*^H mt >• iL-.Ji^v^ mu^^:.^:. L I E) R.AR.Y OF THL U N IVER.5ITY or ILLI NOIS R34Q. A; '■ M, />f Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2009 with funding from University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign http://www.archive.org/details/rhodanovel01lewi fj^^v-^^^ft R HO D A: A NOVEL. BY THE AUTHOR OF " THINGS BY THEIR RIGHT NAMES," " PLAIN SENSE," &c. " I teach the useful science to be good." Pope " Pour reussir par les ouvrages d'imagination, il faut peut- ^tre, pr senter une morale facile au milieu des mceurs severes; mais au milieu des moeurs corrumpues le tableau d'une morale austere est le seul qu'il faille constamment ofirir." Sta'el, de la Litterature. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON : PRINTED FOR HENRY COLBURN, CONDUIT STREET AND G. iLND S. BOBINSON, PATEBNOSTEa ROW. 1816. W. Flint, Printer, Old Bailey, London. V.I RHODA. ^ CHAP. I. ." You have oftea 'o ^ ' d BciTua to tell me what I ara, but stopt, ■^ ... > j^nd left me to the bootless iaqiusitiou ; CoQcluding, Stay, not yet I" — — " The hour's now come. This very minute bids tbee ope thme ear ; ^"* Obey, and be attentive."— ^_ Shafcespeare. •<& sf «' Stir the fire, Rhoday and then" — ? " There ! — who could have done it If better ? And now, my dear Rhoda, for the tale of other times.*' "Once upon a time," said the old gen- tleman, fixing his eyes upon his youth- ful companion, with an expression of mingled affection and pity — '' Once upoi?. a time, there was a certain young man and a certain young woman, who loved VOL. I. B one another so well, that they forgot that there was any body else in the world — they forgot too that any body else could ever come into the world. — So they married ; and never recovered their recollection, until the young man, on the close of a hard fought day, was brought back to a miserable hut, mor- tally wounded, and the young woman, having received his last sigh, breathed her's also, at the moment when she gave being to a female infant/' " Dearest uncle !" — said Rhoda. " Now,"' continued the narrator, with- out seeming to attend to the interrupting exclamation, — " at this death-scene there were present only two persons — a wounded soldier and his wife ; and the for- getfulness, which proved so disastrous to the young couple, seemed to extend itself to all v/ho had ever heard their names. The young man was mentioned^ for the last time, in the returns of the killed, and the young woman was thought of no more. " But although no sympathy for the dead had touched the hearts of their fellow mortals, the claims, which the poor infant preferred to their notice, were of too clamorous a nature to be wholly disregarded. It was necessary to still them one way or other. Un- fortunately, perhaps, for the wailing suf- ferer, it did not occur to the woman, who had been herself a mother, to make one grave the resting place for the parents and the child. She rather thought of preserving this feeble spark of existence,-of snatching from the remorseless grasp of death this sole remaining morsel of his prey .-A con- fused feeling, composed of a sense ot duty and interest, produced this design. " Poor miserable !"— said she, and her heart was softened.-" The lady had some good cloaths-and there must be some httle money," added she-and hen resolution was taken. " So she proceeded to dress the baby, and to possess herself of all on which b2 she could lay her hands, that had be- longed to the parents. " I wish I eould tell you, my dear child, '* continued the old gentleman, " that thecalculations eitherof humanity or selfishness, had been answered; but, in truth, they were both disappointed. No sooner was the novelty of compas- sion worn off, than the helpless infant became a burthen. No pleasure was found in relievino; wants which in- creased those of the reliever ; nor could strength, which was inadequate to per- sonal necessity, willingly become a prop to the weakness of another. *' The property, which had been tempt- ing in prospect, was found to be so evanescent in possession, as to vanish almost before it was enjoyed ; and once gone it was remembered no more. Yet no purpose of any actual or violent means of disburthening herself of what now proved so heavy a load, occurred to this half-humanized animal. Bad food, bad nursing, and scanty cloathing would, however, probably have efiected her wishes v/ithout any wound to her moral feelings, had it not occurred to her, that this troublesome infant might still be the means of indemnifying her for all the torment and fatigue v^hich it had occasioned. " Could she present it in tolerable health, and with some appearance of to- lerable care, to the relations which she had reason to believe that it had in England, she might yet reap a rich har- vest, as a recompence for all her la- bours. *' Of the few unperishable trifles which the parents had possessed, all, that could be bartered for the coarse gratifications and absolute necessaries of the soldier and his wife, were long since gone; and the hopes of being able to identify the child rested upon the contents of a small wooden box, in which were some papers ; — and a cornelian heart, the lat- ter of which the mother had worn round her neck, and which the woman. in the first furor of her compassion;, had tied around that of the infant, with an oath that it should never be untied. " This oath she had kept, and she now saw, with no little satisfaction, that engraved on this heart were the initials of both the father and the mother of the child, whose parentage it was of so much moment to her interest to esta- blish/' Rhoda raised to her lips the corne- lian heart which hung from her bosom ; looked earnestly on the engraving ; again kissed it — drew the low stool on which she was seated still nearer to the knees of her uncle, and with her whole soul in her countenance, fixed her eyes on his face, as if to anticipate, before he could give it utterance, all which he had to tell her. He continued thus his narrative : " The wounded soldier was now to be sent home as incurable — his wife ac- companied him, bringing with her the little wretch, whom, although at present an additional grievance, she considered as a future fortune for them both. " Of the young woman's family, from having once lived in the neighbourhood, she had a more distinct notion than of that of the young man — she therefore made her first attack in this quarter. " On her importunate solicitations to be allowed to see the lady of the manor, she was shewn to the housekeeper's room, and presently afterw^ards, there appeared a female about five and thirty, ojaudilv but not handsomely dressed, who demanded in a careless and un^ra- o cious manner her business. "The woman instantly saw that this could not be the grandmother, to whose feelings she had meant to appeal, " I beg your ladyship's pardon — but, if you please. Madam, your ladyship can- not be the lady of the house." " Cannot be the lady of the house, woman ! — Why not ?" '' You are tooyoung. Madam/* *' The lady's brow unbent. — '^ Young as I look, I am the lady of the house, good woman. — What do you want ?" " Perhaps, Madanri, you be a second wife ?" *' No matter what lam. If you have any justice business, Mr. Went worth is not at home."" " Why, yes, Madam, it is justice busi- ness, to be sure. — This poor child, ''with- drawing the cloak which had hitherto concealed the unfortunate victim of in- discretion — '' this poor child, please you, is Mr. Wentworth's grand-daughter.^' " Jones," said the lady, retreating to- wards the door, *' send this woman out of the house — she is an impostor. — Mr. Wentworth never had a grand-daughter.''* *' Buthe^arf," cried the woman vehe- mently — '' I am no impostor! — Miss Wentworth, (God bless her! she was as good a lady as the sun ever shone upon^j was his daughter — she married the young captain that was killed: — this is her i \ 1^ child — I saw it born, and I'll prove it to the whole world.'* " Well, don't speak so loud/' said the lady : '• come this way — I dare say that I can convince you that you are mis- taken." "■ I dare say you cannot," muttered the v/oiiian, as she followed this gentle rea- soning being into a small parlour, which they had no sooner entered, than the door of it was closely shut, and the conference, whatever it was, conducted in tones so low^ as to baffle all the quick ears and eager curiosity of the assiduously listening Jones. In about half an hour the convincer and the convinced returned to the house- keeper's room. *' Let this poor woman go into the kitchen, and give her something to eat, Jones," said the ladv. '' Slie is no im- postor, but she has mistaken the person whom she meant to inquire about — Rest and v/arm yourself, good woman, and then go about your business. By the direc- TO tions which I have given you, I dare say that you will find the people whom you are in quest of. — And Jones, come with me: I want to speak with you." " Whatever arguments Mrs. Went- worth had made use of towards silencing her unfortunate opponent, she had cer- tainly found none of force to persuade her that the child which she held in her arms was not the grand-daughter of her husband, nor without such rights upon the property, as might much infringe upon the provision which was to arise from it, for the numerous family that she had herself brought him — nor had Mrs. Wentworth been able, by any means in her power, to dispossess this tenacious adherer to justice of the little box before mentioned, and which the soldier's wife regarded as the fruitful hen, from which she still looked for more golden eggs. *' Having, therefore, consumed her meal of broken victuals before the curious n Mrs. Jones was suffered to return into the lower regions, she once more bun- dled up the unfortunate object of her selfish care, and departed from the hos- pitable mansion of Mr. Wentworth. " She departed, however, with no design to seek the family of the Went- worths in the north, who, she had been so confidently assured, by the lady that she had just left, were the family to which the infant belonoed, Altbousfh she had failed in one part of her work, she knew that her bow had been truly drawn, and a short considtation with her husband determined them to try rather to seek out the relations of the father, than either to rest contented with the money that had alread}^ been extorted, or to attempt to tell her story to people who, she well knew, had no reason beyond that of general humanity to listen to it. " These relations were known to her only by name, and it was not without some difficulty that she made out the part of 1^ England, where it was probable that they would be found. " The journey, from the spot where they now