, in an inſtant, detected and ſecured. It was, at once, the criſis both of danger and of delivery. To reach that criſis, had been the wily labour of conſpiring villany for many months; but to render the con⯑ſpiracy abortive, and involve the conſpira⯑tors, even in their own ſnare, was the at⯑chievement only of a few minutes. Such is the toil by which human machinations are conducted, and ſuch the facility with which [473]the hand of Providence reveals and over⯑throws them.

As Henry led his wife and Johanna down ſtairs, Partington was diſcovered at the head of his myrmidons, ſtanding over their bound captives; but the conquerors were ſo numer⯑ous, that nothing could be ſeen but them⯑ſelves. At the ſight, however, of the reſcued Olivia, and her friends, the victors ſent forth an univerſal ſhout of triumph. This gave John an opportunity to thank them for their zeal, but to obſerve, at the ſame time, that much of its good effect would be counter⯑acted if they ſuffered even their exultation at preſent to diſturb Miſs Caroline Stuart, whom they had helped to defend, intimating, that ſhe was under many alarms already, and not in a ſtate to hear them accounted for. The very name of Caroline Stuart, combined with ill health, but yet ſoothing them into the certainty of her being alive and once more at the abbey—that Caroline, whom they had ſo often found a mediator, and a friend, to the utmoſt extent of her humble power— [474]ſilenced them like the operation of ſome ſudden charm, and they uttered their honeſt wiſhes and thankſgivings only in whiſpers. Henry had, in the meanwhile, on a hint from the colonel, placed Olivia and Johanna in his own coach, which had ſo recently arrived from the Bury, obſerving to his wife, that Partington and John would take care of the banditti whom they had happily diſcovered, and "it is no time for you, my love," ſaid he, ordering the coachman to drive home,— "to hear the particulars of a neſt of ruf⯑fians." —"Nor do I wiſh it," anſwered ſhe; "a thouſand thanks for hurrying us away from their ſight," anſwered Olivia; "no doubt, my Henry, but they will turn out very wicked people, ſince they ſeemed to watch a time when they might ſecurely ter⯑rify, and, perhaps, plunder a ſet of defence⯑leſs women; and when they knew their de⯑fenders were, in general, engaged in the moſt holy offices. But, O! how providen⯑tial your return, my deareſt Henry! What an interpoſition!" "How was it brought [475]about?" requeſted Johanna. "And where is my Mrs. Herbert?" "and our children?" demanded Olivia.

Henry, whom a forced marriage—in ſpite of the value of the object—an enthralled ſituation before, had involved in eternal reſer⯑vations, managements, and difficulties, was puzzling and hacking at a reply, when Olivia, miſconceiving the cauſe of his heſitation, exclaimed—"Good heaven! ſurely the alarm did not extend to Mr. Partington's! I hope all is quiet and well at the Bury."— "Perhaps the dear children and Mrs. Herbert were your fellow-travellers?" ſaid Johanna. "Perhaps they were ſet down at the caſtle?"

Henry now found it became neceſſary to ſay ſomething; and yet finding it both im⯑politic and improper to ſpeak to the whole of the machinations which were the ſubject of the dreadful papers delivered to him by the gypſey chief, he affectionately ſoothed the fears of his wife, by an aſſurance that both their children were well and happy—that Partington had deputed Mrs. Herbert and [476]little Caroline to be his houſekeepers, and little John the repreſentative of the ſquire himſelf, till he ſhould return to the Bury; and that in ſhort, having very ſuddenly re⯑ceived intelligence of a foul conſpiracy formed by a party of gypſeys, who had an⯑noyed the neighbourhood of the caſtle and of the abbey for ſome time, and were carry⯑ing their cepredations to the moſt daring lengths as ſhe muſt have heard; it appeared neceſſary to Partington, as well as to himſelf, to ſet out with the utmoſt expedition to prevent, if poſſible, the complete miſchief.

After numberleſs thanks for her huſ⯑band's goodneſs, and many apologies for her own impatience;—"I know not how it is," ſaid Mrs. Fitzorton to Jo⯑hanna; —"but I find it impoſſible to be happy, or even as contented as I ought, when my huſband or either of my children are abſent; and, I fear, I am unreaſonable enough to wiſh, that whether they were in proſperity or in perils I might always have them in my view, or eaſily within my reach, even till death ſhould ſhut them from my [477]mental ſight." She almoſt whiſpered this to Johanna, but Henry heard—"And hence⯑forward," ſaid he, forcibly, "that wiſh ſhall be gratified! I here pledge myſelf be⯑fore this fair witneſs, that when our children return to us, nothing but that dreadful ſum⯑mons —which heaven keep many ſmiling years from my Olivia!—ſhall again divide us from the ſociety of each other; nor will I henceforth accept a viſit, or take an ex⯑curſion of any kind, from which Olivia ſhall be excluded."—"Could I have believed," anſwered Olivia, "that one of the moſt terri⯑fying nights, and which threatened to be even fatal, ſhould prove one of the moſt bleſſed of my happy life!"

Her full heart could not utter more: the reſt was the expreſſive ſilence of felicity.

Nor had Henry in his expreſſion gone farther than the truth. He now wiſhed be⯑yond every other good to continue the awe⯑ful duties of huſband and of father; and that thoſe might be unbroken, he thought that her guardian eye, and protecting preſence, would even counteract whatever future events [478]might happen. Hence he embraced Olivia's idea of a family union, which might keep them all together, even on the night that he had ſeen the only object in the whole world which could render the plan difficult to be realized—an object which he had ſeen in a ſituation every way more affecting than at any former period of a long and eventful in⯑tercourſe. That ſituation had, however, loſt none of its intereſt, but he concealed the emotions which he could not conquer: he even ſtruggled with them enough to amuſe Olivia and Johanna the reſt of their way to the caſtle, with an account of Partington's loading every thing and every body with fire and ſword for the expedition.

Perhaps, under the veil of night ſome tears were ſhed, and the roll of the coach might ſink the ſound of ſome heart-ſick ſighs, which mixed with, or followed the narration: but, ſurely, it is not conſiſtent with the juſtice or the compaſſion either of earth or of heaven to rebuke him for theſe.

CHAPTER L.

JOHN Fitzorton, Partington, father Arthur, the lieutenant, True George, and Floreſco, were all this while buſily employed in the abbey. The firſt, in his magſtratical capacity, exhorted the ſtill cluſtering but now only murmuring multitude, to aſſiſt in con⯑veying the culprits, whom Partington had cauſed to be manacled hand and foot, to ſome place at a greater diſtance from the apartments of the ſick Caroline. True George ſeconded this motion; but, as an amend⯑ment, propoſed they ſhould be carried to a ſnug place he knew of in the out-buildings, which Denniſon had formerly told him was the abbey dungeon.—"I know it well," ſaid Arthur. "It will only be neceſſary," re⯑joined John, "to put them there for the night, as other meaſures muſt be taken with them in the morning: away with them therefore."

[480]The word of command found ſuch ready obedience, that had the captives been pigs of lead, they would have been moved off like ſo many pounds of feathers. Indeed, Partington himſelf, his own friends, and the Bury gypſey, ſeemed to feel the force, and do the work of angry elephants. The cri⯑minals were lifted over the impediments which ruinous time had thrown in their way, the maſſy ſtones, fallen ſtatues, and half-perfect towers—until they reached the ſpot recommended by True George, who bore one of the ringleaders on his ſhoulders. It was, indeed, a place of dreadful ſecurity, and fit only for criminals of the moſt heinous kind. It ſtood in the extreme angle of that part of the uninhabited buildings, near which the unfortunate Sir Guiſe took refuge from the preſumed violence of his ſon: no door covered the abhorrent mouth that gaped for the reception of its prey: it was ſcooped in the form of a well, into which there was no way of aſcent or deſcent but by means of a ladder, which not even a climbing animal could hope to aſcend, ſo abſolute was the [481]perpendicular, and had little hold for the feet—So had it been repreſented by True George, who had, however, the curioſity and enterprize to explore it with a candle and lantern when a boy. The lieutenant, never⯑theleſs, ſaid, and in which he was joined by both Jerom, and Jonathan, he had ſeen on one of the nights of his own watch, the figure of a man come out of that place, and had even purſued him; but another perſon com⯑ing up from the cave, cloſe upon him, ex⯑tinguiſhed the light, and effected an eſcape." "I am glad of it," ſaid Partington, "as the gentry know this way the better if they have been there before; ſo what ſay you to our throwing the worthy perſonages in juſt as they are—they are exactly truſſed for the occaſion—and you ſee there is no ladder now at hand?"

The mob were delighted with this pro⯑poſal, and would have aſſiſted its execution, without conſideration of conſequences, had not John Fitzorton and Arthur repreſented the danger, and the impropriety of ſuch a proceeding; Partington, however, had taken [482]out the gag from the mouth of the perſon he himſelf was helping to carry, "to know whe⯑ther he wiſhed to be complimented with the firſt toſs?" making his uſual bow as he aſked the queſtion. The anſwer, however, to which was, "that he had rather be thrown into hell-fire than go again into that place." "Again! what you have been in it before, have you then?" ſaid Partington.

It is impoſſible to expreſs the mute horror that ſat, indeed, on the countenances of moſt of the other culprits as they approached the abyſs. "O, any where but there, under or above ground—you know not its terrors," ſaid the wretch, whoſe tongue was untied. "Nay, then, there are good reaſons which we are ſtill unacquainted with," ſaid Partington, "why this, of all others, ſhould be the place: in—in—in—with them, my friends." At this inſtant Jonathan and Jerom came running with a ladder which they had gone unbidden to fetch, and in deſpite of ſtruggles, ſuppli⯑cations, &c. &c. the overpowering multi⯑tude were forced down; True George aſſerted on his own knowledge, there was [483]but the way they went in to get out, and that he propoſed to guard, ſword in hand, until the morning. "And ickle Florrey ſhall guard too, and the firſt bad mens ſhall die that tries to come up till good mens give leave." This propoſal was accepted: the whole gang, therefore, were compelled to deſcend one by one, or receive the ſtroke, which Partington ſwore ſhould ſever their amiable heads from their ſhoulders the mo⯑ment they refuſed. Yet, after all, the matter was effected by every violent meaſure but the one threatened. Several of the village mob were earneſt for leave to keep Floreſco and True George company, eſpecially the turnpike-man, but on the colonel making it a particular requeſt, they would return home for the ſake of Mrs. Fitzorton and miſs Stuart, and not intermeddle with the affair until he had made farther enquiry, and he had entered into a private examination of the priſoners—they reſpectfully complied with his wiſhes. Soon after, the lieutenant with Burton and Arthur went back to the abbey, while John, Partington, the turnpike-man, [484]the gypſey chief and his aſſociate repaired to the caſtle. But early next morning ſuch ad⯑ditional diſcoveries were made, and of ſo complicated a nature, that John Fitzorton found it expedient to conſult higher judicial powers than his own. All farther conceal⯑ments were, therefore, of neceſſity, given up, and the whole gang of conſpirators were fully committed to take their trial at the en⯑ſuing aſſizes. Accordingly they were moved under a proper guard to the county jail, and no other charge given to the friends of the abbey, and the caſtle, than to forbear ſpeak⯑ing on the buſineſs in the hearing, either of Olivia or Caroline.

CHAPTER LI.

MEANTIME, the recovery of miſs Stu⯑art went favourably on, and by gentle acceſ⯑ſions of bodily and mental ſtrength ſhe came to a reſolution of no longer ſuffering herſelf to puzzle betwixt viſionary and exiſting ob⯑jects.

[485]Indiſtinct and impreſſive forms—thoſe to which ſhe had awaked, ſtill moved before her mind's eye, and ſhe at length demanded of her brother an unequivocal anſwer to a few ſhort and ſimple queſtions. "My deareſt Charles, you are not now to learn that my nature always ſuffers more from conjecture of evil than from the evil itſelf; or, rather, conjecture is the greateſt evil I can feel. I per⯑ceive, and I am ſure with the kindeſt motive, you have all hid from me the one thing need⯑ful for me to be informed of, yet I have not brought forward the enquiry myſelf till I felt, as now I do, the power of ſupporting its re⯑ſult, be it what it may. Tell me then, without more reſerve, whether by any tre⯑mendous hazard, you have or have not loſt your friend? is the noble Olivia a mourning widow—or a happy wife?"

"The latter, Oh! bleſſed be God! the latter," anſwered Charles. He then entered into the explanations he had ſo long and ar⯑dently deſired, and which had been ſo per⯑petually in check. Caroline fervently paid her acknowledgments to heaven, and chang⯑ed [486]the ſubject; but the moment of receiving this ſoul-relieving intelligence, was, likewiſe, the moment of deciding on the line of con⯑duct ſhe ſhould purſue. Her doubts were diſpelled as to the only point ſhe would allow herſelf to aſk. The horrible idea of Henry Fitzorton's death, and by the hand of Charles Stuart, was removed. He lived!—his wife was happy!—without farther inveſtigation as to the ſtate of his affections—whether he ſtill loved, or had forgot Caroline;—what were his looks, or what his words—how great his firmneſs—or how little his fortitude—ſhe knew there was but one courſe for her to take. The ſickneſs of a father, had ſum⯑moned her to the place ſhe had long avoid⯑ed; —his death terminated every duty which attached to that ſpot. Henry was married— Olivia had beſtowed her pity, love, and bounty on her parent, on her brother, and on herſelf. Following, therefore, the ſacred impulſe of an unaffectedly pure and juſt mind, which, when again reſtored to itſelf, combined paſt and preſent circumſtances— without proudly or raſhly ſtraining itſelf to [487]ſee what in heroic conflict it might be ſcrewed to—an experiment which it is, at all times, rather vanity than virtue to attempt— without too much confidence, or too much ſuſpicion of others, or of herſelf, ſhe mo⯑deſtly reſolved upon taking the paths which might lead her out of temptation—the paths which to gain, and to keep, forms the daily prayer of—alas! daily-erring mortals.

Caroline had not a doubt but to her that peace would be more ſurely found in the track that led to the ſoft receſs from which ſhe had ſo lately been called; and in a con⯑ference ſhe held with the holy Arthur, the day following that ſhe had with her brother; ſhe explained to him her intentions. She explained them in the ſacred moment of her religious confeſſion; a duty ſhe had poſt⯑poned, till the faculties of her mind were ſo far recovered, as to perceive, clearly, every object of offence and of rectitude. The monk entered her chamber, and found her in preparation to receive him. In the heart of Caroline Stuart, religion [488]wore none of her trappings; pure and holy, and ſimple, it there reſided as in its proper ſhrine. The tinkling bell—the illumined taper—the ſolemn pealing of the organ—the myſtic murmurs of the prieſthood —and the breath of the frankincenſe, had there no ſanctuary. She rejected not the public ceremonies of her faith, but the per⯑fumes of her incenſe aſcended from an unſul⯑lied heart. That heart required the ſolace and the aſſiſtance of one whom ſhe knew to be a ſincere miniſter of God; and aided by him, her ſpirit thirſted to commune with God himſelf. Yet to the one what had ſhe to confeſs, that might not be humbly offered to the other? Before HIM then, who is the prime ſource of every other power, ſhe poured forth her ſoul in acknowledgment—for the bleſſings which, ſhe felt aſſured, would crown the death of her father—for the pre⯑ſervation of her benefactor's life—for the recovery of his happineſs, ſhould it be yet incomplete—for the long and unclouded days of Olivia, and of her children—and [489]laſtly, for heavenly aid in the future govern⯑ment of her own heart.

Animated, yet tranquillized, by theſe effu⯑ſions, ſhe delineated to Arthur her deſign and its motives; but ſhe conceived her return to the aſylum, of which John Fitzorton was the patron, made it matter of right his per⯑miſſion ſhould be firſt obtained.

The monk ſaw into all her motives, im⯑plied or expreſſed, and imparted them to John, with reſervation only of ſome ideas that he thought it no way material for the colonel to hear, but which were, in truth, ſimilar to thoſe that lay in the receſſes of John's breaſt; yet, which in his opinion, as in that of the holy confeſſor, rather exalted than humbled the character of the con⯑feſſed. Without dwelling on the ſubject, John aſſured father Arthur that he would un⯑dertake to give proper reaſons at the caſtle, while the arrangements were making at the abbey. In truth, the whirl of circumſtances had again brought back upon John, perilous ſubjects he had ſo inceſſantly laboured to keep at a diſtance, and he was not ſorry to ſee one [490]occaſion more preſent itſelf, that carried with it, at leaſt, the aſpect of preſerving the peace of his family and of his friends.

Accordingly, John contrived for ſome days to repreſent the abbey as improper for Olivia's farther viſits; and Burton continu⯑ed to aſſure her that her favourite Caroline was daily more and more convaleſcent, by which means Arthur had the better oppor⯑tunity to prepare for the journey, of which himſelf and his Indian were to be the com⯑panions.

Theſe preparations, however, were not a little obſtructed by perſons of all deſcriptions flocking to the abbey, to make their heart⯑felt enquiries after the health of miſs Stuart, and to pay their viſit of reſpect to the lieute⯑nant: thoſe penſioners, in particular who had been bequeathed, by lady Matilda, to her daughter, many of whom were ſtill alive, and the objects of Caroline's undiminiſhed bounty, could not be reſtrained from telling their daily, almoſt hourly, tales of gratitude, to their benefactreſs; and amongſt theſe garrul⯑ous ſtories, ſhe found out, what but for them [491]ſhe never could have known,—that ever ſince her abſence it had been the cuſtom of Henry Fitzorton, to make the tour of the Abbey pariſh, on the firſt day of every new month,—in the manner lady Matilda and Caroline, he knew, had been accuſtomed to do,—whenever he was down at the caſtle; and that the apothecary repreſented him in his abſence; and when any of the penſioners were ill, or unhappy, Henry would always bring them comfort, and come and ſit by, and nurſe, and talk to them, till they cried for joy.

In ſhort, from the unfortunate, but neceſ⯑ſary, moment of Caroline Stuart's firſt depar⯑ture, Henry had conſidered her poor, as his poor, devolved upon his heart, by a kind of natural inheritance. And while his Olivia employed herſelf, in making happy her cottagers, he would take his rounds of benevolence, on the like principle, as the agent of Caroline: and for this to be diſco⯑vered thus unexpectedly, by the very objects of the bounty, was at once delightful and diſtreſſing to Caroline. The reports of the [492]death and penitence of Sir Guiſe, and the re⯑turn of his ſon and daughter, flew, through the whole country, with the ſpeed of thought; and the tributary marks of loving-kindneſs ſhewn to the ſurvivors, by all ranks and ſexes, and orders of religion, retarded the execution of Caroline's deſign: and thus was the ab⯑bey —which folly and vice had brought into diſrepute, and deſertion, and which had been ſhunned even by the ruſtic, whoſe half-thatch⯑ed ſhed was expoſed to all the winds of heaven—redeemed by the return of wiſdom and virtue.

At length, however, a favourable moment occurred; and Caroline with her ſuite took her ſecond leave of the abbey; and by the contrivance of colonel Fitzorton, they per⯑formed their journey in one of thoſe carriages which Partington and Henry had loaded for her defence. But it had ſtill been found ne⯑ceſſary for Caroline to begin her fatigues, after others had begun their repoſe;—after Olivia, and, perhaps, Henry himſelf, were in the arms of ſleep.—Yet, amidſt the cloudings of an unquiet night, as ſhe paſſed the dimly [493]diſcovered turrets of the caſtle—ah! let not the moſt rigid virtue chide the ſigh, the parting ſigh, which mixed in her bleſſing on the inhabitants! for it was pure, and almoſt as ſilent as the tear which courſed along her cheek, when ſhe breathed an adieu to the chapel, where now both her parents were entombed!—There appeared to her mind little diſtinction as to the duration of the farewell, for till her lifeleſs corpſe ſhould be conveyed to the one, ſhe never meant to ap⯑proach the other:—"Never, oh! never more ſhall I paſs theſe ſacred towers—that holy vault—but when I am encloſed in the unconſcious hearſe. Farewell. Oh! ſcenes of anguiſh and of bliſs—farewell."

CHAPTER LII.

THUS was the ill-fated abbey once more left deſolate, although Charles Stuart intended to remain till the family ruins could be put into a ſomewhat clearer ſtate, than they were left by his unhappy father; and till he ſaw what might be the event of a trial, in which his curioſity was ſingularly [494]intereſted. He purpoſed alſo, at a proper time after the deceaſe of his father, to invite the hand of Johanna from the colonel, her adopted father; and, in the mean time, when that amiable girl, and Mrs. Herbert, could be ſpared by Olivia, his further plan was, to return with them to their inſulated retreat, with a view of affording his ſiſter the conſoling ſociety of her accuſtomed friends, while he ſhould avail himſelf of John's ſalutary re⯑proof in regard to his long-neglected military duties.

If, however, returning clouds hung over the abbey, unuſual brightneſs again beamed on the caſtle. Sacred to his promiſe, and at length conſiſtent with himſelf, Henry reſigned the care of Caroline to the brother and friends who ſurrounded her, and dedicated himſelf entirely to domeſtic concerns and to Olivia. Whatever yet remained of his un⯑conquered thoughts, ſuch were his actions. In this interval, the hope which his tender and happy wife had promiſed was fulfilled by the birth of a third child, and being a female infant, the mother reſolved it ſhould be [495]baptiſed Angelica. "You ſee," cried John, rejoicing in the event of Olivia's ſafety, "it was not, my dear Henry, to be a Ra⯑phael." At a more confirmed moment of his ſiſter-in-law's health, this was repeated to Olivia, who thus expounded her dream to Henry, mixing in the detail, by ſuffrage of John, all that related to their ſecret tran⯑ſactions at the abbey, and their motives, ſo far as they were known to herſelf. Previous to the ceremony of chriſtening, Mrs. Herbert and the children were to be ſent for from the Bury, and that all might be compleat, ſhe expreſſed a hope that her favourite Caroline would honour a ſecret wiſh ſhe had formed, to become godmother of the young Ange⯑lica.

As the departure of Caroline took place ſo ſhort a time before Olivia's confinement, and as the latter knew ſhe was not in a ſtate of health or ſpirits to aſſiſt her friend in a moment of ſuch trial, it had not been deemed proper by Burton to diſcompoſe Mrs. Fitz⯑orton, by any mention of her friend's depar⯑ture; but as Henry now looked to the [496]colonel for the materials of an anſwer to his wife's requiſition, John informed her that a change of air and of objects had made it neceſſary for her to move from the abbey. "I have a meſſage to deliver on that ſubject, from my ſiſter," interpoſed Charles, who was preſent, though Henry was not then in the room; "I will give it you in her words: for indeed it concerns us all."—

—"We are ſafely arrived at our place of refuge, my deareſt brother, and found the worthy Denniſon in the perfect enjoyment of his good old age. The rapture of Floreſco, is never, you know, to be deſcribed, when his ſimple heart is moved by nature's pow⯑erful hand. And ſhe touched him moſt ten⯑derly at the ſight of his ancient friend, who was not leſs affectionately though leſs tu⯑multuouſly happy. Another ancient friend was gladdened at the view, obſcured as it was, of our good old man—poor little Fitz: who bore his long journey paſſing well. Father Arthur has ſpared our veteran the particulars of that heavy event, to which, I feel, I am not as reſigned as, I know, it is [497]my duty to be. Alas! my brother."—Here the lieutenant paſſed over ſome ſentences in a little confuſion, but ſoon recovered himſelf and went on.

"I muſt charge you, my deareſt Charles, with anſwers to the enquiries, which, I cannot but believe, will be made concerning me at the caſtle, and to explain my wanderings. Let not, I conjure you, the ever-dear and reſpected Mrs. Fitzorton, nor good Mrs. Herbert, nor my ſweet Johanna, attribute my flight to any thing ungrateful or un⯑friendly. Ah! it has been from far other motives. So far as you know, let me im⯑plore you to explain them, and exculpate your ſiſter and your friend."

