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 http://www.archive.org/details/marstonnovelinth01stcl
 
 M A R S T O N 
 
 A NOVEL, 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES 
 
 93d a HaKtt. 
 
 I will visit the sins of the fathers upon the children, unto the 
 third and fourth generations of them that hate me." 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 THOMAS HOOKHAM, OLD BOND STREET. 
 
 1835.
 
 PRINTED BY MATTHEW, ISAAC, 6- Co., 14 HENRIETTA STREET, 
 COVENT GARDEN, LONDON
 
 8?-3 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 During a journey in Italy, some years ago, my 
 carriage was overturned at a short distance from 
 Florence. Being seriously hurt, the postilions 
 carried me to a large mansion, situated at a short 
 distance from the road, and solicited the good offices 
 of its inmates in behalf of an English lady. 
 
 A young man soon appeared, who accosted me in 
 my own language, and expressing his sorrow for my 
 accident, received me with the kindest hospitality. 
 I was unable to move for some weeks ; and, during 
 that time, my host and I became so well acquainted 
 that he confided to me his history. 
 
 <J '
 
 11 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 He was the offspring of the fatal marriage which 
 I have attempted to relate; and the errors, of which 
 he was the innocent victim, had stamped his hand- 
 some features with an expression of resigned me- 
 lancholy, which alike interested and saddened the 
 beholder. 
 
 He lived in the most retired manner, avoiding all 
 society. His mind was highly cultivated, his de- 
 portment gentle and pleasing ; and, in addition to 
 the refinements of education, he appeared to possess 
 the nobler gifts of moral worth. 
 
 He acknowledged, that though he had made him- 
 self a law to live alone, and never to marry, he 
 could not resist seeing an English person, especially 
 one so situated as myself. His heart yearned 
 towards his countrymen. 
 
 The principal events recorded in this history are 
 true ; I have only ventured to change the names of
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. Ill 
 
 the persons of this sad drama, as well as of the 
 county where the family of the young man had 
 resided. 
 
 Since the present work has been in the press, one, 
 if not two novels, bearing titles similar to that of 
 " Marston,"have appeared; but, were there no other 
 evidence, the difference of the story would at once 
 prove that there has been no " conveying" in the 
 case. Competition then need hardly be disclaimed : 
 it would have been madness, indeed, for a novice 
 to enter the lists with a writer at once so elegant 
 and profound as the author of " Darnley." 
 
 It remains to solicit the pardon of the gentle 
 reader for any verbal inaccuracies that may occur 
 in the following pages ; since it was found im] 
 sible to transmit the proofs to the writer, w !• 
 abroad, without occasioning a delay beyond
 
 IV . ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 printer's or publisher's patience. The severity too 
 of the reviewer, if any condescend to cast a glance 
 on the work, may perhaps be deprecated by the 
 knowledge, that the present is the first appearance 
 of the authoress before the bar of public criticism.
 
 M A R S T O N. 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 More would'st thou know, yon tower survey, 
 Yon couch unpress'd since parting day. 
 Yon untrimm'd lamp, whose yellow gleam 
 Is mingling with the cold moon beam. 
 And yon thin form ! the hectic red, 
 On his pale cheek unequal spread ; 
 The head reclined, the loosened hair, 
 The limbs relaxed, the mournful air. 
 See, he looks up — a woeful smile 
 Lightens his woe-worn cheek awhile. 
 
 W. Scott. 
 
 It was a beautiful summer's evening, pre- 
 ceding the important day on which Marston 
 
 VOL
 
 MAR8T0N. 
 
 was to be ordained a priest. The sun shed its 
 parting rays, with all its splendour, into the 
 large and well-stored library, where he sat 
 before his desk, his eyes fixed on the volume 
 which he had been perusing ; but though the 
 finger was mechanically raised as if about to 
 turn over the page, it moved not ; the hand 
 remained as immoveable as the eyes. Intense 
 in thought, his mind had wandered from the 
 book : hours of happiness, succeeded by days 
 of deep and heart-corroding sorrow, rose with 
 the reality of life to his mental view ; present- 
 ing;, in the visions of the past, contrasts which 
 imparted a deeper shade to the griefs that 
 already oppressed him. The vow? he was to 
 pronounce on the following morning, — vows 
 which separated him from all his remaining 
 worldly interests ; and from which he was to 
 date for the future a new existence, — alter- 
 nately varied in the hopes they held out. as
 
 MARSTON. 
 
 his memory pourtrayed to him the sweet and 
 happy hours, or the days of anguish, of his 
 chequered life. Now they seemed to promise 
 repose, and heavenly comfort ; now they ap- 
 peared the commencement of a living death. 
 The nearer he drew towards the execution of 
 a hastily formed, though long-cherished, in- 
 tention, the more his decision fluctuated. Not 
 that a hope of happier days flattered his ima- 
 gination even for a moment, or made him once 
 waver in his resolution. — What hope could 
 there be, since death had severed the link that 
 bound him to His kind? — But that a state of 
 morbid grief had weakened those energies, 
 which had prompted him to wrest consolation 
 out of the extremity of his misery, when first 
 bowed down by the cruel blow which had 
 robbed him of his heart's treasure. 
 
 It was then, that he had wilfully renounced 
 all future social cares, It was then, that he 
 
 b 2
 
 4 MARSTON. 
 
 resolved to sever himself from all remaining: 
 affections. The death of his beloved wife, 
 Eleanor, with whom he had been united but 
 five years, and to whom he had been tenderly 
 attached, had left a wound in his heart too 
 deep to be healed by any worldly consolation ; 
 and he turned for comfort to his God. Edu- 
 cated in the most rigid principles of the Ca- 
 tholic faith, he resolved to devote the remainder 
 of perhaps a long life — since he had num- 
 bered only thirty-five years — to the adoration 
 of his Creator, with whom, it was his solace 
 to reflect, his Eleanor now dwelt. 
 
 During the twelve months which succeeded 
 her death, he had secluded himself from all 
 intercourse with his friends, and nourished in 
 solitude the wish, he had then formed, to take 
 holy orders. 
 
 In the library, stored with all the riches 
 bequeathed by thinking minds, for the solace
 
 MARSTON. ) 
 
 and instruction of those worthy of appreciat- 
 ing their speculations, whether temporal or 
 spiritual, he passed his solitary days, perusing 
 such works only as were in harmony with his 
 present frame of mind ; and, in his silent 
 communications with the wise, the good, the 
 unhappy, the enthusiastic, and the mystic, he 
 confirmed the project originally suggested hy 
 his misfortunes. Latterly, however, the prepa- 
 rations for the profession to which he was 
 about to dedicate himself, had occupied his 
 lime ; and the vigils he had commenced, added 
 to the effects of severe sorrow, had injured his 
 health : thus, physical debility had produced 
 moral relaxation, and diminution of energy. 
 
 On the evening which preceded a day of 
 such importance to his future existence, num- 
 berless agitating thoughts arose to disturb still 
 more his anxious mind, and lead him into ;\ 
 maze of irresolution, doubt, and retrospection.
 
 O MARSTON. 
 
 We may turn to the thoughts of others for 
 support and courage ; we may admire and ap- 
 prove of the wisdom transmitted to us by the 
 most learned authors ; we may receive with 
 humility and gratitude the precepts founded 
 on their experience ; but, alas ! it is to our own 
 we must finally trust. The trials of others 
 may indeed warn us of dangers to be avoided ; 
 but inasmuch as no two things in nature are 
 precisely alike — no two countenances, no two 
 animals of the same kind, even no two leaves 
 on the same tree — so no two cases occur pre- 
 cisely similar. No two natures are in every 
 respect the same, even under the same circum- 
 stances ; and it is to these scarcely perceptible, 
 but still essential, variations, we must refer for 
 the little advantage derived from the experience 
 of others, even by those best disposed to be 
 instructed by it. 
 
 The rich, refulgent, crimson light of the
 
 MARSTON. 
 
 setting sun threw a glow over the fine, but 
 habitually pale, countenance of Marston ; and 
 his dark penetrating eye turned slowly towards 
 one of the massive, richly-carved oaken doors, 
 at the farther extremity of the library, as his 
 old servant, Joseph, entered gently, and, as if 
 fearing to break the silence which reigned, and 
 disturb his master's meditations, in delivering 
 to him a letter ; — he did not venture to speak, 
 but placing it respectfully on the desk, with- 
 drew ; and it was not till after some minutes 
 had elapsed, that Marston took it languidly up, 
 and broke the seal. It was as follows : — 
 
 " To Edward Marston, Esq. 
 
 " But a few hours are still yours, unfettered 
 by lasting vows! To-morrow you renounce 
 your family, your friends, all, all, and Marston 
 will be dead to us. 
 
 " I cannot conquer the earnest wish which
 
 MARSTON. 
 
 impels this, perhaps, vain endeavour to rouse 
 you, my poor friend, from the state of dejection 
 into which you are sunk; — to entreat you, 
 while it is yet time, not to resolve on a measure 
 so important to your future welfare, whilst 
 still under the immediate and heavy pressure 
 of deep grief. 
 
 "Oh! forbear a little longer! Suffer an- 
 other year's reflection to pass, before you pro- 
 nounce those irrevocable vows ! If you then 
 still feel as earnestly determined in your in- 
 tentions ; if you then find no other refuge from 
 despair than seclusion and monastic severity, 
 I shall be the less fearful for your future hap- 
 piness. Satisfied that you did not plunge sud- 
 denly, goaded by the desperation of over- 
 whelming sorrow, into a life of austerity, soli- 
 tude, and privations, I should not murmur, al- 
 though I might repine, at a determination fixed 
 by reflection, not hazarded through impulse.
 
 MARSTON. 9 
 
 " Forgive me, Marston, for the intrusion of 
 this letter: reflect how long we have been 
 friends ; nay, more, almost brother and sister 
 from our childhood ; for, although there was a 
 few years' difference in our ages, yet that did not 
 prevent the same objects of interest occupying 
 and uniting us in our early lives. 
 
 " At a more advanced period of our friend- 
 ship, your kindness to me merited my warmest 
 gratitude ; and the interest you took in my 
 welfare, indelibly impressed on my heart the 
 extent of the obligations I then incurred to you. 
 
 " Remember, that when my parents opposed 
 my union with your gallant friend Howard, it 
 was your unwearied zeal, and persuasive argu- 
 ments, which determined them to consent to 
 my happiness. When heaven visited me with 
 that heavy calamity which almost deprived me 
 of my reason, and my brave, my noble-minded 
 husband, fell a victim to his courage and on-
 
 10 MAKSTON. 
 
 terprising spirit, it was again you, my kind 
 friend, who roused me from my affliction, 
 teaching me to live for my dear boy's sake ; 
 and enabling me, by your sympathy and timely 
 advice, to submit with resignation to the se- 
 vere decree of Providence. 
 
 "Remember all this, dear Marston, and 
 you will allow me to have some right to ap- 
 proach you in this, your hour of trial. 
 
 " When, in my despair, I pictured the future 
 as a dreary blank, and recoiled in anguish 
 from the idea of dragging on the remainder of 
 my life, severed for ever from him, my com- 
 panion, lover, friend, and husband, you held 
 out consolation to me ; you, kindly severe, 
 pointed out that grief could not be eternal ; 
 that time would soften down the poignancy of 
 my sorrow. You reproved me for my impa- 
 tience under my sufferings ; and shewed me 
 thai the same Omnipotent Power, which af-
 
 MARSTON. 
 
 flicted with calamities, mercifully endowed us 
 with strength to bear them. You directed my 
 attention to the benignant boon still vouch- 
 safed me ; and taught me to anticipate the joy 
 of retracing, in my darling boy, the likeness 
 in feature, and in character, of him that was 
 no more : wisely reminding me, that it became 
 a sacred duty to exert my courage and ener- 
 gies for the care and protection of his* child. 
 
 " Alas ! my unhappy friend ! all these argu- 
 ments I could now urge to you : your affliction 
 is of the same dreadful nature as my own 
 bitter trial. 
 
 "Let me now be the consoling friend. \ 
 find you under similar melancholy circum- 
 stances ; and let me earnestly entreat you to 
 let the arguments, you once held to me, have 
 their full weight, and measure, in drawing you 
 out of your state of despondency. Although I 
 shall ever mourn my beloved I Inward, and
 
 12 MARSTON. 
 
 his memory is most deeply engraven on my 
 heart, length of time has enabled me to sub- 
 mit to my unhappy lot. Let me be an example 
 to you ; and do not hasten, but rather retard, 
 your present views. 
 
 " As soon as I received your letter, requeu- 
 ing me to replace your dear little Eleanor's 
 departed mother, I hastened from Dublin to 
 receive her from the nurse to whom you had 
 confided her ; and it was not till then that I 
 learned, from the latter, your intention of 
 taking holy orders. 
 
 " I need not assure you, that I will most 
 willingly take charge of your little orphan ; 
 she shall be to me as my own child. When 
 she attains the age of instruction, the same 
 masters shall attend upon her whom 1 shall 
 select for my Harry; and be persuaded, that 
 the same tenderness and care shall be bestowed 
 on her as on my own dear boy. You do but
 
 MARSTON. 13 
 
 render me justice when you say, that, in en- 
 trusting her to me, you are satisfied that she 
 will be cared for as though she were the child 
 of my bosom. 
 
 " Oh! how deeply I regret the long absence 
 from home a tedious, tiresome lawsuit has 
 compelled me to make. Had I been near you 
 when death visited your peaceful dwelling, T 
 should in some degree, perhaps, have suc- 
 ceeded in soothing the anguish of your mind . 
 At all events, you should not have been suf- 
 fered to cherish the intention now upon the 
 eve of execution. 
 
 "Still it is not too late to retract! Dear 
 Marston, accord one year of reflection to your 
 sincere and devoted friend, 
 
 " Louisa Howard." 
 
 Marston remained a considerable time, with
 
 14 MANSION. 
 
 the letter in his hand, and many, many thoughts 
 and struggles agitated his frame. 
 