were, was long ; but a disabled soldier with his wife and infant child, were a, group, to the wants of which every English heart was responsive, unless where a design was discovered of transferring the child from its supposed parents, to those-who, as they asserted, ought rather to support it." 13 CHAP. II, *' The stitig's of falsehood those shall try. And hard uakin^ness' alter'd eye, ThatrTiOcks the tear it forced to flow j Lo, poverty to fill the hand, That numbs the soul with icy hand, And slow ceosuming age." Gray, ^' Some weeks after the application to Mr. Wentworth, the travelling trio ar- rived in a village, on the outskirts of which was placed the Hall House, the residence of the elder brother of the thousfhtless and unfortunate vouns: man, with the mention of whose indiscreet for- gctfulness I began my story.' " This elder brother was more than twenty years his senior, and had suc- ceeded to the family estate, before his brother had made his appearance in this u best of all possible worlds. — As Sir Wil- liam was solicitous that the honourable and ancient family, from whence he was descended, should not be blotted from the Herald's Office^ he married ; and soon found, in thinking much of his own growing family, a sufficient excuse to his own heart, for thinking not at all of those of his brothers and sisters. There were no less than six of them, all equally ill-portioned, upon the provident prin- ciple of sacrificing every branch to the leading shoot. " Such had been the custom of this patriot family from generation to genera- tion ; yet the tree was no stately tree ! — It neither reared its head loftil}^ nor spread its protecting branches widely. — Something was wanting to the culture —perhaps the blessings of the poor — perhaps the blessings of heaven, which seeing that nothing was trusted to its care, might think it waste to bestow it. — Be this as it may, there was certainly, at the Hall, little appearance either of 15 content in the drawing-room, or of com- fort in the offices : not that there was wanting a sufficiency of the necessaries of life, nor more than a sufficiency of its splendours. When a dinner was given, the honour and dignity of the family were w^ell supported by the display of plate on the sideboard ; the furniture, when uncovered, was of the richest tartane, and the most expensive patterns ; and Sir William and Lady Elizabeth received their guests with a magnificence and a decorum, that inspired some with awe, struck some with envy, and put most of them to sleep. '' But such galas occurred seldom. The resources of the family were barely sufficient to supply the eldest son with the means to maintain such an appear- ance in the world as might procure him a wealthy marriage, and at the same time enable the daughters to pursue a similar plan of aggrandizement, by occasional excursions to races, and waler-drinking places. 16 *' Beyond these two demands for money. Sir William and Lady Elizabeth had no conception of any use to which it could be put ; for as they were the fondest of parents, the splendid establishment of their children in the world appeared to them the only purpose for which they had been called into existence. Their thoughts, their affections, never moved a step beyond themselves, unless occasion- ally to visit their children, whom they loved, if love it could be called, not as distinct beings, for their virtues or their talents, but as parts of their own persons, which, being likely to survive some littk period, the other parts called for a some- what more extended care to provide for them the good things of this world, than would otherwise have been wanted. " There was, indeed, another person, who sometimes ma^de one of their house- hold, but certainly without any expendi- ture of their affections, and but little of their means — a worn-out veteran, a vale- tudinarian uncle, whose health had sunk 17 under the continued exercise of subaltern duties, for more than forty years together, without one happy opportunity by which he might have drawn on him the ap- proving notice of the world, or a kind bullet that would have sent him out of it. " He was now retired upon the little modicum which is allotted as therecom- pence for a life that has discharged only its duties; and as a long abstinence from most of those gratifications, which some suppose to be necessary to happiness, had weaned him even from the wish for them, he came not to the habitation of his more opulent relation, in pursuit either of the dainties or the comforts that he might reasonably have expected to have found there. He came, indeed, in hopes to supply that single want which, through life, he had found to be insatiable, the want of something to love ! " He had gratified this want through many bitter years, at the expense of IS heart-acbs innumerable, and disap- pointments little honourable to human nature: yet was this desire unsubdued; and he felt that it would only expire wnth his latest breath. " His last experiment had been unfor- tunate. The graces of Lady Elizabeth, and the apparent easiness of Sir Wil- liam's temper, had seduced him into the belief that they were creatures who might become dear to his heart ; but the experiment had deceived him. With all the moral alchymy of which he was master, he had never been able to ex- tract one quality from the composition of either Sir William or Lady Elizabeth^ capable of exciting his affections. " No doubt the mine was not %vho]ly without ore; but it was either in such small quantities as to escape his obser- vation, or lay so deeply imbedded in selfishness, as to elude his seizure. Still, however, he would not allow himself wholly to despair. If the cares of the world absorbed all the faculties, and all 19 the affections of the parents, he still pro- mised himself that he should, in the children, find something to love. " But the son was too insolent, and the daughters too vain, to admit the claims that age and poverty made to their atten- tion : and thev were all too heartless to be gratified by the tenderness of affec- tion, when offered by one who had nothing else to give. " Yet, not for all this, did their repulsed relation forbear to visit them. His ruling passion still prevailed over every feeling of disappointment and mortification; and although he was no longer the dupe of that self-love, v» hich had so often misled him in his researches after that will-o'- the-wisp, mutual etffection, he still in- dulged the foible of his own heart, by loving — not, indeed, his brother men, nor sister women: these were too high game for his decrepid age to fly at, but the woods, the lawns, the streams of his former home. Nay, his affections could foster upon the dark corner of the nur-* £0 sery in which he once had slept ; the compass window of the hall, whefe he had knuckled his marble; or the butler's pantry, where, in days long passed, he had stored his most valued fishing tackle. " These favourite haunts, so sacred to his imagination,, were indeed almost the only spots in the vv^hole mansion that the innovating hand of fashion had suffered to retain either the features or the names by which he had once known them. «^The «' little closet,'* where he had first been taught the rudiments of all human science, was now Lady Eliza- beth's '' boudoir." The '' big-parlour'* was become the '-eating-room;'* wdiile " the study,*' with the help of a few ad- joining cupboards and closets, made a tolerably respectable " library ;" and the *' long gallery" was by no means unwor- thy of the Sphinxes and Ottomans, which informed every erudite eye that it was now the ^' drawing-room." '^I will not attempt to vindicate the taste which led the old gentleman to SI prefer all that had been to all that was^ and still less to justify the pertinacity with which he persisted, to the conti- nued shock of Lady Elizabeth's refined sense of hearing, to eall all around him by the appellations by which he had originally become acquainted with them. Yet it was a harmless peculiarity ; an in- offensive renovation of youth to an old man, who had outlived all his actual pleasures, which might have been tole- rated by good humour, or overlooked by good sense ; but good nature and good sense made no part of the novelties with which the testy veteran was surrounded ; and whatever of either was possessed by himself^ seemed, on the occasions when they were most wanted, to be least at his command. Yet he lingered round the old hereditary spot, ashamed that he could neither conquer the partiality which led him thither, nor his own waywardness, which made him find fault with all that he saw there. *' Withdispositionssolittleconciliatory 22 on either side, was this family one morn- ing assembled in the " little parlour," at no very cheerful breakfast, when the footman informed his master that a wo- man desired to see him, on very import- ant business. " Oh pray see her instantly," said Lady Elizabeth ; " I dare say she is the person who, we were told, would in- form '* "Pshaw!'' interrupted Sir William; *' all the game I have on the manor is not worth the trouble 1 have with it." " No other gentleman would think so," replied Lady Elizabeth^ with an em- phasis that did not tend to allay the irri- tation of Sir William's feelings. " I beg the lady may^ be brought into this room/' said the old uncle : " I should like to see the woman who comes to tell a story that will ruin her husband." " You do not think of the justice of the case, my dear Sir," said Lady Eliza- beth, with much solemnitv. *' Justice, like charity, should begin at home, I think," replied the querulous old man. '* While this little sharp dialogue was passing, Sir William had given orders that the woman should be shewn into the room, and his orders were already obeyed. "She looked not,however,like a person who came to abandon any of her family — -for she held a child in her arms, whose wailings she soothed with the kindest accents, and by her side stood a maimed and sallow soldier, who leaned on her bosom for support. " Bless me ! who are these ?" cried Lady Elizabeth, with alarm. " We be come, my lady," said the woman, " to make every body happy. We have brought you^ Sir William, your niece.'' " Niece ! — I have no niece. That is, I have — I 1 1 want no niece/' stammered Sir William. '' Yes, yes, you have a niece/* replied 24 the woman, *' and as pretty a lass as can be seen on a summer's day/' uncovering at the same time, the face of the unfor- tunate infant — '^ She's the Captain's daughter:— I saw her born, and now I have brought her to you." '*^ The Captain ? — He was disobedi- ent — undutiful — I renounce him." "Nobody knows what sums he has cost my poor Sir William !" said Lady Elizar beth, with a deep sigh ; " and now does he send his brat a begging ?" " Lord love you, the Captain never sent her. Why, my lady, he is dead; — and so is the Captain's lady; but like they left this box, and what's in it will shew whose daughter this is. She's no brat, I can tell you l" *' Whoever she is," said Sir Williamj *^' I am not obliged to keep her. I have no doubt but that 3^ou are an impostor; and if you don't go about your business, I shall have you taken up for vagabonds." " Vagabonds ! — No, no, 'Squire, we are no vagabonds,'' said the man sur- 25 lily ; " I have not served my king and country to be called vagabond ; things aren't come to that pass : I shall have right done me, and so shall this poor baby too." '' Do you threaten, insolent ?" said Sir William. " Turn them out of the house/' " And shew them to mine, if you please," said the old gentleman, who n©w believed that he had found some- thing to love. — '* Or stay ; let me see your trinkets. Sir William, be not alarmed : if this child be your niece, she is mine also, and in that case I will take care of her." " You .