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 DELORAINE. 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM GODWIN, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "CALEB WILLIAMS," "St. LEON," Sfc. 
 
 Why that bosom gored ? 
 Why dimly gleams the visionary sword ? 
 
 Pope. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET: 
 
 SUCCESSOR TO HENRY COLBURN. 
 
 1833.
 
 Printed by lUcHAaD T.Yto., Eed Lion Court, Fleet Street.
 
 
 DELORAINE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 JMy father was an English gentleman with 
 an estate of three thousand pounds a year. I 
 was his only son. I was brought up with 
 every imaginable indulgence. My wishes were 
 anticipated. Every gratification was procured 
 for me, that by any chance might make my 
 days pass in cheerfulness and joy. Yet I was 
 not utterly spoiled. I had a tutor, the most 
 amiable and exemplary of men. His plan was 
 :i^^^o teach me, by making the things it was 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
 t
 
 2 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 intended I should learn interesting to me. 
 He was an excellent mathematician. He had 
 a most discriminating taste in poetry, history, 
 and fine writing of every kind. Add to this, 
 that he was penetrated with the deepest enthu- 
 siasm. He had a voice, musical and silver- 
 toned : he had an eye that varied to every 
 sentiment that passed within him, and that 
 impressed all these sentiments in succession 
 upon the bottom of my heart. I learned, 
 because I desired to learn. The beauties of 
 Vir^l and Horace and Homer were unfolded 
 before me by the skill and susceptibility of my 
 tutor. I did not learn the construction and 
 the language first, and afterwards come to 
 discern the merits of the author I read. My 
 instructor, when he opened the first page of 
 the book I perused, taught me to feel its 
 excellence. His enthusiasm became mine : 
 and all which is trying, harsh and repulsive in 
 the common modes of education, was in my
 
 I. DELORAINE. 3 
 
 case turned into delight. It scarcely ever 
 happened that the summons which announced 
 the hour of study sounded harshly in my ear : 
 on the contrary I obeyed it with the same 
 alacrity, with which other boys listen to the 
 summons that calls them to scenes of sport 
 and recreation. 
 
 In the midst of gratifications and peace like 
 this I passed the early years of my life. I am 
 now the most forlorn and odious of men. All 
 the pleasures of life have at length deserted 
 me ; and every calamity and misery is heaped 
 on my head. I have no friend ; or only one^ 
 whom the ties of nature and her own excellent 
 dispositions have rendered mine by bonds never 
 to be dissolved. Like Cain, I have a mark 
 trenched in my forehead, that all men should 
 shrink from me. I sit alone ; for no one will 
 come near me, no one will endure me. Seldom 
 do I go out from my apartment 3 seldom does 
 the fresh air of heaven breathe upon me ; and 
 b2
 
 4 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 that only in the darkest night, when even all 
 the stars are wrapt in impenetrable gloom. 
 Oh, how deep is my remorse ! how unvaried 
 and endless are the days and nights that suc- 
 ceed each other in my desperate existence ! 
 But I am wrong to say, unvaried. The variety 
 is endless ; but the change is only of misery. 
 My life is spent in eternal alarms. I cannot 
 call an hour my own ; for the next hour may 
 render me up to the vengeance that my crimes 
 have so amply deserved. 
 
 But all that I am here stating is disjointed 
 and abrupt. The feeling of what I am, con- 
 founds and overwhelms the recollection of what 
 I had to say. I must conquer myself. I must 
 beat down and trample under foot this devil 
 that for ever rises before me, and will let me 
 see nought but himself. I have sat down with 
 a determination to record the fortunes of my 
 life ; and the task shall be performed. 
 
 I have said that I passed in all right dispo-
 
 I. DELORAINE. 5 
 
 sitions and all happiness the period of my 
 boyhood. But I did much more. I lived from 
 the day of my birth to the day in which I 
 completed the fortieth year of my age — it were 
 ludicrous to say — ^in a state of enjoyment that 
 kings might have envied. Kings cannot know 
 felicity like mine. They have the cares of 
 empire. They are placed in an unnatural 
 situation. They are seated on an eminence, 
 that the shafts of ill fortune may strike them 
 the more surely. A king has neither brother, 
 nor genuine associate. The ^' favourite " of 
 high fortune " has no friend." He knows no 
 sympathy : he stands alone in the world. 
 
 But I was placed in all seeming security. 
 My situation in life was like that of the ob* 
 scure and sequestered valley. A thousand 
 storms might brew in the skies above } con- 
 tending tempests and hurricanes might sweep 
 from pomt to point among the mountains : 
 but from my sheltered nook I looked up, and
 
 G DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 smiled at the impotent tumult and fury of the 
 elemental war. 
 
 Every day that I live, I think of the quiet 
 and beautiful stream of my former years. 
 More than half the period ordinarily assigned 
 for the longest term of human existence I 
 passed in blameless tranquillity. Why, before 
 the scene thus became changed upon me, did 
 not I cease to exist ! Many of the most il- 
 lustrious characters recorded on the page of 
 history died without having reached the age 
 I have mentioned. Alexander the Great de- 
 ceased in the thirty- second year of his age. 
 The author of our holy religion dwelt in this 
 vale of tears for about the same interval. 
 
 What a thing is character, honour, or vir- 
 tue ! I passed through all the ordinary re- 
 lations of human life unblamed. I have been 
 a good son, a good husband, and a good father. 
 My friendships were warm and sincere; my 
 enmities temperate and placable. My tongue
 
 I. DELORAINE. 7 
 
 was ever at the service of the honest and the 
 generous cause ; my purse was ever open to 
 the claims of the distressed. How many tears 
 of earnest sorrow have I shed over the calami- 
 ties of the deserving ! How sincerely have I pi- 
 tied and allowed for the faults, even the crimes^ 
 of those who were strongly tempted into the 
 paths of error ! If I had died then, those who 
 loved me might have turned over the most 
 copious collection of epitaphs, have selected 
 the one that was most panegyrical, and with 
 unblushing front have inscribed it upon my 
 omb. 
 
 I have often compared my case with that of 
 the emperor Tiberius. He did not arrive at the 
 empire, till he was far descending from the vi- 
 gour and flower of human existence. He was 
 an able statesman, and an accomplished war- 
 rior. He was courteous in his demeanour, and 
 considerate in his conduct. The very steadiness 
 and moderation of his temper won for him uni-
 
 8 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 versal confidence and applause. It might be 
 said of him, as the Roman historian has said of 
 another emperor, that, if he had never mounted 
 the throne, all men would have judged he de- 
 served it. What he vras, when he became pos- 
 sessed of absolute power, is emblazoned in the 
 imperishable records of history. 
 
 I have described the period of my boyhood. 
 When I said, that I was brought up with every 
 imaginable indulgence, that every gratification 
 was anxiously procured for me, and that I had a 
 tutor the most amiable and exemplary of men, 
 in making this enumeration I have recorded 
 the character of my father. He discharged 
 every duty towards me that arises out of the 
 important relation in which we stood to each 
 other ; and he regarded me with the fondest 
 partiality. It is no foolish pampering of my 
 vanity and selfishness, when I say, covered as 
 I now am with wretchedness and disgrace, 
 that I deserved his love, that he saw in me
 
 I. DELORAINE. 9 
 
 every thing that could most gratify his pa- 
 rental anxiety. My understanding was of no 
 common order ; my taste was pure, vivid and 
 refined ; my application and learning worthy 
 of the education I had received ; and my dis- 
 positions noble and generous, full of affection, 
 and formed for the reception and cultivation 
 of friendship. 
 
 When I had reached a suitable age, I was 
 introduced into parliament, an honour which 
 had been commanded by my father before me, 
 but from which he had afterwards retired. Pre- 
 viously to this occurrence, I hiad not been with- 
 out such a circle of connections and friends, 
 as might best contribute to my enjoyment and 
 advantage. I had visited several of the courts 
 of Europe, and endeavoured to store my mind 
 with such observations and experience, as might 
 best qualify me for the offices of a senator. 
 
 But it was not till I set up an establishment 
 in London, and was regularly engaged in my 
 b5
 
 10 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 parliamentary functions, that I in the strictest 
 sense became a member of the fashionable 
 world. I was two-and-twenty years of age. 
 My figure was prepossessing ; my countenance 
 procured me general favour and acceptance ; 
 and my speech was musical and impressive. 
 I possessed in full measure the ordinary ac- 
 complishments of a gentleman. My address 
 was happy ; and I rarely wanted the presence 
 of mind, or the flow of words, to do justice 
 to my conceptions. My intellect was stored 
 with copious information ; I had read, I had 
 seen, I had reflected on all that could best 
 enable me to do justice to myself in whatever 
 concurrence of circumstances I might be placed. 
 My judgement, so far as it had yet been tried, 
 was sound ; my penetration considerable ; and 
 I had those powers of imagination, that could 
 best make the future present to my thoughts, 
 enable me to enter into the condition and feel- 
 ings of others, and qualify me to adorn my
 
 i; DELORAINE. 11 
 
 own remarks, or my share in general conver- 
 sation, with such animated pictures, and such 
 happiness of illustration, as might send away 
 those whose circles I frequented with pleasing 
 recollections, and embalmed my name with an 
 agreeable odour.^— I have no gratification in 
 putting down these reminiscences. I am com- 
 posing the record of one who, in every valuable 
 sense of the word, is already, deceased. 
 
 It was in the circles of fashionable life that I 
 first met with the beautiful Emilia Fitzcharles, 
 by whose appearance I was immediately cap- 
 tivated, and whom in no long time I made my 
 wife. It is to say little, to affirm that she was 
 superlatively handsome ; though the soft bril- 
 liancy of her eye, the fairness of her brow, and 
 the fresh morning roses that glowed in her 
 cheek, were such as I never saw equalled in 
 eny other of her sex. There was something 
 in the simplest of her attitudes, that expressed a 
 being just descended from the celestial spheres,
 
 12 DELGRAlNi:. CH» 
 
 new lighted on the earth* The charm lay prin- 
 cipally in that very simplicity^ the total absence 
 of all design, and even of consciousness. Her 
 soul shone through her corporeal frame, com- 
 posed her limbs, and gave them an air and a 
 grace, which, if you saw it, you would easily 
 apprehend, but which no imagination, no power 
 of the inventive faculties, could parallel. She 
 was all a miracle. When she looked at you, 
 her eyes were fraught with intelligence, com- 
 bined with a benignity that was more than 
 human. You could scarcely have the audacity 
 to accost her — not that there was any thing 
 in what you saw, that was proud, imposing, 
 forbidding, — she was the gentlest of her sex, — 
 it was her perfection, her faultlessness, that 
 awed you. It was, so to express myself, her 
 attraction, her frankness, her unreserve, that 
 kept, you at a distance. It was like what I 
 have remarked at one point, of the waters of 
 the Tweed : you have but to step over a brook,
 
 I. DELORAINE. 13 
 
 and you are at once in a new country, and 
 under the rule of another government. The 
 thought itself must give you pause. The step 
 is decisive^ and may be incapable of being 
 revoked. It is thus that it is related of Mary 
 queen of Scots, when she had already ur- 
 ged her horse into the stream that she might 
 seek the protection of Elizabeth, that one of 
 her faithful counsellors followed her, seized the 
 bridle of the steed, and endeavoured at the 
 latest moment to convince her of the portent- 
 ous results that might attend her proceeding. 
 
 My first acquaintance with Emilia was made 
 in London, and in the brilliant circles of fashion. 
 But this introduction was speedily succeeded 
 by an opportunity to see her under a different 
 aspect, and to observe her qualities, and the in- 
 estimable treasures of her head and her hearty 
 more fully than I could otherwise have done, 
 in a rural retreat. As the summer advanced, a 
 friend of mine, a brother member of the house
 
 14 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 of commons, invited me to spend some days at 
 a country-seat he possessed in the neighbour- 
 hood of that of the father of Emiha. I was 
 secretly charmed with so fortunate a coin- 
 cidence. I had often been delighted with the 
 society of this friend; our views of life and 
 literature for the most part coincided; and 
 there was a liveliness in his wit, and an origi- 
 nality in his remarks, that gave a nameless 
 grace to his conversation. But this was not 
 the principal cause why upon this occasion I 
 accepted his invitation with so much eager- 
 ness. His residence was at only seven miles 
 distance from that of Fitzcharles. 
 
 The first morning after our arrival, we rode 
 over to pay our respects to the amiable old 
 man and his interesting daughter. The road 
 lay partly through the park of a nobleman, the 
 wealthiest land-proprietor in the county, the 
 surface of which was beautifully variegated with 
 hill and valley, with forest- trees and under-
 
 I. DELORAINE. 15 
 
 wood, which a fresh and limpid river divided 
 into two unequal parts, over which we passed 
 by a bridge : and, when we quitted the park, the 
 rest of our way lay for the most part through 
 an avenue of lofty trees, whose branches nearly 
 united, and formed a continuous canopy over 
 our heads, now and then broken by an unex- 
 pected vista to the neighbouring country. 
 
 Our ride was delightful ; and the thought of 
 the point in which it was to terminate, ren- 
 dered it doubly interesting to me. The old 
 man and his daughter were at home and alone 5 
 and he insisted on our staying to dine. We 
 accordingly dismissed one of our servants, to 
 announce to my friend's household that we 
 should not return till late in the evening. 
 Another neighbour of Fitzcharles dropped in 
 soon after, and joined us. We strolled about 
 the grounds; and occasionally reposed our- 
 selves in the alcoves with which the gardens 
 were interspersed. Whether by accident or
 
 16 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 otherwise, the three gentlemen who were in a 
 manner at home in the scene, kept together, 
 and canvassed their rural politics, the agri- 
 cultural and other improvements they contem- 
 plated, and the little anecdotes of the neigh- 
 bourhood, while Emilia and I were left to 
 amuse each other as we could. 
 
 Here, amidst the calm and serene scenery 
 of nature, she appeared to me a new creature. 
 In the ball and the drawing-room she outshone 
 all her competitors 3 she sparkled with dia^ 
 monds; and the taste and elegance of her 
 attire pointedly distinguished her, at least in 
 my eye, from the crowd of females of fashion 
 and beauty that surrounded her. Her motions 
 were more graceful, her voice of a more happy 
 and heartfelt intonation, and her remarks in- 
 finitely more striking and agreeable than any 
 tiling I could observe in the ladies that were 
 then most in vogue. 
 
 But it was a totally different, and a much
 
 I. DELORAINE. 17 
 
 more enchanting scene, to behold her with all 
 the wealth, and yet all the sobriety of nature, 
 «o to speak, for a back-ground. She adorned 
 the most exalted and the noblest circles. By 
 the resistless character of her charms she ex- 
 tinguished all the lesser stars that sought to 
 contend with her. But amidst the woods and 
 the groves the whole was infinitely more gra- 
 tifying. Here there was no contention. It 
 was all harmony, and the parts of the picture 
 seemed to belong to each other. Nature 
 united with Emilia; and Emilia united with 
 all that was most ravishing or most tender in 
 the objects of nature. In the ball-room all 
 was rivalry; a struggle, however ineffectual 
 in the rest, for superiority ; and the spectator 
 could not avoid the having, as it were, copied 
 in^to his soul, the uneasy sensations, the heart- 
 burnhigs and the envy, that prevailed around 
 him. But with Emilia, among parterres of 
 flowers and majestic trees, while the light and
 
 18 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 fleecy clouds floated along in a thousand fan- 
 tastic, yet graceful forms and in all their stain- 
 less freshness over our heads, I felt that every 
 thing within and around me emanated from 
 one sacred and ineffable source, '^ whose body 
 Nature is, and God the soul/^ 
 
 The day appeared too short; and I started 
 with surprise when my friend told me it was 
 time for us to take our departure. A few days 
 after, my host set out for a meeting of country- 
 gentlemen upon some afluir of local interest. 
 We called in our way at the house of Fitz- 
 charles ; and, as I had no concern with the 
 meeting that was to take place, I contrived to 
 remain with Emilia, while the two gentlemen 
 proceeded to their place of appointment. Emi- 
 lia had now a female cousin with her on a visit, 
 a kind, good creature, whose presence gave 
 decorum to our colloquy, and who, like Celia 
 in As You Like It, being herself characterized 
 by the absence of egotism and pretensions.
 
 I. DELORAINE. 19 
 
 suffered no pain from my almost exclusive 
 attention to her charming relative. 
 
 Fitzcharles remarked the partiality that was 
 taking root between me and his daughter, and 
 was not unwilling to favour it. He invited 
 me, when the term of my visit to my present 
 host was completed, to come and favour him 
 for an equal period with a residence under his 
 roof. I loved his frankness 5 we understood 
 each other without further explanation. There 
 was no contract or precise anticipation be- 
 tween us. Each party was free; and, on that 
 account, the silken cords of ingenuous passion 
 sat a thousand times more lightly upon me ; 
 and I was only the more happy, because there 
 was no possibility that, in hours of gloom, 
 and in the necessarily variable weather of 
 human life, I could ever have occasion to look 
 back to a liberty I had too suddenly parted 
 with, or too hastily compromised. I might 
 repent, if I pleased ; I might withdraw, with-
 
 20 DELORAINE. 
 
 CH. 
 
 out slur to the nicety of my reputation, and 
 without giving to any one a right to com- 
 plain 3 and that very circumstance effectually 
 barred the door against so much as the thought 
 to repent. 
 
 The eligibleness of the match, and the in- 
 tegrity of my character, freed us from even the 
 forms of restraint. We wandered wherever 
 we pleased. We found ourselves sometimes 
 in the most impervious thickets and recesses, 
 which we had plunged into without the slight- 
 est premeditation. The scene had to me the 
 recommendation of entire novelty. I had never 
 before been in unreserved communication with 
 an accomplished female of my own age. All 
 the topics of conversation, all the thoughts 
 that pass through the mind, are in that case 
 entirely different from those which occur with 
 a friend of our own sex. With a male friend 
 each party has his own pretensions, is careful 
 to maintain his ground, and feels a rivalship
 
 I. DELORAINE. 21 
 
 even in the midst of the most entire apparent 
 reciprocity. There is a jealousy 5 each party 
 lays down the law, the law of his own mind, 
 takes care that there is a clear stage, and 
 summons his faculties to enable him to render 
 the justice due to his case; even when he 
 listens to his friend, when he attends with 
 deference, and is grateful for the light he re- 
 ceives, still he thinks of himself, is anxious 
 that he should not be found in the act of be- 
 traying the clearness and independence of his 
 understanding, and in the warmest paroxysms 
 of amity remembers that he and the partner 
 of his heart are distinct beings. 
 
 In the graver and more sentimental com- 
 munications of man and man the head still 
 bears the superior sway; in the unreserved 
 intimacies of man and woman the heart is 
 ever uppermost. Feeling is the main thing ; 
 and judgment passes for little. We go im- 
 mediately to the point, not whether this thing
 
 22 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 or that thinfij is true, but how do you like 
 this thing or that, what pulse of approbation or 
 disapprobation, of delight, of emotion, or sym- 
 pathy, does it rouse in your bosom ? If I and 
 my male friend agree in a certain opinion, it 
 is well; I feel so much the more kindly towards 
 him, so much more gratification in our ac- 
 quaintance. Still however we are two. But, 
 with a female, and that female the object of 
 my growing partiality and preference, every 
 new agreement of sentiment and approbation 
 brings us nearer to each other, removes one 
 more brick from the wall which originally 
 separated us, dissolves our several identities, 
 and, as it were, melts us, like different che- 
 mical substances, in one crucible, and mingles 
 us in heart and spirit, with a feeling that we 
 can never thereafter be divided. 
 
 Between man and woman in matters of af- 
 fection, there is no rivalry, no competition. 
 We are two different species of being,* or at
 
 I. DELORAINE. 23 
 
 least the distinction of sex divides us no less 
 effectually. I should no more think of a con- 
 tention of this sort with the woman of my 
 heart, than with a being of the animal creation 
 below me, or with my guardian angel above 
 me. With my male friend I still stand upon 
 my defence; I reserve a corner in my heart, 
 that is sacredly and exclusively my own. But 
 with the female I love it is otherwise; I throw 
 open the gates of the citadel, and lay the keys 
 of the fortress at her feet. I never have the 
 imagination that we can have separate in- 
 terests; and I invite her to enter into my soul, 
 and to possess the '^ crown and hearted throne 
 of my love." We are truly united; she is 
 ^^ bone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh;" and 
 for this obvious cause " shall a man leave father 
 and mother," comparatively estrange him from 
 all other living things, "and cleave to his 
 wife." 
 
 We married; and, if ever man was happy
 
 24 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 in the wedded state, I was so. But all the 
 pleasures I afterwards experienced, never had 
 the power to obliterate my vivid remembrance 
 of the days of courtship. Hope is in some 
 respects a thing more brilliant, more vivifying, 
 than fruition. What we have looked forward 
 to with eager and earnest aspiration, is never 
 in all respects equal to the picture we had 
 formed of it. The very uncertainty enhances 
 the enjoyment. Rest is not the natural, the 
 most elevated state of man. As virtue, so hap- 
 piness, consists in action, in a perpetual pro- 
 gress towards that which we have not. Love 
 acquires an additional principle of gratification 
 from the uncertainty of its climate, its smiles, 
 its frowns, inimiciticey inducice, bellum, pax 
 rursum, ^' its little quarrels, its subsequent ca- 
 pitulation, its brief hostilities, and their never- 
 failing attendant and follower, peace.'" We are 
 not satisfied with a climate of unvaried sun- 
 shine. When the zephyr plays, and the branches
 
 I. DELORAINE. 25 
 
 are moved, and light summer- clouds flit along 
 the Bky, we experience a more entire, an ever- 
 renewing gratification. The very uncertainty, 
 the thought, " Here it may all break off, and 
 be at an end," imparts a tingling delight, a life 
 that shoots through all my veins. It is like the 
 flickering of a lamp that guides us in an untried 
 path; it seems dying, but to revive again ; and, 
 when hope most appears to have deserted us, 
 lo, it suddenly bursts forth w4th a brightness 
 that we think will never more subside and be 
 extinguished. 
 
 The imperfection of the state of courtship is 
 its perfection. We have always something to 
 look forward to. However extatic may be my 
 present state of enjoyment, there is still better 
 behind. The prospect, the comparison of the 
 present and the future, "when we shall hunger 
 and thirst no more," gives to the soul a peace 
 that no words can describe. 
 
 Courtship is a holy state. In the midst of 
 
 VOL, I. C
 
 26 DELORAINE. 
 
 CH. 
 
 temptation we are chaste. We put a bridle into 
 the mouth of passion, and no incorrect motion 
 or gesture, no word but of entire purity and 
 delicacy, escapes the lover. We feel this sanc- 
 tity, and are fully aware of the robe of honour 
 with which it invests us. As our words, so also 
 we turn our thoughts and the topics on which 
 we discourse, to refined and elevated themes. 
 We feel how widely we are removed from the 
 "beasts that perish,"' and how we approach to 
 the sublimity of an angelic essence. 
 
 Yet all this would have been nothing but in 
 such a courtship as mine. Not for one mo- 
 ment did I doubt of the rectitude of mind, the 
 generosity of spirit, of my Emilia. I knew that 
 all was right in the ultimate result. Had the 
 case been that of a waywardness of purpose, 
 a capriciousness of determination, a thought 
 that loved to tyrannise, and delighted in the 
 anxiety and affliction of her lover, our position 
 would have been different. But, no. Her course
 
 I. DELORAINE. 27 
 
 was like that of the orb by which the world is 
 enlightened. Though the clouds might gather, 
 and the heaven be obscured for a moment, yet 
 I knew that the cherisher of my soul was in es- 
 sence unaltered, and that its beneficence would 
 presently shew itself with only the more ad- 
 vantage for this transitory interruption. The 
 sensitiveness of a lover indeed from time to 
 time taught me to be afraid; but, when I 
 had leisure to recollect all the kindness and 
 loveliness of her nature, my tranquillity once 
 more was restored, and I became full of re- 
 liance. 
 
 We married ; and, if ever man was happy in 
 the wedded state, I was so. As we knew more 
 of each other, we had fewer topics and occa- 
 sions of difference. We were united by the most 
 sacred ties; and the cultivation of a mutual 
 harmony was a sort of religion to both. In 
 courtship nothing is to be considered as con- 
 c2
 
 28 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 eluded I we play with a knot, the plications of 
 which are shaped out, but the bows are not yet 
 drawn into the form in which they are destined 
 to remain in perpetuity. Courtship is a sort 
 of sport : 
 
 My Phyllis me with pelted apples plies : 
 Then, tripping to the woods, the coy one hies. 
 And wishes to be seen before she flies. 
 
 Courtship is an experiment; it is the month 
 which the stripling spends ^^upon liking'' pre- 
 viously to his indentures. He is yet free, and 
 may be disposed of elsewhere. And the liberty 
 of which he feels he is the possessor, unavoid- 
 ably gives birth to a thousand freaks and sallies, 
 and unbridled imaginations. " Why should I 
 not," says the lover, of the fair one he ad- 
 dresses, " use my freedom, for the short time 
 that it remains to me ? The use of it may be 
 the means of mortal offence. But I will take 
 my chance. If I give in, the moment the thing
 
 1. DELORAINE. 29 
 
 becomes serious, I trust that all will be well. 
 Even though the mischief should not be in- 
 stantaneously healed, I can humble myself, 
 and exhibit the tokens of a sincere penitence ; 
 and that must be enough."
 
 30 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 No society is comparable to that of an accom- 
 plished wife : at least such I foimd it in the 
 engagement into which I thus entered in my 
 early period of man's estate. Our topics of 
 conversation were inexhaustible 5 for we were 
 wholly without reserve, and conversed with 
 each other, even as a man might be supposed 
 to commune with his own heart. We told all 
 that we knew ; for neither of us had any thing 
 that we desired to possess exclusively. Every 
 portion of information of which either came 
 into possession, we were forward to impart. 
 Every subtle distinction of sentiment, every 
 nice division of meaning, every use of the words
 
 II. DELORAINE. 31 
 
 and phrases of our native tongue that would 
 enable us to give appropriate language and 
 luminous expression to vrhat before existed in 
 the mind undeveloped and only in the ruder 
 elements of thought, we were eager to add to the 
 common stock, and make a property for both. 
 
 Nothing is more beautiful than the relation 
 of tutor and pupil, where love adds its zest to 
 the intercourse. The true delight which the 
 instructor feels in developing what else might 
 be obscure, the pleasure which he reaps in 
 finding his meaning thoroughly apprehended, 
 and in the docility of the novice, and the inge- 
 nuous enquiries that are addressed to him in 
 return, are all and each of them sensations in 
 the highest degree gratifying. 
 
 We talked together in the usual apartment 
 of our house, which overlooked the lawn, and 
 the slopes, and the gay parterres of a thou- 
 sand flowers : or we walked in sequestered 
 and solitary lanes, on the margins of the run- 
 ning stream, or on the uplands where a de-
 
 32 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 |c 
 
 licious prospect unfolded itself to our view. 
 The freshness of the air, the singing of birds, 
 the fragrance of the morning, the whispering 
 of the breeze, or the gorgeous colours of the 
 departing luminary of day, gave a healthful 
 tone to all our communications, and to the 
 effusion of our souls. We were not with- 
 out neighbours, and the interchange of agree- 
 able society. But our own society unbroken 
 in upon, pleased us most, when our guests 
 had withdrawn, or when we felt secure that 
 no third person by his appearance would di- 
 versify the scene, and by enlarging, give a 
 comparative restraint to our unstudied and 
 spontaneous interchanges of sentiment. Other 
 men, better informed on certain points than 
 myself, might visit our retreat; but Emilia 
 preferred learning whatever she was not yet 
 fully acquainted with, from my lips, who, 
 
 she knew, would intermix 
 Grateful digressions, and solve high dispute 
 With conjugal caresses.
 
 II. DELORAINE. 33 
 
 Occasionally we separated. Business re- 
 lating to the affairs of the neighbourhood, to 
 the administration of my landed property, to 
 the wants and desires of my tenants, would 
 call me from home. In the conduct of every 
 domestic establishment the departments of the 
 husband and the wife are different ; her affairs 
 are partly those of housewifery, while the male 
 superintendant of their common interests does 
 not fully discharge his duties, unless he is in 
 some sense his own steward, and refuses to 
 delegate all his authority to another. But 
 these separations only gave to our subsequent 
 meetings a further charm, and imparted to what 
 might otherwise have had a cloying monotony, 
 a provoking and spirit-stirring novelty. After 
 every separation our meeting again was like 
 that of friends whom lands and seas had di- 
 vided from each other : we came together with 
 impatience, and felt as creatures that had 
 escaped from an odious banishment, and re- 
 c5
 
 34 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 turned once more to the enjoyment of all that 
 they had loved best in the world. 
 
 I was never alone, but when I wished to be 
 alone. Solitude gave new charms to society, 
 and society to solitude. I was secure not to 
 be exposed to a satiety of either. There are 
 occupations that can be most satisfactorily and 
 most effectually pursued in solitude. In the 
 ever-varying landscape of human life solitude 
 has sometimes its charms that nothing else 
 can countervail. Hers is the province of deep 
 meditation, of profound self-examination, of 
 looking steadily into the "seeds of things,'' 
 and weighing the universe in a balance, of win- 
 nowing the abstruse questions which present 
 themselves concerning good and evil, the re- 
 spective advantages of enthusiasm and apa- 
 thy, and the respective probabilities that at- 
 tend on " happiness or final misery."' Hers is 
 the realm of criticism. And, to conclude, hers 
 is emphatically the consecrated ground of the
 
 in DELORAINE. 35 
 
 sublime, the silent, the abstract, the concen- 
 tred religion. But my periods of solitude were 
 a thousandfold the more satisfactory, inas- 
 much as I could, whenever it so pleased me, 
 open the door of my retreat, and immediately 
 engage myself in the society and converse that 
 I loved best. In the next apartment, or at the 
 end of an adjoining gallery, I found waiting 
 for me the most perfect specimen of female 
 excellence that ever existed, welcoming me, 
 smiling upon me with her beautiful eyes, anxi- 
 ously enquiring for my health and my peace, 
 imparting to me tranquillity and cheerful- 
 ness when my thoughts had been too grave, 
 suggesting amusements when I had grown 
 weary from severe application, and, by some 
 ingenious sally, or happily recollected anec- 
 dote or tale, bringing me back to myself, and 
 rendering me as fresh and ready for any pur- 
 pose that might be started, as if I had just 
 awaked from the most balmy slumbers.
 
 36 DELORAINE. 
 
 CU. 
 
