LI E) RARY OF THE UN IVLR.5ITY Of ILLINOIS v.l The person charging this material is re- sponsible for Its return to the library from which It was withdrawn on or before the latest Date stamped below. Theft mutilation, and underlining of books are reason. To renew call Telephone Center, 333-8400 _^!!!!!!!i!!L_^:_|LUNo^ library at urbana-champaign APR 1& ]m THE FAVOURITE OF NATURE. A TALE. Que c'est im fatal present du Ciel qu'une irae sensible ROUSSEAU. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON : PRINTED FOR G. AND W. B. WHITTAKER, AVE-MARIA-LANE. 1821. Printed bj Cox anrf Baylis, Great Queen Street, Lincoln's-Inn-Fields. TO MRS. [JOANNA BAILLIE. MADAM, In permitting me the honour of this ad- dress, you know not the fulJ extent of the gratification you have afforded me. But Mrs. BailHe, herself, is perhaps the only person who could not imagine the feel- ings with which any tribute must be tendered to the author of " Plays upon the Passions/' Whatever may be the fortune of my work, it will always be a most pleasing remem- ^^brance to me that it has given me occasion to ^offer a testimony, however humble, to talents ^ so much admire. r '^y DEDICATION. With every kind wish for your health and happiness, in which it is not your friends and relations that alone are interested, Believe me, MADAM, Your very obliged, And obedient servant, THE AUTHOR THE FAVOURITE OF NATURE. CHAP. I. Young, beautiful, and highly accom- plished, few persons partook more large- ly of the gifts of nature and education than Eliza Rivers. To these commonly prized possessions she added, from for- tune's favour, a competence for most of the comforts of life, and, in the opi- nion of the world, that is to say, that part of it which inhabited the village of Fairfield, and the neighbouring town of Belton, she must be, if it were not her own fault, the happiest being in ex- istence. There were, indeed, many moments of glowing enthusiasm when she felt a VOL. I. B capability of happiness ; but the perma- nent enjoyment of a composed mind^ wiUing to believe that cahn tranquillity is all the felicity that the frailty of hu- man nature can firmly grasp, or steadily retain, she spurned with all the ardour and inexperience of nineteen. She was an orphan ; both her parents died while she was yet an infant, and the care of her devolved to her only sur- viving relative, her grandmother by her father's side. Mrs. Rivers was a religious and wor- thy w oman ; but not exactly qualified to do justice to the superior abilities of her young charge. She placed her at a fashionable school near London, from whence she returned to her in her seven- teenth year, with many brilliant and fashionable acquirements, and with an elegance and delicacy of taste in her pursuits, which a strong sentiment of disdain for aftectation and false refine- ment had preserved in all its purity. s The darling of her aged relative, Eliza^ had resided with her two years^ doing what she pleased, uncontrolled and unadvised ; for, added to the indo- lence of age, Mrs. Rivers was of a timid, retirin^^ temper, unequal in every re- spect to oppose the impetuosity of Eliza's character with the firm and skilful ma- nagement it required. Trite and homely observations upon the necessity of sub- duing our passions, and conquering our corrupt inclinations, were occasionally introduced ; but the poor lady found them of such little use, that she only con- tinued to propose them, to satisfy herself that, if Eliza did wrong, it was not for want of being told what was right. But the time was approaching when Eliza was to be warned of her imperfec- tions by a monitor, whose appeals are always solemn and affecting. It was by the side of a death-bed that, for the first time, she seriously reflected upon the manner in which nineteen years of her B 2 life had Hitted like a dream away, and left her without one remembrance that she could wish to retain, to cheer her in her own last hours. Mrs. Rivers, in her last illness, and speaking to her with a voice already broken and changed by the approach of death, seemed to her an awful being ; and though her admoni- tions were few and simple, from the cir- cumstances under which they were given^ they pierced to the inmost soul of Eliza. Willing to repair^ as far as she was able, her past faults, she gave herself wholly up to attendance upon her grand- mother. Never was an invalid more tenderly nursed, more carefully watched. In the exuberance of repentant feeling, she w ould almost have yielded her own life to rescue from the grave a friend^ of v^hose value and kindness she ac- knowledged, with tears of contrition^ her impatient temper had too often rendered her insensible. Too often had the flip- pant reply followed the affectionate re- monstrance ; too often, in the vigour and pride of youth, had the infirmities of age been unsupported and unfelt for. All this was past, and was irretrievable ; and Eliza could only lament over it, and pray that her « randmother's life might be spared, to enable her to render it happy. But the inevitable hour was at hand, and for the last time Mrs. Rivers called her to her bed-side. With bended knees and her head bowed down upon the withered hand she pressed between her own, Eliza listened with so- lemn attention as her grandmother ad- dressed her. Having mentioned the pro- vision she had been enabled to make for her (amounting to about five thousand pounds) out of the savings of her income, the estate itself being entailed on the male heir, and having specified a wish that she should reside with Mr. Henley, the guanUan slie bad nominated for her, Mrs. Rivers proceeded with the tenderest affection to speak of a subject of far greater moment. b3 '' My anxieties respecting your tem- poral welfare are at peace/' she said ; '' Butj my child — my dearest child — look at me now, and ask yourself^ what are temporal anxieties ? " She paused a moment to subdue her rising agitation ; but soon proceeded^ with energy the most impressive — the most affecting : '' Oh, Eliza !" she exclaimed, ''the last and dearest of my earthly cares ; give not your heart to the world. For a time it will smile upon, and flatter you, but it will cruelly deceive you; it will over- whelm you with sorrow and disappoint- ment. 1 fear — I tremble for you ; your youth, your beauty, your talents;" — and for a moment she dwelt in silent and af- fecting contemplation of the interesting beino; she addressed. '"Alas!" shecon- tinned, as if the short abstraction had but augmented her doubts — '' alas ! with what seductive snares has Nature encom- passed my darling child ! But of what avail — of what avail are these dangerous gifts ? What comfort have they for the last hours of life ? Yet there is consola- tiorij Eliza^ for the bed of death ; but it must be the labour of youth to acquire it. The sacrifice of vain desires^ of fri- volous imaginations^ of impatient mur- murSj the subjugation of passion^ in shorty the captivity of every thought to the w^ill of God^ as revealed to us in his Word — herein only is it comprized." Again she paused^ but Eliza essayed not to speak ; her head still reclined upon the hand she held^ which from time to time she pressed to her lips ; but overwhelm- ing sorrow constrained her to be silent. Hergriet, so profound, so touching, in- creased the natural pang which accom- panied the idea of leaving in a state of comparative desolation one so lovely and so young. Tears fell fast down the aged cheeks of Mrs. Rivers, as her pro- phetic spirit presented to her tliis dear and cherished child — the pride of her old age — the last of her name and kindred — e4 8 too surely the victim of suffering and dis- appointment. A fervent supplication broke from her lips^ as piously she implored for her the protection of Hirn who alone is mighty to save. ''And Eliza/' she continued^ ''my dearest Eliza^ pray fervently^ continu- ally^ for strength from above ; it will be given you, doubt not : for true indeed it is^ that God helps thpse who help them- selves : and you must help yourself, my child ; you must be to yourself your best friend ; you must endeavour to turn to a noble use your noble powers ; you must dedicate them to their Bountiful Donor^ directing them to that source from-whence they sprung, and where only they can find their proper sphere of action." She ceased, and Eliza's almost break- ing heart testified the impression it had received. It w as the last! Death advanced, and words of monition or of tender- ness were heard no more. Mrs. Rivei-s 9 speedily sunk into a state of lethargy and a few days terminated her existence. The loss of this her near and only re- lative was the only real affliction that had ever befallen Eliza. In the first vehe- mence of her grief, she believed that she should never again find enjoyment in the various occupations and amusements of life. Of all human beings, Eliza Rivers was the least of a philosopher, though presenting in herself a curious specimen for the study of the speculative reasoner. Absorbed, not touched by emotion^ she could scarcely persuade herself that excitement, whether of joy or sorrow^ must at length subside. '' The mind/'* as it has been observed^ ''in a shorter or longer time returns to its natural and usual state of tranquillity. In prosperity, after a certain time, it falls back to that state ; in adversity, after a certain time, it rises up to it." * Adam Smith's Theory of Moral Sentiments. b5 10 With this ignorance of human nature^ Eliza was astonished to find how soon the remembrance of her departed rela- tive became less and less painful^ whilst every day^ in restoring her to her wonted employments, insensibly drew her from the recollection of her loss, and renewed that craving after happiness which is the leading principle of existence; and must it be told, that nearly of as short a date as the tears which were plentifully shed to the memory of Mrs. Rivers were the pious resolutions to which her death gave rise ? Not quite as transient were they; for more than a month they were uppermost in her mind, as much dwelt upon, as the vacillating nature of her temperament would admit of her dwelling upon any thing. She was now the permanent guest of lipr guardian, Mr. Henley, who was the rector of Fairfield. He was a widower, with one daughter six years older than Eliza ; he was a man of strict integrity. 11 and beino^ of an age to unite with the authority of the i^uardian the affection of a parent, he was disposed by every effort in his power to supply to Eliza the want of friends and connections. Nor were his generous intentions soli- tary in her behalf; his daughter Louisa, a mild, reserved, but truly estimable young woman, though not hitherto upon more intimate terms with Eliza than their near neighbourhood produced, at- tracted to her by the interest which her extraordinary character inspired, sought to claim by the privileges of friendship, a right to influence a heart often mistaken, but, upon the whole, capable, as she believed, of all that could merit her esteem and love. But Eliza's chosen friend and confidante was a Miss Brooke, who, with her aunt. Lady Delville, re- sided at Fairfield. They had now been absent from home some months; and the intercourse between the young la- B 6 12 dies was confined to very \o\\^, very fre- quent^ and very confidential letters. One of Eliza's, addressed to Miss Brooke^ about a month after her residence at the rectory, will serve to pourtray her feel- ings and sentiments upon her change of situation. '' Your welcome letter, my dear Sophia, was a cordial that my heart really wanted, depressed as it was by the loss of my best and dearest friend^ and by seeing myself thrown, probably for ever, into the society of those who are in comparison strangers. But I will not be unjust to the merits of Mr. Hen- ley, or the kind-hearted Louisa ; they have been all, and more to me than I deserve. Still I must confess there is that calmness of manner about him, and that want of fervour in her, that I can- not pour out my soul to either of them, as I can to you. To give you an in- stance of that heart-chilling frigid in- 13 difference that is peculiar to Mr. Henley^ I will relate to you what passed yes- terday. '' I told yoUj my dear Sophia^ how deeply my heart was touched^ as^ in watching by the death-bed of my poor grandmother^ 1 reflected upon the little value my existence had been to others5»' and what few sources of comfort I had prepared for myself to support'me in my own dissolution. '' When I found myself left, at nine- teen years of age^ chiefly to my owh discretion, I felt it doubly incumberil on me to reform whatever was amiss inmy ' conduct, and to endeavour to make my life as useful as it had hitherto>feeeh valueless and unimportant. I consider- ed, that though my fortune was small; still it was large enough to enable me to do some good ; and it occurred to me, that, having entirely done with masters, and consequently a good deal of time upon my hands, I might esta- 14 blisli a school for the poor children in the village ; for which purpose 1 might build a small house for a schoolmis- tress^ but I could undertake the chief superintendence of the concern myself. Do you see any thing in this^ Sophia^ extravagant or inconsistent ? '' But to proceed. — I weighed it all in my mind; and^ having decided upon all my plans, it only remained to ob- tain Mr. Henley's consent, who, as my oin<^ to exchange the gaieties of Paris Ibr the dullest country village in the work]/' had begged of her, '' instead of the dullest to say the happiest, since such must be the place in which she had fixed her residence/' '' My friend Melmoth has been telling vne/' said Mr. Waldegrave, '' the grati- fication I may look forward to this even- ing, if, at least, I can prevail upon you to favour me with some music/' Eliza slightly bowed : '' I was astonished/' said she, '' to perceive an instrument in Sir George's house, as he had acknow- ledged to me that music was not alto- gether his passion — at least not — " "' Not what you and I call music. But if it Js not his, believe me when I as- sure you it is mine." The transition from music to her sister art of poetry was almost involuntary. The same ideas, the same taste, the same enthusiasm, appeared to animate h3 150 them both ; only that on his side it was tempered by time^ by an intercourse with the world, and by a slight tone of list- lessnesSj which, from living in the atmos- phere of fashionable society, it was scarcely possible for him to avoid imbibing. It was at this moment, how- ever, scarcely perceptible, so much did the novelty, the irresistible naivete, the delicate justness of Eliza's remarks over- whelm all satiety, and interest him far more than a gentleman who, for ten years of his life, had annually made the tour of the West end circles of the town, could ever hope to have been interested again. Eliza, on her side, was elevated some- where above the third heaven. For the first time in her life she had met with a kindred soul. For the first time in her life, there seemed a chance of her being properly, rightly appreciated. Mr. Waldegrave might make love (as Sir George phrased it) to the ladies he encoun- 151 tered in St. James's or Grosvenor Square^ but he made no love to her ; he appeared to be^, in every respect, all she could conceive of the accompiished gentleman. For this day, she ^Yas fortunately de- livered from the persecutions of young Bartley, who was playing off his agree- able qualifications for the advantage of Miss Maria Sidney ; and, by that happy inequality of taste, which saves us all from crying after the same bauble, he appeared to that young lady in a much more engaging light, than that '' tall, proud looking man'' (by which designa- tion she inquired of him the name of Mr. Waldegrave), '' whom Miss Rivers was talking a,nd Jlirting with at such a rate/' But though she escaped the son, she was exposed, without mercy, to the attacks of the mother: Mrs. Hartley having obligingly taken upon herself to grace the head of the table, near the top of which Eliza was placed, Mr. Waldegrave being the only mtervening H 4 152 person between her and the lady presi- dent. The attentions which politeness ren- dered due to Mrs. Bartley^ were strictly paid by Mr. Waldegrave ; and in re- peatedly turning to address her^ he seemed sedulously to avoid that devoted attention to one object^ which even his strong admiration of Eliza would scarcely have induced him to indulge, in defiance of those rules of perfect good-breeding which seemed to influence his most tri- fling actions. Most women of Mrs. Bartley's age would have been more than satisfied with the notice she received from Mr. VValdegravCj particularly as the chair on his other side was occupied by a beautiful young woman^ whose manners w ere as captivating and engaging as her person. But Mrs. Bartley was somewhat ex- orbitant in her demands. She took very little heed of Mr. Henley's quaint and 153 dry remarks; for he knew all that was to be known about her, and^ she strongly suspectedjdid not honour her genius with any great warmth of adoration. But Mr. Waldegrave appeared to be a man whose astonishment it might be worth while to excite. Unwilling, therefore^ to give him too much opportunity with Eliza, whose '' strange, harum-scarum observations might possibly occasion some curwsiti/ on his side/' she per- petually interrupted him with, '' May I trouble you for this ? — Will you have the goodness to pass that ? — Moore ! — O, the delightful man ! — that Paradise and Peri ! — those lines — let me see;" — and then with a mangled quotation, enough to have driven the poet into Bedlam, if he had heard it, she would proceed to distribute the fruit set before her, and allowed Mr. Walde- grave a transient respite. Findino: at last that she could make no remark about '' Lalla Rookh/' or H 5 154 '' Cbilde Harold/* or any hero or he- roine^ either in verse or prose, that Mr. Waldegrave did not appear to have heard before, though he bowed the most graceful assent to her truisms and com- mon-place, she gave a summons to re- tire to the drawing-room much sooner than Eliza thought there was any occa- sion for. Indeed Miss Rivers had made a strange miscalculation of time ; for, to her imagination, the dinner and dessert seemed both to have been dispatched in much less time than an hour. Scarcely was the dining-room door closed upon them, when Julia Hartley, apparently labouring under the concep- tion of some vast idea, which it was equally impossible for her to conceal or to express intelligibly, addressed the community at large with, '' Well, together ! well \" '' Julia, Julia — I am shocked !'* said Mrs. Bartley, with a most portentous frown — ' Well ! — together ! ! together!!' 155 I see I must leave you at home with nurse another time." Not much discouraged by this cheeky Julia proceeded in a lower key : '' But^ mamma^ I am sure you will be just as much pleased as any of us to hear what I have got to tell you/' '' Well Julia, my dear, what have you got to tell ?'' inquired Eliza." '' O ! something that Sir George has promised me.'' '' Julia, Julia/* said her sister, '' you know you asked him for it." " Lord ! Harriet, that I am sure I did not." '' Did I not hear you say that it would be very pretty to go down the water, and dine in the Park, and come back again by moonlight?" '' Well, and suppose I did — you can't call that asking him." '' But the project is to take place this time twelvemonth, I suppose," said H 6 156 Eliza, '' as Sir George is going away the (lay after to-morrow." ' This time twelvemonth, indeed !'' exclaimed Julia, with superlative con- tempt. '" To-morrow — to-morrow morn- ing, if you please !" '' To-morrow !" vociferated Miss Maria Sidney — '' dear me ! what can 1 wear— my pink striped sarsnet is too good for the water— and my cambric muslin pelisse is hardly dress enough." '' And it is quite impossible for Mrs. Thompson to make us up any thing,'*^^ replied Mrs. Sidney, in a tone of deep, concern. '' But what is all this rhodomontade about, child ?" inquired Mrs. Hartley^ moved into a iittle more toleration of Julia's extacies. '' Why, you know, mamma, I sat at the bottom of the table, and so I was. next to Sir George, and I couldn't be so stupid as to sit and say nothing — and so 1 said^ ' how pretty the water looks' — lot and he sard^ ' so it does :' — ' how pretty it would be to go down the water/ said I ; — ' so it M oiild/ says he. — ' O^ I should like it so much/ says I ; — ' Should you ?' said he' — ^ well then we w ill make a party :' — ' What^ for to-morrow ?' said I ; — ' yeSj to-morrow if you like/ said he — and then we settled it thus : — You are all of you to be here at twelve o'clock — not before^ because the boats must be cleaned out^ Sir Georoe says^ and the people spoken to^ to come and row us ; and then we are to go through the grounds^ and up the river as far as the Dragon at Fenwick^ and there we are to land and dine/' '' Dine !" exclaimed Eliza, in a voice of horror ; '' dine at the Dragon at Fen wick V' '' Yes^ why not ! 1 am sure it is a very pretty place ; and I dare say we shall have a very nice dinner^ for Sir George said he would send over about it to-night : '^ and we'll have gooseberry tarts/ said 158 he, ' for old acquaintance sake !' and 'twas very pretty of him. But you don't seem to enjoy the thoughts of it. Miss Rivers '/' '' O, yes, extremely !" replied Eliza, unwilling to damp the ardour of Julia's transporting expectations ; but perfectly unable to reconcile the idea of the graceful, elegant Mr. Waldegrave, con- demned to make himself agreeable at the Dragon at Fenwick. '' But what are we to do, Julia, when we have dined ?" '' To do ! why any thing ; just what you like— walk into Fenwick woods, and gather wild strawberries ; or play at bowls, or at billiards ; or — dear me — do any thing in the world/' '' In short," observed Louisa Henley, '' I suppose it is to be a day of rural felicity." '' Rural felicity !" said Eliza ; '' Lord help us ! well, I dare say rural felicity has its charms." 159 '' But yoUj on your part, would prefer some more classical entertainment/' said Mrs. Hartley. "^ No ; I am not particular ; I can accommodate my taste to any species of amusement, for I know that the mul- titude must liave their various sports and recreations;" and having* said this, she walked to the grand piano-forte (which, as a piece of furniture merely, had been sent down to the Hall by Sir George)^ and carelessly opening it, and as care- lessly seating herself, she played some waltzes and country dances; less, it must be owned, for the gratification of her audience, than with a view to beguile the tedious, vapid interval, of Mr. Wal- degrave's absence. While she was amusing herself with her music, the rest of the party (with the exception of Louisa) were discussing with much eloquence the important question of their costume upon the approaching occasion ; Miss Sidney 160 still vaccinating with great indecision between the '' pink striped sarsnet and the cambric muslin pelisse;" and Mrs. Sidney still mourning over the '" impos- sibility of Mrs. Thompson's making any thing in so short a time/' Louisa Henley, with placid indiffe- rence to this high matter^ had seated her- self by the side of the piano ; and^ but that a quiet smile just lurked at the cor- ner of her mouthy she might have been supposed to have attended to nothing but Eliza's music. At lengthy Mrs. Bartley^ remembering that the duties of her office had been dormant a short space, and that she had not been commanding or directing for nearly an hour, issued forth her orders for tea and cofliee, and the gentlemen ; a mandate that was almost immediately obeyed by Mr. Waldegrave. 