-?" said Lady Elizabeth, in a tone of voice that reproached the old gentleman at once with his folly and his poverty. " Ah! God bless your honour,*' said the woman, " you look like ^an honest gentleman. Yes, yes, the box will tell whose child she is — but trinkets! I don't know what trinkets are; but VOL. I, a 96 tliere's not the value of a brass farthing in the box. except what the papers say. If you'll believe me, the poor Captain and his lady did not leave enough behind them to bury them.'* *' I have some reasons to believe," said Sir William, " that they were never married." " Slanderer !'' said the old gentleman, vehemently^ who at that moment had his eyes fixed on the paper which ascer- tained the marriage; " did you not ad- mit the marriage only three days ago, and tell me at the same time that there was no offspring ?" " I believed then that there was none,*' replied Sir William ; " and it is not proved now/' " Look at this !" cried the woman triumphantly, and held up the cornelian heart; " look at this: who did this be- long to ?" *' And we have a thousand other proofs,'* said the soldier. " Besides that, I will take mv oath of it; and it would 37 be hard if a soldier could not be believed on his oath.'* *' I do, I do believe you," said the old gentleman.-—" Come home with me, and I will reward you in the best manner I am able, for the care that you have taken of my niece : she shall hence- forth be my daughter/' " Oh my dear father !" cried Rhoda, embracing the knees of her uncle ; " but you were not the testy old gentleman ? You were not the querulous veteran }'' '' Yes, my child, I was. The sources of benevolence seemed to be dried up in me ; you opened them afresh : and hence you see no resemblance between the peevish humorist, who would never call things and places by the names that their proprietors had given them, and the indulgent simpleton, who lets you do and say whatever you please/' c2 28 CHAP. Ill, '* This small domestic foe. Still sharp, and pointed, to the breast did grow," Cra^be^ " Well/' resumed the old gentleman, ** having made this valued acquisition of, * a thing to love,' — I cultivated it with all the best of my ability; but though I succeeded completely in generating the warmest affection in my own breast, I found that I had not attained the end for which I had nourished it. — It did not make my happiness — I had still an unsatisfied want — perhaps it was only the natural increase of desire, vrhich * grew with what it fed on ;' — but now, I must forsooth be loved in return." *' Andyou were, my dearest uncle; you were;" interrupted Rhoda vehemently. " I believe it, dearest!" — replied her uncle gently—" but your love was not 29 composed wholly of the same materials as mine. Alas ! you had scarcely passed your first infancy before 1 found that the affection, which I had, as it were, created, and which I had stimulated with the most eager solicitude, made the chief torment of my life." " Oh heavens!" — said Rhoda— " Be not hurt, my love, "said her uncle, — " no deficiency in any of your qualities occasioned this misery — it sprung from myself, from a fervent heart united with a weak head — I never could calculate, never draw a consequence in my life — but the result and the consequence will come, whether we seek them or iiot. " I now began to find all that Lady Elizabeth's emphatic you might have told me before, that any shelter which I could afford you must end with my life; that every year, which added to your want of protection, took something from my means ot affording it ; and that the seven years, which had passed away so swiftly in the delight of administer- 50 ing to your wishes and your wants, had conducted me to that period of existence, beyond which it is presumptuous to look for its continuance. — The evil which I dreaded seemed to be as irresistible as it was certainly impending : it haunted my imagination night and day.— Your growing charms, for you were charming in my eyes, served but to aggravate my apprehensions— I was wretched, and I was helpless ! " Some events had taken place at Strict- land Hall, which I thought were calcu- lated to soften and expand the hearts of the inhabitants. — Death had thinned the ranks of the family, and fortune had smiled upon the individuals that re- mained. The son had formed a lucra- tive and splendid marriage^ the surviving daughter had been portioned by a god- mother, and Lady Elizabeth and Sir Wil- liam might be supposed to be at leisure to feel that there were other beings in the world, than those to whom they had given birth. 31 " I thought that I perceived, in Qiy occasional visits, a lessened inclination to sacrifice comfort to splendour, and the rights of others to the demands of self. '' I told you that I could not calculate, —but I could castle-build, and my foun- dations were generally proverbially un- substantial. " Upon the slight grounds which I have mentioned, I erected a moral fa- bric of compassion, — generosity, — affection ! — and I constituted you the queen and mistress of the mansion ! *' I had settled the matter so often with myself, that I forgot it was to be settled with any body else. — The objections which I did not discover, I was notaware could exist; and what would have been a happiness to myself to have done^ i believed must be so to others. '* One morning, when I was seated by the side of Lady Elizabeth, on the ce- lestial blue sopha, in her ladyship's boudoir, (for the happiness^ which you had imparted to my heart, had t-inght 3S me not to quarrel for namesj breathing all the sweets of nature and of art from the pot-pourris and exotics which sur- rounded me; and listening to a flow of sentiment that seemed to lull every angry particle in the human mind to peace ; now, thought I, i^ the moment to speak of Rhoda — but I spoke first of the new daughter-in-law, whose virtues and whose graces had been the theme which had called forth so copious a stream of eloquence from the lips of Lady Elizabeth. *' You are fortunate indeed, Madam,*' said I, ^' to have found united so many gifts of mind and person, with a fortune which made it equally prudent and de- sirable that the lady should become your son's wife, and I sincerely congra- tulate you and Sir William." " Oh, name not fortune !" — cried the lady. — " Before I was acquainted with my Wilhelmina, my duty to my family might have forced such considerations upon me ; but had I known her poor and S3 pennyless, I must have wished her to be my daughter— be assured, my dear Sir, she is a treasure in herself/* " Nay, Madam, you know that I am not one of those who think that laying house to house, and field to field, has much to do with the happiness of life: yet some of the fruits of the one, and some kind of shelter in the other, is necessary in this mortal state ; and I begin to fear that, in Rhoda's case, I have not properly considered how much,** " It was not for me to blame you^ my dear Sir,*' — replied the gentle Lady Eliza- beth, '' and your motive was so amiable ! — otherwise I must confess, I did think from the first, that if we had made a little subscription, to have put the poor child into some way of getting her own bread—" " Getting her bread !*' — said I, start- ing — " the daughter of Sir William's brother — the grand-daughter of my fa- ther, get her bread !*' ** Ah,mydearSir, it is fine talking; but C 6 34. we mortals, as you have just said, must eat ; and we cannot eat without money : and where will Rhoda have monev ex- cept she gets it ? Is there any disgrace in honest industry ?— Surely nobody in this enlightened age can think that there is." " Rhoda, I was shocked ! — I spurned from me the painted velvet footstool on which my gouty foot was resting ;— I sprung from the elastic luxury on which I was reposing, with all the alacrity of seventy years, and having overturned hair a dozen china jars, in my haste to escape from this modern Circe— -I hob- bled away to my little straw-roofed hut, and folding you in my arms, I swore that I would never again enter Strict- land Hall, nor converse with Lady Eli- zabeth. " My determination was probably by no means disagreeable to her ladj'ship, for after some faint efforts, on the part of Sir William, to make me relent, with some mawkish lamentations, " that such near connexions, each side meaning so 35 well, could not agree/' he ceased to im- portune, and indeed to visit me. *' This event happened more than ten years ago, and may account to you for what you have often wondered at, that we never saw our relations of the Hall, unless at church. '"^ My start of indignation, or even the just resentment, which the suave Lady Elizabeth had awakened in my bosom, had not, however, at all lessened the ne- css ity of providing against the probabi- lity of your literally fulfilling the curse entailed on the posterity of Adam. It is true that there were times, when in the honesty of my heart, and the warmth of my imagination, I grew half in love with the dignity of standing behind a counter of one's own, rather than eating at another man's table ; and that 1 revel- led in the delights of pricking the fingers to the bone in the duties ot honest in- dustri/, in [)reference lo preserving them in the rosy softness, thai might entitle them to the honour of forming wreaths for " a kind benefactress." 36 '* Yet my pride, or my prejudice, or that unaccountable part of our nature which so strongly prefers dependence upon the efforts of others, to the labour- ing for ourselves, always brought me back to the feelings of a gentleman ; and I concluded all my reasonings with this high-toned and rational sentiment, " that the grand-daughter of Sir Thomas Strict- land should never maintain herself." The feeling, which had produced this determination in the old gentleman, was artificial pride. The natural pride of Rhoda spoke a different language: her heart swelled — tears were in her eyes. *' Oh my uncle,'' she cried ; " would you have me a dependant being ?