 Why is it that there exists in the human 
 breast a contradictory spirit, which rises in 
 opposition to the advice of friends, even when 
 that advice is in harmony with our wishes and 
 interests? Previously to receiving Mrs. 
 Howard's letter, Marston had nearly brought 
 himself to decide on protracting the execution 
 of that measure which he had most ardently 
 desired for many months : his friend's letter 
 came, urging him to the same point ; and the 
 respect, friendship, and kindness he felt for 
 her, were all motives for his weighing her 
 disinterested advice with even partiality. The 
 contrary, unhappily for him, occurred, and he 
 reasoned with her arguments mentally, until 
 he made himself the champion of those, which 
 now thronged to set off the opposite side of the
 
 MAHSTON 
 
 question. Perhaps the wayward spirit, seem- 
 ingly innate in man, influenced him. In his 
 pride, he cannot bear resistance to his will, or 
 the appearance of being guided by any other 
 judgment than his own. Whatever might have 
 been the result of his mental struggles, Marston, 
 at length, with a deep-drawn sigh, laid the letter 
 down upon his desk, and, at the same moment, 
 a priest (his confessor) entered. He came to 
 confirm his courage, and prepare him for the 
 sacrifice of the following morning. He re- 
 mained a long time with him ; and his visit, 
 at that crisis, decided Marston's fate. 
 
 How often is the destiny of a whole life 
 fixed by the accident of a moment! Call it 
 otherwise than accident ; — suppose it to be 
 the predestined act of Providence. This is 
 but to render that same Providence responsible 
 for the events these accidents produce ; and 
 human wisdom arid virtue would then, indeed,
 
 1G MARSTON. 
 
 struggle in vain against such an influence. 
 But man, although subject to the strong im- 
 pression of these accidents, has yet within his 
 breast the power to resist, if he has the energy 
 to call that power into action, instead of weakly 
 allowing the circumstances of the moment to 
 prostrate his will and better judgment. 
 
 " Combien l'homme est infortune ! 
 La sort maitrise sa foiblesse, 
 Et de l'enfance a. la vieilesse, 
 D'ecueils il marche environne ; 
 Le temps l'entraine avec vitesse, 
 II est mecontent du passe ; 
 Le present l'afflige et le presse ; 
 Dans l'avenir toujours place, 
 Son bonheur recule sans cesse, 
 II meurt en revant le repos. 
 
 Parny Melanges. 
 
 That elegant writer, Monsieur de Segur, in 
 his work, entitled " Memoires et Souvenirs,"
 
 MARST0N. 
 
 considers accident as the leading principle of 
 all our actions and lives. He says, — 
 
 " Le hazard a presque toujours plus d'in- 
 fluence sur notre sort, que nos calculs et nos 
 penchans. Je me rappelle, que l'undeshommes, 
 les plus connus, pour avoir cherche toute 
 sa vie, a fixer la fortune, par des profondes et 
 savantes combinaisons, le Marechal de Castries, 
 a l'epoque ou comrae aide-de-camp, je le sui- 
 vais en Bretagne, me dit que pendant tout le 
 cours de sa brillante carriere, les caprices du 
 sort avaient souvent dejoue les plus justes cal- 
 culs. Qu'il avoit du la plupart de ses succes, 
 et l'accomplissement des vceux de son ambi- 
 tion, a des chances imprevues, a des evenements 
 qui lui auraient ete impossible de deviner, et 
 quelquefois meme, ajoutait-il en riant a des 
 fautes. L' Experience m'a prouve la verite de 
 cette observation, qui m'a ete confirmee par 
 une foule de faits. 
 
 VOL I.
 
 18 MAHSTOX. 
 
 " Si Ton reflechissait bien, cette verite devrait 
 rendre les hommes plus indulgens, les uns 
 pour les autres, plus modeste dans les succes, 
 et plus patiens dans les revers, car dans le la- 
 byrinthe du monde, le chemin qu'on suit, la 
 pente qui nous entraine, Tissue qu'on trouve, 
 et le but ou Ton arrive, dependent d'une in- 
 finite de petites causes, ou notre prevoyance,et 
 notre volonte ne sont pour rien." 
 
 This is good writing, but false philosophy. 
 It is reducing the sentient principle to the dust, 
 and making man even lighter than vanity.
 
 M AHSTON. 19 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " I have of late (but wherefore I know not) lost all my 
 mirth, foregone all custom of exercises : and, indeed, it goes 
 so heavily with my disposition, that this goodly frame, the 
 earth, seems to me a steril promontory ; this most excellent 
 canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, 
 this majestical roof, fretted with golden fire, why, it appears 
 no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of 
 vapours." Shakspeare. 
 
 It was rather more than four years after the 
 events recorded in the preceding chapter, that 
 Mrs. Howard returned from Ireland, to fix 
 her residence at Netherwood-park. The law- 
 suit, which had occasioned her journey to 
 Dublin, and which had been by the law de- 
 
 c 2
 
 20 MARSTON. 
 
 layed for the tedious term of six years, had 
 been finally decided in her favor. 
 
 Netherwood, the beautiful estate belonging 
 to the Howard family, adjoining to Marston 
 Abbey, had been adjudged her son's inherit- 
 ance, after her demise, instead of passing into 
 the hands of a distant relative of Mr. Howard's, 
 who had unjustly claimed it, and who had pro- 
 secuted his claim with all the chicane and vexa- 
 tious procrastination the uncertainties of law 
 allowed him. The omission of some formalities, 
 with regard to the will, and the employment of 
 some ambiguous wording, liable to miscon- 
 struction, had been the occasion of these years 
 of harass and solicitude. 
 
 Since Marston's ordination, which had taken 
 place four years previously to Mrs. Howards 
 return to England, he had ceased to correspond 
 with her ; and she was anxious, on her arrival 
 in his neighbourhood, to show him her little
 
 MARSTON. 21 
 
 charge, and how scrupulously she had fulfilled 
 her engagement to him respecting her. She, 
 therefore, a few days after her return, sum- 
 moned the little girl, with Harry, to accom- 
 pany her in a walk to Marston Abbey, which 
 was separated from Netherwood Park by the 
 celebrated moor bearing the name of the abbey ; 
 and on which the famous battle of Marston 
 Moor was fought, during the civil wars, in the 
 year 1644, between the parliamentary forces 
 under Oliver Cromwell, and the Royalists 
 commanded by Prince Rupert; and which 
 contributed so essentially to the ruin of the 
 Royalist cause. 
 
 A short cut across the moor, of less than 
 half a mile, brought the little party to the 
 entrance of the grounds enclosing Marston 
 Abbey, which contrasted singularly with the 
 appearance of the adjoining heath (a). The 
 former bare, flat, and extensive, with but little
 
 22 MARSTON. 
 
 vegetation on it, and that of a low creeping 
 nature ; the latter adorned with high, majestic 
 oak trees, the growth of centuries, overshadow- 
 ing the earth with the dark foliage of their 
 many beauties, and, by the solemn grandeur 
 of their appearance, disposing the mind to 
 pensive contemplation. 
 
 The children, nevertheless, ran on before 
 their conductress, with the careless gaiety of 
 their age, stopping occasionally to gather wild 
 flowers ; and ever and anon, through the deep 
 shade of the avenue they were following, a 
 shout of mirth and laughter from their little 
 voices would break the sternness of the silence, 
 and dispel the monastic gloom of the scenery 
 around. Suddenly, however, their joyous 
 voices were hushed, and they came running 
 back in haste to Mrs. Howard, little Eleanor's 
 cheeks being suffused with a deeper red than 
 her habitual rosy colour, as she said to her
 
 MARSTON. ~2'3 
 
 protectress, in a tremulous whisper, — " There 
 is a tall man, dressed all in black, lying down 
 under a tree." 
 
 With what varied and contradictory feelings 
 the human heart is stored ! How impossible 
 is it to count on the durability of any impres- 
 sion ! So many causes, entirely independent 
 of our will, are continually acting, that our 
 deepest sentiments are but as marks traced on 
 the sea-shore, to be effaced by the returning 
 tide. 
 
 In Marston's character, these unhappy con- 
 tradictions, and subservience to impressions, 
 events, and circumstances, were particularly 
 striking. Independently, also, of this dispo- 
 sition, his mind was of too brilliant, too ener- 
 getic a cast to endure continued monotony, 
 and to such he had condemned himself: his 
 feelings were of too ardent a nature to continue 
 passive; in all he thought or felt, were exhi-
 
 24 MARSTON. 
 
 bited the lire and restlessness of an impatient 
 imagination . So long as his soul was struggling 
 against grief, he felt as if sacrificing the world, 
 and forcing himself from all its ties, would be 
 the birth of a new existence. The novelty, 
 and, much more, the seriousness of purpose 
 demanded by a lofty and soul-ennobling pro- 
 fession would, he conceived, lessen his sum 
 of anguish ; and he looked with confidence to 
 the hope that, by constant devotion and prayer, 
 he should be blessed with that consolation for 
 which his heart panted as " the hart after the 
 water brooks." Characterised by the excitable 
 and ardent temperament we have described, it 
 followed, as a necessary consequence, that he 
 should be patient till the accomplishment of 
 the scheme he meditated. When that incen- 
 tive was passed, and when he had pronounced 
 his vows, the severity of his life, as he had 
 anticipated, became a salutary stimulus for a
 
 MARSTON. 26 
 
 time ; but that severity ceased to be felt when 
 once it was habitual, and soon lost its effect. 
 Seclusion, and a solitary life, for awhile suited 
 his wretched state of mind, and soothed him 
 by the unlimited indulgence it afforded him for 
 deep meditation and reveries. He was thus 
 " all in all sufficient" to himself; but when he 
 had studied, and (metaphorically speaking) 
 perused the whole book, — when he had fa- 
 thomed his inmost thoughts and feelings to 
 their depths, — then to communicate to others, 
 to acquire fresh ideas, to compare, to scrutinize 
 other thoughts than his own, began insensibly 
 to be desired bv him. Recollections recurring 
 with greater frequency, and tinged with the 
 bright hues of fancy, brought before him the 
 enjoyments of the natural affections : his life 
 now struck him as void and sterile ; his mind 
 involuntarily wandered from " books, his sole 
 companions now, "and he would hurry forth to
 
 26 MARSTON. 
 
 stray in the magnificent woods, surrounding 
 the abbey, for hours together ; mourning the 
 past, dissatisfied with the present, and yet in- 
 capable of forming any fixed wish or definite 
 plan for the future. 
 
 It was in one of these gloomy, restless tem- 
 pers of mind, that he had been roaming over 
 wood and glade, since the dawn of day, and 
 he was reclining under a spreading oak, when 
 Mrs. Howard approached him, accompanied 
 by the two children. He was so absorbed 
 in reverie, that it was not till she was close 
 to him, and the sound of voices had startled 
 him, that he raised his eyes. " Marston," she 
 said, as she held out her hand to him (forget- 
 ting, at the moment, his actual profession), 
 " I bring you your little Eleanor, who is dear 
 to me beyond expression ; so much so, that 
 were you to claim her from me, I fear I could 
 not, without extreme pain, part with her."
 
 MARSTON, 27 
 
 The silvery tones of her voice, the lovely ex- 
 pression of her countenance, and the pressure 
 of his daughter to his heart (for he took not 
 the proffered hand), produced an entire revo- 
 lution in Marston's nature, as violent as it was 
 sudden. The suppressed emotions of his heart 
 now burst forth with the greater force for their 
 long concentration. 
 
 He could not speak, and for some minutes 
 remained gazing upon her, — upon his child, — 
 while his emotions increased in intensity till 
 they utterly overpowered him. The strong, 
 stern man wept like a child. Unhappy Mars- 
 ton ! — Too finely ,highly-wrought ! — too ardent! 
 — too eager ! — Years will subdue that fire which 
 destroys you ! — years will temper that ardour ! 
 — May you not experience in exchange regret, 
 repentance, and sorrow !
 
 28 MARSTON- 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 • la peace, love tunes the shepherd's reed ; 
 In war, he mounts the warrior's steed; 
 In halls, in gay attire is seen ; 
 In hamlets, dances on the green. 
 Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, 
 And men below and saints above ; 
 For love is heaven, and heaven is love." 
 
 Walter Scott. 
 
 The succeeding day brought Marston to 
 Netherwood, whither he had not been for six 
 years ; and the difference of scenery from that 
 with which he had been surrounded during 
 this period, for he had hardly ever quitted the 
 abbey and its boundaries, cheered him, and
 
 MARSTON. 29 
 
 raised his spirits from their habitual despon- 
 dency. 
 
 Netherwood was of modern construction, 
 and built after the model of Italian villas ; and 
 there was an aspect of serenity and cheerful- 
 ness in Netherwood-house and park, in har- 
 mony with the disposition of the fair owner of 
 the estate. Both were calculated to inspire 
 pleasure on arriving ; and no one could have 
 felt this more sensibly than did Marston. By 
 degrees the melancholy thoughts that oppressed 
 him diminished in intensity ; he became calmer 
 and more cheerful ; would converse on the 
 topics of the day, and interest himself in the 
 passing events which occupied his fair hostess 
 or his child. His little daughter would occa- 
 sionally extract a smile from him, and his 
 I ii< rid observed with pleasure the improvement 
 in li is health and spirits. 
 
 Netherwood was too far removed from any
 
 30 MARSTUX. 
 
 neighbourhood, except the small town of We- 
 therby, for Mrs. Howard to see much company, 
 and, except Marston, few persons came there 
 unless it were to pay an occasional and formal 
 morning visit ; but this circumstance suited 
 Mrs. Howard's tastes and habits. She had been 
 habituated by her parents, who lived in the 
 greatest retirement near Dublin, to lead a life 
 of much seclusion ; and her family, her books, 
 and her garden were her preferred society. 
 
 .The cheerful welcome which Marston re- 
 ceived at Netherwood became, at length, ne- 
 cessary to his happiness ; his daily sojourn 
 there seemed the all of vitality attached to his 
 existence. Until he had witnessed the smile 
 which said, " I am glad to see you ;" until the 
 bounding little Eleanor had jumped into his 
 arms, — he felt as if the day had not begun for 
 him; and his presence in Mrs. Howard's draw- 
 ing-room was looked for as a matter of course.
 
 MARSTON. 3] 
 
 By degrees, Marston could take no interest 
 in any lecture, or occupation, unless shared 
 with his amiable neighbour. Even his walks 
 must also have the solace of her society ; and 
 never had he taken walks, or read books, or 
 interested himself in any occupation, whicli 
 had appeared to him so delightful as those he 
 now pursued. 
 
 Mrs. Howard was far from regretting the 
 assiduous society of Marston. His conver- 
 sation was agreeable, his manners were gentle ; 
 and, in the extreme retirement in which she 
 lived, it was happiness to her to have a friend 
 to whom she could communicate her thoughts, 
 and who added interest to whatever interested 
 her by a similarity of sentiment. 
 
 But such halcyon days were not to last ; the 
 natural progression of feeling increased the 
 interest, at least on one side, till it began to 
 take a less happy character.
 