 Solitude is one of the highest enjoyments 
 of which our nature is susceptible. Solitude 
 is also, when too long continued, capable of 
 being made the most severe, indescribable, un- 
 endurable source of anguish. But I was in 
 no danger of ever having too much of it, or 
 that the Goddess would ever approach me, 
 clad in her Gorgon terrors, and circled with 
 the wild, formless, terrific, maddening images 
 she is capable of conjuring up in the soul. 
 The intellectual climate in which I dwelt was 
 not for ever perhaps serene; but I could call 
 up a cerulean canopy and horizon, whenever I 
 pleased ; I had a sun that rose upon me at any 
 moment, at which I wished for the newness and 
 freshness of a delightful morning. It is much 
 at all times to have access to society, but more 
 to have within call the best society that the 
 great Creator in his bounty ever assigned to 
 the lot of a human being. 
 
 If at any time I was, as it were, ready to
 
 11* DELORAINE. 37 
 
 sink and give way under the anxieties, the ob- 
 scurity, the never-ending weariness of my 
 progress "through the valley of the shadow of 
 death, '* I had, to adopt the language of the 
 most sacred of records, '^ an angel from heaven 
 appearing to me, strengthening me."' I im- 
 bibed new vigour from the beams of her affec- 
 tionate countenance, and new animation from 
 the accents of her melodious speech. If I 
 fainted by reason of infirmity or over-earnest 
 application, the balm of her sympathy and 
 love was at hand to restore me. Her soul was 
 purity; her suggestions infallible. I had 
 a petitioner, through the medium of whose 
 voice and eyes, all charity was wakened up in 
 my bosom ; and I became worthy and revered 
 in the censure of all around me, because she 
 made me so. 
 
 If we read, or if we spoke together of the 
 creations of genius, as they are to be found in 
 its richest treasuries, if we summoned one
 
 38 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 another's attention to its most tender or spirit- 
 stirring effusions, the specimens that occurred 
 gained I know not what of life and beauty by 
 our thus enjoying them together. Each pas- 
 sage, each image, each burst and pouring out 
 of the soul in our authors, was ever after 
 valued by either of us, from the recollection 
 that it was first recommended to observation 
 by the other. In the female bosom in particu- 
 lar, there is a quickness, a truth, an intuition 
 of feeling and taste, by which I was specially 
 the gainer, and with which no individual of 
 the sterner sex may ever hope to compete. 
 
 Our communications were characterised by 
 the most perfect unreserve. Of consequence 
 we had an advantage in studying the inmost 
 recesses of human character, which perhaps no 
 other human creatures ever possessed in an 
 equal degree. "The eye sees not itself, but by 
 reflection from some other thing.'' The study 
 of the heart of man is only perfected by our
 
 II. DELORAINE. 39 
 
 looking into ourselves. But this insight is 
 of a precarious nature. A man *^ beholds his 
 natural face in a glass, and goeth his way, and 
 straightway forgetteth what manner of man he 
 is.'' We cannot hold the glass steady for our 
 own inspection. When we are conscious that 
 we are aiming at that subtlest of all exercises, 
 the knowledge of ourselves, the very con- 
 sciousness new-models every feature, and we 
 never see ourselves as we should appear to 
 the eye of the impartial spectator. The re- 
 collection that we are engaged in the act of 
 introspection cramps our muscles and our ^ 
 limbs, gives a new pulsation to the heart, and 
 annihilates that free play of every articulation, 
 which is necessary to our arriving at a genuine 
 verdict. But no human creature is so deeply 
 sensitive to the inspection of another, as to his 
 own. We can on such an occasion the more 
 easily steady our joints, and preserve ourselves 
 on our centre. To this we may add, that the
 
 40 DELORAINE, 
 
 CH, 
 
 examined may not be at all times sensible to 
 the process that is going on. He may be sub- 
 jected to the process of the analyser, when he 
 is himself least aware of it. — Thus we became 
 in a singular degree adepts in the science of 
 the human heart; and I can answer for at 
 least myself in this investigation, that the 
 more I knew the chosen partner of my life, 
 the more I found to commend. We had no 
 reserve with each other, for we had nothing 
 which either our inclinations or our interests 
 prompted us to conceal. 
 
 A prominent characteristic of our intercourse 
 was, that it was never my practice, as is else- 
 where almost universally the mode in human 
 society, to examine my thoughts in silence, 
 and recite inwardly what I was going to say, 
 for the purpose of discovering what there 
 might be in it, that would produce upon my 
 hearer a different effect from that which I 
 had in contemplation. Every thing was lis-
 
 II. DELORAINE. 41 
 
 tened to by us on either side in a spirit of 
 mutual deference. In ordinary society even 
 the most intimate, there is apt to be a sort of 
 concealed warfare going on, that prompts 
 either party to receive with jealousy the sug- 
 gestions of the other. The husband or the 
 wife says tacitly, " I have known your judg- 
 ment to be so often at fault ; you are so hasty, 
 or so much under the control of a superfluous 
 caution, so easily duped, or so unreasonably 
 sceptical, so much guided by your general 
 associates, or so wedded to the doctrines of a 
 sect to which you adhere, or of particular 
 authors whose works you are accustomed to 
 admire, your views of morals, of religion, of 
 the exceeding importance, or the comparative 
 valuelessness, of affairs that are going on upon 
 the stage of nations, are so different from mine, 
 that your espousing and advocating a certain 
 sentiment is itself a reason why I should look 
 upon it with suspicion.'^ The husband or the
 
 42 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 wife therefore speaks mistrustfully^ anticipates 
 objection and hostility, and preserves unsaid 
 many things that are in themselves as it were 
 part and parcel of his inmost soul. 
 
 But between Emilia and myself there were 
 no reserves ; as there was no fear of miscon- 
 struction. We talked to each other even as a 
 man talks to his own heart. There was no 
 prejudice that lurked in the hearer, no aliena- 
 tion : on the contrary every thing that was 
 suggested, was listened to with a disposition 
 to be convinced, and to adopt what was offered. 
 Our creeds were the same, and our tastes ; we 
 were predisposed to the same occupations 
 and the same preferences. Our pulses beat 
 responsively to each other. The excursion 
 and the amusement that one liked, was an 
 object of choice to the other. It was as if one 
 soul ruled in two bodies ; that, " each heart 
 being set " upon the same generous purpose, 
 the same common result, our intercourse could
 
 II. DELORAINE. 43 
 
 in no wise be made ^^ a stage to feed conten- 
 tion," but was a cooperation of two equal and 
 consenting powers to produce one effect. 
 
 Between two persons intimately connected 
 with each other, and who are continually in 
 each other's society, intervals of silence will 
 frequently occur. This may happen when all 
 their modes of thinking and feeling are already 
 known to each other, and their topics are ex- 
 hausted. But it will oftenest happen between 
 persons of opposite sexes, whom the Power 
 that made us has cast in so dissimilar moulds, 
 and whose ways of arriving at their conclu- 
 sions, and shaping their sentiments, are so 
 unlike, — it will happen, I say, because a thou- 
 sand topics, a thousand deeply cherished feel- 
 ings, and most valued trains of thinking are 
 shut out of the pale of disquisition, as being 
 points in which the parties are already aware 
 they shall not coincide, and by starting which 
 they will only produce the effect of stirring up
 
 44 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 unfriendly feelings, and discord, either latent 
 or avowed. It is surprising how numerous, 
 when once the list has been begun to be 
 formed, these topics will become. The very- 
 circumstance, that we refrain from giving 
 them utterance, makes them occur more fre- 
 quently to our silent reflections. We would 
 give the world that the partner of our days 
 and our board agreed with us in these things ; 
 but we believe that the attempt to bring about 
 this agreement would have no other result 
 than to set us further asunder. 
 
 It is thus that private copies to resemble 
 general society. In general society there are a 
 multitude of topics upon which I am not tempt- 
 ed to open my mouth. I anticipate, that what 
 I should feel prompted to say, would not be 
 received in the same spirit in which it would be 
 delivered. It would rouse a whole host of pre- 
 judices against it. Each of the hearers would 
 abound in his own sense, and would be little
 
 n. DELORAINE. 45 
 
 disposed to weigh, or, in any just interpretation 
 of the term, even to hear, what was alleged in 
 behalf of a different doctrine. Why should I 
 give myself the trouble to utter what will not 
 be listened to, or to support a proposition by 
 arguments when I know it will make no con- 
 verts? The cause of truth will not be be- 
 nefited; and I shall myself gain no credit, 
 either for the singleness of my intentions, or 
 the ingenuity of my reasonings. — In reality 
 indeed it is not so : seed sown in stony ground 
 will not be totally without a crop 5 an argu- 
 ment that meets with nothing but apparent 
 discouragement at first, may not be wholly 
 lost ; and the good that we have attempted to 
 do, will sometimes return to us, and shew the 
 solidity and depth of its effects, at a time 
 when we were most inclined to despair. But 
 the impatience of the human mind urges us to 
 desist ; and, if we do not effect every thing in 
 its most conspicuous form, and in the shortest
 
 46 DELORAINE. CII. 
 
 imaginable period, we persuade ourselves that 
 we do nothing. 
 
 Between Emilia and me the case was alto- 
 gether different. We were in no instance 
 parties working in opposite directions, and 
 who, the more active they are, the more they 
 impede each other's progress, but were like 
 labourers, both employed in breaking up the 
 soil of one field, or enlarging and levelling the 
 same road. Our imited force was directed to 
 ane object; and, as if we bad been the com- 
 ponent parts of one mighty machine, we re- 
 moved mountains, and conquered obstacles, 
 which seemed to bid defiance to human power. 
 The variety of our faculties insured but the 
 more success to our efforts; and the masculine 
 firmness of the one, and the feminine delicacy 
 of the other, enabled us but the more securely 
 to lay open the inmost recesses of truth, And 
 disclose her mysteries, yielding as she did to 
 the joint energies of both.
 
 n. DELORAINE. 47 
 
 If at any time we differed in judgment, we 
 searched with sincerity into the cause of our 
 difference, and endeavoured to find out on 
 which side the truth really lay. A sentiment 
 delivered by either, that might at first sight 
 appear to the other startling and strange, was 
 saluted with a love, and welcomed with an 
 encouraging smile, which shewed the hearer 
 to be more than half converted already, by his 
 confidence in and deference for the speaker. 
 
 This was checked however on the other side 
 with an honest caution, that seemed to say, 
 *"' Come now, no treachery ; you must be a 
 friend, and not a flatterer; if you do not weigh 
 my suggestion with soberness and impartiality, 
 you will too surely mislead me, and, when I 
 relied on you for sound direction, will unwarily 
 urge me forward in a path which leads to delu- 
 sion and folly. '* 
 
 The frankness we exercised was perfect. We 
 talked to each other, as a man talks to his own
 
 48 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 ^oul. We did not utter all our thoughts : for 
 thought is endless; its process is such as no 
 'w'ords can follow; but we uttered every thing 
 "worthy to be recited, and to which a precise 
 or intelligible form could be given. The sound 
 of our own voices encouraged us; our mutual 
 answers, replies and rejoinders gave an inde- 
 scribable animation to our dialogue. We led 
 each other on ; we gave breath to each un- 
 finished conception. There was no fear on 
 'either side that an uncandid advantage would 
 be taken of trips and mistakes that might be 
 incurred. We rather resembled what has been 
 affirmed of certain animals, who are said by their 
 parental assiduity and care to complete the 
 conformation of their half-unfinished progeny. 
 Our policy was like that of Jupiter, who, when 
 the mother of Bacchus perished untimely be- 
 fore the birth of her offspring, l)y a miracle 
 supplied the place of the dam; or, as in the 
 case of Triptolemus, whom Ceres covered with
 
 II. DELORAINE. 49 
 
 glowing embers^ till his energies expanded, 
 and his limbs became endued with a suitable 
 firmness. 
 
 The habit of entire and unhesitating explicit- 
 ness which we cultivated towards each other, 
 removed us as it were into another class of 
 beings from the human creatures with which 
 we were surrounded. We had no distrust. 
 Our hearts were ever on our lips. We con- 
 sidered the faculty of speech as given us to 
 express our thoughts. We had no idea of 
 those ambages and prevarications by which 
 the majority of our species are ever seeking to 
 defeat the curiosity, the one of the other, by 
 w^hich they are taught continually to look at 
 their phrases before they are uttered, lest by 
 any accident they might tell that which it was 
 intended should remain unknown. The dif- 
 ference was this ; social man is essentially a 
 coward; we were fearless. Social man regards 
 all those by whom he is surrounded as enemies, 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 or beings who may become such. He is ever 
 on his guard, lest his plain speaking should be 
 wilfully perverted, or should assume a meaning 
 he never thought of, through the animosity or 
 prejudice of the individual that hears him. 
 The duration of the married state of Emilia 
 and myself was brief : but, as long as it lasted, 
 the whole world wore a different hue to me, 
 from that which it has exhibited since her 
 decease. Then I had the sunshine of the soul; 
 and the light I carried within, came back to 
 me by reflection from every thing I saw. The 
 whole world was beautiful ; and all that dwelt 
 upon its surface were friendly. Love was 
 uppermost in my bosom; and the love that I 
 bore to Emilia was in some degree shared 
 among every thing that lived. My forehead 
 was without wrinkles; my eye was steady and 
 serene; my lips were curved with the curve of 
 philanthropy; the purple light of complacence 
 for ever showed itself on my cheeks. I spoke
 
 II. DELORAINE. 51 
 
 to every one with confidence; for I was a 
 stranger to fear. And, as my heart beat with 
 kindliness to all, so 1 believed every one felt a 
 responsive kindliness for me. 
 
 It is not my purpose to relate the events of 
 my married life ; otherwise I could write 
 volumes on this single theme. I could re- 
 hearse whole conversations, some of which 
 were all mind, others all soul. I could describe 
 tones that thrilled my soul. When I call them 
 to mind, they come to me sometimes with such 
 vivid emotion, that I no longer appear to re- 
 collect them, but actually to hear them. I 
 turn round, and expect to see Emilia, present 
 to the sense of sight, as well as of hearing. 
 It is not in words to express what my dis- 
 appointment then makes me feel. I worked 
 myself up to such a pitch, that obstacles were 
 no longer remembered. Seas and mountains 
 were removed. Time, that creature of the 
 imagination, which is, and is not, no longer 
 d2 
 
 II.OF"LUB.
 
 52 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 interposed between me and the consummation 
 of my longings. The grave gave up its dead. 
 But why do I say that? There was no grave. 
 The body no longer mouldered in the tomb. 
 It was as we read in the Evangelist^ when 
 '^ the bodies of saints which slept, came out of 
 their sepulchres, and went into the holy city, 
 and were seen of many/^ My state had been 
 that of a trance; and, when I awoke, words 
 cannot speak my anguish and my agony. 
 
 The attitudes of Emilia are not less present 
 to me. Her walk was not like that of any 
 other human being : it had such dignity and 
 ease : it ravished the soul, at the same time 
 that it had no design or consciousness. I re- 
 member that quick motion of her hand, which 
 expressed a sweet, an affectionate, yet some- 
 what impatient rejection of an idea that was 
 named. I remember her smile of scorn, her 
 disdain, so noble, yet so truly feminine. I re- 
 member her smile of tenderness, in which,
 
 II. DELORAINE. 53 
 
 while a sudden flush mantled in the cheek, and 
 the eyes seemed to emit sparks of fire, the 
 heart melted, and the whole soul dissolved in 
 affection. 
 
 She was without a fault: at least I can re- 
 member none. Her emotions were sudden ; 
 and sometimes before I was aware of it, I 
 looked up, and saw a cloud gathering on her 
 brow. Then she would for a moment be silent, 
 and proudly shut up within her a discontent 
 that would not stoop to complain. But ten 
 words of ingenuous expostulation on my part 
 would disarm her anger, and remove the pre- 
 parations of hostility that seemed collected to 
 defend the fortress of her independence. An 
 angelic smile would follow; so that the wrath 
 (if such it may be termed) was like a thin 
 curtain or cloud, that temporarily obscured 
 the refulgence of her goodness, which removed, 
 the luminary would shine forth more brightly 
 than ever. And the inexpressible grace with
 
 54 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 which she would confess her error the instant 
 she was aware of it, imparted a delight such as 
 the world can never know ; and in transport I 
 would swear that sinless perfection was incon- 
 ceivable folly; while thus to err, and thus to 
 avow it, was a triumph unapproachable by the 
 condition of angelic natures.
 
 III. DELORAINE. 35 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The first fruit of our union was a daughter, 
 that individual whom I have named in the out- 
 set of my narrative, as being, when guilt with 
 all its terrors at length overtook me, my only 
 friend, ^^ a friend, whom the ties of nature and 
 her own excellent dispositions have rendered 
 mine by bonds never to be dissolved/' 
 
 When our child was about a year old, a 
 vehement desire seized me to visit the con- 
 tinent. I felt as if my present period of life 
 was peculiarly adapted to sustain change of 
 place, moderate fatigue, the climbing of moun- 
 tains, the descending into the depths of the 
 earth, and all those exertions which an in- p
 
 56 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 quisitive spirit suggests, and those difficulties 
 which the grand and magnificent style of natural 
 objects presents to the traveller. I became de- 
 sirous to see pictures, and survey buildings, 
 to contemplate art in the climates where she 
 had especially flourished, to hear the languages 
 and accents of many-visaged man, to remark 
 his habits, his disposition, and his aims, as they 
 are variously modified by the temperature of the 
 elements, and the forms of government under 
 which he subsists ; in a word, like Ulysses, to 
 understand the minds of my species, and see 
 the clusters of their habitations. 
 
 All this was not to be accomplished but in 
 a leisurely progress. And I could not endure 
 the idea of being so long separated from the 
 light of my life, the presence of that creature 
 who seemed to me to be as much required, as 
 corporeal nourishment, for the recreation of 
 my mortal powers, the incomparable Emilia. 
 She consented to be my companion. My choice 
 
 'm
 
 III. DELORAINE. 57 
 
 became her choice. The object that attracted 
 me, appeared to have peculiar charms for her. 
 
 But what was to become of her child^ the 
 being she seemed to love scarcely less than 
 her husband ? She had never yet endured an 
 absence from it that exceeded the period of a 
 few hours. Was it possible that she should 
 suffer herself to be deprived of the sight of this 
 creature, so fascinating in her eyes, for the en- 
 tire period of twelve months, to which length 
 of time it was not improbable our travels 
 might be drawn out ? Who would take such 
 charge of it as the anxieties of a mother de- 
 manded, would supply its wants and anticipate 
 its wishes, defend it from all accidents and 
 evil, watch its early indications of temper and 
 understanding, mould the one and direct the 
 other, and forward, with incessant but whole- 
 some progress, the improvement that was re- 
 quired for so precious a treasure ? 
 
 We had a remedy for all this. Emilia had 
 d6 
 
 m
 
 58 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 a friend, Catherine Fanshaw. They had been 
 bred together from their earliest fancy. They, 
 
 like 
 
 two artificial gods. 
 Had with their needles shaped a single flower. 
 Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion. 
 Both warbling of one song, — 
 As if their hands and sides, voices and minds. 
 Had been incorporate. 
 
 Emilia and Catherine had been married in one 
 day — first made distinct in this, that Catherine 
 had no child. Their affection for each other 
 was unparalleled ; never did sisters, twin- 
 sisters, entertain such mutual love as they did. 
 My daughter was named Catherine in memorial 
 of this friendship. 
 
 When we left England for the continent, 
 Mrs. Fanshaw had been two years a wife; but 
 she was neither a mother, nor appeared to be 
 in the way to become so. This circumstance 
 seemed to render the temporary adoption which 
 Emilia's friend proposed to my wife, particu- 
 larly suitable.
 
 JII. DELORAINE. 59 
 
 Never was attention so exemplary as this 
 friend paid to her little namesake. She felt 
 perhaps more than she would have done, if the 
 child had been her own. She loved her not less 
 than her own flesh and blood : and in addition 
 to this, she regarded her as the representative 
 and pledge of her absent sister. She never 
 spoke to the child, but she thought of the 
 mother. She lavished on it a thousand caresses, 
 the manifestations of her long-fixed attachment. 
 She exerted herself to trace in its expanding 
 limbs and unfolding features every thing that 
 might bring before her the playmate and com- 
 panion of her youth. And, in every thing she 
 did for the child, she not only obeyed the im- 
 pulses of her generous spirit, and aimed at the 
 approbation of her own judgment; she also 
 remembered for ever that she had another 
 umpire, that must be satisfied, and that would 
 come at no distant time to examine her per- 
 formance, and see how she had employed her
 
 CO DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 talent; an umpire of the clearest discernment, 
 the soundest understanding, and the acutest 
 feelings, who would detect any mistake, if 
 even a rose-leaf almost had lost its smoothness 
 and become wrinkled. 
 
 Mrs. Fanshaw particularly applied to the 
 contriving expedients, by means of which the 
 absence of the mother might least affect the 
 child, and least produce the results of estrange- 
 ment. Among others she bethought herself of 
 this. She had a portrait of Emilia, painted by 
 an incomparable artist, and which had all the 
 vivid colours of life. The painter had seized 
 one of the happiest expressions of the exile, an 
 expression which bespoke condescension and 
 tenderness, and seemed to have the power of 
 exciting correspondent tenderness in the be- 
 holder. This portrait she regarded as capable 
 of being made the instrument to produce in 
 the child the sentiments she desired. 
 
 She did not suffer the picture to be always 
 
 %'f"
 
 in. DELORAINE. 61 
 
 in the presence of the little Catherine. It was 
 placed in a select and retired apartment^ to 
 which the child was only led, for the most 
 part once a day, at well chosen periods. These 
 periods were such at which the child was in 
 the best frame of mind to receive impressions 
 of complacency, and at which her preceptress 
 (if such a term may be admitted in speaking of 
 a pupil at so immature an age) was most de- 
 lighted and in good humour with her. To see 
 the picture was treated as a regale and a re- 
 ward. Further than this, the picture was so 
 placed that it could not be viewed but at a 
 certain distance. Emilia's friend told the child 
 that that was its mother; and, when the child 
 was able to speak, the first articulate sound 
 she uttered, as she saw the picture, or thought 
 of the picture, was. Mamma ! Her guardian 
 knew that that which is immoveably in one 
 position a child soon learns to separate from 
 the idea of life, and passes by with careless-
 
 62 DELORAINE. 
 
 CHy 
 
 ness and indifference. Mrs. Fanshaw devised 
 a remedy for this. A curtain was spread before 
 the recess in which the portrait was placed ; 
 and this curtain was drawn back with a certain 
 degree of ceremony. Means were contrived 
 that the portrait should be viewed through an 
 optical delusion, sometimes through a magni- 
 fying medium, and sometimes looking as if it 
 were a miniature. The picture grew into a 
 sort of amusement; and the child and her 
 protector went to play at mamma. But each 
 exhibition concluded with a kind of epilogue, 
 judiciously adapted to the capacity of the spec- 
 tator, of which Love and a sort of worship 
 formed, if I may so express myself, the con- 
 cluding notes. In quitting the scene, the child 
 was taught to kneel, and join its little hands as 
 in the attitude of supplication. The curtain that 
 had been drawn back, was then spread again, 
 and the child resorted to her ordinary scenes and 
 amusements, but with a kind of chastised and
 
 in. DELORAINE. 63 
 
 gratified feeling, as if she had been engaged in 
 a ceremonial of a religious sort. Mrs. Fanshaw 
 told her pupil, that her real mother, of whom 
 this was the representation, was far, far away, 
 travelling in a coach and in a ship, but that 
 in time ♦ she would come back, and, if her 
 daughter conducted herself rightly, and Mrs. 
 Fanshaw felt authorised to make a good report 
 of her, would stay with her, and remove no 
 more. 
 
 All this made a deep impression upon the 
 little Catherine. She was ever eager at the 
 appointed time to visit the dear mother, that 
 smiled upon her so kindly, though she could 
 not speak. 
 
 One day, by some accident, the door of this 
 apartment was left not quite closed ; and the 
 child had found means unobser\Td to steal 
 into the sanctuary. The curtain was half 
 drawn back. The picture, as I have men- 
 tioned, was placed in a recesS;, so that it could
 
 64 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 be viewed at a distance, but not touched, or 
 approached. The child had been taught to 
 kneel ; she kneeled now unbid. She stretched 
 out her little hands, and said in a soft voice, 
 as if persuading, Come, mamma, come; I 
 want you ! Mrs. Fanshaw appeared at this 
 moment, caught her in her arms, motioned her 
 with a wave of her hand to take leave of the 
 object before her, drew the curtain, and over- 
 whelmed the child with a thousand kisses and 
 embraces. This happened when the infant was 
 nearly two years old. 
 
 What I have related may seem too preco- 
 cious, and improbable. But every thing, in an 
 effect to be produced on the human mind, de- 
 pends upon the manner in which a thing is 
 done* That which, repeated by an unskilful 
 imitator, would awaken no single emotion, and 
 even scarcely have the power to arrest the in- 
 fant thoughts in their wanderings, may yet, if 
 done in another manner, be found to still the
 
 III. DELORAINE. 65 
 
 soul^ to stop the youthful blood as it courses 
 "up and down theveins^'" to suspend even the 
 breath, and make the child lift up its eyes in 
 innocent wonder, expecting, yet eager to know, 
 what will come next. All depends on the clear- 
 ness of feeling, the singleness of heart, and 
 precision of spirit brought into action by the 
 instructor; and these endowments were pos- 
 sessed by Mrs. Fanshaw in the most extraor- 
 dinary degree. 
 
 We returned from our excursion to the con- 
 tinent in about twelve months from the time 
 that we left England ; and the reunion of 
 Emilia and her friend, and of Emilia and her 
 child, were fruitful of no common delight. 
 The little Catherine was puzzled at first be- 
 tween the mamma of the recess, whom she 
 had been accustomed to visit every day, but 
 who, however intreated, never moved or spoke, 
 and the living mamma, who now held her in
 
 66 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 her embraces, addressed to her words of love, 
 and sung to her with her soft voice, 
 
 Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath, 
 
 that would now soothe her into " a sacred and 
 home-felt delight,'' and now cause a tear, un- 
 conscious and unbidden, to stray down her 
 cheek. The child insisted upon leading the 
 truant and new-come mamma to the mamma 
 that was always to be found, whenever sought, 
 would compare the two with intent and inter- 
 changing gazing, and conclude with burying 
 her face in her mother's bosom.
 
 IV. DELORAINE. 67 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 We parted no more, till that blow came, which 
 parted us for ever, and extinguished the only 
 perfect happiness of which I could form even 
 the idea. Short indeed was the period in which 
 such enviable society was continued to me. 
 We had been home only about a year, and the 
 little Catherine was but three years old, when 
 we took an excursion upon a lake, which was 
 but at a small distance from my habitation. 
 The day was specially serene, without being 
 oppressively hot; a pleasant western breeze 
 played upon our cheeks, and refreshed our spi- 
 rits. It occasioned however only a quiet and 
 lazy ripple of the surface, and no wise inter-
 
 68 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 fered with the plan of our course. Never had 
 I experienced a more complete felicity. We 
 began to lay the plans of future years. Sport- 
 ively it occurred to us to anticipate that decline 
 of life, which, if the thread of our existence is 
 not suddenly cut off, must to all mortals arrive 
 at last. We both of us agreed that that would 
 occasion no diminution to our content, that 
 even wrinkles would turn into motives of en- 
 dearment, and that the longer we were accus- 
 tomed to each other's society, the more im- 
 possible we should each of us feel it was to 
 live without it. The rash impulses of head- 
 strong youth would be gone ; we should have 
 tried the scenes of many-coloured life, without 
 arriving at the repining and unsatisfied infe- 
 rences of the wise man, should talk over old 
 times, and read together once again the fa- 
 vourite authors of our youth. We should smile 
 at the different aspects with which things 
 would appear to us with a few decads of years
 
 IV. DELORAINE. 69 
 
 between, the same, yet not the same, with 
 such variation as the objects of nature display 
 in the ascending and the setting sun. In 
 books, in tales, in characters, the thing we 
 looked at would be unaltered; but it would 
 have a frequent novelty of appearance, that 
 arose not from itself, but from the change 
 which had insensibly taken place in the mind 
 of the observer. 
 
 From one species of idleness and luxury we 
 proceeded to another. Our little girl had fallen 
 asleep in my arms. We spread some clothes 
 that we had with us, in the middle of the boat, 
 and drew a slight covering over her, that she 
 might remain undisturbed. As 1 laid her upon 
 this species of couch, I bestowed on her a gen- 
 tle kiss, taking care not to rouse her. She is a 
 sweet child, said I : what can we wish her to 
 be, that we do not find in her ? — But you know 
 the burthen of my song, Emilia : I desire a 
 son.
 
 70 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 Man is the substantive thing in the terres- 
 trial creation : woman is but the adjective, that 
 cannot stand by itself. A sweet thing she is ; 
 I grant it : no one has a greater right to say 
 this than I have. But she is a frail flower; 
 she wants a shelter, a protector, a pioneer. 
 She is all that omniscience, that principle of 
 divine meditation (so far as we can understand 
 it), could produce, for the best consolation, the 
 entire repose and good of the stronger sex ; 
 and, in forming his happiness, she forms her 
 own. She has beauty of form and exterior, 
 and gentleness of soul. She has understand- 
 ing, so as to form the suitable helpmate of her 
 husband, the partner of his counsels, the con- 
 troler of his excesses, the mitigator of his 
 stoutness, the inspirer of all true gentleness 
 and refinement, and of the tenderest and most 
 extatic effusions of the soul. She has under- 
 standing such as he may not despise ; she has 
 the good and desirable qualities which he has
 
 IV. DELORAINE. 71 
 
 not, or has not in an equal degree. Some- 
 times she is in intellect the rival of her father, 
 her husband, or her brother; sometimes, but 
 rarely, she outstrips him — to remind us, if I 
 may so express it, what the Creator could have 
 done, if that had been reconcileable to the great 
 plan of the whole. 
 