*' '' We are all dependant beings, child,'* returned her uncle : '' the difference lies only in the nature of our dependance. The support, which I sought for you, was the natural support due from the stronger branches of the family tree to the weaker; but I sought in vain. An application, that I made to your relations on the maternal side, was equally unsuc- 37 cessful with that to Lady Elizabeth, The Wentvvorths were as obdurate as the Strictlands ; and I was told the former worthies had authentic proofs that you had never been born/* " Oh 1" said Rhoda, '• how I do hate those people !'* " Hate, Rhoda?" " My dear uncle, you would not have me love them ?"' " Why not ? — They are your enemies, and are you not to love jour enemies ! It is an express command — there is none for loving your friends/* '' Ah ! there is no need," said Rhoda, throwing her arms around her uncle, " Nor, I fear," he returned, '' will there with you be many calls for such love. The heart to which I now hold you, is the single heart which sinks with a fear, or throbs with a hope, of which you are the object." "Not quite the single one, my uncle. The vicar — my dear Frances." And Rhoda thought of another ex- 38 ception, but she did not name it; and why she did not, I do not feel myself obliged to explain. " Poor innocent !" said her uncle, and kissed her forehead. — " Thou hast yet to learn how rare a thing is a friend. But we have wandered from our point. All that I have told you, and more than I have told you, will be found in manu- script in my desk. The narrative has been prepared ; for death often cometh as a thief in the night; but it has always been my intention, if my life were spared to the period when I should consider you as sufficiently matured reasonably to weisfh all circumstances, to tell vou the story myself. I have seen, for some time past, that your wish to know your family history has been ardent. The forbear- ance that you have manifested, in not pressing this wish, gives me a proof of your discretion, and has encouraged me to take you into my full confidence. You are now acquainted with the most prominent parts of the story. Nothing 39 remains more for me than to give you, to the best of my abilities, a map of that country, in which you are about to so- journ, an inexperienced stranger, with- out a guide and without a protector ! •' I have, it is true, been myself so long withdrawn from it, that I might doubt my being able to sketch the faint- est lines of resemblance between what I once knew it, and what it must now be. But if fashion varies, human nature re- mains the same; and it is with human nature that you will have to deal. *• In this, at present unknown world, then, you will find much to admire, little to love, and less to imitate. One thing you will not find — Truth! or you will find it sacrificed to every contempt- ible pretension, to every petty vanity. Nor will you often find broad, confident, honest falsehood. Your intercourse with your fellow mortals must be carried on in a low, huckstering jargon, which tricks out its paltry wares in false co- lours, with just so much sterling gold 40 as will preserve you from the disgrace of falsehood, without giving you a right to the honours of truth." *' Stop, stop, my uncle,'* said Rhoda. '' 1 will never enter this bad world ! 1 will die rather." " No you w^ill 7iof,'* returned he. — *^ And moreover, you will like this bad world — you will love it— more or less, indeed, according to the share which you may have in its toys and trinkets ; but you will love it for itself, for years to come, let it treat you as it will ; and therefore, Rhoda, let us consider how we may best set you forward in it. *' You have heard how magnanimous- ly 1 reasoned on the gentle hint which I received from Lady Elizabeth, and how courageously I vowed. My vow has been as the waters of Noah ; nor have I ever wished to recal it ; but I have some- times doubted whether the magnanimity of my reasonings might not, without any sacrifice o^ proper pride ^ have been tem- pered with somewhat more of foresight. 41 While I doubted, however, time passed on, and with it w^ere those habits confirm- ed, and that mind formed, by which you are now rendered totally improper to pro- vide for yourself. The accomplishments, as they are called, so sought from the daughter of the duchess to the daughter of the artisan, I have been too poor to give you even the rudiments of; you cannot teach what you do not know ; but what YOU have wanted in instruction I have made up to you in indulgence; and you have been so carefully attended, and your wishes so assiduously pre- vented, that while I shall leave you without the means of commanding al- most the necessaries of life, I have rendered you insufficient to yourself." '' My uncle, my uncle !" impatiently broke in Rhoda; " you shall not thus calumniate yourself— you shall not thus undervalue me. The accomplishments, indeed, I give to the wind, and give them without a sigh ; but I am not useless— 42 I am not helpless— I am not insufficient to myself.'* ''Oh yes, I know that you can fly over hill and dale after every butterfly , that starts up before you, or can dance unweariedly to the strains of the blind fiddler for hours together— you can do all with your will ; without it nothing ; and when I cease to breathe, and soon I must cease to breathe, that will must no longer be the motive for a single action of your life." *' Not so," said Rhoda: '' for I will chuse all that 1 must do." "That will be indeed philosophy'.'* replied her uncle. — " Well, it is thus that you must do. With the few hundred pounds that all I am worth will procure, you must take up your abode with Mrs. Strictland, that rich and inestimable daughter-in-law, whose perfections h id called forth the stream of sentimental eloquence, which once betrayed me into the error of be- 43 lieving Lady Elizabeth had a heart: that daughter-in-law, who has civilly hated her husband's mother from the first moment that she knew her, and who thinks herself a pattern of filial piety, because she condescends to pass one fortnight in every twelve months with *' the worthy old people at the Hall." Your cousin, Mr. Strictland, though cold and taciturn, I take not to be quite so much of an automaton as his more bland and garrulous wife : he has played with you — he has pitied you ; and he has promised me, that whenever I die, he will receive you into his family.'* Rhoda's head sunk on the knee of her uncle. *' Oh, my uncle ! Would that we might die together !" said she. *' x\nd is this a specimen of your pro- mised philosophy ?" said he. " No, child, I must die — you must live; it is the law of nature : I have told you so from the first hour that you could annex an idea to the words." 44 " You have, indeed/' replied Rhoda, mournfully, " made the sad image so familiar to my mind^ that although I know it threatens me with all that I most fear and hate, yet I can contemplate it with a steady eye, and speak of it with a firm voice; but, my uncle, this griev- ous hour is not near. I will not believe that it is ; I am sure that you look younger than Sir William : many, many years will you be spared to me ; and let me from this evening, even from this very now, begin to learn to do every thing that you call useful. Frances, I am sure, will teach me ; and although I sometimes laugh at her housewifery and bustles, I will try to be as bustling, and as housewifely as herself." The old gentleman faintly smiled, pressed Rhoda to his heart, and said, " Call for supper, Rhoda ; 1 shall be glad to go to bed." The meal passed cheerfully ; for Rho- da, accustomed to such prognostics from her uncle, retained, not beyond the mo- ment of his making them, the sadness that they were well fitted to impress ; and that future, which she vainly pro- mised both to herself and him, she so coloured with hope, or shaded by uncer- tainty, as to take from it all distinct ap- prehensions of evil. The fresh looks and gay spirits, with which the old man greeted his niece at breakfast the next morning, served still more to banish all reflection from her mind. She frolicked around him, fond- led, and laughed by turns; amused her- self and her uncle, and equally forgot her resolution of learning to be useful, and the necessity for beins: so. Thus passed the day. " Now, my dear uncle,'* said she, " you must take your afternoon's nap, and I must run to the vicarage, and shew Frances my roses, before they are withered. I hope I shan't find her too busy to look at them." 46 CHAP. IV. ** lu aught that tries the heart, How few can stand the proof!" Byrom The vicarage was distant from the cottage not a quarter of a mile, and Rhoda was lucky enough to find the whole of its inhabitants assembled in its little parlour, at the hour of vacant en- joyment. These consisted of the vicar himself, a grave, and rather austere looking per- sonage, with the lines of strong sense marked in his countenance, a young man of about one and twenty, who was his pupil, and the gentle and intelligent Frances. " What have you been doing, ^' said Rhoda to the latter, '' that we have not seen you these two days ?*' 47 " Frances has been engaged in the duties of life/' replied the vicar. " Oh, these tiresome duties of life !" exclaimed Rhoda. " But you have brought us its plea- sures/' said Frances, taking a rose from the hair of Rhoda. The young man looked up from his book, surve3'ed Rhoda for a moment, and again recurred to his book. " Now if that book is not poetry," said Rhoda, " and that poetry in praise of roses, I will never forgive you/' The young man smiled, and shut the book. ** I deserve the reproach/' said he. '* Miss Strictland," said the vicar, " is resolved that nobody, where she is, shall be incommoded with the tiresome duties of life." " Oh my dear sententious friend," re- plied Rhoda, " you are quite mistaken, I assure you. I am come to learn all my duties from Frances. Do you know 48 I intend that you shall teach me to be useful? How must I begin ?" " By pouring out the tea,'* said Frances, "while I speak to that woman who is just gone into the house." " Franceswillkeep ' the odds of know- ledge 'to herself, I perceive," said Rhoda. — " With all my heart: wrinkles will keep off the longer.'' " Wrinkles !'' said the young man, eyeing Rhoda with a look which said^ '' can that face ever be wrinkled/' " Yes,'' said the vicar, " wrinkles, Mr. Ponsonby. — Miss Strictland, I hope, will live to be wrinkled." " I do hope that I never shall," said Rhoda.