16J CHAP. VIII. Eliza had left the instrument and had placed herself on a sofa near the door. Nothing could be more natural than for Mr. Waldegrave to take a seat on it ; he could scarcely avoid it^ had it not been the very spot to which his inclinations pointed. '' You are extremely obedient to my summons/' said Mrs. Bartley, claiming* him as her own, as soon as he entered. Mr. Waldegrave made some compli- mentary reply, and the entrance of the servants with the tea-trays, and, very soon after, the appearance of tlie rest of the gentlemen, relieved Eliza from the direful apprehension of haviiig her com- panion's novel and acute remarks again 162 interspersed with the namby-pamby of Mrs. Bartley. Sir George Melmothj however^ now claimed his right to a few minutes' con- versation with her. He had observed^ not perhaps with perfect delight^ the alliance that seemed to be formed be- tween her and his friend ; but as he had told her the truth, when he said that he considered it a ^^matter-of-course sort of thing for Waldegrave to make love to every woman he saw/' it by no means excited any distinct feelings of jealousy ; particularly as, just before his arrival^ he began to entertain some wandering no- tions, that '' if he were to stay much longer, he did not know but what he might be foolish enough to fall seriously in love ; and as, in the natural state of his temperament, he had a great distaste to any thing serious in the way of love, and looked upon matrimony as that sort of winding up of a man's gaiety and pleasures, which, though it must eventu- 163 ally come, it is as well to put off to the last moment J he believed in his heart that it was all for the best that Walde- grave had stepped in between him and what mi«rht otherwise have been his fate. To talk nonsense with little Julia Bart- ley was an infinitely more safe amuse- ment than to play the Philander with such a woman as Miss Rivers. Having, therefore, submitted to her approbation the plan which he and Julia had de- signed for the following day, he was about to resign her to his friend ; but Eliza, with a sudden thought, recollect- ing the weight of despair and dismay that would overwhelm Lady Delville and Miss Brooke if this water party were to proceed without them, attempted to call after him. Sir George, not hear- ing her, was proceeding to the end of the room, intercepted, however, in the middle of it by young Bartley, who greeted him with — 164 '' Well, Melmoth ; I like the plan of this frolic vastly. But how shall we arrange about dividing our party? I should like — " Here Mr. Waldegrave interrupted them with Eliza's summons to Sir George. This was much too bright an oppor- tunity for Mr. William to make himself important, to admit of his passing it by unimproved. Accompanying Sir George and Mr. Walde*>rave back to the sofa where Eliza was sitting, he no sooner caught the sound of her words '* I have a re- quest to make to you/' than^ with a species of practical wit peculiar to him- self, he slipped in between her and the Baronet, who was standing before her, and placing himself, without any cere- mony, by her side ; '' A request to me?" he said ; '' you do me too much honour! you make me too too happy 1" 165 Though the countenances, both of Mr. Waldegrave and Sir George, wore a smile at the ineffable pertness of this self-complacent youth, Eliza did not, could not, relax a muscle from the dii^:- nified calmness with which she seemed to wait the issue of his intrusion ; and, supposing it concluded by the pause which ensued, she renewed her address to Sir George. '' I was about to prefer a request to you in behalf of two friends of mine. Lady Delville and Miss Brooke; to both of whom you would lon<^ since have been introduced, had they been here on your first arrival." ''Lady Delville and Miss Brooke!" said young Bartley ; " beyond a question they must be of our party to-morrow; I wonder I did not think of it before. Shall I run down now, with your com- pliments, Melmoth, and say you will be happy to see them, and all that;" then 166 taking out his watch^ '' hang it, I don't think there's time, though." '' And if there were/' said Sir George, '' I would by no means consent to your having so much useless trouble, as my friend Waldegrave and I have already arranged to call upon the ladies to-mor- row morning, purposely to request the honour of their company. Is there any other command you would honour me with ?" addressing himself to Eliza. '' Is there any other person, man, woman or child, that you have any wish should join our party?'' Eliza, thankino: him for his unlimited consideration, declined availing herself of it, and the Baronet retired. Not so Mr. William ; he continued his reclining, degagee attitude, perfectly corresponding to the easy turn of his^ mind, till, to complete the measure of Eliza's misfortunes, fate, or something equally perverse, sent Miss Maria Sidney tripping past, ostensibly to '' speak to 167 mamma/'' but, in reality, to put Mr. William in mind that he had not spoken to her for nearly a minute and a half. Catching hold of her gown, and gather- ing himself up into as small a compass as he could, in order to make room for her on the sofa, he arrested her progress with, '' ^Yhither so fast, fair Dian of the woods?" '' Dear me ! what d'ye call me Dian for ? you know my name is Maria." '' Diana, with the crescent on her brow !" and he pointed to a pearl orna- ment she wore in her hair. '' Oh, that is it! well 1 am sure I don't know what difference that makes." '' Don't you know that Diana — " '' La, dear me ! what should 1 know about Diana," said Maria, rather anxious to escape from the subject, owing to a muddled recollection of having heard something about Diana, or Venus, or somebody or other, not exactly cal- 168 culated for the meridian of a dra^vino- room. Then turnini^ to Eliza : '' I hope Miss Rivers you will sing us a song, bye and bye." " You are very polite to request it/* '^ Do you know ' Love among the Roses?'" '' I have heard it." '' Is'nt it very pretty ?" '' I daresay it is." '' I don't know which I like best^that^ or ' Love has Eyes/ " '' Lovers' eyes!" '' La ! now, Mr. William, you know very well what I said : Love — has — eyes ; I have spelt it to you, over and over again. How can ye be so tiresome ? isn't he very tiresome. Miss Rivers ?" '' To me at all times, very ; but I don't know that 1 should think so, if I were you." Even Maria's obtuse faculties caught a glimmer of the latent sarcasm. ''No- thing upon earth can equal the pride of that Miss Rivers/' she observed to 169 young Bartley^ as Eliza^ having uttered her last observation, walked to the other end of the room to join Louisa Henley. Immediately upon the arrival of Miss Sidney, Mr. Waldegrave had resigned his seat on the sofa, and had since been en- gaged in conversation with Sir George. Eliza's too conscious vanity delighted to believe, that from the frequent glances they both cast upon her, she was the subject of their discourse. — How she wished that Mr. Waldegrave might be pleased with her ! But with all her vanity, and ignorance of the world, she was perfectly aware of the difficulty, almost the impossibility, of appearing with any charms of novelty to one who had been accustomed to all the variety of beauty and talent, and rank, and fortune, and accomplishment, in short, to the attraction of every kind and degree which the metropolis, and the metropolis only, can exhibit. VOL. I, I no With more real diffidence in lier own powers, than she had felt in her life be- fore, and which had the happy effect of softenin"' down the fine handsome wo- man, commanding admiration, into the lovely, modest, interestini^ girl, she suffered Mr. WaldegTave (who, with Sir George, now approached her for the purpose of requesting it), to lead her to the instrument. As in providing himself with a grand piano. Sir George had done enough, and, as he would have conceived, w^hen he came to pay for it, more than enough, to patronize St» Cecilia her- self, and her divine art, he had not proceeded to the purchase of any stock of music, for the benefit of any unfor- tunate young lady who might hereafter wish to perform upon it, and could not '' recollect any thing without her Vjook/' This difficulty had been foreseen, and obviated by the prudent forethought of Mrs. Hartley, who had desired her daugh- ter Harriet to '' look out some music^ 171 to bring with them ; the value of which same music was more likely to be felt and understood by Mrs. Hartley's car- riage horses^ than by any one else; consisting, as it did, of four immense tomes, bearing the name of '' Miss Bart- ley/' in gilt letters, on the outside, and in the inside nothing at all more pro- raising or intelligent. Sir George, with much humility, pre- mising that he knew '' nothing about the matter,^' alternately presented these massy volumes to Eliza's inspection. As he held the book, she carelessly glanced her eye over the index, and having re- jected them all in turn, to the infinite, though suppressed, indignation of Mrs. Bartley, she observed that '' she sel- dom played from notes; and believed sheshould succeed better from memory/' Mr, Waldegrave seemed to be re- lieved by this declaration ; and, haVing arranged the lights to her wishes, and performed all the little offices of polite- 172 ness that usually precede a lady's mu-^^ cal performance^ he took his seat at some little distance from her, but in a spot advantageous to the most perfect view of the beauty and expression of her countenance in singing. A vague sort of fluttering, not from fear, not from diffidence, but from a consciousness that Mr. Waldegrave ex- pected great things from her, and that she must fail — still agitated her too much to admit of her venturing immediately upon a song. She played a sweet, plaintive air of Mozart's ; and having at length tolera- bly well succeeded in the difficult task of abstracting herself from herself, and of entering heart and soul into all the beauties of the great master, she glided, as it were, into that enchanting air of '' Batti batti/' gathering, as she pro- ceeded, new energy and eloquence, not fron\ reviving assurance in her owa powers, but solely from the soft, endear- 173 ing fascination of sentiment that per- vades the whole of that exquisite me- lody. — She was no longer Eliza Rivers —She was Zerlina herself — Mozart's Zerlina^ such as he must have imagined her in composing those notes of enticing^ winning, persuasive tenderness. Even Sir George was pleased, though he scarcely knew why. Incapable, from his want of natural taste in these mat- ters, to estimate properly the merits, either of the performer or the perform- ance, he was nevertheless touched with that sort of feeling which the master- hand of genius alone can produce. '' Few in the extreme, but all in the degree,** partake of this capability of being acted upon. It exists in the dullest temperaments — perhaps it is the spark of '' the divinity that burns within us** — and which, sometimes kindling at the flash of genius, emits a transient flame, attesting for a moment the immortality of its origin. I 3 174 Sir George, with less outrage of truth than is common upon such occasions, as- sured Eliza, when she had concluded her performance, that '' he did not know^ how to thank her for it properly;'' but Mr. Waldegrave, thougli he sprung forward to hand her to a seat, had stationed him- self by her side for some moments be- fore he spoke. At last, '' I would bor- row^ the words of my friend Sir George/* said he, '' if I did not believe that si- lence is sometimes the most expressive testimony of feeling." '' At all events," she replied, with a smile, '' it is the safest course for those, who, like myself, have never any incli- nation to sacrifice truth to politeness." '' That is a sacrifice, I believe, which is never very likely to be made to ijou. But though you disclaim ^\\ mere com- pliment, I hope you do not disdain the tribute of sincerity." '' All tributes to a fair lady are to be received, I doubt, with some hesitation and distrust." 175 '' Not all tributes, surely. You would distinguish between the man whose pro- fession ispolitesse, and him whose expres- sions can never, he presumes- to think:, be influenced except by genuine feeling/' '' I am afraid that ladies in general are not casuists enough to determine so nice a point — particularly as — as — but no, I will not say it/' and she laughed ; '' it is betraying too much of the free- masonry of my sex/' " Do you thiidv/' — and he looked at her with an arch and penetrating glance, " do you think you can betray to me more of it than 1 know already ?" '' I don't know, indeed. I am afraid you are a very intelligent person upon that subject. But, at any rate, 1 will not be accessary to increasing your stock of information." '' And you will not tell me why it is difficult for ladies to distinguish between real and affected admiration ?" i4 176 '' I believe^ if you chose to do so^ that you are much more able to tell me." '' I dare not give you so adventurous a proof of my sincerity. I dare not say, as you did, that ' ladies are not casuists enough to determine so nice a point ;* nor proceed to I'observe, as you were going to do, particularly — particular- ly '* — ^he paused^ with a most searching smile. '' Yes, yes — go on ; you may say it." '' Particularly as admiration, of any kind, is too pleasing to them, to admit of their being at all solicitous about the quality or degree." '' Ah, you are a most formidable per- son !" and she shook her head at him. '' You are determined to make me afraid of you." '' No, pardon me, you reverse the order of things — I am the person to be afraid ; so much so, that I dare not hazard an observation that struck me 177 very forcibly in regard to your singing ; lest you should mistake the effusions of the heart for the mere jingle of polite- ness/' '' If I did you an injustice of thatkind^ it would be from a supposition that a gentleman who is^ ofcourse^ intimately acquainted with the merits of our best public performers^ could not really find any music in a country village to merit his encomiums." '' It is exactly upon that point that my humble tribute of admiration would be justified. I am certainly acquainted intimately with the merits of our most popular singers. I will not alarm your good sense with so overstrained a com- pliment^ as to say you excel those : but I may still with truth say^ that I have never been more, or even so much, gra- tified, as I have been to-night " Eliza made a slight inclination of her head, and he proceeded : '' There is, indeed^ a charm in private talent, which> i5 178 from the very nature of the thing, can never be imparted by any public exhi- bition. In the theatre or in the concert- room^ we can never sufficiently abstract our minds from the performer. The performance may be, and^ in many instances^ is perfection. Science and taste are completely satisfied. But sen- timent vanishes away before the idea that the whole is an exhibition." '' The continual habit of exhibiting mustj of course, deaden, if not totally extinguish, the sensibility of any public performer/' said Eliza. '' On which account it is/' he replied^ '' that musiCj in a public room, loses one of its most powerful attractions; such as arises from the feelings of the singer being in perfect sympathy with those of the composer, and both combining to produce that effect upon the hearer> which this union of sentiment alone can produce. Herein it is, that, if I might be permitted, 1 would congratulate you upon complete success." i 179 Eliza was not merely pleased — she was soothed — she was exalted by such praise as this. But, fortunately, to rescue her from any fear of being' too happy, Mrs. Bartley here approached them, and telling Mr. Waldegrave ' that she hoped his preference, perhaps, of vocal music, would not incapacitate him from finding some pleasure in the duet her two daughters were going to play,' she compelled Eliza to follow her to the instrument, under pretence of wishing her to remark, " how well Har- riet fingered — how decided was Julia's touch \" Eliza considered herself but poorly compensated for the loss of her agreeable companion, in hearing Martini's Over- ture to Henry the Fourth thumped over by four red chubby hands, whose deci- sion of touch indeed admitted of no doubt. Mrs. Bartley, anticipating the proba- bility of Eliza's being called upon again^, I 6 180 reminded Sir George^ just before the close of the Miss Hartleys' duet, that it would be proper to ask Miss Sidney to sing. '' She has a very sweet voice, I assure you. Sir George ; and if she had received the advantages of some young ladies^ she would have been a most supe- rior singer. I don't know any one here whose voice in point of quality is any thing equal to her's ; and certainly not in compass ; she can go with ease from the lower C to — " Here a most outrageous flourish from the Miss Bartleys announced the finale of their performance ; and Sir Gorge forthwith went to seek Miss Sidney, for the purpose of bringing her up to the instrument. The young lady, with all proper re- luctance, resolutely declined the honour; though the request was seconded by the earnest in treaties of Mrs. Bartley, and the piano remonstrances of Mrs. Sidney. '* Maria, my love ! do oblige Sir George ; you can sing very prettily if 181 you like. Sing, ' Will you come to the Bower ?^ '' '' Ahj do !" said Mrs. Hartley : ^'^ nothing can be prettier/' '' I don't think I can recollect it/' slowly rising from her seat, and suffering herself at last to be led by Mr. William to the scene of action. With a sort of prelude^ possessing the singular advantage of having the bass in one key^ the treble in another, she advanced a few bars in '" Will you come to the Bower ;" and, except that she was out of tune about half a note, and her tone so tremulous and low, that but for an awful silence, in which a pin might have been heard to fall, no one would have known whether she were singing or whispering, she might be said to justify what Mrs. Bartley had said about her. Not being able to advance far into '' the bower," she looked round in an interesting manner, and said, '' she could not remember it, and she was quite sure 182 she could not when she sat down/' Hereupon Mrs. Sidney, and Mrs. Bartley^ and Mr. William, recounted various ballads which she had been heard by all the parties at different times to warble forth. To each there was some objec- tion ; and nothing could be found even in the four great books which she could be prevailed upon to have any thing to do with. ''Well, d n it, then sing ' God save the King,' if you can't sing any thing else," exclaimed Captain Sidney, who was sitting near, and not slightly pro- voked with the folly of his daughter. '' God save the King ! la, papa^ that is so very old/' '' I think Rule Britannia would have rather the advantage in novelty,'' said Mr. Henley. '' I don't think I ever learnt ' Rule Britannia;' and, if I did^ 1 am sure I could not recollect it." 183 '' Heaven forbid you should !" thought Eliza. Mr. Waldegrave was upon the point of stepping forward to say to Miss Sid- ney^ '' Suppose you appoint Miss Rivers your deputy upon this occasion/' when Mrs. Bartley closed the debate by say- ing, '' Well^ Maria, we must excuse you for to-night; and Julia, Harriet, William, come ! sing Ihe Canadian Boat song! after which. Sir George, I believe it wi]l be time for us to be taking our leave. Mr. Bartley, I will trouble you to order the carriage/' After some consultation about taking their parts_, the Canadian Boat song was at length begun, and concluded, which it might as well have been without any consultation at all ; as, long before the end of the business, the three parts were all mingled in one. The young ladies^ with much unanimity, began after this fashion; but Mr. William, for some time, most manfully endeavoured to 184 make himself master of his own proper notes^ and when they escaped him, chased them with enterprising valour through every division of the gamut. Finding the search at last hopeless^ he was content to join his sisters ; and in perfect unison, if not " sweetest har- mony/* they together closed their vocal exertions ; at which, if the many did not '' rend the skies with loud applause/' some two or three charitably disposed persons testified strong tokens of appro- bation. Old Mr. Bartley, in a paroxysm of rapture, seized hold of Eliza's hand, and ai^ked her '' If it was not charming }" '' Row, brothers, row," with a prac- tical illustration of waving himself back- wards, '' isn't that pretty. Miss Rivers? just for all the world like being in a boat. Well, well, I hope we shall all be in a boat this time to-morrow ni«:ht, with the moon shining upon us! Ah! you young ladies like the moon ! 'tis so 185 romantic ! Well, well, there's a time for all things. Yes, yes ; bon soir, bon soir, adieu!" The general commotion of going, re- minded Mr. Henley to summon his young ladies ; and Sir George and Mr. Waldegrave both declaring that they should like a walk, accompanied them. Sir George, conceiving, from the gene- ral turn of affairs during the day, that to his friend would of course appropriate himself the escort of Miss Rivers, offered his arm to Louisa, and walked off. Mr. Henley having preceded them at the distance of several yards, humming what he could recollect of Miss Sidney's mutilated ballad, '' Will you come to the Bower," and clearing a very narrow path for them by flourishing his stick, right and left, to the destruction of di- vers brambles and twigs that crossed it, Eliza found herself left to improve still further her acquaintance with the ele- 18G gant stranger^ under the favourable cir- cumstances of a bright summer moon^ a natural concert of a host of nighiin- galeSj and almost a tete-a-tete walk ; for Louisa and Sir George gave them very little interruption^ the latter only once addressing his friend^ to inquire '' how lon«: it was since he had seen the moon^ and whether he ever heard a ni2:htin£cale before in his life?" '' Though not quite such a cockney as Melmoth would insinuate/' said he to Eliza^ without replying to Sir George^ '^ it is long indeed since I have enjoyed the contemplation of such a sylvan scene as this, and under such happy circum- stances/' The last words he added in a lower tone, and w ith a peculiar smile which the moon-light fully revealed to Eliza. She was not aware that she returned it, till his continued gaze of pleased ad- miration awoke her consciousness. She 187 immediately withdrew her eyes, and spoke — to hide in speech, a sensation of indefinable embarrassment. Her words were nothing but confusion and common -placCj and, contrasted with the intelligence that enveloped her, they gave something of a decided meaning to the silent eloquence of her blush and her smile. Rather a stranger to Nature and her genuine offspring, Mr. Waldegrave had indulged himself in the obseivance of Eliza's betrayed emotions longer, per- haps, than was quite consistent with his usually polite manners, till, recalled by her confusion, which visibly increased when she had made two or three trivial observations without receiving any re- ply, suddenly shaking off his impres- sions, he gracefully bent to attend to her remark : '' 1 beg your pardon," said he, '• you were saying something/' '' Oh, nothing worth repeating; I Avas merely observing that 1 suppose our 188 country style of visiting has novelty to recommend it to you/' '' It has that recommendation cer tainly ; in fact I am almost a stranger to the shades^ having passed the greater part of my life in London/' '' The only place in the world/' said Eliza with energy. He smiled : — '' By such an unlimited eulogium^ I must sup- pose you are very intimately accquainted with its merits/' '' No^ not at all ; only conceiving it to be the grand emporium of taste and ta- lentj I fancy it must be charming. In such a mart for excellence of every kind^ people must move in a more enlarged sphere of action^ and superiority is not insulted with being hustled and justled by paltry rivals^ nor made the object of envy, as it infallibly is in the narrow circle of retirement/' '' To a certain degree/' he replied, '' London is what you imagine; but I am afraid you mistake in supposing that I 189 flourishing passion of envy wants suffi- cient scope there. The poet's remark may be taken, I believe, as proverbial : ' Enyy does merit as its shade pursue.* It only happens in great cities to be modified by observation and knowledge of the world. If they be gifted with any discernment (and if not, the truth is soon forced upon them), candidates for notice there perceive how speedily the most splendid attractions of genius are forgotten, or absorbed in the novelty of something still more striking or asto- nishing. There, too, they are compelled to learn the exact balance of attention which society adjudges to merit, and ac- quire patience and politeness enough to yield the palm of celebrity to a kaleide- scope or a velocipede, or any other play- thing that happens to be uppermost.'' '"^ You do not mean," said Eliza, laughing, " that this is a just sketch of the opinions of society, and that persons of distinguished genius are condemned 190 to divide popularity with every passing whim of the moment :" '* There are a few/' said he^ '' to be sure^ who are 'amongst the faithless^ faithful found/ and who range them- selves steadily on the side of real merit ; but admiration is soon sated^ and then people grow fastidious^ and tired of won- dering, and join the tasteless herd of common mortals, contented to swim with the stream and take what comes to them on the surface without trouble and with- out care." '' Then, probably, in defiance of all the fine things I have heard from you to- night, I am, at last, only one of the no- velties which sometimes float on the sur- face of events, taken without trouble, and without care." Eliza generally said what inclination prompted ; and as it was just now her earnest desire thatMr . Waldegrave should be pleased with her, she was very willing to satisfy herself as far as she could upon 191 the subject. Without such a motive^ she would not have overlooked the ap- parent vanity of resolving his general remarks into any individual application to herself. '^Oh! surely Miss Rivers must have too just an idea of her own attractions to believe them likely to be classed with the generalities of which I was speaking/' he replied, '' or at all of a description to be taken without trouble^ or without care. It might be well, perhaps, if they were." '^ Considering how palpably I have been laying out for a compliment/' said Eliza, gaily, '' I don't know that you could say less than that; but to exempt your politeness from any further de- mands upon it, we are fortunately arrived at the end of our walk." '' I assure you my politeness is ex- tremly sorry for it, and myself too," he replied, resigning her arm as they joined 192 the rest of the party, who were now ar- rived at the Rectory. After expressing great hopes and ex- pectations for the morrow^ the two gen- tlemen departed. 