 I have always thought that one of the most 
 beautiful pictures of the angelic control that 
 woman may exercise over the sternness of man, 
 is that which is given by Froissard in his ac- 
 count of the surrender of Calais. Edward the 
 Third had besieged the town nearly twelve 
 months ; and it was now reduced to the ex- 
 tremity of famine, and was left without hope 
 of relief. In this condition the citizens offered 
 to surrender on terms. But Edward deter- 
 mined that they had held out longer than the 
 rules of war authorised them to do ; had they 
 submitted earlier, it would have been different 5 
 but they had subjected him and the besieging
 
 72 DELORAINE. 
 
 CH. 
 
 army to much hardship and calamity, and ar- 
 rested the career of his victories from sheer 
 obstinacy, when there was no longer any hope 
 of a favourable result ; and he was resolved to 
 inflict a severe retaliation. It would have an 
 ill effect upon the inhabitants of other places 
 similarly circumstanced, if he did not shew 
 inflexibly in this instance, that the time of the 
 invader was not to be trifled with, through 
 hopeless stubbornness and contumacy. At 
 length he relaxed from his severity, and said 
 that, if six of the most considerable citizens 
 attended him, barefooted and bareheaded, with 
 ropes about their necks, bearing the keys of 
 the city, and to be disposed of as he thought 
 proper, he would spare the lives of the rest. 
 
 This stern decree was heard by the besieged 
 with consternation ; and they saw no means to 
 comply with the demand of the conqueror. At 
 length six citizens were found who voluntarily 
 came forward, and offered themselves as an
 
 IV. DELORAINE. 73 
 
 expiation for the rest. They entered the camp 
 of the English monarch in the costume of male- 
 factors, and were ordered for execution. Such 
 was the decision of a barbarous age : so broad 
 was the line of distinction that was then drawn 
 between gentlemen, men of generous strain and 
 descent, and ignoble citizens ! 
 
 It happened that Philippa, consort to Ed- 
 ward the Third, had just arrived in the camp, 
 having fought a decisive battle against David, 
 king of Scots, who at the instigation of the 
 French had entered Northumberland with fifty 
 thousand men, and carried his ravages to the 
 gates of Durham. Philippa with a very in- 
 ferior force defeated the enemy, and made 
 their king her prisoner. Crowned widl this 
 success, she crossed the sea, and presented 
 herself to her husband in the midst of his 
 triumph. She witnessed the demeanour of 
 the heroic burgesses, and, struck to the very 
 soul with the order she heard awarded against 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 74 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 them, threw herself on her knees, and with 
 resistless tears and intreaties prevailed that 
 their generous self-sacrifice should not be thus 
 recompensed, but that th1ey should be dis- 
 missed with the commendation and honour 
 due to their virtue. Here was the charac- 
 teristic exhibition of female prowess, inter- 
 posing with grace, with beauty, and all the 
 melting softness of the sex, powerful, nay 
 irresistible, in its weakness. [I did not tell 
 this story in detail in our conversation^ the 
 whole was familiar to Emilia; it was enough 
 that I alluded to it.] 
 
 I was well disposed to do the amplest jus- 
 tice to the perfections of a sex, the consummate 
 exemplar of which was the life of my life : but 
 — I wished for a son. "All ages and nations 
 have recognised the practical inferiority of the 
 female sex. They are not admitted among our 
 legislators : in representative governments they 
 have not even a direct voice in the choice of
 
 IV. DELORAINE. 75 
 
 our representatives. Every path of society is 
 open to the male ; an infinite majority is shut 
 upon the female. We know for her scarcely 
 any independent choice of life; her proper 
 station is the condition of marriage. Of an 
 equal prospect in the ample plain of existence 
 she is deprived ; the single woman feels her 
 disadvantages and her weakness, and she is 
 exposed to temptations and dangers which, 
 once yielded to, render her the outcast of the 
 earth. Of this condition of the frailer sex we 
 must make the best that we can, and exert our- 
 selves that it may have a prosperous issue in 
 the case of our child. I am contented to have 
 a daughter ; but I desire to have a son.'* 
 
 So luxuriant and unconfined was our talk ; 
 happy, beyond the powers of words to declare, 
 almost of thought to conceive. When sud- 
 denly the face of the heavens above us began 
 to alter : the sky was no longer in every part 
 unobscured ; a cloud appeared to gather in the 
 e2
 
 7d DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 horizon. It became larger and blacker; the 
 wind whistled with a wintery cold. The air, 
 which had hitherto been balmy and cherishing, 
 opening all the pores of the body, and giving 
 exaltation to the spirits, suddenly turned chilly 
 and somewhat piercing. Unprepared as we 
 were for the change, it produced an uncom- 
 fortable sensation, a shiver. Presently the 
 whole hemisphere darkened above us ; and 
 first rain, and then hail, and then rain again, 
 beat upon us with impetuosity. The thunder 
 rolled ; and the lightning flashed. Emilia en- 
 deavoured to smile, for she knew there was no 
 danger. She pulled her cloak close about her, 
 and nestled her little girl in her bosom. 
 
 We had been for more than two hours ex- 
 posed to all the inclemency of the weather, 
 before we reached the shelter of our own roof. 
 I insisted on it that Emilia should immediately 
 retire to bed : she appeared to me seriously 
 indisposed. She was in a state of pregnancy.
 
 IV. DELORAINE. 77 
 
 perhaps in progress to give birth to the son, 
 upon the thought of which my mind so inordi- 
 nately doted. Butj alas, no such blessing vras 
 in store for me. Of mother, and of all hope of 
 future progeny by her, I was at once bereft. 
 The accident seemed a slight one : but, as the 
 poet testifies, 
 
 We dally idly with the darts of Death : 
 Wet, dry, cold, hot, at the appointed hour. 
 All act subservient to the tyrant's power ; 
 And, when obedient Nature knows his will, 
 A fly, a grapestone, or a hair can kill. 
 
 Emilia retired to bed seriously indisposed. In 
 the morning she had all the symptoms of a vio- 
 lent fever. The period was critical. She was at- 
 tacked with repeated shivering fits. She became 
 delirious. On the evening of this day she had a 
 miscarriage. On the third day, in defiance of all 
 the aids of medicine, she died. She had brief 
 intervals in which she appeared somewhat col- 
 lected and composed; and in these she earnestly 
 recommended to me the care of her child.
 
 78 DELORAINE. cfl; 
 
 * 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 It is impossible to represent in words the 
 total revolution this event made in my ex- 
 istence. It was as if in a single moment 
 '^sun and moon were in the flat sea sunk/* 
 Nature that had been so beautiful, so resplen- 
 dent, so fascinating, lost at once the soul to 
 which it was indebted for all its charms. The 
 rainbow tints of the globe in which I dwelt, 
 the soft and tender hues, the delicate blend- 
 ings, the undulating lights, varying for ever, 
 and chasing one another beneath the cope of 
 heaven, were gone ; and, in place of them, 
 every thing was stained with one melancholy 
 colour, one deadly and unwholesome brown.
 
 V. DELORAINE. 79 
 
 The air appeared to me murky and thick, an 
 atmosphere that bore pestilence on its wings. 
 I looked around me ; the outline of things, 
 though obscure and dim, was the same : but 
 where was now the grace that so lately ani- 
 mated them, the ornament that had tingled in 
 all my veins, and shot through my soul ? 
 
 The whole world comprised to me but two 
 species of things ; the things that were asso- 
 ciated with the recollections of Emilia, and 
 the things that were not so related. Upon the 
 former of these I dwelt endlessly. The sensa- 
 tions I drew from them were bitter and sweet. 
 They told me, Emilia was no more ! Watch 
 for her as earnestly as you please ; you shall 
 never see her, never hear her. Watch the 
 opening of her chamber-door ; it shall never 
 open; or, if it does, it shall be opened by 
 another, never by her upon whom your heart 
 and all your thoughts are fixed. At one time
 
 80 DELORAINE. 
 
 CH. 
 
 and another I heard footsteps; my thought 
 was of Emilia ; but^ ah, how different ! Never 
 that step so light, so airy, that even talked to 
 me as it approached, that was full of promise, 
 that was all health, and spirit, and love. Her 
 chair was vacant ; her place at the table un- 
 supplied ; and at times, when accidentally I 
 turned my eye to the spot in which I had been 
 accustomed to find her, it almost threw me 
 into convulsions ; it made every fibre of my 
 frame tremble again. 
 
 This indeed was bitter. But in the midst of 
 bitterness, I found something fascinating, that 
 said to me. Go on ; steep your soul to the very 
 lips in these melancholy recollections. I never 
 willingly shut the book of grief, never sought 
 to withdraw my thoughts from what saddened 
 me. Grief was all my joy. All other things 
 were disgusting, shrivelled and withered up 
 my heart : this opened the sluices of my
 
 V. DELORAINE. 81 
 
 affections 5 and I experienced a nameless sa- 
 tisfaction, when I felt that it was exhausting 
 and destroying in me the principle of life. 
 
 The things that had no connection with 
 Emilia, that did not talk to me of her who was 
 the object of all my preferences, were insup- 
 portable. They occupied my time, but excited 
 in me no interest. They called upon me for 
 attention, which, when given, ran counter to 
 every thing that I desired, and, when with- 
 held, left me in deadly vacancy, disturbing the 
 Lethe of my spirit with its nothings, and im- 
 portuning me with a consciousness of that 
 existence which I would have given worlds to 
 forget. 
 
 I busied myself among all those things, 
 which told me that Emilia once had lived, and 
 once had been mine. I turned over a thousand 
 times the articles of her attire, and what had 
 been the ornaments of her person. I doted 
 on the desk at which she had been accustomed 
 £ 5
 
 82 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 to write, and the inkstand which had afforded 
 her a medium for recording her thoughts. 
 Her miniature, set round with brilliants, and 
 the back of which was ornamented with a lock 
 of her beautiful hair, was a companion of 
 which I never tired. Her handwriting to my 
 eyes was the masterpiece of the creation. The 
 lines which her pen had traced were of unri- 
 valled elegance and grace ; and the words, 
 which imaged on paper her sentiments and 
 thoughts, were inimitable. Her style was thie 
 style in which angels would have desired to 
 talk. I kept all the letters I had received 
 from her in a casket ; they were often on 
 subjects that fastidious men would have sneer- 
 ed at, of the lightest and most evanescent 
 nature, the pen dipped in the tints of the 
 rainbow ; but they were all precious to me ; 
 they contained some fragment of the soul of 
 this " divine perfection of a woman."' I num- 
 bered them; I read them a thousand times;
 
 V. DELORAINE. 83 
 
 and the last time they appeared to me as fresh 
 as the first. 
 
 The late incomparable companion of my 
 days had a truly original mind. She was 
 naturally learned ; she studied not the world 
 through ^^the spectacles of books,' ' or the 
 teachings of her instructors ; there was to her 
 no medium, no " seeing as through a glass 
 darkly ; '* she communicated immediately with 
 external nature, or with the living habits and 
 tempers of her fellow-creatures. She was in 
 this respect as if there had been no such thing 
 as literature ; by an intuitive discernment she 
 read the book of nature, and all her conclu- 
 sions were her own. 
 
 This circumstance had at all times given a 
 peculiar charm to her talk. It was not a 
 lesson, *^ learned and conned by rote ; set in 
 a note-book." You were sure to hear from 
 her something new; new in the substance of 
 what she reported, or new in the manner in 
 
 >'
 
 84 DELORAINE, 
 
 CH. 
 
 which she saw the things she described. She 
 viewed every thing in a way characteristic of 
 herself; the temper^ the wholesome frame of 
 her mind, was as an aerial perspective, giving a 
 fresh and enchanting hue of its own to every 
 thing she observed. You gained an insight 
 not only of the object itself; you received in 
 addition that frame of an angelic spirit, which 
 made her see the world in a manner in which 
 perhaps no other person saw it, more harmo- 
 nised, the colours blended, every part belong- 
 ing to and altogether constituting a whole. 
 
 There was no preparation in any thing she 
 •delivered, no tint of affectation, no wrinkle 
 produced by any retrospect to herself, her own 
 glory, and the expectation to be admired for 
 what she said, or what she did. When I 
 sat, or when I walked with her, I saw the 
 thoughts of her mind exactly as they rose. It 
 was all simple, and at the same time all wise. 
 Every thing was sound, every thing fresh and
 
 V. DELORAINE. S5 
 
 sensible ; and, if it had been written in a book^ 
 it would have shewn itself with the liveliness 
 of Montaigne, and the depth of thought we 
 are accustomed to ascribe to Zoroaster. It 
 was prompt eloquence, a rapid and unimpeded 
 stream, ^^more tuneable than needed lute or 
 harp to add more sweetness." It was a stream 
 that enlivened its banks, while " with fresh 
 flowerets field and valley smiled,'' and the heart 
 of the hearer leaped with delight, and all his 
 circulations became cheerful and gay. It was 
 wisdom in its newest gloss, unblown upon, un- 
 faded. She was indeed and in truth, " fancy's 
 child," while to your astonished sense she 
 ^^ warbled her native woodnotes wild/' 
 
 When I lost her, I at first loathed my ex- 
 istence. Wearisome nights were appointed 
 to me. ^'When I laid down, I said. When 
 shall I arise, and the night be gone ? I was 
 full of tossings to and fro unto the dawning of 
 the day." The light was importunate; food
 
 86 DELORAINE. 
 
 CH. 
 
 was distasteful. The visits of my friends were 
 past endurance; and solitude was intolerable. 
 I longed to close my eyes, and shut out day- 
 light for ever, to be gathered to my fathers, 
 and be at rest. 
 
 There is something in man however, that 
 will not let him be long at quiet. The first 
 thing is the cravings of nature. The constitu- 
 tion of our existence is truly pourtrayed in the 
 well-known story of the Ephesian matron. 
 However she gave herself up at first to the 
 excess of her grief for her husband's death, 
 and resolved to be shut up with him in his 
 tomb, not many days had passed, before she 
 felt the empire of human infirmity, and was 
 glad of any thing that would deliver her from 
 the monotony of her own meditations, and the 
 eternal wearisomeness of days, " that cream 
 and mantle like a standing pool.'* 
 
 There is an indescribable something that ties 
 "US to life. For this purpose it is not necessary
 
 V. DELORAINE. 87 
 
 that we should be happy. Though our life be 
 almost without enjoyment, we do not consent 
 to part with it. Without going to the extreme 
 of Maecenas, who said, " Though my hand, my 
 foot, my hip should refuse their functions, 
 though I should have a mountain on my back, 
 and my teeth be loosened in their sockets, nay, 
 nail me, if you will, upon a cross, still I desire 
 to live:" without this, there is nevertheless a 
 sentiment that stirs within us, that produces an 
 undefinable aversion to the thought of ceasing 
 to be, to " lie in cold oblivion and to rot." 
 
 It was this that inspired Robinson Crusoe, 
 or whoever was his actual prototype, and has 
 inspired every shipwrecked mariner, when he 
 has found himself thrown upon a coast without 
 human inhabitants. It is a dreary thing to be 
 cut off from the society of our fellows and the 
 accommodations of civilised life. We should 
 almost expect an individual so circumstanced.
 
 8S DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 as soon as he had had time to survey his for- 
 lorn situation^ to climb a neighbouring pro- 
 montory, and cast himself back into the ele- 
 ment from which he had been rescued. But it 
 is not so. He looks round, and begins to col- 
 lect the fragments and broken planks of the 
 vessel in which he had been embarked. He is 
 like the wretch who watches a dying jflame. 
 He gathers together every combustible mate- 
 rial that offers itself to his view, that he may 
 detain the celestial visitor. He casts about and 
 considers how he may supply himself with 
 nourishment and shelter. He meditates per- 
 severingly, and counts up all his resources. 
 He shrinks from no labour. He is appalled by 
 no privations. Life, life, is the inexplicable 
 thing we cling to ; and, however we may pre- 
 tend to hold it cheap and to brave death when 
 at a distance, we all of us, with very few ex- 
 ceptions, and those arising from a preternatural
 
 y. DELORAINE. 89 
 
 tension, verify the apophthegm of the scrip- 
 ture, " Skin for skin, yea all that a man hath, 
 will he give for his life.** 
 
 The mind of man bends itself after a short 
 struggle to the yoke of necessity. "Things 
 without all remedy,'* are found to be "without 
 regard." We shut ourselves up within the 
 compass of possibilities, and become reconciled 
 to what cannot be avoided. There are indul- 
 gencies without which a man thinks he cannot 
 live ; there are benefits that seem to constitute 
 the core and soul of our existence 5 but, when 
 these can no longer be had, we make the best . 
 of what is still within our reach. 
 
 I considered, that I was young, that I had 
 but recently come into the possession of all my 
 faculties of body and mind. According to 
 what is called the course of nature, I might 
 live many years. Should I, out of the consi- 
 deration of what I had lost, throw away what 
 was left ? Or, should I still, notwithstanding
 
 90 DELORAINE. 
 
 CH. 
 
 the fearful wreck I had experienced, draw in 
 my expectations and my desires, clip the wings 
 of my aspirations, and suit my mind to the 
 narrowness of my possessions ? I was an exile, 
 driven out for ever from the pleasant land 
 where I had been so much delighted to dwell. 
 I was condemned to abide under inclement 
 skies, with dreary and unvarying prospects, 
 and on a barren soil. Yet surely it was more 
 worthy of the inherent energies of man, of the 
 powers with which God had endowed me, to 
 make the best even of this. I could exercise 
 my mind in reading and contemplation. I pos- 
 sessed the property which had descended to 
 me from my ancestors. With this, dispensed 
 with judgment and a beneficent spirit, I could 
 do much good : and he that does good to 
 others, will infallibly catch the advantage on 
 the rebound to himself. The world, in its re- 
 volutions and changes, is for ever new : I could 
 observe this, and gather, unless by my own
 
 V. DELORAINE. 91 
 
 faulty much instruction and excitement from 
 what I saw. 
 
 I remembered the last injunctions of the 
 adored partner of my life. She had adjured 
 me to watch anxiously for the welfare of our 
 only child. She had said to me, '^Now that 
 our Catherine is about to be deprived of her 
 mother, it is your office to take care that you 
 discharge to her the duties of both, and be to 
 her a father and a mother." Now that I could 
 no longer see my Emilia, no longer contribute 
 to her pleasure, and be rewarded by her smiles, 
 it was by so much the more incumbent upon 
 me to build up a monument to her memory, 
 and to regard her last suggestions as inviola- 
 ble. Starting from this thought, I gradually 
 came to regard her child as her living repre- 
 sentative. I desired to heap all sorts of benefits 
 on its head. I sought its society, not always, 
 but often, and at stated returns. I found a 
 thousand things in the child that reminded me
 
 92 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 of Emilia, certain tones of her voice, certain 
 movements of her limbs, now serious, and now 
 playful. When these things occurred, they 
 would sometimes shoot through me with the 
 force of electricity, and at others all at once 
 fill my eyes with an unexpected gush of tears. 
 By degrees they grew less agonising, and 
 changed into sources of melancholy pleasure. 
 
 Before I had been thus unhappily installed 
 the sole guardian of my child, she had already 
 attained in a certain measure the faculty of 
 articulate speech, and by the condescension 
 and judicious care of her mother had come to 
 exercise it in a sounder style and with more 
 reflection, than is usual in so early a period of 
 life. But the constancy with which the child 
 exercised the talent of reflection, and appear- 
 ed to unrol and consult the volume of her 
 thoughts, had by no means the effect to render 
 her phlegmatic and slow. The consultation 
 had the air of being instantaneous; the light
 
 V. DELORAINE. 93 
 
 from heaven, so to express myself, that attend- 
 ed her, seemed mechanically to fall on the 
 right passage, the very canon that was wanted. 
 It was like the difference I have seen in boys 
 at school : while one boy of duller intellect 
 pores down the page of his dictionary, and by 
 dint of mere industry comes at last to the word 
 and explanation required, another catches it in 
 a moment ; the rest of the page is as it were 
 annihilated, and the thing that was sought pre- 
 sents itself alone to him. This felicity in my 
 little Catherine converted what might have 
 been meditation into inspiration, and gave to 
 her otherwise original vein of thinking, the air 
 of a spontaneous production. — The description 
 I have here given may seem to be incompatible 
 with the fewness of her years. But let it be 
 considered that I studied her, made her a 
 theme for my reflections, and marked the pre- 
 sent state of her faculties with something of 
 the same diligence, that an anatomist takes up
 
 94 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 his dissecting knife, or a chemist resolves a 
 complex substance into its simple elements. I 
 frolicked with her ; I asked her questions, in a 
 manner the furthest in the world from suggest- 
 ing the gravity of my purpose. I appeared to 
 be playing the fool with her the most egregi- 
 ously, when I was most perseveringly engaged 
 in experiments of the highest philosophy. 
 
 When I concentred my attention the most 
 deeply in reading or writing, when I folded my 
 arms, and sought to develop in my own mind 
 the perplexed mazes of thinking, when I shut 
 my eyes, and conjured up the image of Emilia, 
 held conversations with the dear departed, and 
 lived over the scenes of our recent intercourse 
 as if they had been present, the little Catherine 
 would often be seated in one corner of the 
 apartment, and would sometimes race from 
 end to end with her lapdog, uttering shouts of 
 laughter, and making noises that might almost 
 have awaked the dead. I was not interrupted ;
 
 V. DELORAINE. 05 
 
 I did not hear it. My mind was abstracted ; 
 my attention held on its course : such is the 
 power of habit. 
 
 I would then suddenly thrust my table on 
 one side, and say. Come, Kate, now play with 
 me. Or she would occasionally insist on a 
 similar pliancy on my part. At one time and 
 another perhaps I did not attend to her infant 
 importunities. In that case she would pluck 
 my sleeve, or embrace my knee. This was 
 always effectual. I instantly descended from 
 my altitudes. Plato and Euclid were put to 
 rout in a moment. The only instances in which 
 she failed, were when I was engaged in devo- 
 tional intercourse with the fancied image or 
 the intellectual representation of her mother. 
 1 would sometimes in that case snatch up my 
 hat, and withdraw into the gloomiest recesses 
 of my garden, while the child, impressed with 
 awe, would follow me with its eye, and wonder 
 what could be the matter with papa.
 
 96 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 Mrs. Fanshaw would often desire that the 
 child might be left for a while under her care ; 
 and Catherine spent almost as much of her time 
 with this maternal friend, as at her own home. 
 Mrs. Fanshaw lived only twelve miles from my 
 residence, and had no child of her own. She 
 loved the little Catherine, I -had almost said 
 with more than a mother's affection. Between 
 mother and child there is often no third party; 
 and the elder of the two is, as we say, account- 
 able only to God and her conscience. But 
 Mrs. Fanshaw was but the deputy of the real 
 mother of my Catherine. She had a report to 
 give in, and no principal to receive it. When 
 an officer of state and his auditor pass their 
 accounts together, the auditor writes his name 
 at the bottom of the page, and this operates as 
 a quietus. The officer is encouraged ; the sanc- 
 tion of approbation is visible ; and the officer 
 proceeds with new courage to discharge the 
 duties of the following quarter. But Mrs. Fan-
 
 V. DELORAINE. 97 
 
 shaw could receive no such sanction : the 
 image of Emilia was for ever before the eyes 
 of her mind ; but the divinity to vrhose appro- 
 bation she aspired^ preserved for ever the same 
 passionless placidity of features, and did not so 
 much as once nod the head in token of honour- 
 able acquittal. This mute intercourse that sub- 
 sisted between the living and the dead, gave to 
 the former by so much the more tenderness 
 and delicacy of conscience. For want of the 
 final and solenm adjudication she would have 
 sought, the surviving friend was compelled to 
 be the auditor of her own accounts, and she 
 revised them with unceasing diligence, in the 
 fear that self-flattery might induce her to pro- 
 nounce the sentence of peace, when there was 
 no peace. 
 
 The time of the little Catherine was divided 
 between two places of abode. She would have 
 been puzzled to decide which she was to con^ 
 sider as her home 3 but that the servants of an 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 98 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 establishment always kindly exert themselves 
 to remove this perplexity. The child was early 
 instructed by her female attendant to consider 
 herself as an heiress^ and was assured that for- 
 tunate vrould be the youth, who should obtain 
 such a beauty, with the estates of Deloraine, 
 for his bride. Catherine loved me much ; but 
 she scarcely entertained less affection for the 
 matron to whom her visits abroad were longest 
 and most frequent, and who, to judge from her 
 vivacity, the facility with which she entered 
 into all her juvenile feelings and fancies, and 
 the undiminished lustre of her cheeks and her 
 eyes, might almost be taken for her sister. 
 Mrs. Fanshaw had infinitely the advantage of 
 me as an instructor in one respect, inasmuch 
 as she for ever stood before Catherine as a 
 model of female delicacy. This inestimable 
 friend was a glass in which the child might 
 look, and learn every quality, I might say 
 every motion, that would most become her;
 
 V. DELORAINE. 99 
 
 at the same time that the clearness of under- 
 standmg, and the faultless truth of feeling, 
 with which this lady explained every thing, 
 and inculcated whatever was most worthy to 
 be recollected in the progress through life, 
 were such as I was never tired of admiring, 
 but was never vain enough to imagine I could 
 rival. 
 
 Mrs. Fanshaw outlived the friend she so in- 
 expressibly valued ten years. Each time that 
 my daughter returned to me from the gracious 
 and soul-improving visits she paid to this her 
 second mother, I did not fail to remark her 
 added proficiency. Her absences on the score 
 of these visits gave me a fresh happiness in her 
 society. The frailty of our nature is such, that 
 that which presents itself to us each day as 
 surely as the rising of the sun, never fails to be 
 rated by us below its value, and to be regarded 
 with a degree of negligence and apathy. For 
 myself, I certainly cannot boast of a competi- 
 f2
 
 100 DELORAINE. 
 
 CH. 
 
 tion with the gifted female in the story-book, 
 who could hear the grass grow. If my child 
 had been with me uninterruptedly, I could not 
 so well have marked her advancement. I do 
 not doubt that with every day of her life she in 
 various ways improved ; but I should not have 
 seen it. But now, that she came home to me 
 it may be after five or six weeks' absence, I 
 immediately observed that she was another, 
 yet the same. There was more breadth in her 
 gestures, and new intelligence in her eye. 
 Each happy day, that I understood, as it ad- 
 vanced, would bless me with the return of my 
 Catherine, was a day of jubilee to me. When 
 the carriage rolled up the avenue, when I has- 
 tened over the broad staircase to receive her, 
 and she flew with light and elastic swiftness to 
 my embrace, this little scene, which words can 
 scarcely express, was like a new opening in the 
 clouds, a new light spread over the horizon. 
 Before the death of Mrs. Fanshaw, my child
 
 V. 
 
 DELORAINE. 101 
 
 had completed her thirteenth year. In females 
 an air of consciousness and maturity comes 
 earlier than in my own sex. With what new 
 wonder and exultation did I now regard my 
 daughter ! She had been my plaything ; she 
 was now my friend. I had been accustomed to 
 talk to her in a baby style, coming down from 
 the marvellous elevation of a masculine under- 
 standing to the level of the battledore and the 
 bilbo-catch. But now I could reason with her ; 
 and often and often I derived new lights from 
 her unassuming and random suggestions. Now 
 she could feel my feelings, sympathise with my 
 joys and my sorrows, and be in the noblest 
 sense my companion. 
 
 My life had not all been spent during this 
 period in the mansion of Deloraine. I had mi- 
 grated at something like the ordinary seasons 
 to the metropolis. I had mixed in the fashion- 
 able and the political world. In one instance 
 I had accepted a public mission to one of the
 
 102 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 courts in the North of Europe, and had dis- 
 charged the office intrusted to me to the satis- 
 faction of the government that employed me. 
 But my country-seat was the favourite place of 
 my residence. Each time I returned to it with 
 a new zest. My turn of mind led me to the 
 secluded and domestic scene ; and in this sense 
 I was "never less alone than when alone," I 
 loved my books ; I loved my pen ; I loved my 
 solitary rambles through the woods, and the 
 endless train of my visions and meditations.
 
 VI. DELORAINE. 103 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 When Mrs. Fanshaw died, she had a sister 
 who lived abroad with her husband and a 
 family of daughters, sometimes in the South of 
 France, and sometimes in different parts of 
 Italy. Believing that my daughter would be 
 in a somewhat forlorn situation upon the death 
 of her female protector, this lady invited the 
 young Catherine to come and spend a few 
 months with her young people. The first 
 emotion I felt on the receipt of this invitation 
 was chagrin. Catherine was more than ever 
 necessary to me ; and I had imagined that, 
 when Mrs. Fanshaw died, I should scarcely 
 have had cause to part with her again.
 
 104 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 But upon second thoughts I condemned the 
 selfishness of the hope and wish I had enter- 
 tained. My child must not be for ever shut 
 up with her father. I did not indeed live 
 entirely out of the world. But I was not the 
 most eligible protector of her growing years ; 
 and it is almost universally admitted, that a 
 residence in different cities on the continent, 
 an observation of the manners and national 
 characters of the kingdoms of the earth, and a 
 familiarity with their languages and modes of 
 thinking acquired on the spot, have the hap- 
 piest effect in finishing the education of youth 
 of either the male or female sex. It happened 
 that a family with which I had been on terms 
 of cordial acquaintance for years, was on the 
 point of setting out for the very city where 
 the sister of Mrs. Fanshaw resided; and I 
 gladly accepted the opportunity which their 
 overture presented, for transporting my fa- 
 vourite in safety, and under the most eli-
 
 VI. DELORAINE. 105 
 
 gible circumstances, to the place of her desti- 
 nation. 
 
 I received letters from my daughter from 
 Paris, from Lyons, from Turin, and the dif- 
 ferent cities she visited on her route. The 
 pleasure these letters conveyed to me was 
 more than can easily be conceived. I loved 
 her handwriting, which was regular and deli- 
 cate in an uncommon degree. I loved even 
 her way of folding a letter. I kissed the 
 impression of an allegorical seal, suspended to 
 a watch which had once been her mother's, 
 and was now hers. The tender recollection of 
 Emilia and her Catherine went to my heart as 
 I viewed it. I never beheld it, without feeling 
 my eyes suffused with a tear of affection. 
 
 It is surprising in how many and in what 
 unexpected ways the dear girl expressed her 
 regard for me as she wrote. But love was not 
 the only subject of her epistles. She set before 
 my eyes by a few picturesque touches the pro- 
 F 5
 
 106 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 vinces she passed through, the busy scenes of 
 Parisian life, the rich plains of Languedoc, and 
 the sublime and terrific precipices of the Alps. 
 She spoke of the societies into which she was 
 introduced. There was nothing, or there ap- 
 peared to me to be nothing, of empty and 
 common-place in her remarks. She saw every 
 thing with eyes of the truest taste and the 
 most impressive sensibility. Whoever was 
 allowed the perusal of her letters would im- 
 mediately observe in them, that she seized by 
 a sort of divine intuition the clue which gave 
 to every thing its just explanation and its 
 becoming arrangement. Whatever she spoke 
 of seemed under her observation to exhibit a 
 delicacy, a vividness, a sweetness, for which it 
 was indebted to the disposition of her that 
 wrote concerning it. When she breathed upon 
 roses, they assumed an added fragrancy. The 
 places she visited I had also seen ; I re- 
 collected the main outline ; but in her descrip-
 
 VI. DELORAINE. 107 
 
 tion it was as if the pencil of Claude or of 
 Gaspar Poussin had passed over the landscape, 
 and brought forth at one point and another 
 hidden beauties, which but for their inspiration 
 would never have been revealed. As I read 
 her communications, I became reconciled to 
 the temporary loss of her society. I saw what 
 infinite advantage she was gaining from this 
 admirable unfolding of her faculties. I felt 
 that it would have been foul sacrilege to have 
 deprived her of opportunities which afforded 
 her so rich and golden a harvest. She remain- 
 ed abroad with this family nearly six years. 
 