-—" Why, my dear Sir, what is there in life worth having, at the ex- pense of wrinkles ?" " The consciousness of having passed a succession of years, in a succession of duties," said the vicar. " Well, Sir," said Rhoda, " this is all very well in the pulpit; but now, with 49 all these sweets breathing around us, with all the notes of that delightful blackbird sounding in our ears, really I think we maybe allowed to think of the pleasures of life, as well as its duties/* " They are inseparable/' said the in*- corrigible vicar. ^ Frances returned at this moment with a countenance so replete with the ex- pression of delighted benevolence, as made the best comment on her father's text, and which, if Rhoda had under- stood it, might have reconciled her to his doctrines. Frances said a few words in a low voice to Mr, Wyburg, who gave her a nod of approbation, and looked on her with a smile, which banished, for the instant, all severity from his features. " My dear Sir," said Rhoda, '' if you did but know how smiles become you, you would never look so grave ngain, as you did at me just now." " My dear Miss Strictland," replied Mr. Wyburg, " m.y looks are the index VOL. I. D 50 to my heart. When I look grave, I dis^ approve." " Oh, I deserved that/' said Rhoda, shrugging up her shoulders ; " but what have I done to-day, my dear Sir? You have not scolded me so a great while.** " You have been making use of God's blessings to counteract his will," said the vicar. " Oh, my father!'' said Frances. " I am no logician,** said Rhoda, care- lessly — '' I can see no connection be- tween the premises and the conclusion.'* Mr. Ponsonby looked as if he saw none either; and Frances, to give the conversation another turn, asked him to read to Miss Strictland the little poem which he had read to her and her father the dav before. »/ Mr. Ponsonby readily complied. It was a good-natured ridicule on some of the popular follies of the day, and occa- sioned so much mirth in his auditors, as soon to restore perfect self-complacency to all. 61 " Good night, my dear Sir/* said Rhoda, shaking hands with her rigid monitor; " I am faulty, but I am not incorrigible. I am just going to turn over a new leaf, in more respects than one ; and who, so well as you, can di- rect me to the most instructive page ? If you would be kind enough to teach, I think that even I could learn." '' My dear Miss Strictland," said the old gentleman, fervently, " the difficulty does not lie in your want of ability to learn: yours are no common gifts; a warning or an example you must be. This option involves tremendous conse- quences. — Farev/eli !" " That good father of yours takes a delight in frightening me," said Rhoda to Frances. " I never saw Mr. Wyburg so severe before/' said Mr. Ponsonby. — " I won- der how he can find in his heart to say such things." " Oh^" cried Rhoda, " I have been D2 LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF ILLINO(S 5^ naughty two or three times lately^ and he forbore me ; but I suppose that he re- members it, and makes one punishment do for all." ^ " Naughty!" said Mr. Ponsonby; " how can that be?" " Nothing is impossible/' said Frances, with a smile; " but, my dear Rhoda, if any thing is wrongs let us talk less of it, and think more." " Well, if I am not perfect, it must be my own fault,'* said Rhoda ; " for no- body has so many stimulations to be good — the never fault-finding indulgen- ces of my dear uncle — the sharp correc- tion of Mr. Wyburg — the affectionate sincerity of my friend here, all shew me what I ought to be, and furnish motives for being what I ought." " You are all that you ought to be/* said Mr. Ponsonby. — " You 2ixe perfect.'* " Oh, keep in that, faith," said Rhoda, laughing, '' and so good night :'* and then shaking hands with Frances^ 53 she hastened home, to gladden the eyes, and delight the heart of her doating uncle. But she returned in vain — those eyes were closed never more to open ! — and that heart was still, never more to beat ! — The connecting link between the mortal and immortal parts had suddenly snapt : the body was prostrate on the earth, and the spirit had returned to Him who gave it ! Where now was Rhoda's philoso* phy ? where was her resignation? — Alas ! this was not the moment when she could be expected to exist either. The blow struck her to the ground, and for some little time, she escaped by the violence of the stroke from the sense of the injury that it inflicted — but this pause from sorrow could be of no long duration. " I must die — you must live ;" — had been some of the last words that had sounded from that voice which she must hear no more, and the officious kindness of her friend soon recalled her to the 54 comprehension of the extent of misfor- tune that these words comprised. *' He is gone I — he has left me ! — and who in this wide world now cares for Rhoda?" *' Do not I care for you?** — said the affectionate Frances, in a voice of the tenderest compassion. *' Can He^ who caters for the sparrow, forget you ?'* — said Mr. Wyburg. '' He was my all!" — cried Rhoda, clasping her arms round the lifeless body of her uncle — " he told me so himself, and he never uttered falsehood/' " Then let his words controul your will/' said Mr. Wyburg, — " thus speaks he from the dead : — '' Rhoda, I have prepared an asylum for you : let not your impatience render my cares vain." " True, true !'* — said the agonized Rhoda, " so he would speak ! — but oh he can speak no more! — Undone forever — miserable Rhoda ! — Would we had died together !*' " Frances" — said Mr. Wyburg — 66 ^ compose your friend ; and let her be conveyed as soon as possible to the vicarage." But this was no easy task — Rhoda could listen to no comfort^ could prac- tice no resignation. " I would not be comforted — I would not be consoled — Oh my uncle, how ungrateful have I been ! — how wayward — ohj could I call back time, how do- cile, how submissive would I be V* " Be docile, be submissive now"— said Frances — " a higher will, than even that of your kind benefactor, calls upon you for submission." " I do, I do submit" — said the poor sufferer — " but leave me, Frances — leave me. This spot is the whole of space that is allotted me: here all my duties, all my affections centre." '* Let me intreat — " said Frances. '' There is a dumb eloquence here," said Rhoda, throwing herself on the lifeless body, " that makes all your pleadings vain — nothing but the grave shall divide this beloved object from me!" 66 *' My dearest Rhoda/' said Frances, interCedingly. " Frances/* returned she, ^Meaverne. You see that I am calm — I do not weep; but I am fixed — immovable — here will 1 remain until all is gone ; then do with me as you will ; for then exist- ence will be passed ftom me !" Frances, grieved and shocked, knew not what to reply. Resistance, at this moment, she saw, would be in vain ; and doubting her own powers how best to mollify the exasperated feelings of her friend, she withdrew gently, and sought the counsel of her father. " And is it thus the child receives the chastisement of the parent ? Does the creature thus receive the fiat of its Crea- tor ?" said Mr. Wyburg ; " but she is new to grief, and was never trained to pa- tience. We must give way — better dis- positions will, I hope, await a calmer hour." Mr. Wyburg then agreed with Frances that she should remain at the cottage to watch over her friend, and to be at hand 67 to seize every favourable moment when the voice of reason and religion might be heard with advantage, while he pro- ceeded to give such orders, and to take such steps, as the present circumstances required. But vain were the hopes entertained by the friends of Rhoda, that the pa- roxysm of self-indulgence would be short. She remained insensible to the attentions of friendship, and deaf to the expostulations of good sense. Absorbed in her own feelings, she thought not of others; and while she remained immov- ably fixed by the side of the bed, on which the dead body of her uncle was placed, without sleep, and nearly with- out food, she regarded not the apprehen- sions of her friends — that her constitu- tion must sink under such deprivations and exertions ; nor would she give the poor return for all their kindness, of showing that it was acceptable to her. " It is my duty to remain here,*' said she. — " And if I do die in consequence, who will there be left to lament me V\ The streaming eye of Frances, the air of agony with which she averted her face from the cold enquiring eye with which these words were accompanied, might most touchingly have answered the question, had Rhoda been at liberty to have attended to any feelings but her own. But Rhoda saw alone the lifeless ob- ject before her. She heard but the voice of her own undisciplined affliction. '' Poor mortal \'' said Mr. Wyburg — " How ill art thou suited to the world of discipline on which thou art about to enter!'' At length the grave closed over the poor remains of all that Rhoda believed that the world contained for her, and she suffered herself to be led away in silence and despair to the hospitable vicarage, where every alleviation and every sym- pathy that foresight and affection could provide^ awaited her. 69 CHAP. V. ** For her words, they rob the Ilybia bees, And leave them honey less." Shakspeare, It was not only from the offices of real friendship, that Rhoda might have found that she was not quite a solitary being upon earth. Mr. Wyburg had made an immediate communication of the melancholy event which had taken place at the cottage to its relative inhabitants at " the Hall.'