193 CHAP. IX. Eliza was by no means unmindful of her promise of visiting Miss Brooke^ '' immediately after breakfast/' on the following day. But on learning from Louisa that Mr. Henley was indisposed with some symptoms of approaching gout^ which would prevent his joining the party on the water^ and that she herself should decline leaving her father^ she dispatched a note to Sophia^ of four sides^ to intimate to her and Lady Del- ville, the rapture that was about to be- fal them ; to give a slight sketch of the occurrences of the preceding day ; to pronounce Mr.Waldegrave one of the most fascinating of men ; and finally^ to VOL. I. K 194 say tliat she should be Nvith (hem exactly a quarter before twelve^ to accoinpauy them to the Hall. She was punctual to her time ; and without much astonishment^ as she had previously arranged in her own mind, that such a thing- would be very likely^ she found Mr. W aid eg rave with the two ladies. Sir George was gone to give some necessary directions, and had left his friend to escort them to the place where they were to embark, and where they would be joined by the rest of the party. '' Well, my dear !'^ '' AVell, my love!'' was the greeting of each kind lady, as Eliza walked into the parlour of '^ Del- ville Fancy.'' Mr.Waldegrave, with less enthusiasm, made her a g-raceful bow, '' hoped she had caught no cold the preceding evening/' and placed her a chair. After some exclamations of rapture on the part of her Ladyship, relative to 195 water excursions in general, in which much mention was made of the moon, the Vale of Tempe, the banks of the Arno, Cicero's Tusculnm, and the ser- pentine river in the Marquis of C /s park, Mr.Waldegrave ventured to sug- gest that it was time to set out. " Come, aunt ! I shall he your beau," exclaimed Miss Brooke, doing as she would be done by, and ensuring to her- self, as she supposed, the heartfelt gra- titude of her friend ; when, if she could have looked into her heart, she would have seen it ready to break with vex- ation, lest a manoeuvre so little conso- nant with her nicely turned and delicate feelings should have been perceptible to Mr. Waldegrave. If he did observe his fair companion's momentary embarrassment, he soon, however, dissipated it ; and in the most general and easy conversation, appropri- ating himself in turn to all the ladies, helping Lady Delville over a puddle, and R 2 196 three times offering his arm to Miss Brooke ; once when she was overcome with a sudden faintness from the exces- sive heat ; once when she hurt her foot '' most violenth/" against a sharp stone^ and once when she had to cross a rustic bridge of two or three planks^ in doing which she was '' sure her head would turn giddy, and she should infallibly be drowned ;" he at last brought them to the appointed spot^ where a general cla- mour of voices^ amongst which young Hartley's was heard pre-eminent/ calling out '' Julia^ Harriet^ Miss Sidney, don't stir, don't attempt to get in till I tell you/' announced the arrival of the rest of the party. And now a most violent greeting took place amongst the ladies, to whom Lady Delville's long absence rendered her almost a stranger ; after which the ad- justing the ceremonial of their departure in the '' two boats" Julia had spoken of, was a point to he considered. Sir 197 George declining to interfere npon this occasion^ only begging of them ''^to make it quite agreeable to themselves/' young Hartley^ as a matter of course^ took upon himself the office of Earl Marshal, by which arrangement Eliza found herself likely to receive the plea- sant gratification of making one amongst the Bartleys and Sidneys^ every indivi- dual of whom was more or less par- ticularly disagreeable to her. As however she was by no means of a temperament to submit to any thing that was not exactly to her fancy^ she was upon the point of oiFering a decided negative to this measure^ when Mr. Waldegrave saved her the trouble, by observing to Mr. William^ that^ '' as he considered the ladies he had escorted as being put particularly under his protec- tion by his friend Sir George, he could not think of being separated from them for the remainder of the day." k3 198 With the exception therefore of Julia^ whom Mr. Waldegrave styled the '' queen of the revels," the Bartleys and Sidneys were packed off in the largest boat, first ; and by a little female manoeuvring to delay the business of embarking as long as she could, Eliza hoped to give them sufficient time to make such an advance, that there might be no chance of seeing them again till they all met at dinner at the dreaded Dragon ; a circumstance Avhich without much difficulty she ac- complished. Some writer or other has observed that "'' nothing can be more uninteresting than a landscape in prose." Generally speaking, I profess myself of the same opinion ; I shall therefore forbear to say any thing about sloping banks, brush- wood, or stumps of trees. Julia Bartley had decided the business in two words, '' 'twas very pretty !' The scenery round them exactly aiisvvered to that description. The day, too. was clear and 199 calm, and '' sent into (be heart a samnner feeling/' Lady Delville, who knew herself to be accounted '' a most pleasant woman, with a vast (low of anecdote/' was particu- larly garrulous in support of her charac- ter. Her recent travels had furnished her with a stock of adventure, which, upon a fair computation, would have lasted to the end of an East India voyage ; especially as she had a most engaging way of amplifying trivial subjects, or what ill-natured people might have called, '' a habit of saying a great deal about nothing." The rencontre at Versailles had been discussed before that morning; but, for the benefit of Sir George and Eliza, it was highly requisite to intro- duce it again. Miss Brooke, with a most insinuating smile, '" did not know what they should have done without the polite attentions of Mr. \Va Id eg rave." k4 200 Mr. Waldegrave, for about the hun- dredth time^ considered himself '' most exceedingly fortunate, — the happiest of men, &c. &c/' '^ By what extraordinary circumstance was it, my dear Sophia/' said Lady Del- ville, '' do you remember, that we were bereft of all our beaux ; was it Sir John's doing or Lord Sinclair's? They had made some irrevocable engagement ; was that not the case ?' '' If I remember right, it was the Mar- chioness who stole away our gentle- men." '' The Marchioness it was, I remem- ber now, she came into my boudoir, in her sweet, fascinating manner;" (with a tone and gesture proportionately languishing^ and insidious). ' Now my own dear Lady Delville,' she began, ' Yes, yes. Marchioness, I know what you are going to say.'^ — ' Do but hear me.' — ' Not a word.' — ' You rnust lend me Lord Sin- 201 clair for to-day : ' — ' Cease^ enchan- tress!' — (a theatrical wave of the hand). ' 1 must be obliged^ Lady Delville.' — ' I must be submitted to.'j^^ Not by me, Marchioness ! — (a tone of dignity) — not by me you very well know !' It ended, however^ as all disputes between me and the Marchioness always do^ in my yield- ing to her caresses^ what I had refused to her commands !" Her Ladyship paused and looked ex- tremely magnificent ; while poor Julia Bartley, who was the only one of her audience to whose fancy the very name of a lord or a marchioness had something in it particularly awful and impressive, was gazing with open mouth and breath- less astonishment upon her as she pro- ceeded in the above tirade. To be sitting in this familiar manner with a person who had talked in such an easy chit chat style with a real live Marchioness, was an advancement in the scale of honour of which Julia little k5 202 dreamed, when she first set forth upon her excursion. She i>'riidually., however^ recovered her senses and recollection ; more from her powers of mind being drawn to the observation of some beau- tiful French trimmino- on Miss Brooke's gown^ than fiom her growing^ less sen- sible to the prodigious greatness that had so unexpectedly been '' thrust upon her/' Miss Brooke in the meanwhile havings with much magnanimity, resigned Mr. Waldegrave to her friend, was endea- vouring to recompense herself for this piece of disinterestedness by extracting what compliments and attention she could from Sir George. But as his homage did not flow in an easy, natural course of itself, she found this rather a task of difficulty to accomplish. AVhile she sat still, and said little, she found he was likely to do the same. Indeed the Baronet's good-humoured countenance was particularly grave this morning; 203 wlietlier it arose from some transient ref^ret at leaving Fairfield so soon^ or ^vhether he did not find it quite the plea- santest thini>; in the world to see himself suddenly and entirely superseded in the good graces of a fair lady^ who had not been absolutely marble to him^ till the arrival of his friend^ he was certainly rather abstracted^ and unusually silent. It was only by dint of stratagem that Miss Brooke could make him say any thing agreeable. Having politely hand- ed her into the boat^ and seated himself between her and Julia^ and prepared himself to listen with great contentment to all Lady DelviUe said, and might still have to say about Versailles, and Lord Sinclair, and the Marchioness, he was congratulating himself uith inward de- light upon the great comfort it was to a master of ceremonies to have two such women in his party as Lady Delville and Mrs. Bartlev, in whose ineffable iiov/ of language he saw himself at once relieved K 6 204 from all expence of words or ideas^ an expence of which, in some humours of mind, it is inconceivable how parsimo- nious people are. But as all human good is generally balanced by a proportionate quantity of evil. Sir George soon found that, as an equipoise to the perfections of Lady Delville and Mrs. Bartley, he was also provided with the manifold whims and caprices of a young lady, who never could be satisfied that she was properly admired and attended to, while the luck- less gentleman, who happened to be next her, was saying or doing nothing to flatter or serve her. Divers therefore were the interrup- tions Miss Brooke gave to the Baronet's meditations. Sometimes, in consequence of a sudden movement in one of the men who were rowing them, the boat would incline a little to the right or the left. '* Oh, Sir George ! Sir George ! 1 am sure we shall be over. ] am so alarm- 205 ed." Sir George^, with the most solemn assurances^ for a moment calmed her fears. Then^ upon their returning more violently than ever, with a repetition of the cause of alarm, '' 1 must get out — I must be rowed to the bank and get out ! 1 am sure 1 shall faint, if 1 stay five minutes longer !" These manoeuvres succeedins: no fur- ther than to make Sir George recoil from her as the quintessence of affecta- tion, and turn with increased pleasure to the unaffected good humour of Julia Bartley, Miss Brooke considered it as well to forbear any more experiments in the way of fear and fainting, and applied herself to discover whether he under- stood any thing of the agremens of con- versation. Here, however, she soon per- ceived his miserable deficiency of sen- timent ; at length abandoning him as hopeless, herself as shockingly unfortu- nate and ill treated, and the whole con- cern as the most stupid thing that ever 206 was known, she sunk into a reverie, in which she endeavoured to find conso- lation for her distresses, in calling to her remembrance all the pretty things the Colonel had said to her in the packet- boat; every expression of despair that poor Arthur's most despairing* letters contained ; calcnlatino' the exalted li«ht in which her friendship must appear to Eliza Rivers, sacrificing (what to be sure never was her's to sacrifice, but that Eliza knew nothing about) for her plea- sure and advancement the devoted atten- tion of such a man as Mr. Waldegrave ; wondering how Madame Lambris would make up the French sattin; ichen she should first put it on, and how she should look when it was on. During this time Eliza and Mr. Wal- degrave, placed by themselves at the other end of the boat, were not a little agreeable to each other. The conversation, indeed, was princi- pally on his side; and related to sucli 207 circumstances in his travels as he con- ceived would be most likely to amuse her. These he detailed with an anima- tion chiedy borrowed from the growing interest which her varying countenance^ lief manner, her every h)ok, so expressive of fixed and pleased attention, pro- claimed her to be taking in him. Added to the loveliness of her person and the superiority of her mind, which even his short acquaintance with her enabled Mr. Waldegrave to decide upon her pos- sessing, Eliza was now, with perfect un- consciousness, assailing him with a claim less arbitrary than any she bad made to his admiration ; but infinitely more insi- dious, more captivating, more dange- rous. In stealing upon his vanity and self-love, she attacked him in a point where all men are in some degree vul- nerable. He admired her the evening before : her beauty, her genius, her ta- lents commanded his admiration ; but it was in the soft engaging smile, so full of 208 soul— so full of meaning; " the sparkling o-lance that dwelt on him so kindly/' so hitelligibly telling him how well she un- derstood—how well she appreciated, how much she approved him, that she caused him often to pause, and in mental mter- rogation ask himself, "what must be the love of such a creature as this ?" \t length their pleasures drew to a temporary close, and Eliza was recalled to terrestrial recollections, by Julia Bart- ley's loudly exclaiming, " There they are! there's brother! there's Maria Sidney!— look, SirGeorge; look. Miss Brooke !" And turning her head round, she perceived they were just passing under Fenwick bridge, at the corner of which, a neat white house, and a tremendous creature, enveloped m orange and scarlet-coloured flames, flou- rishing on a sign-post, announced them to be arrived at the Dragon Hotel. The first raptures of their reunion with the rest of the party being past, and 209 manifold questions on all sides asked and answered^ a sort of general doubt seemed to remain of what was to be done next. Sir George^ extremely anxious that they should enjoy themselves to their heart's content^ proposed a variety of proceedings^ internally assuring himself that though a water- party might be the most agreeable thing in the worlds if he were once fairly rid of the present one^ he would never place himself at the head of another as long as he lived. '' Dear me ! if pa and Mr. Bartley would but stand up^ we might have such a nice dance ; that is^ if we had anybody to play to us/' said Miss Sidney. '' Dance!'* the word operated like magic upon the faculties ot young Bart- ley; '' nothing could be so lucky! he knew some old man_, or old woman^ it did not matter which^ a gipsey^ who played upon the fiddle^ and lived not more than three doors off; he would have her there in a minute/' and seizing his hat^ he was about 210 to fly down stairs^ when Sir Geor^e^ at the earnest request of Eliza, and moved by the convulsion of horror that seemed to agitate Miss Brooke at the idea of a fiddle and a gipsey, prevented him, by telling him, that " he believed it would not be altogether possible to arrange matters for a dance, in such a manner as would make it agreeable to all parties/' Mr. AVilliam did not exactly see why it could not be managed with infinite pleasure to every individual of them ; but Miss Brooke continued to repeat, that '' such a thing was never heard of; that the wealth of the Indies could not tempt her to put such an indignity upon herself, as to dance at a public house in broad day-light, to the fiddling of a strol- ing gipsey ; it v.ould be a pretty thing indeed for the Marchioness to hear!!" '' Oh, d — n the Marchioness!" ex- claimed Captain Sidney; '' if the boys and girls have a mind to amuse them- selves, what the devil is it to her ?" 211 Both Lady Delville and Miss Brooke exchanged looks of horror and contempt. To pronounce an anathema against a marchioness was a species of impiety^ at which the devotion of their souls to that class of beino's made them recoil with dread and dismay. Julia Bartley now stepped forward to the relief of her ally Sir George^ who stood in woeful despair^ as not knowing what was to be done with the spirits he ha.d conjured up to torment him. *' Dear brother, how can you be so stupid ? as if there was nothing upon earth to be done except dancing. Go, get along w ith you and take a walk with Miss Sidney." Upon which with some energy she drove them out of the room, the young lady tittering and repeating '' dear me, Julia 1 how can you be so silly 1" the young gentleman proclaiming that ''he must do as he was bid/' and Captain Sidney bawling after them witli the lungs of a boatswain : '' to be sure and be back by dinner, for be would 212 not wait for them the twentieth part of a minute/' Then going up to her father^ who was sitting in a window-seat^ humming over a newspaper at least a week old^ Julia laid her hand with some vehe- mence upon his shoulder^ and told him^ he might '' just as well go and play a game at billiards with Captain Sidney^ as sit there doing no good in the world." The Captain accepted the proposal^ and Mr. Bartley^ giving up the paper^, prepared himself to obey his daughter's commands^ with a '' Well, well, this is the way, Sidney — this is the way these women drive us about and make us submit ; from the cradle to the grave, they make us do just as they like ; well, well, its all right, its all right !'* Julia now called to Sir George, and as many of the rest of them as chose to follow her to the bowling-green ; a summons which was obeyed most joyfully by the Baronet, who could almost have 215 worshipped her for her dexterity m relieving him from his difficulties. Mr. Waldegrave^ who was sitting between Miss Brooke and Eliza during the whole of these important debates, inquired their pleasure as to following Julia to the bowling-green. Miss Brooke '' detested all tliese vulgar sports and pastimes^ but had no objection to a ' saunter' amongst the woods there/' pointing from the window to a shady romantic looking dell not far from the house. Lady Delville and Mrs. Bartley were engaged in deep discourse relative to some profound measures in household economy^ in which the latter had lately engaged ; and asher ladyship, though '' a ladyship," was by no means inattentive to the minu- tiae of domestic arrangements, she w as en- deavouring silently and secretly to store her mind with such useful hints as might enable her, perhaps, with care and atten- tion, and due magnanimity in disdaining 214 the sneers and laughs and haired of her servants^ to make a saving in her annual income of about five or six and twenty shillings a year. The whole force and capability of Mrs. Sidney's mind had long been cen- tered upon a worked flounce on Lady Delville's gown. She had now drawn Miss Bartley aside to consult with her upon the propriety or '" possibility of asking her ladyship for the pattern of it." This was much too bold a proceeding in Miss Bartley 's opinion ; but she thought by '' observing it loellj they miffht between them recollect it suffi- ciently to be able to draw it when they got home." The '' saunter" which Miss Brooke had prevailed upon herself to take with Eliza and Mr. ^Valdegrave, was not improperly so called. '" The fatigue" she represented herself '' to have under- gone; the delicate state of her health, and the irritation of her nerves considerably 215 augmented by the vociferous mirth of Miss Julia Bartiey, had reduced her to such a state of lassitude, that she really did not kiiow how to move without sup- port/' Mr. Waldegrave offered an arm to each lady. '' Thank you ! — you are extremely kind — but that is a truth I have had an Opportunity of learning before to-day ; and you, on your part^ have been un- fortunate enough to know what it is to have to escort me when 1 am thus mi- serably oppressed with nervous feel- ings/' For the life and soul of him, Mr. Waldegrave could not call to mind any i*emembrance of such misfortunes. He had a general recollection of Miss Brooke, as an affected girl, whom he had met with at Versailles, and walked over the palace with; but as for her nerves and her indispositions, he neither knew nor desired to know any thing 216 about them. He made, however^ a most polite bend, in assent to her observation^ and assured her, '' that his remembrance of the pleasure he had enjoyed at Ver- sailles could only be obscured by recol- lecting, that she was at that time suffer- ing from indisposition." Eliza quickly discovered that, to his other accomplishments, her new friend united a ready perception of the ridicu- lous in character, and an arch, malicious pleasure in slyly bringing it into full display. '' Poor, dear Sophia !" she was compelled to acknowledge, laid herself peculiarly open to attacks of this kind ; and though, in her estimation, she amply atoned for it by the warmth and tender- ness of her feelings, and the real good- ness of her heart, she could not forbear a passing smile, to see with what avidity she seized every flattering bait which Mr. Waldegrave held out to her, and how easy it was for him to amuse him- self with her vanity. 217 Nor was she slightly gratified to coii* trast in her own mind the difference be- tween his manner of addressing Miss Brooke and herself The whole style of his conversation was different; and though it was now, beyond a question, every word of it true legitimate non- sense, it was so artfully mixed up with a tone of truth, and with an air of real meaning, that she considered her friend as entirely to be forgiven, if, (with her particular notions upon such subjects) she really did run away with a mistaken opinion as to the extent and depth of Mr. Waldegrave's admiration of her. Though his conversation had won^ derfully increased in volubility within the last quarter of an hour, he was al- most silent towards Eliza ; and but that he perpetually watched her with stolen glances, that seemed to imply a fear of losing something newly found to be dear and precious, he appeared to de- vote himself solely to Miss Brooke. VOL. I. L 218 At this Eliza was by no means disturb- ed. She felt assured that her full value was^ or at least ought to be, by this time ^ understood by Mr. Waldegrave ; and it was seldom or never that she ex- acted any sacrifice merely to her vanity. In fact, she was rather a proud, than a vain woman . She was not at all unhappy, not at all the less decided about her own merit, when she was not flattered ; be- cause she was still as conscious of that superiority which she justly conceived that she possessed. Flattery was plea- sing to her, as a testimony that her claims to distinction were understood and allowed ; but to Miss Brooke it was every thing. It was to her the only criterion by which she could judge whe- ther she really did pass with the world for what she wished to pass ; and whe- ther she succeeded in her earnest endea- vour to be considered as a proper object of esteem and admiration. Vanity, some- times expanding into pride, was Miss 219 Brooke's prevailing passion ; pride,, sel- dom condescending to become vanity^ was Eliza's. After wandering about the best part of an hour, Eliza suggested the admo- nition of Captain Sidney to the rest of the party, '' not to be too late for din- ner;'' and Mr. Waldegrave conceiving that he had made himself agreable quite long enough for the advantage of Miss Brooke, opposed no entreaties to their proposal for returning to the inn. L 2 220 CHAP. X. The dinner^ which, according to Julia's prophecy, was '' a very nice one/' passed off annidst a variety of anecdote from Lady Delville relative to the specimens of cookery, and the dif- ferent methods of eating and drinking she had observed in her travels, and a more than ordinary flow of wit on the part of Mr. William. Indeed, in every interval in which his mouth was not filled with meat, it was filled with merriment ; and it was matter of astonishment to see how cleverly he managed to satisfy his appetite for the pleasures of applause, and of the table, at one and the same moment. 