"It is enough," ſaid Olivia, "I am ever too ſelfiſh. I ought to repine at what has grieved me, but on the ſubject of my friends I confeſs myſelf a very miſer. I know that the health, ſpirits and happineſs of my Caroline, required a temporary removal from hence, and I yield. Bleſſed be her abſence! bleſſed be her return!

CHAPTER LIII.

IT is become neceſſary for us to quit again the innocent, and look back upon the guilty. The time of trial for the gang, which had been fully committed, being arrived, they were brought from the county priſon where they had been ſome weeks con⯑fined in ſeparate dungeons; and deeds of fouleſt darkneſs, as well as their perpetrators were, at length, to ſee the light.

The crimes of this banditti were of a nature ſo complicated, and private wrongs ſo mixed with public offences, that there ſeems no other mode of detailing them with any clearneſs, but by adopting the meaſures, and in ſome degree the language of the perſons who conducted the proſe⯑cution, ſubſtantiated the charges, or brought the trial to iſſue.

"The bill on which the priſoners were indicted," ſaid the counſel who opened the caſe, "branches into ſeveral counts, moſt of which, taken ſeparately, are capital, but the leading feature of offence may be divided [499]into three parts, viz. conſpiracy, forgery, and murder!"

The proſecutors and witneſſes called in ſupport of theſe heinous offences, were ſome of the moſt reſpectable men in the county; the perſons accuſed were ſome of the moſt daring and infamous that ever diſ⯑graced humanity. Amongſt the firſt, were Mr. Partington, John Fitzorton, Charles Stuart, True George, and ſeveral worthy domeſtics from their reſpective families; and the gentlemen to whoſe lot it fell, progreſſively to diſcuſs, and legally to de⯑termine upon the evidence which ſhould be offered, were of integrity ſo unwarped, that, had a friend, or brother, unfortunately violated the laws, and been brought before them, the moſt impartial juſtice would have been adminiſtered, although their inward hearts might have bled at the award which that juſtice impelled.

The leading counſel for the proſecution was Mr. Morgan, the honourable man who had been ſollicitor to the Fitzortons many years, now advanced to the bar, and whom [500]the colonel had already employed to puniſh ſome of the enemies, and to reward ſome of the friends of ſociety: and the judge who happened at that time to be on the weſtern circuit, was James Fitzorton, then arrived at the higheſt honour and truſt of the judicial character.

The firſt perſon called upon by Mr. Mor⯑gan, to give evidence, was Colonel John Fitzorton, who depoſed, that the day after the priſoners were apprehended, he was in⯑duced to explore the place where it had been found expedient to ſecure them. On arriving at the mouth of the dungeon, one of the witneſſes, Jonathan Armſtrong, who had kept watch through the night, made report, that almoſt immediately after the raging multi⯑tude, and the caſtle party, had left the ſpot, an indiſtinct kind of noiſe aſcended from the cave as of many perſons whiſpering, and groaning faintly; but though the groaning kind of ſounds remained, the voices were ſoon more low and muttering, as if perſons had moved to a greater diſtance—that, while the voices were loud he looked down into [501]the dungeon, and ſaw a flaſhing vapoury kind of light as if in the midſt of a fog, but when the groans grew fainter the flaſhing was gone, and only a few miſty ſparks were left; that very ſoon after, all was thick darkneſs, and a dreadful dumb kind of ſilence has continued ever ſince. True George, another of the night-guards, corroborated this ac⯑count; and added, that as he thruſt his body downwards into the cell, he was annoyed by a ſtench as if of ſulphur and other combuſti⯑ble matter, from which iſſued fire and ſmoke; and the muttering groans, which the former deponent ſpoke of, ſeemed to come from the midſt of it.

From theſe, and other reports, which had been previouſly made, John Fitzorton further depoſed, that ſuſpecting ſomething of a cri⯑minal nature was yet to be diſcovered, he ſelected half a dozen of his friends, and deſcended armed into the dungeon; ſeveral of the villagers following in deſpite of all remonſtrance: that he was prepared to find, from witneſs, brought by Gapper, the bot⯑tom of the gulph much wider than George [502]had deſcribed it, yet on gaining the bottom, he was amazed to perceive every one of the culprits, who had been thruſt into the cave bound, had diſappeared. Conducted, however, by Gapper's witneſs, whoſe evi⯑dence was material, he proceeded further into the cavern, which grew broader at every ſtep. It was vaulted above and below, but every wholeſome breeze abſorbed by a noxious miſt, which cluſtered ſo thick around the lights, and hung ſuch heavy damps upon the glaſs, and horn of the lan⯑terns, or threw ſuch an infectious ſteam about the torches, that the guide was often at a loſs how to direct their ſteps; that ſtopping to liſten, all was ſilent; but after moving on a few paces, and then making another pauſe, a con⯑fuſed murmur of voices aſſailed his ears—the ſounds ſeemed to iſſue from different parts of the abyſs; when moving onward ſuch ſcenes preſented themſelves to the view as augmented the horrors. The objects of his ſearch were found diſtributed in various forms of miſery. Some had crawled beneath a grating which had been made at the top of [503]the dome, into which the effluvia of a ſtag⯑nant bed of waters, that brooded above, mingled with the polluted air, and rather increaſed than diſpelled the poiſons of the dungeon below, by blending therewith the miriads of infectious animalcula that fed on the vapours of the pool. Other wretches, farther on, were extended on the ſlippery ground, or ſupporting themſelves againſt the ſlimy walls, which, in many parts, were covered with concretions of ſaltpetre.— "We haſted," ſaid the deponent, "to re⯑lieve the victims as ſoon as we diſcovered their ſituation, but how great was our amaze⯑ment to find every one of them unbound. Irreſolute what to do, we were ſoon invaded by a ſtench ſo deadly that it was with difficulty we could ſave ourſelves from falling; and perceiving that it increaſed as we advanced in that direction, we were bending our courſe another way, when a hollow kind of yell re⯑called our attention: alarm gave us force, and we again moved forward. The yell now rather ſounded like the collected moans of ſeveral perſons dying in agony, and became [504]more audible. The tremendous ſmells too augmented, but two of the witneſſes, Flo⯑reſco and True George, who had fearleſsly ruſhed forward on the firſt ſurpriſe of the groans, returned with marks of horror that abſorbed the ſenſe of danger: our female guide too had been earneſt with us to pene⯑trate yet deeper into the precipice—pointing at the ſame time to a jutting wall that ſeemed to be only at a few paces. We gained the wall with difficulty, and it appeared to bound the priſon. Our conductors, however, ſtill pointed forward. The wall was low, and above it aſcended a column of ſmoke mingled with ſparks of fire. The moaning was again heard. Floreſco and George con⯑ducted us by an opening which ſhelved from the wall, and in an inſtant we found ourſelves in the midſt of another diſtinct narrow dun⯑geon, but the ſmoke increaſed to ſuch a degree as to ſmother even the flame that attempted to labour through it, yet a refreſhing air ſuddenly burſt upon our ſenſes, and juſt as we began to inhale it, a haſty ſtep was heard, and a voice exclaimed, but as if [505]gaſping for life—the paſſage is at laſt broke, and if we can breathe a few minutes longer we may eſcape ſtill. No perſon could be ſeen, but one of our friends had darted through all obſtructions; and a ſhriek, in the next inſtant from the exclaimer, announced that the latter was ſafe in the gripe of Jona⯑than Armſtrong. All ruſhed onwards. The guſhing winds diſperſed the ſmoke, and blew up the flames.

"But more and yet greater horrors," continued the proſecutor, "awaited us." A number of perſons were diſcovered either lying on the ground, or near the fire, as if recovering from almoſt a ſtate of ſuffocation. Many of them, however, on perceiving us feebly raiſed themſelves, and attempted to eſcape through the paſſage door which had been forced; but George and Floreſco ran forward, guided by the draughts of the wind, and intercepted them. Others were too much overwhelmed to attend even to the conſequence of detection. One alone amongſt them, with dreadful intrepidity, ſat unawed before the ſulphurous flame, which, ſince the [506]ruſhing in of the air, ſurmounted all obſtruc⯑tion, and illuminated the horrors of the cell. Amongſt thoſe horrors we had to enumerate the putrid reliques of a human body, over which the flame threw a livid glare, that not only diſcovered thoſe relicts, but alſo other mutilated members which were yet con⯑ſuming in the fire, and the daring wretch, who ſeemed to preſide over the whole, was, at the moment of diſcovery, preparing to caſt another limb into the flames, and to complete our aſtoniſhment, this fury was a woman. "Alas! it is even as I told your honours," then ejaculated the witneſs, who had been our chief guide, and who was likewiſe a female. "I knew he muſt die, and now his murderers are trying to conceal the murder." "Inſtantly," proceeded the deponent; "every attendant ſecured one or other of the fugitives, we ſeized a variety of offenſive weapons, and other inſtruments which lay beſide them, and ſurrounded the principal fiend. She roſe undaunted, ſtood fixed, and ſeeing us advance kept us a moment at bay, uttering horrible execrations that reverberated through all the windings of [507]the dungeon. Overpowered, however, by numbers, ſhe yielded in contemptuous ſilence: Meantime, one of the banditti—who was try⯑ing to eſcape, and endeavouring to make terms of mercy with George, Jonathan and Flo⯑reſco, after he was caught, attempted his preſervation by informing them "the ſecret door which they were guarding led to the ſubterraneous paſſage, and as he was in the ſecret of all its labyrinths, he would have the honour to conduct all their honours, not doubting but they would ſpeak a good word for him ſhould their honours think it worth while to take any further notice of the buſi⯑neſs." But the indignant George ſpurning the offer, left the trembling wretch in the cuſtody of Jonathan, while he haſted with the intelligence to our party. Meaſures were hereupon taken to profit by the information; and the reſtoring air, having, by this time, in ſome degree, purged the atmoſphere of its deadly obſtructions, time was given us to collect, amaſs, and carry off thoſe more annoying objects, alive and dead, which, fouler than [508]the breath of peſtilence, had polluted the dungeon.

All theſe circumſtances being fully corro⯑borated by the other witneſſes, whoſe depo⯑ſitions were ſeverally taken, the learned counſel then brought forward a body of evi⯑dence that eſtabliſhed a variety of facts, by which, in ſubſtance, it "appeared that the of⯑fenders, who had been long engaged in a courſe of nefarious practiſes, and in alliance with each other, had formed themſelves into a body, under the aſſumed name and garb of thoſe itinerant cheats called gypſies, the more ſecurely and effectually to carry on an accumulation of delinquency, in every part of which the perſons forming the confede⯑racy, had a diſtinct and ſeparate intereſt— the whole body being ſo neceſſary to each other, that, although in point of ſituation, many members of the gang had been ac⯑cuſtomed to perpetrate their atrocities in the higher, and others in the loweſt claſſes of mankind—a ſort of ſocial compact was main⯑tained on the principle of ſelf-preſervation; for although each wiſhed all the reſt hanged, [509]not wilfully to hang one another was an act of policy, ſince any attempt to ſnap or ſhorten the chain which united them, would be but to convert the indignant links into ſo many halters for their own necks."

But what was the indignation of the court, and of the aſſembled multitude, when they ſaw—and what will be that of the worthy reader, when he finds, that this excavated gang was chiefly formed of thoſe depredators and aſſaſſins, who were once aſſociated with the late Sir Guiſe Stuart?—that the wretch who would have eſcaped from juſtice, by impeaching others in the moment of detec⯑tion, was the execrable Nicholas Dabble? and that the chief female fiend, who was found in the bowels of the earth at her infernal rites, was the daring lady Tempeſt. "I will take upon me to create a world to-morrow," ſays an accurate obſerver, "if to-day I can give rectitude of heart to one pettifogging attorney." And the obſervation applies no leſs to one ſhameleſs woman, when criminal habits and paſſions have wholly extinguiſhed the moral principle. Yet, even in characters like [510]theſe, the moral principle is not eaſily anni⯑hilated: its deſtruction is uſually the effect of gradual crimes. Sometimes, even after a long and dreadful progreſſion, the keen and avenging ſenſe of right and wrong, aſſerts its long inſulted power, and arouſes to ſhame and remorſe; ſometimes, with accu⯑mulating turpitude, by continuing in diſſolute ſociety, the internal guard of our nature is ſo far ſubdued, as to want the force of ren⯑dering either an abandoned life, or ignomi⯑nious death, terrible to the offender. Of the former part of this aweful truth, the caſe of Sir Guiſe Stuart has already furniſhed an ex⯑ample: and the latter will be but too clearly illuſtrated in the conduct and deſtiny of the culprits now under the eye of the reader.

We have briefly to unfold the cauſe of this horrid confederacy. Valentine Miles, and lady Tempeſt Stuart, diſappointed, diſgraced, and traverſed in many of their important machinations at the abbey, and at the caſtle, their hate for ſome of the inhabitants, and their burning deſire for others, ſurvived all their miſcarriages, mortifications, and even [511]puniſhments, ſo effectually, that ſoon after her ladyſhip had ſhaken off her huſband, ſhe boldly and avowedly eſtabliſhed her hazard, and rouge et noir tables, and her pharo bank:—where contribution ſuppers ^* and the choiceſt wines were provided at fifty pounds a route; and ſhe ranked amongſt her cuſtom⯑ers, and ſubſcribers, an indiſcriminate mixture of both ſexes, from the finiſhed ſharper to the raw inexperienced youth! But, amidſt all the ſplendid plunder of the day, and the ſtill more gorgeous ruins of the night, the flames of vengeance and of deſire conflagrated her boſom: the ſtinging thoughts of Olivia's marriage with Henry, and of Caroline's decided paſſion for him alone, ſupplied fuel to the one paſſion; and reflections on her innumerable degradations fed the rage of the other. Her Valentine ſecretly ſympathized in both: they brought into one point of view what they had ſuffered, from the firſt outrage to the laſt.—Miles recurred to the bullet of John Fitzorton, whoſe mark he yet carried in his neck:—his diſgraces at the Adſell [512]aſſaſſination—the ſcorn with which Caroline received his vows of love—and the ſnapping of Henry's fingers in the apartments of lady Stuart—then Mrs. Tempeſt—where he ſwore that the deareſt blood of the offender's heart ſhould one day repay the inſult—all tended to accumulate the venom in his breaſt. Lady Tempeſt, alſo, brooded over the contumely ſhe had endured, as well on ſome of the above, as on various other account. Foiled in every attempt to embitter the happineſs of Olivia:—her letters intercepted—her feeble ſtratagems rendered abortive either by True George, or John Fitzorton, and driven by reiterated diſappointments to deſpair:—more particularly ſince the colonel's conduct and menaces, at the abbey carouſals—the col⯑lected poiſons of her fury far outſtript even that of Miles; and the ſavage paſſion ſhe yet felt for Henry, mixt ſtrangely with her un⯑quenchable and now maddening thirſt of revenge, which burnt the fiercer for being long unappeaſed. The moſt dire intents, indeed, had been accumulating in the minds of both Valentine and lady Tempeſt, before either [513]dared to confide with the other their foul deſigns. But the moment at laſt arrived. Both perceived they might communicate. The exchange of one ſanguinary look con⯑veyed from eye to eye, and from heart to heart, the dreadful ſympathy! An oath of union paſt, as by ſecret intelligence, between them, and they read in every feature, without utterance of a word, that the compact ſhould be cemented by blood. They ſnatched the hand of each other, and, in that moment, the murder of John and Henry Fitzorton, —and worſe then, the murder of Caroline and Olivia,—were determined.

The ſecret council of blood broke up after paſſing the following reſolutions: To remove every obſtruction in the way of compaſſing the grand deſideratum:—To conſider every other loſs, gain, intereſt, or difficulty, or danger, as ſubordinate, till ſome of the victims were ſtruggling in their arms, and others laid dead at their feet. In purſuit of theſe demoniac ends, the means were propor⯑tionate. The coſt, indeed, would be enor⯑mous; but avarice was now a ſecondary paſ⯑ſion. [514]Beſides which, the lady's banks had literally overflowed of late to ſuch a degree, that the golden tides of half her ruined friends and vanquiſhed enemies, had rolled their treaſures into her hand: and Valentine, in⯑dependent of his ſhare in thoſe more obvious frauds, had learned the ſcience of money-mak⯑ing another way: for with a noble ambition of calling into action all his verſatile powers, and ſhewing they were alike adapted for the buſineſs of one part, as for the pleaſures of the other part of the metropolis, he had recently engaged in no leſs than five of the coinages ^*, out of near half a hundred, that are almoſt conſtantly employed in London; and theſe private mints had been ſo produc⯑tive, as often to have yielded him a thouſand pounds a week: many of his fabricators creating, and giving currency ^† to fifty pounds a day, intrinſically not worth fifty ſhillings. Nay to ſuch a point of perfection had he ar⯑rived in this line, that he ſometimes pro⯑cured from the coiners, who worked for him, [515]from 300l. to 500l. for country orders in the courſe of the week. Mutually poſſeſſed of ſuch reſources, the means of accompliſhing almoſt any evil end were thus thrown into the hands of lady Tempeſt Stuart and her compeer. And though their long-conceived hatred, envy, and jealouſy of each other, were by no means abated, a common villany now again held them together more firmly than before; and the amicable way in which they carried it on, might have led ſuper⯑ficial obſervers to believe they had always been, and then were, the very beſt friends in the world. Dabble, on the other hand, from a run of adverſity in a new branch of atrocity, had found more than uſual ex⯑erciſe for his little niceties.

Inſatiable avarice was the grand vice of this man's character, and to gratify this in every way, and by every mode, of enter⯑prize and exaction, had been the inceſſant toil of life. But he had been unfortunate ſince we laſt ſaw him—unfortunate in the lottery—from having been the inviſible pro⯑prietor of ſome inſurance offices, for the [516]oſtenſible men of ſtraw, in the ſhape of receivers and payers, having filled their pockets with the ſpoil, imitated their em⯑ployer's great example, and became inviſi⯑ble alſo. Unfortunate likewiſe, in ad⯑vancing money upon bonds, title deeds, and eſtates in reverſion, in hopes of uſurious intereſt—and all this hope broke ſuddenly under him—then the courts were open only to iſſue out warrants for apprehending him, and ſhut againſt him for ever as a practiſing attorney: and laſtly, with theſe ſtrokes of ill-luck, he had loſt his conſequence and cre⯑dit with my lady and Valentine. Yet the time was now come round when his daily profeſſed, and almoſt as daily rejected, ſer⯑vices were again acceptable. Various infe⯑rior inſtruments, and ſubordinate wheels in the grand machine of the caſtle and abbey conſpiracy, were now wanted, and Mr. Nicholas Dabble was employed to collect theſe. The buſineſs was opened with very little ceremony; and the terms ſettled with⯑out difficulty. He undertook the thing on ſpeculation, and with unwearied alacrity— [517]and, indeed, in leſs time than it would coſt an honeſt man to pick up a ſingle rogue; or, indeed, reconcile his feelings to look for one, this active gentleman had aſcended and deſcended into the haunts of as many under⯑takers as would make honeſt men wonder how they paſt a ſingle day or night, with⯑out being aſſaulted or robbed, wounded or murdered. A choſen band of his old ac⯑quaintance, to whom he had before given jobs, and whom he knew to be ready for all vicious occaſions at a moment's warning, were muſtered, diſciplined, and trained to action. The troop was raiſed from the fol⯑lowing perſonages, moſt of whom it is pro⯑bable have a mark ſet upon them in the reader's memory.—Firſt, the ſtump-maker and chum, who ſince their bargain with Jonathan and Jerom, had found their ac⯑count in aſſuming their own legs, to run away with parcels of which they tricked boys, ſhopmen, or perſons coming from the country.—Secondly, the ingenious Mr. Smith, who conducted Sir Guiſe to the [518]hand-in-hand ^*, and who had recently been advanced from ſtealing goods, as a petty pil⯑ferer, to opening a houſe for receiving ſuch goods, knowing them to be ſtolen.— Thirdly, Mr. Scuttle, late the waiter at the hand-in-hand, now one of the fifty thouſand perſons computed to purſue gaming as a trade in London daily.—Fourthly, the lady who acted as foil to the widow, on the memo⯑rable night of Henry's viſit to the theatre, but who a little before ranked only as one of the fifty thouſand females of the metropolis, who are eſtimated to purſue publickly their abandoned trade.—Fifthly, the two loving brothers, David and Gamaliel Otley, who had been in perpetual ſtrife for the palm of roguery; and who had never been able to ſettle the point to their own ſatisfaction, or to any other perſon's, ſo nearly equal were their pretenſions: each having with the [519]moſt laudable emulation laboured to excel in his vocation, till at length both had aſcended the climax, from the theft of a nail, a ſkewer, a key, or a glaſs bottle, up to the moſt valuable articles. There were, alſo, added to the phalanx, one of the perſons known to belong to the fraternity of thieves, whoſe depredations are calculated to amount to the enormous ſum of ſeven hundred and ten thouſand pounds a year. There was, likewiſe, a profeſſional bludgeon man, and an armed ruffian, who are to be hired for any haz⯑ardous enterprize; the terms regulated by the degrees of danger, expected oppoſition, &c. but who, at other times, aſſume the trade of hawkers and pedlars, &c. in which character they only cheat and pilfer, but in their former capacity they are to be let out by their proprietors, of which Mr. Dabble was ſtill one, at ſo much per head, from ſim⯑ple aſſault to determined aſſaſſination. And to cloſe the whole, Mr. Scuttle, the new hand-in-hand landlord, whoſe fitneſs for any miſchief that might be coining in thoſe [520]mints of wickedneſs, the heads of Miles and my lady Stuart, will not be queſtioned, when the reader is informed, that the lottery inſurance committee, both agents and clerks, amounting to near two thouſand, met twice a week at his houſe; and that the bludgeon eſtabliſhment had there its monthly club.

But while Mr. Dabble was collecting his daring and ſtrong minded bravoes to cover the retreat, or in caſe of obſtinate reſiſt⯑ance to proceed to the laſt extremities, Dabble himſelf conducting the ſecret ex⯑pedition as general of the banditti, under the command of field-marſhal Valentine Miles and his aſſociate, the latter was not idle. One of the firſt loves of lady Stuart was Mr. Thomas, whom ſhe ſtill con⯑ſidered as an old friend, and who had been part of her eſtabliſhment while ſhe reſided at the abbey. He there became ac⯑quainted with an under groom of the manor-houſe, of ſuch promiſing talents, that he took on himſelf the trouble of training him to rob his maſter, and moſt of his [521]fellow-ſervants of ſundry articles, which Mr. Thomas ſaid he would purchaſe; but when the theft was made, and the ſpoil preſented, he thought proper all at once to ſcruple—ſeized upon the young delin⯑quent, and ſwore he would produce wit⯑neſſes to prove—though no perſon had been preſent at the time,—that he had offered the ſtolen goods to him, but that he refuſed to receive them, and only had them in his poſſeſſion like an honeſt man, to make diſ⯑covery. Terrified at this, being then young in crime, the boy ſupplicated for mercy, which the tender-hearted Mr. Thomas granted on certain conditions;—to wit,— that he ſhould undertake to tranſact any buſineſs he might be truſted with for any part of the caſtle or manor-houſe families, and as that truſt was faithfully, or unfaith⯑fully diſcharged, mercy or juſtice ſhould be adminiſtered. The trembling culprit pro⯑miſed, and was almoſt immediately em⯑ployed to deliver a letter to Olivia from lady Tempeſt, which had it fallen into the hands of the former, would have torn [522]up the happineſs, perhaps, of her whole life by the roots; for it ſtruck a dagger at the faith, honour, and tenderneſs of Henry Fitzorton in every line. The letter carrier meeting, however, with True George while he was watching his opportunity, Olivia then being at the caſtle, ſome ſuſ⯑picious circumſtances enſued, which brought on a diſcovery; and with this, George hur⯑ried —the boy in his gripe—to John Fitzor⯑ton, who affected to chide George for ſtopping a ſervant in diſcharge of his duty, ſaid the letter ſhould be taken care of, and diſmiſſed the boy, only deſiring him to deliver future preſents either to him or George, and that for every ſuch pacquet he ſhould receive a gratuity. The boy pro⯑miſed, and kept his word, being well paid by both parties, without ſaying a word of his double dealing to either. George thought it ſtrange, till the colonel explained; and thus was Olivia's peace preſerved from a train of evils, with jealouſy, the hydra, at their head. But this boy advanced too rapidly in the furtive profeſſion which Mr. [523]Thomas had taught him, and was ſent away in diſgrace. Mr. Thomas himſelf was expel⯑led ſoon after, when the abbey arrange⯑ments broke up; but he was fated to great preferment, as keeper of a Regiſter-office, and there his old friend the ſtable-boy came, after many other diſgraces, to look for a place. The banditti plan was then beginning to form. Thomas ſtill ſuppoſing he had the boy on the hip, recommended him to lady Tempeſt; he was ſoon after enrolled amongſt the con⯑ſpirators, for his brilliant ſuggeſtions of the gypſey plan,—the ſubterraneous cavern,— and an aſſertion that he knew ſome of thoſe who had really been amongſt the abbey tribe. "They are now clippers and coiners," ſaid the boy; "no longer ago than yeſterday, one of them told me my fortune, which was, that I ſhould ſoon again ſee the old abbey,—and ecod, if we go upon this expedition the fortune will come true, you know, Mr. Thomas." In purſuance of his promiſe, he introduced the ci-divant gypſies to Miles and my lady, the [524]former of whom recognized five of his money-makers, four of whom were delighted at the thought of another frolic to the abbey, aſſerting that they could carry on part of their new employment as well in one place as another,—under ground as above ground,—in town or country,—and that they would undertake not only to bring back the gypſey complexion into their own faces, but to tinge every other, as well as dreſs up all the characters in the true gypſey ſtyle, ſo as to make it impoſſible for parents to know their children, or children their parents, beſides teaching the occult ſcience, and all the cant of the profeſſion, concluding with the following declaration:—"That they owed John Fitzorton and True George a grudge for ſome rigorous acts of the former, conſequent on the reports of the latter, and would aſſiſt in the deſtruction of both with all their hearts and ſouls." The fifth was a very young creature, and followed her aſſociates reluctantly.