 :32 MARSTON. 
 
 With Mrs. Howard no change occurred : 
 although not a Catholic, she was too well aware 
 of the severity of the vows of the priesthood 
 of that religion, for the idea once even to occur 
 to her of considering Marston in any other 
 light than that of a friend. She knew him to 
 be unhappy : she knew the cause of that sor- 
 row ; and, if any increase of interest was felt 
 by her beyond that she had always borne him, 
 it was in viewing the effects of her care and 
 attention to him, and rejoicing in the amend- 
 ment which she discovered in his spirits. 
 
 With Marston the case was, alas! different. 
 His heart was formed for ardent love : his at- 
 tachment to his wife had been of the warmest 
 nature ; she had filled every recess of his bo- 
 som ; she had, as it were, multiplied his ex- 
 istence. The years he had been united to her 
 had flown with such rapidity, that, when taken 
 from him, he had been paralysed by the vio-
 
 mahston. :J:j 
 
 lence of the shock. He felt as though he 
 had been suddenly hurled from a secure 
 height into a fathomless abyss, and Time, erst 
 so fleet in its march, appeared a frightful eter- 
 nity. He would willingly have sprung forward 
 to the end and term of a life, now a space of 
 extreme suffering ; — would willingly have 
 "jumped the life to come ;" and all consola- 
 tion was as much inferior to his sorrow as hope 
 appeared beyond his reach. Unconsciousness 
 alone would have been consolation ; but though 
 the human frame can feel almost to dissolution, 
 the Creator has mercifully ordained that the 
 extreme of suffering shall be the beginning of 
 cure. 
 
 The acuteness of his agony in time subsided ; 
 but all worldly interests and affections were 
 still too great a distance from him for him to 
 turn to them : one only source of comfort lay 
 before him—the greatest, the best, the truest. 
 
 VOL I. I)
 
 o4 MARSTON . 
 
 That same power which had afflicted him so se- 
 verely, was present to heal his wound ; and 
 had he, at this period, sought this source of 
 consolation in the true meek spirit of prayer, 
 the balm would have been poured with lasting- 
 comfort ; but, unhappily, Marston was a Ca- 
 tholic, and his religion, which bears a cha- 
 racter of enthusiasm, is yet clogged with 
 superstition, and deprived of its greatest beau- 
 ties by a mixture of fanaticism — the work of 
 priests, — and more of priesthood and of earthly 
 laws is connected with it than of Godhood . So, 
 when he turned to his Maker, he turned to 
 those sacrifices ordained by priests, and by 
 them inculcated, as pleasing to God, which 
 alternately rendered him a manacled and 
 shackled sufferer. Not at the moment, indeed, 
 when he took his vows; then any sacrifice was 
 balm to his heart ; it was like the excision of 
 a noisome canker, and he looked not beyond
 
 MARSTON. 35 
 
 the present for cure, the future seemed assured 
 to him by the measure. 
 
 When time had cicatrised, not healed, his 
 wounds, and his profession had lulled them 
 to repose, he for a while experienced a 
 calm, which, by degrees, brought his mind 
 into a healthier state, and in proportion to this 
 change did his energies return. By slow de- 
 grees, however, a need of some interest became 
 insensibly to be desired : again he recurred to 
 the past ; and the more he felt that interest, 
 which now began to exert its influence on him, 
 towards his friend and his child, the nearer he 
 drew to his former state of feelings. Still it 
 did not occur to him that he loved ; the know- 
 ledge of his position did not permit such a 
 thought to enter, much less dwell in his mind ; 
 he loved, without being conscious of that sen- 
 timent. 
 
 Life began again to appear beautiful to him : 
 
 o 2
 
 36 HARSTOVi 
 
 nature again was lovely in his eves ; in his 
 orisons his fervour was greater, his devotion 
 more sublime ; fewer thoughts of his Eleanor, 
 perhaps, mingled unconsciously in his prayers, 
 but his adoration of his Creator was even the 
 purer. Time again flew rapidly with him, — 
 space also seemed to contract, and the distance 
 which separated his dwelling from those so 
 dear to him was swiftly traversed of a morning. 
 How bright, how beautiful the sun shone on 
 Netherwood, as he contemplated it from the 
 moor which lay beneath it ; and with what a 
 sense of bliss did he approach the gates. 
 
 In the evening, when he returned home, 
 after passing a day of mild and perfect hap- 
 piness, the moonlight scenery in the dark 
 woods of Marston Abbey claimed admiration 
 equally with the brighter tints of day. Slowly 
 he paced the splendid avenues conducting to 
 the abbey, observing the silvery light which
 
 marston. ;37 
 
 played through the openings of the trees, 
 while his thoughts recurred to the last subject 
 of conversation, and ideas multiplied with ra- 
 pidity to renew it on the following morning : 
 and if the night was moonless, equal objects 
 of contemplation presented themselves to re- 
 ceive the reflection of the calm happiness he 
 enjoyed, whilst at times the countless stars, 
 spangling the heavens, displayed the richness 
 and the infinity of the works of the great. 
 Creator. 
 
 As he pursued his return to his lonely dwell- 
 ing, he moved slowly, for each step took him 
 further from those who concentrated all his 
 happiness in their little circle. 
 
 Thus many months passed away : happy had 
 it lice 1 1 for him if years had so continued ; he 
 would then have been spared a long lift of 
 acute misery;— but the calm state he enjoyed 
 began to change into ;» degree of anxiet\ ; the
 
 38 
 
 MAHSTUX. 
 
 mornings seemed to lag and lengthen, until 
 the hour that he could present himself at Ne- 
 therwood ; the moments of parting became 
 mingled with melancholy. He knew not what 
 thus affected him, but inquietude oppressed 
 him when obliged, from any circumstance, to 
 be absent for a day ; and all things appeared 
 insipid to him when once out of the precincts 
 of Netherwood. An incident, however, at 
 this time occurred, which cruelly revealed to 
 him the real state of his feelings, and began 
 that web of sorrow from which he was never 
 to extricate himself. 
 
 There came one morning to the gates of 
 Netherwood a poor girl to beg an alms. She 
 was sick and wretched ; clothed in rags, and 
 with all the appearance which miserable po- 
 verty gives — a livid complexion, sunken eyes, 
 pale lips, and emaciated form ; but she ap- 
 peared young, and her sufferings evidently
 
 MARSTON. .')!-* 
 
 must have been extreme to nave reduced the 
 strength of youth to such premature debility. 
 Mrs. Howard happened to be returning from 
 a walk on the moor with her children (for so 
 she called them equally), when the poor girl 
 turned from the road, and followed her to the 
 gate of the park, which she was about to enter. 
 The downcast, embarrassed look of the sup- 
 pliant, who could not raise her eyes to the 
 person offering relief, was remarkable, and 
 Mrs. Howard asked her a few questions con- 
 cerning the cause of her present misery. 
 
 Her answers were such as to dispose to more 
 enquiries ; but it was with difficulty her sad 
 story could be extracted from her lips. Shame, 
 remorse, humiliation, and fear, broke her sen- 
 tences, and stopped her at intervals in her nar- 
 ration ; a sense of former feelings, and of a 
 very different position, recurred to her, as she 
 answered the queries of her mild and kind
 
 40 MANSION. 
 
 benefactress ; then desperation would hurry 
 her on in her disclosures, and again grief seemed 
 to choke her utterance, and she paused to re- 
 gain power to continue. Mrs. Howard felt 
 deeply for her ; she encouraged her ; she en- 
 deavoured to raise her from her state of humi- 
 liation ; but the consciousness the poor girl felt 
 of her abasement, when addressing virtue and 
 purity, rendered all efforts of that nature un- 
 availing. 
 
 " Oh ! no ; if you knew what an abject, de- 
 graded creature stands before you, you would 
 not listen to me with such goodness ; I should 
 rather inspire you with horror and disgust. I 
 cannot look at you, — I am unworthy to be in 
 your presence, — I belong to the lowest, the 
 most abject class of beings, — I am a lost crea- 
 ture in this world, and no future one is before 
 me, save one of punishment everlasting." 
 
 " Say not so, poor girl," replied Mrs. How-
 
 MARSTON. Ai 
 
 ard; "arraign not thus divine mercy ; where 
 tJiere is repentance for sin, there is pardon pro- 
 mised ; even now your self-accusation begins 
 your propitiation. Do not despair; you may 
 still be restored to a life of virtue, — you may 
 still become worthy of the mercy of God." 
 
 " Never, never ; how shall the great God of 
 the universe look on me, when I cannot look 
 on myself? Oh! if death would be the ter- 
 mination ; if nothing beyond threatened me, 
 I would resign this wretched life, — I would 
 seek eternal sleep !" 
 
 " Your language is not in harmony with 
 your appearance," said the kind Mrs. How T ard ; 
 "surely you were not born in the station of 
 life these rags would indicate." 
 
 " No, 1 was not ; and that fact alone would 
 condemn me, if no other did. I cannot 
 plead want o!' care <>r instruction ; I was mosl 
 tenderly brought up, most scrupulously edu-
 
 4*2 .M.ARSTON . 
 
 cated, — and it needed all the eloquence, all 
 the fascination, all the art of seduction, to 
 lower tee to the state in which I am. 
 
 to My father was an officer of high rank in 
 the army, my mother the daughter of a noble 
 Irish house. My father married her during 
 his residence in Ireland, while the troops under 
 his command w*ere quartered in the countv of 
 Clare. My mother was a Catholic. She edu- 
 cated me in the religion of her fathers ; and 
 never did tender care, or real devout anxiety, 
 attend a daughter more truly than in my case : 
 my poor mother bestowed on me all her af- 
 fection. 
 
 v Disfigured as you now see me, once I was 
 very pretty ; I heard it from all who came to> 
 see my mother ; I heard it from the officers 
 who came to visit my father ; I heard it espe- 
 cially, and with pleasure, from one of them, 
 the nearest in rank to him. He saw his ad-
 
 M AH STUN. 43 
 
 miration flattered me, and he took every op- 
 portunity of expressing it." 
 
 It is an often-told tale, and almost always 
 the same, which relates the seduction of inno- 
 cence. Credulity and frankness are the at- 
 tendants on that same innocence, — religion, 
 education, and example, its guardians : but 
 these forces are not sufficient to combat art, 
 persuasion, strong-will, and intention , — pas- 
 sion, flattery, opportunity, and eloquence, — 
 combined with grace, gentleness, and beauty. 
 
 The unhappy Eugenia became the victim of 
 deliberate seduction at the early age of sixteen , 
 and she fled her parents' house, to which she 
 felt she might not, could not, return. Satiety, 
 the offspring of possession when not combined 
 with love, soon cooled the ardour of her se- 
 ducer, who had quitted Ireland, withdrawing 
 from the regiment he could no longer serve 
 in ; and with the cruelty of which a man was
 
 \ 
 44 MARSTON. 
 
 capable, who liad already bo basely ruined the 
 young and innocent girl, he sought to pa<s her 
 into the hands of a friend of his who admired 
 her. 
 
 It required som;* address, as well as patience 
 and deceit to succeed in this project. Eugenia 
 loved Col. M — ; and not all his late indifference 
 and neglect, mockery of virtue and sophistry — 
 however she gave way to grief, and however 
 deeply she repented her conduct towards her 
 parents, — could diminish the affection she bore 
 him. He was obliged, in order to effect his 
 purpose, to quit her ; and making affairs of 
 importance, which called him to the north, his 
 pretext, he left her, never to return. She 
 traced and followed him as far as York, but 
 there lost all clue to proceed, being at the same 
 time pursued by her new admirer. Friend- 
 less, alone, without resources of any kind, her 
 necessities became advocates in his favour, and
 
 MARSTON. 45 
 
 she unwillingly yielded to his importunities. 
 The progress of vice is slow, but, once its 
 insinuations are listened to, it is certain. From 
 one step to another, the unfortunate girl gra- 
 dually sunk, in the scale of virtue, into the 
 lowest abyss of misery. She, once the pride 
 of her parents' house, admired and esteemed, 
 the friend and associate of persons in the high- 
 est circles, at length became the midnight and 
 unsheltered wanderer. 
 
 A longr train of horrors followed ; and she 
 passed through those various scenes of degra- 
 dation, each assuming a darker hue, till she 
 found herself the debased inmate of an hos- 
 pital . Her illness was long and severe ; though 
 attended by the people employed in the hos- 
 pital, such hireling attendance hardly deserves 
 the name. The medicines, it is true, are ad- 
 ministered ; but a friendless creature may lie 
 in her bed many sad and tedious months, un-
 
 4ti MAliSTON. 
 
 heeded by any compassionating eye, uncared 
 for ! Her nights of fever and suffering were 
 sadly long and painful ; distracting remem- 
 brances of the past haunted her perpetually. 
 She considered herself with horror : that hor- 
 ror became unbearable. She sought to die, by 
 refusing all sustenance or medical aid. Here 
 the guardians of the hospital interfered, and 
 menaced and insisted. Her trial was long and 
 severe, but her youth saved her ; and she had 
 just quitted the hospital, and was wandering 
 forth, she knew not whither, to seek some 
 casual assistance, when she met Mrs. Howard, 
 with her son and Eleanor, entering the park- 
 gate. Her tale had been told to one who was 
 too good, and too meek a Christian for it to 
 meet with any other feelings than those of 
 compassion and interest. Mrs. Howard wept, 
 as she listened to her. 
 
 " And had you no spiritual comforter in the
 
 MAHSTON, 47 
 
 hospital to pour hope into your afflicted bosom, 
 — poor child ! When in your despair you 
 sought to die, did you not reflect whither you 
 were going, on quitting your earthly tene- 
 ment?" 
 
 " Alas ! I knew but too well whither I should 
 go ; but for that dread, I should have succeeded 
 in putting an end to my worldly suffering. " 
 
 " But God is merciful, and sinful as you had 
 been, the thought that there is joy in heaven 
 over one that repenteth, might have whispered 
 peace to your troubled spirit. Surely there 
 was a clergyman attending such a public es- 
 tablishment." 
 
 "Yes, madam, there was, but I am a Ca- 
 tholic ; his ministry would have been of no 
 avail to me." 
 