 It was during the absence of my daughter 
 on the continent, that I was attacked with a 
 fever of the most dangerous nature. It was a 
 species of typhus. It was accompanied with 
 great depression of spirits, a want of power to 
 interest myself in any object of pursuit, a dis- 
 inclination to engage in amusement and to all 
 kinds of exertion, and a total want of appetite.
 
 108 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 Life seemed incapable of yielding excitement, 
 and existence was a burthen to me. My 
 nights were without sleep and restless ; a low 
 fever appeared to be imdermining my vital 
 functions. My flesh gradually wasted away ; 
 the colour of my skin became dark and inky ; 
 death seemed advancing upon me by sure and 
 unremitting strides; and, though conscious- 
 ness, or more properly the power of receiving 
 impressions, remained, my outward appear- 
 ance in many respects scarcely differed from 
 that of a corpse. 
 
 After a course of several weeks the fever 
 subsided; but it left me in a state of such 
 extreme debility, that it was judged more than 
 probable that death would be the result. I 
 did not however die. But it was long, very 
 long, before I recovered any degree of strength, 
 or was strictly speaking out of danger. My 
 appearance was that of a walking ghost : and 
 all who shrunk from the alarm of a memento
 
 VI. DELORAINE. 109 
 
 mori, shunned to encounter me. I seemed 
 like a person dug up from a grave j and it was 
 a long time before I could walk across my 
 room without help. By degrees I was got 
 down stairs, and into my garden, where it was 
 a great refreshment to sit on the benches, to 
 inhale the balmy air, and to enjoy the pleasing 
 warmth of the sun. An easy chair proceeding 
 gently upon the lawns of my garden, or the 
 slopes of the park, was the next step in my 
 recovery. 
 
 I was anxious that my daughter should not 
 be made acquainted with the danger of my 
 condition. She was eligibly situated with 
 young ladies of her own age. Her mind was 
 opening and expanding among the new coun- 
 tries and scenery that she visited. Of what 
 use could she be to me, if she were at home ? 
 She was too young for a nurse; and I felt 
 happy that she was spared the gloomy and 
 depressing scene of a sick chamber, and, as it
 
 no DELORAINE. CMd 
 
 might be, of a death-bed. Near as I had been 
 to the gates of the grave, I was led to reflect 
 on the situation in which she would be left, if 
 deprived of her sole surviving parent, and to 
 revise the provisions I had already made for 
 the years of her minority, in case that event 
 should occur. 
 
 My recovery once ascertained, I proceeded 
 with sure, but lingering steps in the reesta- 
 blishment of my health. I travelled by very 
 short stages from one place to another, thus 
 procuring to myself moderate excitement with- 
 out fatigue. I staid sometimes two or three 
 days in a place, or went forward without 
 interval, as fancy or convenience suggested. 
 During my route I passed the country-seats of 
 several persons with whom I was more or less 
 upon familiar terms, but I visited none. I 
 could not have borne the disquiet which such 
 scenes would have produced, or submitted to 
 the observance and attention to others which
 
 VI. DELGRAINE. Ill 
 
 they would have imposed upon me. I was 
 accompanied by a young person, the son of an 
 early friend, who was the most accommodating 
 companion in the world. He was all gentle- 
 ness, all vigilance, of the sweetest temper 
 imaginable. When I was disposed to retire 
 into myself, he took care not to disturb me. 
 When T shewed indications of a frame inclined 
 to communication and amusement, he had a 
 particular adroitness in adapting himself to 
 my humour. He could talk of poetry, of 
 history, of scenery, of arts, and the world. 
 His remarks were not deep, but sensible, 
 utterly free from pretence and affectation, un- 
 intrusive, and with that sort of agreeable ani- 
 mation, which frequently attends the morning 
 of life. His society did me a world of good, 
 and I never tired of it. — ^This person will 
 Gome again on the stage at a later period of 
 my story.
 
 112 DELORAINE. 
 
 CH, 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Mv journey was brought to a close for the 
 present at the village of Harrowgate in York- 
 shire^ a spot frequented in certain seasons of 
 the year for the imputed virtues of its spa, and 
 of which the air is incontestibly salubrious and 
 invigorating. A residence in this place I was 
 assured would be considerably beneficial to me 3 
 and the society was easy; every one without 
 remark mixing in it as much or as little as 
 he pleased. 
 
 The scene on the whole was highly agree- 
 able to me. The health of the human frame 
 may be considered as a negative attribute, of 
 which we have in a manner no feeling at those
 
 VII. DELORAINE. 113 
 
 times when we most unequivocally possess it. 
 It is only by comparison that we are enabled 
 to apprehend its value. For myself, I had been 
 so long in a state of deadness and languor, that 
 the simplest enjoyments came to me like the 
 dawn of a new life. The flowers never smelled 
 so sweet, the skies never looked with so celes- 
 tial a blue; the song of the birds, and the 
 murmur of the waters supplied to me a ravish- 
 ing gratification. The joy was however short; 
 I soon became exhausted ; and then sunk into 
 no unpleasing listlessness. I often fell asleep 
 in the shade, the breezes of heaven playing on 
 my cheek; and my dreams were then all of 
 soft and imexhausted pleasure; the cup no 
 longer overflowing, but the savour and the 
 sense remaining. The very frame and arti- 
 culations of my body were like a new pos- 
 session to me; I was agreeably surprised to 
 find my limbs move easily and without pain, 
 and that I once more engrossed in no con-
 
 114 DELORAINE, 
 
 CH. 
 
 temptible proportion the attributes of a human 
 being. 
 
 Among the persons I encountered at Har- 
 rowgate there was one that particularly en- 
 gaged my attention. This was a young lady 
 of the name of Margaret Borradale. She was 
 of a slight figure, but exquisitely delicate and 
 beautiful. When I met her, she was about 
 three-and-twenty years of age. I was already 
 forty-two. I was told that she had been of a 
 fine complexion, in which the roses and the 
 lilies vied with each other. But the roses were 
 now all faded. Her skin was as fair and as 
 smooth as marble. There was a melancholy in 
 her countenance, the most interesting that can 
 be imagined. Her eyes had entirely lost the 
 light of youth; and she seemed scarcely to 
 notice the things around her. 
 
 She «was at Harrowgate accompanied by her 
 parents. She went into society, because they 
 desired it; but her thoughts were not in the
 
 VII. DELORAINE. 115 
 
 places where she was corporeally present. Her 
 air was disconsolate and neglected. She spoke 
 occasionally ; she sung ; she danced. The me- 
 lody of her tones was inconceivably touching ; 
 her dancing was characterised with a pathetic 
 languor. Those who had been acquainted with 
 her before, described her as the ghost only 
 of the resplendent being they had formerly 
 known ; but the ghost presented to you, though 
 in a faint and half- obliterated outline, the 
 image of something inexpressibly engaging. 
 Fancy unavoidably went on to fill out the pic- 
 ture ; and the spectator perhaps admired it the 
 more, because it was in some measure his own 
 creation, melting into thin air when the en- 
 thusiasm with which you contemplated it was 
 turned away and gone. She was a being not of 
 this world ; she was a monumental statue per- 
 sonating the thing that had been ; she was like 
 those creatures we read of in the fairy tales, 
 touched by the wand of a malignant enchanter.
 
 116 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 condemned never again to mix in the realities 
 of life, but still retaining a portion, however 
 incomplete, of vitality and sense, still mourn- 
 ful and sad, and destined never to rise again 
 into interest and energy and hope. 
 
 Her story was a sad one. She had been 
 crossed in love. Her father had been a younger 
 brother. He had married imprudently; and 
 he had brought up his daughter in great re- 
 tirement, and in a way little calculated to stir 
 up in her ambitious thoughts. They lived on 
 an income of a few hundreds a year. Their 
 residence was among villagers ; and the first 
 hints of youthful affection were awakened in 
 her bosom towards a stripling of her own age, 
 who resided at a short distance from her fa- 
 ther's dwelling, named William. He was the 
 only son of his mother. He had been some 
 years absent under the care of an uncle ; but, 
 upon the death of his father, a simple farmer, 
 in the occupation of two hundred acres of land.
 
 VII. DELORAINE. 117 
 
 he was recalled to the parental roof, that he 
 might be the stay, the comforter and assistant 
 of her who bore him. He was eighteen, a 
 blooming youth, with active limbs, dark-brown, 
 curling hair, and a heart, the softest and gen- 
 tlest that ever dwelt in a human bosom. His 
 uncle had been the member of a college, and 
 William had gained a larger range of ideas, 
 and much intellectual improvement, while he 
 lived under the guidance of this relative. 
 
 Had he been uninterruptedly the neighbour 
 of Margaret, they would neither of them per- 
 haps have been so much struck with the other. 
 But, as it was, their feelings were those of 
 ancient neighbourhood, combined with the no- 
 velty that is peculiar to love at first sight. 
 They had been playfellows ; and they felt the 
 confidence and familiarity which that relation, 
 when connected with agreeable qualities and 
 accordant dispositions, seldom fails to pro- 
 duce. And yet, meeting, as they now did, after
 
 118 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 years of separation, neither of them could think 
 the other the same being as at the period at 
 which they parted. Their former familiarity 
 had been that of children, without apprehen- 
 sion, without consciousness, the mere exube- 
 rance of youthful spirits, void of all feeling of 
 sex, except as the party more robust of muscle 
 and limb is instinctively delicate in his treat- 
 ment of the frailer flower, and as the female, 
 with an obscure and undefined anticipation of 
 the scenes of after-life, occasionally practises a 
 few coquettries, or imposes a task on her more 
 athletic associate, or ridicules his awkward- 
 nesses, or laughs him out of some fit of unsea- 
 sonable gravity. 
 
 But now, in the renewed acquaintance of 
 the two, they each felt that they were entering 
 upon a more important scene of existence. 
 They did not suppose, as is frequently the case 
 in the buoyant and idler hours of youth, that 
 each day was a duration by itself, cut off from
 
 Vll. DELORAINE. 119 
 
 all that had preceded or might follow, and that 
 what was done in each successive period in- 
 volved no consequences, and imparted no colour 
 of its own to what was to come. They felt 
 that life was a serious affair, that whatever 
 they did had a responsibility attached to it, 
 and might mark for good or for evil the cha- 
 racter or fortune of the party that acted, or 
 the party that was the object of what was done. 
 They looked into it therefore with a keener 
 eye and a more awakened mind. Their appre- 
 hension was alive. Sometimes they blushed ; 
 sometimes their speech faltered and was broken; 
 and sometimes, even when they smiled, or 
 laughed outright with unrestrained gaiety, 
 there was more passed on one side or the 
 other, than any external indications gave ex- 
 pression to. 
 
 William and Margaret were the same as 
 they had been in the early years of their ac- 
 quaintance. They were the same; and yet
 
 120 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 how different ! The comparison was as be- 
 tween the rosebud, and the flower still young, 
 fresh and untarnished, but arrayed with all the 
 glory that nature out of her inexhausted store- 
 house is accustomed to bestow. It was in the 
 manner of the metamorphoses of the ancient 
 mythology. If narrowly examined, you de- 
 tected the identity; the elements were what 
 they had previously been. But, oh, how re- 
 splendent was the form which now presented 
 itself! There was the same sweetness of dis- 
 position, ever accommodating, officious and 
 complying, the same frankness, the same 
 generosity, the same warmth of spirit and 
 congeniality of soul ; but how expanded, how 
 assured, how full of tender heart and pregnant 
 meaning ! 
 
 As they dwelt near each other, they en- 
 countered every day, perhaps several times in 
 a day. The unrestrained intercourse in which 
 they lived, had however one singular effect. 
 
 I
 
 VII. DELORAINE. 121 
 
 That which might be done at any time, still 
 remained undone. They in fact scarcely ad- 
 verted to the situation in which they were 
 mutually placed. They were lost a thousand 
 fathoms deep in love, before they knew that 
 they loved. They were happy in each other's 
 presence; they were uneasy and restless in 
 absence. They dwelt on each other's voice; 
 they repeated each other's words ; their dreams 
 had but one subject; the principal person in 
 those wild plots which make the story of our 
 sleeping hours, was still the same. If they 
 read, they each imagined the other to be at 
 hand, and did not so much consider how the 
 reflections and paintings of the author affected 
 themselves, as how they would be received by 
 the other. Their union of hearts was like a 
 deep, pellucid stream, which, flowing over an 
 even bed, and meeting with no interruption, 
 passed on unnoticed; while the same stream, if 
 opposed, or on uneven ground, leaping from 
 
 VOL. I.. G
 
 122 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 rock to rock, would shew that it was omni- 
 potent, and that no power on earth had strength 
 to arrest its progress. They talked of every 
 thing out of themselves ; the beauties of nature, 
 the beauties of literature, the irregularities of 
 climate, the change of the seasons, the flowers, 
 the crops, the animals. They were both bota- 
 nists ; both delighted to observe the various 
 habits and instincts of the animal creation. 
 They were both fond of music. They some- 
 times sang in concert, and at other times called 
 in the aid of the instrumental to give variety 
 and copiousness to the natural music of the 
 voice. William became the instructor of Mar- 
 garet, a little in language, more in science and 
 matters of literary taste; and it is well known 
 how critical the relation of tutor and pupil 
 often becomes between persons of opposite 
 sexes, when both are just advanced on the 
 threshold of life. 
 
 It is indeed specially characteristic of the 
 
 i
 
 VU. DELORAINE. 123 
 
 passion of love, that it has the faculty of giving 
 a perpetual flow to the interchange of senti- 
 ments and reflections in conversation. The 
 parties feel no reserve with each other; they 
 are eager to communicate every thing that is 
 new; no remark seems insignificant; and every 
 thing that is said is sure to experience a favour- 
 able reception. They learn more and more to 
 think alike ; and it is scarcely in human nature 
 that we should feel weariness or disgust in 
 hearing our own sentiments articulated by the 
 lips of our companion. This is a genuine and 
 natural echo, that will be listened to for ever. 
 Between lovers the modulations of the voice 
 are always delightful in the one who speaks to 
 the one who hears ; and the expressive varie- 
 ties of the countenance, the gesticulations of 
 sentiment, of gaiety, of tenderness, of dis- 
 approbation, of light-heartedness and frolic 
 mirth, afford endless occasions of observation 
 and interest, 
 
 g2
 
 124 DELORAINE. CH- 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 In this manner the days of these lovers, for 
 such they were, glided on in an Elysian tran- 
 quillity, till a mere accident had the effect of 
 producing a striking change in their situation. 
 The mother of William had been absent for 
 several weeks, on a visit to a friend who dwelt 
 at a distance of one hundred and fifty miles. 
 William, as I have already said, was the stay, 
 the comforter and assistant of her who bore 
 him, and had been recalled to her side by the 
 decease of his father. He amply supplied to 
 her the place of the protector she had lost. He 
 had always been remarked for his duty as a 
 child 'j and now, that his mother had no other
 
 VIH. DELORAINE. 125 
 
 domestic friend, he had greatly increased in his 
 assiduity and affection towards her. They were 
 all the world to each other, with no consider 
 able exception, unless the embryo and unex- 
 plained passion he entertained for Margaret. 
 The time was come when he expected his mo- 
 ther to return ; the day of her arrival was 
 fixed ; and William was to proceed some miles 
 upon the road, to meet her and escort her 
 home. The hour of meeting drew nigh ; and 
 the youth had already gone to the stable, and 
 was about to harness his horse to the simple 
 vehicle, in which he was accustomed to accom- 
 pany his mother in her little recreations, when 
 a messenger arrived with a letter, informing 
 him that an unexpected circumstance had oc- 
 curred, which would oblige her to defer her 
 return from the Wednesday to the Saturday 
 following. 
 
 In the little manage of the widow's house, 
 the absence of the mistress was of course
 
 12^ DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 Strongly felt : she and her son had been accus- 
 tomed to sit down with no other companion 
 to their simple board. He had felt his late 
 solitary state as a privation; he had counted 
 upon the return of his mother as upon one of 
 the bright days in his calendar. He had taken 
 care to have the house " swept and garnished" 
 in the way that he knew would please her best. 
 He had the garden put in the exactest order, 
 and a few vases containing those productions 
 of Flora which were her special favourites, 
 ranged in the window. He had begun to watch 
 the weather, and to count the hours. He call^ 
 ed over the little events of the house and the 
 homestead, which he was sure it would gratify 
 her to hear, and eagerly anticipated the plea- 
 sure it would give him to encounter her well- 
 known and much-loved features, and to light 
 up the smile of maternal approbation in her 
 venerated countenance. It therefore struck a 
 damp upon him, to have this near approaching
 
 VIII. DELORATNE. 127 
 
 delight deferred even for three days. He mur- 
 mured. He felt that all the mighty store of his 
 affection and attachment had been waked up, 
 and brought into unusual activity, to be now 
 repressed with blank disappointment. 
 
 He had no sooner perused the billet of his 
 mother, than he shut the stable-door, went 
 to the house to announce the altered arrange- 
 ment to their female domestic, and sauntered 
 into the fields. Mechanically he turned his 
 steps to a knoll, which had been a favourite 
 haunt of himself and Margaret. The young 
 person who was the object of his secret par- 
 tiality, knew the way in which his morning 
 was destined to be employed, and proposed to 
 herself the pleasure, unseen and alone, of re- 
 marking the little features of the scene, all of 
 which were in so many ways associated with 
 her William, She expected no interruption, 
 and was fully disposed to give way to her feel- 
 ings after that mode, which we only employ
 
 128 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 when we imagine ourselves secure against the 
 being witnessed by human eye or ear. Solitude 
 has its special prerogatives; and we talk to 
 ourselves, where solitude reigns, in a franker, 
 I had almost said a tenderer style, than we in- 
 dulge in to the brother of our soul, or to the 
 mistress of our most secret affections. 
 
 As Margaret felt certain that William was 
 at a distance, so William, persuaded that at 
 this time he co\ild not be expected near the ac- 
 customed brow, had not the slightest anticipa- 
 tion of meeting her. He had been pondering 
 upon his mother. He had been calling up all 
 the little circumstances and thoughts with 
 which he had purposed to gratify her at meet- 
 ing. From thence his mind had wandered to 
 the recollection of his infant days, and so for- 
 ward even to the hour of his present review. 
 So far as his mother was concerned, it was all 
 delightful. He remembered her anxieties, the 
 vigilance with which she had ever provided for 
 
 I
 
 VIII. DELORAINE. 129 
 
 his welfare and comfort, how she had smoothed 
 for him the pillow of sickness, the tears she 
 had shed over his disappointments, the sweet 
 smiles which had illumined her countenance 
 when she saw him entering with full relish into 
 such pleasures as she provided, or as occurred 
 in the simple scheme of their life. His heart 
 was entirely open. His thoughts were unclad 
 even with that simple armour of which we are 
 almost never divested in any of the intercourses 
 of society. His bosom was laid bare, and 
 seemed to court the gentle, yet enlivening and 
 health-giving breeze, with which the year in 
 its most genial moments visits the breast of 
 mortals. 
 
 He had proceeded for some time with his 
 arms folded, or with his left hand on his chin, 
 in that attitude into which we inadvertently 
 faU, when we are in the act of recollecting 
 something which had almost escaped us. Anon 
 he spread his hands abroad in the fulness of his 
 g5
 
 J 30 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 emotion. His step was irregular, and would 
 occasionally grow rapid as if he trod on air. 
 He stopped again. His eyes would then be 
 cast upwards, with the kind of devotion we 
 feel, without being aware of it, in the remem- 
 brance of that for which we might well be 
 thankful to the mysterious power, which 
 "careth for us'* in things in which we are 
 least able to care for ourselves. His cheeks 
 glowed with pleasure. His eyes were moist 
 with that soft suffusion which comes over 
 mortals, when most impressed with the joys 
 of affectionate sentiment. Margaret perceived 
 him ; her first emotion was that of surprise at 
 seeing him there, which was succeeded by an 
 impulse to observe him, that made her for 
 some time careful neither by sound nor ges- 
 ture to break in upon the current of his 
 thoughts. She was very near him, still with- 
 out being remarked. 
 
 Suddenly, by the mere effect of accident, he
 
 IX. DELORAINE. 135 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 It was not long after this that a circumstance 
 occurred, hi which William had the good for- 
 tune of apparently saving the life of Margaret. 
 She had been engaged in a casual visit to a 
 young female of her own age, who lived little 
 more than a mile from the abode of her pa- 
 rents. On her return the girl had accompanied 
 her part of the way home. Soon after they 
 separated, Margaret had occasion to enter and 
 pass through a field into which thirty or forty 
 oxen had been turned to graze. Unfortunately 
 she had a little dog with her, that was the or- 
 dinary companion of her perambulations. The 
 animals that fed in the field are not indeed so
 
 136 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 formidable and ferocious as bulls; but, like 
 bulls, they feel the effect of the season of the 
 year, and at certain periods are more game- 
 some and ungovernable than is their ordinary 
 wont. Margaret had not been without advert- 
 ing to the hazard which might attend her pass- 
 ing through this field. She caught up the dog 
 in her arms, which was indeed no other than a 
 lap-dog, and with this precaution concluded 
 that she should proceed without accident. But 
 the dog felt something of the same sort of sti- 
 mulus to which the cattle were subject. There 
 is a sympathy in these creatures, by which 
 they understand each other's minds in a way 
 that we cannot explain. The dog became rest- 
 less, and with a sudden spring escaped from 
 his mistress's arms, and was in the midst of 
 his enemies in a moment. With his yelping 
 and barking, and flying in this direction and 
 that, he compelled their attention and annoyed 
 them. The tables then speedily became turned.
 
 IX. DELORAINE. 137 
 
 The aggressor was filled with terror ; and the 
 pursued were now the pursuers. The cattle, 
 excited first by the irritation and impertinence 
 of their assailant, and next stimulated by so- 
 ciety and imitation and the common impulse 
 which pervaded the whole herd, entered into a 
 confederate rally against the foe. As the cause 
 that moved them had more in it of disturbance 
 than terror, they played a thousand antics, and 
 ramped about the field, still however from mo- 
 ment to moment forming a closer line of ad- 
 vance. 
 
 It happened that the field was circumscribed 
 on one side by the course of the river Severn, 
 and that its verge in that quarter was a cliff 
 descending towards the water, and of surface 
 almost perpendicular. The cattle were on the 
 other side of the field. The dog, when he found 
 that he had roused a whole host of enemies, ran 
 to his mistress for protection. The animals 
 pursued. Margaret immediately became aware
 
 138 DELORAINE. CHi 
 
 of her danger. What would be the issue she 
 knew not. The oxen continued to direct their 
 attention and vengeance against the dog. Whe- 
 ther they would ultimately come to regard her 
 and the dog as leagued in a common cause, and 
 alike meriting their hostility, was uncertain. 
 Their horns, if they sought to wreak their in- 
 jury on her, were weapons not to be set light 
 by. The least evil that could happen was that 
 she would be thrown down, and trampled on 
 successively by the feet of the whole herd. 
 But she had no time for reflection; she re- 
 treated as they advanced; they pressed upon 
 her closer and closer; they drove her to the 
 edge of the precipice; the ground gave way 
 under her feet; and she fell from a height of 
 sixty or seventy feet. 
 
 William was in a boat on the river, at no 
 great distance from the shore, for the purpose 
 of fishing. He saw the scene that was going 
 on, though very imperfectly. He saw the 
 
 J
 
 IX. DELORAINE. 139 
 
 cattle in the field in an extraordinary state of 
 commotion and violence. He saw the figure of 
 a female who seemed as it were in the midst of 
 the herd ; there was an indefinable something 
 in her appearance, which suggested to him the 
 idea of his Margaret. What it could be that 
 introduced such a thought into his mind, it is 
 difficult to conceive. The whole was so fore- 
 shortened and contracted by distance, that the 
 cattle were scarcely bigger than kittens new 
 yeaned, and the rooks and crows, that seemed 
 to be disturbed by the scene, and were taking 
 their flight over the river, shewed like so many 
 insects. But the truth of the suggestion that 
 thus arose in his mind, was not required to 
 rouse him to exertion, and to advance towards 
 the spot. He could scarcely doubt that what 
 he saw was a young female in imminent distress 
 and peril. 
 
 In a moment he forced his boat on the beach, 
 and leaped ashore. Swifter than thought he
 
 140 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 began to climb the opposed ascent. Accus- 
 tomed to scenes of rural exertion, his limbs 
 had an almost unparalleled nimbleness and agi- 
 lity. He was ready to accomplish what the poet 
 speaks of, and ^^ run up a hill perpendicular.'' 
 He had climbed but a small part of the ascent, 
 and was endeavouring, by means of catching at 
 a stunted and gnarled shrub that had struck its 
 roots into a fissure of the rock, to give himself 
 breath and strength for a further start, when 
 he saw the unhappy girl tumbling with fright- 
 ful velocitj^ over the precipice, and threatening 
 to fall almost upon his head. 
 
 It is one of the marvellous properties of the 
 human mind, that, while on ordinary occa- 
 sions the march of our ideas seems to go on 
 at a certain steady and prescribed pace, we are 
 no sooner placed in a situation of peculiar and 
 unprecedented excitement, than our souls, so 
 to speak, break away at once from the routine 
 to which they are accustomed, and think a mil-
 
 IX. DELORAINE. 141 
 
 lion of thoughts in a moment, not in a wild, 
 incoherent and hurried train, but with all their 
 incidents and reasonings. The very inebriation, 
 as it were, of our spirits, steadies and sobers 
 us. The man who would escape from a house 
 on fire, bursts through bars and bolts which on 
 any other occasion he would have judged proof 
 against ten times his power, and, like Samson 
 in the Bible, ropes twisted a hundred fold, are 
 in his hands '^as flax that had been burned.*' 
 His whole energy and resolve becomes as one 
 concentrated effort; and he possesses at once 
 the penetration of a sage, and the strength of a 
 giant. 
 
 The female, as she fell from the summit of 
 the rock, would have descended directly on the 
 head of William ; but he steadied his body, by 
 the hold, as was already said, of the shrub 
 which was rooted on its surface, and fixed his 
 eye with intent gaze on the falling figure. As 
 it approached, he swayed himself head and
 
 142 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 shoulders to one side, and then, stretching out 
 the hand that was free on the other, succeeded 
 in catching hold of some of the girl's garments. 
 This action arrested the progress of her fall 
 for an instant ; but in the next the momentum 
 and impulse which was thus given to the young 
 man, proved too strong for the slender support 
 the shrub afforded, and William and Margaret 
 were hurried together down to the path below. 
 What remained however of the descent was 
 comparatively small; the frightful velocity with 
 which Margaret had been falling was effectu- 
 ally checked, and the force with which she 
 would otherwise have reached the plain, was no 
 longer fatal. She received some bruises in the 
 fall, but they were inconsiderable. By some 
 mischance which it is impossible accurately to 
 explain, William was found to have dislocated 
 his shoulder. Several workmen were near the 
 spot below, where the accident terminated; and 
 the female and her deliverer were speedily con-
 
 IX. DELORAINE. 143 
 
 veyed to a place of safety. After the reduc- 
 tion of the dislocated limb, William wore his 
 arm for some time in a sling ; and the sensibi- 
 lities of both parties towards each other expe- 
 rienced a considerable addition from the adven- 
 ture of that day. Margaret felt that she was 
 indebted for her life to the gallantry, the dis- 
 cretion and firmness which William had put 
 forth at the moment : the scarf that he wore 
 was to her a permanent memorial and an af- 
 fecting trophy of his exploit. That they had 
 thus been united on an occasion of so extra- 
 ordinary peril, mutually endeared them to each 
 other. The scene occurred to them again and 
 again on both sides in their dreams. The de- 
 liverer and the delivered fondly dwelt on each 
 other's excellencies and virtues in their waking 
 contemplations : they were all the world to each 
 other. To two persons who had passed through 
 so terrible a trial together, the idea of their ever 
 hereafter being separated and becoming indiffe-
 
 144 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 rent to each other^ was little less than blas- 
 phemy. The pulses of their hearts beat in 
 entire harmony; they were like the twins I 
 have somewhere read of, who on whatever 
 kingdom or shore of the earth they were cast, 
 however separated by mountains, deserts, and 
 tracts of the unbounded sea, felt each other's 
 sensations, were subjected to the same infirmi- 
 ties, sickened with the same disease, and at one 
 indivisible instant expired, the spirit which ani- 
 mated them returning at once to its place.
 
 DELORAINE. 145 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 I HAVE already mentioned that the father of 
 Margaret, though living at present in the most 
 unaffected rural simplicity, still retained the 
 notion that he belonged to another class, and 
 was of a higher order of beings, than the in- 
 glorious neighbourhood by which he was sur- 
 rounded. Since he had been discarded by his 
 more opulent relatives, he had indeed sought 
 to make a virtue of necessity, and had pretend- 
 ed, even perhaps to his own heart, to " scorn 
 delights, and live laborious days," to be fully 
 reconciled to his lot, and to think of himself 
 no better than the village hinds in the midst 
 of whom he dwelt. But the spark of ambi- 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 146 DELORAINE. cil. 
 
 tion, though smothered in him, was not ex- 
 tinct 5 favourable circumstances might yet fan 
 it into a flame. 
 
 Such circumstances occurred. Lord Borra- 
 dale, the head of his house, had heard of the 
 beauty of Margaret. He resided at a distance 
 in the North of England ; and, when his kins- 
 man, the father of Margaret, had been dis- 
 carded by his family, pride, or shame, or some 
 similar feeling, had impelled him to retire into 
 the West. Lord Borradale was a man of the 
 most cultivated taste ; but of a singularly cold 
 and unimpassioned heart. In early life he had 
 been a great traveller; he had visited France 
 and Italy, and had even passed into Greece and 
 the East in search of the remains of ancient 
 architecture and art. He had been careful to 
 take with him draughtsmen and designers, 
 who should enable him to bring away an exact 
 representation of the most approved models. 
 He shipped off for his native seat a large col-
 
 X. DELORAINE. 147 
 
 lection of fragments, however imperfect, of 
 statues, that were supposed to be the works of 
 Phidias and Praxiteles. 
 