The full complement of conſpirators was now obtained, and with the different im⯑plements [525]of their different trades and ſtra⯑tagems, and the aſſiſtance of the very ſecond⯑hand cloathes-merchant who ſupplied Sir Guiſe Stuart with his quaker apparel, and properly ſtained, they ſet forward. They ſoon eſtabliſhed themſelves in the abbey-woods without oppoſition. They had previouſly gained intelligence of Sir Guiſe and the return of the whole abbey party, and found means to make themſelves maſters of the exact ſtate of affairs at the caſtle and chapel-houſe. The fiend-like preſident, in her tenfold diſguiſe, often ſhot her dire and death-like glances at the victims ſhe had marked as ſhe paced her rounds of the caſtle, the abbey, and the chapel-houſe; ſhe felt a horrid joy as ſhe caught a glance at Henry, herſelf unſeen; the pangs of deſire agonized her heart, even while ſhe meditated the murther of the object. John Fitzorton, True George, Olivia, Caroline, Charles, and father Arthur, alternately aſſailed her view as ſhe prowled the wood paths; lighted her fire of withered leaves, or came laden like the reſt of her ſable companions, with the fallen branches, or with the alms, which for the ſake of [526]preſerving her aſſumed character, ſhe con⯑deſcended to collect. Her glut of venge⯑ance, indeed, made her forego all claims, and forget all ideas of former ſelf-love. She ſet the example of hardihood and a diſdain of difficulty to the reſt. She ab⯑ſtained from every exceſs, though their rags, and moving furniture, and habitation concealed, were enriched by the choiceſt fare. Theſe ſhe diſtributed prudently to the reſt, but practiſed a ſtern ſelf-denial on her own habits of luxury. Her profuſe treſſes were darkened by art, and tucked within a dirty coif; and while her grim aſſociates ſtretched along the woods, or ſlumbered in the caverns, ſhe ſtill held watch, and paſſed the night in gloomy vigilance, intent upon her prey. Miles was no leſs diligent. Dabble, was alternately in every quarter. Every evil ſpirit was either on guard, or on the ſcout; thrice was that part of their plan, which reſpected Henry and John, on the edge of being effected by the ſilent operation of poiſons, but was of neceſſity ſuſpended. The death of Sir Guiſe [527]alone prevented his aſſaſſination, and the night of his funeral was at length judged to be moſt apt for the grand burſt of vengeance; but it was broken off by a quarrel amongſt themſelves. The brother Otleys were ſtill at ſtrife about ſuperiority, but now Gamaliel was endued with a truſt more confidential and more intrepid than that of David. To him was al⯑lotted the diſtinction of taking vengeance on John Fitzorton, and a choſen band was appointed him for that enterprize. David expoſtulated, and threatened to go himſelf inſtantly to the caſtle, and make diſcovery of the whole plot. He was directly ſeized by the furious tribe, and till his fare could be determined, the dungeon of the abbey was his priſon-houſe; there they ſuffered him, either through reſentment, or the abſorbing image of revenge on others, to die of famine. One of the females, however, leſs callous than the reſt, and who had in a former gypſey expedition attached herſelf to a youth of the legitimate tribe, as thoſe at the caſtle were called, even with the ſon of the chief, took pity on his ſufferings, and relieved him, but found him almoſt gaſ⯑ping [528]for breath. "I die," ſaid he, "but let it not be unrevenged on thoſe who have murdered me,—fly this inſtant,—take with you this bundle of rags, which hold the ſecret fates of the nobleſt men,—the lovelieſt women,—my ancient maſters,—my beſt friends,—all I have wronged,—all who are marked for an almoſt immediate and dread⯑ful death,—if you would eſcape the hell that now burns within me, and haply ſhall burn for ever,—loſe not a moment,—away! I die!" The wretch with a deſpairing hand, ſeized part of the food which ſhe had brought, and expired devouring it. The terrified Jeputha, ſo was ſhe called, ruſhed from the cavern by the ſecret door, which ſhe had explored, and gaining the woods that united with the ſubterraneous paſſage unperceived, and favoured by the night, ſhe followed an impulſe ſhe could not reſiſt, not to make her reports at the caſtle; but accelerated both by horror and affright ſhe travelled onward, nor reſted her ſtep till ſhe gained the Bury, where, ſeeking the tribe who were protected by Partington, ſhe gave [529]into the hands of the gypſey-chief and his ſon, the myſtic.-papers, which led to the diſ⯑covery, and by means of which their de⯑teſtable machinations were prevented. Thus was the ungrateful David Otley appointed to ſave the lives of thoſe whom he had often betrayed, and whoſe death he treacherouſly imagined and deviſed.

The proofs of theſe enormities were con⯑ſummate and manifold: the mutilated limbs, and half-conſumed body of the apoſtate Otley, were upon the ſpot to eſtabliſh the murder,—the inſtruments for the fabrication of baſe money,—an enormous evil!—ſo as to counterfeit the current coin of theſe kingdoms ^*; the moulds, dies, flatted plates, copper blanks, cream of tartar, phoſpho⯑rus, &c. &c. intended to prevent one wick⯑edneſs from being at a ſtand ſtill while another was in motion, had been all brought from the caverns into court; the villany of Miles as the proprietor of theſe, and whom, on conviction, his accomplices gave up, was unqueſtionable. The Proteus Dab⯑ble [530]ſhuddered with conſciouſneſs the moment he beheld John Fitzorton as a proſecutor, Mr. Morgan as counſel, and James Fitzorton as his judge; invention had failed, and even the pettifogging attorney was left without a ſubterfuge! The inferior members of the banditti, taught to expect the gallows, ſooner or later, as a thing of courſe, felt, without much ſurprize or emo⯑tion, that their time was come; and Tem⯑peſt Stuart, who had preſerved a ſullen and ſavage kind of diſdainful ſilence from the moment ſhe was overpowered, juſt as ſhe ſaw the fatal velvet laid on the head of the judge, exclaimed, in a Satanic grandeur, "Had the deed been done, this would have been the moſt triumphant hour of my life!"

When the criminals, after they had been ſeparated, were brought up collectively to re⯑ceive ſentence,—never has there been paſſed a final judgment, as to the deſtiny of this world, with more temper or equity, regu⯑lated by wiſdom and ſoftened by com⯑miſeration, even for the depravity of our fellow-mortals:—never has a verdict been [531]found more to the ſatisfaction of all orders of men.

Moſt of the delinquents were capitally convicted, and remanded to the place from whence they came, till the aweful day that ſhould ſeparate them for ever from the community they had ſo long diſhonoured and deſpoiled; and we will now leave them upon the records of our hiſtory, as juſt, but terrible examples.

CHAPTER LIV.

To the puniſhment and ignominy of the vicious, however, ſucceeded an event of the moſt unexpected kind, from the relation of which the virtuous muſt feel a pang.

Olivia Fitzorton had reſiſted every perſua⯑ſion of her friend the apothecary, in regard to nouriſhing her child at her own breaſt, on account of a pectoral complaint, the only one from which, perſonally ſpeaking, ſhe had ever felt inconvenience in her whole [532]life. She argued, that the infant which drew its firſt and pureſt nouriſhment from the boſom of a ſtranger, was, in effect, but half its mother's child: ſhe hence deemed it a practice ſo unnatural, as to be but one re⯑move from a ſucking babe being turned out of doors by its mother, without any nouriſh⯑ment at all: and "if it be true," would ſhe ſay, "that any part of the diſpoſition of the foſter parent be infuſed with the milk, the faſhion of the times can only be juſtified when the natural nurſe, conſcious of a bad conſtitution, or of a worſe heart, trembles at the thought of entailing upon her offspring, her own infirmities of body or of mind; but, even in that caſe, ſhe inſiſted, that the utmoſt inveſtigation ſhould be made into the health and morals of the woman to whom the child was to be entruſted, otherwiſe, ſhe con⯑ceived, that the real mother was as reſpon⯑ſible for the future ſorrows, ſins, and ſickly, or tainted habits of her infant, as if they were more immediately derived from herſelf. And as to the circumſtance of a ſpoiled [533]ſhape, or any other cauſe aſſigned by ambi⯑tious beauty, or negligent faſhion, for the transfer of their offspring to a hireling, ſhe would have bluſhed with ſhame, or wept with grief, could any one have judged her capable of covering the vanity of a wife and a parent under ſo unfeeling an apology."

It is, however, certain, that in a few pul⯑monary caſes, a mother cannot poſſibly in⯑dulge in a more fatal tenderneſs than to ſuckle her own child: and an injury which Olivia had in very early youth received, was unfortunately of that kind.

She owned, however, that it was poſſible ſhe might, in the preſent inſtance, be wrong, as ſhe did not feel herſelf quite ſo ſtout as uſual, but the cuſtom was ſo natural in gene⯑ral, that ſhe could not allow herſelf to be an exception. The infant Angelica, was, there⯑fore, fed from its morther's breaſt, and exhi⯑bited every ſign of good health, during the firſt month: the ſolemnity, and feſtival of the chriſtening, at which, on account of Caroline's abſence, Johanna became ſponſor, was performed, and obſerved with all the [534]innocent mirth that affection, decorum, and gratitude could ſupply. The conduct of her Henry, and of every friend, was all, in ef⯑fect, that love itſelf, could, in its fondeſt ſolicitude, perform. The child continued thriving to its eighth month, when the hooping-cough weakened it to a degree, that the tender mother was induced to keep it at the breaſt long after Mr. Burton, and, indeed, the parent's own health had given warning it ought to be weaned: the ravaging diſorder, on arriving at its criſis, induced convulſions, which put an end to the life of the babe on the day that it had accompliſhed its firſt year. The phyſician who had at⯑tended, Partington's brother, apprehended that a degree of putridity accompanied in⯑flammation in the laſt week of the child's diſorder, and was earneſt with Olivia to ſuſ⯑pend her attendance; with this requiſition being ſeconded by Henry, ſhe complied, as he inſiſted on remaining with her in the apartment, and as he ſhared the love, to ſhare the danger of a parent. On the firſt favourable ſymptom of abating heat, how⯑ever [535]reported with caution by the good apothecary, the mother flew to the cradle, where ſeeing luſtre in the eye, and bloom on the cheek of her child, although theſe were but the inſidious fluſhings, and flame, of the malady—ſhe careſſed her little Angelica with a mother's ardent ſincerity—but, alas, ſhe at the ſame time drew venom from its lips— Olivia was herſelf ſeized with a fever the ſucceeding evening, which made ſuch de⯑vouring progreſs as to baffle every human aid, and Olivia and her babe, the former almoſt as free from the tinge of the world as the latter, expired within a few hours of each other.

The ſuſpicion that her diſorder was in⯑fectious, prevailed neither on Henry nor John Fitzorton to withhold their attendance: the prayers and tears of Olivia could avail no⯑thing with the former—nor was the latter ever abſent, but when it was inevitable.— Neither could Johanna or Mrs. Herbert, who had long been returned from the Bury, be deterred from adminiſtering to their friend— [536]the children alone were reſtrained, and theſe only becauſe Partington had literally run away with them to the Bury, on the firſt mention of danger, but came back himſelf to the caſtle, and was one of the moſt aſſiduous in attempting the preſervation of its faireſt in⯑habitant. "Ah! deny us not—deny not your Henry, at leaſt!—O moſt good—moſt excellent—his claims in all you hope, in all you fear!" ſaid he.—"As I have long lived for you, ſo I ſwear to you, beſt of wives, and parents—would I die!"

But the angel of death had its mandate, and Olivia obeyed. Yet ſhe was in the fulleſt poſſeſſion, and almoſt in the enjoyment, of her reaſon till within a few minutes of her being removed to regions, where the proudeſt reach of human thought is as infant feeble⯑neſs. Her lateſt powers of mind were em⯑ployed in aſſuring her ſurrounding family— and ſhe deſired thoſe who loved her, which, was, in truth, all who knew her, might be aſſured, alſo, that, as ſhe had long lived, ſo was ſhe now dying, the happieſt of the happy! [537]She tenderly embraced all preſent in their turn. She joined the hands of Johanna and the lieutenant—of True George, and of her gentle Jane; the latter of whom ſhe em⯑braced twice, and whiſpered, as if it were the whiſpering of cherubim, a certainty of ſee⯑ing, knowing, and loving her, where the ſociety of the good is eternal. Then as the overwhelmed Henry and John approach⯑ed—ſhe exerted that fortitude, which the faith alone that inſpires it can beſtow.— "O, unutterably loved and honoured! this would be the moment of hopeleſs deſola⯑tion— the moment in which I ſhould quit my being in deſpair, could I ſuppoſe it was that which was to ſeparate me for ever from Henry."

She pauſed; and John, who had hitherto borne his agony well, by turns advancing and receding, and as often ſtanding aloof, or ſheltered from obſervation by the croud, at length came forward.

"And thou, O pride and patron of all my happy days!" ſaid Olivia, extending her hand;—"thou art another cauſe, why I [538]ſhould have hope in death—My little ones— bleſs, bleſs them, O God!—will have two parents—two—ah! I know not how many good beings will extend towards them a parent's love!—Can they ever want a mo⯑ther's care, while theſe kind, generous friends, and my dear abſent Caroline, remain on earth?—Ah! my Henry! tell her, whom in dawning life I loved, that with my laſt re⯑mains of breath I bleſs her—and tell her too," continued ſhe, exerting herſelf to be⯑come diſtinct, "that did I not believe her affections were placed in a boſom too wiſe, too noble to ſuffer the external forms of de⯑votion, to prove an impediment, now pray⯑er, and penitence, and death, have removed the more ſubſtantial obſtacle."

Olivia looked at John, and then proceed⯑ed— "My ſpirit would not fly even to the regions of happineſs, in perfect joy but for this, till I had bequeathed her to the father of my children—my deareſt, deareſt Henry."

A few minutes only prior to her diſſolu⯑tion, her mind ſeemed to vibrate betwixt reaſon and delirium, during which ſhe ſup⯑plicated [539]that her dead infant might be brought to her. "Poor love! it can do me no harm now," ſaid ſhe. Her life, indeed, was ebbing faſt away, and her phyſician deſired ſhe might be gratified in her requeſt. Ac⯑cordingly her huſband brought the little An⯑gelica, but ſtood with it at ſome diſtance, as if ſtill in fear of its infection. When Olivia perceived a complacent ſmile on her infant's face, and declared that "her dream was out—it has certainly a likeneſs of Hen⯑ry," ſaid ſhe, "and it will be my guide to happineſs eternal—yes, my viſion is come to paſs. See—ſee John—the very lineaments of your brother—even as I told you;—the child ſhall convey its happy mother to hea⯑ven—already the crown of glory is en⯑circling me, and now in the blazing ſapphire I read—'Bleſſed are the merciful!'—you know the reſt."

She uttered this with a mixture of wild⯑neſs and coherence, ſhifting her looks, alter⯑nately, from the child to its father, and then to heaven. She beckoned Henry to come nearer.

[540]"There can be no longer any thing to fear or to hope," ſaid the phyſician: "in⯑dulge her." Henry advanced with the corpſe of his lateſt born. The eyes of Olivia ſeemed to ſettle on both, as if from ſenſations of joy—then bending towards them, ſhe ſtretch⯑ed forth her hands as to receive her child, ſoftly ſaying—"you will follow us;" and, in the ſucceeding inſtant, ſhe yielded up her innocent life in her huſband's arms.

CHAPTER LV.

NEVER, perhaps, has there been ſince the beginning of time, a death more ſerene, if we except the few wandering moments that preceded it, and even thoſe ſeemed to blend the ſlight ſigh of parting life, with a foretaſte of heavenly tranſport; never had there been a life more free from malady or woe: never has there been, nor ſhall there ever be, a death more generally, or more deſervedly, lamented; although, perhaps, after a life ſo free from evil, and replete with [541]good, it is a ſpecies of ſelf-love, even if it be not of ſinfulneſs, to grieve that ſuch a ſpirit is gone to enjoy the fulneſs of its re⯑compenſe.

Humanity, however, long and poignantly bewailed its loſs; for not only kindred vir⯑tue, but every other that deigns to viſit mortals, were votaries at the ſhrine of Olivia fitzorton. And, amongſt thoſe votaries, none were more ſincere than Henry, who not only in the firſt impreſſions, but for many months after, ſeemed ſo abſtracted from him⯑ſelf, as to have not even a thought that di⯑vided him from the memory of her, to whoſe happineſs, for the greater part of his life, he had been a generous martyr.

But friendſhip, gratitude, pity, and all that incites to acts of juſtice founded on theſe, demand, that the ſacred ſorrows of John Fitzorton ſhould not be overlooked.

While the ſole being, who had ever truly touched his heart, was taking an eternal leave of him, and the world, not a tear was ſeen upon his cheek, not a ſigh was heard from his boſom, and he was the firſt to quit the [542]chamber of death, when that being was no more. Henry, on the contrary, remained beſide the body, with one arm ſtill claſping his dead child, in deſpite of all argument— long after Dr. Partington, and the apothe⯑cary, had, in a manner, forced every other perſon, even the faithful True George, out of the room; but when the phyſician de⯑manded a conference with the colonel on that ſubject, John went back into the cham⯑ber, and by gentle, yet cogent, accents of perſuaſion—and aſking if he had deter⯑mined to leave his ſurviving children with⯑out any parent, when they moſt wanted a father's care? Henry ſprung from the bed on which he had thrown himſelf betwixt his deceaſed wife and babe, and ſuffered himſelf to be conducted into his own apartment.

He had expreſſed his deſign to remain there for the reſt of the night; but True George, who reſolved to ſit up with him, had by an inadvertent expreſſion changed his purpoſe. "When do they talk," queſtioned Henry, "of taking the remains of my wife and child from me?" "Alas! to-morrow, [543]your honour," anſwered the afflicted George, "becauſe, as it is thought they died of ſomething that was catching, Dr. Partington, and Mr. Burton, ſay it will not be right for them to ſtay long in the caſtle—but, for my part, if it was not for your honour, and another perſon or two, I ſhould wiſh to catch the malady that I might die too! for I don't find any thing a perſon gets by living here in this world but ſeeing people one loves go, one after another, out of it."

Henry, who had not taken off his cloaths, ſcarcely ſtaid long enough to hear the whole of George's reflections, but attending chiefly to the information which preceded them— he declared his wiſh to take his laſt leave of the remains of Olivia, and her little one— "and there can be no opportunity ſo favour⯑able as the moment before us," ſaid he: Henry went into Olivia's chamber attended by George, whom, however, he beckoned to ſtop at the door, which being partly opened, Henry moved forward with cau⯑tious and trembling ſteps, as if fearful of diſturbing thoſe who were in the ſleep of [544]death. As he was approaching the bed, he beheld John bending over it on the ſide he had himſelf entered. Checked by ſurpriſe and awe, he ſuſpended his ſtep, and diſtinctly heard the words which his brother was uttering.

They breathed over the dead body of Olivia the firſt declaration of love. They recapitulated the conduct which that love had urged, to preſerve the peace of its object unbroken to the laſt moment of her life. "And if, O! ſacred ſpirit," ſaid the lover, addreſſing the corpſe, of which he had taken up one of the lifeleſs hands, and laid it on his boſom—"if in the unen⯑couraged but reſiſtleſs feelings, a ſentiment more tender than brother ever felt—perhaps ever can feel,—has ſometimes aſſailed my heart, and aught of blame ſhould ſtill attach, to eternally combated, and involuntary emo⯑tion, let thy now angel prayers intercede with the beſtower of that heart to abſolve my frailty! yet how can errour mix with a principle which at this moment that I am beholding thee a breathleſs corpſe haſtening [545]to decay, making that corpſe more wel⯑come to my eye, more precious to my ſoul, than all thou haſt left behind thee to bloom in health, and youth, and beauty? Ah, no! like the ſoul itſelf my affection ſhall be eter⯑nal, attend me as in thy life time here, and follow thee to other worlds."

John. had turned his head, ſomewhat ſtartled; for Henry, impelled by his feel⯑ings, came onward. The Colonel had ſtill retained one of Olivia's hands. "Henry," ſaid he, "you have diſcovered my paſſion: you now perceive that a wretch, more diſ⯑aſtrous than yourſelf, had really being.— Behold the victim! behold too the object of his affection. But ſhe is no more thy wife, my brother: death hath diſſolved the bond that made her fond and faithful hand appropriate to Henry. Alas! it is mouldring into nought. The aſcended ſpirit, therefore, which has left it, is now our object—that too is free of human ties except by heavenly ſympathy; and thoſe who ſtill love her muſt ſhare with myriads, with all the hoſt of heaven."

[546]The brothers tenderly embraced. John preſſed Olivia's hand yet more fondly, and gently replacing it by her ſide, withdrew from the bed to the window, turning his eyes on the body as he walked from it. He lingered a moment, paſſed the chamber, and diſappeared, then re-entered—receded again, and again advanced. Henry kneeled down by the ſide of the bed, and careſſed by turns Olivia and Angelica, then put one of the infant's arms within the claſp of its mother's in the poſition he had found it. "Forgive me! angel ſoul of her," ſaid he, "who once gave almoſt matchleſs beauty to this lifeleſs form.—O! forgive me, if I was leſs ſenſible to thoſe wondrous graces than they deſerved! thou now art, haply, conſcious of the motive, and will pardon what con⯑ſtancy to former vows, and unconquerable love of their object alone could cauſe. Had thoſe vows been thine the boaſted beauties of the earth—the earth itſelf would have wanted power to draw me deliberately from thee."

[547]John, who had a ſecond time returned, heard in turn this declaration, and when it was cloſed ran haſtily to his brother, preſſed him with the utmoſt affection to his boſom, and wept. They left the ſacred chamber together, turning at every ſtep, but when John had ordered the attendants, who were waiting without, to return into Olivia's apartment to watch the bodies, and had con⯑ducted Henry into his own chamber, at the door of which the unwearied George was waiting his maſter's return—"Brother," ſaid he, "I feel an aſſurance, not of this world, that our prayers are heard, our penitence ac⯑cepted! for the reſt our weakneſs muſt have way—and our pillow may be ſteeped in the tears of our frailty, becauſe we are ſtill of the earth—but happy as was our Olivia, how faint, how feeble, the moſt diſtinguiſhed moments of that felicity to the bliſs ſhe now enjoys! Let us part in peace. If John Fitz⯑orton can reconcile himſelf to her loſs it ought to be ſupportable to Henry."