22J Irresistible as he was making himself for the public good^ it is more than pro- bable that Eliza might have thought the time rather tedious^ had she not^ as on the preceding day^ been seated by Mr. Waldegrave ; and though Mrs. Bartley (who again presided at the head of the table) was quite as much disposed to in-^ terrupt,, and make herself disagreeable to them^ his deep and increasing interest in F-liza rendered him less inclined to yield any thing more than necessary attention to another. As soon as the ladies retired^ Miss Brooke drew Eliza aside^ and with a most emphatic pressure of her hand^ '' congratulated her upon her conquest;" at the same time asking her^ '' if she had said too much in his praise?" '' His manners are certainly most en- gaging ; but what signifies that^ Sophia ? — he is going to-morrow (a sort of half sigh) and will never think any thing more of any of us !" L 3 222 " Oh ! don't tell me ; not think any thing more of you ! 1 know better than that/' '^ Do you think^ Sophia/' a little hesi- tation^ '' do you think he is pleased w ith me?" '' No^ I don't think it, for I am sure of it. I was certain, from the first moment I saw him, that he was the very man to be charmed with Eliza Rivers. It was that idea that made me resign liiia wholly to you/' EUiza did not attempt to thank her friend for the resignation, from the same sort of feeling which prevents a lady from expressing any gratitude to a silk- mercer, when he assures her that, for her benefit, he suffers her to have so many yards of silk to his own loss. Lady Deiville at this moment passing near them. Miss Brooke called to her to join them. '' Well, aunt, what do you think of EKza and Mr. Waldegrave ?*' ^3 ^' I think that he is a very charming man, and she is a sweet lovely girl; and that they will make a most interesting and happy couple/' " Oh, Lady Delville, how you do de- light in flattering me/' said Eliza, smiling, but half angry with herself for being so much pleased, " Flattering you ! do look at her aunt, and ask if any one can flatter her/' '' Sophia, I will not be made so silly,'* half laughing, half confused. '' Come, come along, and take a turn with me on the bowling green there/' They went forth arm in arm, Mr. Waldegrave still the subject of their dis- course, with such occasional interludes about the Colonel, and now and then an encouraging assurance or two of the great probability of his being forth- coming in some shape or other, such as Eliza considered herself in gratitude obliged to throw in, for the comfort and pleasure of her friend. l4 224 III these inexhaustible topics nearly an hour had glided away^ when Miss Brooke, recollecting that she had left her work-bag behind her, broke away for a few nninutes, and went to fetch it. Tired with lounging about, Eliza seated herself in a rustic sort of arbour, and in a listless, half melancholy kind of humour, was leaning her head upon her hand, when the approaching footsteps, as she supposed of her friend, roused her from her pensive attitude. She half started on perceiving it wa& Mr. Waldegrave. '' Is solitude so engaging,*' said he, " that even for one day you cannot forego its charms ?'* Eliza explained the absence of Miss Brooke. '' I am afraid I have interrupted you in some deep moralizing meditation, if I may judge from your attitude when I entered the arbour." 225 " No ; it was merely that sort of re- verie which Cowper describes^ when *' The understanding takes repose <' In indolent vacuity of thought, ** And sleeps and is refresh'd." " Do you admire Cowper ?" '' I think I do. I am sure that I en- tirely respect him : and very often I am charmed with him. But^ in general^ I rather suppose that the dazzling magni- ficence of our more modern poets, leaves but little relish for the calm, didactic style of writing which prevailed in the last century.'' '' Most true. The public taste seems to be strangely vitiated, and to have en- tirely lost its healthy tone. In those literary compositions which appeal solely to the taste and feelings, there is now very commonly an overstrained effort to meet the reigning appetite for pungency and excitement^ which, if it does not de- L a 226 generate into silliness^ runs into absolute madness, which is even worse." After a slight pause, which Eliza did not attempt to interrupt, he proceeded ; ^' Nor is it merely in a taste for litera- ture that this insatiable demand for sti- mulus exists. It pervades every thing. The first few years of our entrance into society passed away ; the beautiful gloss of novelty worn off, we know not how, or in what manner to fill up the ' craving void left aching in our breasts.' Hence a constant listlessness, a mind wishing to be roused from its torpid wretched- ness, but whose morbid powers not all the charms of nature or art can restore to activity." '' Is it your own case you are deli- neating/* and she smiled, '' or is it merely the general one ?" '' I speak generally. It is not for me, under the renovated feelings of enjoy- ment I owe to my acquaintance with 227 Miss Rivers^ to speak of myself as incapable of being pleased ; unless,, in- deedj when I reflect how much the recol- lection of such talents and attractions will enhance the pang that awaits me to-morrow/' Not very unlike a pang was the sen- sation which fluttered at the heart of Eliza as he said this. His manner was too earnest, too impressive for her to reply to it as a mere compliment ; and, in truth, her state of feeling was too nearly bordering upon emotion to ren- der it perfectly safe for her to speak at all. She was not sorry to have her momen- tary embarrassment relieved by the ap- proach of Miss Brooke ; and at the same instant the voice of Julia Bartley, au- dible from a great distance, loudly pro- claiming, that '' tea was ready, and ma' desired they would come directly, for it was getting dark, and she wished to set L 6 1228 off home/* sumnvoned them to the house. With less conversation, but with a manner that implied an interest almost increasing into tenderness, Mr. Walde- grave attached himself wholly to Eliza for the remainder of the evening. They returned home in the same or- der as they came ; and by some extraor- dinary good fortune, perhaps owing to the fatigue of having made themselves pleasant for a whole day, neither Lady Delville nor Julia Hartley had much inclination to disturb the silence which was preserved by the rest of the party. Miss Brooke had composed herself to actual sleep; and Sir George availed himself of the increasing twilight, to snatch every now and then a few minutes repose. Placed again by her side, Mr.Walde- grave's whole soul seemed to be absorbed in Eliza. Seldom he spoke^ but gazed 229 upon her with an earnestness that shew- ed him intent upon storing his memory with a fond and faithful recollection of her every feature — every look — every graceful attraction. The intercourse of the day had given a character of intimacy to their acquain- tance^ which authorized a greater free-- dom of approach. It seemed not toa familiar^ that in speaking of his depar- ture on the morrow,, he should just lightly press the hand which laid so in- vitingly near him. But almost imme- diately relinquishing it, his soft, in- sinuating sigh too eloquently pourtray- ed to the fancy of his fair companion that she should be remembered — that she should be regretted. A full tide of feeling pressed upon her heart, and affected her almost to tears. The scene around assisted to produce this effect. It was one of those evenings of calm beauty in which the mind particularly associates itself with external objects. 230 The stillness of the atmosphere^ unin- terrupted by a breath of wind — the soft, silvery gleams of a summer moon — the measured sound of the oars lightly splashing in the water — combined to swell the mournfulness that was stealing on her spirits. Near to the spot they were then pas- sing, stood Fairfield church. A stream of pensive, chastened light, rested upon the humble house of prayer. She could distinguish the pale, marble monument beneath which her unremembered pa- rents — and her poor grandmother — all the ties — all the connexions that had ever loved her — slept in death. She dwelt upon all she had lost — she turned with trembling anticipation to all that yet remained. Strange associations of ideas — ill-defined forebodings, flitted be- fore her mind. Through all of them prevailed that vague, but strong presen- timent of evil, which in sending fancy to expatiate upon futurity, makes us 231 shrink^ and shudder^ and recoil at the shapeless^ mysterious images she con- jures up to harass and perplex us, and amid which, horrid as they are, the mind appears to be fascinated, and spell- bound — and almost to love to linger. No effort could shake from her these emotions. '' 1 never shall be happy — I never shall be happy" — she mentally repeated — till tears — visible tears — fast falling down her cheeks, gave some re- lief to the fullness of her oppressive feel- ings. Not with words — not with distress- ing importunity upon the subject of her uneasiness, was Eliza recalled to the recollection how intently she was ob- served by Mr, Waldegrave. It was again by the gentle pressure of her passive hand — it was again by the tremulous, the just audible sigh, that she was half pleasingly, half painfully restored to exertion and to self-command. They were now within Sir George's 222 park, and their near approach to home roused all the party from silence. This circumstance assisted Eliza in regaining her composure ; and when Mr. Walde- grave^ in handing her from the boat^ said in a low expressive whisper^ '' Could I but hope sometimes to be present to your remembrance ?'' she replied with some cheerfulness^ '' I shall always remember our acquaintance with plea- sure.'' The Bartleys and Sidneys had desired their carriages to be in waiting at the place of landing, and as both Lady Delville and Miss Brooke com- plained of fatigue^ they readily assented to the proposal of being set do wn by them . Eliza preferred walking, and Sir George and Mr. Waldegrave accompa- nied her to the rectory ; after making a short stay to bid farewell to Mr. Henley and Louisa, they took their leave. Sir George^ in parting, '' hoped Eliza would keep her promise of riding out with him in November/' with something of an arch? 233 stress upon the word^ which seemed to imply ; "" my friend here will not be in the way to interrupt our pleasures/' She smiled, and told him, '' she should prepare herself by practice to be a most accomplished horse-woman by the time of his return." Mr. Walde^rave, including Eliza in the graceful general bow he made to the rest of the party, followed his friend, and was gone some minutes before she paid any attention to the question Louisa had twice asked her as to the '' pleasure of the day." Miss Henley's general indifference to intelligence of any kind, seemed, by a provoking perversity, to have changed this evening into an insatiable thirst after in formal ion. Having satisfied her inquiries as briefly as possible, Eliza complained of fatigue, and retired to her room, in order to dwell without restraint upon the remembrance of the two last days. The 234 idea of Mr. AValdegrave was as yet prin- cipally pleasing* ; the transient nature of her acquaintance with him precluded it from being mingled with much pain ; and though she lamented his departure with real regret^ the sanguine nature of her feelings pointed to the certainty of their meeting again ; and to the convic- tion that nothing but time was wanting to bind them to each other in the strongest^ the warmest attachment. The slight sketch of his character upon this point which she had received from Sir George, she considered as by no means appli- cable to her own case. It might be (and how did vanity and self-love luxu- riate over the idea!) that Mr. Walde- grave had never yet seen the woman he could really prefer — till he met with her! Whatever was the cause, she was satis- fied that it was no feigned prepossession he appeared to have imbibed for her, — and let what would be the result of it, she assured herself that she would not 235 but have known him for all that the world could offer her. It is thus that the female hearty with the philosophy of nineteen^ persuades itself into attachment ; not yet discover- ing how soon the world — other habits and occupations — absence — change of scenC;, and natural inconstancy, obliterate in man the impression which a woman in those quiet pursuits that call for no thought, no exertion of mind, is nourish- ing and encouraging for the amusement of his vanity and her own disappoint' ment. 236 CHAP. XL The next morning was gloomy and dull^ with a heavy determined rain. Mr. Henley's indisposition had so much in- creased, that he was not able to leave his room ; and Louisa^ more than usual- ly taciturn, gave no promise of lend- ing any assistance to lessen the depres- sion^ which, under these doleful circum- stances, was fast stealing over Eliza. After lounging upon the sofa for about an hour after breakfast, turning over the leaves of a novels she at last threw it aside; and when she had walked up and down the room several times, she stopped about a minute be- fore the glass, and arranged to greater advantage the dark ringlels that sported 237 ou a forehead of snow_, then turned away with an air that implied '' it does not signify how I look to-day/' and at length seated herself opposite to Louisa^ at a small table^ where the latter was employed at work. "' You seem quite in a restless hu- *' mour this morning/* and Louisa smiled. '' I am ; I can settle to nothing. Do you never feel so ?" " Very seldom; I have not time for it." '' You are wonderfully happy. It is inconceivable to me what you do with your time." '' It can be no mystery to you I should think, who are with me the greatest part of every day." '' When I am with you, you are in- variably employed with your needle." '' Perhaps you do not call that em- ployment ?" '' It is no employment to the mind." 238 Louisa made no reply, and after a short pause Eliza proceeded. '' I often wonder what you are doing the two hours you are up before me every morning ; and the hour, at least, that I hear you moving about, after I am in bed every night." Louisa slightly coloured, and appeared at first not disposed to answer to this in- direct sort of inquiry, but perceiving that Eliza expected her to speak : '' I should imagine/' she said, '' that persons of any reflection^ can be at no loss how to dispose of the first and last part of every day.'' Eliza here got up to look for her work ; and having occupied herself with it about five minutes, she laid it down, looked into her book, and presently laid that down also. '^ I am sorry Sir George is gone, Louisa ; he really was a very pleasant, good humoured young man ; did he not improve with you on acquaintance ?'* 239 '' Yes, I think he did." '' And Mr. Waldegrave is a parti- cularly pleasant man I think, don't you?" " His manners are very elegant, and I should imagine him clever." '' Sir George represented him to me. as a professed flirt ; I hate the word, I don't think it at all applicable to him." Louisa was silent. '' How uncompa- nionable she is r thought Eliza. After a short pause, '' Do you think, Louisa, that Mr. Waldegrave will be here again in November, with Sir George?" "" I cannot possibly tell." '' He represented himself to me as particularly pleased with Fairfield and the neighbourhood." " Then in all likehhood he will wish to visit it again." '' And yet I wonder he should ; for a man who meets with the society he does, can find nothing very engaging, one 240 would thinks in a village and a provin- cial town.'* '' Indeed I should think not. — I ima- gine he must have spoken from a senti- ment of politeness^ rather than sincerity. " It is not much in character with your principles^ Louisa^ to put the worst possible construction upon a person's motives.'* ^' I am not aware that I do. A man may be perfectly polite, without being so insincere, as to render him the worse thought of for his gallantry." '' I should think much worse of Mr. Waldegrave than I do, if I thought him capable of saying what he did not mean, though in a matter of mere politeness.'* " I don't think," and Louisa smiled, '' that you are at all disposed to think ill of Mr. Waldegrave — 1 never remem- ber to have seen you more pleased with any one." '' It would have seemed somewhat un- grateful in me to have been otherwise^ 241 for though you ia all probability did not observe so insignificant and^ perhaps^ as you may think it^ so contemptible a cir- cumstance^ yet I believe I may^ without vanity^ tell you^ that his attention to me was considered^ by other persons^ as carrying a distinction with it not unwor- thy of some little return of civility on my side/' '' Undoubtedly ; you quite mistake me if you think 1 meant the slightest reflection upon your manner to Mr. Waldegrave. He was very attentive to you ; no one could avoid seeing it/* Eliza was a little softened ; her heigh- tened colour subsided^ and the starting tear of irritated feeling gave place to a sort of half smile. But the impetuousity of ungoverned temper quickly returned as Louisa proceeded to say : '' But the attentions of such a man as Mr. Waldegrave are too much a thing of course^ to occasion surprize to any one/' VOL. I. M 243 ^' In ^our idea^ then, they are not worth any consideration ?'* '' I should scarcely think them worth dwelling upon/' ^' Do you mean to insinuate that I do ?" ^^ Certainly not ; I have too high an opinion of your understanding/' Eliza had never received a compli- ment to her understanding with so lit- tle pleasure. She felt more and more persuaded that no two beings in the world could be more different than her- self and Louisa. There was a something about her that she never could like ; she believed that, before many months were passed, she should endeavour to effect a change of residence, and put herself entirely under Lady Delville's protec- tion : she and Sophia would be delighted to have her always with them, and then she might enjoy some interchange of con- fidence and affection. After Louisa's 243 last remark^ she did not speak again for at least half an hour. Excessively out of humour^ and consequently excessively miserable^ Eliza passed the remainder of the morning in walking from one win- dow to another^ watching the weather^ and hoping it would hold up^ that she might be able to get down to Sophia, and obtain some comfort for her mani- fold disquietudes. About an hour before dinner a gleam of sunshiae broke forth. She hailed it with sensations bordering upon rapture; and^ equipping herself in a moment for her walk^ she just put her head in at the door^ and told Louisa^ '' if she were not home to dinner, she should spend the remainder of the day with Miss Brooke ;'' and set forward with a velo- city that bid defiance to puddles^ and stileSj and every possible obstacle^ and transported her to " Delville Fancy" in very little more than a quarter of an hour. M 2 244 Her Ladyship was alone in the parlour. '' Well^ my sweet Eliza! how d*ye do ; Sophia is quite impatient to see you to talk over our pleasant yesterday. Your's more particularly, my love. Ah ! this is a different day to poor Mr. Walde- grave \" Eliza smiled ; and inquired, '' if Sophia was very busy, or if she might venture up stairs to her?" '' By all means ; she is just gone up to dress.'' Eliza hastened to the apartment of her friend. The maid was instantly dismissed, and, after a most kind and cordial greeting. Miss Brooke inquired of her friend, '' Why she looked so grave ?'' " You that have so much cause for happiness, Eliza?'' '' Oh no, I have not, Sophia — I am so miserable." '' My dear creature, what possesses you to say so — what is the matter?" 215 A variety of long suppressed emotions gave way at once to the voice of kind- ness^ and^ covering her face with her handkerchief, Eliza burst into tears. To do Miss Brooke justice^ she had an abundance of feeling ; and Eliza Ri- vers in distress was not an object to be seen with indifference. Tenderly em- bracing h^r^ she repeatedly asked her the cause of her uneasiness^ before Eliza had sufficiently composed herself to reply. Atlast^ '' I don't know^ indeed^ Sophia^ what is the matter with me^ but Louisa has been vapouring me to death.'' '' Vapouring^ indeed ! I can't think how you can support her at all. In the present state of your spirits^ it must be death to you to live with such a lump of apathy." '' She certainly has no kind of sym- pathy or feeling about her." '' Sympathy ! I should as soon ex- pect sympathy out of this table. For m3 246 heaven's sake never think of making her a sharer in any of your feelings. I hope you have not spoken of Walde- grave to her/' '' I merely mentioned his name^in the tnost general way possible. But she took an opportunity of letting me know that^ though she had observed his atten- tion to me^ she considered it as a thing of course; a mere nothing at all — not worth a thought/' '' I never should have thought of her impertinence ! If any man had paid her the twentieth part of such attention^ she would have lived upon the recollection of it for the next seven years. But it is better policy in her to despise these matters. If she always meets with civi- lity^ it is quite as much as she can ex- pect ; and more, too, than such a little old-fashioned thing deserves; — did ever mortal see such a quiz as it is }" '' She dresses shockingly, to be sure ; but I don't really think her bad looking. 247- Sophia. She is very pale^ and too grave for Sii/oung woman; biit^ when she is animated, 1 have really seen her almost pretty/' '' Yes, but when is she animated? Never, but when she is talking to some old beggar woman, or looking after cha- rity children, or some such stupid con- cern. And, by the way, my dear Eliza, pray let me caution you not to be drawn into any of those disagreeable ways. Though I laughed the other day about the charity school, yet I assure you I have thought very seriously about it ; and I must beg of you not to follow any of her nonsensical plans, and go shutting yourself up by the hour together, in a close room, with a parcel of unhealthy children, very likely at the hazard of a fever, or some dreadful complaint !!" " I am afraid I have not much to ac- cuse myself of in running a hazard of that kind ; for I very soon got tired of M 4 248 the things as far as personal attendance was concerned. Any assistance in the way of contribution I am sure they are heartily welcome to ; but^ as you say^ Sophia^ one's health really is liable to in- jury in giving up one's time to them." '' Oh, certainly. If you give them money^ you give them every thing ; and every one that knows you^ Eliza^ will do ample justice to your generosity on this point; so make yourself perfectly easy^ and think only of being happy/' '' I never was happy^ yet^ Sophia ; I sometimes think I never shall be." '' Oh yeSj you will. You willbehappy^ with Waldegrave as your husband^ be- fore another year is past." Eliza smiled^ but shook her head. " I am as firmly persuaded of it^ as of my own existence." ^^ Ah, Sophia !" '' What should prevent it, if you really wish it yourself?" 