 When at length he ceased from his wander- 
 ings, and resolved henceforth to take up his 
 principal residence on the lands of his ances- 
 tors, the first thing upon which he resolved 
 was to rase to the ground the mansion which 
 had been built by them in the reign of Henry 
 the Third, and which from age to age they had 
 piously preserved and beautified. He then set 
 himself to fix on a spot about half a mile re- 
 moved from the site of the old house, that 
 appeared to him better to correspond with the 
 suggestions of Italian taste. He studied inde- 
 fatigably the delineations and rules of Vitruvius 
 and Palladio. And, when at length he had 
 built himself a house to his mind, he began to 
 adorn it with such furniture, statues and pic- 
 tures, as he thought would redound most to 
 the credit of his taste. In particular he had 
 h2
 
 148 DELORAINE, 
 
 CH. 
 
 constructed a spacious gallery, which by its 
 sinuosities might conduct the wandering spec- 
 tator to the inspection of still new and inex- 
 haustible beauties. 
 
 Lord Borradale had one son, an only child. 
 His lordship knew that he should not himself 
 live for ever; and therefore he directed some 
 of his principal anxieties to this son. If he 
 died without issue, the estate would fall into 
 the hands of a distant branch ; and they might 
 pay no respect to the improvements he had 
 achieved, and the wonders he had collected. 
 From his son, bred under his eye, he expected 
 a better taste, and hoped for a more filial 
 regard. And he was anxious in future genera- 
 tions still to hand down the monuments, which 
 owed their existence or their locality to his 
 exertions. 
 
 While he was thus employed, and such were 
 the subjects of his contemplations, it happened 
 by some accident that a miniature of Margaret
 
 X. DELORAINE. 149 
 
 fell into his hands. He regarded it as of 
 exquisite beauty ; the features appeared to him 
 to be moulded upon the purest Grecian exam- 
 ples. The thought struck him that nothing 
 was wanting to complete his columns and por- 
 ticoes, and the succession and variety of his 
 statues, but the placing the person from whom 
 this miniature was drawn at the head of his 
 circle. He therefore delayed not a moment to 
 open a negotiation with her father. He com- 
 missioned an artist of high character to pro- 
 ceed to the neighbourhood of her residence, 
 to furnish him with a whole-length portrait of 
 the maiden with whose features he had been so 
 powerfully struck. And, presently following 
 in person, he brought about an interview with 
 her father, to whom he communicated the 
 project he had conceived. This poor, but 
 rootedly ambitious man, was but too easily 
 seduced to listen to the proposition. The idea 
 of being placed at his ease in point of ex-
 
 150 ^; ,^ DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 penditure, of being associated with persons of, 
 rank, and seeing his daughter united to the 
 heir of the elder branch of his house, had 
 charms in his eyes which he felt himself 
 unable to resist. His wife, a woman of good 
 dispositions, but who had never been accus- 
 tomed to contradict the will of her husband, 
 was with little difficulty prevailed upon to 
 enter into his views : and a consultation was 
 speedily held, how most eifectually to put an 
 end to what they were now willing to call the 
 unworthy amour in which their daughter had 
 been engaged. 
 
 The plan fixed on for this purpose was to 
 lose no time to accomplish the removal of 
 Margaret and her family from the western 
 province, where she had been born, and had 
 spent her earlier years to the present moment, 
 to a cottage which was tendered to their ac- 
 ceptance upon the estate of lord Borradale. 
 The motive for this removal was fof some time
 
 X. DELORAINE. 151 
 
 kept a secret. Margaret regretted the distance 
 which would thus be interposed between her 
 and the polestar of her affections ; but she 
 was totally unsuspicious of the design which 
 prompted this revolution. The lovers bade 
 each other adieu with a mournful feeling ; a 
 sad anticipation beset them, as the carriage 
 approached which was to convey Margaret to 
 a distant home. Scarcely a day had passed for 
 the preceding twelve months without some 
 personal communication ; now it was uncertain 
 when they should meet again. They promised 
 each other however a perpetual commerce of 
 letters ; they promised that at a certain hour 
 of every day they would not fail, however 
 circumstanced, to retire that they might think 
 of each other. The consolation on both sides 
 would be inexpressibly great, that was afforded 
 by the consciousness, ^^ Now my William — 
 now my Margaret is employed in the contem- 
 plation of our mutual loves : we cannot see
 
 152 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 each other's features, we cannot hear each 
 other's voice with the gross organs of sense ; 
 but we can with the organs of the mind. He 
 speaks, I answer 3 he replies, I rejoin : shall 
 not this mitigate to us the sorrows of ab- 
 sence ? '' 
 
 They mutually vowed to each other, that 
 their separation should not endure : the fol- 
 lowing spring should put an end to it, and 
 unite them for ever. The father saw with 
 astonishment and alarm the strength of their 
 attachment. He had not the courage, he did 
 not think it the wisest way, to oppose the tide 
 of affection in its full career. He judged that 
 new scenes and new connections would do the 
 business more effectually. Amidst the splen- 
 dours of Borradale- Castle Margaret would 
 speedily forget the low and inglorious plea- 
 sures she had once prized on the banks of the 
 Severn. It could not be, that the noble blood 
 that flowed in her veins should not, in the
 
 X, DELORAINE, 153 
 
 favourable position in which she was about to 
 be placed, assert its origin. All, the old man 
 assured himself, would go well ; and the 
 triumph he aspired to would only be the better 
 secured, by his pursuing it in caution and 
 silence. His praise would be like that of 
 Fabius in the Roman story, who by deferring 
 the contest and avoiding a battle, accomplished 
 the overthrow of Hannibal. 
 
 They accordingly proceeded on their jour- 
 ney, and finally reached in safety the cottage 
 orn4e that was provided for them. They had 
 scarcely unpacked their moveables, and ad- 
 mired the elegant accommodations of the re- 
 sidence which had been prepared for them, 
 when lord Borradale and his son appeared, to 
 welcome their arrival, and to conduct them on 
 a visit to the seat of their ancestors. Margaret 
 could not but admire to a certain degree the 
 magnificence of what she saw. It was all in 
 a manner new to her 3 and much of it had an 
 h5
 
 154 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 elegance, a beauty and a taste, that forcibly 
 appealed to the soundness and purity of her 
 power of perception. 
 
 But such was by no means the case with the 
 youth who offered himself to her approbation. 
 He was coxcombical, empty and conceited. 
 He had in a certain degree the faculty to learn 
 and to imitate. But he had not the soil of the 
 mind . all that he learned lay like manure upon 
 a hungry and impenetrable surface. It never 
 mixed with the stratum beneath, and only 
 deformed what under kindlier circumstances it 
 might have enriched, and have rendered both 
 ornamental and useful. He was incapable of 
 sympathy and generous feeling. He was not 
 indeed ill-natured ; but he was pedantic, and 
 formal, and thought only of himself. He 
 would have appeared to more advantage, if he 
 had taken less pains. If he had given nature 
 her way, he would at least not have been 
 offensive. But he was perpetually studying
 
 X. DELORAINE. 155 
 
 how he should present himself, and how to 
 make the most advantageous impression. With 
 all this he was very slenderly endowed with 
 the gifts of the mind. But his phrases were 
 studied ; his gestures full of affectation ; he 
 could not laugh or smile but by rule. He was 
 essentially a dull person. He could never 
 ieam the things his father desired to have him 
 learn ; he was incapable of any thing liberal 
 or noble ; but he was apt and adroit in imita- 
 ting the weaknesses and follies of those among 
 whom he lived. The figure he presented there- 
 fore was all in shadow ', there were no striking 
 lights that fell upon it ; nothing was firm or 
 great; it was all obscure, misty and opake. 
 Yet he never intended any harm ; he was in- 
 capable of malignity. His only fault was that 
 of an exuberant self-sufficiency. He was in- 
 sipid, but pert. At the same time he was 
 unboundedly pliant to whatever his father 
 dictated to him. Lord Borradale told him
 
 156 DELORAINE. 
 
 CH. 
 
 that it was proper and suitable that he should 
 marry his cousin ; and he was prepared to go 
 through the forms^ and make her his bride. 
 
 It may easily be conceived what a contrast he 
 presented in the eyes of Margaret to the youth 
 she had left in the West. William was all 
 fire and soul. Every thing he said was preg- 
 nant with sense, and still more abounded with 
 feeling. He was impetuous ; and he was 
 natural. He never considered twice of what 
 he should say, or what he should do. His first 
 thoughts were full of understanding, and still 
 more of grace. Margaret and he miderstood 
 each other intuitively, and almost without the 
 aid of words. The heir apparent of the barony 
 of Borradale for ever pumped up his thoughts, 
 turned them on every side, and admired them, 
 before they found their way to his lips. With 
 William the days of Margaret flew like hours, 
 and hours like minutes. But between these 
 jiew companions the conversation on the part
 
 X. DELORAINE. 157 
 
 of the admirer was all effort, and on the part 
 of Margaret every thing passed in insupporta- 
 ble languor and fatigue. 
 
 There was that in the character of William 
 which resembled witchcraft. He was, so to 
 speak, enshrined in an atmosphere of precious 
 odours, which it was almost impossible for any- 
 one to enter, without feeling his senses lulled 
 in pleasing imaginations, and his spirit robbed 
 of tranquil self-possession. But, if this were 
 the case with him in his indifferent and acci- 
 dental connections, what must it be supposed 
 to have been in relation to Margaret, whose 
 soul had been united to his from infancy, and 
 who, since the terrible adventure of the rock, 
 had felt that she did not so truly belong to 
 herself as to him ? She had been on the brink, 
 or more properly in the jaws, of destruction ; 
 one moment only was interposed between her 
 and the most frightful catastrophe; he had 
 shewn himself like an intervenient angel, or
 
 158 DELORAINE. CHv 
 
 rather like a special and miraculous act of 
 Providence, that she might come forth whole 
 and unhurt, and that no injury might assail 
 her. He had risked every thing to accomplish 
 her deliverance, and had sustained much pain 
 and inconvenience that she might be placed in 
 a condition of safety. If Jephthah had vowed 
 to sacrifice his daughter in case God delivered 
 the armies of Ammon into his hands, was she 
 less bound to consecrate her life as a remune- 
 ration for the existence, the continuation of 
 which this gallant youth had procured to her ?
 
 XI 
 
 DELORAINE. 159 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 Gradually the father of Margaret disclosed 
 to her the scheme, which had furnished the 
 cause of their removal from the banks of the 
 Severn to the vicinity of the Mersey. He re- 
 presented to her in the most lively colours the 
 degradation and dishonour^ for such he esteemed 
 it, in which he had so long vegetated, from 
 even before the birth of his daughter to the 
 present hour. He said that the noble repre- 
 sentative of his race, for (it may be) little 
 better than a whim, had now proposed to take 
 off this dishonour, and restore him to his proper 
 station. He adjured Margaret, by all the love 
 she bore him, by the care he had exerted for
 
 160 DELORAIKE. GH. 
 
 her from her earliest infancy, by the indulgences 
 he had never withheld from her slightest wishes, 
 not on the present occasion to make herself the 
 obstacle to the fortune that seemed to smile 
 upon him. He intreated her, that she would 
 assist him to spend the remainder of his days 
 in sunshine and content. What was good for- 
 tune to him, would also be good fortune to her. 
 She would be placed in the station which she 
 was so eminently qualified to adorn. She 
 would be the boast and the ornament of her 
 sex; and it was impossible that that which 
 won for her the homage and commendation of 
 all the world, should not also be a source of 
 gratification to her own bosom. Lord Borradale 
 was essentially a cold-hearted man; and, as he 
 had taken them up for a purpose that pleased 
 his own imagination, so he would cast them off 
 without remorse, if he found himself thwarted 
 of that purpose. 
 
 The habits of Margaret's life from childhood
 
 XI. DELORAINE. 161 
 
 to the present hour had been those of filial 
 obedience. There was a gentleness in her 
 nature, that would not suffer her to engage in 
 inflexible controversy against her father. She 
 pleaded with him. She said. You have known 
 of the attachment of myself and William from 
 infancy; you loved him; you brought him to 
 me; you encouraged our attachment. You 
 have observed all the steps by which our earliest 
 and instinctive kindness to each other has been 
 turned into love. You saw it with compla- 
 cency; you bade me entertain him as my 
 future husband. Now all the preliminaries of 
 this final engagement have passed between us; 
 now we have poured our hearts into each other's 
 bosom; now he has saved my life, and in return 
 I have given him my soul. The happiness of 
 all our future existence depends upon this en- 
 gagement's not being retracted; I may obey 
 you, but if I do, both I and he shall be made 
 your victims. We shall be two withered plants,
 
 162 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 which, while they were tended and fostered and 
 nourished, grew up in strength and beauty, 
 their branches full of sap, their foliage bright 
 and healthful and vigorous, but which shall 
 hereafter be rivelled, naked and unblest, left on 
 the plain two monuments of wretchedness and 
 blast. 
 
 The expostulations of Margaret were in- 
 eifective to change the purposes of her selfish 
 father. He told her, that this was all the idle 
 romance so characteristic of that early season 
 of life, and that the passions of a boy and girl 
 on the threshold of puberty, as they were im- 
 petuous and unsubmissive to reason and re- 
 straint, so they were sure to be short-lived and 
 evanescent. He intreated, he adjured her to 
 have compassion upon him. All his early days 
 had been spent in misery, the fruit of a preco- 
 cious error. The heyday of his life was passed. 
 The evening of his existence was coming on, 
 and demanded its indulgences and its comforts.
 
 XI. DELORAINE. 163 
 
 She had herself never known any thing but a 
 plain and homely mode of life; but it was dif- 
 ferent with him ; his early years had been 
 passed in the midst of elegance and splendour 
 and luxury. She had only to conquer a fleet- 
 ing fancy^ a mere girlish impulse ; and they 
 should all reap the reward. Surely this was a 
 moderate return for all the care he had spent 
 upon her, the love he had borne her, and the 
 anxieties she had cost him from the hour when 
 she began to exist. 
 
 These were but feeble arguments, and might 
 with force and advantage have been retorted 
 upon him who urged them. But Margaret 
 was ill qualified for such a contention. She 
 had ever felt the duty she owed her parents as 
 a branch of her religion. Her father had not 
 much passed the meridian of life ; but in her 
 eye he was a patriarch. While she was yet an 
 infant, she had viewed him in the full maturity 
 of manhood. As she had advanced in dexterity
 
 164 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 and accomplishments, as her mind had opened 
 to the beauties of nature, the magnificence of 
 the universe, and the qualities of the beings 
 around her, as she had shot up in stature, and 
 her form had developed itself, the system of 
 things most assuredly had not stood still with 
 him 5 and he had passed into another class of 
 mortals, even as she had passed. Deference 
 and honour therefore she believed was his due; 
 she was bound to treat him with the utmost 
 tenderness, and in all things to consult his 
 pleasure. Nor was the present affair a question 
 of imaginary benefit and accommodation; how- 
 ever slightly she might value the mere orna- 
 ments and trappings of life, it was not so with 
 her father. In a word, her temper was all 
 gentleness; and the bare thought of entering 
 into warfare with the author of her existence, 
 and by dint of inflexible constancy extorting 
 his slow and unwilling consent, was intolerable 
 to her. If the proposition had been started in
 
 XI. DELORAINE. 165 
 
 their homely and rustic dwelling on the banks 
 of the Severn, the matter would have been 
 somewhat different. But their removal had 
 already been effected, ere she was aware of its 
 purpose. And that she by her wilfulness and 
 her selfishness, should occasion her father to 
 forfeit the protection and smiles of lord Borra- 
 dale, and drive him back upon the humble life 
 he detested, was a fault she could never have 
 forgiven herself. 
 
 Yet she was not without those feelings, that 
 shrinking back and revulsion, which are in- 
 separable from the passion of love, when the 
 question is of sacrificing its most cherished 
 visions and the object it adores. The image 
 of her William was perpetually before her; she 
 saw him in her dreams, sometimes emphatically 
 and earnestly claiming the performance of that 
 which she had given him cause to expect, and 
 sometimes with a melancholy and wintery 
 countenance, reproaching her for her in con-
 
 166 DELORAINE. 
 
 CH. 
 
 stancy, and assuring her that he could not 
 survive the shock that was given him. She 
 counted up his virtues, his manly and generous 
 qualities; she recollected the boundless debt of 
 gratitude she owed him. She could not there- 
 fore wholly avoid the shewing her father by 
 her demeanour, or in the expression of her 
 eye and her attitude, how bitterly she would 
 feel the privation, if she should ultimately yield 
 to his wishes. 
 
 On the other hand her father was not with- 
 out his compunctions and his tenderness. Had 
 it been otherwise, she could not have loved him 
 as she indeed loved him. Seeing therefore how 
 much it cost her, he determined, whatever were 
 the consequence, that she should follow the 
 bent of her inclinations. The choice of the 
 partner of her existence was properly her 
 affair, and not his; she would probably long 
 survive him, and therefore her choice of life 
 merited to be preferred. All this he expressed
 
 XI. DELORAINE. 167 
 
 not by words^ but actions. He pressed her no 
 longer 5 he wore a look of grief and resignation. 
 He ceased to frequent the house of lord Borra- 
 dale. He ceased to take pleasure in any thing. 
 He wandered about the house and the adjoin- 
 ing fields, "hollow as a ghost/' 
 
 As dim and meagre as an ague-fit. 
 He yielded to his fate, and resolved that his 
 passions and desires, however vehement, should 
 not have the effect to subvert his daughter's 
 happiness. 
 
 But this was an issue she could not endure 
 to think of. The less her father pressed her 
 with expostulation and the weight of words, 
 the more she felt herself impelled to yield to 
 the course his wishes pointed out to her. Had 
 it been for herself only, she felt persuaded that 
 she could without a struggle sacrifice her own 
 preferences on the altar of filial duty. But she 
 dreaded the mischief which the disappointment 
 would inflict on William. She had no right to
 
 168 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 trifle with his peace; and, in return for all his 
 love and all he had done for her, to entail upon 
 him the miseries of perpetual grief. With the 
 ingenuousness that so eminently distinguished 
 her, she resolved to write to him on the sub- 
 ject, and to set before him without reserve the 
 perplexities that assailed her. She addressed 
 him as follows: 
 
 My friend. 
 Allow me to invoke you by that appellation, 
 for any other would be foreign to the purpose 
 of this letter. I loved you; I love you. All 
 the visions of happiness I ever formed, included 
 you, and the joys that I believed would be my 
 lot if we were united to each other. But we 
 are not born for ourselves alone. I had a duty 
 to the author of my existence, older in its date, 
 even than the hour when first I had the happi- 
 ness to know you. It has been the ambition 
 of my heart to pass through life irreproachably. 
 If my faculties were so confined as to enable
 
 XI. DELORAINE. 169 
 
 me to do little good, I might at least hope to 
 avoid the actual perpetration of evil. I feel that 
 I could never endure the miseries of self-re- 
 proach. If I were to see my father suffering 
 the mischiefs of disappointment and a broken 
 heart by any vrilfulness of mine, my existence 
 would from that moment become insupportable 
 to me. I could never be an instrument of 
 pleasure and contentment to another, for the 
 worm of undying remorse would prey upon me 
 for ever. 
 
 I write to you at the present moment with a 
 certain degree of confidence, to intreat you to 
 second my virtuous resolutions. You are per- 
 haps the only being I know on the face of the 
 earth, from whom I could expect such disin- 
 terestedness and magnanimity. Release me, I 
 intreat you, from the unspeakable obligations 
 you have conferred on me, from the promises 
 I have made you, from the prospects of future 
 felicity which your partial thoughts may have 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 170 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 created to you out of the idle and visionary 
 talk, castles in the air, in which we have mu- 
 tually participated. Whatever I have promised 
 you, has had, if not for its expressed, at least 
 for its implied condition, the consent of my 
 father. Our attachment grew up under his 
 auspices. It proceeded with his knowledge, 
 and could boast his entire and hearty concur- 
 rence. This concurrence he has withdrawn. I 
 do not enter into the question whether this 
 change in his views is founded in wisdom. I 
 am not my father's director; and have no right 
 to arraign the sentiments he forms, and the 
 wishes 'he entertains, at the tribunal of my 
 judgment. It is enough that there they are, 
 there they will remain, and it is not in my 
 power to reverse them. 
 
 Is it not better for us to do what is right, 
 than to yield to what we inordinately desire ? 
 I do not apply this rule to my father ; for he 
 has, as well as all other human beings, and, to
 
 XI. DELORAINE. 171 
 
 my apprehension, and as far as I am concern- 
 ed, more than any other human being, a right 
 to be the judge of the conduct he shall pursue. 
 But I do apply it to myself. I am sure I shall 
 have more internal peace, and more unalloyed 
 and entire resignation, in obeying my con- 
 science, than in pursuing the promptings of 
 my will. I think, William, that you are form- 
 ed like me. It is this thought that lies at the 
 foundation of the unreserved attachment I have 
 entertained for you, and the perpetual satisfac- 
 tion I anticipated (if Providence had favoured 
 our views) in being united to you. You love 
 therefore what is right, even as I love it ; and, 
 when I call on you to concur with me in this 
 most important crisis of my life, I therefore do 
 you no violence. 
 
 I require however, my dear William, your 
 
 agreement in this great act of filial duty. I 
 
 have entered into such engagements to you, 
 
 not only in the secret recesses of my own 
 
 i2
 
 172 DELORAINE. 
 
 CH. 
 
 mind^ but in speech, in countenance, and in 
 the accord of all the powers of my frame, that 
 you and you only can release me from the 
 engagements I have formed. I am like to one 
 who, ^^on double business bound, stands in 
 pause" in which direction he shall proceed, 
 and how he shall comport himself, and can 
 perform no essential duty on the theatre of 
 life. Release me, I conjure you. Snap the 
 chain which, as long as it subsists, renders me 
 incapable of any thing decisive, any thing that 
 I should look back upon with satisfaction and 
 complacency. Assist me in the sacrifice I feel 
 myself called upon to make. Let us together 
 approach this altar, consecrated to fortitude 
 and disinterested virtue, and offer up our own 
 dearest wishes to a principle, without an obe- 
 dience to which I feel that I can never escape 
 the bitterest self-accusation and remorse.
 
 XII. DELORAINE. 173 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 When Margaret had finished, and had dis- 
 patched this letter, she felt herself more at her 
 ease. She had put a violence on herself, and 
 achieved a conquest, of the practicahility of 
 which in her case nothing could have assured 
 her, short of the actual experiment. This, 
 when the experiment was completed, was her 
 first feeling. But, the next day, and the day 
 after, her satisfaction abated. Having dis- 
 charged to the full her duty to her father, and 
 prepared for the event against which her very 
 soul revolted, she began to think principally, 
 almost exclusively, of her lover. She set her- 
 self to calculate the time at which her letter
 
 174 DELORAINE. CII. 
 
 would reach him^ and at which she might re- 
 ceive his answer. She thought of his surprise, 
 the distresses he would suffer, the fatal blow 
 he would sustain, and the upbraidings with 
 which he would overwhelm her. 
 
 The result however was more trying to him 
 than any thing that she had anticipated. When 
 the letter of Margaret came to his hands, it 
 found him attending the death-bed of his mo- 
 ther. Only a few weeks had elapsed from the 
 period when they had taken leave of the Bor- 
 radales. In a retreat so thinly scattered with 
 inhabitants as was that where William and his 
 mother resided, the removal of one family to 
 which they had been bound in the ties of sym- 
 pathetic and intimate intercourse was an epoch. 
 The good woman had contemplated the grow- 
 ing affection of her son and their fair neighbour 
 with exceeding delight. She had anticipated 
 that herself and the young couple, in the event 
 of their union, would reside under the same
 
 XII. DELORAINE. 175 
 
 roof, either in the cottage where she now 
 dwelt, or in some other that might perhaps 
 afford them a fuller accommodation. She loved 
 Margaret scarcely less than she did her son. 
 She therefore watched with peculiar anxiety 
 the effect which this change would produce 
 upon him. And, though he was most careful 
 to conceal from his mother the disturbance he 
 felt, and though in reality, encouraged by the 
 unequivocal tokens of attachment he received 
 from his mistress, he believed that their sepa- 
 ration would be of short continuance, yet she 
 could not but see that he was unusually pen- 
 sive, and that the interest he took in his ordi- 
 nary occupations was no longer such as it had 
 been. It was at this time that she was seized 
 with an inflammatory fever. The disease was 
 of a dangerous character. But its symptoms 
 were undoubtedly aggravated by the unsettled 
 state of her thoughts. She became delirious ; 
 and in the wanderings of her mind she talked
 
 176 DELORAINE. 
 
 CH. 
 
 continually of William and Margaret. She in- 
 treated that the young woman might be asked 
 to visit her, might administer her medicines, 
 and support her aching head. When she was 
 silent, her eye still roved in search of some- 
 thing ; and she complained that the nurse and 
 the girl who attended her, most unkindly hid 
 from her what she was most desirous to see. 
 William received the letter of Margaret pre- 
 cisely in this situation. He refused to open it. 
 He felt an undefined anticipation of some evil 
 tidings that it would communicate. Supersti- 
 tiously he deemed it unlucky to open a letter 
 from one he loved, by the side of the bed of a 
 person dangerously ill. He would have judged 
 himself criminal, if he had deliberately sought 
 to withdraw his attention for a moment, from 
 the heart-breaking scene before him, to a con- 
 sideration of his own desires in any other 
 quarter, his inclination and pleasures. 
 
 The good woman died. William felt all the
 
 XII. DELORAINE. 177 
 
 tenderness and agonies of a son. He had no 
 one to console him. The far- distant abode of 
 the friends^ who had so long dwelt at but two 
 fields from his own residence^ and whom he so 
 entirely loved, struck him now with tenfold bit- 
 terness. The preparations of the funeral went 
 on. He was assisted in them by the wife and 
 two daughters of a neighbouring farmer, who 
 were impressed with the sincerest esteem for 
 William and his mother, but whose "coarse 
 complexions and cheeks of sorry grain" with 
 aptness expressed the texture of their minds. 
 
 For two days William was stunned by the 
 unforeseen disaster that had fallen upon him, 
 and totally absorbed in grief. He resorted 
 many times in an hour, to gaze, with feelings 
 that no words can express, upon the body of 
 her who bore him, and who, tenderly as she 
 had ever watched for his advantage and plea- 
 sui*e, could now shew to him no tokens of re- 
 cognition, could neither hear his voice, nor an- 
 i5
 
 178 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 swer to any of his passionate apostrophes and 
 laments. The only things that diverted him 
 from the depth of his depression^ were those 
 cares and attentions, which nature and the cus- 
 toms of society require towards the remains of 
 the friend we have lost. 
 
 At length, in the morning of the second day 
 from the death of his mother, the letter he had 
 already received caught his eye, and he no 
 longer refrained from examining its contents. 
 '^No doubt,'' said he, "it comes to tell me 
 that at least I have one friend left ? and God 
 knows I am in want of one V At first, over- 
 whelmed as he was with the calamity the evi- 
 dences of which were still before his eyes, he 
 could not understand the letter. Its tenor was 
 not such as he had expected. But he had that 
 confidence in Margaret, he considered that they 
 were bound to each other by ties of so ancient 
 a standing, and of so indissoluble a character, 
 and he believed her to be so single-minded and
 
 XII. DELORAINE. 179 
 
 affectionate, that, " though one rose from the 
 dead to persuade" him, he would not believe 
 that she was capable of inconstancy or change. 
 — At length he satisfied himself of the reality 
 of the paper before him. 
 
 It is well, said he. I was once — a very short 
 time ago I was — happy. I had two friends — 
 such friends — they were indeed that which my 
 heart required. How perfect was my delight, 
 when I found myself supplying to my mother 
 the place of the protector she had lost, drying 
 her tears, and reconciling her again to life ! 
 There is nothing which makes a being of a 
 pure heart so happy, as to feel his importance 
 to those he loves, and to be able at the close 
 of each succeeding day to say, I have proved 
 myself a " good and faithful '' assistant, I have 
 not thought of my own gratifications, but have 
 given myself honestly and unreservedly to the 
 interests and the comfort of one, whom above 
 all the earth I was bound to cherish. And I
 
 180 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 had my reward. If with my full heart I gave 
 myself to the service of my mother^ there was 
 still an approving angel that stood by, and that 
 counted my good qualities a thousand times 
 beyond their intrinsic merit. These two, the 
 being to whom I devoted my services, and the 
 being who was ever at hand to reward them, 
 are taken from me at once. I am indeed alone. 
 What have I to do with the world ? There is 
 no part nor place for me in any of its man- 
 sions. I look round me on every side, and 
 find nothing to support me, no one to encou- 
 rage my efforts, or to lend me a helping hand 
 amidst the complexities and difficulties that 
 every way beset me. 
 
 William brooded over his sorrows and his 
 desolate condition incessantly for several fol- 
 lowing days. He attended the funeral of his 
 parent, and saw her body deposited in the 
 silent grave. As he returned to his forlorn 
 home, he found there waiting for him a young
 
 XII. DELORAINE. 181 
 
 man of some family and consequence, whom 
 he had repeatedly seen during the season that 
 he had spent under the care and superinten- 
 dence of his uncle, the clergyman formerly 
 mentioned. This young man, to whom his 
 uncle had at no remote period been a tutor, 
 had many times paid a visit to the person 
 under whose instructions the powers of his 
 mind had been unfolded, and on each occasion 
 had paid considerable attention, and shewn 
 much partiality to William, who was only by 
 four years younger than himself. Young Bou- 
 verie, that was his name, was of an open and 
 generous disposition, and had afforded to Wil- 
 liam the first specimen of a friend, whose 
 studies had been similar, whose sentiments in 
 a striking degree coincided with his own, and 
 who, from the advantages of birth and fortune, 
 might be of some use to him, if such assist- 
 ance were needed, in pushing him forward in 
 the road to fortune.
 