* The following note was in consequence sent from Lady Elizabeth to Miss Wy- burg : — " My dear Miss Wyburg, " My poor shattered nerves were too much discomposed by the shocking in- 60 telligence which your worthy father con- veyed to Sir William last night, to allow of my testifying the sincere share which I take in the family loss. " Our friend that is gone was a most excellent creature. No doubt he had his oddities. Who has not? but I am sure that we shall none of us think of them any more; and, for my own part, I freely forgive all the misrepresentation (I should be loth to call it by a harsher name,) of which 1 have been so long the object. I understand that he has done nobly for poor Rhoda — given her all \ To be sure it was to be expected ; and at the same time secured her a residence with Mr. Strictland; which shews that the old gentleman was not quite so igno- rant in the science of foresight as he would sometimes have persuaded us; but 1 do not blame him for such atten- tion to the interests of Rhoda, when he had once taken up the whim of bringing her up as a lady — a very foolish step, certainly ; but she was not to blame ; and 61 I am pleased to think that she will not suffer by so unaccountable a tancy, and that slie will want lor nothing. '' I do not presuiiie to oti'er my advice, as no doubt but that ;>ir. VVyburg will take no step without the direction of Mr. and Mrs. Strictland ; but uiy dear Miss Wyburg will, 1 know, parvion me, if 1 hint, that until their pleasure is known, it would perhaps be best that nothing beyond mere decencies should be thought of with respect to dress. " Mrs. Slrictland has the best taste of any body whom 1 know; and if she should order Rhoda to town, to join her immediately, 1 am sure that she ^vould not like to have her come loaded with things, which it would be impossible that she should ever wear ; and if she deter- mine not to receive her at present, scarce- ly any thing will be necessary, and every thing ought to be done at the least ex- pence. I shall most readily, 1 am sure, contribute all in my power that it should be so, and shall therefore send my owa 69 maid, when it may be convenient to you to see her, to execute any little orders that Rhoda may chuse to give ; and I may as vrell just mention, that as 1 have had some new patterns from town not long ago, Rhoda need not be afraid of being made a fright ; and there is no reason, because the materials are not very fine, that the form should not be good. Indeed, I have so simple a taste, that I always prefer fashion to finery. " Prc^y give my love to Rhoda. All reason for estrangement is now passed. I will call upon her very soon, and Sir William joins me in the hope, that Mrs. Strictiand's summons will not be so urgent as to make it impossible for Rhoda to pass one day, at least, at the Hall. '' Sir William desires to unite with me in best compliments to yourself and Mr. Wyburg ; and I am^ my dear Miss Wyburg, " Very sincerely yours, '* E. S." Miss Wyburg could decypher the po- 63 lite language of Lady Elizabeth too truly, to see any thing in this note that could contribute to the alleviation of Rhoda's sorows. She therefore contented herself with merely informing her friend, that Lady Elizabeth took an interest in her present circumstances, and that she would soon visit her. " Lady Elizabeth I" said Rhoda.— " I do not know Lady Elizabeth." But it was now necessary that she should know her. The funeral being over, and Rhoda established at the vicar- age, Lady Elizabeth considered the mo- ment to be arrived, beyond which she could not defer her visit to her niece. Rhoda, however, continued still ab- sorbed in grief. She seemed not to see, or hear those around her ; or if com- pelled to attention, the expression of her countenance was only changed from wretchedness to displeasure. " My dear Rhoda," said Frances, *' Lady Elizabeth informs me that she will call upon you this evening." 64 " I shall not see Lady Elizabeth,'* said Rhoda. '•My dear Miss Strictland/' said Mr. Wybnrg. '• yoii must see her.'* '' Must [" repeated Rlioda, bursting into an agony ot tears. — '' Oh, I knew that 1 had lost mv all/" " Miss Strictland/' said Mr. Ponson- by, " cannot be expected to see Lady Elizabeth yet; and surely it ought al- ways to be at her option." Rhoda looked on Mr. Ponsonby with a complacency which her features had not before assunied ; th^n, overcome by the recollections, she burst again into tears, and sobbed aloud. Frances pressed her in her arms^ and Mr. Ponsonby hung over her chair in agony. " I see," said Mr. Wyburg, taking his seat b} Rhoda, " that you regard me as unkind; and the inconsiderate indul- gence of your younger friends will no doubt tend to confirm you in this unjust opinion ; but the word, which seemed so ^5 harsh to your ears, was not used in any sense which ought to offend you. Be assured that it was not designed as the tone of authority or controul. If I said that you must see Lady Elizabeth, I spoke the word only as addressed to a rational being, who must be guided by the dictates of reason, or forego all claims to that distinction. Can you pretend thus to lament him whose aim in life was but to promote your happiness, and yet wilfully throw away all the means by which ypu might be happy ? Is it thus you fulfil his wishes ? Is it thus you do honour to his tutorship ? Will the irra- tional, the passion-governed pupil, reflect dignity on the preceptor ? In the regions of peace and charity, will it add to his happiness to see you the slave to a re- sentment which his spiritual nature now regards as the dross of his earthly part? Will " Enough, enough," said Rhoda; " I will see Lady Elizabeth. I will be ra- tional ; I will do honour to the hand that 66 trained me. Happy I can never be again, but I will shew that I know how to en- dure misery. Let her come ; but let her not presume to name the man whom she never karnt to reverence." Mr. Wyburg sighed ; but he quenched not tlie smoking flax. Lady Elizabeth was admitted, and Rhoda thought herself a heroine, because she received her with the common forms of civility ; but she was cold, distant, almost haughty, grave, and uncommuni- cative, betraying no symptom of grief, as if fearful to awaken a sympathy, which she would have disdained to accept. Lady Elizabeth was polite^ smooth, protective. " Could you ever want my assistance or advice, with so inestimable a friend as Mrs. Strictland will be, you know well that you may command my best powers. My affections towards you have been, 1 may say, always maternal — there were impediments — well, we will think of them no more — we must see you at the Hall— Sir William must know 67 yoq — you have been misled, if you be- lieve that he has ever failed in kindness to you." Rhoda trembled through all her frame. The hand, which Lady Elizabeth had taken, vi^as withdrawn, and the full heart was bursting from the lips, when a tor- rent of tears, that gushed from her eyes, preserved her discretion, by rendering her unable to speak. The aunt and niece parted, without either having risen in the good opinion of the other, from their interview, and with an equal disinclination to meet again. " Well, Sir," said Rhoda, " are you satisfied with me ?" " If you are satisfied with yourself, my dear, I have nothing to say," replied Mr. Wyburg, In fact, Rhoda was satisfied with her- self. In having yielded to seeing Lady Elizabeth, she thought that slie had given a distinguished proof of self-com- mand ; and in the proud indignatiou 6S which she had indulged during the visit, she saw nothing but the dignity which she thought due to herself, and the vindication due to the injuries com- mitted against the only object of her present affections. Mr. Wyburg saw all very differently. ** Alas'/' thought he, '' how must that heart be torn and harrowed, before it can receive, or bring to perfection the seeds of virtue !'* " How sincerely do I pity my poor Rhoda/* said Frances. " Yes, my dear," replied the father, " I pity Miss Strictland as sincerely as you can do, but not exactly upon the same grounds ; not because she has not been able to suspend the laws of nature in her favour; not that at seventeen she has lost a friend who had attained his eightieth year ; but that she has not been taught to submit, with meekness, to natural and inevitable evils." " Such warmth of heart, such a glow of grateful remembrance," broke forth 6y Mr. Ponsonby, " is so amiable, soattrac* tive, that surely, Sir, you must consider Miss Strictland not less an object of admiration than of pity." " Is it gratitude," returned Mr. Wy- burg, calmly, " that would reverse the decree, which has at length given the re- ward due to a life of painful duty ? When Miss Strictland so often repeats that she has lost her all, are her feelings warmed by a consideration for others, or herself?'* " Such reasoning/' said Mr. Ponson- by, " would destroy every feeling of the human heart/* " No, Sir/' returned Mr. Wyburg, " it would only regulate them — and regulate them by rules which man, as a reason- able, a social, and a dependent being, is bound to observe. Miss Strictland has every good disposition ; but it depends solely upon the direction that will now be given them, whether she will be the instrument of happiness to herself and others, or the contrary. Hitherto her duties and her pleasures have been the 70 same ; for the future, they will probably be often widely different. The world, which she is about to enter, must be to all, at her age, a school of experience : to her it will be the house of discipline : if she receive its chastisement with doci- lity and meekness, she will be amiable and respected : if she refuse to be in- structed, she will be neither one nor the other." Mr. Wyburg spoke with authority, and his daughter shrunk away to attend her domestic cares, while Mr. Ponsonby re- sumed his book. ri CHAP. \ I, •' He is of churlish disposition, And little recks to find the way to heav'n, By doing deeds of hospitality." — Shakspeare. The discipline, of which Mr. Wy~ burg had spoken, was in fact begun, and poor Rhodafelt all its harshness. In return to the communication which Mr. Wyburg had made to Mr. Strict- land of the death of his uncle, accom- panied by a request to be informed of his wishes and designs respecting Rhoda, he received the following letter. **■ Dear Sir, " I could scarcely reconcile it to my strict notions of what is due from every gentleman of veracity, if 1 were to ad- mit, in its full sense, the promise which n from your letter, I find my late uncle informed you that I had made, to pro- vide, at his death, for his niece. " I certainly do recollect, some years ago, some conversation on this subject. — The poor old man had began to see the indiscretion he had been guilty of in taking the charge of an orphan not worth a penny, when he was himself so totally unable to provide for her. A consci- ousness of his folly preyed upon his spirits, and he had then also strangely thrown himself out of the sphere of my father's benevolence. '' The poor old gentleman was un- happy — I could not bear to see him unhappy — and I do remember saying one day, when he was speaking on the subject till the tears ran down his fur* rowed cheeks, ' My dear Sir, make yourself easy, the girl shall not want a home while I can give her one.