249 '^ Probably Ms want of inclination/' ^^ His want of inclination ! You may well say that Louisa has been vapouring you, — you could have no doubt what his inclinations were last night ?" '' I thought not." '' And why should you think differently now? Because an envious woman,, who has only seen you together one day, wishes to mortify you, and make you un- happy, with insinuating what she knows is too much of an untruth to be openly said/* '' I cannot thhik so meanly of Louisa as to suspect her of this : 1 cannot in- deed, Sophia. I do not like her, any more than you do, but it is because there is no similarity between us in our tastes and pursuits, not because I do not clearly see that she is perfectly amiable and re* spectable/* '' I have not any doubt about her re- spectability ; stupid people are always respectable; but every body will allow M 5 250 ^. that she is by no means a proper com- panion for you/' An idea for a moment flitted across Eliza's mind, that this remark was much more discreditable to her than to Louisa; but not choosing to dwell upon, or inves- tigate it, she reverted to the fascinating topic of Mr. Waldegrave. •' And you really think, my dear So- phia, that I have not deceived myself, in supposing him to be particularly pleased with me?" '' Certainly not ;" with an air of great solemnity. The same inquiry and reply, modified only by a slight difference of expression, was repeated backwards and forwards, till Miss Brooke's maid, announcing that dinner was on the table, reminded Eliza to propose returning home. This was of course opposed imme- diately by Miss Brooke, and, without much entreaty, Eliza was prevailed upon to be made as happy for the remainder 251 of the day^ as profuse compliments from each lady (the aunt succeeding the niece^ with still greater encomiums) could pos- sibly make her. It was not till she returned home^ and found Louisa, in silence and solitude^ reading in the parlour, that it occurred to her, that there might have been some pleasure in devoting her society and va- rious powers of amusing to solace and cheer her during her father's illness. It might not be quite so pleasant as to talk of Mr. Waldegrave, and hear herself flat- tered ; but something in her heart as- sured her that it would have been much more amiable. m6 252 CHAP. XII In the course of a few days^ Mr. Hen- ley's indisposition wore an appearance of danger^ and Eliza's trivial sources of dis- quietude promptly gave way to the com- passionate feelings which the sight of Louisa's distress excited. Her really good and benevolent heart was profoundly touched^ by the example of virtue which Miss Henley continually exhibited to her view, in the patience, the unwearying assiduity, the cheerful forbearance under every little caprice and fretfulness almost inseparable from his complaint, with which she attended her father during the whole of his illness. During this period Eliza confined her- self to the Rectory, voluntarily sharing 253 with Louisa in any little kind office in which she could be serviceable to the invalid. She absented herself entirely from '' Delville Fancy/' losings in the contemplation of the serious scene that surrounded her^ all interest in the tri- fling vanities which she was too well aware most commonly made up the tone of conversation with her friends there. She felt too much real respect for Louisa's sorrows, to indulge any idle re- grets of her own ; and^, far from giving any sighs to the memory of Mr. Walde- gravCj she was astonished to find^ at the end of a fortnight, how entirely every lively remembrance of him had faded away into the mere general recollection of his being a gentleman-like, pleasing man. INIr. Henley was at length pronounced convalescent; but being still incapable of fulfilling the duties of his parish, with a probability of continuing so for some 254 time^ Louisa^ at his desire^ wrote to his nephew, Mortimer Durand^a young cler- gyman recently ordained, to come and make him a visit of a few weeks, to tui- dertake the care of his church. The young man being fortunately at that time in want of a curacy, readily acceded to his uncle's wishes; and a speedy reply to Louisa's invitation, announced his intention of being at the Rectory on the following Monday. Mr. Henley was, on that day, suffi- ciently well to resume his seat at the din- ner table ; and, anxious to restore to his fair guest some gleams of her wonted gaiety, which he feared his indisposition had been the occasion of obscuring, he inquired of her, with a smile, " What is the cause of that grave look, Miss Rivers? Are you meditating an attack upon my nephew, Mortimer's heart > Is the fortress to be taken by sap, or storm- ed with a coup de main V' 255 '' Nay, good Sir, I cannot possibly tell, till I have taken a survey of its strength." '' I believe it to be impregnable/' said Louisa, with a faint smile. ''Describe him to me, my dear, that I may form some notion of what I am to expect." '' I don't know that I can. Mortimer is more easily known than described." '' Perhaps you can give me a negative idea of him. He is not a Dandy, I dare say ?" '' Now, how dare you say any such thing,'' said Mr. Henley. '' He may wear a neckcloth as stiff as parchment, and as good a pair of stays as you have in your possession, for any thing you know to the contrary." '' He may, to be sure, but I humbly trust he does not; for if there be any species of animal I hold in greater anti- pathy than another, it is that anomalous mixture of man and monkey, to which 256 naiuralists, I suppose, have given the appellation of Dandy." '' He is not a Dandy/* said Louisa, ■with more than usual gravity, '' he is simply a young man of good sense and good morals." '' However, not to destroy his repu- tation at once," said Mr. Henley, '' 1 will venture to pronounce in his behalf, that if you can, by any chance, get him to converse. Miss Rivers, you will find him to possess some taste and elegance of mind." '* Does he never talk, then, but by some fortunate chance?" '' He is naturally reserved," said Louisa, '' and he has met with misfor- tunes; his health, too, is very delicate." '' Poor boy ! he has been unfortunate^ certainly," said Mr. Henley. '' We thought it a great match for my sister Louisa, when she married his father, Mr. Durand, then in a flourishing busi- ness in London ; and, if he had not 257 thought proper to retire and commence gentleman, it would have been a pros- perous connexion. But, from the mo- ment he gave up business he gave up happiness. His active mind, in quest of employment, made trial of a variety of speculations. He farmed, he gambled in the stocks, in which last amusement he frittered away three-fourths of the fortune he had realized in trade; with the remainder he joined in partnership with two needy knaves, and set up a provincial bank. These persons were to find the cleverness and activity neces- sary for the well conducting of the con- cern, and he was to be spared all trouble, provided he found money. With this foolish arrangement he was satisfied; and, fully persuaded that he ultimately should realize immense wealth, though nobody knew how, he went on for two or three years, always disappointed, till a very sudden death put a period to all his visionary schemes, and left my poor 258 sister a widow and the mother of seven portionless children." ^"^ Poor Mortimer'/' said Louisa, '' how nobly he acted on the occasion !'' '' He was then at College/' continued Mr. Henley, "' where he had nearly com- pleted the usual routine of study, with such honour to himself as would without doubt have ensured him a fellowship. Knowing, however, the inability of his mother to support him any longer at the University, he relinquished all his own views, and, returning home, gave himself up entirely to the arrangement of his father's affairs, which were left in the most intricate and perplexed state in consequence of his dying intestate. They are now, owing to his skilful manage- ment, finally settled. The wreck of his father's fortune, which was indeed but a wreck, he has wholly given up to his mother and six sisters, purposing, now that he is ordained, to be no longer a burthen upon the family — " 259 '' A burthea !" exclaimed Eliza, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm — '' an honour^, an ornament, rather say/' '' He is a very good young man/' said Mr. Henley ; '' I scarcely know one of whom I would venture to prophecy more favourably than of my nephev/ Mortimer. His merit has already engaged for him a warm friend in the Bishop of C . But hark ! the gate bell rings ; here, probably, comes the hero of my tale." '' I will go and see,'' said Louisa ; and^ with something of alacrity in her movements^ she was about to proceed into the hall, when her progress was impeded by the entrance of a tall^ elegant young man, who in the animated exclamation of '' my dear Louisa/' and the fraternal salute he imprinted on her cheek, announced himself to Eliza as the expected Mortimer. After cordially greeting Mr. Henley, and inquiring with the earnestness of sincerity after his health, he turned to 260 Eliza, whom Mr. Henley slightly named in the common form of introduction, and silently made her a polite, but what, contrasted with the animation of his manner to his uncle and cousin, appeared rather a reserved bow. Eliza, prompt in obeying the suggestions of impulse, decided in a moment that he was the counterpart of Louisa, in stillness and quietude, and would, beyond a doubt, be a most respectable and worthy sort of dead weight upon their family circle, rather than an enlivener of it. This opinion received additional confirmation, as, the first emotions of meeting wearing off, he gradually sunk into a pensive kind of abstraction, which appeared per- fectly constitutional to him. It was only when the silver tones of his peculiarly harmonious voice struck her ear, that she now and then cast a glance upon his figure. In defiance of his silence, his reserve, and his dejection, it was a form which, once seen, dwelt 261 upon the remembrance of the beholder. It was slioht, and distinguished by that sort of nameless ^race which seems to emanate from the superiority of mind. '' Mind, mind, alone/^ was indeed the characteristic of the whole appearance. The countenance/ though pale in the extreme, had an expression of placid contentment upon it, which seemed to indicate, not the philosopher's contempt of suffering, but the Christian's acquies- cence in its utility. It was altogether the countenance which Eloisa, in some- thing of a chastened tone of feeling, might have contemplated, when she spoke of " Those smiling eyes, attempering every ray, '' Shone sweetly lambent with celestial day." '' Those smiling eyes," so frequently encountered Eliza's whenever she chanced to look at him, that she was slightly puzzled to account for the in- flexible silence which, during the greater 262 part of the evening, he preserved towards her. '' He sees something' extraordinary about me/* she said more than once to herself; '' but it is something that he does not like." Under this impression^ she was about to retire to her room much sooner than her usual hour^ but Louisa intercepting her, intreated for one song, strengthen- ing her request by an assurance that her cousin Mortimer would be most particu- larly obliged to her, for that music was the only recreation in which he indulged himself." '' Does he perform ?" '' He merely accompanies his voice on the piano." '' Oh, then we must hear him. — Mr. Durand," and she turned to him, '' your cousin tells me you are a performer ; now, if you have any christian charity in you, do oblige me so far as to let me hear that instrument touched by some 263 other hand beside my own. You cannot possibly come out to greater advantage ; for I do assure you 1 am so entirely weary of hearing myself only/' — she paused a moment^ as not knowing exactly how to finish her sentence — But Durand^ with an energy that sur- prised her^ interrupted her^ as with an arch smile he said^ ''^ Indeed^ Miss Rivers, you compliment too highly; I cannot conceive that mere satiety of your own powers should have rendered you so little fastidious, as to derive any pleasure from listening to so humble a performer as myself." He blushed like a girl as he spoke, as if confused at the sound of his own voice ; and, relapsing immediately into his former silence, he politely, but steadily declined every proposal of Ehzas to draw him to the instrument. '' He is an odd sort of curiosity," thought Eliza, as she turned over the leaves of her music-book. '' Is hemetho- 264 distical, or merely of a marble tempera- ment ? I don't much think he is mar- ble — no — he can't be marble with those eyes. He is, simply^ then^ one of the faithful J I suspect/' . Whether as a test of his principles she should try him with an Irish melody or a sacred melody^ she was at a loss to de- termine. Louisa^ however^ settled the difficulty^ by earnestly entreating for '' that sweet air she now and then played to please her." '' Do you mean that one of Mozart's which Gardiner has adapted in his sacred melodies ?" " It begins with^ ' Lo ! my Shepherd is divine.' " '' That is properly a duett/' said Eliza ; '' and if Mr. Durand should happen to be very scientific^ he will not enjoy hearing it in an imperfect manner; unless indeed he will relax a little from his inflexibility, and take the second with me." 265 He bowed^ with a faint smik, which she knew not whether to take as au in- dication of compliance or otherwise. Tired^ however^ of making '' much ado about nothing/' she prepared to comply with Louisa's request^ without preferring any more intreaties to him to join her. She had proceeded but a little way in her performance^ when she perceived him by her side, and immediately found her- self accompanied in the most skilful man- ner by a voice of exquisite sweetness. There was a devotional expression in it^ which evidently proceeded from the singer's heart. When they had con- cluded, Eliza with sincerity expressed her admiration of his taste and skill. '' You will be a most valuable person to me, I assure you," said she, '' for I have an endless variety of Italian duets,,, which I have never had the heart to try^ from the lack of some humane person to sing a second with me." VOL. I. N 2GG '' 1 do not sing' Italian," he replied. She looked at him with a mingled expression of disappointment and horror. '' Probably you prefer psalms and hymns, and spiritual songs?" and she laughed. '' I have a great preference for devo- tional music undoubtedly." '' Oh, then I have found him out at last/' thought Eliza — '' a serious young man, of moral and unimpeachable cha- racter. I honour him prodigiously — but it is a great pity such a charming voice should be thrown away upon him." Then, taking her candle from the side- board, she retired to her apartment ; renouncing poor Durand as utterly hope- less, and more than once lamenting that he should be so musical, and yet so methodistical. 267 CHAP. XIII. The quiet reserved habits of Mor- timer Duraiid assimilated extremely well with the re*^ular proceedings of the family at the Rectory. As he made no advance in intimacy with Eliza^ she soon learnt to consider him merely as an appendage to their party, and not a particularly pleasant one^ except when he was singing, which was very seldom, and never but an hen she insensibly drew him into it^ by playing his favourite style of music. But with all his dislike of her (for that he did dislike her most extremely^ Eliza fully persuaded herself)^ there was some indelinable quality about him which n2 208 coninianded her entire respect^ and pre- served him wholly from the shafts of that ridicule^ with which in the first stage of their acquaintance she felt inclined to meet his immoveable gravity and reserve. She believed that he did her justice too upon one very important point ; for;, though possessing no more vanity on the score of personal charms than any very handsome woman must in reality possess^, she was by no means displeased to observe how frequently she was the object of his earnest and fixed attention. That this was to be attributed to his admiration of her beauty^ she could not doubt ; for his frigid silence whenever she hazarded any sally of sprightliness^, and his apparent indifference to the general tone of her conversation^, con- vinced her that her manners and deport- ment w ere not in exact conformity with his notions of female propriety. With Mr. Henley and Louisa his be- haviour was that of the most affectionate 2G9 son and brother. With the former he passed the greater part of his inorning^ but generally an hour before dinner he came to Louisa^ and told her he was at her service for the remainder of the day. Frequently he accompanied her in her visits to her pensioners at the neigh- bouring^ cottages, and sometimes to her school. Eliza had two or three times joined them in their \Yalks ; but as^ upon such occasions^ conversation had not much iio\\% she conceived herself to be a re- straint upon tlicm, and gradually re- suming her intimacy with Miss Brooke^ she left them pretty much to them- selves. In this manner three weeks passed away ; at the end of which time Eliza was to have accompanied Lady Delville and Miss Brooke in a fortnight's excursion to a neighbouring watering-place. But the day before their journey she was so unwell with a severe cold^ as to be con- n3 270 fined to her room^ and her dear friends \vent without her. Her indisposition had continued four days before she felt herself sufficiently well to leave her apartment. On de- scending, for the first time^ to the dining- room^ she found it occupied by Mortimer only. He was looking over the sermon he had just been delivering at churchy for it was on a Sunday. He rose on her entrance, and approach- ing her with more animation of manner than she had ever observed in him before, he expressed '' his regret at the cause of her absence from the family, and hoped (with much earnestness of expression) that she had not ventured too soon to join them again." " Oh, no^ no ! I am quite myself again; as, perhaps, to the disturbance of your serenity, you may too soon find. 1 can fancy that you and Louisa have been so quiet and calm without me, thatj to use an Irish phrase, I think you 271 must have '' gained a loss by my absence." She fancied that he seemed hurt by this remark ; for though he said nothing/ he coloured extremely. " Have you been long returned from church ?" she inquired. '' But a short time/' *^ Where is Louisa r" '' I left her there^ hearing the children say their catechism.'' '' Ah, those poor children ! their very name is a reproach to me!" ^^ Why so?'* '' Because they w^ere the occasion of my making many very excellent reso- lutions; every one of which, to my shame be it said, has gradually been in- fringed upon, and one by one they have been forgotten, till they are now totally laid aside." '' Accidental circumstances, perhaps, have interfered with the possibility of adhering to them ?" N 4 272 '* Alas ! I fear the failure is more attri- butable to constitutional instability/* *' Impossible, Miss Rivers, that with your energy of character you should pos- sess this feebleness of mind. You are doing yourself injustice/' '' Indeed I am not ; you cannot ima- gine a creature more infirm of purpose than 1 am/' ^'^ You must pardon my being a little incredulous/' and he smiled. " That of course is easily pardoned on such a point. If you knew me bet- ter, you would lament for me perhaps, that I am not all that (Heaven knows) I wish I was." He seemed touched by her serious- ness ; placing himself on the sofa by her side, he gazed upon her with a countenance expressive of the most com- passionate interest, while Eliza, not par- ticularly observing him, thus went on : '' Now there is Louisa, I cannot but admire the steadiness with which she 273 constantly performs so many right things. No obstacles intervene between her and her purpose^ for she pursues it with a perseverance which mocks all difficulty. But though I see her merits, and my heart does justice to them, it seems to me to require super-human strength of mind to keep so uniform a course of duty- '' And do not all our feeble efforts in the cause of virtue require super-humiaa assistance V " Philosophers tell us — " '' Philosophers V he exclaimed— '' Oh! Miss Rivers, cease to wonder that the path of duty is beset with impossibili- ties, if you have drawn your system of ethics from the doctrines of philosophy owXyr " You deny it, then, to be of any as- sistance to us in our human trials and temptations V '' Comparatively speaking, I believe it to be of none. At least I am persuad- N 5 274 ed of this, that where philosophy has made one good or happy person, the divine precepts of the christian religion have made many thousands." '' The precepts of Christianity form a beautiful code of morality," said Eliza ; '' I admire them extremely/' He looked at her as if he would pe- netrate her very thoughts; then, in a low impressive tone of voice, " Is it merely as a point of taste,'' said he, '' that you have accustomed yourself to consider a subject of such immense importance to you ? A subject, in comparison with which the advantages of this world are but dust and dross ; for what is health or happiness, or even life itself when put in competition with your immortal welfare ?" The earnestness of his manner con- trasted with his usual frigidity surprised lier. She knew not exactly how to un- derstand him ; he was by no means the sort of person to take the liberty of re- 275 prehendiiig another;, merely for the plea- sure of assuming an air of authority; she could only place it^ therefore^ to that earnestness for making converts^ which is a distinguishing characteristic of the class of religionists to which she supposed that Mortimer in his heart belonged. '' It is not at all as a point of taste/' she replied^ '' that I have ever consi- dered this important matter ; but^ in fact, I believe that few young persons are capable of considering it exactly in the proper point of view/' '' Do not believe this^ Miss Rivers ; believe^ rather^ that all young persons who have been educated in the princi- ples of the Christian religion^ are capa- ble of making it the rule of their ac- tions ; of looking up to it as a source of comfort in affliction^ and of gratitude in prosperity ; of living by it^ and dying by it ; believe all this to be practicable^ for it most assuredly is so.'' N 6 276 '' Must I not believe, that, as a pre- liminary to all this, the love of this world must be entirely extirpated ?" '' The love of its pomps and vani- ties must undoubtedly be subdued/' '' I speak not of its pomps and vani- ties ; these I think 1 could easily bring myself to despise. You smile, Mr. Du- rand ; perhaps you think this facility of contempt arises principally from my being removed by situation and circum- stances from the temptations of pomp and vanity/' '' Why, I believe," he replied^ '' v^e all of us very readily fall into the error of supposing ourselves indifferent to what is beyond our reach. Mistaking the calm of hopelessness for magnani- mity of sentiment, we may look down with perfect disdain upon such paltry things as wealth and honours." '' Most true V' said Eliza. '' But if the prospect of wealth or honours were to be opened upon us^ and some glimpse 277' of our former flourishing notions should then dance before our niinds^ we should perhaps dismiss them with the an- swer of Felix to St. Paul^ ' Go thy ways for this time ; when I have a con- venient season, I will send for thee.' '' '' You are better read in human na- ture than I should have supposed pos- sible/' said he, '" considering your years, and limited opportunities/' '' Nature, I believe, has gifted me with a talent for observation ; and when that is the case, one has nothing to do but to walk into the first house one arrives at, and it is fifty to one but something turns up to give rise to re- flection. But to return to our subject : Is it merely the pomps and vanities of life which you very good people feel yourselves called upon to renounce }" '' I am not a very good person/' said he gravely ; '' I am simply a proba- tioner, like yourself, in a world of woe^ 278 looking forward, I trusty to one far hap- pier/' '' A world of woe! yes^ that is the proper phraseology^ I know ; but there I think lies the mistake. It is not a world of woe ; on the contrary^, it is a very beautiful and attractive world. And when 1 gaze upon the fair creation that surrounds me^ I would borrow the beautiful language of the poet, to de- scribe what 1 feel : '* The meanest flov/'ret of the vale, The simplest note that swells the gale, The common sun, the air, the skies, To me are opening Paradise." '' Am I to believe that these exquisite feelings are only bestowed upon me to be subdued, to be sacrificed by a pain- ful effort to a cold, unlovely, repelling principle, guided by which, I am to be- come insensible to joy, or pleasure, or happiness, or comfort ? Oh no ! I can- 279 not believe it. These emanations of delight are given me to be enjoyed, not to be extirpated/' '' Doubtless they were/' he replied, '' but their fruition is not in this world. They speak loudly of your immortal destiny; that destiny which is pioclaimed in every vivid flash of intellect, in every burst of feeling ; but, most of all, in that indefinable longing after happiness which can only be gratified in some future state of existence. This world we know and feel to be insufficient for such a purpose. This world ! Miss Ri- vers ; — Oh, 'tis unworthy of a heart like yours!" The energy with which he spoke transformed him into a different crea- ture. He seemed no longer the Morti- mer Durand she had hitherto known him, pale as monumental marble, and almost as inanimate ; but a being whose intelligent countenance, sparkling with enthusiasm, gave