 Mrs. Howard instantly thought of Marston, 
 and was determined to obtain from him his 
 friendly assistaneo in reclaiming the lost crea-
 
 48 MARSTON. 
 
 ture, and achieving a work already, she hoped, 
 begun. She drew Eugenia towards the house, 
 and bidding her wait in the green-house, went 
 in quest of Marston, whom she expected to find 
 in the drawing-room, it being the usual hour 
 of his visit. Her hopes were not disappointed. 
 She found him walking up and down the room, 
 in impatience till her glad presence should 
 animate that soul which felt existence only 
 when she was near. She related the tale with 
 all the eloquence feeling, pity, and charity in- 
 spire ; and had she said less, he would still 
 have been interested in her story, and for the 
 heroine of it. Was she not interested? could 
 he feel otherwise than she did ? 
 
 They consulted on the preliminary measure 
 of finding her a home ; since Marston judi- 
 ciously remarked, that she could not allow her 
 to enter her house, or be seen by the domestics, 
 who would reason very differently on the sub-
 
 MARSTON. 49 
 
 ject from what she did. Accordingly, they 
 arranged to place her with a poor old woman, 
 whom Mrs. Howard protected, and to whom 
 she had been very kind ; without letting her 
 know the history of the poor girl ; but merely 
 stating, that she was a person in whom she 
 took interest, and whose health she entrusted 
 to the especial care of the old woman. 
 
 Marston undertook, as soon as she should 
 be installed there, to attend her, and dispose 
 her mind to the consolations of religion. For 
 the future neither he nor Mrs. Howard occu- 
 pied themselves ; much was essential to be 
 done, ere it would be necessary to consider 
 how, or where, she was to exist after she should 
 be reclaimed. 
 
 These arrangements being made, Mrs. How- 
 ard then repaired to the village adjoining the 
 park, where the cottage of her poor pensioner 
 was situated, with whom she settled every 
 
 VOL I. i;
 
 50 MARSTON. 
 
 thing according to her wishes ; and she ap- 
 prized the old woman that her neighbour, Mr. 
 Marston, interested himself equally about the 
 young woman she proposed placing with her, 
 and would visit her constantly. She then pur- 
 chased in the village such homely apparel as 
 she considered suitable, which she caused to 
 be brought by a little boy from the village 
 along with her ; and Eugenia attired herself 
 in the greenhouse. Before the evening fell, 
 the poor girl was comfortably installed in her 
 new dwelling, her heart overflowing with gra- 
 titude to her benefactors, and enjoying thelon£ 
 unknown sensations of security and home. 
 
 Mrs. Howard's satisfaction, at the commence- 
 ment of this good work, although an exquisite 
 gratification, was to her no novel one ; for miles 
 round Netherwood she had dispensed her cha- 
 rities, and given consolation to the unhappy 
 ancl the needy ; and she was as much beloved
 
 MAT18TON. .*>1 
 
 as anyone can be who renders services to their 
 neighbours. A great sovereign once trulv 
 said, — " Pour une faveur que j'accorde, je suis 
 sur de faire — 99 mecontents et un ingrat." 
 
 Marston went the following morning to Eu- 
 genia, and his mild remonstrances brought her 
 by degrees to consent to his being her spiritual 
 adviser : she was meek, and obedient, but 
 whenever he held out hope to her she refused 
 it. 
 
 " Treat me severely, father ; order me heavy 
 penance — none you can inflict can meet the 
 weight and measure of my sin ; but talk not 
 to me of hope or pardon, — it is impossible." 
 
 No arguments could persuade her to take 
 any other nourishment than bread, or drink 
 any thing but water : " It is all too good for 
 me, I am too unworthy, " was her fixed replv. 
 
 Her mind became more and moreoppn irifci id 
 as she recovered her bodilv strength ; a fuller 
 
 UNIVLRSHY OF 
 ILLINOIS LIBRARY
 
 52 MAHSTON. 
 
 sense of her degradation seemed to weigh her 
 down ; and Marston grieved to see, that the 
 consolation he endeavoured to hold out to her 
 had not the effect intended. She acknow- 
 ledged the mercy of God ; she was deeply pe- 
 netrated with religious sentiments, but could 
 not adopt the hope that mercy could be ex- 
 tended to her : and she would say to him, with 
 a melancholy smile, — 
 
 " I feel all the kindness of your reasoning, 
 father, but the intention is all I can acknow- 
 ledge." 
 
 Marston felt deeply anxious for the fate of 
 this poor victim of villainy, and, for some time, 
 the chief subject of discourse between him and 
 Mrs. Howard was Eugenia, and the daily pro- 
 gress, or failure, of his efforts towards raising 
 her to hope. At length, completely discou- 
 raged, he called his friend's exertions to his aid . 
 
 " Speak to her the language of one of her
 
 MARSTON. 53 
 
 own sex ; she looks on me as a confessor, per- 
 haps with you she will be led on more easily ; 
 she could not resist you — could any one I" 
 
 Mrs. Howard might have seen him colour 
 and hesitate at this phrase, which escaped his 
 lips ere reflection had retained it ; yet his con- 
 fusion was unnoticed by her who caused it; 
 she was too much occupied with the subject 
 for a thought of herself to mingle with it. 
 
 " Indeed you have too high an opinion of 
 my powers ; my arguments will be weak after 
 your's, Marston : I will exert myself as you 
 wish, even though my efforts should only tend 
 to throw the brilliancy, truth, and point of 
 your arguments into broader light, from the 
 shadow of my weaker reasoning. Besides," 
 she added, smiling, "you know, / am a he- 
 retic, for whom there is no salvation." 
 
 This was said as they entered the cottage of 
 the old woman with whom Eugenia resided.
 
 54 MARSTON. 
 
 What might he the thoughts or feelings of 
 Marston did not appear, as they were imme- 
 diately accosted by the cottager, with a look 
 of much alarm on her countenance. 
 
 " Oh ! my lady, Lord save us, what will you 
 say ; you will be mortal angry with me ! — and 
 yet it is none of my fault : I took as much care 
 of Miss Eugeny as thof she had been my own 
 child ; and never so much as said one cross 
 word to her, although she would sit moping 
 and crying enough to harry up one's soul. 
 I'm sure she was melancholic company, sure 
 enough." 
 
 " But, my good woman," said Marston, im- 
 patiently, "what is the matter?" 
 
 " There now, I was sure as how it would be, 
 and I not at all to blame all the whiles, I'm 
 sure." — And she began whimpering. 
 
 " What are you sure about, Mother Ewlet ?" 
 said Mrs. Howard ; " where is Eugenia?"
 
 MARSTON. 55 
 
 " Why Lord, my lady, and wouldn't 1 be 
 telling you, if I knew where she was, poor 
 young lady. I'm sure I never thoft as trouble 
 would come upon me this wise, and all for 
 telling her about the poor sick woman as 1 
 'tended, when your ladyship sent me to carry 
 soup and one thing or another to her, there in 
 Wetherby, just to amuse her." 
 
 " Mother Ewlet, no more trifling," said 
 Marston, sternly; "tell at once what you 
 know of the young woman, and where she is 
 gone." 
 
 The old woman looked now so terrified, thai 
 Mrs. Howard feared it would be impossible to 
 make her explain any thing, unless she re- 
 moved the panic their presence had caused her, 
 and she sat down patiently to await the mo- 
 ment she anxiously desired, and motioned i<> 
 Marston to do the same.
 
 56 MARSTON. 
 
 " I forget what you allude to, Mother Ewlet ; 
 what sick woman did I send you to attend ?" 
 
 "Lauknow! and is it possible! what you 
 forgets the poor sick woman as lodges at We- 
 therby, just out of the town there, in a open 
 garret, and was starving, without bed-clothes 
 to cover her, or creatur to look arter her ; — 
 says you, ' Mother Ewlet,' says you, ' take 
 these things to her, and tell her I will send 
 more soon,' — but the poor woman hasn't need 
 of half as much, for its my fancy as she's dying. 
 The last time as I went to her, she made me 
 stay and hear all her melancholic story. Says 
 she, ' Mother Ewlet, when I'm dead, be sure 
 you tell it all to the good lady as sent you ;' 
 and I promised I would, but she arn't dead 
 yet. Howsomdever, Miss Eugeny was crying, 
 and taking on so last night, thinks I, I'll tell 
 her all that story, and that will do her good.
 
 MARSTON. 57 
 
 Well, so I told her, and then she began moan- 
 ing, and tearing her hair, like one distraught ; 
 and I went out to settle the cow for the night, 
 and when I corned back, I didn't see Miss 
 Eugeny, so thinks I she's gone to bed, poor 
 thing, mayhap she'll be better to-morrow morn- 
 ing; so I never troubled myself more, for I 
 was weary, as we poor folks are when night 
 comes, too happy to get to bed and sleep, after 
 toiling all the live long day. Oh! my lady, 
 you rich folks don't know what poor folks 
 suffer : I used to tell my good man in younger 
 days, when he used to look so smart and natty 
 like, for he was footman to your ladyship's 
 godfather, please your worship (dropping a 
 courtesy to Marston), I used to say to him, 
 
 says I " 
 
 " My good woman, you have quite forgotten 
 thai you have not finished what you were tell 
 ing me about Eugenia."
 
 58 MARSTON. 
 
 " Ah ! dear, so and it's true. Well, I didn't 
 see her this morning, as usual, praying and 
 crossing herself, near the window, as I always 
 did as soon as it was light, as I passed by the 
 window to go and milk the cow, and something 
 wrong struck me. Lauk bless me, says I, is 
 Miss Eugeny ill, as she arn't praying ! So I 
 tapt at the window, and she said never a word ; 
 then I looked in, and sure enough she warn't 
 there, and her bed was untouched, so you 
 know, my lady, she can't have been to bed, 
 but where she is I can't think, and I was afeard 
 to go and tell you ; I thoft as you would be 
 angry, and yet sure it's not my fault." 
 
 She went on muttering and chattering, bur 
 her auditors no longer listened to her, but 
 looked at each other with much concern . 
 
 " And is there no means of tracing her," at 
 last said Mrs. Howard; "have you no idea 
 where she is gone I"
 
 MARSTON. 59 
 
 " Dear no, my lady ; she arnt taken none of 
 her new clothes, as you gived her, with her, 
 hut just a bundle of rags, as she brought with 
 her the first day tied up, and she has even left 
 those she wore in her room." 
 
 " Can she be an accomplished hypocrite, 
 and a vagrant," said Marston ; " and yet what 
 could she get more by begging than food, 
 raiment, and house-room." 
 
 "Oh! Marston, can you form so severe a 
 judgment? Her history, her language, her 
 repentance, her agony, were all too true to 
 admit of such a suspicion." 
 
 "It is so ; and yet how inexplicable is her 
 conduct : there is something in it incompre- 
 hensible ; but let us lose no time in making 
 enquiry ; perhaps we shall discover where slu- 
 is gone, and, at the same time, that she is not 
 unworthy of our protection." 
 
 ThcdinM'i road to York from Netherwood
 
 60 MARSTON. 
 
 was through Wetherby, and it was mo^t pro- 
 bable she had journeyed thither, in order to 
 gain the high road to London, or she must 
 have crossed a wide extent of fields and private 
 property, and have been more conversant with 
 the topography of the county than was pre- 
 sumable. Marston offered to ride to Wetherby, 
 and, perceiving how anxious Mrs. Howard 
 was to discover the fugitive, quitted her to pro- 
 ceed forthwith. The day passed without fur- 
 ther information, nor did Marston return to 
 Netherwood. The following morning Mrs. 
 Howard received a note from him, requesting 
 her to come immediately to Wetherby. 
 
 " Your presence will shed balm and con- 
 solation on the miserable," he wrote ; " 1 have 
 found the poor penitent, and cannot at this 
 crisis quit her." 
 
 It needed not entreating to obey this man- 
 date. In two hours she arrived at the spot
 
 MAHSTON. O'l 
 
 indicated by Marston, and found him waiting 
 for her at the door of a wretched hovel. 
 
 " Let not the scene which you are about to 
 witness affect you too deeply ; I would have 
 spared you it, but was so earnestly entreated 
 to request you would come, that I could not 
 refuse." 
 
 " I will follow you, Marston," replied Mr?. 
 Howard, " and will endeavour to still whatever 
 emotions I may feel :" — So saying, she climbed 
 up a sort of ladder, with his assistance, and 
 entered a loft, exposed on two sides to the in- 
 clemencies of the weather. 
 
 In the farthest corner of this miserable 
 abode, where a kind of roof formed a covering 
 against rain and snow, was lying, stretched on 
 straw, an old woman, and on her knees, by 
 her side, holding her emaciated hands within 
 her own, was Eugenia, — tears streaming down
 
 o'2 
 
 \IAII>TD.N 
 
 her cheeks, arid convulsive sobs heaving her 
 hosom, her eyes strained in watching the de- 
 parting spirit of one once so dear to her. Her 
 absorbing agony prevented her heeding the 
 entrance of Mrs. Howard and Marston ; and 
 she drew nearer to the head of the dying wo- 
 man, to catch the inarticulate sounds which 
 fell with difficulty from her lips. The two 
 friends hesitated to approach : a feeling of awe 
 withheld them from disturbing the solemnity of 
 that moment. They remained silent; and were 
 deeply affected by the picture of wretchedness 
 before them. Eugenia rose from her knee«, 
 after some time, to raise the head of the suf- 
 fering invalid on the straw couch, and then 
 saw her benefactress ; but the look she gave 
 her hardly evinced consciousness, and she was 
 about to resume her position, when Mrs. 
 Howard and Marston drew gentlv near. A
 
 MARSTON. 63 
 
 faint gleam of animation lighted up the face of 
 the dying woman, and she summoned her re- 
 maining strength to address Mrs. Howard. 
 
 " You have shewn mercy to my sinful 
 daughter," she said; "you have brought her 
 from the gates of eternal punishment into the 
 road of salvation ; and, by your blessed cha- 
 rity, she is here to receive the pardon of her 
 unhappy, dying mother. Blessings on your 
 head, — blessings on all those who are dear to 
 you ; may your children be a benediction to 
 you, — may all earthly and heavenly happiness 
 attend you here and hereafter." 
 