* — But how this can be construed into a pro- mise to provide for her, I am totally at a loss to comprehend — more especially 73 as I find that every thing which my uncle had to leave, is left to Rhoda. To be sure it is but small, and cannot be supposed to be any object to me ; yet as a proof of my poor uncle's regard, and as a gage that he depended upon my promise, it would have been gratifying to have had that little pass through my haiids to Rhoda's, for ultimately no doubt it ought to be her's ; and not his case 1 should certainly have considered myself as obliged to provide for her, in the fullest sense of the words. — Now, i am sure, my dear Sir, you will be of my opinion that I can be under no such obligation. I should not, however, nicely scrutinize the point of obligation, if it any way corresponded with prudence to follow the inclinations of my heart — but to you, my dear Sir, I may say, that I am not the opulent man the world supposes :n3 to be. Perhaps you may have understood that the circumstance of having no child limits my interest in the property, which I received withMrs. VOL. I. JE 74 Strictland, to the period of her natural life ; and it is no more than a respect due to the society, who have hitherto done me the honour to look upon me as an equal, to take all the care in my power that there shall not come a time, when I shall fall below it. " Thus you see that I have little to spare for the present, and nothing to alienate for the future. However, you may be assured that I do not mean to be worse than my word: I think you know me to be too much of a gentleman or that. '' I will receive the girl into my house, and Mrs. Strictland desires me to assure you that she shall be happy to give her all the protection in her power. At present we are on the point of leaving town for our usual summer excursion. Where we shall go is at present very un- certain ; but you shall hear from me when any thing is fixed.— Perhaps we may pay my father and mother a visit before we settle in town again for the 75 winter, and if so, we can bring up Rhoda with us ; but at present it would be in- convenient to add another to our tra- velling party. The kindness which you express towards Rhoda, and the friend- ship which has always subsisted be- tween yourself and my late uncle, em- bolden me to suggest that the most eligible plan for the present, will be that Rhoda shall remain with you, for which, no doubt, she will make you every proper acknowledgement, as my uncle has enabled her to do ; and we will settle some final plan for ihe future, when we have had a little time to look about us, and consider what can best be done. •' Pray give my love to Rhoda, and assure her that I shall alwa; s be happy to serve her to the best of my power. " I beg my best compliments to youi family; and 1 am, my dear Sir, " With the greatest esteem, '' Yours, very truly, *• Thomas Strictland." E 2 76 Mr. Wyburg in the prosecution of the duties, to which the death of his old friend had called him, had found a letter addressed to himself, contain- ing, not only an earnest appeal to his kindness in behalf of lihoda, but the in- formation upon which he had grounded his application to Mr. Strictland. He had not accurately attended to the form of the words, which had conveyed to his mind a promise on that gentleman's part to provide for his relation, but the knowledge of the destitute situation, in which Rhoda was left, had naturally led him to the conclusion that nothing short of an entire provision could be designed by the engagement to receive her into his house. On the receipt of a letter^ which con- vinced him that the same conclusion was not always drawn from the same premi- ses, he referred, with a feeling of impa- tient indignation, to the authority, which it appeared he was supposed so far to have exceeded — yet after a second 77 perusal of the necessary document, with all his critical abilities newly sharpened, the original words seemed still to his apprehension to bear him out, in the interpretation which he had at first given them. They were as follows : " In imploring the continued exer- tion of your friendship in favour of my poor Rlioda, I seek to give her a wise counsellor, and a warning guide, a guardian of her moral feelings, and an instructor in her religious duties. I know, my good friend, that to all this heavenly food you would most cheer- fully add the ' mammon of unrighteous- ness," but remember that you have it not to give beyond the wants of your own family:— -and you will not w^ell fulfil the demands that I have upon you, if you give extension to the im- prudence of which I have been guilty. You know, however, as v^^ell as I do, what you ought not to do in this case ; and I can the better trust to your integ- 78 rity, as I believe that you will have no temptation to infringe it. " My nephew, though of slow affec- tions towards others, and not wanting in attention to his own interest, is not, I think, without some warm blood in his veins ; and this was once set so briskly a flowing by a foolish fit of dis- tress, in which he witnessed me, that he gave me his word, Rhoda should feel no pecuniary wants when I was no more. " We have frequently had farther conversation on the same subject, and I have lately had the satisfaction of knowing that Mrs. Strictland has explicitly consented to receive Rhoda into her house, whenever mine can no longer afford her a shelter. I need not add that, had I had an option, this would not have been the shelter which I should have chosen. It will not, however, be a disreputable one in the eye of the worlds that golden image to 79 which we all bow ! It will preserve to Rhoda her rightful station in society ; it will give her a place in her own family : and although it will not render her in- dependent, she will depend only on those who ought to provide for her. *' My good friend, you may perceive that a// your lessons of wisdom are not quite thrown away upon me. I am prac- tising a little of that moral chemistry, which you say produces the balm of life — but I feel my process is imperfect, for with all my labour I can extract so little good from the evil which oppresses me, that I am unable to pursue the sub- ject one word farther. "Oh, exert all your powers to make my poor Rhoda a more rational animal than you have ever been able to make me! " When I am dead, write to my nephew, and claim in my name the ful- filment of the promise which he has made me — and, if possible^ teach the dear girl to bow to circumstances, with- 80 out the sacrifice of the whole of her happiness.'* Mr. Wyburg's first impulse, on comparing the letters of the uncle and the nephew, was to communicate that of the latter to Rhoda, and at the same time to make her an ofier of an asylum in his own house. Nor was it the interference of self-interest that connected the feeling. It was a more extended view of the case. Beyond a precarious shelter for a few years, he had nothing to give : and were Rhoda to accept, as he doubted not but that she would, this temporary resource, the consequence must be either finally to separate her from her family connections, and with this, to lose all hopes of assistance and support from any of her relations, or if, in some future hour, she should be compelled to hav70 occupied in driving from shop to shop^ and in giving directions to different work- people ; and Rhoda returned jaded in spirits and in body, cold and hungry, while Mrs. Strictland seenmed to have re- spired new life from what she had been about, and to have laid in a new stock of good humour and gaiety, that would not allow her to think of any unsatisfied wants. She had an actual pleasure in laying out money in dress, whether for herself or others, that seemed, while she exercised her taste upon the subject, to absorb every other inclination of the mind. — She flew with renewed eagerness to open the various parcels which were arrived, and, summoning Wilson, made the usual demand upon the obsequious waiting-maid, for that proportion of flat- tery and approbation, which was accus- tomed to follow all she did. She was not, however, in this case, such a churl as to require all; Rhoda had her full share, — and as this beautiful young creature beheld her lovely form 271 adorning the graceful drapery of the most shining silk, or saw it enwrapt in the most transparent muslin, and her deli- cate complexion shaded by the finest lace^ let not poor human nature be too hardly thought oP, if her heart beat re- ponsive to the praises lavished upon her at once by the lady and the servant; — or if she too hastily adopted their conclu- sion, '' that it would be a thousand pi- ties if Miss Strictland was ever to be worse dressed." The " gauds and toys of life," were not, I fear, at this moment quite so indiffer- ent to Rhoda, as when she was shiver- ing in her little uncomfortable chamber ; and there might possibly be other pat- terns of excellence that she was as ambi- tious of copying, as that which the right- minded and right-hearted Frances had commended to her imitation. The bustle of preparation, the flutter of a new-born vanity, now made Rhoda indifferent to every other circumstance. The scanty dinner, the gloomy brow of Mr. Strictland, now passed unobserved ^72 by her. She thanked him for his pre- sent of the morning with a grace and a frankness, which shewed to Mrs. Strict- land that she hadah'eady begun to appre- ciate the pleasures that affluence could bestow, and she no longer apprehended the repetition of " that cuckoo note" which had before so wounded her ear. The past and the future were certainly at this moment absent from the mind of Rhoda, and she " started like a guilty thing," when Mrs. Strictland exclaim- ed, " Bless me, 1 must seal my letters ! That's the last bell!" " And I have not written to Frances !" cried Rhoda, in a tone of bitter. self- reproach. ''You will have no time now, child," said Mrs. Strictland. "*0h, but I must, I will— I would rather die than not write to-night/' — said Rhoda. The good-natured footman said, " that he would take care the letter went, if she could write it that moment." ^73 "Oh, yes, yes !"