strong and decided in- 280 dication that want of ardour was by no means to be reckoned amongst his defi- ciencies. In the conclusion of his last address to her, his energy of manner had not confined itself to words, he had even ventured to take her hand ; and not till a slight feeling of confusion was visible in Eliza's countenance, did he appear sensible that he was still retain- ino^it. Bat immediatelv on observing: this, he relinquished it with evident and painful embarrassment. '' Pardon me. Miss Rivers," said he, '' the freedom of addressing you in this manner ; but your enthusiasm prompted mine, and will, therefore, 1 hope, be kind enough to excuse it." Then uttering some indistinct expres- sions about '' his time being almost ex- pired, and he believed Louisa would be expecting him at church," he rather hastily left the room. The new development of his cha- racter which this short conversation dis- 281 played;, created for him a sort of inte- rest ill Eliza's mind^ which slie imcon- sciously evinced by more frequent en- deavours to draw him intodiscourse^ and a more civil attention to him than she had hitherto shewn. Unusual^ however^ as was this conciliatory manner on her side^ it produced no kind of change on his. For several days after their tete-a- tete in the dining room, he evidently avoided being left alone with her ; and in the family party, his usual taciturnity and reserve prevailed with increased force. This inconsistency of behaviour, at the same time that it surprised, a little displeased Eliza, who was very little in the habit of having her efforts to make herself agreeable treated with any kind of indifference. For several evenings, there- fore, after Mr.Henley had retired (which^ since his illness, he had generally been in the habit of doing at an early hour), de- clining to comply with Louisa's request 282 for some music, she contrived to occupy herself so intently with her book, as scarcely to suffer the sound of her voice to be heard during the whole of the evening. As it was by no means extraordinary for Eliza to be a little capricious, Louisa^ quietly supposing that it was her plea- sure to read, and to be silent, never gave her the least interruption ; and Durand was generally furnished with an excuse for his absence by having a ser- mon to compose, or to read over, against the approaching Sunday. It was not till the evening of another Sunday again came round, that Eliza, having turned over the pages of a vo- lume of sermons, with very little atten- tion to their contents, determined to vary her employment with a little music. Both Mortimer and Louisa were ear- nestly engaged in reading, and neither of them heard her move from her chair, till the noise she made in opening the 2S3 instrument attracted the attention of both of them. Immediately^ Durand approached to her assistance, observing that "^ he was rejoiced to find she had not entirely renounced the intention of gratifying them again in that manner." '' If it is any gratification/' she re- plied, '' you have the satisfaction of knowing it to be always within your reach, at least, if you will condescend to ask for it/' '' Condescend ! Miss Rivers ; — indeed — you are too severe/' He spoke this with such a tone of wounded feeling, that Eliza was vexed to think she had addressed him iu so sarcastic a manner. '' Indeed," said she, '' I find I shall never rightly understand you. Here for a week together, I find you flying me in every possible direction, and treating my politesse and pretty beliaviour with downright indifl?erence. Now, if I am to hear civil things from you but 284 once in seven days^ you nnust not be surprised if I do not put the most abso- lute faith in their sincerity." '' I feel, indeed, that I am not rightly understood by you. Miss Rivers/' he replied, ^' perhaps — 1 do not at this time exactly understand myself — but no matter/' As he spoke this, Louisa, who had advanced towards them, fixed upon him a look of the most earnest and sympa- thizing attention. Eliza remarked it, and for the first time an idea occurred to her that something* of attachment sub- sisted between them. That Louisa should be in love, appeared certainly a kind of paradox ; but that Mortimer with his strict and proper notions might very much love her and all her proprie- ties, appeared so likely a thing, that she wondered it had escaped her observa- tion so long. She could now find a solu- tion for all that abstraction of mind which had hitherto so much perplexed 285 her in hi in. Beyond all question hit^ passion was little better than hopeless ; for though Louisa evidently entertained the most sisterly affection for him, Eliza felt persuaded that it was quite out of her nature to advance beyond that, and that the ardour with which she supposed it possible he might attach himself, was not, and, in fact, could not be returned in any proportionate degree on her side. A kind of compassion was nov»^ added to the interest which his somewhat ex- traordinary character had already ex- cited in her; and observing him to lean his head upon his hand, with an air of. dejection, she turned to him with less of gaiety than kindness in her manner: — '' Come," said she, '' I know I do not misunderstand you when I believe you to be fond of music ; I will sing you something quite to your taste, for it shall be Handel's, and from the Messiah.'* She made choice of an air in which her captivating voice was heard to peculiar 286 advantage. Few were the songs she performed so well as that sublime air^ '' 1 know that my Redeemer liveth/' The strain of devotional pathos which breathes in every note of that divine composition^ and the deep solemnity of the words always affected her very powerfully ; and except at those few intervals when re- flection or mental uneasiness had raised her thoughts a little above the mortal levels or when, as in the present instance^ she had a particular wish to please^ she seldom or never made choice of this song. With mute and breathless attention^ Durand seemed almost to inhale every note she uttered. Sometimes the mel- lifluous sweetness of her voice floated in a sustained tone of the richest melody ; then at the close of the strain dying away in the most perfect shake^ it left a pause really grateful to the fullness of the hearer's heart. Nothing could be more touching, yet more chastely sim- 287 pie than her performance. Louisa paid the gentle tribute of her admiration in silence and in tears ; she had retreated to an obscure corner of the room^ in order to indulge them unobserved. What eloquence did the countenance of Durand display^ as it was bent upon Eliza! '' Is it you/' it seemed to say, '" who would enchain to the gTovelling joys of earth a heart so formed to expand to the sublimest emotions ? Is it you who bound your hopes of happiness to this worlds when you are so capable of ele- vatins; the souls of others to the hio:hest expectation of immortality?" So completely did EHza always iden- tify herself with the sentiment that oc- cupied her, let it be what it might, that when it was of a particularly affecting nature, it commonly overpowered her even to tears. Her recent indisposition, too, had considerably enfeebled her, and 288 rendered her more than usually sensitive. At the closing strain of her song, her voice became fainter — it faltered yet more ; Durand hastened forward — he closed the book — he ventured to take her hand — he slightly pressed it. Gently disengaging it^ she walked to an open window which communicated with a viranda. She took two or three turns in it. The calm beauty of the summer moon, and the soft serenity of the air, in some degree soothed the strange agitation of her nerves. Her softened feelings, so prompt to vibrate at every touch, were now wrought upon by an object to which she could never be insensible. It was curious, that twice within a few weeks, when a strange mysterious mournfulness pervaded her mind, her eye should rest as it did now upon the last lowly habitation of her departed friends. She was yet musing upon this coin- 289 cidence^ when the voice of Louisa^ softly pronouncing her name^ roused her from her reverie. '' Louisa^ my dear/* said she^ '' come hither : do you see that monument?'' '' My dear Eliza^ why indulge un- necessarily in painful recollection ? you are not used to be so much in love with melancholy/' '' TwicCj Louisa^ very lately^ has that monument met my view,, and both times my mind has been unaccountably oc- cupied with presages of unhappiness. Some misfortune threatens me — I am not born to be happy/' With every endearment of word and action^ Louisa endeavoured to dissipate these vague fears. '' Come in, my love/' said she, '' and Mortimer will read to us ; it will do you good to hear him read/' '' Not to-night, dear Louisa. I must wait for the cheering influence of a VOL. I. o 290 morning sun, before this load of oppres- sion will leave me!'' On re-entering the room she perceived Durand apparently buried in profound thought^ for his head was reclined upoa his arms, which were crossed before him on the table. He started up at the sound of her voice as she wished him good nighty but merely bent in reply to it. m GHAP. XIV. Madame de Sevigiie observes^ in one of her letters^ that ^^ at going to bed our thoughts are of a dark grey^ but, in the middle of the nighty they become black." Volumes of description could not have given a more forcible idea of the manner in which the mind is affected by the sombre images of night and dark- ness. But how beautifully equal are the dispensations of Nature ! Day-light returns^ and^ cheered by its influence^ the elastic spirits rebound from their tem-' porary pressure, and dance again in the sunbeams of hope and expectation. Quite restored to her usual state of animation, Eliza descended to the break- fast room. She found Louisa and Du- o 2 292 rand standing at a window, engaged in very earnest conversation, which her entrance evidently inti nupted. A slight degree ot contusion, visible on both sides, but particularly on Loui- sa's, left her very little doubt as to what had been the subject of their discourse ; and she felt provoke J to think she had given them any disturbance. Mr. Henley, however, soon entered^ and Louisa proceeded to make break- fast with so much of her usual placidity, that no one, but a very acute observer, would have detected any traces of agi- tation in her countenance. Eliza fan- cied that she could discover some marks of mental uneasiness about her. Durand was rather more than usually talkative ; and, on Mr. Henley's asking Eliza if she had quite renounced riding on horse- back : — '' If you are disposed to renew that exercise. Miss Rivers,'' said Mortimer, *' and will condescend to accept of my 293 escort^ I can only say you will confer a great deal of honour and a great deal of pleasure upon me." '' Really, Mortimer,, you are getting quite a I'hilaiider/* said Mr. Henley; *' I shall have Mrs. Bartley here, in a few days, to inquire your character, and wishing to know if you want a situation. What think you. Miss Rivers V '' To be sure Mrs. Bartley is a very keen speculator ; but I think, all things considered, Mr. Durand will escape her/' '' He is too poor to be sought after^'' said Mortimer, '' and too *' he paused. ' " And too proud to seek, I suppose you mean to say,'' said Mr. Henley. '^'^ Well, even pride and poverty have their advantages; and no trifling ones, if they preserve a man from a wife and a whole regiment of children, till he has something more to maintain them than a curacy of fifty pounds a year/' o 3 294 Mortimer assented^ with a laugh, to the truth of his uncle's remark; and then turning to Eliza, he asked her '' if •he might look forward to the gratifica- tion of accompanying her in a ride that evening, — the morning, he supposed, would be too sultry/' Eliza had but two difficulties to over- come. One was the want of a horse ; the other arose from a doubt how this arrangement might be agreeable to Louisa. Louisa, however, herself, obviated these obstacles. '' You don't know what a pretty poney my cousin Mortimer's is," said she ; ^' he will carry you very nicely. 1 often used to ride it when I was staying with my aunt last summer. I should like you to go out riding, Eliza, dear, for I think it would do you good. You have hardly yet recovered from the effects of your bad cold." 295 On hearing this^ Eliza inatle no fur- ther scruple in accepting Mortimer's offer of ridiniir with her. Indeed she imagined it not improbable that he sought her society as a means of varying his thoughts^ and preventing them from dwelling upon what she supposed was an unprosperous attachment to his cou- sin. In the evenings therefore, he accom- panied her a pretty romantic ride^ which took them to that Fenwick^ renowned in Eliza's history, as the spot in which she had passed some pleasant hours, in the society of the only person who had^ as yet^ awakened any very decided interest in her heart. The remembrance of Mr. Walde- grave^ however, was, upon the whole^ less painful than pleasing ; and though she felt that she could have indulged it till it became melancholy, she, for once^ struggled for a victory over feeling; and in detailing, for the amusement of her o 4 296 companion^ the motley circumstances that distinguished that eventful day^ she succeeded effectually in banishing vain regret from her own mind^ and^ if she might judge from the animation her lively manner of reciting seemed to im- part to Mortimer^ equally so from his. After riding in this manner for two or three evenings together^ it seemed to follow as a thing of course; Louisa always proposing the business by in- quiring of Eliza^ soon after dinner^ '' at what time she would like to drink tea, whether before or after she had taken her ride?'* Eliza was willing to accept this as a tacit approval of the manner in which her cousin Mortimer disposed of his evenings. In fact, in proportion as his reserve towards her yielded to a greater degree of intimacy, she found in his con- versation such a store of good sense and intelligent remark, such a propriety of feeling and judging upon all points, that 297 his society gradually became a resource to her^ which she would have been rather disappointed to have been compelled to resign. But though the terms they were now upon bordered more upon friendship than they had hitherto done, there still remained, on his side, an evideit dread of approaching her too familiarly ; and which^ in the first period of their ac- quaintance^ she had construed into dis- like of her ; but the marked pleasure with which he sought her society, ren- dered it impossible for her, with any justice, to retain this idea. Altogether^ he was quite an enigma to her ; tor why, with an attachment to another, he should so sedulously devote himself to her, she could not account, unless it was fas she indeed supposed) with a view to expel- ling the thoughts of that other from his mind. That he was still attached to his cousin, she had very little doubt ; his o 5 2D8 frequent abstraction, and the dejected manner in which he always spoke of himself and his prospects in life, con- firmed her in this supposition. Louisa, too, had lately become more pensive than common, and but that it was an apparent pleasure to her to observe and promote his increased intimacy with Eliza, the latter would have sometimes entertained a suspicion that she was not quite so indifferent to his regard for her as she had at first supposed. The sub- ject was of so delicate a nature, and one that so very little concerned Eliza, that she was often provoked with herself for feeling' any curiosity to know how mat- ters stood between them. But though the recoil which he seemed to feel when her sprightly raillery was directed against his low spirits, always surprised and vexed her, and made her repeatedly promise herself that she never would jest with him on that subject again ; her lively temperament generally 299 overturaed her resolutions in his favour, and she never eould prevail upon herself to forego any fair opportunity of glancing some ^vitty insinuation as to her behef of the state of his heart. She surprised him one morning in a kind of arbour, or summer-house, in the garden, writing, what a slight look sufficed to tell her was poetry. Whether lie was transcribing from a book that lay before him, or whether he was com- posing, she could not tell ; but she chose to believe the latter, for, begging his pardon, and hoping her interruption would not prove of any material conse- quence to his muse, she hastily retreated, leaving him blushing, and bowing, and hiding the transcript between the leaves of the book. She thouo'ht no more of this circum- stance till the evening, when they were taking their ride, when observing him to be particularly absent and distrait^ she inquired, with some archness, '«whe- o 6 300 ther he was pursuing the poetical theme she had been so unfortunate as to inter- rupt in the morning ?" '' If so/' she continued^ '' pray do not let me be any restraint upon you. I will either canter, or gallop, or walk, or trot, exactly as may be most agreeable to the metre in which you indite. I per- fectly understand these things I assure you, for I sometimes am in a sort of poetical mood myself." '' Are you ?" he replied with a melan- choly smile. ''Am I ? Yes indeed am I /' — and she laughed. '' And if I can be of the least use to you on this point, Mr. Mortimer, you may command me, or my Rhyming Dictionary, for I have one, and a very useful book it is, if one wants to write a sonnet in a hurry.'* He literally seemed to writhe under this attack. Eliza was astonished, and half inclined to believe him capricious and ill-humoured, but that his coun- 301 tenance far more forcibly displayed an- guish than resentment. In compassion to him^ she forbore to rally him further. He seemed relieved by her considera- tion ; and on her making' some indif- ferent remark upon the beauty of the evenings he readily fell into conversation with her^ and appeared almost by a visible effort to discard from his mind its former oppression. The evening was now declining very fast ; the sun had long been set, but the bright beams of an unclouded moon rendered the night so beautiful and in- viting, that they lingered in their return home. '' I often amuse myself/' said Eliza^, '' when I look upon the moon, with thinking that she, too, is filled with be- ings like ourselves ; they, perhaps, are fighting for their crowns and sceptres^ and stars and garters." '' If they are possessed with the same 302 feelings and passions as ourselves/* he replied, '' it is natural to suppose them occupied with the same pursuits." '^ Seen under this point of view/' said Eliza, '' we ourselves appear but ridi- culous creatures. With all pur magni- ficent works of art; with all our stu- pendous projects ; all our labour, and all our ambition, we are controlled by laws, of which we know nothing, but that they exist, and whirled along, pre- senting but a mere speck, an atom in the regions of space. We might reason upon our own insignificancy, after the manner of Hamlet, vvith Yorick's skull, till we do indeed resolve ourselves into the dust from which we sprung.'' '' ^'Twere to consider too curiously to consider so,' as Horatio says," replied Mortimer with a smile. '' But in con- trasting our feeble proceedings with the grand works of Nature, the moralist will undoubtedly find a lesson of humility. He will find that man alone is disorderly 303 and violent ; inconsistent and capricious. In the works of Nature, on the contrary, what uniform harmony I Whilst we are convulsed with wars and factions^ mark- ings every where our track with blood and rapine, noise and tumult. Nature continues her course, silently, but beau- tifully exemplifying the wisdom and con- sistency of its Divine original — the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever/' '' You are a moralist, I believe, Mr. Durand, at all times and upon ail occa- sions." '^ A feeble one, I fear. A frail instance^ amongst many, of the m.uch greater facility of arguing than acting," '^ I can scarcely think it," she replied ; '^ I rather suspect you are doing your- self injustice, as you once were so obliging as to remark of me." '' I doubt not, at this particular time. There have been occasions when, through Divine assistance, I have been enabled to combat with inclination, even when it 304 has been innocent^ but which in my cir- cumstances I knew it would be dange- rous to indulge/' '' But if inclinations are innocent/* said Eliza, '' why should they be com- bated ? Why should you embitter the most charming period of your existence with self-imposed austerities, as unne- cessary as unavailing ?'' ''^ Ah, Miss Rivers ! you have yet to learn what my past career has already taught me. May it be rather by obser- vation than experience that you discover how many exquisite feelings and senti- ments there are, which it will not be for our happiness to indulge. We cannot, perhaps, shut our hearts to them, but it were well to do so." '' Well ! I cannot comprehend this self-tormenting doctrine,'' said Eliza; '' neither am I anxious to understand it. I am content to be happy while I can, and to be miserable when there is a necessity for it." 305 " We can all of us yield to necessity/' he replied. '' The difficulty is in makings possibility subservient to reason^ — in being able to say^ I may but 1 will not/' They were now crossing a sort of common or heathy and Eliza observing that it was a famous place to canter in^ urged her little steed into a quicker pace^ Durand keeping close up with her. They had just entered a lane leading to the Rectory^ and were within a hun- dred yards of the house^ when the poney stumbled^ and threw Eliza with some violence on the ground. In an instant Durand sprung from his horse^ and endeavoured to raise her in his arms. She was quite stunned by her fall, but retained sufficient recollection to hear the moans and anguish of Morti- mer as he supported her. The fervor with which he clasped her hands^ first one and then the other, the tone of despair in which he pronounced her name^ calling upon her as '' Eliza^ his 306 dear, his own Eliza, beseeching her to speak to hiin — but one word ;" seemed to float before her fancy rather as in a dream than in reality. As she had fortunately received no other injury than the effect of the shock upon her nerves, in a few minutes she recovered her senses, and endeavoured to compose him by the most serious assurances of her safety, and that she was very well able to proceed home. The sound of her voice was as a cor- dial to him. '' Heaven be praised !*' he exclaimed^ seizing her hand, and ardently pressing it, first to his heart, then to his lips. '' Heaven be praised for this deliverance ! But hold, what are you thinking of?" observing her preparing to re-mount the unfortunate poney, which he was'hold- ing by the bridle, '' not for the universe would I see you upon him again. Lean upon me, dear Miss Rivers— let me sup- port you.'* 30.7 Eliza accepted his offered arm; and watching her as a mother would a dar- ling infant^ rescued from some imminent and impending danger^ he conducted her home. At the hall door they encountered Louisa^ who^ surprised at the lateness of their stay^ was coming out to look for them. At the sight of Eliza^ pale an^ agitated, and leaning her whole weight upon Durand^ she inquired, with surprise and alarm, '' what was the matter?" Ehza endeavoured to smile as she related what had befallen her, but her shattered feelings were no longer equal to support her^ and, throwing herself into a chair, she gave way to an hysteric burst of tears. Louisa flew to her assistance, while Mortimer, hastily mounting his horse^ rode off to Belton for medical advice. The flood of tears in which Eliza in- dulged was a seasonable relief to her exhausted spirits, and she was soon able 308 to smile in earnest^ as she recounted to Louisa her recent adventure. The first impression on Louisa^ as she tenderly embraced and congratulated her on her safety^ was that of devout thankfulness for her escape from danger. In about twenty minutes Mortimer returned, bringing with him a surgeon, who, as a matter of course, strongly recommended Eliza to submit to be bled* She protested for a long time against this measure, declaring there was no necessity for it ; but at length, in com- pliance with the intreaties of Mortimer, rather tlian tor any satisfaction of her own, she submitted to it. S09 CHAP. XV. It is curious, that we often receive images and impressions without any consciousness at the time of their pre- sence, and when hours, days, and some- times weeks have elapsed, we shall perceive them in all tlieir primitive force and vivacity. It was not till the next morning that Eliza distinctly remembered the impas- sioned manner of Mortimer, when she assured him that she had escaped from her accident unhurt. She mi,;ht, to be sure, have been very seriously injured, or even have lost her life by I his inci- dent, but, in the calm an , temperate state of his feelings towards her, she should even, in that case, have expected 310 him to express a more sober kind of grief, and not to have invoked her as his Eliza^ as she novs^^ v^ith some astonish- mentj remembered his having done. She coukl only account for it by sup- posing that the suddenness and hazard of the circumstance had surprised him into an enthusiasm which she had long believed to be naturally a feature in his character^ but which his strange system of self-command had so disguised and concealed, that it was rarely, if ever, perceptible. To her very great surprise, he was absent from the breakfast table; a cir- cumstance very unusual with him, whose habits were domestic and regular, to a degree not often found in young men. Mr. Henley, after having inquired with s6me anxiety of Eliza how she found herself this morning, told her that '' Mortimer was so ashamed of his poney's misdemeanor, that he was gone to take him home.'' 311 '' Home '/' she replied, '' why that is thirty miles off; is it not. Sir?'