 These exertions were too great for her en- 
 feebled frame, and she was constrained to pause 
 for a time. Her daughter brought her some- 
 thing to drink, to cool her parched lips, and 
 she thus resumed : — 
 
 " Leave not your good work unfinished ; 
 when 1 am dead, I implore you to receive
 
 1)4 MARSTON. 
 
 again under your protection my unfortunate 
 child, and, if it is possible, try to diminish the 
 agonies of her remorse. May blessings be 
 showered on the head of that holy man, who 
 has aided you in your charitable endeavours to 
 reclaim a sinful creature. (This she said, ad- 
 dressing Marston.) — Ah ! reverend father, 
 blessed is your calling ; you are preserved from 
 all those dangers which surround the children 
 of this world, exposed as they are to the temp- 
 tations of the flesh. Had I listened to the 
 persuasions of my family, at the birth of my 
 poor Eugenia, she would now be a blessed 
 saint, instead of what I shudder to name. 
 They prayed me to devote her to a cloister ; 
 but I was vain of my beautiful child — I wished 
 all the world to see her, and admire her ; and 
 now I have to accuse myself as being the author 
 of all her faults and woes. I preferred bestow- 
 ing her on a worldly husband to making her
 
 MARSTON. 65 
 
 the spouse of Christ, and I panted for the hour 
 when I should witness the bridal of the pride 
 of my heart. Little did I know the treache- 
 rous snares which were being laid for her ; lit- 
 tle was I aware that my tender care, and 
 watchful guardianship, were insufficient to 
 protect her against determined villainy. My 
 poor child allowed herself to be ensnared, 
 giving, in return for cold-hearted sophistry, 
 real love and confidence " 
 
 "Oh! when she quitted her mother, little 
 did she dream of the misery, the wretchedness 
 she inflicted." 
 
 " Sob not thus, poor child, I have forgotten 
 that now : all the past is but as a shadow ; but 
 thy departure was the signal for accumulated 
 sorrows to surround me. Thy father, incensed, 
 enraged, sought thy destroyer ; whether thou 
 wert still living with him at that time I know 
 not ; for they fought, and thy father fell,— and 
 
 VOL I. F
 
 06 MARST0N. 
 
 it was some months before I learned that he 
 
 had found Col. M , and had died by his 
 
 hands. Poverty then assailed me : our only 
 resource had been my husband's military ap- 
 pointments. By degrees, I became involved 
 to a great extent ; — prisons, sufferings of every 
 sort, awaited me. I quitted Ireland, when re- 
 lieved in a degree by a relative in England, 
 and came over to join her. At York I fell ill, 
 and here I have lingered many months, until 
 my distress became known to this angel of 
 mercy, who assisted me. Watch carefully 
 over her, holy father ; let not impure thoughts 
 approach her dwelling : shelter her from the 
 seduction and wily arts of selfish, designing 
 men : be her protector and guardian against 
 all danger. You can never know the anguish 
 of a broken heart. Oh ! you are spared all 
 the sorrows which arise from mistaken and ill- 
 requited affection. Your thoughts and heart
 
 MARSTON. (>? 
 
 are centered in God ; you know not what dire- 
 ful miseries may arise from the passion of love. 
 Have mercy towards my unhappy daughter ; 
 pity and pray for her, — pray for me, — pray for 
 the wretched !" 
 
 Mrs. Howard promised her, with that fer- 
 vour and feeling which at once enforce con- 
 viction, that her desires should be fulfilled ; 
 and, while she was yet speaking, the poor 
 woman clasped her arms around Eugenia, and 
 sunk lifeless on the bed. Marston, who had 
 been agitated and shocked by a variety of con- 
 flicting emotions, recovered his presence of 
 mind sufficiently to engage Mrs. Howard to 
 withdraw from this scene of desolation, pro- 
 mising not to quit Eugenia, and to do all that 
 was necessary, under the existing circum- 
 stances. 
 
 " You must leave the poor girl here awhile," 
 he said ; " I must pray with her by the side of
 
 08 MARSTON. 
 
 her departed mother; I must remain here till 
 all is terminated, and then I will bring Eu- 
 genia back to her asylum." 
 
 Mrs. Howard withdrew, in obedience to his 
 request, and returned to Netherwood, but she 
 never saw Eugenia more. 
 
 Marston, as the poor woman was a Catholic, 
 kindly undertook to conduct the funeral him- 
 self, and to bury her in a spot allotted in the 
 burying-ground for persons of that persuasion . 
 The distracted Eugenia followed the proces- 
 sion, strewing flowers on the coffin, according 
 to the custom of Catholics. When, however, 
 the last part of the awful ceremony was draw- 
 ing nigh, her agony became so intense that it 
 was with difficulty Marston could proceed. 
 She flung herself on the coffin, uttering piercing 
 shrieks, and supplicating that the ground 
 which covered her mother might also be 
 heaped on her ; at last, force was necessary to
 
 MARSTON. 69 
 
 restrain her sufficiently to proceed with the in- 
 terment. While Mars ton was intent in prayer, 
 she suddenly darted from the ground, and in 
 a few minutes was out of sight. Madness 
 seemed to give strength and fleetness to her 
 feeble limbs, and all pursuit proved vain. 
 From a part of her dress, which was found 
 some time after floating by the river's bank, it 
 was supposed the wretched girl had drowned 
 herself. 
 
 Instead of hastening to Netherwood, after 
 every research to discover Eugenia had been 
 ineffectual, Marston returned to the abbey, 
 and wrote thence to Mrs. Howard the unhappy 
 termination of their charitable intentions. 
 
 It was several weeks ere Marston became 
 again a visitor at Netherwood. He feigned 
 indisposition as the cause of his absence, and 
 his appearance amply justified this assertion, 
 for he was |>;der and much more dejected than
 
 70 MARSTON. 
 
 he had been of late. There was something 
 constrained in his manner, whenever he ad- 
 dressed Mrs. Howard, and his countenance ex- 
 pressed great melancholy. He avoided all 
 occasions of conversing with her alone, and 
 seemed no longer to enjoy her society : — yet 
 still he came, and lingered ; although he grew 
 still sadder, and graver, and more restless. 
 
 He would come early to Netherwood, and 
 then depart in half an hour, pretending occu- 
 pations which required his absence ; and then 
 would return almost immediately, and forget 
 the important business which he had stated 
 called him away. At other times, he would 
 shew, in innumerable ways, signs of impa- 
 tience and irritability, and, bursting out of the 
 house, would remain absent several days. 
 
 Mrs. Howard became uneasy for his health, 
 and even his reason. He declined visibly ; 
 nevertheless, his snatches of impatience made
 
 MARSTON. 71 
 
 her fearful of offending him by noticing them. 
 Little could she guess or suspect the truth. 
 She was entirely unconscious of the sensations 
 that agitated his mind; and oftentimes in- 
 creased his embarrassment, and aggravated his 
 sufferings, while she thought, by her expres- 
 sions of sympathy, she was mitigating them. 
 
 His old grey-headed servant, Joseph, who 
 had never quitted him since his birth, and was 
 most truly devoted to him, sought in vain to 
 discover what it could be which so afflicted his 
 dear master ; and he would repair of an even- 
 ing, when his service was ended, with the gar- 
 rulity of age, to make Mrs. Davenport, Mrs. 
 Howard's housekeeper, the confidante of his 
 perplexities and uneasiness. 
 
 " I really don't know, Mrs. Davenport, 
 what in the world ails my unhappy master ; 
 Imt what is certain is, that he gets vrorserer 
 and worserer. Sometimes, I declare, he will
 
 72 MARSTON. 
 
 nearly snap one's nose off'; and when he is in 
 them worriting tempers, he will take nothing 
 whatsomever of nourishment, not nothing at 
 all. But I hears him sighing, and sighing, 
 and taking on so, and then he goes into the 
 chapel, and there he'll be a praying by the 
 hour together. Do you know, I sometimes 
 thinks as he is distraught. He axed me, no 
 longer ago than last night, what was the name 
 of the captain as is arrived at Netherwood ; and 
 when I told him, as I did without thinking to 
 make him angry, as how there had been great 
 preparations made before his arrival, and that 
 folks said in the village as he was come a 
 courting Mrs. Howard, Lord bless you, he 
 shouted out, and clenched his fists this wise, 
 and stared so wildly, and fell down in a chair, 
 as thof he would be having a fit." 
 
 " Oh! Mr. Joseph, I wish it was true, with 
 all my heart, what the folks say in the village,"
 
 MARSTON. 
 
 replied Mrs. Davenport, "for it is quite a 
 mortal pity, to see so fine and sweet a young- 
 woman as my mistress wasting away her youth, 
 as sure enough she does, all lonely-like. She 
 arnt more than eight-and-twenty years of age, 
 to my certain knowledge, and she is such a 
 sweet lady, that I am sure she would do honor 
 to a coronet. Howsomdever, I don't think as 
 Captain Harris is come with that there thought, 
 whatever may happen afterwards. 
 
 "You are not advised, Mr. Joseph, that 
 Captain Harris is our young master Harry's 
 guardian, and as he is going to take a long 
 sea voyage to theHingies; I overheard him 
 telling my lady, as it was time that youn^ 
 master should be beginning his hedication ; 
 and that as it had been his poor father's fancy 
 as he should folly the same profession as \\\< 
 (»nii, he was come to fetch away young master, 
 and t<» take him alone with him in this voyage.
 
 74 MAKSTON. 
 
 Poor mistress is in a sad taking, for yon know 
 she tloats upon her darling boy ; and, sure 
 enough, I do think it is a cruel thing to take 
 him from her, so young as he is, all at once so 
 far off. 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Joseph, every one has their sor- 
 rows, believe me ; and if your poor master is 
 stricken as you say he is, why he is not the 
 only hart or hind, as the song says. But, 
 come, don't be for returning homewards this 
 fashion : it is raining very hard, and it is my 
 opinion we shall be having a thunder-storm by 
 and by. Stay, and take a glass of cowslip- 
 wine, and bide a bit till the storm is over." 
 
 In a few minutes the old housekeepers pre- 
 dictions were realized. The cloud hanging 
 over Netherwood burst awfully, and the flashes 
 of lightning succeeded each other with such 
 extreme rapidity, that the heavy roll of thun- 
 der continued unceasingly, one peal mingling
 
 MARSTON. /.) 
 
 with another without intermission. Joseph 
 was, nevertheless, impatient to return home. 
 It was the hour at which Marston generally 
 required his services ; but the careful house- 
 keeper insisted that he should not depart as 
 long as the storm continued ; and it lasted so 
 long, that it was far advanced in the evening 
 before he set off on his return to the abbey. 
 
 He entered the great hall silently and cau- 
 tiously, lest Marston should have already retired 
 to repose ; and that the unusual sound of foot- 
 steps, at so late an hour, might not disturb 
 him. He crept to the door of his apartment 
 to ascertain that all was well, but there was 
 no light in his chamber, — all was silence ; and, 
 to his great fear and astonishment, on entering 
 the room, it was untenanted. He then de- 
 scended to the library, but the same stillness 
 reigned there likewise. Breathless, lie en 
 tered the chapel adjoining, n<> sign of life
 
 76 MARSTON. 
 
 was there either. Marston was ahsent it w it- 
 evident ; but wherefore, in such weather, and 
 at such an hour of night? These thoughts 
 both perplexed and alarmed his old servant. 
 Perhaps he had been sent for to the bedside of 
 some sick parishioner, to bestow the comfort he 
 felt so little himself, during Joseph's visit to 
 Mrs. Davenport ; but this was simple conjec- 
 ture. Where seek him at such an hour of 
 night ? 
 
 The only servant Marston allowed himself, 
 besides Joseph, was an old woman, who came 
 daily to prepare his abstemious repast; and 
 when once her duties were executed, she re- 
 turned to her cottage and her family. There 
 were numerous labourers employed about the 
 park and grounds, but these also returned at 
 evening to their dwellings in the village. 
 
 The old man's conscience bitterly reproached 
 him for having allowed himself to listen to the
 
 MARSTON. / / 
 
 persuasions and fears of Mrs. Davenport, and 
 having thus neglected his unhappy master. 
 The following morning, he went in pursuit of 
 him in every direction that his thoughts could 
 suggest as likely to have been visited by him, 
 but unsuccessfully, and in the evening he re- 
 paired in much perplexity to Netherwood, and 
 asked to speak with Mrs. Howard, to whom 
 he told his great anxiety and uncertainty. 
 
 " My master arn't over well, my lady — his 
 troubles have got such hold of his mind ; he 
 passes his days and nights in prayers and tears, 
 and somehow there is no coming near him 
 lately. He looks so angry at me, if I dares 
 to ax him how he is, that he quite frightens 
 me. He usen't to speak to his old sarvant tlii> 
 wise ; and when I think as it is I, as has been 
 his servant, come Michaelmas, six-and-thirty 
 years, for I lived with his honored father, and 
 was my lady's own footman ; and when young
 
 78 MARSTON. 
 
 master was four years old, 'Joseph,' says my 
 lady, ' you shall tend the nursery, and, when 
 your little master is old enough, you shall tend 
 him," and sure enough I have, as in duty 
 bound, ever since ; but now I am a weak old 
 man, and my poor master as I loves makes me 
 pass many a weary hour. Sometimes he won't 
 go to bed the whole live-long night, and 1 
 watches, and watches, for I don't like to think 
 of resting, whiles I knows as he is watching. 
 But I didn't think as he would go away this 
 fashion, and never as much as say, ' Joseph, 
 I'm going,' — or, ' Good bye to you,' — or some- 
 thing " 
 
 Captain Harris, who had been staying at 
 Netherwood for three or four days, was sitting 
 in the drawing-room at the time of Joseph's 
 visit, and good humouredly proposed to seek 
 Mr. Marston in more distant parts than the 
 old man could undertake to do on foot. Mrs.
 
 MARSTON. 79 
 
 Howard eagerly accepted this kind offer, and 
 sent herself in other directions ; but all their 
 efforts to discover him were vain, and they 
 were obliged to submit to the painful suspense 
 which they felt on his account, more particu- 
 larly Mrs. Howard, who was sincerely attached 
 to her friend. 
 
 At length, after several days had passed in 
 this uncertainty, a child belonging to a poor 
 cottager, living some miles distant from the 
 abbey, came to Netherwood, sent by his mo- 
 ther, to say that a gentleman, who had been 
 taken very ill at her cottage several days be- 
 fore, had become so much worse as to rave and 
 be totally unable to explain himself. She had 
 observed, in the course of his mental wander- 
 ings, that he had mentioned Netherwood se- 
 veral times; and the good woman inferring, 
 from this circumstance, that the owner of that 
 mansion might know something concerning
 
 80 MARSTUX. 
 
 him, had quickly dispatched her child to ap- 
 prize her of his dangerous state, as she did not 
 dare leave him alone, his conduct was marked 
 with such violence. Capt. Harris, between the 
 time of his search after Marston and this dis- 
 covery, had returned to London to prepare for 
 his long voyage, so that Mrs. Howard was un- 
 able to have recourse to his friendly assistance 
 at this crisis. No time was to be lost ; and she 
 made up her mind instantly to set off, accom- 
 panied by Eleanor, to the cottage the child 
 had indicated. 
 