On the evening, however, of the ſucceed⯑ing day Henry ſhewed ſigns of the diſorder [548]we have alluded to, and Dr. Partington's brother, the phyſician, as well as the good apothecary, determined it to be the reſult of incautious attendance in Olivia's apartment. John, and the reſt of the family, and its friends, eſcaped, but the more irritable Henry caught the malady, and was its prey for ſeveral months—during which not one of his friends of the Abbey, Bury, or Caſtle, could be perſuaded by any warnings of dan⯑ger to leave him. He remained almoſt a year with alternations of weakneſs and ſtrength, and when his body might be called convaleſcent his mind appeared ſtill to ſuffer from an incurable wound. Charles Stuart, the almoſt conſtant attendant of his pillow, obſerved this, and imparted it to the colonel, who, watching by his bed-ſide a favourable interval, kindly took his hand, and thus ad⯑dreſſed him:—

"I have attended with pleaſure, my dear Henry, to the progreſs of your returning health; but that pleaſure has been, and is ſtill, checked by what I have obſerved—a ſolicitude—a miſery, not the effect of the [549]weakneſs which mere illneſs leaves behind, ſtill bends you to the earth. My brother, we are left to the ſupport and conſolation of each other; conſide to me the cauſe, and let me ſee if it cannot be removed—perhaps the incapacitating powers of a ſevere and tedi⯑ous malady have too long robbed you of the ſolace of your accuſtomed employments— infirmity doth ſtill neglect all office: from the ſick pillow, even the muſe will take her flight—the friend and inſpirer of our gayer hours, and of our youthful enthuſiaſms, our play of fancy, and our flow of ſpirit—yes, ſhe, like other faithleſs miſtreſſes, often leaves her votaries when they can no longer adminiſter to her vanity, or ſoothe her with melodious adulations. I ſay not this in mockery of her art; for I have long ceaſed to attack even the vulnerable parts of her magic, ſince the day that I ſaw my brother wounded in ſpirit, beyond the reach of ſpor⯑tive ridicule or ſerious remonſtrance—ſince I ſaw that he was not ſimply the victim of that dire ſyſtem of ſentimental inſanity, which men of feveriſh imaginations have oppoſed [550]to the fortitude of human beings, and the duty of chriſtians—ſince I noted his reſolu⯑tion to drink of the bitter cup that 'might not paſs from him;'—earneſt to turn to pious advantage the trials of Providence, and relinquiſh the thought of ſpurning its diſ⯑penſations by flying into the preſence of the power who appointed them, I have forborne to take from any thing, that might be en⯑couraged, its power of diverting you—but ſomething more important than ſcience or ſong now calls upon my Henry's powers. He has a heart to feel that one real charity ſhewn to the loweſt of the ſons of men, in the moſt deſolate corner of the earth, though it were but to carry into a hut the comfort of a ſingle morſel, when that morſel was wanted, and deſerved, returns to the reſtorer a tranſport more ſincere, and preſents to him an image more reſplendent, than all the pic⯑rures of bounty which the elect of Apollo ever painted, or, ſhall I ſay, that realizes the painting and poeſy of the moſt happy and benevolent muſe, whoſe beſt fount of ſuſpi⯑ration is a generous heart; the cottages, and [551]the cottagers of our now angel friend—we ſhould learn to ſpeak of her, as we do of heaven itſelf—with chaſtened pleaſure—yet devoid of grief," continued John, ſighing— "I ſay, my brother, theſe cottagers—and, perhaps, more than theſe—are devolved on you—it would gladden your heart to hear their daily, hourly, enquiries—to ſee the confirmations of their grateful love—and a continuance of all their joys ſhall again be yours."

"My dear, deareſt brother!" exclaimed Henry, embracing him.—"But even the exerciſe of bounty," continued John, "rich as it is in happineſs, cannot wholly occupy an active mind. Short as life is, it will be found too long for every man who wants employment proportioned to his powers. How ſhall I again bring forward what has ſo often been unſucceſsfully propoſed to you? how ſhall I remind you that—while you have generouſly obeyed our bleſſed fa⯑ther in, perhaps, a hard command, you ſtill are diſobedient in regard to another not ſo rigorous?" "I obeyed him according to [552]my promiſe," anſwered Henry, "in all that was poſſible; I reſiſted only that which, even, at the time of the command, was be⯑yond the reach of my obedience—elſe, ſo aweful was the moment, at which I received his laſt commands, and ſo little power had I to advert to myſelf when I beheld him leav⯑ing me for ever, that had a thouſand more ſacrifices been exacted, I ſhould have pro⯑miſed to become the victim of them all." "I do not comprehend you," ſaid John.— "It could not be beyond your power to enter into that profeſſion for which you had been deſigned; and although we all obſerved a negligence in your preparations, I have, for my own part, always imputed it to your former perplexed ſituation, and a too vigor⯑ous purſuit of other ſtudies. There was, in⯑deed, a time when I could not but think your devotion to the muſe interrupted devo⯑tion of a higher kind." "Never! God forbid!" anſwered Henry. "I truſt," re⯑ſumed John, "you did not withdraw from the ſacred path in which your father walked with ſo much honour, to compliment the [553]faith of any other perſon, however dear the object."

Henry ſprung up in his bed, withdrawing his hand with ſome force from the claſp of his brother. "Compliment away my faith! fie, fie!—no, ſir!—no, John!" ſaid he,— "nor would the object to whom you alluded have accepted—ſhe would have ſpurned the compliment—ſcorned the man who could inſult her with the offer." John was ex⯑tremely moved. "Forgive, dear Henry, forgive me," ſaid he; "my harſh qualities you perceive are not yet all ſubdued. Let us proceed like brothers, you know the rea⯑ſons which have cloſed my lips on ſubjects that I knew were of deep concern to you: but I did not cloſe my eyes. I have not paſſed over Caroline Stuart, amongſt un⯑heeded things. I have obſerved her in the hours of varied trial, of hard temptation—I have noticed her often willing to yield her life, but never to ſwerve from any of its du⯑ties— I have beheld that life ſinking gradu⯑ally away, againſt all her exerted powers to preſerve it, becauſe its preſervantion was the [554]command of God; even while, for herſelf, exiſtence wanted every comfort of health, and every relief of hope—when, indeed, ſhe repelled hope, becauſe it was errour to harbour, and crime to encourage it." The colonel perceiving his brother much agitated, beſeeched him to hear what he had farther to offer with patience. "In a thouſand points, my Henry," continued he, "this has been the victim which has ſurpaſſed us all in ſuf⯑fering, and in ſuffering well; and I have, for ſome time, ceaſed to wonder at your attach⯑ment, taking into conſideration the early impreſſion by which it was formed: but it was againſt all order, all rectitude, all ſacred laws that I ſhould tell you ſo before."

Here, embracing Henry, he proceeded to inform him how he had contemplated this ſubject—"Thus have I argued," ſaid John, "I have not been unfaithful even to my ſe⯑cond impreſſions, why ſhould my brother be inconſtant to his firſt? and what has a difference of religious belief to do with reli⯑gion itſelf? when I thought oppoſitely to this, did I not think narrowly? did I not [555]think wrong? have I not ſince found the eſſence of devotion the ſame in the catholic father Arthur, and the proteſtant Sir Ar⯑mine? and was not the latter heavily miſ⯑taken in this objection? ſurely, had this been the only one it might have yielded to the diſcuſſions of reaſon and truth. But there were, alas, ſo many others—and ſome ſo horrible"—

"O, my ever generous and good pro⯑tector," interrupted Henry, "it has been my fate through life to be entangled in the mazes of involuntary ſecrets, inevitable myſ⯑teries, another is yet behind, and that had been ſhut up for ever in the few hearts to which it has been confided, had the cauſe continued which made it at firſt, and for ſo many years continued it a private concern to that heart alone. We have all of us had, perhaps, in ſome points, too little domeſtic confidence. The ſecrets of our family have been alſo, ſecrets to ourſelves, and exacted from us by events. Reſerves beget reſerve: though in our perplexed ſtate of general counteraction, the moſt unbounded confi⯑dence [556]would have little availed. No, I did not compliment away my religion, but the faith of her I loved—became MINE."

"Brother!" ejaculated John. "Mine," reſumed Henry, "on contemplation—on choice,—I adopted it in the very conviction of my heart—I obſerved it operate on the age of father Arthur—on the youth of Caroline— and, although, I ſaw the ſame ſpirit, differ⯑ing in a few ceremonials, influence the no leſs pious life of my venerable father, and ſhed grace divine on the conduct of Olivia— I was affected even by the forms which the proteſtant church rejects, and on the day that Caroline Stuart heard my vows of love, I made with my own heart thoſe vows which even to this day ſhe has not heard, that our religion ſhould be one. Hence my long poſtponement—againſt all remonſtrance—du⯑ring the life-time of my father, of carrying into effect one part of his plan for me, although I did not deem it right—when I found communication would only have em⯑bittered the remains of his life—to betray my ſecret."

[557]"Then you are catholic," ſaid John, "and by whom may you have been proſe⯑lited?" "By no one," anſwered Henry. "To one alone I imparted my feelings." "Father Arthur, I preſume," exclaimed John, ſcornfully. "I am eager for his re⯑ply." "It was brief," cried Henry. "He told me it would violate the ſanctity of his own belief in things moſt holy, were he to diſſuade; and it would trench on his conduct as a neighbour, and a friend of Sir Armine Fitzorton, a diſtinguiſhed member of the church of England, to countenance what I had confided: 'Your confidence in me is ſafe,' ſaid he, 'but I can give no council." "I had my fears," cried John. "I am glad I wronged him. O, if you thought him acceſſary to my reſolves, you did, in⯑deed, wrong him." anſwered Henry—"I urged him to tell me if he thought I was proceeding in the right path?" 'I truſt in God we are all doing ſo,' he anſwered. "I importuned him to admit me to his chapel at his hours of prayer. 'You preſs me hardly, youth,' ſaid he. 'I will not invite: I dare [558]not exclude. The temple in which your pious father adores the Almighty, would not be ſhut againſt a catholic ſupplicant, who might wiſh to enter. Can I cloſe the door of mine upon a proteſtant votary?"

"Noble Arthur, Then you are not in verity a papiſt?" queſtioned John.

"In verity?" anſwered Henry, "what call you truth? Is it not from within? What mean you by vows? Do the words and external ſigns by which they are ex⯑preſſed, make them bonds, or give them ſanctity?"

Henry took from under his pillow a cruci⯑fix, and then reſumed his queſtions.

"Derive thoſe vows any hallowed potency from this frail image of him, to whoſe real eſſence they were offered? Are they not all conſecrated by the heart? As I was not abſolutely baniſhed from the chapel I at⯑tended, though, I am aſhamed to ſay, by ſtealth, both its matin and veſper duties. The monk one day demanded, If I had yet conſulted with Sir Armine? I owned that I knew his ſteadineſs of faith too well to [559]dare communicate. "I dare," anſwered the monk. But on my promiſing, that before I again joined his congregation in that way, my father's conſent ſhould be attain⯑ed, or I would bring proof it ſhould be no longer expedient to ſolicit it: he was ſilent on the ſubject. I withdrew, however, from all public forms, and communed only with myſelf. My nuptials, no longer to be poſt⯑poned, and impoſſible to be prevented, took place. I yielded up every thing in that hour—that moment—but what I could not change—my love and my religion. Thoſe were in the ſanctuary of my own heart. Excuſe, brother, this prolixity: the occa⯑ſion claims it—and it unfolds to you a thou⯑ſand myſteries in my conduct. Reſpect my ſincerity, ſhould you blame my election: I am no example to others, but I am true to my own belief.

"God knows," replied John, "which of us is moſt in the right: but it is clear to me, that, although I give you full credit for your feelings—and pity from my ſoul [560]all you muſt have ſuffered to conceal them, it appears very clear, that had Caroline Stuart been a proteſtant, you would never have been a catholic. We will not, how⯑ever, diſcuſs the point farther; for I am brought round to what I at firſt propoſed to mention, by a very circuitous way. It has pleaſed the Omnipotent, my brother, to remove many apparently inſuperable im⯑pediments; and the moſt inauſpicious paſſion that, perhaps, the human heart ever ſet out with; as its only hope in the morning of life, has riſen above ſeveral of the darkeſt clouds in the noon of your days. There is every reaſon to believe a renewal of your affections, now they may be innocently of⯑fered, would not be unacceptable to her, for whom, doubtleſs, your love can eaſily be revived."—"Revived," exclaimed Henry,

"I will have one of my ſolitary think⯑ings on this matter," reſumed John, ſmil⯑ing, but his face pallid, and care upon his brow. "Meantime be aſſured that I ſhall not allow you to ſuffer any pain, or forego [561]any pleaſure, when it is conſiſtent, and within my power to prevent the one and pro⯑mote the other."

By ſuch means was Henry relieved from the laſt, and one of the moſt burthenſome myſteries that had ever hung upon his heart; and thus too, were again opened proſpects, on which he had not even dared to caſt his eyes, or voluntarily fix his thoughts, for many years.

It was amongſt his brother John's max⯑ims, never to hint a promiſe without good likelihood of its being in his power to per⯑form it, and as the reſult of his meditation on the above ſubject, was a belief that Henry Fitzorton and Caroline Stuart, after all their ſacrifices and ſufferings, deſerved to come together; and as their union no longer ſeemed to oppoſe any other duty, could not, he hoped, be offenſive even to the ſpirits of his father, or of Olivia, which if con⯑ſcious of the projecting deſign, were con⯑ſcious, alſo, of the long reverence ſhewn to, and, at length, the honourable removal of, every former barrier. As the laſt balm, [562]therefore, which could be poured over his own wounds, John ſet on foot a treaty, with the aſſiſtance of the lieutenant, that might at length heal thoſe of his brother and friend.

CHAPTER LVI.

IN purſuance of this plan, he wrote to father Arthur a letter, of which Charles Stuart himſelf promiſed to be the bearer:

The generous writer of this epiſtle looked upon the object it was intended to accom⯑pliſh, as ſo nearly a good obtained, that he could not withhold its contents from Henry, becauſe they would, in effect, con⯑vey his own ſentiments, while they ſanc⯑tioned thoſe of his brother. The lieute⯑nant was, therefore, diſpatched to Henry's room; and after the two friends had con⯑ferred, no time was loſt in preparations, or in performance of the journey. True George, now ſeeing his maſter make rapid advances towards health, ſupplicated to be [565]the lieutenant's attendant, and the next morning they ſet out.

But while the houſe of Fitzorton had been, alternately, the reſidence of hope and fear, and every extreme of ſorrow and of joy; in the refuge of Arthur—in an obſcure nook of the world—the moſt ſerious and important events had taken place. Alas! where is that corner of the globe exempt from changes of which the globe itſelf is the victim?

On the arrival of the lieutenant and True George at the iſland receſs, to which they paſſed immediately from Dartmouth, nei⯑ther Arthur nor Caroline were to be found. The landlord had taken poſſeſſion of his houſe; and from him, our aſtoniſhed tra⯑vellers underſtood that "his reverence, and the family, had left the iſland finally, about ſix weeks ago. That the lady Caro⯑line had departed a month before, but that the monk came to fetch his young black, and his old ſteward, and the little old dog, they all made ſo much of; and to give up the houſe, paying, however, the rent to the [566]uttermoſt farthing." "And whither are they gone?" queſtioned the lieutenant.— "Why, your honour," anſwered the land⯑lord, taking a ſlip of paper from his poc⯑ket-book, this is the place, where I was, as occaſion ſerved, to ſend letters; but though all them, pointing to a pacquet in the parlour window, have arrived, no op⯑portunity of forwarding them has happened ſince his reverence went laſt away." The lieutenant now ſaw letters in the characters of Mrs. Herbert and Johanna, and read with increaſed amazement, the following addreſs, in the monk's own hand-writing: 'Pere Arthur, maiſon de poſte a Coutance, Bas Normandie.' While Charles was reflect⯑ing what could poſſibly be the motive that directed them to that part of the world, and without having confided in any of their mutual friends, or in himſelf as a brother, a letter, which had juſt come in by the Engliſh packet, was delivered to him containing theſe words:

The encloſure alluded to conveyed intel⯑ligence which required diſpatch indeed. It informed the lieutenant of a circumſtance the very date of which ſhook his whole frame on the firſt glance, and when he had haſtily put it under a cover for the caſtle, to go by the returning mail, he en⯑quired on the quay after the poſſible means of getting to the coaſt of France? A veſſel which had come in a few days before from St. Malo's, was to return by way of Coutance when the wind would permit, but it was not till after waiting ten [568]days—ten fatal days—in the moſt anxious ſuſpenſe that the veſſel could get out of the harbour; a favourable breeze, however, at length, ſprung up, and they got to ſea, and the gale increaſing, they gained the long deſired port.

The moment after Charles and his attend⯑ant had reached the land, they deſired one of the porters whom they ſaw on the beach, to conduct them to the Poſt-office in the direction, which correſponded with what was given in the letter, and after a few minutes' walking they came to the Priory-houſe, where they found the ſtill blameleſs Prieſt with his Indian, and old Denniſon ſitting beſide him. "My ſon," ſaid father Arthur, "I expected you would follow our letter, and I am glad at heart to find by your appearing amongſt us, it has been received." "I will not," obſerved the agitated Charles, "I come not, to queſ⯑tion your judgment or your wiſdom,—I come only to aſk, why you have withheld from me a circumſtance, or any previous knowledge, on which the happineſs of a [569]ſiſter, and perhaps the life of my boſom-friend entirely depend? But there is no time for words: let me implore you by whatever is moſt holy, to ſtop your raſh proceedings!"—"What you call raſhneſs," exclaimed Arthur, "is in itſelf moſt holy, and temerity would conſiſt in the conduct you recommend. I thought your ſiſter had ſtated her duty, yours, and my own, in the letter which you acknowledge to have re⯑ceived, —ſhe there told you under what authority I acted,—I am ſorry to find you diſpute it."—"Talk not to me of authori⯑ties, ſir!" demanded the lieutenant, yielding to the impetuoſity of his character, and forgetting for a moment to whom he ſpoke— "Where is my ſiſter?"—"She is under protection," replied Arthur.—"I thought, ſir, I was her only natural protector!" re⯑ſumed Charles, "under whom could ſhe be more ſecure?"—"Under his whom ſhe has ſought," returned the Monk, "under that of her God. Slightly muſt you have peruſed what either ſhe or I have written, or elſe [570]you would bluſh, would tremble to aſk that queſtion."

"How could I hear of my ſiſter's having clandeſtinely, and by your connivance, ſhut herſelf up within the walls of a cloyſter?— from thence was her cruel letter dated. I had not patience to read the dire particu⯑lars; —at ſuch a moment too,—miſguided girl! when, but for this abhorred ſecluſion, we might all have been happy."—"I under⯑ſtand you not," ſaid Arthur, "what moment, and what happineſs? I aſſert, young man, that had you paid due reſpect to my greet⯑ing, it would have made known to you the aweful calls upon me, to accompany your ſiſter from the place of her former refuge to one yet more ſacred, you would there have been taught to pay more reſpect to her motives of devoting herſelf, and to mine in conducting her to the cloyſter; but there ſhe muſt remain. I know my duty, and will maintain it."

The door of the houſe had been left un⯑cloſed on entrance of the lieutenant, while the father, with an expoſtulating, deter⯑mined, [571]and ſomewhat of a rebuking voice, was pronouncing the laſt ſentence, another voice, which was in an inſtant known to be that of Henry Fitzorton, ejaculated— "Cloyſter!"—"O, holy man!" interpoſed a third voice, which proceeded from the colonel, "thoſe motives are reſpected,— reſpected even by this, my poor diſeaſed, diſtracted brother, even though he is, alas! their ſacrifice."—"Cloyſter! Is ſhe then already entombed?" reiterated Henry, who now fell into the arms of True George, while Denniſon and Floreſco, Charles, the colonel and the apothecary, and father Arthur, haſted to his relief. "Alas!" ſaid the colonel, "from your anxiety, Charles, to convey the tidings of Caroline's deſtiny, to your friends at Fitzorton, you directed your pacquet to Henry inſtead of John, and all was abruptly diſcovered; my poor brother was then ſtruggling with the rem⯑nant of his diſorder, but perſiſted on taking an immediate journey and voyage to this place, and in relief of his deſpair, we have all followed. Alas! his preſent ſituation too [572]plainly proves our efforts have been vain." —"My dear maſter revives," cried True George, interrupting John's relation.— "She is loſt then!" ſaid Henry, "even in the moment when miracles appeared to have been wrought to ſave us both!" His paroxyſm now returned, and at the inſtance of Mr. Burton he was conducted by the attendants to Denniſon's own bed, while the afflicted colonel proceeded to in⯑form Arthur, that no entreaties could diſ⯑ſuade his brother Henry from coming over, that he was even frantic at oppoſition, proteſt⯑ing that if he arrived too late, his death near the wall where Caroline had ſhut herſelf eter⯑nally from him, would be his whole wiſh, and if he was proſperous in his journey, that proſperity would be his cure. "There was no reaſoning with an inſane, who ſet his life at naught," ſaid the colonel, "I ſaw him deſperate, and to avoid ſomething more immediately fatal, I was engaged by our good apothecary's counſel in an act of deſpera⯑tion. We hurried to the proper port, where finding no veſſel deſtined for France, [573]we hired a fiſhing-boat, and like deſpairing adventurers, we truſted ourſelves to a troub⯑led ſea under no one auſpices of happy for⯑tune, but that the wind, though turbulent, was fair:—and we are come ſafe,—alas! to what end?—Caroline is in her cell!"—"It is indeed true," anſwered the wondering Arthur, "Caroline has devoted herſelf; and when ſhe entered her convent I did not think, ſir, that any poſſible event of this world would make me heave a ſigh at what ſhe has felt it right to do; and, although I grieve, even from my utmoſt ſoul, that my ever-reſpected Henry ſhould be thus wrought upon,—the whole maſs of things I ſee and hear, with reſpect to his happineſs with Caroline Stuart,—your coun⯑tenance of that connexion,—the intempe⯑rate, —I had almoſt ſaid, the indecent rage of the lieutenant, are ſo ſtrange, new, inconſiſtent, and apparently impoſſible, that a more extraordinary myſtery than has ever yet involved us, is now before my eyes."

[574]"Our letters muſt ſurely have informed you," ſaid John.

"I have received ſome from the caſtle," interpoſed the monk, "and ſo has the de⯑voted Caroline; but when her reſolution was once formed, I deemed it prudent, not to intrude upon her any thing of a nature too intereſting in regard to the world, of which ſhe deſired to take an eternal leave, ſo that for many of the paſt months, we are both utterly ignorant of every occurrence which may have taken place either at the abbey or the caſtle."— "Gracious heaven!" exclaimed John,— "then you know not, perhaps, that Olivia—"

The lieutenant came into the room ſaying, his friend was more compoſed, and wiſhed earneſtly to confer with father Arthur in his chamber; "but I cannot," ſaid Charles, "ſuffer him to depart until I have thus in the humbleſt manner ſupplicated forgiveneſs for my late ungoverned rage." "That rage has chaſtiſed itſelf," ſaid the holy man, ſtretch⯑ing forth his hands to receive the folded ones [575]of Charles; "ſhall not a loving father forgive his child an offence which ſorrow and affection cauſed?" They embraced, and the lieutenant delivered the letters he had brought from the receſs. "Oh! had I received theſe, and read ſome former ones ſooner," obſerved Arthur, ſighing, "ſome⯑thing might have been avoided. Still all is myſtery. Return to your ſuffering friend, my child, and tell him I will peruſe my letters, and attend him. It were wicked to deceive, and therefore touch not the theme that may lead him to deluſion. I crave your promiſe, colonel, ſomewhat longer, to guide me through a labyrinth to whoſe mazes I have yet no clue." "I will but accompany the lieutenant into my brother's room, and return," ſaid the colonel. But the papers delivered, ſoon dilated the train of incidents. The myſteries were explained, but the regrets were multiplied. John Fitzorton came back. "Alas!" ſaid Ar⯑thur, "what combination has been formed againſt us! or rather, my friend, how ſhort is the foreſight? how frail the wiſdom [576]of mortals to pronounce what is moſt for their happineſs! I ſigh, ſir; mine eyes have wept at what I have already ſeen,— my heart ſwells while I ſpeak, yet I know not how I may offend the all-diſpoſer, by thus lamenting his heavenly will;—ah! who ſhall dare to ſay that the ſeemingly agonizing turns of life, the heavieſt depri⯑vations of death, the early aſcenſion of Olivia to heaven, and the eternal retire⯑ment of Caroline from the world, are not bleſſings at which we ſhould rejoice, and at which it is impious to repine?"