* '' Somewhere thereabouts, I believe/* '' Then he does not return to- night?" "" Not for two or three days, I be- lieve,'' said Louisa. Eliza was astonished. It scarcely appeared civil of him to go off without waiting to see her, particularly after her accident the evening before; and when Mr. Henley left them, she expressed as much to Louisa. '' I am very sure he meant any thing hut incivility towards you,'' replied Lou- isa. " I should not have been so much' astonished if he had not expressed so much concern for me at the time of my accident," '' He was very much concerned. I never knew him to be more so at any circumstance." 312 '' When he first came/' said Eliza^ rather thinking- aloud, than addressing her companion, '' I know very well he disliked me ; hut, latterly, I thought he had something of a regard for me/' '' My dear Eliza, to what does all this tend? Is it possible that you can be blind to ?'' she stopt in some con- fusion, '' that you can entertain a doubt of Mortimer's esteem for you ? Oh ! do not do him so much injustice, he does not deserve it of you;" and saying this, she hastily quitted the room, leaving Eliza overwhelmed with a crowd of ideas, all so indistinct, that she could give neither shape nor meaning to any of them. She was now so accustomed to Mor- timer's society, that his absence created a kind of blank in her feelings. The languor of indisposition, too, hung about her, and rendered her inactive and rest- less. After sauntering about the garden SIS for more than an hour, she turned into the summer-house, where Louisa had de- posited a book case, containing her few possessions in the way of literature. By way of beguiling her weariness, Eliza took down a book. On opening it a paper fell (vovA it, which, on perceiv- ing to be poetry, she had very little hesi- tation in reading. It was written with a pencil, as follows : — There is a grief which dares not speak. But drowns in ^ars the pallid cheek ; There is a woe that breaks the heart> But must not of its care impart. No fond endearing sympathy. Responsive tear, or mutual sigh, Can ease that bosom's thrilling pain> Which loves, but is not lov'd again ! And mine, alas ! the bleeding breast, Where hopeless love is doom'd to rest ; But thine ! — but thine, Eliza, dear ! I dare not ask if love be there. While yet to muse on thee is mine. To gaze upon thy charms divine ; To listen to thy dulcet lay. Till earth's delusions pass away ; VOL. I. P 314 And to my dreaming soul is given A foretaste of the joys of Heaven ! The visionary bliss too bright, Too exquisite the fond delight. On one proud word to risk its fate And leave myself most desolate. One cruel word of cold disdain, To break the dear, the cherish'd chain, That binds me to a lover's pain ! With almost breathless astonishment Eliza pondered upon these lines. That they were addressed to her admitted of no doubt; it was almost as clear that they were written by , Mortimer. By Mortimer I whom she supposed to be attached to his cousin I Was it possible, she asked herself, that she could have been so much mistaken upon this point i She believed, upon reflection, that she might have decided, too precipitately as to the nature of his regard for Louisa. That he was unha|)py, and unhappy from a misplaced attachment, she had indeed some grounds for supposing. But why she should have fixed it upon 315 Louisa she could not very satisfactorily account for; unless by supposing^ as indeed she had done^ that her excellent principles and many good qualities were very likely to attract and attach him to her. But this unexpected disclosure re- moved the veil from her eyes^ and pre- sented her with a solution of all those parts of his behaviour which had hitherto so much perplexed her. It would be difficult to say whether she felt herself most pained or pleased by this discovery^ so equally were both sensations balanced against each other. With the natural vanity of her sex_, she was gratified by a conquest which the good sense and superior qualities of her captive rendered far from an ignoble one. But the certainty that his habits of self-command would speedily impel him, if they had not already done so, to with- draw himself from her society, con- p2 316 siderably lessened her gratifications, and, in fact, gave her more concern than she could very well account for, persuaded as she was, that her senti- ments for him were nothing more, and never could be any thing more, than those of the most perfect respect and esteem. ^^ It was natural, however,'' she thought, '' that she should regret the loss of him from the Rectory, even though she felt nothing for him but perfect re- spect and esteem. — He was so intelli- gent — really very clever— certainly a man of first-rate understanding — and he had taste, too — yes, when you could draw him out from his habits of auste- rity and reserve, he evidently possessed great delicacy and elegance of mind; not perhaps so much as Mr. Walde- grave, — ah, no! he was not like Mr. Waldeo-rave ! — But then who was? — cer- tainly not any body she knew.'' She sighed, and thought no more of Morti- mer for a full quarter of an hour. 317 CHAP. XVI. Blt though the recollection of Mr. Waldegrave was still so fresh in Eliza's mind, as to render the idea of another distasteful to her, it was not so potent as to make her next meeting with Mortimer a subject of indifference to her. Our self-love, too, often makes us un- amiable ; but it has sometimes a contrary effect, and disposes us to be particularly agreeable and conciliatory. Perhaps this is never so entirely the case as when we know the favourable opinion that is entertained of us by those we are de- sirous to please, and know it too by means which testify beyond a doubt its fervor and sincerity. Just sufficiently interested in the mat- ter, to wish to preserve the impression p3 318 she had made upon Mortimer^ Eliza re- ceived him on his return with smiles of pleasure. She extended her hand at the first sight of him^ telling him at the same time^ in her energetic style^ that '' she was rejoiced to see him back again." '' Rejoiced !" he repeated^ with such a gratified smile^ such a fervent pres- sure of her hand^ and such an animated glance^ that had she not already disco- vered the secret of his hearty these/ mute but eloquent signs must have be- trayed it. He then poured forth repeated in- quiries after her health : '" Had she quite recovered from her fall ? — had she been taking care of herself?" with all that anxious sincerity which marks a genuine affection. But these ebullitions of emotion were soon Testrained. As if with a suddefi recollection, he became grave and taci- turn, and very soon after tea retired to Mr. Henley's study, where he remained for the rest of the evening. I 319 Whatever were the motive for this conduct^ it very much perplexed and disturbed Eliza. Sometimes she ascribed it to that inveterate habit of self-denial which appeared to regulate all his ac- tions; and a person always influenced by so severe and repelling a principle could not be otherwise than very dis- agreeable. She was very much inclined^ therefore, to find fault with him on that side ; and still more so if, on the other hand, as she almost believed, the power of her attractions was not so great as she had imagined, — and he found it no task of difficulty to relinquish the opportunity he had of spending the evening with her^ and to go very quietly, and happily^ " and preferably too," she mentally continued, '' to write or to read some sermon for to-morrow.'' '' Well, it did not signify to her — how silly it was to think about it V — and she half smiled — and sat down to her work^ and began to consider whether Mr.Wal- p 4 320 degrave, in Mortimer's place^ would act as he did. In alternate ruminations upon Walde- grave and Mortimer^ she passed the re- mainder of the evening, and great part of the night, for the subject stiii occu- pied her long after she sought her pillow. On the following day she went to church. This she had generally been in the habit of doing on a Sunday, though as an act of propriety rather than of real devotion. Mr. Henley was a very good man, and gave them very good sermons — In the opinion of the greater part of his congregation, they were ex- cellent sermons. — and Eliza, when called upon for her opinion of their merits, gave it, without hesitation, in their favour; but it was with nearly the same feeling with which she would have assented to the truths of the multiplication table. But since Mortimer had officiated for his uncl3^ the case was altered. She 321 now went to church, not only with feel- ings of less indifference, but with those of growing devotion. There was some- thing in Mortimer, when engaged in his sacred function, that interested at once the heart and the understanding ; espe- cially of those who, like Eliza, knew that his life was one continued illustra- tion of the doctrines he taught. There was such an earnest, impressiv^e sincerity in his manner of performing the duties of his office, as made its way to the hearts of the most insensible, and compelled them to consider the merits of the cause that could awaken such genuine and fervent zeal. Till she heard him, Eliza could scarcely be said to have thought of that cause at all ; but now it very fre- quently occupied her mind. Like most persons of warm and en-^ thusiastic imagination, she deeply felt the want of some more sublime and ani- mating principle than this world, with all its fascinations, can inspire. But p5 322 she, who has said every thing that per- tains to sentiment, better than any one else, she, who doubtless felt in her in- most soul the justice of her remark, Madame de Stael, has told us, that '^^ Divine aid is entirely necessary, when our thoughts and sentiments are out of the circle of common life! — Distin- guished minds stand particularly in need of supernatural protection." Already yielding to the rising influence of religion, and, from recent circum- stances, more than usually interested in Mortimer, Eliza was this day powerfully affected by the discourse he delivered, thouffh it was upon a trite and exhausted 'i3' upon subject. The sorrows and disappoint- ments of life, indeed, are facts which require no argument to support them. It must have been on account of that strange prognosticating faculty of dis- cerning misery in her future lot, and that promptness to assimilate with gene- ral remarks upon misfortune a particu- lar description of her own individual fate^ which so eminently characterized Eliza. It must have been on this ac- count, or on some other^ that the fact turned out to be, that on this occasion the words of the preacher were found to sink so deeply into her hearty as to affect her even to tears. There was no art of rhetoric — no flourish of oratory — nothing in his style but the graces of simplicity and truth. Having spoken of the instability of life^ — the mockery of its illusions^ its unreal promises^ and its vain delights^ he thus went on : — ^^ Had we no other monition — had the voice of the Deity been silent^ the im- mortal destiny of man would testify itself in his sufferings. '' Why do we suffer ? why are our na- tural hopes frustrated^ our best founded expectations deceived ? Why should the mother^ as she hangs over her infant^ anticipating the lapse of time^ and al- p 6 324 ready beholding him, a youth — a man — in his turn her protector, and requiting those anxious cares which she now la- Tishes upon him ; why should death, or, worse than death, filial ingratiude, dis- appoint hereafter these fond expecta- tions ? '' Why should the dreams of youth be only dreams? Why should disappoint- ment so often blight the hope that Na- ture inspires ? And why should Nature have given to us that beautiful faculty, which, like Noah's dove, vainly searches for a resting place ? " Is it not that the fond expecting heart, allowed to flutter for a time over the expanse of terrestrial joys, may, through disappointment and suffering, at last be prevailed upon to return to that ark of refuge, where alone it can repose in security ? '' The mere moralist believes that such may be the case. But the christian knows it. He who cannot deceive has 325 called to his compassionate arms the sorrowful and the unfortunate. ' Come unto me/ he says, ' ail ye that labour and are heavy laden, and 1 will give you rest/ He too has told us that those who mourn are blessed, for they shall be comforted. '' Too surely, indeed, has he prophe- cied to us that in the world we shall have tribulation — but still we are to be of good cheer.'* So persuasive, so eloquent were the melodious tones of Mortimer's voice^ that it seemed to her indeed as if " Truths divine came mended from' that tongue." Never had Eliza listened to him with such wrapt attention. Her eyes were rivetted upon him ; — now suffused with tears at the sorrows he pourtrayed^ and now animated with the immortal hope which his words inspired. He stood before her as a superior being ; as the messenger of comfort to her from her 326 God ; and her heart acknowledged for him a sentiment ahnost of reverence. Her enthusiasm was too highly wrought to subside with its exciting cause. Silently she returned home from church with Louisa^ and then imme- diately quitting her, she retired to her own ioom to think upon Mortimer. No idea of Mr. Waldgrave tempered the fervour with which her i ma «:i nation re- presented his piety, his virtues, and his attachment to her. Her heart was, at this moment, elevated far above the idea of a mere fashionable man. For the first time since she had known of it, she considered the affection of Morti- mer as really valuable and worthy of being encouraged. She really believed that she couldhe happy with him. This belief almost amounted to con- viction by the close of the day, for Mortimer relaxed his reserve so far as to pass the evening with her, to read to 327 her, to sin^ several of Handel's duetts with her^ and he contrived continually to pay her those silent but irresistible attentions^ which take the heart before it can be aware that it is in danger. By the next morning,, indeed^ there was a slight abatement of enthusiasm in her sentiments. A volume of Madame du Defland^ with her clever sallies and brilliant turns of thought, had given another direction to her ideas. She had been reading for some time alone in the parlour, for Louisa was gone out, when Mortimer entered the room ; upon which she laid aside her book, but with an expressive sigh which intimated that it was reluctantly relinquished. '' I beg I may* not interrupt you/' said he; I merely came to seek Louisa;" and he was about to retire, but Eliza requested him to stay. '' You are come very opportunely," said she^ '' to compel me to lay aside 32S book^ which I never know how to put out of my hands when once I take it up." '' You excite my curiosity so power- fully/' he replied, " that you must ex- cuse my impertinence in wishing to satisfy it/* And as she looked assent, he opened the volume. '' Madame du Deffand's letters !" He continued glancing at the title page. '' Nay, then, I have no reluctance what- ever to stay, if by doing so, I prevent the prosecution of studies like these." He smiled as he spoke, but still he seemed in earnest in what he said. '' Well, I really believe myself," said Eliza, laughing, ''that the book does me no good. But then it is so charming !— Those French people, with their me^ moirs, and their letters, and their bon mots, are altogether quite irresistible; we certainly have nothing at all like it^, Mr. Durand." 329 '' x\nd long may we retain the proud distinction!" he replied^ with energy. *' It is true that we are deficient in that species of polite literature for which France is so eminent. We have not materials for it. Our straight-forward English sense, our honest matter-of-fact proceedings, the virtue of our women, and the integrity of our men^ present insupportable difficulties to that art of graceful trifling which constitutes its principal charm." *' We are, to be sure^ a most re- spectable, worthy, hum-drum sort of people/' said she, with an arch smile. " I will even admit that we should be so stigmatized,'* he replied, '' if it b^e hum-drum, as you call it, to have a round of daily duties to perform, a home to retire to after they are performed ; fami- lies and friends to love us, and to rejoice at our approach; hearts and hands for the services of others, and principle and 330 sense to guide us in the administration of our affairs^ — domestic ties ; — " '' Oh^ this is all extremly valuable/' interrupted Eliza ; '' but wit has its charmSj for all that/' '' Unquestionably ; but not when it is purchased at the expense of all that is dignified and praiseworthy/' '' Surely you are too severe/' she re- plied ; " besides^ I verily believe you are not speaking from your own convic- tion; you are taking up the opinion of some of those method istical books you read ; Bowdler^ or Mrs. More, or some of those people/' and she laughed. '' Some of those people you speak of/' he replied with gravity, '' are to be ac- counted amongst our national blessings. Itis owing, perhaps, in no trifling degree, to the writings of Mrs. More (who, if considered as a christian, a Moman, or a writer, is one of the highest ornaments of human nature), that we are what we are." He paused a little while, but soon 331 went on with much earnestness : " My dear Miss Rivers^ suffer me^ as a friend^ to caution you how you mention so ve- nerated a name as that of Hamiah More with the least appearance of ridicule. To one who knows you so well as I do^ it is of little consequence^ because the gaiety of your disposition accounts for many hasty sentiments^ which I am sure can never proceed from either your head or your heart* but to those who were strangers to your merits^ the slightest unguarded expression of any thing like contempt for such a woman as Mrs. More^, would be liable to inspire an opinion of you very much in opposition to that which you ought to receive from every one." Eliza coloured with momentary irrita- tion at the frankness of this address. He instantly perceived it. *' I am afraid I am too unceremo- nious," said he ; '' indeed I know that I am." 332 ''Oh! noj noj not in the least/' said she, hastily interrupting him. '' In five minutes I should see the justice of all you have said. In, fact I do now at this moment. I assure you I would not compromise my understanding so far as seriously to speak with disre- spect of such a woman as Mrs. More.'* '' I am sure you would not/' he re- plied, with a gratified smile, ''I am very sure you would not/' Oh ! Miss Rivers, contrast her life with that of this brilliant Frenchwoman, — this accomplished Ma- dame (iu Defiand. Contemplate them both as having reached that period o^ existence, when lite has nothing more to ofter ; but when all its habits, and feelings, and pursuits are brought to a severe and final test ; and, thus consi- dered, which, think you, reflects upon her nation and her sex the highest honour ?" '' But we must not thus rigidly con- sider poor Madame du Deffand. We 333 must make allowances for the times in which she lived — ^her infirmities-— and her great misfortune of blindness^ which threw her upon society for every re- source of comiort and amusement. Surely her many pathetic descriptions of her wretched feelings ought to dis- arm severity, if they did not excite compassion. I can hardly read them without tears. I fell upon a few lines just now : — ' I am very unhappy/ she says, to Horace Walpole. ' I cannot de^ scribe to you my state, but in saying, that I feel the want of dying, as one feels the want of sleep.''* '' It always must be an affecting sight,'' he replied, '*^to view old age destitute of all that can make it respectable or in- teresting. The complaints of this mi- serable woman excite pain, indeed, but with me it is a pain that borders upon horror, and which occasions any sensa- tion rather than that of tendernesi^ for the cause of it." 334 '' I am afraid you are a little " — she paused a monient ere she added^ '' a little hard-hearted/' '' I hope not/' he replied. '' I cannot call it hard-hearted to have but little toleration for the murmurs of aged infi- delity ; for the impious repinings of a woman, who^ in the course of a long- extended life, and in the exercise of a most uncommonly acute and vigorous understandings never appears to have nurtured one religious feeling, or to have entertained an idea that there might be a Benevolent Governor of the uni- verse. If her heart had not been occu- pied, as it most undoubtedly was, with passions the most rancorous and selfish, the very force and power of her own mind must have inspired her with mo- mentary fits of enthusiasm, — it must occasionally have elevated her above the frivolous and vicious people with whom she associated, and compelled her 335 sometimes to imagine that she was created for nobler purposes/' ^^ And what are all these murmurs and complaints that displease you so much/' said Eliza, '' but the aspirings of a supe- rior mind, conscious and ashamed of its grovelling pursuits, and only lamenting to be so fettered and enclmined by them ?" '' I call them rather the overflowings of intense selfishness/' he replied. '' I remember a passage in one of her letters, written, we must observe, at the close of more than fourscore years of existence, during which it is but reasonable to infer she must have been the subject of many signal interferences of Providence, certainly in the case of being herself spared to repentance, when many of her associates in iniquity were suddenly snatched away, this wretched infidel thus expresses herself : — ' I am always indignant at the injustice of making us S26 to be born without our consent^ — and of making us grow old in spite of our- selves. A tine present is life when ac- companied with such sufferings !'* '^ You select from the very worst side of the question/* said Eliza^ ^' is there nothing to be said for the frankness, the artlessness of her character, and the warmth and sincerity of her friendship for the accomplished person to whom these letters were addressed ?'' ^' I admit that she was natural in her feelings/' he replied, '' her abhorrence of affectation is one of her principal merits, — and her regard for Walpole I believe was sincere ; though, if she had any self-respectability to preserve, she would hardly have expressed it to him in terms of such preposterous w armth as to call for his repeated reproof. Of the general steadiness of her friendship we have ample cause to doubt. Excepting Walpole, she seems to have loved no 337 one^ bat to have kept up her connexions from motives of self-interest, and to save herself from the horrors of solitude and i-eflection. Of her utter heartlessness, there is a most illustrious specimen in her notice of the death of Voltaire ; a man whose splendid talents^ one would suppose^ ought to have made him suffi- ciently interesting to inspire her with something like a moral reflection^ — some-^ thing approaching to a tributary sigh to his memory. Instead of which^ her mention of the departure of this extraor- dinary person, with whom she lived in habits of intimacy and correspondence^ is, if I remember right, tagged to the end of one of her letters to Walpole, as a thing that had almost escaped her memory ; and after being introduced with ' / forgot to tell you/ the mere literal fact is told in a few words, and there is an end of it/' Eliza, a little puzzled to know what to oppose to his remarks, could only VOL. I. Q 338 smile, and repeat, "' that he was too severe, — -and I hope you will think so yourself/' she continued, '' when I assure you that, to nie, the principal attraction of these letters lies in the great similarity of feeling, upon many occasions, which I discover between this unfortunate woman and myself/' '"^ Yourself!