 182 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 Bouverie had learned by accident of the death 
 of William's mother. He well knew with what 
 exemplary duty the young man had determined 
 to consecrate all his efforts to console the wi- 
 dow in her destitute situation, and to super- 
 intend the interests of her little concern. Bou- 
 verie would have been the last man, to endea- 
 vour to divert the stripling from so noble a 
 devotion of his activity and his time. But 
 now, that that obligation was discharged, and 
 obscurity could no longer be a duty, he felt 
 extremely desirous to engage the nephew of 
 his tutor in a closer connection with him. He 
 had himself just obtained a considerable ap- 
 pointment under general Murray, governor of 
 Canada ; and he came to propose that William 
 should join him in his expedition. He apologised 
 to the young man for the abruptness of his over- 
 ture, but added that he was so circumstanced, 
 that there was no time to lose. He should 
 himself be obliged to embark in a few weeks.
 
 XII. DELORAINE. 183 
 
 Bouverie found his friend in a state of the 
 most pitiable dejection. This was the more 
 remarkable, as William was constitutionally of 
 a very sanguine temperament. The excellence 
 of his disposition led him to regard all the 
 world with kindness ; and the nature of the 
 human mind is found to be such, that the 
 world around serves in the effect of a mirror 
 to what passes within us. The philanthropist 
 sees on every side of him the impulses of love, 
 while the malevolent man observes in all his 
 fellow-beings the indications of spite, hostility 
 and ill will. But the events which now befel 
 William were too much for his fortitude to 
 sustain. On returning to his own habitation 
 the frame of his mind had become gloomy and 
 morose. But he no sooner saw Bouverie than 
 he burst into a flood of tears. 
 
 His tender-hearted friend at first endea- 
 voured to soothe him by all the common topics 
 of consolation. He told him of the unavail-
 
 184 DELORAINE. 
 
 CH. 
 
 ingness of grief, and reminded him that he had 
 still duties to perform. He spoke of the friendly 
 feelings and the interest in his welfare that 
 were felt by his uncle and himself. ^^You 
 must change the scene, "" he said. 
 
 And wherefore should I change the scene ? 
 There is no one that loves me. There is no 
 one for whom I should desire to live. My 
 uncle and you feel compassion for me ; and I 
 thank you. But this is not the thing my na- 
 ture requires, the nourishment of my soul. It 
 is woman only that is truly susceptible, that 
 can fill the cravings of my spirit. I found this 
 consolation and support in my mother. Our 
 interchanges of kindness were of the most 
 tranquillising nature. We were fitted for each 
 other; we understood each other. In the course 
 of nature it is true I must expect that one day 
 my mother would die, and I should survive her. 
 I had hoped indeed that she would live long, 
 and would finally pay the debt of nature, full
 
 XII. DELORAINE. 185 
 
 of days, and having exhausted the strength 
 that heaven allots to mortals. I must indeed 
 lose her ; but I had provided for that. I had 
 a friend, that had sworn to be my comforter, a 
 friend that was young, even as I am young, 
 and who, being in the same period of life, 
 would not have failed to understand my wants 
 and wishes, and to act in unison with me. We 
 had sworn to live together, to feel each other's 
 wishes, to have partaken in each other's joys 
 and sorrows, to have smiled when either smiled, 
 and to have mingled our tears in the moment 
 of disappointment and trial. I have lost my 
 mother and my friend at once. The adored of 
 my heart has abjured all her vows and dis- 
 carded me. I received her letter of rejection 
 in the room where my mother lay dying; I 
 opened it by the side of her corpse. 
 
 The recollections of William, which accom- 
 panied these words, were agonising. He felt 
 that he could not refuse what Margaret de-
 
 186 DELORAINE, 
 
 CH. 
 
 manded from him. He felt that he could not 
 utterly deny that her decision was just : at 
 least it did high credit to the purity and sin- 
 gleness of her mind. But he was not the less 
 impressed with the conviction that the sun of 
 his existence w^s for ever set, that the rest of 
 his days was condemned to ^^ disastrous twi- 
 light and dim eclipse^'" and that no hope and 
 no prospect of happiness remained to him. 
 Why should he exert himself ? What motive 
 could he have to engage in any new occu- 
 pation ? 
 
 By dint however of much kindness, unequi- 
 vocal sympathy, and the most unwearied pa- 
 tience, Bouverie at length succeeded in con- 
 vincing him, that the thing which his case most 
 urgently demanded was change of place. He 
 could not recal his mother from the grave. 
 The inexorable law of mortality was equal to 
 all. He did not expect that he could reverse 
 the triumph of filial piety in Margaret. He
 
 XII. DELORAINE. 187 
 
 had not so studied the laws of religion, he had 
 not so learned the lessons of humanity^ as to 
 believe that the effect of the two grievous cala- 
 mities that had fallen upon him at once, was to 
 be a discharge in full to a young man from all 
 the duties which his being born into society 
 imposed upon him. He was young; he had 
 powers which would not be without their use 
 in the great community ; he especially owed to 
 others an example, whether that should operate 
 to a greater or less extent, of patience and re- 
 signation. '* None of us liveth to himself; and 
 no man dieth to himself." 
 
 There is something magical in the operations 
 of sympathy. William could not altogether 
 resist the assiduities of his friend. He had 
 said that he was left alone in the world ; but 
 he found that he was not. The arrival of Bou- 
 verie was like the descent of an angel to his 
 relief. Bouverie had patience with all his in- 
 flexibility and perverseness ; the tones of his
 
 188 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 voice^ the affectionateness of his looks, pene- 
 trated to the soul of the disconsolate youth. 
 He was ultimately victorious. William thanked 
 him in the most gratifying tones, the more gra- 
 tifying because despair had scarcely yet quitted 
 its throne in the heart of the mourner, for all 
 his kindness. Bouverie had indeed convinced 
 him, that he was not utterly alone, that there 
 was one that cared even for so very a wretch 
 as he was. He suffered himself to be led, pas- 
 sively, and without resistance, even as a young 
 child might lead a lamb. 
 
 The preparations for the voyage were short. 
 Bouverie directed his own steward to take the 
 affairs of William under his superintendence, 
 and to dispose of his property to the best ad- 
 vantage. Before they departed, William ad- 
 dressed a letter to Margaret, yielding all she 
 demanded, acquainting her with the death of 
 his mother, the interposition of his friend, and 
 the voyage and new scheme of life to which he
 
 XII. DELORAINE. 189 
 
 had dedicated himself. The letter was couched 
 in terms of the most rigid simplicity. There 
 were no interjections, and none of the innume- 
 rable subterfuges of self-pity and reproach. 
 He did not complain of his fate, assure her 
 that he was heart-broken, or attempt to record 
 the struggles and the tortures he felt within. 
 He wrote with the plainness of an Evangelist, 
 setting down facts only, unaccompanied with a 
 comment. But Margaret understood her lover. 
 There was not one feeling, one contention that 
 took place in his bosom, one mastery that he 
 obtained over himself, which her imagination 
 did not pourtray with the utmost minuteness. 
 
 The answer of William was substantially 
 such as Margaret had expected. She knew, 
 that he would not have the hardness of heart 
 and the illiberality to wish to bind her in ties 
 which she asked him to dispense her from. He 
 was doubtless aware that no true happiness 
 could grow out of such an union. He was
 
 190 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 much too generous of soul to consent to accept 
 from her any thing that was not a voluntary 
 oifering. But she did not the less believe that 
 the sacrifice she required of him was such, as 
 would wrench his nature from its strongest 
 holding. And she was shocked beyond the 
 power of words to express^ when she found at 
 what a season of distress and agony her un- 
 gracious letter had reached him. She had taken 
 for granted, that his mother would be the very 
 person to soothe his griefs, to read to him the 
 lessons of wisdom and virtue, and to supply to 
 him in the most perfect and gratifying manner 
 all that he would have judged himself to have 
 lost in the dissolution of their promised union.
 
 XIII. DELORAINE. 191 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Margaret had made the most uncalculable 
 sacrifice on the altar of filial duty. But, when 
 that sacrifice was complete, her heart recoiled 
 upon itself. She saw the son of lord Borradale ; 
 but that sight was hot the appropriate medicine 
 for the disease of her mind. She saw him^ 
 but the doing so had the effect of contrast : she 
 could not prevent the image of William^ the 
 beloved, the exiled, from recurring to her 
 thoughts. 
 
 Margaret however was not of a temper to do 
 things by halves. She had chosen her part; 
 and her virtue and her honour required that 
 she should complete what she had begun. The
 
 192 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 pang upon William had been inflicted; he was 
 exiled; she had surrendered herself without 
 reserve into the hands of her father; she had 
 been presented to lord Borradale; she had en- 
 couraged his son. It was necessary that she 
 should dress her countenance in smiles, that 
 she should personate the exactest courtesy, 
 that she should carefully close up every avenue 
 through which the agony of her mind might 
 discover itself. She had decided that this was 
 the part that justice and duty imposed on her. 
 It was necessary to be firm. The power that 
 an energetic and elevated mind exercises over 
 itself is of vast extent. She commanded her 
 features; and they obeyed. She regulated her 
 gestures ; and they conformed themselves to 
 her will. She called up certain tones and in- 
 flexions of the voice; and the organs of speech 
 became accommodated to the authority of the 
 master-mind. She resolved to banish from her 
 thoughts so much as the recollection of her
 
 XIII. DELORAINE. 193 
 
 late-favoured lover; and to a great degree she 
 succeeded in this. The recollection sometimes 
 did not recur to her for hours together. She 
 sang; she danced. She recited in her mind 
 the duties of an ingenuous female to an ac- 
 cepted lover; she accustomed herself to the 
 recapitulation of whatever would justly be re- 
 quired and looked for in the conduct of an 
 exemplary wife. All this she did, that she 
 might not prove herself inferior in resignation 
 to what has been told of the daughter of the 
 general of the Jews. She looked at her father, 
 and was satisfied. He would succeed to the 
 full extent of his wishes. He would live in the 
 midst of magnificence and splendour. He 
 would contemplate with all the pride which 
 was congenial to his nature his noble son-in- 
 law and his right honourable daughter. What- 
 ever became of herself, she Would have the 
 satisfaction of performing without a blemish 
 all that could be demanded of her towards the 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 194 DELORAINE. 
 
 CH. 
 
 author of her existence. Nay^ she did not 
 despair of herself. If the punctual discharge 
 of the first of all duties could make her happy, 
 had she not a right to look for happiness ? She 
 had often heard that the souFs true sunshine 
 was derived from an approving conscience; 
 and she believed it. 
 
 Nothing could be more admirable than the 
 intentions of Margaret; nothing more strenu- 
 ous than her efforts. Many persons in her 
 place probably would have succeeded ; but she 
 failed. The attempt was too mighty for her. 
 The feebleness of her nature sank under the 
 giganticness of the undertaking. The whole 
 of her days was passed in unremitted exertion; 
 never did she suffer her attention or her resolu- 
 tion to subside for an instant. But the night 
 came. As long as she was in society, it was 
 well. But the very winding up of the strings 
 to a too great degree of tenseness, conduced to 
 destroy the instrument. Perhaps she played
 
 XIII. DELORAINE. 195 
 
 her part in too exemplary a style. When she 
 was alone, when she was no longer called upon 
 to exert herself, the very springs of life within 
 her appeared to give way. She was scarcely 
 able to support herself. Tears, of which she 
 was unaware till she felt the moisture on her 
 face, rolled down her cheeks in an abundant 
 stream. She sighed, as if her heart would 
 break. She sobbed; she became hysterical. 
 And this in its beginning, not from any 
 thoughts that rushed over her mind, but merely 
 because she had continued to tax herself too 
 rigorously. 
 
 Thus the reaction began, probably from the 
 mere animal relaxation of the fibres. But this 
 was but the beginning of evils. Her nights 
 were almost altogether without sleep. Her 
 limbs were restless, and she tossed from side 
 to side, even, if I might borrow a simile from 
 Homer, as a steak cut from an ox agitates itself 
 on the burning embers. And, wben she slept, 
 k2
 
 196 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 or, more properly speaking, for a few moments 
 forgot her individuality and the material sub- 
 stances that encompassed her, her dreams were 
 even more distressful and unrefreshing than the 
 wild and incoherent thoughts that beset her 
 when she was neither wholly awake nor asleep. 
 In dreams the reins of the soul are no longer 
 under the guidance of reflection or reason. 
 The power, whatever it is, that presides over 
 that state of existence, hurries us wherever it 
 will. The rudder of the mind is powerless ; 
 our sense of morality is reduced to almost no- 
 thing. We witness crimes, and we commit 
 them, undogged by that moral sense, of which 
 the disciplined spirit can at no time divest 
 itself, while the sun is in the heavens, or the 
 sun of truth penetrates the inner man with its 
 beams. She saw her lover sometimes in a 
 mood of bitter upbraidings, and at other times 
 the wasted, wan and colourless shadow of deso- 
 lation and despair. She saw her favoured
 
 XIII. DELORAINE. 197 
 
 suitor assault him, now that the gallant youth 
 seemed deprived by melancholy and sorrow of 
 his wonted energies of defence, and pierce his 
 manly limbs with a thousand wounds, and 
 scatter his remains to all the winds of heaven. 
 In this situation her imaged William would 
 utter the most piercing screams, and im- 
 plore her to interfere to save him, while lord 
 Borradale and her father held her back with 
 inexorable effort from making the smallest ad- 
 vance to his rescue. The recollection of his 
 voyage to Canada would then occur to her; 
 she saw him standing in the gallery of the ship ; 
 a sudden tempest would assault the vessel ; he 
 was washed overboard ; he was devoured by a 
 shark; and in the countenance of the shark she 
 all at once discovered the lineaments of her 
 destined husband. Repeatedly did she start 
 out of her sleep with the terror of what she 
 had appeared to behold; and it was often a 
 very long time before she could thoroughly
 
 198 DELORAIl^E. 
 
 CH. 
 
 convince herself, that what had so exceedingly 
 terrified her was unbased in reality. 
 
 It was thus that the bodily strength of the 
 self-devoted victim gave way, unable to keep 
 pace with the energies of her mind. A female 
 of a different character would probably have 
 been more successful in going through with 
 the part she had determined to sustain. The 
 virtue of Margaret destroyed her. There was 
 too much tenacity and consistence in the frame 
 of her soul. Another female, having resolved 
 to dismiss her earliest attachment, would have 
 fixed her thoughts on the splendours of rank, 
 and have felt her mind led away from its ori- 
 ginal simplicity, even as her father had been 
 led away. But these splendours had no charm 
 of power to divert the temper of Margaret from 
 its first bias. Other females would have called 
 to their aid the volatility that is so often found 
 characteristic of their sex. They are like but- 
 terflies that wander from flower to flower
 
 XIII. DELORAINE. 199 
 
 through the whole inclosure of an earthly pa- 
 radise ', and this levity sufficiently secures 
 them against the chance of falling victims to 
 any single disappointment. But Margaret's 
 mind was of a different constitution : where it 
 fixed, there it rested. There was in it no infu- 
 sion of perverseness. She desired the happi- 
 ness of all; and especially of those to whom 
 she was bound by the most familiar and the 
 oldest ties. Selfishness seemed not to enter in 
 the smallest degree into her character; she 
 appeared to regard it as the proper business of 
 her life, to study the happiness of others. But 
 her disposition was firm and unvarying. She 
 was in the most striking degree gentle. She 
 was tranquil of spirit, and clear of soul. Her 
 mind had the smoothness of a lake, the surface 
 of which was unvexed by so much as a single 
 breath, and at the same time the steadiness 
 of an edifice the materials of which were of 
 marble.
 
 200 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 But, however unalterable was the substance 
 of her mind, and however delicate the mould in 
 which it was cast, she had not the smallest in- 
 clination to depart from the scheme of conduct 
 she had elected. She gave no quarter to that 
 species of impulse, which in so many cases 
 whispers to the timid spirit. You have done 
 enough; you have shewn how willing you were 
 to conquer your weakness ; human nature can- 
 not bear more than you have borne, or resist 
 more than you have resisted ; tt is fit that you 
 should now give way; your efforts to obey, 
 well entitle you to call on your elders at length 
 to cease from their requisition, and to acknow- 
 ledge that what they require is unfit to be exe- 
 cuted. 
 
 Margaret on the contrary was fully resolved 
 not to play booty, nor stop half-way in the 
 course of duty she prescribed to herself. The 
 union therefore between the elder and the 
 younger branch of the house of Borradale, day
 
 XIII. DELORAINE. 201 
 
 after day drew nearer to its consummation. 
 The preparations were advancing; the wedding 
 garments purchased ; the jewels and other pre- 
 sents which the intended bride is accustomed 
 to receive on such occasions, were in complete 
 readiness. The day was named for the cere* 
 mony; four days were suffered to elapse be- 
 tween the period when it was fixed on, and 
 that on which it was to arrive. 
 
 The father of the lovely victim had the whole 
 powers of his soul fastened on one point. The 
 very energies with which he desired to see it 
 accomplished, made him regard all delay, all 
 uncertainty, with an impatience almost amount- 
 ing to frenzy. He could not but see that his 
 daughter, who, as long as they dwelt on the 
 banks of the Severn, had been the very perso- 
 nification of the Goddess of Health, was inces- 
 santly growing more and more thin and deli- 
 cate in her appearance. The roses in her cheek 
 were completely faded; the lustre, the laughing 
 k5
 
 202 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 serenity, that lately flashed from her eyes, was 
 no more. If colour was at any time to he found 
 in her complexion, it was unwholesome and 
 hectic ; if fire was in her eyes, it was the indi- 
 cation of disease. Her father woyld occasion- 
 ally question her respecting her health with a 
 certain alarm. But so surely as the question 
 was proposed, Margaret would rouse herself. 
 She called up a languid smile to grace the 
 beauty of her lips ; she composed her voice to 
 an even and a cheerful key. She assured her 
 father that she was perfectly well. The old 
 man, fixed to his purpose, and willing to de- 
 ceive himself, was easily satisfied. He kissed 
 her parched and burning lips, and almost be- 
 lieved that what he found there was the genial 
 glow of health ; he felt the cold, clamminess of 
 her palm, and thought the skin was elastic and 
 dry. He said to himself. She must know the 
 state of her health better than I do ; and she 
 assures me she is well.
 
 XIII. DELORAIKE. '203 
 
 Thursday was the day appointed for the 
 wedding. As it drew nearer and more near, 
 Margaret felt an insupportable load on her spi- 
 rits, weighing her down to earth. With all the 
 power of her will she resolutely sent the vital 
 principle through every joint and articulation 
 in her frame. She roused herself. She said to 
 her own soul, It is little now that remains to 
 be done. The bitterness of death is past. Two 
 days more, and all will be over. And I have 
 no doubt, that when that shall be the case, I 
 shall feel relieved. ^^ Things without all re- 
 medy, will be without regard." I shall no 
 longer then have these strange shrinkings and 
 contractions of the soul. I shall have dis- 
 charged a great duty ; and the sense of this 
 will bring with it congratulation. The recol- 
 lection of my childish partialities will then be- 
 come a crime. I shall no longer dare so much 
 as to dream of William. 
 
 But with the best intentions in the world.
 
 204 DELORAINE. 
 
 CH. 
 
 and with all the resolution of which her nature 
 was capable, she grew worse from hour to 
 hour. Her mother, as has already been men- 
 tioned, was a weak woman, and accustomed to 
 yield without resistance to the will of her hus- 
 band. But she had the affections of a mother. 
 She had at all times regarded the decisions of 
 her husband as so many oracles. He was a 
 person of rank ; she was by birth a peasant's 
 daughter. He had forfeited the favour of his 
 family by marrying her ; and the least she 
 could do in return, was to take care, so far as 
 depended on her, that he should not have 
 further reason to repent his rashness. 
 
 But the mother of Margaret, with all pos- 
 sible submission to the will of her husband, 
 could not in every case see things in the same 
 light in which he saw them. Her mind was 
 formed on a different principle. Her actions 
 were regulated by another code. She had not 
 the smallest tincture of ambition in her com-
 
 XIII. DELORAINE. 205 
 
 position. She was therefore much more clear- 
 sighted as to the external face of things, and 
 the deterioration of her daughter's health than 
 he was. Margaret never complained. She was 
 infinitely above the pitiful art, the low trick, 
 of endeavouring to make her mother a party 
 against the will of her father, to which she 
 herself professed to submit. Such as she was 
 to one of her parents, she was to the other. She 
 never thought of sacrificing herself by halves. 
 She would not for the world have introduced 
 discord under her parental roof. Her whole 
 soul was simplicity. Her whole conduct was 
 of a piece. She never told her regrets; she 
 never whispered them to the vacant air 3 her 
 scheme was entire self- conquest, without re- 
 serving one corner in her heart for weakness 
 or folly.
 
 206 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Early on the morning of the second day 
 before the marriage, the mother came to the 
 bedside of her daughter. She had previously 
 been much alarmed. She stooped over her 
 pillovr, that she might make her own observa- 
 tions, and draw a surer prognostic and a more 
 impartial report from the evidence of inspec- 
 tion, than she would have a chance of deriving 
 from the answers of the patient sufferer. Mar- 
 garet was still asleep. She had passed a fever- 
 ish and restless night, till at length nature was 
 worn out, and the young woman had fallen 
 into a short oblivion. Though asleep, her eyes 
 were not closed. There was an uneasy twitch-
 
 XIV. DELORAINE. 207 
 
 ing of the muscles of several parts of the body. 
 Her lips moved, and uttered several indistinct 
 sounds, though the mother could not make out 
 the meaning. She gently recalled her to the 
 perception of things around her. 
 
 She first asked how she had passed the 
 night, and received from Margaret the same 
 answer she would have returned to her father ; 
 an answer, the purpose of which was to suffer 
 things to go on in the train in which they had 
 lately proceeded. 
 
 The soul of the good woman was stirred 
 within her by the position in which they stood. 
 She was like one inspired. Her features en- 
 larged. Her attitude was marked with a 
 striking solemnity. 
 
 My child, said she, you never knew me any 
 thing but passive : and that which a human 
 creature has been for a series of years, is seldom 
 likely to be altered. Your father took me, and 
 made me the thing he would 5 he has at all
 
 208 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 times found me an obedient wife. But you, 
 my only child, are about to leave me, to be 
 placed under another jurisdiction, and to dwell 
 under a stranger roof. I know that this is the 
 law of our existence in society, and I could 
 have submitted. I could have borne it, if the 
 change had promised to be a happy one for 
 you. But, oh, Margaret ! — 
 
 Think you, because I have been a silent, 
 that I have been an inattentive, observer of 
 you and. your goings on ? You look to my 
 eye, like a victim that is to be sacrificed, like 
 an innocent creature, who had fallen under the 
 gripe of the law, and who, having been pro- 
 nounced guilty, has the days of his short 
 remaining existence numbered on the calendar. 
 If I saw the matter otherwise, my feeling 
 would have been different. If I thought only 
 of a marriage the scheme of which had been 
 selected by your father, I would have stood by 
 and said nothing. He has made his choice^
 
 XIV. DELORAINE. 209 
 
 and this is according to the practice of those 
 who live with us^ and those that lived before 
 us. You have subscribed to his choice ; and I 
 should have subscribed too. I should have 
 been contented that you formed other and 
 nearer ties than those which have hitherto 
 subsisted between you and me; and, impressed 
 with the thought of the comparative narrow- 
 ness of my understanding, I should not have 
 conceived myself entitled to look minutely into 
 the affair, and to have weighed its merits in my 
 private scale. 
 
 But I do not view the matter in that light. 
 Not having the prejudices your father has, not 
 behig swallowed up, as he is, in the vision of 
 something that he prizes beyond the power of 
 words to describe, I suppose I see more clearly 
 the things that are before me. I see the dim- 
 ness of your eye ; I see the deadly paleness of 
 your cheek. I have attentively remarked the 
 cold damp that bedews your forehead, and the
 
 210 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 tinhealthy pink that from time to time marks 
 your countenance. You will not live, my 
 Margaret ! Your heart is broken, my Marga- 
 ret I I could follow you to the altar ; but I 
 cannot follow you thither, when at a short 
 distance beyond I see the tomb. 
 
 Tell me, my child, if this is not so ! Do not 
 refuse your confidence to me, your mother ! 
 If you can assure me that you shall be happy, 
 that peace will dwell within your bosom, that 
 you accept with your whole soul the husband 
 that your father has chosen for you, that health 
 will attend the scene of your married life, and 
 that you feel yourself capable of cheerfully 
 discharging its duties, it is enough ; I shall be 
 satisfied 5 I will believe a child, that never 
 from the hour that she was capable of distin- 
 guishing good from evil, told her mother an 
 untruth. 
 
 Margaret was overwhelmed by the solemn 
 appeal made to her by her mother. She adjured
 
 XIV. DELORAINE. 211 
 
 her to stop. She said, You should not have 
 done this, mother ! But the good woman, as 
 has aheady been said, was elevated above her- 
 self. She had worked herself up to meet the 
 occasion, and would not be interrupted. She 
 was wholly unlike what she had been found at 
 any other season. She, who had all her life 
 been passive and neutral, was at once swelled 
 into independence. It was for a life, the life 
 of the creature that she loved most deeply on 
 the face of the earth. 
 
 As the appeal proceeded, Margaret was 
 drowned in a flood of tears. She sobbed ; her 
 bosom heaved ; it seemed almost as if her heart 
 would burst the boundary that inclosed it. 
 
 The mother finished. She ended with the 
 adjuration that Margaret would pour her whole 
 heart into the bosom of her that bore her. 
 Silence ensued ; a silence that was unbroken 
 on either part for some minutes. The mother 
 would have followed with caresses the words
 
 212 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 she had uttered. But there was something in 
 Margaret's manner that forbade it; a so- 
 lemnity as of one preparing for the consum- 
 mation of what she meditated. Yet Margaret 
 was the gentlest creature that lived.. There 
 was strangely mixed with the loftiness of her 
 resignation, an imploring gesture, that asked 
 for forbearance and pity, the most childlike 
 that it is possible to imagine. 
 
 She composed her features into an expression 
 of exemplary resignation. It was nevertheless 
 sufficiently perceptible to an observing eye that 
 she was playing a part. 
 
 From my heart, mother, I thank you. Yes, 
 I always knew your love, and knew, however, 
 like the lamp of Vesta, it burned for ever, that 
 it would display its greatest power on the 
 greatest occasion. I ought to have expected 
 from you what I have now witnessed. But it 
 is to no purpose. I have chosen my part* 
 Here is my hand (said she, stretching it from
 
 XIV. DELORAINE. 213 
 
 the bed) : see, if I am not firm. Put your 
 fingers upon my pulse : you will find that it 
 beats with entire steadiness and regularity. 
 This is the greatest trial to which I can ever 
 be called. Permit me to rise. I will but put 
 on my morning dress. I will go to my father. 
 
 The mother carefully watched all her mo- 
 tions. The mind of Margaret was fixed ; but 
 her frame was unequal to the exertion. She 
 trembled, and was compelled instantly to seat 
 herself. 
 
 Never mind ! never mind, dear mother ! I 
 shall go through with it yet. I will not hurry 
 myself. I was to blame to be in a hurry. Let 
 the girl come to me. Let me have some 
 breakfast. I have not been well. I have had 
 gome bad dreams. I will go about it, as fits 
 the duty of a daughter. I will go through it, 
 and my father shall be satisfied. Never fear 
 me, mother : you shall find that you had no 
 need.
 
 214 DELORAINE. CU. 
 
 The good woman shook her head with a 
 mournful air. But she did, as she was desired. 
 She left the room ; and the girl presently made 
 her appearance. 
 
 The mother instantly proceeded from the 
 apartment of Margaret to the garden, where 
 she found her husband, as she expected. He 
 was sitting on a bench. 
 
 Well, my love, said he, have you seen our 
 daughter this morning ? How is she ? I 
 expect her spark and my lord to be with me 
 within the hour. 
 
 I have seen Margaret. She is very ill. She 
 wanted to come to you ; but she could not. 
 She has been obliged to remain where she was. 
 
 Yes, yes, I know she has been unwell. She 
 is a simple girl, and likes the banks of the 
 Severn, where she was born and bred, better 
 than she does the North. But she is a dutiful 
 child ; and she will find her virtue and her 
 duty crowned with an ample reward.
 
 XIV. DELORAINE. 215 
 
 Indeed, my love, she will not. Her lot is 
 cast. Her reward and her crown will be in 
 heaven, and not here, 
 
 Maurice, I have hardly ever had the courage 
 to speak to you, to contradict you. We have 
 lived upon these terms now for almost twenty 
 years; and I thought to have gone on so to 
 the end. I do not matter for myself. I do 
 not live for myself, but for you. It has been 
 my purpose, that every attention I could give, 
 should be for your accommodation. -I have 
 but one other tie to the world. 
 
 Forgive me, if I love Margaret nearly as well 
 as I love you. We have but this one. I know 
 that you are a slave to the pride of birth, and 
 the trappings of nobility. The longer you have 
 been condemned to be without them, you love 
 them tbfe more. Old man, old man, what will 
 you do without your daughter? You have 
 been accustomed to see her every day : when
 
 216 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 you do not see her, you think of her. What 
 will you do with your nobility, if you have 
 none to inherit it after you ? Will you give 
 your daughter in exchange for it ? You may 
 indeed place a coronet on her coffin. You may 
 bury her in the sepulchre of the Borradales. 
 Will that be a sufficient equivalent, and satisfy 
 you for cutting off the thread of her life ? 
 
 The old man was greatly startled with this 
 address. The view of things that was thus 
 forced upon his attention, was new to him. 
 He was not without his superstition. He was 
 a believer, if I may so far force the word from 
 its ordinary acceptation, in second sight. He 
 believed that mortals, upon extraordinary oc- 
 casions, have a secret sympathy with the invi- 
 sible and the future. He had never seen his 
 wife in the least like what he now saw her. 
 She was as one inspired. Her organs seemed 
 &s if they were usurped and taken possession
 
 XIV, PELORAINE. 217 
 
 of by a power above herself, as if her uncon- 
 scious tongue was made a vehicle to declare 
 the secrets of the world unknown. 
 
 He made little answer, and requested to be 
 left alone. He said, I expect lord Borradale 
 and his son anon. The mother had the dis- 
 cernment to see, that the salutary wound she 
 purposed to inflict, had taken effect. She 
 believed it was better to leave the thing as it 
 was, than to irritate her husband by further 
 contradiction. 
 
 Lord Borradale and his son arrived, as they 
 were expected to do. They found the old man 
 unusually thoughtful and sad. They had uttered 
 little more than the customary compliments 
 and enquiries, when Margaret joined them. 
 She was leaning on the arm of her mother. The 
 young man, who had been bred in the knowledge 
 of all the courtesies of life, flew towards her, 
 and with a gallant air took her by the hand. 
 