Henry had deſired True George, and the lieutenant, to lead him to Arthur immediately on the colonel's leaving the room, ſo that he came into the parlour time enough to hear great part of what the holy father had ſaid. He attempted not to controvert the reaſon⯑ing; he diſputed not the piety of the re⯑flections, but faint, weak, and deſpairing, he implored Arthur to ſave him if it were yet within his power—"And if it be not," exclaimed the unfortunate, "I have a thought which I hope, without outrage to God or [577]man, I may indulge—'tis my only alterna⯑tive: yet it ſhall be done. Father I am reſolved."

This was uttered betwixt wildneſs, and collected ſolemnity, but the effect was awe⯑ful. "Hear me with fortitude and patience," ſaid Arthur, addreſſing himſelf to Henry, after a profound pauſe—"all that I can I will. There is but one being whom I would ſerve and obey with more willingneſs than Henry Fitzorton. The meek and pious Caroline Stuart, for the reaſons ſhe has aſ⯑ſigned, has withdrawn herſelf from the world: ſhe has nearly performed her novi⯑tiate. Her year of probation expires on the morrow." "The morrow!" exclaimed Henry—"Even ſo my child—we are in the eve of everlaſting ſecluſion," ſaid Arthur. "O God!" cried Henry— "She has already ſignified her ſolemn intention to take the veil, and is upon the point of pronouncing her vows." Henry could ſcarcely be held from ſinking to the ground, though Denniſon and Floreſco were aſſiſting True George to ſupport him: for the lieutenant was hardly [578]able to ſuſtain himſelf: and John was un⯑uſually diſturbed. "This night, however, at the twelfth hour I am to meet her in the con⯑feſſional after midnight prayers: I have here a copy of her profeſſion of faith. Indulge not theſe falſe hopes, ſhould ſhe ſtand ſolemnly fixed to her purpoſe. I will not, dare not, inter⯑rupt it." Henry chilled with horror. "But there are yet ſome hours betwixt the prepa⯑ration and the act," ſaid the monk: "the choice of becoming a recluſe, or of return⯑ing to the world is ſtill left her; and although it is unuſually late to place even in the view of a devotee any temporal ſcenes or ob⯑jects, that may lead her back to ſublunary feelings—and ſtill more uncommon for her confeſſor to bring them under her eyes, I ſtill hold it innocent to let her know that great and extraordinary events have taken place at Fitzorton caſtle.—Nay, I will offer her the peruſal of her benefactor the colonel's letter, and then leave her ſpirit free to act upon the whole of the circumſtances. It is a caſe of affliction and of love, my children, apart from all others I have known, and I [579]will ſhew it peculiar indulgence. But I muſt inhibit all effuſions of paſſion, and expect you will all remain unobſerved, and undiſ⯑covered, in this houſe, which I have bor⯑rowed of my ancient friend, the abbot of the priory. Yet remember Caroline Stuart has, for twelve hard-tried months, conformed to an order not lenient, though not rigorous: ſhe is preparing to embrace yet more auſteri⯑ties. She is even now to be looked upon as a being nearly out of the pale of terreſtrial things. I muſt not have her ſenſibility ſeduced. One ſtrong and deciding queſtion ſhall be put to her, even in this the moſt holy, and aweful moment of her life; if ſhe anſwers in favour of the world, ſhe ſhall re⯑ceive no diſcountenance; if ſhe has ſo ſettled her ſteadfaſt ſoul that all earthly objects— even thoſe once moſt precious—have receded from her—and ſuch inſtances are not rare— even in the reign of beauty and of youth I have ſeen them fade away, and become ex⯑tinguiſhed —ſhould that be the caſe with the devoted Caroline, not one perſuaſive word ſhall be uſed by me to over-rule her election. I can [580]no more, my love, my gratitude, and my compaſſion, will have done their utmoſt."

"Hark!" exclaimed Arthur, "that is the clock of her convent. It is only a few paces diſtant from this houſe, a door of the priory opens on it. Liſten. It is the twelfth hour. —I muſt obey its ſummons. Caroline is exact."

The ſounds entered the ſoul of every hearer—and the pious man, after aſſuring his friends he would return to them with a faith⯑ful report, and exhorting them to believe, that whatever direction it might take would be ultimately the beſt, he commended their ſpirits to the angel of peace, and paſſing from the abbot's houſe into the priory, en⯑tered the convent of viſitation where Caro⯑line was encloſed.

CHAPTER LVII.

THE terrors of ſuſpence have been juſtly numbered amongſt the leaſt ſupport⯑able of the miſeries of life. Never could they have been felt more acutely than they [581]were by the ſorrowful ſociety which now filled the houſe which Arthur had borrowed of his epiſcopal friend. Nor could any member of that ſociety offer ſubſtantial conſolation to the other. The aged Denniſon knew that Caroline, had ſhe not been his attendant, nay his nurſe, during a ſickneſs which he himſelf had ſuffered, would have ſecluded herſelf ſome weeks ſooner: Floreſco's honeſt nature could only lead him, in this inſtance, to ſilent prayer—for he had liſtened to his maſter's words, which ſunk into his heart as the words of him whoſe law they expounded: the apothecary and John Fitzorton, were too well acquainted with the conſtancy of Caro⯑line Stuart to ground a reaſonable hope, or, indeed, almoſt to ſuffer any hope, that her confeſſor would repreſent the change of affairs, with ſuch moving circumſtances, as to war⯑rant any change in his devotee. The lieute⯑nant was ſilent, and abaſhed, from a ſenſe of his own former irreverent behaviour:—and Henry, who had long ſince believed no inci⯑dent of the future could exceed, or even equal, the paſt in that ſickneſs of conjecture [582]and of dread, which uncertainty occaſions, now found that the interval betwixt the de⯑parture and the return of the confeſſor from the convent of the confeſſed, was the moſt tremendous point of time in his life. The ſolemn pauſe was variouſly filled up by the expectants. The colonel retired to a remote corner of the room, covered his eyes with his hands, and, except now and then ſtarting up to preſs the hand of his brother, remained fixed in thought. Denniſon and Floreſco, ſomewhat relieved themſelves by aſſiſting the ſervant of the houſe to prepare refreſhments. Henry walked backwards and forwards, or ſat abruptly down—now uplifted, and now wrung his hands—but when the table was covered, and he had taken a chair near it to reſt upon one of his arms, he heard a feeble ſound, yet rather of joy than ſadneſs, come from under the table, and in the next inſtant he felt the tongue of the animal, from whom the ſound had iſſued, licking his hand. "Is it poſſible," exclaimed Henry, ſtarting up, "that I ſhould again embrace thee, little Fitz? [583]art thou ſtill alive!—O welcome, welcome! be it a good omen!"

"Yes, him's is alive, poor ickle ting," ſaid Floreſco,—"him only come from miſ⯑ſey's convent the other day—ſee—good ſir ſquire, that is him's ickle bed—all ſatin, and cotton, and wool, as ſoft as him's own ickle old head—do but feel him's; and, lookee, ſir ſquire, him's bed is made by him's lady's—own lady—and him's was brought here in it by maſter, our good, good father Arthur, under him's cloak."

As Floreſco brought forward a light to in⯑ſpect the ſpaniel's bed, Henry knew it to be the ſame which he had ſeen in early days—a device of the dove and the olive, emblems of love and peace, and the initial letters H and C, twined, and yet cautiouſly involved in well-wrought laurel leaves, had, at once, noted and concealed their true hearts' myſ⯑tery. Henry held the candle cloſe to ex⯑amine —"Alas! they are almoſt worn out! See brother—ſee my good old Denniſon, the initials are divided—the H is faintly ſha⯑dowed. Look, it hangs only by a few trem⯑bling [584]threads—even like the hope—the life— of him whom it repreſents—and the once enwreathed C, is gone for ever! Behold! not a trace remains. And why, poor Fitz, wert thou brought hither? Surely, thou wouldeſt have been a ſolace—even a dear companion of thy cloyſtered miſtreſs."— "Alas! for that very reaſon," ſaid Den⯑niſon, "was he reſigned! He too much reminded her of the world—ſhe had made it her duty to forget; and ſhe knew he would here both live and die in peace." Henry was too much affected by the motive of ſend⯑ing the dog out of the convent to attend to any thing more on that ſubject; but another drew all his attention. Denniſon had diſ⯑appeared at the end of his laſt ſpeech, but returned in a few minutes bringing under his arm a ſmall box, on which were written the words— 'Things precious.' "This, my good and dear maſters, contains what I would it were poſſible to return to her who has de⯑poſited them; but ſhould the great and good director of all determine otherwiſe, they are to be diſpoſed of according to my lady [585]Caroline's written requeſts within." Henry eagerly, yet fearfully opened the lid—and as well as agitation, too big for words, would permit, he inſpected the contents; ſome of which—for all, were ſeparate and appropri⯑ated —were directed to her brother, amongſt theſe were the miniature gifts of her mother, mentioned in a former part of this hiſtory, and ſome other reliques of her family. Some were addreſſed to Mrs. Herbert, ſome to Johanna—ſome to Olivia, others to Arthur, to be diſpoſed of for the uſe of her penſion⯑ers, a ſmall packet to each of the apothe⯑cary's family; her watch to Jane Atwood— To John Fitzorton an emblematical deſign of her own painting, repreſenting the Angel of Forgiveneſs receiving from the Angel of Peni⯑tence a ſcroll, on which the words—'Pardon and Friendſhip' were curiouſly tinted, and un⯑derneath the illuſtration of two figures with hands joined, repreſenting their two fathers. At the bottom of the box was found a pacquet ſuperſcribed—"Henry's." He had begun to fear that, amongſt theſe ſolemn arrange⯑ments, [586]he ſhould find no memorial for him⯑ſelf; and though it is but a melancholy evidence of good will to receive on ſuch occaſions, the heart feels an aggravation of its woe to be left without its tribute. He opened it in haſte, and perceived very ſtriking reſemblances of Olivia and both his children cut out with ſciſſars, from a remembrance, and a ſtrong impreſſion of their features—a few lines were written in the envelope, which covered this little gift.— "May the beſt of men live long to bleſs the beſt of women, and of wives! the lovelieſt of children!—the nobleſt of brothers!— ſuch ſhall unceaſingly be the prayer of the heaven-devoted Caroline Stuart!" "But, I fear, I have done what I ought not," ſaid Denniſon—"theſe were not to be forwarded to any of the parties concerned till after to⯑morrow:" —"To-morrow!" cried Henry,— "when my lady Caroline had paſſed her vow," reſumed Denniſon,—"then, too, I was to have ſent to my dear maſter, the lieu⯑tenant, his ſiſter's laſt will and teſtament, [587]wherein ſhe has done all things worthy of her; and though ſhe has appointed her brother to ſee her general loving kindneſs fulfilled, ſhe has named ſquire Henry, and madam Olivia, to diſtribute her bounty to her penſioners; and, as I cannot expect, indeed, as I do not wiſh," ſaid the veteran, "to live long in the world after ſhe has bid it farewell, if that ſhould be God's good pleaſure, I mean that my little modicums ſhould go in the ſame channel, pleaſe your honours—yet I wiſh I had not mentioned theſe things now, as I ſee it has diſtreſſed us, though I thought, while his reverence was gone to know our fate, it might make us leſs ſorrowful to obſerve how my lady, whom we all know and love, has ordered every thing for her friends in the world, even as if her convent was her cof⯑fin, and, to be ſure, it is pretty much the ſame ſort of matter." It is certain, Denniſon could not have related a more unlikely ſet of occurrences to exhilarate the ſpirits of his drooping friends, as, indeed, the tremblings which ſeized his own aged limbs, and the tears which fell from his old eyes, might teſ⯑tify, [588]yet he meant it all in love. "There's not a doubt remaining," ſaid Henry, "all is over!—theſe are proofs." "And if they be, we muſt learn to reſign," anſwered John Fitzorton. "We muſt not be unworthy the example of a tender, ſolitary, ſelf-ſuſtaining young woman—arouſe, my brother: let us again examine, and with the minds of men and of chriſtians, the arguments of her whom we thus mourn after and arraign. Her own explanations of herſelf have not even yet been duly attended to. We received them in the hour of confuſion, and read them in that of terrour and deſpair." The colonel, conceiving the peruſal of Caroline's letter might now produce a good effect on them all, read it aloud, holding his dejected brother by the hand. It was addreſſed to—

This letter was regarded by every one as a ſort of funeral oration drawn up immediately before the deceaſe of the orator, and there was but one ſentiment about it,—viz. that Caroline Stuart was irrevocably devoted.

CHAPTER LVIII.

MEANTIME the good father Arthur joined fervently in the midnight prayers of the convent, fitting his ſoul for every pious work. He ſupplicated for that power of impartial judgment, and of equal miniſtra⯑tion, that, while it removes the miſts of ſenſe, and elevates the ſpirit beyond the ſeduction of mortal things, extinguiſhes not the prin⯑ciple of humanity, which even in the boſom of holineſs, reminds us we are men: and after remaining in the chapel till the nuns and ſiſters were gone, each to her humble cham⯑ber, he repaired to the confeſſional.

Caroline was already there kneeling before figures of the Virgin, and of her immortal Son. Her countenance was marked by awe, mingled with ſerenity. She appeared to have ſubdued thoſe heavy conflicts of the ſoul, which uſually precede the ſolemn act of re⯑nouncing the world, while we are conſcious there remains in it many objects precious to [593]the human affections; even her health ap⯑peared to have regained ſome force, from the ſtrength of her mind, which had been for ſo long a time cultivating habits, and imitating examples, of acquieſcence and tranquillity.— The ſacred images of the great prototype of all meekneſs, and the pureſt patron of all reſignation—"the man of ſorrows, and ac⯑quainted with grief,"—were perpetually placed in her view. She ſaw, in every compartment of the convent, his hallowed figure, exhibit⯑ing at once mildneſs and reſolution, the ſpear goring his ſide, the thorns platted round his brow, and the nails piercing his feet. By this example of perfect obedience, ſhe had been modelling her own—and, even as the holy father entered, ſhe was reciting aloud, while her eye fixed on the ſhadowed form of Him, whoſe unſpotted hands, though faſten⯑ed to the croſs, had been inceſſantly ſtretched out to diſpenſe bleſſings, and whoſe aſſiduous feet, though rivetted to the tree, always went about doing good.

"Come then, my ſoul, devote thyſelf to that dying Saviour! cover thyſelf under the [594]wings of his redeeming love! Take ſanctuary under that tree of life, and fly for ſafety to that city of refuge, opened in his wounds!— employ the wakeful night, even as he em⯑ployed it, in ardent prayer for the happineſs of all the good, and pradon of all who have ſelt their errour! O, arm me with thy forti⯑tude as with thy benevolence, that when the ſun ſhall be arreſted in his career, the ſolid ſtructure of the earth daſhed to pieces, and the heavens themſelves be rent aſunder!—the fates of all mankind hanging on the very point of an irreverſible deciſion, I may be⯑hold the convulſions of expiring nature with compoſure, and rejoicing with myriads more— and, ah! may all whom I have ever loved or pitied be amongſt theſe—welcome the con⯑ſummation of all things!"

She roſe to receive Arthur, when ſhe had cloſed her meditation. "My dear, my vir⯑tuous, my ever, ever-beloved child," ſaid the ſacred man—"the great and deciſive moment of your exiſtence is at hand: I will not aſk if you are fitted to meet it, for your life has been one of voluntary diſcipline, and [595]earneſt preparation." "I hope it has, and I look forward to the ceremony which is this morning to take place, with a complacence that augments as that hour comes nearer." The father began to confeſs her, and finding in all her reſponſes and avowals, as to the ordi⯑nary queſtions, he began to fulfil the pro⯑miſe he had made to the friends he had left at the priory. "All this is well," obſerved Arthur, "but tell me, daughter, if the mo⯑tives, laudable as they were, which led thee to the refuge of theſe ſheltering walls, were removed"—"Ought my ſacred friend," interrupted Caroline, "to propoſe a queſtion which revives ſuch themes, at ſuch a mo⯑ment? father, my motives remain, and the reſolves formed upon them are, even like them, immovable."

"But if," proceeded Arthur, "they were all removed, by him to whom the ſteadfaſt mountain is as the bending ſhrub that trembles at its baſe—if that power by whom the fabric of the univerſe changes its place, or diſſolves to the touch—if he ſhould have prepared for my daughter, that peace [596]in the world, which ſhe has ſought in leav⯑ing it"—

The confeſſor pauſed, but the confeſſed was ſilent.

"If," reſumed the former, "one of thoſe beings, in guard of whoſe felicity thou art become a ſiſter of this ſanctuary, ſhould long ſince have aſcended to heaven, yet uſed the lateſt moments of her happy life"—

"Olivia dead!" ejaculated Caroline.

"To expreſs," continued Arthur, "that circumſtances would allow her children to find a ſecond mother in her friend"—

"O, they will find her in many friends!" cried Caroline.—"And that friend was de⯑ſcribed to be Caroline Stuart," obſerved the father—"how then would ſhe determine?"

"According to the principles of her own unſhaken faith, which never would inter⯑rupt thoſe of the proteſtant father of pro⯑teſtant children. I bow, weepingly, to the Providence that has diſpoſed of Olivia Fitz⯑orton, but my motives, good father, extended to the religion of all her ſurvivors: ſpare then, unneceſſary diſcuſſion, and ſuffer me to [597]employ the few intermediate hours, in re⯑gaining that ſerenity you have diſturbed, that I may render my vows with unmixed ſatisfaction."

"Be it ſo, my child, retire to thy place of repoſe, and of meditation, there examine the great and momentous truths which theſe papers will convey—there commune with thine own heart—and if on the evidence of thoſe truths, it no longer appears a meaſure of wiſdom or of piety to circumſcribe thy powers of conferring happineſs, and of doing good, to the narrow bounds of this holy place, thou wilt order its gates to uncloſe, and either meet me at the priory houſe, where I will abide thy coming, or ſend to me the ſummons to attend the ceremony of thy eternal vows."

The blameleſs father led her out of the confeſſional into the convent, and feeling that he had no power of aſſiſting her choice, he bleſſed her, and departed.

CHAPTER LIX.

WHEN father Arthur returned to his friends, he found that none of them had re⯑tired to reſt, nor even ſat down to any re⯑freſhment; but that every one was wound up by expectation and ſolicitude to the high⯑eſt pitch of thoſe corroding powers: he ſaluted them with his wonted benignity, but, alas! he was inveſted with no authority to put an end to their ſuſpence. He offered, however, in relief of it, a faithful detail of what had paſt in the confeſſional: with firmneſs, he gave the feelings of the recluſe, and concluded by obſerving, that he had left in her hands, not only the letter which had been brought by the lieutenant from the colonel, but all the other pacquets which had been collecting, whether kept back by diſcretion, or retarded by accident; "in ſhort," ſaid the pious father, "I have deli⯑vered to her contemplation all that it was proper for her to know, and concealed only [599]what might have unduly influenced her elec⯑tion." As he finiſhed his account, there was ſtill left ſufficient to torture and to ap⯑peaſe conjecture; ſolemn ſilence, invaded only by the ſighs of Henry, prevailed throughout the aſſembly. Arthur threw a beam of ſun-ſhine over the proſpect, by ob⯑ſerving, that though in no degree receding from her point, ſhe gave her utmoſt atten⯑tion to all he had to report, and that while ſhe preſerved unwarped the ſobriety of her mind, ſhe diſplayed and made no attempt to repel the ſenſibility of her heart: and in that juſt poiſe of faculty and feeling—the moſt to be deſired, when an aweful deciſion is to be made,—he ſaid, he left her.

For the firſt time ſince his entrance into the abbot's houſe, Henry ſmiled, as if he caught a paſſing ray from that far diſtant, yet cheering hope: the good father ven⯑tured to clear the proſpect yet more: the generous Denniſon whiſpered Henry, that his honour ſhould conſider that firſt love was not ſoon forgotten. The kind Floreſco, al⯑moſt imperceptibly approaching the only [600]diſengaged ear of Henry, Denniſon remaining at the other—humbly remarked "that the good God had taken away poor ickle negro⯑man's dear heart—dear Loraida, and yet good father Arthur had made him tink God is good God ſtill, ſo ickle negroman only tries to make him's ſoul like white chriſtian man's ſoul, that him may ſee hims only love in happy place."—The lieutenant held one of the hands of his friend, and often preſſed it to his boſom. The colonel took the other, from time to time whiſpering—"Let what will be the iſſue, remember me!" Thus partly by remonſtrance, and partly by hope, though each was ſlight yet, as the ſpark if nurſed cautiouſly, and ſupplied, will afford ſome warmth, and ſome light, even if it baffles all care in the end, Henry ſuf⯑fered himſelf awhile to be comforted; inſo⯑much that Arthur perſuaded him to ſet his friends a ſocial example by ſitting down to the humble repaſt.

The morning hours, however, chaſed one another away without producing any ſort o [...] reply from the devotee; the day had already [601]dawned. Every vigilant eye and watchful ear of Arthur's party remained uncloſed. Even the good father himſelf, whoſe attem⯑pered ſpirit had been long armed againſt the power of the general invaders of our brief life's tranquillity, was too ſincerely intereſted in the event of Caroline's deciſion, to court that repoſe, or indeed, to partake of that re⯑freſhment, which health and virtue rarely denied him: and although he had bleſſed the board, and he regarded as his children all that were aſſembled, the viands were ſerved, but untaſted.

In the meantime, the fair devout was em⯑ployed in contemplations of the higheſt im⯑port. When ſhe had reached her cell—and never did veſtal enter with a purer ſpirit, and ſomewhat reſumed herſelf, ſhe ſat down by her lamp, not diſcompoſed, nor yet diſ⯑ordered. She opened the papers which Ar⯑thur had left with her, not with an unſteady hand, yet not without ſomething of tremor. Preſſing her croſs, and bending to her cruci⯑fix, ſhe roſe haſtily, and kneeling down, ſought ſupport from him who alone can give [602]it. She returned to her ſeat, and unfolding all the letters without heſitation, took up one at hazard; it happened to be that which John had entruſted to the conveyance of her bro⯑ther, a peruſal of which, indeed, rendered the reſt iterative and ſuperfluous. As we truſt that it has not left the reader's memory, we ſhall only note that after having read it thrice, ſhe ſat ruminating on the varied wonders it contained.

She reſumed once more the ſame letter, and although generally impreſſive, one paſ⯑ſage was particularly dwelt upon, and when ſhe had paid it more attention than the reſt, though, in truth, the point which ſo much engaged her conſiſted but of a ſingle word, ſhe imagined her lamp grew unuſually dim, but after trimming it, ſhe perceived the ob⯑ſtruction of light came from her own eyes, for one of their tears had fallen upon that very word. Almoſt, inſtantly, on her diſ⯑covery of this, ſhe folded up the letter with a reſolved hand, and although ſhe acknow⯑ledged in the ſuperſcription of the others the well-known characters of her long-loſt [603]companions, Mrs. Herbert and Johanna, and one from Charles, her much-loved brother, ſhe wrapt them in the general cover, under which ſhe had received them, and left her cell.