*' he repeated in a voice of horror — " My dear Miss Rivers, what can have misled you to form such a notion ? Are you repining, selfish, and an infidel ?" '' An infidel, I bless God 1 am not ; nor, I hope, ever can be ; but often de- voured with ennuiy oppressed with the burden of existence, distasteful to my- self and to others, 1 too certainly am. And shall I be the person to judge with severity an unhappy creature, in whose vapourish and desponding feelings I trace but too much resemblance to my own V* 339 '' It is nothing but an imaginary re- semblance/' he replied ; *' I could not endure to believe it real. Believe me^ Miss Rivers, 1 should very impatiently have suffered any other person to point it out to me/' Eliza smiled^ as the only method of avoiding to see the deep and earnest in- terest which his words, and still more his manner, implied that he felt for her. Conscious, however, that his eyes were fixed upon her, she became a little embarrassed, particularly as she could think of nothing to say to interrupt the silence he maintained. At last she rose, and was going to make an excuse for leaving him, but he detained her by suddenly, though with the utmost respect, taking her hand : '' I wish I might presume to advise,'* said he. '' 1 wish I had influence enough with you to prevail upon you to relin- quish this dangerous reading ; or, if not, will you permit me to place in your hands^ q2 o 40 {IS an antidote to these volumes, a cor- respondence, less brilliant indeed, but far more valuable, in all that is really valuable. If you will wait one minute 1 will fetch the books." He soon returned, bringing with him the letters of Mrs. Carter and Miss Talbot ; which, on her saying that she had never read, he begged of her to peruse. '' I warn you," said he, '' beforehand, that you must not expect to find in them those flashes of wit, those delicate strokes of satire, and all that matchless grace, with which the French, and the French only, know how to adorn every thing; but you will meet with plahi English sense, — virtuous, and not trite or common sentiments; and many useful, if not profound observations upon life. You may contrast, if you please, the pious hope of immortality, which, after an existence of virtue, gave to the death- bed of one of these ladies a sort of joy 341 not to be described^ with the comfort- less despondency of Madame du Def- fand. You may " but seeing' Loui- sa enter the room, he checked what he was going to say, and only added, '' but I leave it to your own good sense to make what application, or draw what iti- ferences you please, from the contents of these volumes/' and theUj rather hastily, he withdrew. Some emotion or other flushed Loui- sa's usually pallid countenance, as she entered the room. But, soon subsiding, without any inquiry as to what had passed, or what was the meaning of the four volumes Mortimer had just put into the hands of Eliza, she quietly alluded to some family concerns of a trivial nature, and finished by asking Ehza '' if she would like to take a walk ?" Q 3 342 CHAP. XVII Eliza read with much attention the letters that Mortimer had recommended to her perusal. At first she entered upon her employment with no great interest in it^ and rather as a compliment to him, than an occupation from which she proposed to herself much pleasure. Her mind, pampered with the high seasoned delicacies of French literature, bad very little relish for the plain lare of wholesome, substantial sentiment. But intrinsic merit will make its way, and triumph over prejudice itself; provid- ed, indeed, that prejudice has not taken root in a weak or superficial mind, for then, no effort to eradicate it can rea- sonably be expected to succeed. 343 She had read but a little way when she found herself pleased — then by sonne sensible observation called upon to re- flect — and not unfrequently, by some pencilled remark of Mortimer's^ drawn to compare her taste with his ; and^ as it appeared that they generally coincided in their opinion,, the perusal of these vo- lumes^ at the same time that they made her better acquainted with his general sentiments^ inspired her with that re- gard for him which a sympathy of taste might be expected to produce. Already prepossessed in his favour by knowing herself the object of his affec- tion, though highly approving the sense of the text, she found more interest in the annotations in the margin. Many of them were particularly expressive of his habits of thinking, and especially of that approbation of self-control which his whole conduct indicated that he felt. '' Beautiful and very just!" his pen- cil had decided the following paragraph Q 4 344 to be, and Eliza's sighing heart testiRed acquiescence with his remark. '' Surely there is more need of mo- derating and regulating, than heighten- ing these disposiiioiis which are so liable to run wild ! Partial fondness, misplaced trust, vain hopes, bitter disappointments, endless anxieties, comfortless sorrows, sometimes resentment towards others, sometimes utter despondency in our- selves, pretty surely follow these un- happy errors. Let the highest affection be fixed above this world, and every other will rise in just proportion, and the harmony of life be complete/' Sometimes her vanity suggested that some idea of herself had prompted his observation. Once, indeed, she had no doubt of it, for having read — '" To centre all our joys and hopes, all our fears and anxieties, in any hu- man object, so as to make the happi- ness of our lives to depend solely or chiefly upon that ; to raise our aflfec- 345 tions to Iheir utmost height ; to add to them all the heis^htenins^s of imaorhia- tion, arid to fix all this in a fairy world of our own^ — this is surely to put ones self in a state of mind very unsuitable to the orders of Providence^ the nature of this worlds and its short-lived in- bitants/' — She perceived that he had remarked upon it^ — '' It is unquestion- ablj/ as sinful as imprudent, but alas!'' — Nothing less than a strong but mis- placed attachment could have inspired him with this sort of assent to the senti- ment. And whom did he love but herself? — Reason su^i^ested that he mi«rht have been attached before she knew him : — but it was not likely ; — and^ besides^ the remark must have been made lately, for she remembered to have heard him say, he had read the books for the first time since he came to the Rectory. It was of her, then, that he thought, when that expressive ''alas!" fell from q5 346 his pencil ; — and she laid down the book to ruminate upon him. '' Surely/' she asked herself^ " surely I could be happy with Mortimer? — A man of sense — and taste — a man of prin- ciple and understanding — a religious man — a man so entirely qualified by nature, and education, and habit, to be a friend and counsellor to me, — who have none — and who so often stand in need of both ;" — and she sighed : — then, after a few minutes' pause, — '' I really think I could be happy with him !" — She repeated — '' I really think if he were to propose to me, I should accept him." It was the first time she had advanced any thing like so far in his favour ; but having done so, she even went a step further, and began to consider whether Mortimer had it in his power to think of marriage; and to calculate upon his views and prospects. He was certainly not, by any means, what is commonly called '' a good 347 match ;'' nor was there, in the prospect of a connection with him, a reasonable hope of gratifying any penchant for '' pomp and circumstance/' which she might entertain. But this was not Eliza's weak side. Yet, although she did not covet the vanities of life, she had sense enough to desire such a share of its ad- vantages, as would enable her at all times to live in an easy, and even ele- gant manner. '' This," she thought, '' might be the case, were she to marry Mortimer. He had not, it was true, any thing in pos- session ; but he had learning, and fame at his University, he had evidently great talents. He had a warm friend and an able patron in the Bishop of C . It was impossible to have better interest than he had.'' Thus led on from thought to thought, Eliza was surprized to find, when roused from her reverie, the lengths she had gone in his behalf. 348 '' But it is really very idle to think so much about him/' said she, starting from her chair ; '' I dare say his self- command will soon enable him to forget me, and there is an end of the mat- ter." It happened about this time that Mortimer received a letter from the Bishop, appointing him his chaplain : a piece of intelligence which he commu- nicated to the family party as they were one morning assembled at breakfast. When congratulations had been given and received, Mr. Henley inquired of Mortimer, '' if he had no idea of mar- rying, upon the strength of his neW dignity } To be preferred and married, you know,'' said he, '' is, generally speaking, one and the same thing with a young clergyman." '' I believe. Sir, I must wait for some more solid preferment before 1 venture to encourage any hopes of marrying/' replied he. 349 He spoke so decidedly;, so much as if he had never entertained a serious thought upon the subject^ that EHza internally smiled at the useless solicitude she had given herself about accepting him. Whatever were his sentiments for her^ she felt persuaded^ from his manner^, that he had not the most distant idea of their leading him to make her a serious pro- posal. Under this conviction^ she soon re- sumed the gaiety which was usual to her, though some feeling, not quite so strong as disappointment but nearly allied to it, made it something of an effort to appear in high spirits. But her pride Vvas more wounded than her heart, if indeed there was any wound in the case, which was doubtful. Determined not to appear in the least soriy to part with him, she heard him speak of setting off that morning to visit his mother without any diminution of cheerfulness, but, if possible^ with in- 350 creased animation. She even urged his going, when, evidently reluctant to do so, he walked from window to window, and thought it would rain, and believed he should put it off a few days, and would write to his mother instead. '' Surely it would be more kind to go and tell her in person of what has be- fallen you,'* said she; '^ and, more- over these little absences of your's have their advantage, Mr. Mortimer. They make you a sort of novelty to us, when you come back. People are apt to get rather tired of one another when they live together for ever.'' She spoke this in joke, but it seemed to be any thing but a joke to him to whom it was addressed. He said nothing, however; but by gravely making her a slight bow, implied that he acquiesced in her remark, and very soon left the room. Eliza saw she had given him pain, and would very gladly^ if possible, have 351 recalled her ill-timed jest ; but it was her case never to understand the effects of her follies till after they were com- mitted. She scarcely thought he would take her advice^ and go ; and certainly she did not wish that he should ; for whether she liked him sufficiently well to marry him^ or not, it was perfectly clear to her that she preferred his society to that of any one else around her. More than an hour elapsed after break- fast, and neither seeing nor hearing any thing of him_, she began to think he was really gone ; and, under the idea that they had parted in an uncomfortable manner, she was getting very much vexed, and was on the point of seeking Louisa to hear some tidings of him, when he entered the room, equipped for travelling. '' I came to wish you good morning. Miss Rivers,'' said he, with a cold poHte- ness, very different from the easy, plea- 352 sant kind of intimacy which had lately subsisted between them. '' So you really are determined to go?** He bowed an affirmative^and then re- peating once more his formal '' good morning/* was hastening away, as if glad to finish a necessary but unpleasant task. But Eliza^ willing to atone for the pain she might have given him, and not enduring to be treated in this ceremo- nious style, extended her hand to him. '' Do, for Heaven's sake," said she, laughing, '' have done with all this bowing, English formality. You put me in mind of poor Corinna's observa- tion upon the cold-hearted ceremony of our people in addressing one another : ' I could not recollect,' says she, ' with- out emotion, the benignant expressions of my country — 'cava carissima !' I Avould say to myself sometimes, when walking alone (that is here, you know, in this somhve England, Mr. Mortimer) 353 to imitate the amicable way in which you are accosted by the Italians.' " ''And do you think/' said he, suddenly interrupting her, by taking her hand with an impetuosity that startled her^ ''do you think that I could not willingly address you in this style, if I dare ? From wliose lips could those tender words come with such ardent sincerity as mine ? Oh cava carissima!" he con- tinued, fervently pressing her hand be- tween both his own. But it was the enthusiasm of a moment only ; almost- immediately surmounting it, he relin- quished her hand, and hastily withdrew. Nothing could exceed the emotion of Eliza, at this abrupt and unexpected declaration of attachment. It was true she knew that she was be- loved ; but having just persuaded her- self tliat the passion she had inspired was never intended to be acknowledged, she was ill prepared to receive^ without 354 much agitation, so ardent an avowal of it. The next thing that occurred to her was, that it certainly never would have been avowed at all, if she had not in a manner extracted it, by what she had herself said. It was in vain that she assured herself, with great truth, over and over again, that she had no idea of drawing such a reply from Mortimer. He could not possibly know the inno- cence of her thoughts upon the subject ; and it was much more likely he should suppose, that her bringing in a quotation which had nothing to do with the matter was a coquetish contrivance, to elicit from him some acknowledgment of af- fection, than that he would consider it, as it really was, merely giving words ta her ideas. She tormented herself in this manner half the morning. Nothing could shake from her the distracting thought with which her cruel imagination had fur- 355 nished her. One thins; was clear enou2:h to her, that with whatever sentiments of affection and respect she had hitherto inspired him, they would very soon yield to the contempt that he must feel for her, when, in the calm moment of reflec- tion, he regretted the impulse that had led him to make such an impetuous de- claration, and traced it, no doubt, to her coquetry and artifice. Thus haunted with the phantom of her own creation, she wandered about the garden, not knowing what to do with herself ; and at last, listless and mi- serable, she turned into the summer- house, and taking up a book, she tried to compel herself to attend to it. But in vain.' — She read a few pages^ she could not tell what they were about. She looked back to see — then she went on again, with as little success as before. At length, quite wearied, she threw away her book, and with her head leaning on her hands that were clasped upon the 35G table, she continued in so profoimd^a reverie, that she was not sensible of the presence of any other person, till a deep and tremulous sigh made her start with surprise. But how was that surprise increased, when, behind her chair, she perceived the object of her thoughts — Mortimer himself, mute and motionless; but with a countenance, every feature of which was agonized with emotion. Agitated by distress and confusion, she could scarcely pronounce his name, or intelligibly express her surprise at his unexpected appearance. '< Why are you here ? why did you return ?" she faintly inquired. '' Because I am weak, irresolute, con- temptible!" he exclaimed. '' But all is over, all is past ; my secret is revealed to you ; and, doubtless, 1 am despised ! Despised by Miss Rivers! for whose esteem and regard I could be content to lay down my life \" 357 He turned away, as if intending to leave her, but almost immediately re- turning, he hastily approached, and taking her hand, he fervently pressed it between both his ; while he looked upon her, for some moments, with an expres- sion of tenderness and dejection, which seemed to implore her not to treat his passion with contempt or unkindness. Inexpressibly affected, Eliza returned the pressure of his hand. She laboured to speak to him, but doubt and difficulty embarrassed her. She could articulate nothing but '' What can I do ? what can I say to comfort you ?" '' Say that you forgive me, dear Miss Rivers ! Say that you will still be what you have been to me ! Deny me not the charm of your society ; your talents ; your music — I ask but this — but this, Eliza V With a vehemence of intreaty, over- whelming, irresistible, he cast himself at her feet. 358 '^Oh! Mr. Durand/' she exclaimed, *' 1 beseech you to rise. All that can be done for your happiness, consistently with mine, I promise you to do. But this subject is so unexpected ; give me but time — I can say no more.'' *^*^ But time! but time!" he repeated ; his whole countenance instantaneously changed from an expression of despair to that of hope and expectation : '' And do you not cast me from you. Miss Rivers ! Do you even pause as to the rejection of a suit so lowly, so unworthy of your talents and deserts ? But, be- ware ; in mercy to me, beware of what you do ! 1 can support the certainty of despair : for I shall still be ne^^ you ! I shall still look upon you ! I shall still hear the sound of your voice ! But once to have felt the enchanting hope of bind- ing my fate to your's — this to have felt, and this to renounce, I could not bear and live! — my heart would break be- neath the effort to forget you !'' 359 Visibly distressed and undetermined, Eliza paused in her reply to this impas- sioned speech ; which Durand observing, in a gentler tone^ and in calmer accents^ he besought her forgiveness for the un- easiness he occasioned her. '' Heaven is my witness," said he^ '' how fervently my heart is devoted to you; but my happiness shall ever be subservient to your's. Do you desire me to leave you? Do you wish me gone?" '' 1 doj indeed, most earnestly de- sire it." '' You shall be obeyed — let me but dwell upon those words of hope, ' give me but time : did you not say so, dearest Eliza?" '' I didj I repeat it; — now leave me." He rose, and ardently pressing her hand to his lips^ was gone in a mo- ment. The whole scene in all its circum- stances was so abrupt and extraordinary that it wore the appearance of a dream 360 rather than a reality. It was not till some time had elapsed that Eliza could so compose her excited feelings as to un- derstand what had just passed ; and not till she had been many hours in the solitude and retirement of her own chamber did she attempt to reason or decide upon the conduct she meant to pursue. To accept^ or to renounce him, was in either case a matter of infinite debate and doubt, and balanced very equally by good sense — entire approba- tion of him, his tastes, habits, and pur- suitSj on one side ; and a slight distaste to fettering herself with an engagement, together with a scarcely deHned, but fluttering recollection of Mr. Walde- grave, on the other. This last consideration, however^ she immediately discarded, not caring to acknowledge herself so weak as to be influenced by it in the slightest degree. So uncertain was the chance of their ever meeting again, and so improbable. 361 even if they did, that circumstances should bring' them sufficiently together ; that it looked too much like childishness and folly to dwell, for a moment^ on such a contingency. While she was walking up and down in her apartment in a paroxysm of inde- cision^ some one tapped at the door. It was her maid^ who brought her a letter /' with Mr. Durand's respects." She opened it^, and read as follows : '' I feel that 1 have given you uneasi- ness, dear Miss Rivers ; I fear that I have too precipitately trespassed upon your happiness. It is a poor excuse to say that I was surprised by the impulse of the moment into a declaration so abrupt^ so inconsistent with the delicacy and respect which is justly due to you. I had not believed myself to be so much the slave of passion ; for I have hitherto been a stranger to that which now ab- sorbs me wholly ; nor was it till very lately, that I discovered how impercep- VOL. I. R 362 tibly my admiration of yom' beauty and acquirements had glided into an attach- ment. In the conviction that 1 had nothing but a devoted heart to offer you^ and in the belief of your perfect indifference to me, I laboured to reduce my feelings to the calmness of friend- ship. It was, as indeed I feared it would be, a vain effort. I am not na- turally susceptible of hasty impressions ; but when they are made, Ihey are com- monly deep and lasting. Finding it im- possible in your presence to maintain the conflict between duty and inclina- tion, I this morning determined to re- turn home for a few days, with the osten- sible view of acquainting my mother with the Bishop's kindness, but with the real one of fortifying my resolutions by a temporary absence from you. But, Eliza, how despotic is your influence over me ! I wandered a few miles, in every direction but that which was to 363 carry me from you. I asked myseU' repeatedly, why I should thus re- nounce the happiness of my existence ? AVithout any determined intention of risking' my fate by a full acknowledge- ment of my sentiments for you, I yet thought it possible something might lead me to do so. I felt as if it were impossible for me any longer to sup- port the suspense that made me so wretched. I had already, in parting with you this morning, betrayed myself too far. '"I will return to her, at all events,* I said. Never did my heart feel so light, so elated, as when I retraced my way to the Rectory ! ' I shall see her again ;' I repeated — You were the first object i sought on my arrival. I found you in the summer-house — and there, Eliza, before 1 considered of any thing,, I found myself declaring the cherished secret of my heart. Still had 1 scarcely a hope that you would listen to me. A r2 364 crowd of vague emotions overpowered me, and nothing was distinctly present to me but the idea that you would re- jectj and despise me. But, Eliza^ when I saw you hesitate^ what a revulsion of feeling took possession of my soul ! Is it wonderful that under the impres- sion of hope so new^ so unexpected^ I gave way to the transports it excited ? Oh no^ no ! — it was natural^ it was ir- resistible — it could not be restrained. But how have I wandered from my pur- pose! I expected that a few lines would comprize all 1 had to say, yet — writing to Eliza, how could they be few! '' I leave you for a short time ; and, in pursuance of my original plan, shall return home for a few days. Heave you, because I would not importune you ; and because I earnestly desire that in a case of this importance your judgment should be perfectly unbiassed. Else, could I spare to dwell upon the rapture 365 that would fill my heart should your de- cision be propitious tome ? — But, Eliza^ your happiness is dearer^ far dearer to me than my own. Think only of that ; and if, upon mature deliberation^ there should appear to you a blessed possibi- lity of its being- increased by a union with me^ it shall be the occupation, as it will be the delight of my life, to prove to you how fervently you are beloved by '' Mortimer Durand/' The generous nature of his attach- ment, which this letter strongly pour- trayed, especially where he spoke of leaving her that she might be unbiassed in her decision by his solicitations, made a powerful impression in his favour on Eliza's mind. But her harassed lacul- ties were exhausted, and really stood in need of repose. As his absence re- lieved her from a load of embarrassment she determined to dismiss the subject fo the remainder of the day. 366 She was surprized to find no remark made by Louisa or Mr. Henley, upon Mortimer's re-appearance in the morn- ing. It was possible, though not very probable, that they might not have seen or heard of it, but she rather imagined that a remote suspicion of the truth was in the minds of both of them. At all events she was very glad to be spared the necessity of speaking of him,, till her mind was in a state of greater composure. END OF VOL. LONDON: PRINTED BY COX AND BAYLIS, GREAT QUEEN- STREET. UNIVERSITY OF ILUNpiS-URBA^ 3 0112 047688640