 Lord Borradale had been absent several 
 
 VOL. I, L
 
 218 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 weeks. He fixed his eye on the intended 
 hride. He had chosen her originally as he 
 would have chosen a statue from the hands of 
 Phidias or Lysippus to place in his gallery. 
 His choice had been founded first upon a mi- 
 niature that had accidentally fallen in his way, 
 and then upon a portrait of the size of life. 
 He had subsequently visited her in person. 
 She had passed victoriously through these 
 successive examinations. 
 
 Lord Borradale was, in his quality of a virtu- 
 oso, elegans spectator formarum, "a discerning 
 observer of the pretensions of the human figure 
 and countenance." Margaret now stood before 
 him with all her original graces of person, and 
 all that exquisite beauty of feature, by which 
 he had been struck from the first. But there 
 was much that he could no longer perceive. 
 Where was the celestial rosy red in her cheek, 
 that so beautifully contrasted with the alabas- 
 ter fairness of her forehead ? Where was that
 
 XIV. DELORAINE. 219 
 
 glow of health, and that enchanting smile of 
 content, which had once formed the crown of 
 her appearance ? Where was the shew of firm, 
 plump, elastic substance, which had taught the 
 spectator to believe that paradise was to be 
 found in her embraces ? 
 
 She would still have served perhaps to the 
 statuary, as a model for a Niobe mourning for 
 her desolate and childless condition, or rather 
 for an Iphigenia in Aulis, as she was delivered 
 over by her father to the priest, that she might 
 be sacrificed on the altar of Diana. She seemed 
 as if the thread of her life were already cut, as 
 if she had already received the mortal wound, 
 the trace of which was indeed unseen, but which 
 had full surely marked her for the grave. 
 
 This was not the thing that lord Borradale 
 had contemplated. He wanted, as I have said, 
 a beautiful and graceful bride, to preside at his 
 table, and do the honours to his visitors. He 
 wanted an object for envy, not for pity. He 
 l2
 
 220 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 wanted a health-breathing and fruitful mother 
 to his posterity, that, of the nobility of Borra- 
 dale, Genus immortale manerety multosque per 
 annos Staret fortuna domus, et avi nurnera- 
 rentur avorurri^. 
 
 He started at the sight of her. He said, 
 My dear, you seem very ill. He turned to the 
 father, exclaiming. Here is something wrong. 
 Have you called in proper advice ? I must by 
 all means request that the marriage may be 
 deferred. Thursday must no longer stand, as 
 we had purposed. 
 
 The eyes of the father were opened. He 
 had been previously struck with the expostula- 
 tion of the mother. She had appeared to him 
 like a prophetess, delivering the oracles of 
 heaven. The warning she had pronounced to 
 him, was impressively inforced by the scene 
 
 ^ "The race might be immortal, the fortune of the house 
 perpetuated for myriads of years, and the succession con- 
 tinued through countless generations."
 
 XIV. DELORAINE. 221 
 
 before him, the meek submission of his daugh- 
 ter, trembling and deadly pale, and the effect 
 that had obviously been produced upon lord 
 Borradale. 
 
 No, my lord, exclaimed he, neither Thursday, 
 nor any future time. Pardon me; I have been 
 dazzled with your lordship's noble and gene- 
 rous propositions. My daughter had a lover, 
 her equal as our circumstances then stood, who 
 once saved her life, and between whom and her- 
 self there subsisted a thousand endearments. 
 But she so generously consented to sacrifice 
 herself to my foolish and contemptible ambition, 
 that I was deceived. I thought that, where 
 there was a heroical resolution, every thing 
 else would follow. I accepted her surrender. 
 I admired her filial resignation, and believed 
 that with so much virtue, she could not fail to 
 be happy. I have played the tyrant. My 
 bowels yearned for her: but I have said every 
 day, "A little more perseverance, and all will
 
 222 DELORAINE. 
 
 CH. 
 
 be right. I have gone far 5 I have extorted her 
 consent ; I have been the means of banishing 
 the lord of her affections to the other side of 
 the globe; it would be foolish to give in now." 
 But no; I will not be the death of my Mar- 
 garet. She is of ten thousand times greater 
 value than I am. She is worth all the world. 
 What shall I ever hereafter think of myself, if 
 I were to be the means of the miscarriage of so 
 glorious a creature ? The unmurmuring sacri- 
 fice that she has consented to make of her 
 most bosom preference and her dearest affec- 
 tions, gives her an omnipotent title to my 
 tenderness and indulgence. Shall I take this 
 willing victim, and lead her like a lamb to the 
 slaughter ? 
 
 No ; Margaret, beloved of my soul, call back 
 
 your health, call back the roses to your cheeks, 
 
 nd serenity to your soul 1 Never more shall 
 
 you be thwarted by me. I will not break your 
 
 heart. Heal, I intreat you, carefully heal the
 
 XIV. DELORAINE. 223 
 
 wounds that my obduracy has inflicted on 
 you ! 
 
 My lord, I intreat you to allow me to resign 
 into your hands this pleasant retreat, sheltered 
 as it is under the wing of your magnificent 
 mansion. I desire nothing better, than to re- 
 turn to the little shepherd's hut, that for so 
 many years formed my retreat on the banks of 
 the Severn. I bid farewel to the illusions and 
 enticements of ambition. Margaret, my be- 
 loved Margaret, henceforth I will love nothing 
 but you. I have been in danger of losing you, 
 and I shut my eyes on the danger. Cheer up, 
 my child ! No longer ^^ with your vailed lids 
 seek for your chosen lover in the dust!" 
 Henceforth I will be your indentured servant, 
 having no will but yours, seeking for nothing 
 so much as your gratification and content. 
 
 We will immediately send to William from 
 the other side of the globe. Be assured, he 
 will come, and that suddenly. He loves no-
 
 224 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 thing but you. He knows no happiness^ but 
 in your endearments and your smiles. Hence- 
 forth the sun of no day shall shine but upon the 
 advancement and completion of your wishes. 
 
 Margaret heard the words of her father with 
 uncontroled amazement and transport. She 
 leaned upon her mother ; she tottered to a 
 seat; the mother drew a chair near her; the 
 poor girl hid her face in her mother's neck; 
 she wept abundantly; her frame was convulsed 
 with her sobs; she was unable to utter a word. 
 
 The whole scene was to her a scene of en- 
 chantment and miracle. The dutiful girl had 
 prepared herself to do whatever her father re- 
 quired. She had bid all the aspirations of her 
 soul be still; she had determined to be nothing, 
 if not dutiful. If she had sunk, and must 
 ultimately have expired under the greatness of 
 the trial, it would at least not have been for 
 want of the firmest resolution, and the sharpest 
 and most unflinching struggles. And now.
 
 XIV. DELORAINE. 225 
 
 that all this should suddenly be terminated by 
 her father's giving up his cherished projects, 
 coming over to favour and encourage the 
 dearest secret of her thoughts, and telling her 
 that nothing would make him so happy as her 
 union with the object of her earliest affections, 
 this was more than her most ardent hopes could 
 have aspired to, and went beyond the bounds 
 of her wildest credulity. 
 
 Lord Borradale was struck with the scene 
 before him. He was of a cold and unimpas- 
 sioned nature ; but the coldest natures are 
 sometimes liable to be excited upon extraordi- 
 nary occasions ; and then it not seldom hap- 
 pens, that the flame, so difficult to light, catches 
 with a pertinacity, and burns with a steadiness, 
 though not a fervour, that might do honour to 
 a nobler class of characters. He was edified 
 and impressed, as who would not have been ? 
 with the dutiful self-abandonment of this noble 
 creature. He resolved not to be outdone in 
 l5
 
 226 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 generosity. He told the father of the girl, 
 that he forgave him all his engagements, and 
 approved of his present decision. He added, 
 that he could not express his admiration of the 
 gallantry of Margaret's conduct, and was de- 
 termined, as far as he could contrive it, that 
 they should not be losers by the present alter- 
 ation. He approved of the proposition of their 
 returning back to their residence in Somerset- 
 shire, and engaged to settle an income of two 
 hundred a year on the father, and to give the 
 daughter a thousand pounds as a marriage 
 portion. 
 
 The young gentleman conducted himself with 
 the most edifying philosophy on this critical 
 occasion. He had been ready to marry his 
 cousin, because his father recommended it. 
 He believed her to be as good, or nearly so, as 
 a Grecian statue. But he did not doubt, though 
 he was so acutely disappointed in the present 
 instance, that his merits would procure him a 
 
 1^-
 
 XIV. DELORAINE. 227 
 
 suitable establishment and a beautiful bride, 
 who might hereafter be presented with himself 
 at court to the admiration of a crowded and a 
 brilliant drawing-room.
 
 228 DELORAINE. . C.H, 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 The sudden change which took place in the 
 feelings and prospects of Margaret was of the 
 most memorable nature. It was like a reprieve 
 to the unfortunate wretch who has already 
 mounted the scaffold. It was like the unex- 
 pected announcement of favourable symptoms 
 to the sick man who has received his last ab- 
 solution, and passed through the sacrament of 
 the extreme unction. This person has in sup- 
 position entered the mournful portal through 
 which all mortals must pass; he has shaken 
 hands with hope; he is satisfied that help is 
 vain ; he has dismissed the illusions of the 
 world; the grave has opened its jaws to receive
 
 XV. CEI.ORAINE. 229 
 
 him. The muscles of his countenance are fallen ; 
 upon his eye-halls rest the sadness of a com- 
 pelled resignation. If then unexpected tidings 
 of gladness reach his ear, what music is there 
 in the sound ! It has the long-drawn, delicious 
 melody of the Lydian lyre. He believes that 
 he shall once again behold the blue heavens 
 and the green earth, breathe the breath of 
 health, and scent the fragrance of the morning 
 air. He apprehended that he had done with 
 all things sublunary, and persuaded himself 
 that they had no longer any beauty to his 
 spirit. But how is every thing changed in a 
 moment ! A new life has descended upon him. 
 It is the birth not of an unconscious infant, but 
 the regeneration of a matured humanity, of a 
 creature who knows, and knows the more per- 
 fectly because he believed the whole at an end, 
 the joys of sensation, of thought, of reflection, 
 of a conscious being, admitted to mix once
 
 230 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 more in the activity, and hopes, and busy 
 scene of things below. ;; 
 
 Margaret and her parents were not long in 
 removing from their new habitation, and re- 
 turning to the scene of her former joys. As 
 they entered the neighbourhood, and caught 
 sight of the village spire, how did her heart 
 leap within her ! She could no longer contain 
 herself. She begged to be allowed to leave 
 the carriage, and walk the remainder of the 
 distance. She was in no hurry. She was 
 rather desirous to savour the sweets of this her 
 genuine home at her leisure. Her mind would 
 then change. Alternately she leaped like a 
 young roe on the mountains, or advanced with 
 such slow and measured steps, as if she wished 
 that the tell-tale air might not syllable the re- 
 port of what she did. Her father supported 
 her, and led her on. He opened the little 
 wicket that admitted them to the garden. A
 
 XV. DELORAINE. 231 
 
 servant already appeared at the door, and in- 
 vited them to enter. Margaret fell down on 
 the earth, and kissed the threshold^ and bathed 
 it with her tears. Never, never again had she 
 hoped to enjoy this unspeakable happiness. It 
 was a full and a rich reward for all that she 
 had lately suffered. 
 
 And now came the question of the return of 
 William, and the meeting, the image of which 
 she dwelt on for ever. She did not doubt that 
 he would come back on the wings of sympathy, 
 the first moment it would be practicable to do 
 so, after having received her father^ s letter. 
 
 She allowed her father to be the communi- 
 cator of good tidings. She believed that that 
 was the best form in which they could be con- 
 veyed. The old man wrote in the frankness of 
 his new-found liberty, intreating to be forgiven 
 for his injustice, describing the fidelity of Mar- 
 garet, stating in explicit terms how her in- 
 vincible affections, invincible even to her own
 
 232 deloraine; ch. 
 
 most strenuous efforts, had conquered his 
 worldly-mindedness, inviting William to re- 
 turn with the least possible delay, and assuring 
 him that the life of his beloved hung suspended 
 upon the promptness of his compliance. To 
 this epistle Margaret subjoined a postscript, 
 written with the simplicity which so eminently 
 distinguished her, and couched in terms of the 
 most fervent and unbounded regard, 
 . William had been already some months in 
 Canada, before this letter came to his hands. 
 The struggle of Margaret had been of consider- 
 able duration; she had placed herself entirely 
 at the disposal of her father ; it was by slow 
 degrees that the work of destruction manifested 
 itself in her frame; and it was nothing less 
 than the full conviction of every bystander that 
 her life would be the sacrifice, which brought 
 about so memorable and unlooked-for a revo- 
 lution. 
 
 William welcomed the letter with unimagin-
 
 XV. DELORAINE. 233 
 
 able transport. It was in desperation only that 
 he had yielded to the remonstrances of Bou- 
 verie, and consented to live. He had never for 
 one moment lifted his head in cheerfulness- 
 He had moved about on the deck of the vessel, 
 and in the colony after he arrived, rather like 
 a meagre, gliding, unlaid ghost, than a living 
 member of the community of man. He had no 
 spirit in him. He was like a man that had 
 almost forgot to speak, or at least who spoke 
 with reluctance, and to whom the most ordi- 
 nary communications of human society werei 
 attended with effort and pain. There was no 
 suUeriness; the original gentleness of his frame 
 of mind remained undiminished ; but the main 
 spring that maintained the operations of the 
 machine was worn out, and seemed as if it were 
 every moment in danger to perish altogether. 
 He wept, as though he wept not; he used 
 whatever presented itself to his hands, as one 
 possessing nothing ; he walked, as a man that
 
 234 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 walks in his sleep, whose eyes are open, but 
 the sense that should accompany them is shut. 
 ^^Even such a man, so dull, so dead in look, 
 so woe-begone,'' was WiUiam, who not many 
 months before had been the life of every circle, 
 the envy of all his companions, the happiest of 
 the happy. 
 
 When he received the letter of the father of 
 his beloved, he could not believe his eyes. He 
 recognised the handwriting in a moment : every 
 thing that had relation to Margaret made an 
 impression upon him never to be obliterated. 
 He said. For what purpose is this letter ad- 
 dressed to me? There is nothing left to be 
 demanded of me. I have surrendered every 
 thing. I have abandoned the casket where 
 every thing that was dear to me was enshrined. 
 I have evacuated the fortress which could alone 
 have preserved me from every ill.-^—Yet, what- 
 ever the letter might contain, it was welcome 
 to him. It must bring him news of his Mar-
 
 XV. DELORAINE. 235 
 
 garet, of one for ever lost, but who could not 
 fail ]to be dear to him as the light of his eyes, 
 and must always be remembered by him, as 
 that being who alone of all mortal existences 
 had made his heart beat with the deepest in- 
 terest, and the most perfect rapture. 
 
 William read the letter three times, before 
 he could properly be said to comprehend one 
 word of its meaning. It was a light from hea^ 
 ven that shone all round him, and extinguished 
 in him for a time the faculty of seeing. It 
 could not be true. The words must have a 
 meaning different from that which was obvious 
 and direct. It was like as if the letter had 
 been written in an alphabet that was familiar 
 to him, at the same time that it presented 
 words he had never seen before, or had never 
 seen in such a combination. That the father 
 of Margaret should have written to invite his 
 ret urn, and to sue to him to accept the hand of
 
 236 DELORAINE. 
 
 GH. 
 
 his daughter^ that father, who had proved him- 
 self the veriest slave of glitter and ostentation^ 
 who was in his mind a most merciless tyrant, 
 who had not hesitated to break the most perfect 
 of all ties, a harmony and consent of souls which 
 nothing could parallel. It was impossible ! 
 
 He believed, and disbelieved. But the most 
 agreeable state of mind gradually became the 
 predominant. He trod in air. He could not 
 well tell where he was, or in what part of the 
 world. For a short interval, every door that 
 opened he expected would set Margaret before 
 him, every new direction of the garden-walk 
 he pursued, every carriage that advanced from 
 the other end of the street. He flew to Bou- 
 verie, and put the letter in his hands. It was 
 well for him that he did so. The sympathetic 
 looks of ^feis friend, the kind tones of his voice, 
 modulated by feelings of earnest affection, 
 t)rought William back from the incoherent and
 
 XV. DELORAINE. 237 
 
 the unreal, and excited in him the ideas of 
 time and place, of plans to be considered, and 
 schemes to be digested. 
 
 Bouverie at once perceived that it .was un- 
 avoidable but that he must concur with Wil- 
 liam, and assist him to return with all prac- 
 ticable speed to his native country. No pro- 
 spect of improving his fortune could enter into 
 competition with the imperious necessity he 
 felt to throw himself at the feet of his beloved, 
 and yield to the master-passion that ate up all 
 the springs of his being. Even if hereafter he 
 should conform to the suggestions of prudence, 
 and determine to take advantage of the patron- 
 age he might reasonably hope for in the colony, 
 yet the marriage that was proposed to him must 
 at all events be his first step, and then he might, 
 if it appeared eligible, recross the Atlantic with 
 his bride, and make one of the speculators, who, 
 in this province newly acquired to Great Bri- 
 tain, saw a thousand advantages leading on to
 
 238 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 prosperity, and were enchanted with the idea 
 of the amusements of a Canadian winter, and 
 the rich exuberance which distinguished its 
 summer. 
 
 Some small delay was still necessary. Bou^ 
 verie, and the young men of the colony who 
 could yet discern in William the gallant youth 
 he had been, and anticipate in fancy the period 
 when he would break through the cloud which 
 had hitherto overwhelmed him, would not per- 
 mit him to leave them like one who fled. A 
 vessel was about to quit the harbour for England 
 on the third day from that on which he received 
 the welcome epistle 5 and by that vessel he dis- 
 patched an answer, announcing that he should 
 revisit the shores of Britain in one month from 
 the period when that letter should reach the 
 hands of those to whom it was directed. It 
 happened that he was able to name the vessel, 
 the Roebuck, merchantman, of Plymouth, in 
 which he should take his passage 5 and, as a
 
 XV. DELORAINE. 239 
 
 passenger with his family would be landed at 
 that port, while the ship with its freight pro- 
 ceeded to London, William would take advan- 
 tage of the opportunity to quit the vessel, and 
 proceed by land to the place where his mother 
 had lately lived, and where his beloved had 
 newly taken up her residence. 
 
 From the time that Margaret's father dis- 
 patched his letter to Canada, the love-sick girl 
 had on the whole enjoyed a sweet serenity. 
 She anticipated the most enviable happiness. 
 She had but to count a few short months, and 
 her William would join her again, never more 
 to be separated. She felt assured of his truth. 
 She felt assured of his forgiveness. What an 
 incredible reverse of fortune had thus befallen 
 her ! The future she had lately looked forward 
 to, consisted in her being destined to what was 
 construed as the most intimate union within 
 the pale of our social institutions, with a youth 
 who could excite in her neither respect nor
 
 240 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 attachment, and who was himself incapable of 
 these emotions. She could rely upon herself 
 for the most exemplary conduct. She did not 
 believe that the young man would use her ill ; 
 and she expected to pass her married life in a 
 calm, like that she had read of in the Dead Sea. 
 She did not expect to die ; she resolved punc- 
 tiliously to discharge all her duties. She de- 
 termined in no way to desert the station in 
 which the order of events seemed to place her. 
 She believed that, when every uncertainty was 
 at an end, she should recover her health and 
 strength, and go on to the end in the dull, 
 hopeless, vegetative life, in the journey over 
 the wild, desolate, sandy, unproductive desert, 
 that lay before her. She would, in recompense 
 for this immeasurable sacrifice, have the satis- 
 faction to reflect that she had done all this in 
 unreserved obedience to the author of her being. 
 But then she felt with agony that she was not 
 sacrificing herself alone. She believed, that
 
 XV. DELORAINE. 241 
 
 the person round whom her affections were in- 
 extricably twined, would be no more happy 
 than she was, that he, like herself, would be 
 consigned to perpetual blast. And, in propor- 
 tion to the degree in which she admired and 
 adored him, was her anguish in anticipating 
 the gradual sinking and destruction of the no- 
 blest creature the earth had to boast. It was 
 these thoughts that had so lately brought her 
 down to the brink of the grave. 
 
 But now that every prohibition to their 
 union was removed, Margaret indeed possessed 
 her soul in peace. She, who had shewn what 
 command she could exercise over herself in the 
 greatest of possible trials, without difficulty 
 subdued her spirit, and regarded as nothing 
 the interval that was placed between her and 
 the consummation of her hopes. The moun- 
 tains were removed, the vallies were exalted, 
 and the rough places made plain. All seemed 
 smooth before her. She thanked her father 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 242 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 every morning, who appeared to her the author 
 of her present felicity. In the sweetest accents 
 she lamented over the disappointment of his 
 prospects, and chid herself that any infirmity 
 of hers should have occasioned that disappoint- 
 ment. Why did he give way to her weakness ? 
 It would have been her greatest glory to be the 
 sacrifice to the accomplishment of the thing he 
 aimed at. At the same time she thanked him 
 in most heart-felt tones for her William. In 
 thus generously surrendering the edifice of 
 ideal greatness he had built for himself, she 
 considered him as the author of all her happi- 
 ness. He was a second time, and in a question 
 above all others most interesting to her, her 
 father. He gave her life, not in blindness and 
 ignorance, but because he loved her with di- 
 stinguishing preference. Every day of that 
 blessed life she was assured she should pass 
 with her William, she should recollect the re- 
 lentings and condescension of her father, and
 
 XV. DELORAINE, 243 
 
 consider herself as indebted for all to his un- 
 paralleled kindness. 
 
 In this harmonious frame of spirit it is no 
 wonder that the health of Margaret perpetually- 
 improved. The unfavourable symptoms vv^hich 
 so alarmingly threatened her life, one by one 
 disappeared, and left no vestige behind. Her 
 cheeks became smooth, and resumed the rosy 
 hue that vras the unavoidable result of func- 
 tions restored. Her eyes became once more 
 bright and lustrous, and the smile of cordiality 
 and enjoyment sat on her lips. The muscles 
 of her frame grew plumper and more elastic. 
 She wandered in the paths that William loved ; 
 she revisited with conscious recollections the 
 scene, where the declaration of his love had 
 first broke through the control of diffidence 
 and the fear of offence, and burst in a stream 
 of eloquence from his trembling lips. She did 
 not forget the field in which she had been 
 hunted by the infuriated cattle, or the tremen- 
 m2
 
 244 JDELORAINE. CH. 
 
 dous precipice down which she had fallen, and 
 where William had so miraculously saved her 
 life. 
 
 Meanwhile she did not fail to calculate the 
 days and the hours that must elapse, before 
 she could hope to see him again. First came 
 the dispatch of her father's letter of recal. 
 Weeks must elapse between the time when she 
 printed on the address her farewel kiss, and 
 winged its speed with her prayers, and the 
 time when he would receive it. Then she saw 
 her William in fancy when the letter was de- 
 livered to him, and pictured to herself his 
 emotions. Yes, she did not doubt that he 
 would hail it with joy unspeakable, and regard 
 its contents as bringing to him a restoration 
 from death to life. But how many things 
 might happen to protract his return ! Going 
 o#t, as he did, under the patronage of a person 
 of greater opulence and worldly importance 
 than himself, he could not be altogether his
 
 XV. DELORAINE. 245 
 
 own master. She revolved the various struggles 
 that might occur between the impetuosity of 
 passion, and the demands of the situation in 
 which her father's letter might find him. Wil- 
 liam was the truest lover, the most pure and 
 single-hearted youth that ever existed : but he 
 had also the most exquisite moral feelings, and 
 would leave no relative duty unpaid.
 
 246 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 At length his answer arrived, in which he pro- 
 mised that, in one m'onth from its receipt, he 
 would make his appearance before her in per- 
 son. He named the ship in which he was to 
 come, and the port, Plymouth, where he was 
 to land. Oh, how she doated on this letter ! 
 She had preserved many preceding billets that 
 she had received from him. But she had lock- 
 ed them in a cabinet, and placed them in a re- 
 mote corner, where she would be least likely 
 to fall upon them by accident. She scorned 
 the idea of preserving them as fuel for her ill- 
 fated and discarded passion. What she did, 
 she resolved in the integrity of her heart, and
 
 XVI. DELORAINE. 247 
 
 in the most entire good-faith, to accomplish. 
 But she could not prevail upon herself to con- 
 sign them to the devouring element. She could 
 not consent to the violent and profane destruc- 
 tion of w^hat was his, and might still be con- 
 sidered as representing him. It was enough, 
 she thought, if she never opened the casket 
 that contained these letters, never pampered 
 her sight with a line that composed them, 
 never voluntarily even looked upon the case in 
 which they were enshrined. 
 
 But how little, a short time ago, had she 
 expected to add another letter to the heap ! 
 When she removed from the North to the 
 banks of the Severn, she took care that this 
 cabinet should accompany her; and she no 
 longer imposed on herself the severe restraint 
 that it should never be opened. On the con- 
 trary she regarded it as a day of jubilee, when, 
 fearlessly and without remorse, she threw back 
 the lid ; and, every day since, she had made it
 
 248 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 pne of her foremost indulgences, to gaze on the 
 lines which William had traced, to admire the 
 beautiful phraseology and the words of fire in 
 which he recorded his love, and to trace every 
 variation and gentle transition from sentiment 
 to sentiment, which his clear and transparent 
 language conveyed. But his last letter was 
 dearer than the rest. It assured her of the 
 continuance of his affection, which no rejec- 
 tion, no change of climate, and no new con- 
 nections and prospects could destroy or dimi-> 
 iiish» 
 
 As the time appointed for his arrival drew 
 near, a certain restlessness and impatience be- 
 came visible in the deportment of Margaret. 
 Her hopes were sanguine; she did not doubt 
 she should once again embrace the lover whom 
 her father generously restored to her. But she 
 recollected every thing she had heard of the 
 treacherous element to whose mercy he was 
 now committed, the rocks, the shelves and
 
 XVI, DELORAINE. 249 
 
 the quicksands, that often lurked beneath its 
 smiling surface, and lured many a tall bark to 
 its ruin. She thought of the violence of the 
 raging winds, and of the broad, turmoiling 
 waves, that rose *^ Olympus high, and ducked 
 again as low, as hell is from heaven." She 
 pictured to herself the broad Atlantic, from the 
 midst of which the keenest eye from the tallest 
 mast could discern no shore, and then the ap- 
 proach of shore, which was often fraught with 
 more danger than could arise from the most 
 gigantic billows in the widest ocean. 
 
 Her father at length took pity upon her ex- 
 ceeding uneasiness, and kindly proposed that 
 they should remove to Plymouth about the 
 time of the Roebuck's expected arrival, and 
 surprise the way-worn traveller with the plea- 
 sure of an early encounter. They hired a 
 lodging within view of the sea ; and Margaret 
 several times in the day paced the sands, and 
 looked out with an anxious eye and a beating 
 m5
 
 250 DELORAINE. CH- 
 
 heart, whenever a white sail appeared in the 
 distance. Sometimes she climbed to the top 
 of Mount Edgecumbe, that she might give to 
 her prospect a more extensive range. 
 
 The state of the weather changed a few days 
 after the removal of the family of Margaret to 
 the coast of the English Channel. The sum- 
 mer had been genial and serene ; and every 
 thing appeared prosperous for the navigation 
 of William. But, as the days shortened, the 
 winds grew loud and hollow and blusterous. 
 This state of things continued, and even in- 
 creased day after day. The oldest inhabitant 
 of Plymouth never remembered so tempestuous 
 a season. The father of Margaret began to 
 repent of his precipitate step, in bringing his 
 darling child so near to the scene of danger. 
 Yet what could distance have done ? If she 
 had remained at her remoter home, she would 
 have heard the contention and roaring of the 
 winds, and her soul would have been shaken
 
 XVI. DELORAINE. 251 
 
 with a thousand terrors. Suspense is often a 
 great aggravation of the most fearful calamity. 
 Here at least with the earliest means she would 
 know the worst. 
 
 Every day brought word of vessels foun- 
 dered, or driven on shore ; and the sea-coast 
 was strewed with wrecks. At length intelli- 
 gence was received of the Roebuck being seen, 
 in the greatest distress, her masts over-board, 
 her rudder gone ; and the most vehement ap- 
 prehension was entertained for her safety. 
 Finally she drifted near the shore ; her con- 
 dition was plainly to be discerned; she fired 
 minute guns ; but no boat could venture off to 
 relieve her. You could almost see the coun- 
 tenances of the crew ; at least you could ob- 
 serve their attitudes and their despair. The 
 long boat pushed off with as many passengers 
 as it could safely receive, and was at no great 
 distance from the ship, when, from the force
 
 252 DELORAINE. 
 
 CH, 
 
 €>f a new sea, she made a violent plunge and 
 went to the bottom. 
 
 Margaret was within sight of this fearful 
 catastrophe. She looked with agonizing alarm 
 at the boat, as at one time it rose to an into- 
 lerable height on the giddy wave, and then 
 suddenly vanished out of sight, as if it had 
 been swallowed up by the billows. It drew 
 nearer and nearer, but with an irregular mo- 
 tion. No material accident however interfered 
 with its career. She pushed close under the 
 lee, and the passengers leaped out. They 
 were to the amount of nearly thirty. Marga- 
 ret had placed herself at a convenient distance^ 
 from whence she could observe the figures of 
 the crew, their gestures and their faces. She 
 dared not come nearer; for she began to be 
 oppressed with a doleful presentiment that 
 William was not among them. Her appre- 
 hension was but too true. Her gaze became
 
 XVI. DELORAINE. 253 
 
 keener and more keen; probability advanced 
 further and further^ till it turned itself into a 
 dreadful certainty j Margaret took her last 
 look, and sunk insensible on the bank. Her 
 father, her mother^ and a friend who had 
 accidentally joined them at Plymouth, were 
 with her. The old man delivered his daughter 
 into the care of the other two, and charged 
 them to convey her with all practicable speed 
 to the house in which they had resided for the 
 last fortnight. He resolved that he would not 
 himself quit the shore, till by persevering he 
 had obtained all practicable information as to 
 the loss of the ill-fated lover. 
 
 At first the unhappy wretches who had just 
 escaped from a watery grave, shook him off 
 with impatience. They were too much dis- 
 turbed, too much occupied with looking about 
 them, first to the landward, and then to the 
 sea, and then in mourning for the friends, the 
 companions, and the property, that was all
 
 254 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 swallowed up in the wreck, to be capable of 
 listening to the importunity of a stranger. 
 Borradale was schooled by the rebuffs he re- 
 ceivedj and watched for a propitious occasion. 
 He followed them to an inn to which the 
 majority of them retired, and patiently waited 
 till they had called for and taken such re- 
 freshments as they pleased. He then fixed on 
 a young man, who drew somewhat apart from 
 the rest, and was otherwise distinguished by 
 an humane and intelligent countenance. Of 
 him he enquired respecting the youth, who had 
 come to Canada only a few months before with 
 colonel Bouverie, and had since embarked on 
 his return on board the Roebuck. 
 