The indeciſive anxieties had ſo accumulated in the minds of the ſociety at the priory, as the broad day came on, that each individual examined the almoſt hopeleſs countenance of the others for relief, and found it not. The eighth hour was ſounded from the convent, and that it had been underſtood was the time appointed for the ceremony. Henry ruſhed out, as he ſaw ſome lay ſiſters paſſing from one of the ſtreets with ſmall baſkets in their hands: Hurrying towards them as they were ringing at the outer gate of the con⯑vent, he obſerved that the baſkets were filled with the flowers of the ſeaſon, to ſtrew the floor of the veſtal as ſhe paſſed to the altar.— He ſeized one of the baſkets, and graſping what it contained in ſilent but profound de⯑ſpair, threw them again into the baſket, which he returned to the aſtoniſhed ſiſter.—

[604]"They are to cover then, eternally, the corpſe of Caroline," exclaimed he. The trem⯑bling ſiſter took refuge within the half-opened gate, which was cloſed again in a moment.

Smiting his breaſt, the forlorn Henry turn⯑ed again towards the door of the houſe, and perceived himſelf ſurrounded by his ſympa⯑thizing friends; but the majeſtic Arthur ex⯑horted him to reſpect the decrees of the Omnipotent, whatever they might ſuggeſt to the perſon he bewailed; obſerving, that if his paſſion was virtuous it would not ſhrink from the trials of virtue; and if the happineſs of Caroline was precious, he would be content to let her purſue it according to the dictate of her own conſcience. "Brother, remember me!" reiterated John. Henry returned into the abbot's houſe, and endea⯑voured to compoſe himſelf—ſtrode along the apartment—took up the poor ſpaniel, which had attempted, in vain, to follow his maſter's irregular movements—and then Henry ſighing over him, placed him on his [605]lap—Seeing Denniſon weep, he dried his tears—aſſured him he was perfectly recon⯑ciled —and ſat himſelf down, and ſobbed with grief. A number of perſons paſſing by the window ſoon caught his attention; throwing open the window, he perceived them dreſſed as for the ſolemnity—and moving towards the convent.—Again, Henry ruſhed forth, he queſtioned one of the aſſembly—they were friends or kindred of the ſiſters, or nuns, who have permiſſion to ſee the ceremony of a novitiate, who is to take the vows—and were fearful of being too late. Some of the viſitors had gained admittance, while the perſon interrogated was ſpeaking. Others were hurrying in. Henry ran forward to the gate of the convent, while it was yet receiv⯑ing the invited gueſts. The notes of the organ, mingling with the chant of ſome prieſts who were juſt arrived in the cloyſters of the convent, ſtruck like thunder on the ear of Henry—he attempted to precipitate himſelf within the portals, but they had received all who were to paſs—and were ſhut a ſecond time againſt him. He ſtruggled to the bell, [606]and rung it—in vain: the moment was paſſ⯑ed —His ſurrounding friends, and the gather⯑ing multitude, ſaved him from daſhing him⯑ſelf with deſperate rage againſt the maſſy nails that projected from the convent gate.— "Hark! hark!" ſaid he,—"the bell tolls; it is the funeral of the barbarous Caroline Stuart!"

While his friends, who had all followed, were conveying him from the aſtoniſhed croud, the gate of the convent was again opened by the portereſs, and a monk iſſuing forth, deſired to be conducted to father Arthur; but ſoon perceiving him; he advanced towards him, exclaiming with a loud voice—"Father, your preſence is immediately demanded in the convent of the viſitation: not a moment may be loſt." Arthur inſtantly accompanied the monk, and the deſpairing Henry, who in⯑diſtinctly heard the ſummons, was too much over-come even to ſtruggle any longer, and was carried, as if ſtiffened by death, into the abbot's houſe.

CHAPTER LX.

No ſooner had father Arthur gained the interior of the convent, than he found the ſiſters, the nuns, the chief prieſt, and St. Seraphina, the ſuperior, ſtanding con⯑fuſed, and in diſorder, in the chapel: every thing was in preparation for the ceremony: the floor ſtrewed, the carpet on which, ac⯑cording to cuſtom, the newly-conſecrated nun was to fall; the neck and head-dreſs to change from the novitiate white veil to the black, appointed to be worn by the nuns of the order, were ready. The belt and beads were placed on the altar, one of the ſiſters was tolling the bell, to give warning to the votary, that the holy aſſociation were wait⯑ing to hear, and to record her vows. As ſoon as Arthur made his appearance, the principal abbeſs came forward to inform him that his preſence was neceſſary, to enforce the obedience of the novice, whom he had recommended to her convent, aſſerting, that [608]ſhe had come forward with objections when it was too late to admit them, and that ſhe had reſiſted every holy authority, and re⯑pelled every ſacred exhortation with a pride and confidence utterly inconſiſtent with a veſtal, and with the meek and unobtruſive demeanour ſhe had obſerved during her whole novitiate. "She has refuſed even to make her appearance," ſaid the abbeſs. As Arthur was about to reply, Caroline herſelf entered the chapel, and bending with unaf⯑fected reverence to the altar, and with due regard to the ſanctity of the place, declared "that ſhe felt the moſt undiſſembled ſorrow that the conduct of one ſhe had ſo long re⯑verenced, and whom ſtill ſhe loved and ho⯑noured, had rendered it neceſſary," ſhe ſaid, "to obtrude herſelf, at ſuch a moment, and in ſuch a preſence, on the judgment of the aſſembly." After this exordium, ſhe informed Arthur, that having peruſed ſome of the papers he had left for her meditation, ſhe had repaired, even ſo early as the fourth hour, to the chamber of Saint Seraphina, whom ſhe found ſtill at her devotions; that [609]ſhe had ſtated with candour the unexpected motives which made it neceſſary to cloſe the terms of her conventual life with the mo⯑ment that cloſed her novitiate—even the moment in which ſhe was making the decla⯑ration —and at the ſame time informed the ſuperior, that although many of the circum⯑ſtances which formed theſe motives, being wholly of a domeſtic and private nature, were too delicate for diſcuſſion, ſhe re⯑ferred her to father Arthur for her juſtifi⯑cation, in demanding the privilege of with⯑holding her vows, and of quitting the ſiſterhood, under his holy protection: hum⯑bly expreſſing a hope that ſhe might leave her embrace and bleſſing with every reſpect⯑ed individual of the community. The preparations were, however, ſuffered to proceed, the right of election was diſputed, and the good and beneficent St. Seraphina, who had been to me," ſaid Caroline, "till that moment, as a friend and a parent, taxed me with caprice, irreverence and impiety."

"It was but her grief," ſaid Arthur, be⯑nignly, "her grief to part from you, my [610]daughter: ſhe felt that ſhe found in your ſociety the endearment of a child, and to be ſuddenly bereaved of it, even in the hour that ſhe had told her heart you would re⯑main with her for the reſt of your life, gave to her zeal, prompted by her affection, an earneſtneſs for which your love and reſpect muſt allow—but ſiſter Seraphina can require only a moment's recollection of herſelf to know that forced vows are unacceptable to the power to whom they are offered—that faith conſtrained encourages hypocriſy, and that every act that chains the mind is impious: our ſiſter is not to learn beſides, that freedom of choice during the year of experiment and probation gives to every votary the power of returning to ſociety, or of remaining ſecluded; and it has often hap⯑pened, as in the caſe before us, that a change of circumſtances warrants a change of conduct; all the virtues, it is true, are like God himſelf, who is their fountain, in⯑variable and eternal; but the ſame principles which, at one time, conduct a novice to the cloyſter may lead her again into the world. [611]I am here to vouch, my ſiſter, that many ſuch circumſtances have ariſen to determine our virtuous daughter to leave this holy manſion: but, in leaving it, ſhe departs not from the bleſſed power to whom it is dedi⯑cated. Siſter Seraphina is not amongſt thoſe miſguided zealots of our perſuaſion, or of any other, who believe that the omnipreſent deity can be ſerved only within the pale of their own convents, or in that of the catholic or proteſtant church. Happier if every wor⯑ſhipper has acceſs to his propér temple; but true religion, my ſiſter knows, like the ſublime ſpirit that inſpires it, is not to be circum⯑ſcribed: the veritable God is to be found, and a temple may be raiſed to him, in every part of his univerſe. Let us not narrow his ſacred preſence, even to that bound, ſince, paſſing the limit of our contracted globe, inſufficient, alas! to fill even our finite idea of the unmeaſured authority and government of his power, his benevolence, and his wiſdom, he ſpreads himſelf over other worlds as incalculable in number, as impartial in the diffuſion of his holy ſpirit: [612]and doubtleſs, in every part of theſe regions, the votary may, with equal ſincerity, and with equal certainty of being heard, erect his altar and offer up his prayer.—This, our daughter," added Arthur, after a ſhort pauſe, "I pledge myſelf, can always be happy in th aſſurance that ſhe is every where in the guard, and under the ſacred eye of her Creator. She has raiſed to his glory a ſhrine in her heart, and were ſhe ſhut out from every other ſanc⯑tuary, and bereft of the ſight of all thoſe holy emblems, figures, and ceremonies, which we humbly truſt are ſymbols as innocent as we find them impreſſive—although, God for⯑bid! we ſhould impoſe them as fetters on our brethren, who have rejected them!—were, I ſay, the good daughter who is ſeparating herſelf from this community, to be ſeparated for ever from the view, alſo, of theſe;—be aſſured, O ſiſter in the faith, ſhe would ſtill be conſcious of being in the preſence of the majeſty of heaven, even as ſhe is at this moment, and her adoration would be every where the ſame."

[613]The ſurrounding aſſembly were much awed, and ſuch as were too bigotted or prejudiced to yield to the matter, were affected by the manner of his harangue. The abbeſs for ſome moments remained ſilent, then going up to Caroline, took her by the hand, and led her to the venerable Franciſcan. "Bro⯑ther," ſaid ſhe, "in reſigning this child to your diſpoſal, I give up one of the pureſt treaſures of my heart: a treaſure, which if I have attempted to preſerve, it is becauſe I could not but deem it too precious to be expoſed again to the perils of the world; haply my ſelf-love may have, alas! mixed with this motive, for ſhe has taught me to feel that a mother's tenderneſs may fill the heart of the patroneſs of a cloyſter,—even as theſe human, and I hope, forgiven tears have filled her eyes."

Touched to the receſſes of her gentle boſom, Caroline folded her arms in the robes of St. Seraphina, as ſhe bent her knee even to the ground; and then moving to the altar, on which were laid the ſeveral em⯑blems of veſtal conſecration, ſhe proſtrated herſelf before the crucifix, and taking up [614]the pall which was ſymbolically to have been thrown over her while ſhe was renouncing the world, "O! till an eternal veil like this," exclaimed ſhe, "ſhall cover my frame, every holy precept I owe to this pious community ſhall form the practice of my life:—and theſe, thou honoured pre⯑ceptor! —and ye, my beloved ſiſterhood! ſhall be joined in every prayer, and min⯑gle in every hope of our everlaſting re⯑union! Such are my ſubſtituted vows:— Accept them, thou who haſt called me hence, in place of thoſe which my ſoul was prepared to offer!" The abbeſs raiſed and embraced her; the nuns received her from the ſuperior; the prayers appointed for her eternal ſecluſion, were now converted into ſpontaneous and fervent aſpirations for her happineſs in the world; every knee was bent; every head was bowed; at length, the abbeſs again made a ſolemn ſurrender of her charge to father Arthur, and Caroline Stuart quitted the convent, followed even to the outer gate by the whole ſiſterhood; ſome of whom had gathered up the flowers which [615]had been ſpread over the carpet, to ſtrew them in the path that again led her into the world. But when ſhe had paſſed the gate and ſaw it cloſing on the attendant train, who for twelve long months had been unto her in⯑deed as ſiſters, and to whom ſhe had been a pure example of reſignation and piety, ſhe caſt on them a parting look which the pure affections of virtuous minds can alone give or receive.

CHAPTER LXI.

ARTHUR had deemed it one of the fair and neceſſary reſerves he had conditioned for, to conceal from Caroline every circum⯑ſtance which might bias her deciſion, or practiſe on her heart; conſequently ſhe had as yet no idea that either her brother or any of her friends were ſo near at hand; and conſcious as he was of the afflicting, but inevitable ſtate in which he had left thoſe, he was anxious to prevent any abrupt diſ⯑covery of the important iſſue of his return to the convent. She was ſtill in her noviti⯑ate [616]dreſs, but as Arthur led her by the priory door, he had opportunity to convey his charge into an interior apartment, of which he always kept the keys; beyond which was a ſmall book-room ſacred to his own con⯑templations, and thither he now reſorted with Caroline.

Seating himſelf beſide her, and in the moſt affectionate manner addreſſing her, he briefly but cautiouſly acquainted her with the ſeveral things he had judged it proper to conceal, and when he had carried his converſation through the ſeveral circumſtances that related to her brother's journey and voyage of fra⯑ternal affection, and the nature and import of his embaſſy from the caſtle, of the pious death of Olivia, and her laſt meſſage of love mingled with wiſhes reſpecting the diſpoſal of her huſband and children, he was proceeding to bring down the intelligence nearer to the moment before them, when Caroline inter⯑poſing, obſerved, that ſhe found all he had been relating, mentioned at length, and with many additional circumſtances in the pacquets with which he had preſented her; [617]confeſſing to him that on the ſtrong oppo⯑ſition of the ſuperior, and the urgence of ſeveral of the ſiſters, that ſhe ſhould ſuffer the ſolemnities of the day to proceed, arguing, amidſt ſighs and tears, that it was an offence to heaven to ſtop them; ſhe had gone back to her cell, and in the profoundeſt ſolitude not only read the letter, which had before thrice paſſed her eye, and which till then ſeemed all-commanding as to the ſteps ſhe ought to take, but that ſhe peruſed and re-peruſed every other paper, to the intent, ſeriouſly and ſacredly of confeſſing the er⯑rour of her deciſion, and blending ſuch confeſſion in her vows, or of being farther convinced her determination to withhold thoſe vows, was ſanctioned by every duty upon earth. "But," ſaid Caroline,— "ſtrengthened by all I read, by all I thought, in the belief that I had decided juſtly, I hope it deſerves a fairer name than the ſelf-willed tenacity which had been imputed to me,— if my reſolve then took a form of reſiſtance which would not have given way to either argument or ſupplication. I was returning [618]to the ſiſterhood to repeat my intentions with renovated force, when I ſaw with the comfort which always attends me in his pre⯑ſence, the friend and guide of my life. You know the reſt."

"Then you are ſufficiently prepared to hear that the lieutenant, though he did not give you thoſe letters, was the bearer of them; that he traced us from our receſs in the happy iſle, to our ſanctuary here; and that finally, he is in this very houſe, attended by your humble, but ever faithful friend, True George."

Although the reader has reaſon to know that, yet, with the name of True George, aſſociated another name ſo very powerful, at this ſingular moment, that ſhe could not help aſking whether ſhe had diſtinctly heard what he ſaid as to her brother's fellow-traveller? "Yes, True George came over with him," replied Arthur, "and ſome others."— "Others!" ſaid Caroline; "Yes, our pro⯑tector the colonel ſoon followed him."— "John Fitzorton!" exclaimed Caroline, dwelling emphatically on the word—John! [619]"how generous, how good, how like himſelf! I hope," ſaid ſhe, heſitating, "he left all his friends, all his family well:—as well, alas! as they can be!" Rightly ſuggeſting that a managed diſcovery of the grand deciſion might be no leſs neceſſary to Henry than to Caroline, the monk haſtened to the room where the caſtle party had been aſſembled. He encountered Floreſco in his way up ſtairs. "Maſſer a-bed," exclaimed the youth, fear⯑fully. The monk aſcended, and ſaw his friends ſurrounding a bed on which they had laid the deſpairing Henry, who had manifeſted ſymp⯑toms which made them for ſome time appre⯑hend the loſs of his ſenſes; but he ſoon became more compoſed, and was ſpeaking coherent⯑ly, when Arthur entered.—"Fear not, my friends," ſaid he, "I perceive a path yet left to ſave me,—one which none of you can blame." He lay ſome time revolving this new image in his mind, or rather recurring to a preconceived deſign, now to be matured. His tranquillity returned in proportion as he made progreſs in his purpoſed plan. At length, with reſolution, he roſe from the [620]bed, and walked backwards and forwards in the room, from time to time aſſuring his friends he was regaining his peace. "I am ſettling my mind," ſaid he, with diſordered accents; he alternately took the hands of his brother and his friend Charles; as he paſſed to and fro, his countenance became more and more ſerene, yet tears fell from his eyes, and he ſighed as he lay down again on the bed. But, at length, recognizing Arthur, he again roſe impetuouſly. "It is unneceſſary to make any report of the event," exclaimed he,— "I will ſpare you the particulars. Caroline Stuart has devoted herſelf—yes, your delay— your ſilence—all which I have ſeen—heard— felt—pronounce my doom. Attend therefore to my ſolemn determinations; nay, interrupt me not,—ſpeak not, I implore you, till I have done. I ſhall want your aſſiſtance, but it is nothing in which your pure ſpirit may not engage; and it is the only point that remains to reſtore my happineſs,—to recon⯑cile my ſoul,—hear then,—I conjure you, to hear me!"—"I will," anſwered the worthy prieſt with energy, as if anticipating Henry's [621]ideas; "but, perhaps, it ſhould be heard with leſs hazard of interruption."

The party would have left the room— "No," cried the monk, "your preſence may be requiſite, but as we ſhall be leſs diſ⯑turbed in one of the lower apartments, I would adviſe if my ſon feels himſelf ſtrong enough"—"Strong enough for every thing," anſwered Henry, wildly—"behold I can walk unſupported." "This way then my ſon, and the reſt of our friends will follow." They now deſcended into the gothick apart⯑ment fronting the ſtreet, where they had be⯑fore aſſembled.

"I have a preſentiment of what revolves in your mind, my ſon," continued the friar, "and will return in a few moments pre⯑pared to give you audience." While Arthur abſented himſelf, Henry's whole ſoul ſeemed to be employed.

The Franciſcan meanwhile returned to Caroline, and found her again peruſing the pacquets, and ſome of that colour which paints the human affections, but which an habitual repreſſion of thoſe affections, and a [622]life ſevere to itſelf, expels gradually, even from the heart, had returned into her cheek.

Arthur judged this to be the moment in which more animating tidings might be ſafely communicated—he extended the pleaſing news, by informing her that he could now promiſe her an interview with her brother, and the humble George, as well as with her friend, John Fitzorton, whenever ſhe was pre⯑pared to admit them. "What preparation can be neceſſary, my good father? I entreat of you to let me this moment attend them— I have obſerved in you an apparent wiſh to procraſtinate, that alarms me:—You replied not to my former apprehenſion as to the health of others of our friends. Neither have I been quite candid. Wherefore ſhould I deal, my good father, with you reſervedly— the motives, cogent and manifold, which have drawn me from the cloyſter ought to be, and are, ſufficient to juſtify all the move⯑ments of my heart—wherefore then have I ſo long forborne a more direct enquiry after Henry Fitzorton? I entreat of you to ſatisfy my ſolicitude about his health—but, perhaps, [623]you wiſh the tidings to come to me from his brother or from the colonel?" "I wiſh it, my deareſt child, to come in a manner the moſt acceptable, and to that end only have I procraſtinated. Henry Fitzorton accom⯑panied the colonel, he too is in the abbot's houſe—his health, perhaps his reaſon, and his life, depend upon his happineſs—his hap⯑pineſs is, I truſt, not remote: he is very near us. I will place you where you ſhall hear what I have told you confirmed; but whatever you may obſerve I call on that obedience which has, invariably, diſtinguiſhed the conduct of my deareſt daughter, to re⯑tain her ſtation, unheard, unſeen, till I give the ſignal, and that ſignal I pledge myſelf ſhall not be delayed beyond the moment even of her own atteſted ſatisfaction." The father re-conducted her from the little book-room to the apartment which joined it, and which was divided from the front parlour where Henry and his friends were aſſembled, only by a ſlight partition, from whence there was a door of communication, and the half of that door was of glaſs ſhaded to the extent [624]of the glazing by a curtain that run upon rings. "Be this your point of unob⯑ſerved obſervation," whiſpered the monk, to the agitated Caroline, as he drew a chair im⯑mediately beſide the curtain. He then went back into the parlour.

Henry had been working up his ſeveral faculties to the bent of his reſolve, and he imagined them to be all in ſo firm a ſtate, that advancing to Arthur on his entrance, he declared aloud his ſteadfaſt purpoſe. "Now then, friend, and holy father, I call upon you in your profeſſional office for that aid which it would be derogatory to your character to refuſe me. In the firſt place, I bequeath the education of my dear children to thoſe I love beſt in the world—ſave one who has this cruel morn precipitated herſelf out of that world—my duty to their angel mother, at whatever price, has been fulfilled—my boſom friend has by a new election regained the path of happineſs—my dear brothers I feel aſſured will remain to ſuſtain the honour of my family, to comfort our poor, and become joint guardians of my little ones—I reſolve then [625]to follow the example of Caroline Stuart ſo far as to dedicate the reſt of my days to monaſtic ſequeſtration; and as the faith I have adopted takes no change from the colour of my deep diſappointments, but will, I truſt, in time, enable me to ſupport and ſur⯑vive them—to ſurmount them is beyond my hope, beyond even my wiſh,—I determine to join myſelf to the fraternity of which you, my reverend father, are a member, even to the holy brotherhood of St. Francis. I am not to learn that a neighbouring monaſtery, even in Coutance, is ſacred to that thrice⯑bleſſed ſaint; and it will ſoothe me to be near my Caroline, although the eternal walls, even when heaven itſelf which had ſet us free, ſhall then again throw over us inextricable chains. Seek not, O my brother and my friends, to oppoſe me in this immovable reſolve —place not as obſtacles before its execution the dear, dear objects of my paternal love— objects which are even new incentives to proſecute my deſign—were I deſtitute of John and James Fitzorton I might ſtruggle ſtill in the weary pilgrimage of the world, [626]but to them I can confide my treaſures, and, alas! I feel that neither by precept nor ex⯑ample, could their ill-fated parent any longer aſſiſt their youth; and the affection of their uncles ſhall ſoon obliviate all memory of their unhappy father."

Perceiving the colonel had been throwing over the whole of this propoſition the moſt formidable frown, and that he was coming forward with arguments which would deſtroy his project, "Brother," continued the con⯑ſcious Henry, "I ſee that you diſapprove my plan, and that other of my friends de⯑plore it, but in this one point behold me in⯑exorable. Receive, then, as ſolemn pledges of my conſidence in you, the ſon and daughter of a man reſolved to quit the world—you cannot, dare not, refuſe me. Guard for them my fortunes. Everlaſtingly ſhall they and their protectors, and all preſent, and all ab⯑ſent, who have a claim on my heart, be in⯑cluded in my prayers!" An audible and ex⯑clamatory ſigh broke from the oppoſite room: ſuch of the company as heard it looked ſome⯑what ſtartled on each other. Henry had [627]pauſed, and riſen from his ſeat as if uncer⯑tain of the found, but not again hearing it, he addreſſed himſelf more immediately to Arthur. "And now father," ſaid he, "having witneſſed my immovable reſolu⯑tion to devote the reſt of my days to a ſeclu⯑ſion, not leſs abſolute than that of Caro⯑line Stuart, who alone could have made the world delightful to me—now that ſhe, for whom ſo many years of my life have been paſt in faithful ſorrow—now that ſhe has removed herſelf for ever—I call upon you to grant ſanctuary to a breaking heart—to afford it a place of refuge. Voluntary has been the profeſſion of my faith: voluntary ſhall be the offering of myſelf up to the church which cheriſhes it. O haſte me, father, that I may be received into its boſom: and confirm, even now before this aſſembly of my friends, my holy election."