 Great was her grief to witness the wretched 
 state in which she found her unhappy friend. 
 The violent paroxysm of fever, under which 
 he had laboured for several days, had subsided, 
 and was succeeded by the excessive depression 
 and weakness which generally follow such at- 
 tacks. His eyes were sunken, his forehead 
 and cheeks deathly pale, and a wandering,
 
 MARSTON. 81 
 
 melancholy, unsettled expression, observable 
 in his eyes, greatly affected her. He avoided 
 looking at her, as she entered the room, and 
 appeared to be collecting his thoughts. 
 
 The poor cottager, meanwhile, bustled about 
 and presented chairs for her guests, — much 
 flustered to have such fine Company in her lit- 
 tle cottage, and'feo fine a carriage at the door. 
 
 Mrs. Howard observed Marston's distress 
 and embarrassment, and with her sex's deli- 
 cacy of feeling endeavoured, by an assumed 
 quietude of manner, to produce the same in 
 him, and she, in a degree, succeeded. After 
 a few minutes' silence, he fixed his dark ex- 
 pressive eyes on her, and attempted languidly 
 to raise his head from the high-backed chair 
 on which it was resting ; — and she spoke, in 
 order to break the silence, which became too 
 embarrassing. 
 
 " Marston, it is very unkind of you thus to 
 vol i. <;
 
 82 MARSTON. 
 
 quit your friends, and refuse their consolation 
 and assistance, when you are so ill. Why 
 have you done so ? You have given us great 
 uneasiness : we have sought you everywhere for 
 several days, and have been seriously distressed 
 on your account. Your dear little daughter 
 has been quite miserable. Speak to me, dear 
 Marston ; you look at me as if you hardly 
 knew me. What can I do for you? — What 
 can we all do, to relieve your unhappy mind ? 
 Indeed, I could reproach you with severity for 
 this want of confidence, this proof of indiffe- 
 rence. You then feel no sympathy with us ! — 
 You do not interest yourself sufficiently for 
 us, to care whether we feel anxiety on your 
 account or not. Unkind Marston ! — Is this 
 good woman more attentive than we should 
 have been ? — Is her skill greater in the treat- 
 ment of your illness, than that within our 
 power ? Do explain this extraordinary caprice.
 
 MABSTON. 8^3 
 
 or tell me if we have been so unfortunate as 
 unintentionally to offend you, or to give you 
 pain. Believe me, if such is unhappily the 
 case, regret for so doing would infinitely sur- 
 pass the punishment you would inflict by with- 
 drawing from us." 
 
 During this appeal to his feelings, little 
 Eleanor clung round him, crying — " Father, 
 dear father !" With effort, he roused himself 
 to the energy of replying — 
 
 " I should, indeed, merit more unkind re- 
 proaches than you have expressed (and a faint 
 flush spread itself over his pale countenance), 
 were I here from any of the causes you suppose. 
 In truth, an attack of fever came on me sud- 
 denly, near this good woman's dwelling ; and 
 when I accepted her invitation to enter her 
 cottage, it was with the expectation of quitting 
 it shortly, and returning home. Would to 
 (rod, yon could offend me!" — and he stopped 
 
 q 2
 
 84 MARSTOK, 
 
 short, and began playing with Eleanor's curls, 
 while a distressed and half-angry expression 
 passed over his countenance, not against her 
 but against himself. 
 
 The dying speech of Eugenia's mother had 
 awakened him to the real state of his feelings : 
 he had recoiled from them with remorse and 
 dread. He had then been indulging a passion 
 which, in his position, was a sin. With hor- 
 ror he became his own inquisitor ; he probed 
 his feelings to the heart's core ; he examined 
 all his thoughts, and scrutinized all the feelings 
 which had, for the last few months, engrossed 
 his soul. Each day had added new and deeper 
 cause for self- recrimination to the preceding- 
 one. He had sinned mentally, but uncon- 
 sciously; yet he listened not to the excuses 
 which self-indulgence offered. 
 
 " I ought not to have been unconscious ! — 1 
 have abandoned my soul with indolence to its
 
 MARSTON. 85 
 
 perdition," were his bitter upbraidings ; and he 
 communed severely with himself. 
 
 The priest, who had formerly been his con- 
 fessor, resided at York, and he had dispatched 
 a messenger, requiring his presence at the ab- 
 bey. Not that he was a man whose erudition 
 and mind were on a par with Marston's : he 
 was, in fact, little more than a bare reciter of 
 the doctrines he professed ; but then he was a 
 person less interested in admitting excuses than 
 himself could be, and he wanted support to 
 strengthen him in the determination he formed. 
 The result of the measure may be easily ima- 
 gined. The priest enjoined penance, prayer, 
 and fasting, and forbade him re-entering the 
 house where his soul's weal had been so en- 
 dangered. In so ordering, he fulfilled the du- 
 ties of his calling, and was satisfied that lie 
 had done all that the case required; and ar-
 
 86 MARSTOW 
 
 guing from his own calm, indifferent feelings, 
 said, as he quitted Marston — 
 
 " I will return in six weeks, and do not 
 doubt I shall find you in a state of mind to al- 
 low of my administering absolution." 
 
 Six weeks ! — A race against time ! — As if the 
 passion which had instilled itself into Mare- 
 ton's whole frame, and which had wound itself 
 into his very heart's core, making indeed part, 
 and that the most essential part of his ex- 
 istence, could be effaced as easily as the im- 
 press of the breath evanishes from the polished 
 surface of an unsullied mirror. 
 
 " Yes," thought Marston, " I will abstain 
 from seeing her, and not all the penance pre- 
 scribed will amount to one hundredth part of 
 that I shall thereby inflict on myself. But 
 will that destroy the thought of her ?" 
 
 He persevered several weeks in this deter-
 
 MARSTON. 87 
 
 mination, and submitted to all the privations 
 the priest had enjoined ; but though the moral 
 man had strength to sustain the ordeal, his 
 physical force diminished daily : the happiness 
 which he had enjoyed for several months, had 
 had the most beneficial effects on his health, 
 and his renewed cheerfulness had restored his 
 former energy. Most true it is, that moral 
 depression renders the body sick. 
 
 He relapsed into despondency. Grief, joined 
 to regret at the laws which he had imposed on 
 himself, again undermined his health ; and 
 self-reproach, at his repining and unworthy 
 execution of them, completed the measure of 
 his suffering. In one of his wanderings he 
 had fallen suddenly ill, as he truly stated, near 
 the cottage in which Mrs. Howard found him ; 
 a violent fever, attended with delirium, had 
 ensued, from the effects of which Ii<" w<\- still 
 suffering.
 
 88 
 
 MA 11 STUN 
 
 It cannot be expected that the mind can 
 maintain its force, under the circumstances in 
 which Marston found himself, nor can it be 
 supposed that he should have it in his power 
 to preserve the severe self-denial which he had 
 prescribed to himself, when suddenly, and un- 
 expectedly, in the presence of an adored ob- 
 ject. He attempted to appear indifferent. 
 He attempted to rebuke himself; but she 
 spoke, and her voice thrilled through him. 
 He looked at her, and all his resolutions faded 
 fast from him. Her unconsciousness of the 
 struggle he was enduring even added to his 
 embarrassment. Could he have communicated 
 his thoughts and sorrows! — But he dared not. 
 He was well aware a declaration of his senti- 
 ments, in his peculiar position, would have 
 proved offensive to one so pure, so devout, so 
 attached to her own religion ; so scrupulous in 
 her respect for the religion of others, and so
 
 MARSTON. 89 
 
 heedful of the observance of it. Could he 
 have given vent to his feelings, and made her 
 bosom the depository of his maddening griefs, 
 — could he have shared his sorrows with her, 
 they might have been mitigated ; but the con- 
 straint of confining all he felt within his own 
 breast, increased the intensity of his anguish. 
 Mrs. Howard looked at him distressed and 
 perplexed. 
 
 " I do not understand you, Marston ; speak 
 more frankly." — And seeing him put his hand 
 to his forehead, she added, — " My poor friend, 
 you suffer greatly." 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Marston, willingly adopting 
 her interpretation, " I suffer, but not the mi- 
 nistry of angels could relieve me." 
 
 " Say not so ; I have more confidence, I 
 know, in medical science than you entertain ; 
 but let me intreat of you, to allow me to send 
 to you a physician who has shewn himself
 
 90 MAR8TON. 
 
 really skilful on many occasions. Dear Mars- 
 ton, will you consult Dr. Carlton, if I send 
 him to you? Promise me, if it is only to 
 oblige me" 
 
 Marston dared not trust his voice to answer 
 her; he dared not even look at her. After 
 some moments of violent struggle with him- 
 self, he dropped his head in acquiescence to 
 her request ; but his agitation increased, the 
 paroxysm of fever seemed returning, and Mrs. 
 Howard, deeply afflicted, withdrew with Elea- 
 nor, and hastened to send him a medical ad- 
 viser. She, in truth, feared for his mind, 
 should his strength resist the violence of the 
 fever which appeared to be consuming him. 
 
 Dr. Carlton was a friend of hers, a gentle- 
 man of much science and experience, and 
 one in whom she reposed the utmost con- 
 fidence ; and she drove to his house, situated 
 near Wetherby, to explain to him where he
 
 MARSTON. 91 
 
 would find Marston, and also to detail to him 
 what she had observed respecting him, since 
 her return from Ireland.
 
 92 MARSTON 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Throw physic to the dogs ! I'll none of it." 
 
 SHAKM'tARfc. 
 
 " Son qual nave abbandonata, 
 Minacciata da procella ; 
 Senza scorta, e senza stella 
 Temo i scogli, e terao il mar." 
 
 " I do not quite understand the cause of this 
 feverish, agitated state," said Dr. Carlton to 
 his suffering patient, after several days of con- 
 stant and careful attendance on him. "There 
 ought to be some amelioration in your pulse, — 
 some signs of amendment in your countenance
 
 MARSTON. 93 
 
 I am disposed to fear that the seat of your dis- 
 order is beyond the reach of my power to ad- 
 minister relief. If it is not probing your feel- 
 ings too deeply, speak frankly to me ; tell me 
 if I am right in my conjecture? Although 
 my profession only tends to the curing of the 
 body, the interest with which you have inspired 
 me, would make me desire to be gifted with 
 sufficient eloquence, and to possess sufficient 
 influence over your mind, to operate a cure 
 even not within the pale of my own art. Say, 
 am I right in my supposition? I think the 
 expression of your countenance confirms my 
 suspicions. Yet your holy calling ought to 
 exempt you from sorrows known to those less 
 protected from temptations, and contacts dan- 
 gerous to their peace and happiness." 
 
 Marston lowered his eyes, but made no re- 
 ply ; and Dr. Carlton continued — 
 
 ' ' We physicians have numberless opportu-
 
 94 MAR8T0N. 
 
 nities of studying the workings and feelings of 
 the human heart, in the variety of cases we 
 are called on to attend; and I have often 
 thought, that if our profession were united to 
 that of the one, justly considered as the more 
 elevated, which you follow, we might effect an 
 infinity of cures which now remain beyond 
 our skill . The confidence of our patients being 
 granted to us, at the very time that we ap- 
 proach them, in hours of suffering and of 
 weakness, we could administer mental conso- 
 lation whilst relieving corporeal agonies." 
 
 " If such were indeed the result of the com- 
 bination you suggest, doctor, conjointly with 
 your good intentions, you would truly be most 
 precious advisers ! But you must allow me to 
 doubt, that man can be gifted with eloquence 
 and argument, of sufficient weight, ' to admi- 
 nister to a mind diseased ;' or that the union 
 of the two professions, as proposed by you,
 
 MARSTON. 95 
 
 would tend to produce the effect you anticipate 
 from the powers they would confer. All the 
 consolation which weak man can pour into 
 the ear of a sufferer do not amount, in force 
 or conviction, to that of the calamity under 
 which he writhes. Feeble souls, suffering un- 
 der acute sorrow, without sufficient energy or 
 stamina to enable them to endure those suffer- 
 ings, may perhaps receive comfort from weak 
 argument; but where nature has gifted man, 
 or rather cursed him, with strength of soul 
 and frame, he may groan under the weight of 
 sorrow ; he may be tortured to madness ; but 
 his grief will continue to harrow his mind, 
 with all its poignancy, until the machine 
 bursts." 
 
 " These answers, my good friend, from a 
 layman would be admissible, but not so from :i 
 servant of God, — one taught to know and feel, 
 and teach f<> others, that no affliction senl u^
 
 9(j MARSTON. 
 
 is beyond our power of endurance ; and that 
 there is a consolation, surpassing all our trials, 
 which is always hovering near us, and stretch- 
 ing out its healing arms to receive us. That 
 you should overlook, or forget this, is indeed 
 discouraging for those who have no other hope 
 than the ' mercy-seat' of another world." 
 
 " Doctor, doctor, it is because I am a servant 
 of God that I suffer," groaned Marston ; and 
 he covered his head, and shook the bed on 
 which he lay with the violence of his emotions. 
 
 Dr. Carlton had suspected it, and, from va- 
 rious short and broken phrases, had conceived 
 Marston's sorrow ; but his object was to draw 
 him to declare it, in order to be enabled to 
 reason with him. 
 