— said Rhoda, — "I have but a word to say/' She hurried the following lines in an instant. " I have been so engaged all day, that I have but one moment in which to tell my dearest friends that I am well, that I am happy — that I love them dearly — that I shall always love them. — Write to me instantly — direct to Overleigh Park, Oxfordshire — from whence you shall hear more than I have now time to tell you. — Oh, dear Byrkley, and its still dearer inhabitants! — farewell !" The having written these hurried and disjointed lines, by no means reconciled Rhoda to herself for the temporary for- getfulness of her best friends, into which she had been betrayed ; and it was not until she had so far re-collected her thoughts as to discover, that thougU she had been obliged to defer the pleasure of hearing from Frances until her arrival K 6 ^74 at Overleigh Park, she might herself make a much earlier to communication of all she had felt and thought since they parted, that she could be sufficiently at peace with herself to resume the consul- tation with Mrs. Strictland, which the postman's bell had interrupted. Having, however, satisfied her conscience for past transgression, by a resolution not to sleep that night until she had repaired the fault, she returned with fresh relish to the discussion of gowns and caps — ribbo;is and laces. It was, notwithstanding, merely the novelty of the subject, and the stimulus of vaniiy, that with lihoda gave such a topic any attraction ; and Mrs. Strict- lund continued to talk with increasino- vivacity and interest, when Rhcda had already begun to yawn, and to find that she had not one more word to say, either in praise or dispraise of the heaps of frippery which lay before her. Mrs. Stncti'aiid, observing her languor, said, *' my dear, how shall we ever recon- ^15 cile you to our hours ? It will never do if you are to fall asleep at ten o'clock." ** Oh, don't be alarmed," — replied Rhoda, — " a small portion of sleep has been accustomed to suffice me; and it will soon make no difference at what time in the twenty-four hours it is taken ; - — but we have been so long talking of muslins and silks ! — I am sure I am much obliged to you for all the consider- ation that you have had upon the subject, for you must be extremely tired." " It is tiresome enough, to be sure," — returned Mrs. Strictland ; — " but I make it a rule not to forbear doins: what ought to be done, because it is tiresome. To be well dressed is a duty that we owe to society ; and it is not possible to be well dressed without bestowing a great deal of thought upon the matter. You may see that, by the strange incongrui- ties with which one is shocked every day. Never believe that you can think too much of your dress, provided the result makes it appear that you have ^76 not thought at all. — Art, that is disco- vered, loses its effect." Rhoda looked in Mrs. Strictland's face, to see if she were to laugh at this moral dissertation on dress ; or, whether she was to receive it as one of the mys- teries of the Bona Dea. — She saw no symptoms of levity in Mrs. Strictland's features, and therefore composing her own, she contented herself with a simple assent to the last proposition. *' That is very true,'* — said she, and looked around to see, if amongst the variety of ornaments, with which the little boudoir was crowded^ there was any thing like a book. Attracted by the glittering backs of some volumes, which stood entrenched behind a double row of various pieces of beautiful china, she attempted, with all due care, to take one of them down, when Mrs. Strictland called out, " Pray, my dear, don't touch those books — their whole value is in their bind- ing. I had them bound in that beautiful 977 manner wholly for the sake of effect — the gold shews off the china so well. — I did not care what the contents were, as I never meant that they should be re- moved from their place. — I cannot bear to have my furniture pulled about and deranged ; — if you wish to read, you will find some new publications on that pier- table. — By the bye, we should look them over^ and see what it will be necessary to know : — there is always some book of the day, of which it is very awkward not to be able to give an opinion. You must of course be a little at a loss in such matters; — if you will be kind enough to bring the books here, I will shew you what it will be the best for you to look into — There is no occasion to read the whole — a quick eye, and a sharp wit^ will enable you to catch enough at a glance to serve the purposes of conver- sation. No fear of detection, for you will not find one person in a hundred that has read ten lines together in any book, except a novel, on which they 278 deliver the most confident opinion ; — and a hon mot, or the shrug of the shoulders from a pretty woman, is of a thousand times more value than the best criticism that ever was made/' '' But can there be any pleasure," said Rhoda, " in turning over the leaves of a book, without giving one's self time to understand its contents?'* " Oh, 1 am not talking of the pl€asu7'e of reading, my dear/' replied Mrs. Strict^ land,—" that, I apprehend, is tasted by very few ; and 1 am sure there is no time, if we live in the world, to read half the books that it is necessary to talk of; — but, thank Heaven ! there is a royal road to every thing now : — and what with abstracts — and extracts — and compen- diums, and the beauties of this author, and the essence of that, we can talk as fluently on all literary subjects, with as little expenditure of time, and no ex- pense of thought, as if we had put out our eyes, and deadened our complexion by hours of midnight study." 279 " I assure you/' returned Rhoda, ''I have no predilection for midnight study - — but the simply understanding what I read, when I do read, must, I think, be pleasant, and could not be injurious either to the eyes or the complexion.' " Oh, pray read all you can," said Mrs. Strictland ; — " the more the better — there is a rage just now for well-informed females ; — but who can command time? and when you come to live in the world, you will find that if you will be any body there, vou had better know a little of every thing, than only one or two things well. — Who would be able to appreciate your merit in the latter case? In the former you would pass, v/ith most people, for a prodigy of information and talent." ''But this living only to what others think of us," said Rhoda, '' without approving ourselves either to our under- standing or our heart, must it not be 'flat, stale, and unprofitable?'" " If we please otiiers, " replied Mrs. Strictland, '^ 1 think that we ought to be 3S0 satisfied with ourselves. I am sure it is our first duty, as social beings, to render ourselves acceptable to societ3^" 'VBut does not this in some degree depend upon how the society is com- posed ?" said Rhoda. " I don't understand such nice dis- tinctions," said Mrs. Strictland. " I never enter into reasonings ; it is not the way. Nobody likes to be- asked ques- tions. We must take society as we find it, and make ourselves as agreeable to it as we can." Rhoda was silent ; but her thoughts flew back with a longing regret to the conversations of Byrkley. " There'' thought she, " the first end of clothing is warmth and decency — of reading, instruction and amusement : here^ the effect that they will have upon others, rather than ourselves, is the prin- cipal object in view.'* 281 CHAP. XVII. "She sighed for pleasure while she shrunk from wrong." Crabhe. With her mind full of all the novel- ties in morals, which she had met with, Rhoda retired to her little garret, and had already lost, in thoughts of more in- terest, those which had so much disturb- ed her the evening before. Her present care was wholly, how to expiate the crime of heedless ingratitude which she felt that she had committed. The impulse of the moment was self- accusation, and frank confession ; and it was thus that she obeyed its dictates. " How soon, my dearest Frances, have I found my safety and virtue dependant upon the protecting hand, and warning voice of yourself, and your revered fa- tber ! What a versatile^ what a circum- stance-governed animal is your Rhoda ; Yet 1 would fain think that it is not my heart which is to blame, turned round and round as it seems to have been by every breath of pain or pleasure that has assailed it in the last three days. What would you think of the hasty, the almost unintelligible lines which I wrote to you a few hours ago ? I, to have been too busy to w^rite to my best friend ; and to have been so busied ! But that was not my first writing. I inclose //i«^ first, for I am resolved you shall have the whole of my follies before you ; and yet I once thought that you should never have seen this proof of my hasty petulance ; and was not such a design a worse fault than this very petulance ? *' How contemptible to have been put out of humour with the want of a few accommodations ; and yet, to confess the whole truth, I suspect that it was my pride, rather than my effeminacy that took the alarm, for I think that I 283 do not much care for the downy parts of life, but I thought myself neglected. *' And what then ?" I know that my good Mr. Wyburgwill say. Ah, my dear sir, I dare not tell you what then. But indeed I will strive to be more what I ought to be; and I am not without a certain kind of discipline that may well assist my good intentions. Yet you will not easily believe how relieved I felt, when I had written that silly letter; and how well pleased I was with my resolution to run away from some of my nearest relations, and kindly professing friends, because I had no fire in my room, no bell to ring, and nobody came near me to assist in disrobing my august personage. Really, my dear Frances, this favourite Rhoda of yours is but a simpleton — a simpleton in her resent- ment, still more, perhaps, a simpleton in her motives for conciliation. Over night, my dear, I was quite sure that I should never love Mrs. Strictland ; 1 went to her breakfast table, with the 284 hostile intention of parting, to meet no more ; of parting, because my dignity was ofTended. And was it my good sense, was it my christian charity, which recon- ciled me to my fellow creature, and re- tained me in the situation, that he, to whom I owe all duty, had appointed me ? No such matter ; but I found Mrs. Strictland beautifully attired, looking like an angel, smiling with gaiety and affec- tion. I heard her pour forth the most flattering sounds, the warmest professions of regard, of attention to my minutest wishes; found her ready to load me with more favours than I was willing to ac- cept, and absolutely forcing upon me a present from Mr. Strictland, which would have made me fine for twelve months at Byrkley, but which will go very little way in providing what are called mere necessaries here. • What could I do ? I am afraid that I hardly asked myself the question. I was pas- sive, and before I knew where I was, or xvhat was become of my resolution of 2S5 leaving London immediately, 1 found myself involved in such a chaos of silks and muslins, of laces and ribbons^ as dazzled my fancy, and confounded my understanding. " The business of the morning was to dress me. You have no comprehension what is implied by the word dress, in these sublimated regions, — to make me Jit to appear as one of a large party of the rich and the fashionable who are to be assembled at Sir Frampton Morris's, during the Christmas holidays. '* Mrs. St'rictland's kindness, or no, my dear, I will not write the alter- native; — Mrs. Strictland's kindness, let us say, thought nothing too fine, nothing too costly for Art^ ■B '.f-. \ V '^^ ^J^ w^s^m i'fr>f-i>M ys<.A^^::^\ ■■• ,11 : I ■ ^til mm- ^i^ ^k.