"I conſent," replied Arthur, who had in vain attempted to ſpeak, "I conſent that Henry Fitzorton, in conſideration of his ſuf⯑ferings, and his conſtancy for Caroline Stuart, and of his many and hard trials in the years [628]of his youth, even unto this day, ſhall follow her example."

The company were amazed. John was riſen to proteſt againſt the meaſure.

"I conſent," reiterated the Franciſcan, "and will give my aſſiſtance to the render⯑ing his reſolve not leſs abſolute than hers, and in deſpite of all oppoſition I here pledge myſelf, even before the altar, which in the adjoining chapel of the priory has often re⯑ceived my bending knee, and before the ſa⯑cred figures that ſurround the ſhrine, and every other witneſs who is here preſent, or within hearing of my voice—yes, by all theſe, I pledge myſelf to hear, and to record the vows of Henry, even as I have heard, and recorded thoſe of Caroline."

"It may not be," aſſerted John; "my brother has duties in the world—the duties of a father, which during that father's life no ſubſtitute can—"

"Thoſe duties ſhall not ſuffer by the vows I am determined to ſanction," rejoined the monk. "Proceed we to the altar: this key will open the door which leads to the chapel." [629]"I proteſt againſt the deed," anſwered John: "I will not pronounce on the conduct of Caroline, but in my brother a ſimilar act would be impious."

"And I too wholly diſapprove it in my ſiſter," exclaimed the lieutenant: "Are the children of Olivia to be thus neglected?—are they to be baſely deſerted by their father?" cried John in aweful whiſpers—"O! ſainted ſpirit of the tendereſt mother! are thy little ones to become orphans?"

Henry ſtood irreſolute—Denniſon and Floreſco wept and prayed—The apothecary began to plead—True George had been in balance, whether he ſhould purſue the long⯑trodden ſteps of his beloved maſter, or retrace the paths that led to his plighted miſtreſs.

Meantime the key had done its office— and the monk, firm in his purpoſe, had caught one of Henry's hands: John forci⯑bly ſeized the other, and began to drag it in an oppoſite direction—"And is the far-famed father Arthur, like the meaneſt bigot of his tribe, a man who trades in [630]converſion—an impoſer of his faith on the miſguided?—I am now juſtified in believing my brother has been proſelyted in another point—"

"Son," anſwered the monk, "when a proof of your charge appears, I will ac⯑knowledge its force; till then no earthly power—not your's—whom moſt on earth I venerate—ſhall impede my progreſs."

"Father aid me to pour forth my unſhaken intents before the ſhrine you ſpeak of, as a ſolemn earneſt of my future conſecration; and I ſhall then feel myſelf beyond the reach of this unfair controul. I am reſolved."

John, with ſtrong indignation, flung back his brother's hand, and Arthur threw open the folding doors, from which Caroline Stuart, in the almoſt inſupportable agitation of her feelings and of her frame, had, however, receded. The whole company followed the monk and Henry into the apartment, trembling at every ſtep. John came after them, with movements that marked his deeply-diſturbed mind.

"The chapel is at the end of theſe [631]ſmall apartments," ſaid Arthur. He led Henry along, ſtill followed by the reſt. They, at length, entered the chapel of the priory: the altar was placed between two broad columns, on each of which were painted, at full length, two ſacred figures, the one of the bleſſed virgin, the other of the redeemer of the world. Henry fell on his knees the inſtant he came within view of the ſhrine. Arthur looked around with ſurpriſe, but as he was preparing to ſpeak, a part of Caroline's ſacred veſtment re⯑lieved him, and approaching the altar and kneeling alſo, he exclaimed, "Now, may the vows of my pious ſon be no leſs ac⯑ceptable to heaven than thoſe of my vir⯑tuous daughter!"

Inſtantly from behind that column, which repreſented the virgin, proceeded another ſigh, ſo penetrating, ſo audible, that Henry again ſtarted up, and ſtood fixed. "Bleſt, yet overwhelming moment!" cried a voice. Henry ran forward, and, in the ſucceeding moment, ſhe, from whom the melodious [632]ſounds iſſued, ſprung to ſight, and Caroline Stuart ſtood confeſſed.

Unable to ſupport her various ſenſations, on hearing the key turning within the lock, and, as the hand of the reverend Arthur was preſſing againſt the door, ſhe had ſtarted from her ſeat, which, as the expreſſions ſhe had heard governed her movements, ſhe had alternately left and reviſited.— Unconſcious of motion, ſhe had continued her retreat from the one apartment to the other: ſhe gained the ſacred column, and with difficulty ſupported herſelf behind it, overcome with exceſs of pure felicity.

Aſtoniſhment and joy fixed the whole aſſembly, ſave Arthur, in the ſame ſtatue-like poſitions. It ſeemed as if the wand of an enchanter, even with the force of an electric communication, had in that inſtant completed its ſpell: and, indeed, it was magic of the higheſt kind, and from the moſt potent hand,—a touch etherial that chained them for ſome minutes to their attitudes.

[633]At length Henry called for the aid of John; and the lieutenant ran to aſſiſt the failing ſteps of his ſiſter Caroline. But never had there yet been a period, in the life of either, ſo intereſting, ſo inſupport⯑able, as that in which Caroline Stuart and Henry Fitzorton were conducted, by their brothers, into the arms of each other!— Truth, conſtancy, approved love, ſmiling pity, conſenting virtue, and rewarding piety, mingled in that embrace!—In one moment the bruiſed reed was made whole, and the almoſt quenched flax, purged of all its va⯑pour, kindled into a flame, which burnt pure for ever.

"O! heaven of heavens!" exclaimed Henry, "and thou its pureſt pattern upon earth, inſpire me with gratitude equal to my tranſport—and with fortitude to en⯑dure it!" "There, there, my children!" ſaid the exulting Arthur, pointing to the altar, "muſt you invoke the inſpiring power." "Yes, he is the ſource!" cried Caroline, preſſing her roſary with one hand, [634]and with the other leading Henry forward, then kneeling down with all humility, but with returning force, as if beſtowed from above:—"HE IS THE SOURCE!" repeated ſhe, "from whence every evil has been averted, or ſuſtained—and from whence every good has been derived." "Bleſſed and adored be that ſource for ever!" ex⯑claimed the monk, croſſing his hands upon his boſom, as he proſtrated himſelf, and bowing before the ſhrine with the moſt pro⯑found reverence; the auditors did the ſame, repeating his words: "It is in this ſacred place then—in this ſacred attitude, that the ſubſtituted vows of Caroline ſhall be heard and ſanctified," exclaimed the monk. Then Arthur laid his hand on their heads, breathing over each of them a prayer, which was not without a power derived from the ſource he ſupplicated. In that moment John Fitzorton, and Charles Stuart, who had placed themſelves on each ſide of the chief objects of the benediction, roſe up—advanced yet nearer the altar, [635]and joined the hands of Caroline and Henry; bleſſing both and uniting them for ever.

But in the good old Denniſon, the youthful Floreſco, and the worthy apothe⯑cary, it was an event that annihilated all words in ſenſation, even as it had operated in the bliſsful ſilence of the lovers. In True George its effects were accompanied by emotions ſo ſtrong, that had they not found mitigation in a ſhower of tears, which came to his relief as the brothers pronounced the bleſſing, he might have fallen a martyr to genuine, but inſupport⯑able joy.

By the friendſhip which ſubſiſted between the biſhop of Cherbourg, and the pious father Arthur, the cuſtomary term of reſi⯑dence was ſhortened, and the marriage ſolemnized, with all the forms of the catholic religion.

CHAPTER LXII.

ON returning from the church, where the ceremony was performed, Partington, with Mrs. Herbert, and Johanna, who had been apprized of all the circumſtances, by letters from the lieutenant, arrived in time to receive the bride and bridegroom at the door of the abbot's houſe, and a meeting of more genuine ſatisfaction can never have been witneſſed in the annals of mankind. But in happineſs, as in grief, the additi⯑onal drops which may be poured into the cup when we ſuppoſe it incapable of hold⯑ing more, fully prove how incompetent mortals are to decide upon the power of human minds; or to meaſure the propor⯑tions they may be called upon, either to enjoy or to endure.

A conference with father Arthur had ex⯑cited in the biſhop of Coutance, his anci⯑ent friend, ſo warm an intereſt in the hap⯑pineſs and future fortune of Henry and [637]Caroline, that to teſtify his reſpect for their ſufferings and their rewards, he expreſſed an earneſt deſire to receive them at his palace, accompanied by the reſt of their party. The prelate's wiſhes were conveyed by the monk, whoſe virtues have ſo much enriched this hiſtory, and the happy, yet grateful Henry, not knowing how far a viſit to a catholic biſhop might be agree⯑able to the proteſtant part of his com⯑pany, nor preſuming to make his own converſion a rule of faith to others, looked to his brother for a reply. "I truſt," ſaid John, kindly anſwering to Henry's look, "we can have but one opinion as to the invitation of a venerable man, who ſeeks to increaſe the accumulating honours of that virtue, which has been tried and found faithful—a man who is alſo the friend of father Arthur: whom, indeed," added the colonel, "my unjuſt ſuſpicion has again ſo wronged, that I can hardly deem myſelf a fit aſſociate; and ſhould feel that I ought to baniſh myſelf from being of the party, did I not know, that I ſhould thereby [638]rob ſo revered, though ſo outraged, a friend of half the pleaſures of a forgiving ſpirit." John bowed with true humility, and bluſhed with generous conſciouſneſs. "My ſon! my benefactor!" anſwered Arthur, "your con⯑jectures were highly coloured by circum⯑ſtance, and your reſiſtance to apparently undue authority exerciſed on the will of your brother, in two the moſt important concerns of his life—his affection, and his faith—was even a fraternal duty. With the laſt aweful concern I have nothing to do: with the former I ſhould not, perhaps, have ſo long delayed ſtating the ground on which I ſtood. I ſhould have removed your apprehen⯑ſions as to the nature of your brother's vows, and without equivoque have told you, that in imitating thoſe which his Caroline had form⯑ed, he would act under your own ſanction, of which a written proof had been ſo recently received from you."

[639] Thus quoted Henry. "I think I have often heard you ſay, you fine old caitiff," cried Partington, addreſſing himſelf to Arthur, "that this ſcoundrel of a biſhop, is much ſuch another fellow as yourſelf. Let us go to his palace in a body, and ſend ſomebody to bid him expect our whole gang."

The invitation was accepted. And in or⯑der to render the homage to real virtue, which had paſſed the ordeal, more diſtin⯑guiſhed, the prelate had added to the party many of his own particular friends, yet had not the viſit been marked by ſomething of yet greater import, to the honour and hap⯑pineſs of the Fitzortons, it would have had no record in theſe pages.

After a repaſt which hoſpitality had pre⯑pared, and temperance had bleſt, the prelate invited his gueſts to a walk in the gardens of his palace; the ſcenery was of high natural beauty, and cultured with exquiſite taſte; ſeveral perſons were employed in watering the flowers—but they were as yet at a conſi⯑derable diſtance, and their features indiſtinct. As the party drew ſomewhat nearer, they [640]heard the perſons at work ſinging.—"Yes," ſaid the good biſhop to Henry and Caro⯑line, who happened to be the neareſt to him, "that is their uſual way of ſweetening buſi⯑neſs with pleaſure."—"Which ſhews their labours to be light," interpoſed Henry. "I hope ſo," ſaid the prelate, "but there is an exception to this general rule of happy induſtry, among my peaſants. One of them, and dearer to me than the reſt, has never been known to raiſe her voice to ſongs of vivacity; although her notes of ſadneſs might vie with thoſe which grace the woes of ſorrow's bird. Yet ſhe toils—I wiſh her not to toil—more aſſiduouſly, and with more content than any of the reſt: but, alas! ſhe too often waters the plants with her tears, and I know not why." "And a female!" ſaid Caroline, drawing the back of her hand acroſs her own eyes. "And, I fear, an un⯑happy one," anſwered the biſhop. "She came recommended to me by a brother, who is no more. Some myſtery, however, involves her. It is about a year and half ago, that ſhe was bequeathed to my care. Her [641]mind ſeems to require employment, and I, therefore, have ſuffered her to buſy herſelf amongſt the flowers. I wiſhed it, indeed, to be amuſement; ſhe makes it labour. In all things ſhe has diligence and taſte: yet ſhe has capacities for higher culture: a ſenſe— a natural ſenſe and ſenſibility too, of virtue and of religion. I ſuſpect ſhe has loſt a relation, or, perhaps, mourns my brother, who was a prototype of benevolence—or ſhe laments, perchance, her abſence from her country. She is continually heaping the flower beds into hillocks, like graves, and then covers them with the flowers new ſet. But ſhe has now made ſome progreſs towards clear per⯑ceptions of life and death, and holineſs and truth; yet her melancholy, though ſoftened, is not diſpelled. She has of late been touched by the example of the nuns, and wiſhes for a conventual life. She is no way gloomy, or ſullen; but I have never been able to trace a ſmile on her countenance; and, if her grief continues, I have thoughts of indulging her as a novitiate in the con⯑vent of which my friend St. Seraphina is the [642]ſuperior. That is the young woman now bending over the farther bed of roſes, and tying ſome of them up." "Alas! ſhe wants ſupport herſelf—her ſpirits are ſunk to the earth," ſighed Caroline. "She is not of Europe, you will perceive. But I cannot diſcover her myſtery," ſaid the biſhop.

While he was giving theſe additional traits, and the company advanced nearer the object, a loud and piercing ſhriek burſt from Arthur's Indian, and another ſcream from the female labourer, ſo loud and piercing it rent the air. In the next moment, the names of Floreſco and Zoraida were reverberated from the one to the other, with every mark of wild and ungovernable joy. They em⯑braced—they proſtrated themſelves on the earth—they lifted up their hands towards heaven—they kiſſed the feet of the ſpec⯑tators—kneeled down with humility— ſprung up in extacy—and again embraced.— It was, indeed, Zoraida, the innocent idol and never-fading image of Floreſco's heart.

"My brother," ſaid the prelate, "re⯑turning from the weſtern plantations, where [643]he had amaſſed a conſiderable fortune, had brought over three natives of the country in his ſuite, two of theſe died upon the paſſage, with many others of the ſable race belonging to the captain himſelf, an epidemy raging in the veſſel from the heat of the weather, and the cruel method of crowding ſo many human beings together in ſo narrow a ſpace. My poor brother himſelf lived only a few hours after his arrival; he yielded up his breath even before I could ſee him; his corpſe, with the reſt of his property, and this Indian girl, were conveyed to Coutance, and when I could acquire fortitude to attend to common affairs, I found amongſt the papers of the deceaſed the following note addreſſed to myſelf:—'Faithful to me in ſervitude, attentive to me in ſickneſs, even to the ex⯑piring hour at which I write this, receive amongſt my beſt poſſeſſions the bearer hereof, the orphan Zoraida.'

"I can add little to this account, except that the moſt docile and gentle manners, and a ſomething of ſadneſs, which her want of our language prevents her yet from explaining, [644]had given me a ſincere intereſt to ſee her more happy." "They will explain them⯑ſelves," exclaimed Arthur, "ſee they are already telling to each other their ſhort but faithful hiſtory! Gracious Providence! how alike in their fates, their fortunes, and their feelings!—alike be their felicity! Leave them, I pray you, good my lord, a little to them⯑ſelves —they are of the ſame country, the ſame village, the ſame affection, and I am even more intereſted for them than yourſelf." "We are all intereſted," interpoſed the reſt of the party, "and if Zoraida be as valuable as Floreſco," ſaid the lieutenant to the biſhop, "your brother has bequeathed to you a treaſure indeed." Father Arthur then recited the brief ſtory of his ſable protegeé, which was ſo exact a counterpart of the good prelate's adopted, that although the different friends of the abbey and caſtle, were thus drawn for a while out of themſelves, and they could hear only a repetition of a well⯑known tale, the new intereſt which the diſ⯑covery had created, made them liſten to every circumſtance with the eagerneſs of affection.

[645]Although Arthur had moved with his friends only a few paces, the ſable lovers ap⯑peared to have no conſciouſneſs of any thing but of themſelves. In the language of the heart, however, they had been abundant, pouring forth and exchanging that way every image and ſentiment of bliſs and rapture, with an ardour that caught the view not only of the biſhop and his gueſts, but of the pea⯑ſants who had gathered near; at length Flo⯑reſco drew from a pocket-book, with which True George had preſented him, the work of Jane Atwood's own hands—not only the remains of his beloved's letter with all its fond repairs, even thoſe precious pieces which had been victims to his tenderneſs, and had been mended by Denniſon, but he preſented her with an anſwer written with his own hand—the achievement of many a toilſome hour, and interrupted by a thouſand occupa⯑tions, a thouſand protracting incidents. Zo⯑raida received it with joy, and gave to it a reſidence neareſt to her palpitating heart. The ſacred piece of ſhawl, another treaſured memorial, was next produced, and delivered [646]to her whoſe boſom it had once warmed and guarded—on that faithful ſhrine it now again was placed, and tears of extacy fell faſt upon it. Children of nature! their wonder, and their bliſs, were alike unſpeakable. But who that ſaw them would have wiſhed for, or wanted words to explain that their eloquent and common mother had never given life or love to any of her offspring more true to her emotions?

When utterance was reſtored, they converſed in their own native tongue, and their diſ⯑courſe ran thus: "Deareſt Zoraida lives for her Floreſco."—"And Floreſco for Zorai⯑da," anſwered the enraptured maid; then taking each other by the hand, they ran as if inſpired by one idea, to the place where their patrons were grouped, and proſtrating them⯑ſelves before the biſhop and the monk, croſſed their hands on their boſoms, kiſſed the ground near which their benefactors ſtood, and ſhewed every ſign of gratitude.

The biſhop and his friends were extremely moved at this meeting of the lovers, and we truſt that our readers, in good will to poor Flo⯑reſco, [647]will not deem the time loſt which they have beſtowed on him and his Zoraida.— Even Henry and Caroline received from it an increaſe of that happineſs which ſtill warmed the centre of their hearts from the no leſs unexpected recovery of one another—a hap⯑pineſs which nothing but ſuch an event could poſſibly have augmented.

Father Arthur, who for reaſons formerly ſtated, believed the partner of his beloved domeſtic's heart was no more—felt even a paternal joy, as at the return of a daughter to his arms. He expreſſed this to his mitred friend, of whom, before he left the palace, he obtained permiſſion to number Zoraida amongſt his children. "Be it ſo," anſwered the biſhop,—"I confide her to your care: were ſhe, indeed, my daughter, I ſhould not heſitate to place her under ſuch protection— aware as I am that her virtue now, and her reward hereafter, will ſuffer nothing by in⯑veſting him at the ſame time with full powers to diſpoſe of her as he thinks proper. In this too I ſhall fulfill part of my dear brother's dying requeſt, in granting an aſylum to the [648]orphan Zoraida; for thus ſhall I provide for her a father, and a huſband. But," con⯑tinued the biſhop, "another part of my duty to her, and to my brother, ſtill remains. Had it pleaſed heaven to allow time for a more regular diſtribution of his fortunes, this object of his regard would have had her ſhare: his benevolence would have com⯑pleted what his pity began. Look then to me for the arrangement of her worldly good, and you, my venerable Arthur, ſhall be in⯑ſtructed as to my deſigns on this head, in which the late happy incident has made no ſort of alteration."

While this treaty of loving kindneſs was negociating betwixt the biſhop and the monk, on their return into the houſe, Henry and Caroline, Johanna and Charles, were made ſpectators of a ſcene not leſs intereſting. Partington and the apothecary had informed the aſſociates of Zoraida of her happy ren⯑contre, and its probable conſequence, and unwilling that her companions ſhould be no way the better, or the merrier on the occa⯑ſion, Partington, in the firſt inſtance, ſet [649]them all dancing upon the green; he him⯑ſelf opening the ruſtic gambols. They had received general orders to preſent noſegays to the biſhop's gueſts on their'leaving the gar⯑den, and had been gathering the choiceſt flowers of the ſeaſon for their maſter's preſent company. Theſe the merry-hearted ſquire diſtributed with ſome judgment, giving, for inſtance, laurels to Henry, and myrtle to Caroline—and, running with Floreſco and Zoraida to another part of the garden, de⯑manded the aid of True George to ſtick that ſtill exulting and ardent couple in the midſt of a groupe of ſun-flowers: at length not making them comprehend the ſpirit of his amicable abuſe, which, however, he was too happy to reſtrain, he finiſhed his frolic by gliding money into every palm while he was ſhaking hands, and then with the delighted apothecary, whoſe heart always reflected the joy of others, returned into the palace: where, indeed, the reſt of the party had gone ſome time before. John Fitzorton alone re⯑mained. He had placed himſelf, not in ſullen ſolitude to avoid the ſight or the ſound of the [650]happy, but where both his eye and ear might be gladdened: yet great and manifold revo⯑lutions had paſſed his mind: he was ſome⯑times forced upon the thought of theſe, even in the gayeſt moments of the ſocial joy, or ſoft endearment of thoſe he loved: and not to caſt even a paſſing cloud on theſe, he would ſtep aſide without ſeeming to part company, ſhade himſelf awhile from the too intenſe obſervation of others, and if a ſigh or a tear from reflection forced their way, it heaved unheard, and fell unſeen, and generally in the next moment he joined his friends, and all was well. He had ſelected on this occa⯑ſion his own bouquet, as he ſaw others gather⯑ing —and following an innocent thought, drawn from times long paſt, but freſh in his recol⯑lection, he made up as nearly as the flowers would allow ſuch an aſſemblage as had been preſented to Olivia on the anniverſary of her birth. He pauſed a few minutes to place them as they then were arranged, and as again he ſlowly moved on he preſſed them on his boſom—but as he reached the palace door at which Henry and Caroline were ſtand⯑ing [651]with joined hands, he held the flowers in a poſition ſo as to prevent any notice of their arrangement as he paſſed, and then diſpoſed of them to his ſatisfaction—for they were that night ſtrewed on his pillow.

Yet none of the company had received more heart-felt delight from the meeting of the Indian lovers than John Fitzorton. The evening was paſſed at the palace with the higheſt ſocial enjoyment: when the gueſts were parted, Zoraida was cloſetted with the biſhop, from whom ſhe received permiſſion to accompany the protector of her faithful admirer; and the next morning he delivered her, with his own hand, to her new guar⯑dian —having previouſly explained all his generous deſigns. He then embraced the whole party, and bade them farewell.

CHAPTER LXIII.

WE feel ourſelves called upon, how⯑ever, at this criſis, to take a ſummary view of the conduct of Caroline Stuart in the late [652]tranſactions at the convent. The votary of eternal retreat had returned to ſociety: ſhe had returned almoſt from the altar of immor⯑tal love, to the altar of human paſſion; and it was CAROLINE STUART who had done this. Her juſtification muſt be ſanctioned by every aweful power; and it behoves us to take care that, by our inadvertence, we do not leave her expoſed to the cenſure either of having lightly ſought, or lightly left, her ſacred aſylum.—She quitted not human ſociety in diſguſt, nor with a deſign to bury herſelf in the gloomy caverns of inacceſſible ſolitude; forgetful, or affecting to forget, that the world ſtill held objects deſerving her love. The paths ſhe had deſerted had innumerable flowers, mixed with countleſs thorns: all the former ſhe had endeavoured to twine into wreaths for her deareſt friends; but, leſt one of the latter ſhould find its way into their bo⯑ſoms, ſhe gathered them all in her own—all that, alas, ſhe could remove—and fled with them, where they might no more be heard,— no more be ſeen; yet, even in the boſom of ſo⯑litude, ſtern and eternal, and with many of the [653]ſharpeſt of theſe thorns in her own heart, ſhe taught the cloiſter to bloom. During her noviciate, her regularity, her gentleneſs, her wiſdom, her talents, had ſoftened the unne⯑ceſſary rigours of a monaſtick inſtitution.— Her harp, her lute, her voice, had been the ſolace of the ſorrowful, and had elevated the joy of the happy. The nuns, the ſiſters, the ſuperiors reſorted to her for fortitude, for comfort, for occupation; and though the ſacred hymn ſucceeded to the ſong, the har⯑mony of Caroline loſt nothing by the aſcen⯑ſion of her notes from earth to heaven. In fine, ſhe had communicated joy to all around her: a purer piety, a firmer faith, a meeker reſignation reflected from her example; ſhe had made content a reſident of the con⯑vent, and in bidding farewell to her cloiſter, ſhe had obeyed the ſame voice which ſum⯑moned her to enter it,—the voice of faith, of virtue, and of God!