 " My dear sir, I am a Protestant ; and as 
 such, although understanding you, I cannot 
 feel with you. According to my religious sen- 
 timents, the being a servant of God can never
 
 MARSTON, 97 
 
 occasion regret, as connected with the enjoy- 
 ment of natural affections. According to our 
 belief, the heavenly power does not require 
 sacrifices which embitter existence, and render 
 his service sorrowful. It should seem much 
 more reasonable to suppose that the heart, un- 
 clouded by grief, or repining at sacrifice, would 
 more cheerfully, willingly, truly, and devoutly 
 adore the great Creator of all things, and dif- 
 fuse with more enthusiasm the blessings of 
 revelation, than if feeling that, in order to do 
 so, there must necessarily exist regret. So 
 firm is my conviction, in this view of the sub- 
 ject, — so unanswerable do I consider this ar- 
 gument, that I cannot but believe, even ac- 
 cording to the tenets of religion, that the 
 sacrifice is not rendered the more acceptable 
 in proportion to its extent and pain. That 
 we should endure, with patience and resigna- 
 tion, the afflictions sent to us by Providence, 
 
 VOL I. H
 
 !)S MARSTON. 
 
 and not within our power to avoid, I consider 
 as an humiliation, acceptable in the eyes of 
 God, and that he, in chastening us, puts our 
 faith and confidence in him to trial : but I be- 
 lieve, at the same time, that reward for humble 
 submission to his decrees, however severe they 
 may be, is certain. We will not discuss the 
 more important positive points of difference in 
 our creeds, but let us meet half way on minor 
 grounds of controversial difference, never- 
 theless of considerable interest to you. — 
 Wherefore refuse yourself the solace and hap- 
 piness of the society of those friends, so really 
 necessary to your existence. I maintain, as a 
 principle, that violent measures only increase 
 certain sufferings, and that absence serves but 
 to irritate and augment the desire of counter- 
 acting and overcoming obstacles. I am so 
 persuaded of this fact, that if my daughter 
 were unhappily to form an attachment for
 
 MARSTON. 99 
 
 some young man, whom I should consider an 
 unfit alliance for her, far from tormenting her, 
 and withdrawing her from his society, I should 
 let them meet constantly. I am certain that 
 time would do more towards reconciling them 
 to my refusal than absence or vexations. In- 
 stead of separating yourself with such severity 
 from those so dear to you, take another line 
 of conduct ; indulge yourself a little in their 
 presence. Approach the danger, instead of 
 shunning it, — you will find it less terrible. 
 You will suffer less, and you will be able to 
 vanquish with greater facility a passion you 
 cannot, and must not, encourage." 
 
 This reasoning was too much in harmony 
 with Marston's wishes for him not to set aside 
 his judgment, and allow himself to be guided 
 by it. The prospect which opened to him of 
 again beholding his dear friend, — of again en- 
 joying her society, — operated as a most salutary
 
 100 MARSTON. 
 
 remedy. A few days sufficed to restore him 
 to such a degree of strength and recovery, as 
 to permit him to remove to Netherwood. 
 
 Dr. Carlton had meanwhile prepared Mrs. 
 Howard for this visit, without in the least ac- 
 quainting her with the real state of Marston's 
 mind ; but he told her that her sick friend re- 
 quired much constant care, and to have his 
 mind amused and interested, and he recom- 
 mended little Eleanor's being perpetually near 
 her father. 
 
 " Her little innocent gaiety, added to your 
 cheerful society, will do more for his recovery 
 than any thing I can recommend." 
 
 The doctor's advice seemed to have the effect 
 he intended. Marston was calmer, and ap- 
 peared happier : his health returned slowly, 
 but he appeared to enjoy his position, not en- 
 couraging painful thoughts, or looking beyond 
 the present moment.
 
 MARSTON. 101 
 
 Captain Harris was not to return to fetch 
 little Harry for another month ; and this res- 
 pite from a grief she dreaded to think upon, 
 restoring Mrs. Howard's cheerfulness for the 
 moment, she was enabled to give more atten- 
 tion to her guest, than she would have done 
 had she been called upon to undergo the im- 
 mediate sorrow of parting with her dear child. 
 
 Time flew rapidly, too rapidly, for them 
 both ; the period approaching daily when Mrs. 
 Howard must separate herself from her son, 
 and Marston forgetting his late remorse and 
 resolutions, every thing, but the present mo- 
 ment ; — rushing headlong down the stream of 
 perdition, without casting one look towards 
 the past or the future. It is true, he so far 
 remembered his actual position as to avoid 
 unveiling his sentiments ; he confined them 
 within his own breast ; but he had little merit 
 in so doing, — it was more the result of habit
 
 J 02 MARBTO* 
 
 than reflection. In truth, he did not reflect 
 The restoration to the presence of her he loved 
 was such happiness, compared to his late suf- 
 ferings, that he enjoyed it beyond the power 
 of resigning it. He had returned to Nether- 
 wood, having made a sort of pact with his 
 conscience. He would not tear himself from 
 her : but he would see her, live in her society, 
 and content himself with that degree of in- 
 terest, He did not probe further into the 
 state of his heart, — it was to remain quiescent ; 
 and having settled that point to his satisfaction , 
 he did not enquire further as time rolled on. 
 
 Mrs. Howard's mind was highly cultivated ; 
 her nature gentle and lovely, and her society 
 fascinating. She was unconscious of her 
 powers to please ; and there was a simplicity 
 and nature in all her expressions and actions, 
 which proved that whatever she said or did 
 arose from the impulse of the moment, and
 
 MARSTON. 103 
 
 not from calculation. Sometimes she was dis- 
 tressed, without giving the feeling much re- 
 flection, at the intent gaze of Marston, who 
 (apparently reading, while she was occupied 
 either in working or in instructing little Elea- 
 nor,) was fixing his large dark eyes upon her, 
 until they drank love to madness. It was her 
 visible momentary distress which recalled him 
 to himself, and then his eyes would sink on 
 his book. 
 
 In their walks, in which little Eleanor al- 
 ways accompanied them, he held his daughter's 
 hand, — he might not hold her arm ; and his 
 enthusiastic mind would rise to a state of ex- 
 altation, as they discoursed on subjects arising 
 either from the works they read together, or 
 from accidental thoughts which became deve- 
 loped with eloquence, inspired as was Marston 
 by that fire which beautifies all it approaches.
 
 104 MARSTON. 
 
 But of her, to herself, he never spoke, and of 
 himself, as regarded her, he also refrained 
 from speaking. Could he have continued for 
 ever in the same state of feeling he had expe- 
 rienced the last fortnight, Marston might have 
 remained comparatively happy! The silent 
 monitor within his breast, which would have 
 warned him of his danger, had been too long 
 neglected for its voice now to be raised. One 
 day, perhaps, it will be heard again. — Will it 
 be then in time to save him 1 
 
 Nature, warring with laws and institutions, 
 and ever working to obtain supremacy, has 
 asserted her rights, heedless of the ruin of the 
 soul incased within the mortal frame. Drive 
 on, poor victim ! overleap all bounds ! the mo- 
 ment of retribution is not far distant. Tor- 
 tures, hnrrowing mental tortures await thee! 
 44 Thy frame of adamant, thy soul of fire," will
 
 MARSTON. 105 
 
 bear thee on thy long pilgrimage, that thy 
 punishment may be commensurate with thy 
 crime !
 
 106 M \ RSTOfl 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Then Deloraine, in terror, took 
 
 From the cold hand the mighty book, 
 
 With iron clasped, and with iron bound ; 
 
 He thought, as he took it, the dead man frown'd.'' 
 
 Lay of the Last Minstrel. 
 
 Iago. " Trifles, light as air, 
 
 Are to the jealous, confirmation strong 
 
 As proofs of holy writ." Shakmeahe. 
 
 It was one of those beautiful days, in the 
 latter end of the month of September, which 
 are so often enjoyed in the autumnal season in
 
 MARSTON. 107 
 
 England : a bright sun, and mild air, had en- 
 gaged Mrs. Howard to take rather a longer 
 excursion than usual, with her children and 
 Marston, in the woods behind Netherwood- 
 park, approaching the York high road. The 
 walk had been delightful, and the healthful 
 exercise had given a radiant glow, which added 
 beauty to Mrs. Howard's already beautiful 
 countenance. A longing came over Marston 
 to offer her his arm, as she clambered up a 
 steep ascent, and timidity withheld him from 
 so doing, rather than a sense of right. Per- 
 haps a faint impulse of the latter may have 
 checked him, but the restraint disposed him to 
 a pettish feeling of irritation, and he moved on 
 silently. Just then they gained the road-side, 
 and found themselves facing the stage-coach, 
 passing, on its way, from London to York. 
 A gentleman looked out of one of the win- 
 dows, and, calling to the guard to stop, jumped
 
 108 MARSTON. 
 
 out, accompanied by a young lad, and ran 
 towards the pedestrians. 
 
 Captain Harris was returning to Nether- 
 wood, the month being expired which he had 
 announced as the period at which he should 
 come to claim little Harry ; but he had promised 
 to write them word when to expect him, and his 
 not having done so, had been hailed by Mr*. 
 Howard as a sign of change in his intention. 
 His sudden appearance therefore affected her ; 
 and the conviction, brought with it, that she 
 was about to part with her child, drew tears to 
 her eyes, as she received him, and extended 
 her hand to him . 
 
 Marston felt a shudder creep over him, as 
 Captain Harris, with the gallantry of a man 
 who had passed many years of his life on the 
 Continent, kissed the proffered hand. That 
 which he would have given kingdoms to dare, 
 another might be allowed without offence.
 
 MARSTON. 109 
 
 He hardly returned the salutation which tin* 
 two travellers made him, but remained coldly 
 silent, and unjustifiably displeased. 
 
 It would appear strange that Mrs. Howard 
 should not have mentioned Captain Harris's 
 visit to Marston, or have conversed with him 
 concerning her son, and deplored her hard 
 fate at parting with him ; but she had always 
 avoided the subject, because, the only time 
 she had indulged herself in expressing her dis- 
 approbation of the profession selected for him, 
 she had found Marston a strenuous advocate, 
 in opposition to her opinion. It was almost 
 immediately on his return to Netherwood, 
 after his illness, which had followed Captain 
 Harris's departure subsequent to his first visit, 
 that she had conversed on the subject. 
 
 " I can well conceive your sorrow at part- 
 ing with your clear child," said Marston, " and 
 the anxiety which you must experience at bis
 
 1 10 MAB8T0N. 
 
 adopting a profession fraught with hardship 
 and dangers; but there are other evils far 
 more to be feared on shore than at sea." 
 
 " But where is the necessity of his following 
 any profession? I have no other child to 
 share his estate, and diminish his fortune. 
 Even if the contrary were the case, his inhe- 
 ritance would be sufficient to render a profes- 
 sion entirely unnecessary, considering the ques- 
 tion in a pecuniary point of view : why, there- 
 fore, should I be afflicted, and my son exposed 
 to a life of peril needlessly " 
 
 " I believe," said Marston, "we need not 
 canvass that part of the question, as it lias 
 been the expressed will of your departed hus- 
 band. The choice of the profession your son 
 is to follow has been irrevocably fixed ; and I 
 am entirely of his father's opinion, that it is 
 far more essential to your son's future happi- 
 ness to have a profession, and be usefully em-
 
 MARSTON. 1 I I 
 
 ployed for the good of his country, than wasting 
 his years in idleness and luxury." 
 
 " But it does not follow that, if he he neither 
 soldier nor sailor, his years should be passed in 
 idleness and luxury : the care and direction of 
 large property would find him abundant occu- 
 pation ; and literary pursuits, and the charge 
 of a family, at a future period, would amply 
 fill up his time." 
 
 " Yes, it may succeed in occupying his 
 hours ; but oh J believe me, my experience 
 proves, that more than this is necessary to 
 make a man happy. I was born to a large 
 estate ; my parents reasoned as you now reason. 
 Had they thought otherwise, — had they ex- 
 posed me to hardships and dangers, — I should 
 now bless them for their abnegation of selfish 
 gratification ; — I should, when my home was 
 rifled of its treasure, have sought in occupa- 
 tion, in dangers, in change of scene, a solace
 
 ] 1*2 MARSTON. 
 
 to my sorrows; — I should not have T His 
 
 agitation overpowered him ; he felt he was on 
 the point of betraying himself, and summon- 
 ing resolution to suppress his emotion, he 
 added, after a minute's pause, — " Send your 
 son to sea; believe me, you will shew him 
 more kindness than in keeping him at home." 
 
 " Have you then lost sight of the dread the 
 sea must inspire me with, on every account ? 
 Had my kind husband, and your friend, been 
 satisfied with the inheritance of his fathers, 
 and the homely occupation of attending to it, 
 should I have had the misery of losing him ? 
 Might he not be here now, to listen to my en- 
 treaties not to expose his son to fearful dan- 
 ger " 
 
 "It would be entering," replied Marston, 
 "ona wide field of discussion to answer you. 
 Fatalists would declare, that the manner of 
 death does not in any way effect or prevent the
 
 MARSTON. II -J 
 
 fact of the final hour's being pre-determined. 
 I believe not one of the creed ; and so far 
 would argue in your favour, and wish I could 
 do so in all its bearings, — for T grieve to think, 
 that that which appears to me the wisest re- 
 solve should give you sorrow." 
 
 " What greater sorrow can I now know 
 than losing my dear child," said Mrs. Howard, 
 bursting into tears. 
 
 She looked so lovely in her tears, that 
 Marston no longer dared to continue con- 
 versing with her, and he sought to regain 
 some degree of calm by withdrawing. Mrs. 
 Howard, from that time, never renewed the 
 subject with him; but she resolved to make 
 another effort with Captain Harris to keep her 
 darling boy with her. " After all," she thought, 
 "Marston may have an opinion on the subject, 
 but he has no power to enforce that opinion : 
 his guardian has ;" — and she avoided eVeq 
 vol r. i
 
 114 U vilviuN. 
 
 again reverting to her earnest and anxion- 
 wish, lest Marston should interfere with Capt . 
 Harris against her. 
 
 To resume the narrative : — He brought with 
 him a young midshipman, who was to sail un- 
 der his orders, and presented him to Mr?. 
 Howard, as young Norris, his sisterV ewH) : 
 and, as he named him, he added, — 
 
 11 Norris will take little Harry under his pro- 
 tection : a midshipman has many opportunities 
 of shewing kindness to a youngster. I need 
 not add, that I am certain it will be sufficient 
 for him to know how sincerely I interest my- 
 self in your little boy's welfare, and how truly 
 I am devoted to his mother, to ensure his being 
 a kind friend and protector to him.'' 
 
 How unreasonable did the fatal passion, 
 which was consuming and destroying Marston, 
 render him ! The very expressions of interest 
 pronounced by Captain Harris tortured him,
 
 MAHSTON. 1 [5 
 
 and, in one instant, roused all his thoughts 
 and feelings into an ungovernable state of 
 frantic rage. Without any cause for his anger, 
 beyond almost childish jealousy, he considered 
 Captain Harris as an intruder, and his interest 
 as officious. 
 
 However unreasonable it. might be, how- 
 ever absurd, he was tormented at the thought 
 that Mrs. Howard could share the friendship 
 she accorded him with another ; and the tone 
 of intimacy, and evidently long acquaintance, 
 which existed between her and Captain Harris, 
 was offensive to him. His eye, lately so gen- 
 tle and beaming kindness, now rolled stern 
 and unsettled, and his whole demeanour bor- 
 dered on frenzy. Had not Mrs. Howard been 
 too much engrossed, by the tumult of her own 
 feelings, to notice those of others, she might, 
 in that moment, have learned to dread the
 
 llf) \MT?>TV,\\ 
 
 presence of the friend she had so lonjr known 
 and cherished. 
 