 It happened that the person to whom these 
 questions were addressed, was able to give all 
 the information that was sought. He and 
 William, though previously unacquainted with 
 each other, had associated familiarly during 
 the voyage. He said, that William had ap-
 
 XVI. DELORAINE. 255 
 
 peared to be the happiest creature on board. 
 He told his new friend, that he was coming 
 home to be married, that he had been driven to 
 go abroad by the inexorableness and hard- 
 heartedness of the father of her he adored, 
 whose only fault it was to be too submissive 
 to so ill-conditioned a parent ; but now every 
 thing was reconciled^ and he was recalled by 
 the invitation of him who had occasioned his 
 exile. His raptures in praise of his mistress 
 were inexhaustible. His delicacy however 
 was so great, that he never once pronounced 
 the name of her family, but had only spoken of 
 her by her Christian name of Margaret. 
 
 The voyage had passed in the most auspici- 
 ous manner, till, on the evening of the third 
 day from their catastrophe, and when they had 
 already entered the chops of the Channel, 
 appearances suddenly changed. A sharp wind 
 arose, and the temperature became exceedingly 
 cold. The clouds thickened; and, before morn-
 
 256 DELORAINE. CH» 
 
 ing, they were involved in all the horrors of a 
 tempest. The tone of William's mind for the 
 first time became changed, and he was filled 
 with melancholy presentiments. Is it possible, 
 said he to his friend, that, now that I am come 
 home to happier prospects than ever, I should 
 be destined never to reach the land ? God 
 knows my heart ! I do not grieve so much 
 for myself (I know that I must die some time 
 or other, in adverse circumstances or in pros- 
 perous), as I do for my beloved, if it is her 
 fate to lose me and survive. I could almost 
 wish (for her sake, not for my own,) that we 
 were embarked in one bottom, and sustained 
 the same fortune. Next to living together, 
 perhaps the most desirable event was that we 
 should have died together. 
 
 After having endured all the vehemence of 
 the storm for two days, and it being evident 
 that the ship could "not float for many minutes 
 more, the long boat was thrown out. William
 
 XVI. • DELORAINE. 257 
 
 was one of the first to rush to the side of the ship 
 where it lay. Life is dear to every one in the 
 moment of extremity j but William had a mo- 
 tive more urgent than any other soul on board ; 
 his venture was not merely for his own life, 
 but for the life of one a thousand times dearer 
 to him 3 nor merely for her life, but for that 
 which only makes life worth the having. He 
 stepped on the edge of the vessel ; a rope 
 which no one had observed, at that moment 
 slung violently against him; it destroyed his 
 balance in the very act of quitting the ship, 
 and flung him into the sea. He presently reco- 
 vered the shock 3 he swam towards the boat ; 
 one of the crew stretched out his hand, and 
 they missed of each other ; a wave came up at 
 that instant, and carried him many yards from 
 his point ; we saw him no more. 
 
 The situation in which Margaret was left by 
 this event was most melancholy. Every ob- 
 stacle to the wish of her heart had been re- 
 
 vfev"
 
 258 DE LORAIN E. 
 
 CH. 
 
 moved, and she was even courted to be happy 
 in the way of her own choice ; when a cruel 
 destiny had in a moment bereft her of the 
 individual, who alone in her apprehension con- 
 stituted the life of her life. Her prospects 
 were closed. There was nothing that remained 
 for her but a melancholy and cheerless resig- 
 nation. It was in some sort an aggravation of 
 her lot, that no one now opposed her ; all had 
 been eager to unite in one accordant effort to 
 place her beyond the reach of envy, when the 
 elements of nature put forth their might to 
 take from her that, which man was anxious to 
 bestow upon her. 
 
 It was by slow degrees that she was able to 
 raise her head from the couch upon which 
 despair had cast her. When she opened her 
 eyes from the insensibility which had fallen 
 upon her, she could not at first recollect what 
 had happened. The truth at length burst upon 
 her. Her agony vented itself in piercing
 
 XVI. DELORAINE. || 25^ 
 
 shrieks. She invoked the names of her father, 
 her mother^ her William. She had seen the 
 boat as it landed the few persons who were 
 saved from the vessel. She had viewed the 
 sinking of the ship 5 and she had seen no more. 
 But her father and her mother could tell her 
 that of which she was ignorant. Her father 
 doubtless had been earnest in his enquiries. 
 Perhaps William had swum to shore. Perhaps 
 some of the crew had saved their lives on 
 empty casks and fragments of the vessel, and 
 he among the rest. If so, why did he not 
 make his appearance to dispel her fears ? Was 
 there no hope ? What was the final result of 
 all the enquiries that could be made ? 
 
 The father and mother sought to elude her 
 earnestness, and clothe what they knew with 
 some degree of uncertainty. But she would 
 not be baffled. She pressed to know by her 
 importunate enquiry the worst. She was no 
 longer under the control of filial deference.
 
 260 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 The eagerness with which she sought the truth 
 trampled on all diffidence and half-measures, 
 and made her utterly irresistible. In piteous 
 accents she implored them to hide nothing 
 from her. Had even his body been washed 
 ashore, to give the last certainty to the cruel 
 tidings that overwhelmed her ? 
 
 From this moment Margaret sunk into a 
 deep dejection. Her situation was however 
 very different from what it had been during 
 her brief residence in Yorkshire. That had 
 been a condition of continual struggle that 
 wore out her frame. She had looked forward 
 to a future, which, in spite of all her efforts, 
 was inexpressibly odious to her. Nature and 
 fortune had a strife which should gain the 
 mastery, and she had been constant in her 
 determination to subdue her repugnance; but 
 the weakness of her frame had given way 
 notwithstanding the heroism of her mind. 
 
 Now she had no one to contend with : every
 
 XVI. DELORAINE. 261 
 
 one about her was desirous to do all that was 
 in their power to mitigate her sorrows. No 
 attempt was made to revive the proposals of 
 lord Borradale. Those proposals had afforded 
 the signal for the commencement of her ca- 
 lamity. And, since the series of her woes had 
 terminated in the destruction of her lover, 
 those proposals had grown a thousand times 
 more odious and loathsome to her than ever. 
 
 Her father, from the time in which he had 
 seen her on the steep descent of a premature 
 decay tottering over the grave, had totally 
 changed his character. He had now no object 
 so near his heart as the preservation of his 
 child. As the idea of an insurmountable 
 barrier to be set up cutting off for ever her 
 union with William had almost destroyed her, 
 both her parents felt that there was every 
 thing to be apprehended in the result of the 
 fearful casualty to which her lover had fallen a 
 victim. They regarded her as a creature to be
 
 262 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 saved with the most watchful care. They 
 viewed her as a delicate flower to be sheltered 
 from the blast, and to whose existence every 
 keener breath of heaven was in the utmost de- 
 gree perilous. They sought to anticipate all her 
 wishes, and to remove every obstacle from her 
 path, *^ lest at any time she should strike her 
 foot against a stone." They removed her from 
 one watering place to another, trying how far 
 travelling, change of air, and new objects and 
 scenes, might conduce to restore her strength 
 and infuse cheerfulness into her mind. 
 
 The efforts of her parents produced a deep 
 effect upon her. She felt how much she owed 
 them; and she would have regarded it as a 
 baseness and a crime, if she had not done every 
 thing in her power to contribute to their grati- 
 fication, and conduce to the object they desired. 
 It was a memorable contest on both sides, 
 which should make the greatest sacrifice to the 
 other, or most forget themselves in their anx-
 
 XVI. DELORAINE. 26| 
 
 iety for the benefit, or consideration for the 
 feelings of the other party. As the calamity 
 that had overtaken her was irremediable, her 
 mind sunk into a sort of hopeless tranquillity, 
 by no means calculated so powerfully or so 
 suddenly to undermine the foundations of hu- 
 man life, as the inward contest between a 
 contrariety of feelings under which she had 
 formerly sunk. 
 
 An interval of three years had interposed 
 itself between the catastrophe of William, and 
 the period when I first knew her. She had 
 gradually become resigned to her fate; she 
 endured life as that which it became her to 
 sustain ; but she carried a barbed arrow fixed 
 in her heart. She took no interest in any thing, 
 save the welfare of her parents. She consider- 
 ed all that they had suffered on her account ; 
 and she thought nothing she could do could 
 ever make them amends. Hourly she regretted 
 that her unhappy state should be a burthen to
 
 264 DELORAINE. 
 
 CII. 
 
 them. She was anxious to appear cheerful 
 and contented in their eyes. But she could 
 rise to no higher a virtue than patience ; and 
 therefore there appeared in her a perpetual 
 struggle between the shew of mildness and 
 equanimity which she assumed, and the wither- 
 ing consciousness of a disappointment and a 
 sorrow never to be forgotten.
 
 XYII. DELORAINE. 265 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 From the moment I saw her, I was struck as 
 I had never been with any other woman. She 
 had been resplendently beautiful. Her features 
 were not less perfect than those of the mother 
 of Catherine. The colour had indeed deserted 
 her cheeks; but her complexion was of the 
 most consummate fairness. Her lips imparted 
 the idea of delicacy itself. Her eyes had a mild 
 and languishing effect, which perhaps can never 
 be found in those of a person in perfect health. 
 Her high forehead was as white as alabaster, 
 and was doubly relieved by a profusion of 
 ringlets of dark brown hair. But the main 
 charm of the whole consisted in the mild ex- 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 266 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 pression of a divine resignation. She was like 
 nothing earthly. Human passions seemed ex- 
 tinguished in her^ she was among the admired 
 of her sex, but she ^'was not of them;" you 
 approached her with awe, as if she were de- 
 scended from the spheres; a figure like hers, 
 if encountered in the days of the fabulous 
 mythology, would undoubtedly have been wor- 
 shipped as a goddess. 
 
 From the moment I beheld her, I was fasci- 
 nated. I could see no one else; I could look 
 at nothing but her. I had loved before : oh, 
 how dearly loved ! but this was a passion of a 
 different sort. She appeared like a fairy vision, 
 like some creature of the elements, compounded 
 of the lily, the violet, and the morning dew, 
 when first the beams of the rising sun exhale 
 sweetness and freshness from the vegetating 
 earth. There was an unreal and an angelic 
 character in her seeming; she looked as if 
 purified and defecated from sublunary gross-
 
 XVII. DELORAINE. 267 
 
 ness, a modification of the air, that would vanish 
 if you approached it too rudely. The mother 
 of Catherine, however beautiful, was a being of 
 flesh and blood, a woman : so had formerly 
 been the fair Margaret. But grief had attenu- 
 ated, and resignation had sublimed her. She 
 was piety and filial virtue, and nothing else : 
 all meaner things, all imperfection, all that 
 allies us vulgar mortals to sense and frailty, 
 seemed as if they had long ago forsaken her. 
 She was a sylph. 
 
 Was it infatuation that my heart was imme- 
 diately struck with the spectacle of this melan- 
 choly maid? My feelings were doubtless in 
 some degree connected with the frame of con- 
 valescence in which I now found myself. The 
 world was renovated before me. I had lately 
 in a manner taken my leave of sublunary things : 
 and now unexpectedly I felt the sensations of 
 health returning upon me, and the world cloth- 
 ing itself in all life-giving colours. Meanwhile, 
 n2
 
 268 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 my limbs not being yet restored to their robust- 
 ness, my tastes and perceptions had in conse- 
 quence a delicacy which I had perhaps never 
 before known. 
 
 I approached Margaret; she did not repel 
 me. She had not been extensively conversant 
 with the world; and she found in me a being 
 more than ordinarily in unison with herself. 
 I was neither like the cold-hearted, mere vir- 
 tuoso lord Borradale, nor the frivolous, empty 
 coxcomb, his son. The tones of my voice were 
 characterised with a spirit of music; my man- 
 ners were soothing, prepossessing and gentle. 
 I talked to her of sentiment; I spoke of the 
 wife I had lost. Though I had been more than 
 fifteen years a widower, my recollections were 
 green, my emotions were fresh. There was a 
 certain kindred between my sorrows and hers. 
 She loved me for the purity of emotions, which 
 were of so long life, and had stood the test of 
 time; and I loved her, that she listened to
 
 XVII. DELORAINE. 269 
 
 them with so much patience, and such genuine 
 pity. 
 
 But the principal cause of the extraordinary 
 influence which Margaret exercised over ray 
 mind, consisted in her sorrows. There are 
 various ways according to which female loveli- 
 ness and excellence attain their empire over 
 man. Sometimes it is splendid, majestic, 
 faultless beauty, that seems to draw after it a 
 crowd of slaves, who would willingly, but can- 
 not, make themselves free. Sometimes it is a 
 species of beauty, soft, gentle and insinuating, 
 that appears to derive its strength from weak-» 
 ness. Sometimes it is grace of motion and an 
 irresistible carriage, that melts the heart into 
 softness, and imparts ideas of voluptuousness, 
 which subdue the whole man into an entire and 
 passive subjection. Sometimes it is sentiment 
 and sympathy; and sometimes wit that plays 
 about the lips, and flashes a transporting gaiety 
 and a thousand subtle meanings from the eyes.
 
 270 DELORAINE. 
 
 CH, 
 
 But sadness had to me a power beyond all 
 these. I should have resisted an imperious 
 beauty, that claimed to draw me a captive at 
 her chariot- wheels. I should have refused to 
 be the victim of the attractions of luxury and 
 voluptuousness. I should have disdained to 
 become the conquest of mere softness and 
 frailty. But I found in beauty, modified by 
 the impressions of grief, something that I could 
 not hold out against. Beauty prepares the mind 
 of man to submit; and pity binds him with an 
 invincible cord. Tenderness is the very soul 
 of love; and, when I looked upon Margaret, I 
 felt a tenderness for her that no words can 
 describe. 
 
 Another circumstance which exercised a 
 magic influence over my mind, was the re- 
 collection of what she had passed through. The 
 history of the human mind, and the inventions 
 of genius, can with difficulty furnish an in- 
 stance of so absorbing a passion. The resig-
 
 XVII. DELORAINE. 271 
 
 nation of Margaret served only to illustrate the 
 depth of the feeling with vrhich her heart was 
 penetrated. She could conquer her will; she 
 could yield the train of her actions to the guid- 
 ance of her father. She displayed an energy 
 and strength of resolution of the most extra- 
 ordinary cast. But she could not draw out the 
 barbed arrow which was fixed in her vitals. 
 She was hastening to the tomb without a mur- 
 mur; the all-inclosing air was not broken with 
 the voice of her complaint. But she was 
 dying. Having formed her resolve, she quailed 
 not; she stood as firm and motionless as the 
 pillars which are said to sustain the vault of 
 heaven. But the grave would have closed over 
 her; she would have been gathered to the for- 
 gotten things of the world. Nothing could 
 erase from her soul the image of her William; 
 there he stood distinct in all his lineaments; 
 he was the pole-star that marshaled the course
 
 272 DELORAINE. CII. 
 
 of her thoughts; he was the sun from which 
 the light of her mind was singly derived. 
 
 Such had been the feelings of Margaret 
 during her residence in the vicinity of the 
 mansion of Borradale, and for as long a time 
 as she believed that William was numbered 
 in the congregation of the living. There is 
 something exceedingly different in the effect 
 produced upon the human mind by the irrever- 
 sible decrees of fate^ and when the gates of 
 death are for ever closed on our conjectures. 
 We submit to the authority and the harsh edicts 
 of our fellow-creatures, but always with a re- 
 serve. The casket they present to us is like 
 that of Pandora : it contains an accumulation 
 of the direst calamities; but Hope is at the 
 bottom. We have still a secret hoard laid up 
 in the mind ; there is an uneasy thought, like 
 a living worm, gnawing at our vitals, and 
 suggesting, in spite of ourselves, the imagina-
 
 XVII. DELORAINE. 273 
 
 tion. This is not final 3 all these things may be 
 reversed. Not so, when death has shut up 
 the scene. Hope, the last possession of the 
 wretched, is then departed. And, strange as 
 it may seem, the heart grows more quiet 3 its 
 pain becomes blunted and dull; and though 
 happiness, it may be, is farther from us than 
 ever, we fold our arms, and become inert and 
 passive as a statue. 
 
 Margaret had passed through these two con- 
 ditions. In the first she wasted away with a 
 gradual decay ; and, had not her father changed 
 his measures, and given way in time, she would 
 have died, a spotless monument of filial sub- 
 mission and obedience. Her present condition 
 was not so critical. There was a pious, a reli- 
 gious resignation in it, that ceased to convuke 
 every fibre of her frame. She was struck, as 
 with a lightning from heaven ; but it had 
 nothing in it corrosive and putrifying; it ra- 
 ther seemed to preserve every thing in a state 
 n5
 
 274 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 beyond the reach of alteration. One might 
 compare the beautiful figure that presented 
 itself, to the unperishing remains of the mighty 
 dead of Ancient Egypt ; but with this differ- 
 ence, that the mummies we behold are shrunk 
 and withered, an assemblage of bones with a 
 covering, the skin being changed into the ap- 
 pearance of parchment, — while the living figure 
 I saw from day to day in the assembly-room at 
 Harrowgate was of unrivalled beauty, infinitely 
 more dazzling and illustrious than any thing 
 that can be discovered in those customary an- 
 gelic features, which Death has not marked 
 with the impress of his fatal operation. 
 
 When I looked therefore on the person of 
 Margaret, I saw all that love, almighty love, 
 could effect on a human being. She was the 
 temple, in which the god had enshrined him- 
 self. She represented to my eyes the image, 
 the sovereignty and empire, of this divine pas- 
 sion. This spectacle produced in me a strange
 
 XVII. DELORAINE. 275 
 
 and most perverse conception, the thought. 
 Oh, that I could be so loved, as William had 
 been loved ! There was indeed a mighty ob- 
 stacle to this. Could his image ever be oblite* 
 rated from her heart ? Were not her powers 
 already used up ? Was not the elasticity of her 
 soul worn out by her first passion ? No mat- 
 ter ! I refused to despair. Here was at les^st 
 the subject, the living creature originally capa- 
 ble of such things as the multitude of her sex 
 are not qualified so much as to understand. 
 Perseverance might do much ; and I resolved 
 to persevere. The difficulties indeed were vast. 
 But proportioned to the difficulties, was the 
 glory of the achievement; or what I valued 
 more, the consciousness I should have that I 
 possessed a prize, such as all the earth could 
 not shew in any other creature. 
 
 There was something in the demeanour of 
 Margaret that encouraged this idea. Without 
 declaring myself, my manner and my attentions
 
 276 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 became such, as fully to shew to every discern- 
 ing eye how deeply I was smitten with the pale, 
 the enchanting figure that was placed before 
 me. I was happy enough from the first to find 
 some degree of favour in the sight of the dis- 
 consolate mourner. She distinguished me from 
 the herd of those who danced attendance at 
 this scene of apparent gaiety. I sat near her ; 
 I spoke to her. My speech was mild, and in 
 harmony with her subdued state of mind. As 
 I said before, her air was abstracted ; she 
 seemed scarcely to notice the things around 
 her. But she attended to me. I talked to her, 
 not of those frivolous matters which make 
 almost the sole subject of fashionable con- 
 versation. I talked of those parts of England, 
 which we had both of us seen. I talked, with- 
 out being conscious of it, of those poets and 
 those branches of literature, in which she had 
 been initiated by her lover. She listened to 
 me; she answered me. Her remarks were
 
 XVU. DELORAINE. 277 
 
 indicative of the most perfect taste and the 
 deepest feeling j the tones of her voice thrilled 
 through my heart. The subdued, gentle and 
 low key in which she spoke, the sweet distinct- 
 ness of her articulation, filled me with rapture. 
 I felt sensations I had never before known, a 
 bliss of a strange character, which, because it 
 was new to me, deprived me of self-government, 
 and carried away my whole soul like a torrent. 
 
 I was not slow in opening my heart to the 
 father of Margaret. He consulted his wife. 
 They both of them thought, that, if I could 
 win the favour of their daughter, the happiest 
 result might be expected. They determined, 
 that they would in no sort interfere to direct 
 her will. They had had enough of that. But, 
 if she could be drawn off from the fearful abs- 
 traction and quietism into which she had fallen, 
 if she could be induced to form new ties, it 
 might be the cause of a happy revolution within 
 her. She was of so ingenuous a disposition, of
 
 278 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 a conscience so perfect and sincere, that she 
 would never enter into so sacred an engage- 
 ment as marriage (particularly when that en- 
 gagement, as they resolved should be the case, 
 was entirely her own act), without summoning 
 her whole energies to the discharge of its du- 
 ties. It was the only chance. She would then 
 be transported into a new world. She would 
 have a husband, servants, an establishment, to 
 occupy her attention. She could not live, as 
 now, only with the extinguished and invi- 
 sible. 
 
 For Margaret, she also, for various reasons, 
 felt inclined to listen to the proposition. She 
 began to be ashamed of her obstinacy and self- 
 will. She felt how much she was indebted to 
 her parents for the indulgence they had shewn 
 her. She resolved not to be an incumbrance on 
 them for ever. She dived into their hearts, 
 and, notwithstanding the entire silence they 
 preserved, saw what it was they earnestly de-
 
 XVII. DELORAINE. 279 
 
 sired. She had been, as it were, an evil genius 
 to her father, the means of cutting off his hopes, 
 disappointing his ambition, and driving him 
 back upon the low estate which had embittered 
 the best years of his life. She thought her sub- 
 mission to the speechless wish which he had 
 formed in this instance, would prove the best 
 expiation she could make for that scene, in 
 which she had so unwillingly been the cause of 
 his griefs. 
 
 Beside this, she also began to believe that 
 she ought to consider, that she did not come 
 into the world for herself alone. She had fa- 
 culties and endowments. She was capable of 
 imparting good and happiness to others. She 
 was the member of a society, a body corporate 
 more or less limited, of human beings. She 
 had the power of doing good to others, and of 
 exhibiting a praise-worthy example. She re- 
 solved, that her humble name should be remem- 
 bered for a certain worthiness, and that it should
 
 280 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 not be forgotten by every one that Margaret had 
 existed. 
 
 When she began, as I have said, to feel in- 
 clined to the proposition I had submitted to 
 her parents, her conversations with me at the 
 same time began to assume a new charac- 
 ter. She was still ^^ of ladies most deject 
 and wretched," her heart deeply scarred and 
 trenched with the trials she had passed through, 
 and the sorrows she sustained. But her man- 
 ner towards me was most fascinating and ex- 
 quisite. When she saw me, she roused her- 
 self. The treatment she exercised towards me, 
 was wholly unlike that she gave to the insects 
 that buzzed around her, unlike that which she 
 gave to her friends. It resembled the demean- 
 our which was to be observed in her to her 
 earthly parents : and yet it was distinct from 
 that. She tasked herself to give me pleasure. 
 She treated me as a person already standing 
 in some relation to her, in consideration of the
 
 XVII. DELORAINE. 281 
 
 relation in which it was probable I might here- 
 after be placed. 
 
 This sort of shadowy, undemonstrative ob- 
 servance had a power that no other mode of 
 conduct could equal. It was like the modula- 
 tion of the speech of a ghost, who, we are told, 
 even when he reveals the secrets of a world 
 unknown, or lays bare the foulness of the most 
 monstrous crimes, still speaks in a tone, arti- 
 culate and no more, in words which, while 
 they shake the inmost fibre of our souls, have 
 neither accent nor emphasis, but impress us 
 with the weight of the thing communicated, un- 
 clothed with the labour and artifices of speech. 
 It is even thus, if I may farther illustrate my 
 meaning, that action, the gestures of the body, 
 the impatient stamping of the foot, are merely 
 the excrescences and disease of eloquence. 
 They mark that the speaker is not at home, 
 nor fully imbued and penetrated, with his sub- 
 ject. Otherwise he would not indulge in these
 
 282 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 ambitious ornaments of discourse^ shewing that 
 he is labouring to reach, is working himself up 
 to, the idea and the feeling he would commu- 
 nicate. The highest eloquence is concentred. 
 In it the voice is deeply, not superficially af- 
 fected, the eye may speak, the muscles of the 
 visage may be convulsed, but the limbs are 
 still. The action of the body, in the estimate 
 of true taste, interrupts the path of a thought, 
 which should proceed straight from the soul of 
 the speaker to the soul of the hearer, to which 
 purpose this restlessness is mere absurdity, 
 and impertinently disturbs the conception, 
 which otherwise would be drunk in with one 
 long draught by him who listens. 
 
 I am afraid of not making myself fully un- 
 derstood. My illustrations are inappropriate, 
 but are such as I am able to light upon. Be 
 that as it will, it was thus that Margaret spoke. 
 She was a statue; and by contagion I was 
 turned into a statue. We spoke, not in whis-
 
 XVII. DELORAINE. 283 
 
 pers, for the clear tone of the voice was not 
 disguised, but was uttered in that key, pure, 
 though subdued, which reached the ear of no 
 one but the person for whom it was intended. 
 
 Margaret seemed to undergo a metamor- 
 phosis and a miracle. The deeply-trenched 
 wound she had received was not healed. Her 
 colour was not restored to her ; she was not 
 gay — oh, how far was the sensation of gaiety 
 from the soul of the mourner ! But she was 
 all observance, tenderness, and mild devotion. 
 She seemed to be awake to me alone, to see 
 nothing but me. She then only became a 
 living thing, when I approached. The cloud, 
 in which the memory of her William wrapped 
 her, and which hid her beauties and graces 
 from all other eyes, fell off, and was dissipated. 
 Still she was an imagination only, and a me- 
 mory. Her body was a corpse, if we can figure 
 to ourselves a corpse, void of every thing of- 
 fending and repulsive, but which on the con-
 
 284 DELORAINE. 
 
 CH. 
 
 trary was more beautiful, more ravishing, more 
 celestial, than any living mortal could ever be. 
 For the soul that informed this body, was all 
 delicacy, all sensitiveness, tremblingly alive. 
 
 To be the object of the tenderness and atten- 
 tion of so divine a creature, a creature altoge- 
 ther unlike any thing I had ever seen or could 
 figure to myself, was a trance, a removal to the 
 heaven of heavens. I know not how it was : I 
 had loved Emilia, as much, I thought, as wo- 
 man could be loved. But my present passion 
 was not like what has been described as 
 
 A home-felt delight, 
 A sober certainty of waking bliss. 
 
 Oh, no ! It was " the song of Circe and the 
 Sirens ; it took the prisoned soul, and lapped 
 it in Elysium ; it lulled my sense in pleasing 
 slumbers, and in sweet madness robbed me of 
 myself." 
 
 What I felt on this occasion can be likened 
 to nothing but a transmigration, a being born
 
 XVII. DELORAINE. 285 
 
 again. I was, as Solomon says, even as *^a 
 serpent upon a rock," the skin of vrhose figure 
 has, by length of time and the rudeness of the 
 elements, become knotty and gnarled, vrith a 
 thousand wrinkles, and pursed into furrows, 
 loose and unfitted to the frame within, but 
 who, by continual friction and rubbing himelf 
 against substances the most capable of resist- 
 ance, at length detaches and lays aside the de- 
 formity which incumbered him, and comes forth 
 glossy and sparkling, and moves free as air and 
 with the lightning's speed. Just as we might 
 suppose such a serpent, unweeting of his 
 former self, and rushing into the joys of a new 
 existence, even such was I. 
 
 I lived in the glance and the motions of my 
 new mistress. I turned as she turned, "true 
 as the needle to the pole.'' Wherever I met 
 her, I saw nothing else. Her motions, which 
 were gentle, and gliding, and made no noise, 
 ravished me. The very air seemed to yield
 
 286 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 before her, and to suffer neither removal nor 
 violence, so little did she resemble the crea- 
 tures of this common earth. Her voice, which 
 was all soul, 
 
 came o'er my ear like the sweet south. 
 
 That breathes upon a bank of violets. 
 Stealing, and giving odour. 
 
 When she opened her lips, I dared not so 
 much as breathe. " Silence was took, ere it 
 was ware." There was a melody in her speech, 
 ten thousand times the more fascinating, be- 
 cause it had a coyness, as if afraid to be heard, 
 a divine sweetness and beauty, and a measured 
 pace, that enabled the hearer to savour it all, 
 without missing its slightest and most evane- 
 scent graces. 
 
 In a word, never was man so entirely and 
 irretrievably caught, as I was caught. There 
 were no obstacles in our path, and we married. 
 Before this event took place, Margaret a thou- 
 sand times called on me to consider what I
 
 XVII. DELORAINE. 287 
 
 was doing. She was a being, she said, over '^ 
 whom the Angel of Despair had poured his 
 influences, and who never could be worthy of 
 me. I liked her, she could perceive, — I loved 
 her, if that were the name by which I chose to 
 call what I experienced : and this was all well, 
 so long as the situation retained its novelty. 
 But it was impossible, I could continue to be 
 satisfied. I would find in no long time that I 
 had taken the shadow only, where I had ex- 
 pected the reality of a wife. Her affections were 
 blasted ; her heart in the grave. What was there 
 left, that could be entitled to my acceptance ? 
 
 At the same time that Margaret stated this, 
 she assured me of her resolution, as far as that 
 could be effected, to conform herself entirely 
 to the state upon which she entered. She 
 would not juggle with her vows. Conscious 
 as she should be, that her best services were 
 ^^ stale, flat and unprofitable,*' and that even at 
 last she could poorly and worthlessly discharge
 
 288 DELORAINE. CH. 
 
 the duties of that equality and partnership into 
 which I proposed to admit her, she would 
 watch herself unintermittedly, make her life a 
 school, and each evening a shrift. But it im- 
 ported not, she said : all that she could do 
 would fall far short of what might reasonably be 
 required by me of a wife ; and I should question- 
 less repent of the rashness of my proceeding. 
 
 I on my part protested, that the frame of 
 my spirit was such as could never experience 
 a change. I felt that within, which had made 
 me a new creature, and would last as long as 
 sense and reason should be continued to me. 
 I was devoted to her, and had no life but in 
 her life, no pleasure but in rendering her in- 
 cessant attentions, no satisfaction but in her 
 approval. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 PRINTED BY RICHARD TAYLOR, 
 K£D LION COURT, FLEET STREET.
 
 9-90.