There now remained nothing to be adjuſted at Coutance, but the parting viſit of father Arthur to the convents. Caroline ſeemed to wiſh ſhe might be permitted to accompany [654]him to the Viſitation, but in this, ſhe ſuffered herſelf to be over-ruled by the tender and tranſported Henry. The monk, therefore, blended her kindeſt wiſnes to the abbeſs, and to the nuns, with his own, and brought back in return the moſt cordial felicitations to their favourite Caroline, and her whole party. On the evening of the ſame day, be⯑ing informed that a veſſel, with good accom⯑modations, might be hired for England, the happy groupe took their leave of Normandy; and without meeting any thing to interrupt their too-often thwarted enterprizes, they re⯑gained the coaſt of Albion, and proceeded to their family-manſions, where the reſt of their friends had fondly been expecting them.

Thus, after all their trials, and, we truſt, as irreproachable conduct under them as mor⯑tals, in this mixed and imperfect ſtate, can hope to attain, were Henry Fitzorton and Caroline Stuart brought together. Yet, ſeve⯑ral of the events that led to their union were ſo diſaſtrous, and one in particular, the death of Olivia, ſo ſincerely regretted, even by the parties to whom it gave the freedom of [655]choice, that nothing but ſuch a ſucceſſion of great and unexpected bleſſings could have produced the felicity which was, at length, eſtabliſhed, as well in the perſons of Caroline and Henry, as in the mutual friends and rela⯑tives of both. Time, however, who has been juſtly repreſented by a great writer as having a wallet at his back, in which he puts ſcraps for oblivion, by degrees ſoſtened away the memory of paſt images of diſtreſs, leaving only impreſſions which the mind either con⯑templates with a melancholy pleaſure, or a moral advantage.

The ſuſpended ideas of happineſs to ſome, and of reſignation to others, of the families and friends of the abbey and of the caſtle, at length returned. The remaining enemies of both houſes had all been properly diſpoſed of. The treachery of the elder Otley was ſeverely puniſhed, as we have ſeen, by a tremendous death, and by the hands of thoſe who cor⯑rupted him. His corrupters, Valentine Miles, Nicholas Dabble, the younger Otley, with ſeveral of their accomplices, male and female, were, in purſuance of their ſentence, duly [656]executed. The reader may remember that John Fitzorton, to appeaſe the diſappointed multitude, predicted that the next gathering together of the ſame culprits would probably be at the gallows. The prophecy was at laſt fulfilled to very general ſatisfaction. Of the turnpike-man and his wife the joy was com⯑plete; and, indeed, ſeveral of the banditti found a certain conſolation derived from their mutual hate, even when they were on the ſcaffold, to perceive their deſtiny the ſame. The ingenious Mr. Skuttle, the landlord of the Hand-in-hand, and ſeveral of his aſſoci⯑ates were, for the firſt time of their lives, devoted to the ſervice of their country. Juſ⯑tice Barhim flouriſhed a ſhort time longer, and was, at length, aſſaſſinated by ſome of thoſe very rogues of whom he was ſo tena⯑cious; but the indignant and ferocious lady Tempeſt, rather from rage than ſhame, effected her own deſtruction. On the morn⯑ing of execution, ſhe was found dead in her cell. Reſulting from theſe terrible, but juſt puniſhments of vice, the property and hap⯑pineſs of virtue were more effectually ſecured. [657]In the houſes, offices, and hiding places, above and under ground, in various parts of the vaſt metropolis, appertaining to one or other of the delinquents, the indefatigable proſecutor, his judicial brother, and his learned friend, diſcovered divers falſe and extorted ſecurities and inſtruments, which, though they had paſſed and repaſſed through ſeveral polluted channels, reverted at length to the firſt principal, and came back puri⯑fied, to their proper ſource. Mr. Thomas, one of her ladyſhip's firſt loves, in proceſs of time, amuſed himſelf by an evening ride upon the road, and in an attempt to pillage and murder a fellow-traveller, was himſelf ſhot through the head. But to Jeputha, by whoſe means the firſt diſcovery of the ban⯑ditti was made to Partington and his friends, who, as we have obſerved, was of manners leſs abandoned, and who had been forced into her criminal employments, and deſerted them in terror, his majeſty's pardon was ex⯑tended.

Partington, who had for ſome time ſuſ⯑pended his abuſive habits, in the ſerious and [658]ſolemn ſympathies of his heart, reſumed himſelf, and again became rude of ſpeech to thoſe he beſt loved, and well-bred to ſuch as he deſpiſed. Of the former, Mrs. Her⯑bert had become one of his moſt marked ob⯑jects: her alacrity in carrying the broad⯑ſword and loaded gun to the coach, and her other heroic achievements for the gypſey expedition, made the firſt forcible impreſ⯑ſion, for he averred that he did not at all doubt the fair caitiff would cut his old head from his ſhoulders, if he had the honour to be worthy thereof; and ſince that, the hiſ⯑tory of her attentions to the young Johanna, and what farther he had obſerved of her conduct during the ſickneſs of Mrs. Fitz⯑orton, confirmed her conqueſt; and as ſhe was no leſs taken with the ſquire—whoſe mind ſhe could read, even through the diſ⯑guiſe of his humours and ſingularities,—it was agreed, that on condition the younger varlets conſented to make a general marrying day, the middle-aged Amelia, and old Baſil Parting⯑ton ſhould form the firſt couple. In due time this actually did take place, with a [659]proviſo, only, on the part of John, which will preſently be ſtated.

True George was at length rewarded with the hand of his lovely Jane, and although the latter, even to the term of a long and reſpectable life, ſhewed a diſpoſition to pen⯑ſive pleaſures, which ſeemed to ſpring rather from impreſſion of early misfortune, than from conſtitutional gravity, it no way inter⯑rupted her being uniformly an endearing wife, and, in the general, a happy woman: both ſhe and her huſband, however, re⯑ſolved, on principles of real affection, to remain with Henry and Caroline; neither could any perſuaſion prevail with george to aſſume the title, although he accepted the office and labours of ſteward, while the good old Denniſon was alive: and it was with no better ſucceſs that an attempt was made to elevate the latter to a more abſolute inde⯑pendency: "As a ſteward he had lived, as a ſteward, God willing, he would die."

Partington perceiving a longer delay was likely to happen than he now thought neceſ⯑ſary, [660]determined to ſettle every thing after his own faſhion; "The caitiffs," exclaimed he, "will at this rate waſte their lives in preparing for its eſtabliſhment." He therefore ſum⯑moned every body, above and below ſtairs, into the large hall of the Bury, but ſcarcely large enough to contain the viſitors, and as ſoon as they were got together—"Good," ſaid he, "and now you ſhall ſee that I will pair ye off, ye ſhilly-ſhally vagabonds, as eaſily as I couple my terriers. This bleſſed day I have determined, that as I mean myſelf to become a ſlave to this oldiſh raſcal, none of ye ſhall be left at liberty to laugh at me." Here he tucked the arm of Mrs. Herbert, under his own, and ſallied with her round the room, True George and Jane Atwood, Charles and Johanna, Floreſco and Zoraida, Goody Brabſon's Sally and William, Jerom and Jonathan, with the apothecary's two fair daughters—alſo, the ſon of the gypſey chief, and the pardoned penitent Jeputha, and, not⯑withſtanding a little reſiſtance on the part of the damſel, and a ſly look at True George, [661]Rachael, and the young Sexton—"And if any more inſufferables," cried he, "of this our pariſh of Partington, or any ſpinſters and bachelors from the vicinity of the caſtle, or the abbey, who are now our gueſts, wiſh to do as we do, this is their opportunity—but there is no time left to think about it, for to tell you the truth, we are waited for in the church, even while we are now ſpeaking."

In real truth, the ſquire had waggiſhly preconcerted the whole ſubject with the rector of his pariſh, as to both the day and hour, and had cauſed it to be inſinuated, not only about his own pariſh, but into thoſe above-mentioned, proclaiming, that thoſe who wiſhed to pay due reſpect to Henry Fitzorton and Caroline Stuart,—of whoſe rencontre on the continent, and happy union, they were at the ſame time apprized,—would do well to repair to the Bury, where ſuch as were diſpoſed to marry, and were found to be right and true vagabonds to one another, would find a wedding dinner, and the charge of the ſpecial licenſes defrayed by their ſove⯑reign [662]liege ſcoundrel, the ſaid Partington, This edict brought together not only all the young, but all ſuch of the old as could endure the labours of the journey; for as it ſerved not only as an information of the union of Henry with the only lady whom they deemed fit to ſucceed Olivia, but gave them an opportunity to pay their, perhaps, laſt duty to thoſe they moſt loved and ho⯑noured —moſt of Olivia's cottagers, and all Caroline's penſioners embraced an occaſion ſo gratifying to their hearts; and with re⯑ſpect to the younger part, the ſquire had given out that none but ſuch as were diſ⯑poſed to follow his example in regard to marriage, would be deemed ſufficiently qua⯑lified for the invitation, and it would there⯑fore be expected of all lovers to bring wedding rings in their pockets, and to put an end to all quarrels about ſighs, cruelty, &c. by going fairly and openly to church. It is incredible what numbers aſſembled; ſo ma⯑ny, indeed, that the feaſt intended for dinner did not take place until the ſupper hour. [663]Partington led the way to the church, and was amongſt the firſt of thoſe who approach⯑ed the altar, although he remained the laſt, preſerving throughout the ceremony a reve⯑rence of demeanour ſuited to the occaſion, and wholly different from his uſual beha⯑viour. On their return from the altar, they were introduced to Henry and Caroline, who received and returned the moſt heart⯑felt homage, and although at the particular requeſt of Caroline, much of that gleeful merriment which Partington had plotted, was given up, an evening of more general, or genuine ſatisfaction and felicity has ſeldom been ſeen in this jarring world.

The penſioners and cottagers were conti⯑nued on the liſt of Henry and Caroline; but as it was intended by that amiable pair, as well as Charles and Johanna, to reſide for ſome time abroad, and as the colonel had ſignified his intention to return to the field, the care of all theſe objects of bounty de⯑volved upon the good old Denniſon, who returned to the abbey; and True George [664]and Jane Atwood, during the abſence of the family, were the guardians of the caſtle: little Fitz alſo, was to have a ſoft cuſhion in both theſe eventful manſions. Father Arthur with Floreſco, and Zoraida, whom the good man had united, took poſſeſſion of the chapel-houſe, with a reſerve of rooms for them in both the caſtle and abbey, as fancy might direct. And while theſe points were ſettling, Partington proteſted "that he was ſo much in the habit of living with his old caitiffs, that if his beloved ſcoundrel of a bride," affectionately careſſing her, "was of his way of thinking, ſhe would e'en join the vagabond party, and leave the old Bury to that grey-headed caitiff, Le Maitre, with the uſe of the woods and hedges to Blondel Gapper."

This propoſition being agreed to, arrange⯑ments were made accordingly, and Henry Fitzorton with his Caroline, little John and Carry, Charles and his Johanna, Partington and his Amelia, embarked for the continent, with intent to paſs the reſidue of the ſummer [665]at Paris, the winter in the ſouthern parts of France, and the whole of the following year in Italy.

Meanwhile, reſigning with manly grace to diſpenſations, the wiſdom and benevolence of which he preſumed not to queſtion, John ſettled moſt of his worldly poſſeſſions in the manner he had all along intended, on his Johanna, and on the children of Olivia, diſ⯑poſing of the reſt ſo as to teſtify his remem⯑brance of the worthy in whatever ſtation of life. He once more girded on his ſword, from the mingled motives that had already ſo often urged him to the field. A war with Spain, when ſome of our iſlands were threat⯑ened with invaſion, afforded the opportunity; and a braver or more experienced officer could not have been entruſted with the wealth or glory of his country: victorious alike in the ſenate and the camp. He was promoted to the rank of General, in the direct line of aſcent; for none other would John Fitzorton have accepted.

No leſs active, nor of leſs ſervice to his country, the reſpectable James had yearly [666]continued to illuſtrate the important advan⯑tages derived both to the individual and to the community, by preſerving the golden mean. In one ſteady tenour of principles, of integrity, and of perſeverance, he ſtill main⯑tained the peace and order of his own mind, and of ſociety. Happy from diſpoſition and from events, he had effected this without having ſuffered any peculiar misfortune of body or of mind, without being impeded in his progreſs to fame, fortune, or felicity, by any of thoſe paſſions which frequently extin⯑guiſh the deſire, and ſometimes annihilate the principle, that leads us to be of uſe either to ourſelves or others. He neither encoun⯑tered nor created one incident that Henry would have called an adventure, or John looked upon as an object of conflict; and yet he wooed, and yet he won. In that part of the human day, which, lying preciſely betwixt its blooming morn and fading eve, may truly be called its noon, James Fitzorton, as if deſtined in all things to be the medium, ſought and ſecured the affections of a very amiable woman,—the daughter of a brother [667]judge,—with whom he lived in a ſtate of uninterrupted confidence and tranquillity: a ſtate which we are nevertheleſs aware, few of our heroic readers will envy, many will think in⯑ſipid, and upon which, every lover of adventure will look down from the ſummit of a roman⯑tic heart with the moſt chivalric ſcorn; yet in ſpite of all theſe grand diſdains, the lofty cha⯑racter of a ſafeguard of the public, to whom is confided the property and lives of his fel⯑low-citizens, and the endearing offices of neighbour, friend, and brother, huſband, father, and chriſtian, have never been ſuſ⯑tained with more unvarying rectitude; and if the rectitude of his illuſtrious brothers was preſerved under temptations more numerous and ſevere; if a keener feeling of joy, from more acute ſenſation, ſometimes attached to the character of Henry, were not the moments of ſuperior felicity purchaſed by days and nights of agonizing ſorrow?—and did it not call for a philoſophy and a life of boſom-con⯑tention, rigorous as that of John, to keep reaſon on her throne? Yet ſo variouſly are [668]we formed, that whoever holds his principles uncorrupt, will, probably, like all theſe brothers, have a more equal ſhare of happi⯑neſs, however unequally dealt out, and cer⯑tainly be all entitled to the veneration and love of their fellow creatures.

At length, Henry and Caroline, with their attendant friends, after having paſſed four years, two more than they intended, from home, arrived at Fitzorton caſtle, where the brothers, John and James, with the bride of the latter, were aſſembled to receive them, and where they intended to paſs the ſummer. The tender ſenſe of times paſt remained; yet, as the General now felt diſpoſed to paſs the reſt of his days in the boſom of retirement, and as there was no longer a wall of ſeparation between the abbey and the caſtle, Henry and Caroline reſided at the former, and the Gene⯑ral and Olivia's children at the latter. The lieutenant ſtill intended to reſume his long⯑neglected profeſſion, but, as his Johanna felt herſelf more at home under the protection of her guardian and friends during her huſband's [669]abſence, ſhe agreed to paſs part of her time at the abbey, and part at the caſtle.

The return of Henry and Caroline was celebrated with univerſal joy; and that ſhare of merriment which was repreſſed at the Bury, on the general wedding day, now burſt forth; the abbey had reſumed its former dignity; it was reſtored to magnificence, and purified by virtue; the feet which had receded ran towards it; the eye that had ſurveyed it with abhorrence as the carouſal of vice, or with alarm, as the haunt of obſcene ſpectres, now again gazed upon it as a place redeemed;—as a ſanctuary conſecrated anew. Father Ar⯑thur, his Indian pair, Denniſon, and all but little Fitz, who had breathed his laſt in a good old age, were found even happier and healthier than they had been left. Old Gaffer and Gammer Atwood were alive, and were on a viſit to their daughter, and her happy huſband, when Henry came home.— The turnpike-man, honeſt Blondel, and all of whom the reader of this hiſtory can wiſh to hear pleaſant tidings, were in health, and [670]diſtributed ſome at the caſtle, ſome at the abbey, ſome at the manor-houſe, and the reſt at the Fitzorton arms. The jubilee continued ſeveral days,—and a great evening, in which all were to aſſemble previous to ſeparation, was ap⯑pointed. This, alſo, was to be conducted by Partington, who declared he was happier than he had ever been in his life. The an⯑cient hall of the abbey was the place of meet⯑ing —and although Henry, Caroline, Charles, and Johanna, appeared, only becauſe gratitude demanded their preſence for a moment, they withdrew to ſcenes of leſs noiſy joy; they were, indeed, bleſt in their fondeſt wiſhes, but they felt a pious decency that at once chaſtened, and attempered their ſatisfaction, while they remained ſo near the ſpots where ſuch a variety of aweful events had happened to themſelves and their connexions: indeed, after the trial of a few months, they medi⯑tated an exchange of the abbey or manor-houſe, with Partington, for the Bury as a ge⯑neral reſidence, and only came down in future once a year. The General's principal ar⯑rangements were as follow:—to indulging [671]himſelf in the ſociety of Johanna, and the education of Henry's ſon and daughter, the firſt of whom was given up to his affectionate care, while young Caroline, who preſented to him an image of her ever-remembered mo⯑ther, was conſigned to his Johanna. They were both trained to, and confirmed by, the church of England; while the children of Henry and Caroline, ſhould any be the reſult of their union, were to be cultured in the tenets of their lovely mother, and which the father had thought proper to adopt. Theſe diviſions of faith in families are, indeed, al⯑ways, more or leſs, to be regretted: but when they proceed from principles, not from paſſions; from ſteady faith, not from capri⯑cious change, and produce a life pure and holy, differing only in the modes of that faith, who ſhall preſume to boaſt of excluſive rectitude?

The day after the general rejoicings, the happy gueſts departed for their ſeveral places of abode in the very content of their ſouls. Mr. and Mrs. Partington, for the preſent, returned to the Bury; Gaffer and Gammer [672]Atwood to their untroubled cottage; Jerom and Jonathan, with their brides, to farms on the ſquire's eſtate: who continued to appro⯑priate all the Atwoods except Jane, and ſhe,—ſo ſtrange are the revolutions of life,— became, at length, a reſident with Henry and Caroline,—a no leſs ſingular event,—at Guiſe abbey. The lieutenant and Johanna paſt a month with the General, who deſired to ſettle ſome matters for their future good—and True George had ſo much to engage him for ſome time at both houſes, that he was alter⯑nately an inmate of one and the other.

For a ſhort time, therefore, Henry and Caroline, Jane and Denniſon, were left to themſelves; and happy as they were in each other, and in the love and friendſhip of all who ſurrounded them—they did not feel it in⯑conſiſtent with that happineſs to paſs much of the day that ſucceeded their grand feſtival,— the firſt of their tranquillity,—not with the living but the dead. The church of Fitz⯑orton, and the chapel-houſe of the abbey, had a ſacred claim on the affections of all: but when Henry left his companions for [673]a while in the latter, and entered the former alone, he was at once pleaſed and moved to ſee John already bending over the urn of Olivia. The brothers did homage at the tomb of virtue, and were ſoon joined by the votaries from the chapel: and as they roſe from their devotions it was to embrace each other—"My Caroline," ſaid Henry, as they were returning home, "wherefore ſhould we again quit theſe ſcenes?—have not theſe penſive ſweets every part of our felicity? we are here, methinks, under the immediate miniſtry, and protection of kindred cheru⯑bim! Let us believe that we are in their charge, and they our guardians." "Ah! be the reſt of our lives paſt under their heavenly guidance," ſaid Caroline!—"Bleſſed, bleſſ⯑ed thought," cried Jane. "Do, dear your honours, let us live and die here," exclaimed Denniſon, "even where our friends were made angels."

The idea of departed friends changed into guardian ſpirits, was innocently adopted; the very air and earth were conſecrated; from that moment new ſources of happineſs opened. [674]Thus the caſtle, and the abbey became holy ground; nor did they ever leave it more.

CHAPTER LXIV.

THOSE who have fairly peruſed this hiſtory, will, we truſt, have progreſſively traced its deſign; yet, it may not be amiſs to add, in this cloſing chapter, a recapitu⯑lation of its moral. In point of intereſt with the heart, and effect upon the conduct of the reader, it has been our endeavour to render conſpicuous, and impreſſive, ſeveral of the moſt important objects in literature, in mo⯑rality, and in domeſtic life; with examples and warnings appropriate to each.

In one of the perſonages, the character of a proteſtant clergyman, and father of a family, of an honourable mind, ſhaded by human errour, and ſomewhat warped by reli⯑gious tenacity, has been contraſted with the character and conduct of a man, who is exhi⯑bited in the perpetration, conſciouſneſs, per⯑ſeverance, puniſhment, and repentance, of [675]progreſſive crimes. And as the life and death of the former of theſe perſons give the example of a good man, in the ſeveral moral diviſions of a divine, friend, neigh⯑bour, citizen, parent, and huſband, through every period of a wiſe and active life, even till he quits the world, with the above exception; ſo does the behaviour of the other, hold out the warning of a vicious being, placed in no leſs proſperous circumſtances, even till he is overwhelmed by a ſenſe of his own enor⯑mity; bringing the death-bed of the wicked cloſe under the eye, in contraſt to the death⯑bed of the righteous.

In a third character, has been pourtrayed a venerable ſupporter of virtue, in a catholic clergyman, in all the trying inſtances of a difficult ſtation, to act as a corrective on that intolerant of ſentiment, which influenced the opinions of the proteſtant divine.

A fourth endeavour has been to diſplay, in the domeſtic hiſtory of three young men, brothers, the two great extremes of philoſophic energy, and poetic ſoftneſs of character, with the ſafety of the middle man [676]between both, ſhewing, however, in the conduct of the two former, the poſſibility of preſerving all the virtues of the latter, even when the practice of thoſe virtues are ex⯑poſed by habit, temper, and purſuit, to more arduous trials.

The power of filial piety has alſo been given, in the delineation of a mind that preſerved its modeſt dignity, amidſt the hardeſt ordeals, to which a child can ever be called upon, in her relative ſituation, to paſs.

The ſixth portrait is that of a candid, and perfectly unſuſpicious character, in all the relations of ſocial and domeſtic life.

The ſeventh diſcovers the good produced to an unfortunate woman from ſome merciful treatment, received from the fortunate of her own ſex: for the want of which many a vio⯑lated form, but unſullied mind, languiſhes in the ſhades of obſcurity, or crouds our ſtreets with irreclaimable victims.

Theſe are interſperſed with various ex⯑amples, and warnings—of faithful domeſtics in youth, and age—of their contraſt in ſome [677]treacherous ſervants—of pettifoggers in the law—of honourable men in that profeſſion— of patient meekneſs, unaffected candour, conjugal faith, and maternal affection, through a life of trials: and its appropiate warning is given in a violent diſpoſition, coupling ſtrong powers of mind, with beauty of perſon and looſe principles, ^* ſcorning patience and re⯑ſiſting conſcience.

[678]A fourteenth warning ariſes from ſhewing the danger of hazarding the happineſs of a child in the momentous article of marriage, on any conſideration, where the heart ſanc⯑tions not the choice of the parent, even [679]though the hand is preſented to beauty, ele⯑gance, and virtue: ſince nothing can be more certain, than that more miſchief may reſult from one unhappy marriage, than from an army of men intent on deſtruction.

Such are ſome of the great aims propoſed to be accompliſhed by this work as a whole; from a due contemplation of which, with the parts, muſt be collected its energy and colour, its ornament and utility. From the intention, we can with confidence claim ſome praiſe, for it has been ſincere;—from the execution we can derive nothing but hope. The labour has not been light, nor yet unattended by conſolation; but if half a long life could bring the great moral and do⯑meſtic truths to the point deſired, we ſhould exult in the means by which the ends were attained.