 When they reached the house, instead of 
 entering the drawing-room with the rest of the 
 party, Marston, unahle any longer to control 
 himself, rushed out into the park, walking at 
 random, hardly conscious where he was, or of 
 the real state of his feeling*. 
 
 Mrs. Howard did not notice his absencp ; 
 she was intent on executing the scheme, she 
 had long nourished, of dissuading Captain 
 Harris from his intentions of taking little 
 Harry with him. They had approached the 
 centre window of the drawing-room, which 
 opened upon the lawn ; and Captain Harris 
 looked out of the window, as she spoke, to 
 avoid the eager pleading look, which he would 
 not allow to sway his judgment* She added, 
 that she had expected to hear from him pre-
 
 MA RSI UTs. I 1? 
 
 \ious to his quitting London, as he had pro- 
 mised; and that his sudden and unexpected 
 arrival, had left her totally unprepared for the 
 cruel separation which he announced must 
 take place. 
 
 " I confess I am to blame for my apparent 
 negligence," replied Captain Harris, " but I 
 had so much occupation, during my stay in 
 town, that it would have been very difficult to 
 find the time for such an agreeable interrup- 
 tion ; and secondly, I will own to you, I was 
 not disposed to furnish you with an opportu- 
 nity of making a request, which I suspected 
 you were weak enough to intend, from some 
 words you dropped at our parting." 
 
 " Then you feel that such a request is ad- 
 missible," said the poor mother, catching hope 
 from his answer." 
 
 "Why not quite; nniny circumstance-
 
 IIS MAIiSTO.N. 
 
 combine to oblige me to execute my lair 
 friend's request.'' 
 
 " But nuiy not those circumstances equally 
 allow of that obligation's being deferred * — He 
 is so young, .so delicate, — surely a few year- 
 more, passed under the care of his mother, 
 would not interfere with his future profession. 
 He is only eight years old. Leave me my 
 treasure a little longer ; it is all that remain- 
 to me of my poor Howard. Deprived of him 
 J shall be desolate. Indeed, it is too heavy a 
 grief to me to part with him now. Oh! siy 
 you consent to leave him with me, and to de- 
 fer this cruel moment to some other voyage.'' 
 
 Captain Harris was not of a yielding nature ; 
 he had, moreover, reasons lor adhering to his 
 present decision, which he considered o^ im- 
 perative consequence to his ward's future wel- 
 fere, but he avoided giving her a direct answer
 
 MARSTON. (19 
 
 ill (he moment. Still il, grieved him to refuse 
 the solicitations of a mother, and he was an- 
 noyed at being obliged to give her pain. He 
 continued gazing out of the window, and a si- 
 lence ensued, which Mrs. Howard feared to 
 break, hoping that it was an indication of his 
 yielding to her entreaties. Her impatience, 
 however, urged her again to address him, and 
 she did so with the most affecting earnestness. 
 " When you consider a thing right/' replied 
 Captain Harris, " what is your rule of con- 
 duct?" 
 
 " Certainly, to follow the dictates of reason ; 
 but are there not many circumstances depend- 
 ing on our will, which admit of being con- 
 sidered in different points of view." 
 
 "That," said Captain Harris, " is rather a 
 Jesuitical reply ; I am more disposed to main- 
 tain, that in every important question in life 
 there is bu1 one direct point of i iru bjij de«
 
 1 20 MAHSTON. 
 
 viation from which is departing so much from 
 the line of right." 
 
 44 But, Captain Harris, the departure of my 
 dear hoy, a year or two sooner or later, cannot 
 be considered by you as affecting your con- 
 science, whereas it will materially affect my 
 happiness." 
 
 "Take my arm, and let us pursue the sub- 
 ject, if you insist upon it, whilst crossing that 
 beautiful lawn. As I am not a Catholic, 1 
 shall not let. you probe into my conscience/' 
 
 This he said half smiling, but with a very 
 peculiar expression of countenance, l^he suf- 
 fered herself to be conducted by him, and, 
 passing her arm through his, crossed the lawn 
 and entered the shrubbery. 
 
 They walked on some minutes in science ; — 
 ('uptain Harris was desirous of conversing 
 with her without interruption ; he wished to 
 communicate to her reports which had reached
 
 him, and to which he deemed it the duty of a 
 friend to draw her attention. Yet he feared 
 that she might consider as officious the unso- 
 licited interference, which his friendship for 
 her prompted him to make, especially since 
 she had not considered it advisable, or neces- 
 sary, to consult him. He also feared offending 
 her, or giving her pain, and felt distressed and 
 embarrassed in commencing what must appear 
 like an attack on his friend ; not that he be- 
 lieved the reports spread concerning 1km-,— he 
 had every reason to think them false, and 
 founded in malice, — but he deemed it neces- 
 sary that she should be acquainted with them, 
 in order that she might regulate her conduct 
 accordingly. 
 
 Malicious gossip will find its way, and spread 
 its venom, into the remotest desert. Notwilh- 
 StatttHttg Mrs. Howard's extreme retirement, 
 and distance from any town, -fill ul>-«i \ n- and
 
 122 \MKSJ»>\ 
 
 commentators were not wonting to circulate 
 reports injurious to her fame. 
 
 Mrs. Carlton, the hetter half of Dr. Carlton, 
 with whom we are already acquainted, might 
 very fairly have been denominated his worse 
 half, for there were no signs of outward or 
 inward participation in his good qualitio. In- 
 asmuch as he was kind-hearted, generous, un- 
 suspicious, frank, and sincere, she was narrow- 
 minded, envious, false, and suspicious. >h< 
 was the gossip and oracle of the little tow n of 
 Wetherby ; and all the reports circulating in 
 the vicinity could be traced to the slanderous 
 tongue of this lady. She had an only daughter, 
 who did not in the least resemble her mother, 
 but had, fortunately for herself, inherited bej 
 father's disposition. 
 
 Dr. Carlton, when a young practitioner, had 
 saved ilic life of Miss Walters, 1 1 » * - great bei|> 
 egg f»r tlir county of \««'-K Sb* wa* nelv aod
 
 M\RSTON. \'2) 
 
 deformed, but in etefefltefes the asperity oi" her 
 character had been much softened : she had 
 been struck with the doctor's good manners 
 and pleasing appearance, and had employed a 
 common friend to hint to him, that if he ven- 
 tured to solicit the fair hand of his patient, his 
 suit would not be rejected. This proposal, 
 which was most unexpected, did not much se- 
 duce the doctor, who was young, had fair pros- 
 pects opening to him, and who did not feel in 
 any way disposed to hurry on the critical mo- 
 ment of all men's lives, — that of marriage. 
 But Miss Walters's fortune was represented to 
 him as being so considerable, that he would be 
 enabled to pursue his profession as an object 
 of interest to a scientific mind, without the ne- 
 cessity of submitting to its drudgeries and an- 
 noyances. \n short, he allowed himself to be 
 P'-r-nanVd |o renounce his liberty, ;m<l he httd 
 
 now lived eighteen years retoentiwg of In- do
 
 I '2 I MA KM ON. 
 
 cility to the voice of the tempter ; hut the re- 
 pentance came too late, and he was obliged to 
 endure with resignation the evil which he 
 could not avoid. He saw as little of his wife 
 as it was possible, and passed all Ins leisure 
 hours with his daughter, whose society indem- 
 nified him for his conjugal troubles-. 
 
 Years had not improved Mrs. Carlton's dis- 
 position. She had added to her other qualiii< ;a 
 a fund of curiosity, which was insatiable, and 
 always in a constant state of stimulus, making 
 her seek with avidity, and by fair or unfair 
 means, to be informed of all that regarded 
 ♦ very one, however really indifferent to her. 
 When once possessed of any circumstances 
 she had thus acquired, her impatience knew 
 no bounds until she could communicate her 
 knowledge to others; and she had even In en 
 known to make the wife of the apothecary of the 
 neighbouring low 11 il.« Ijiappj ■ ■•uiiidinite of her
 
 MAKSTOX. 125 
 
 news, when no worthier object presented itself. 
 She had, however, a female friend, who in ge- 
 neral enjoyed her communications. A maiden 
 lady, who in early life had been crossed in 
 love, and had in consequence vowed implacable 
 hatred to the whole sex for ever, and lived in 
 virtuous solitude and chastity on a little estate 
 bequeathed her by an uncle, on the express 
 condition of her visiting twice a year a son he 
 had left, whose intellects were impaired, and 
 who was placed under the care of a physician, 
 having an establishment for persons, similarly 
 afflicted, in the vicinity of London. In the 
 event of non-fulfilment of this clause, the es- 
 tate was to pass to a distant relative. 
 
 Miss Wilson had to make her half-yearly 
 journey a few days after the one on which 
 Mrs. Howard had called on Dr. Carlton, to 
 request his attendance on Mai>ton, when he 
 fell ill at the poor tbttager'8 house; and 1"
 
 \'2B MANSION. 
 
 wont to drink ton with her friend, and pay her 
 a parting visit, previous to starting in the roach 
 at an early hour the following morning, fid 
 thing could be more propitious than this vi>u 
 to Mrs. Carlton, who was labouring under the 
 weight of a more than ordinary proportion of 
 unfairly acquired, and misconstrued intelli- 
 gence ; and her long, thin visage was puckered 
 into a variety of curvilinear lines, intending to 
 express a smile, as she welcomed the sapient 
 Miss Wilson. 
 
 It must be remarked, that, independently of 
 the information Mrs. Carlton had acquired bj 
 Mrs. Howard's visit to the doctor, she had ob- 
 tained many details by lending an attentive 
 ear to a long conversation, which had occurred 
 some days afterwards, between the doctor and 
 bis daughter. The latter was sitting in the 
 drawing-room with Mrs. Carlton, when the 
 doctor entered the room, having just returned
 
 M A It STUN. 127 
 
 from the visit to Marston, which had pur him 
 in possession of the state of his patient's mind. 
 He was interested and affected by it, and ac- 
 cording to his habit, when any thing occupied 
 his thoughts, he sought his daughter's society, 
 
 " Fanny, leave your embroidery, and come 
 to the library." 
 
 This was his usual manner of announcing 
 something more than common, and Mrs. Carl- 
 ton also, as usual, repaired to the library-door, 
 as soon as they quitted her apartment, and 
 were, as she supposed, safely seated. She ar- 
 rived, as her daughter was replying, — 
 
 ''This is indeed a sad case, and, I fear, a 
 hopeless one." 
 
 " I am disposed to regard it more favoura- 
 bly : the restraint he has put on himself ha^ 
 increased instead of diminishing his passion ; 
 perhaps full indulgence in her presence, by
 
 12S MAT? STUN. 
 
 soothing his mind, may render him more rea- 
 sonable." 
 
 " What a subject of regret it is, dear father, 
 that he entered so precipitately into holy or- 
 ders ! Had he been free, he might have ho- 
 norably sued Mrs. Howard, and perhaps she 
 would have approved of his proposals, and 
 made him happy in becoming his wife. Poor 
 man! he has cruelly marred his existence." 
 
 "Oh!" thought Mrs. Carlton, "now we 
 understand." 
 
 A cough of the doctor's veiled the com- 
 mencement of the reply ; the only words au- 
 dible were — " Confessor Catholic religion 
 
 could become a Protestant ; all might 
 
 still be well but there is no chance of that, 
 
 for " 
 
 Mrs. Carlton was now obliged to quit her 
 post, the servants approaching to announce
 
 MARSTON". ] k 29 
 
 breakfast, but she had a sufficiently clear no- 
 tion of the business, and withdrew satisfied. 
 The mass of oral information, of which she 
 thus became possessor, was of too great im- 
 portance for her to endure any longer being its 
 silent depository. 
 
 The whole day she laboured under it ; and 
 towards evening she had made up her mind to 
 go and communicate it to some one, to whom 
 it was immaterial, when Miss Wilson was an- 
 nounced. 
 
 " Nothing can be kinder or more agreeable 
 than this visit, my dear madam. It seems an 
 age since we met ; and I was at the very mo- 
 ment thinking of ordering the carriage, and 
 going to see you, when I heard you an- 
 nounced." 
 
 Miss Wilson, albeit never of the mildest 
 nature, was not in one of her sweetest tempers. 
 The obligatory journey she took twice :i year, 
 
 VOL I. k
 
 130 MA.R8TON. 
 
 rarely made the months of April and October, 
 appear pleasant ones to the forlorn virgin ; 
 and she did not, at the present moment, sym- 
 pathize with Mrs. Carlton's joy, as she grum- 
 bled forth, — 
 
 " Dear me, madam, how extremely obliging 
 you are. I wish I could find the time as long 
 as you politely -say you have felt it since we 
 met ; but, considering that I came to see you 
 little more than a week ago, and that all my 
 time since has been employed in packing up 
 and preparing for my detestable journey to 
 London, it seems to me only a few hours since 
 we parted." 
 
 "Then pray, my dear madam, " retorted 
 Mrs. Carlton, whose equanimity could not 
 brook provocation, " if such was your feeling, 
 allow me to ask why you have returned apiin 
 so soon?" 
 
 " Why, indeed!" rejoined the other, whoso
 
 MARSTON. 131 
 
 lips became paler and paler, till they had ac- 
 quired a light lilac tent, the red chased away 
 seeking asylum in the tip of her nose, " I can- 
 not conceive why I was such a fool ! But the 
 shortest follies are the easiest repaired ; and 
 so good evening to you, Mrs. Carlton ; and 1 
 will take special care, depend upon it, to put 
 a longer space of time between my next visits." 
 
 The promptitude of this reply, followed by 
 a retrograde march of the amiable Miss Wil- 
 son toward the door, alarmed Mrs. Carlton 
 considerably. What could she do, if Miss 
 Wilson acquired, by other means than hers, 
 the information she was so rich in possessing ? 
 The thing was not to be thought of. Miss 
 Wilson might take quite another view of the 
 case from that she desired, if it were differently 
 represented. 
 
 The grudge she owed Mrs. Howard lor the 
 slight notice she had ever taken of her; and,
 
 13*2 MANston. 
 
 above all, Mrs. Howard's not even asking for 
 her, when she came to see the doctor on Mars- 
 ton's account, made her resolve to execute 
 what she considered fair vengeance on her. 
 These thoughts passed rapidly in her mind, as 
 the ill-tempered maiden tottered towards the 
 door, in agitated fury ; and she softened her 
 voice to dulcet persuasive sounds, as she said, — 
 
 " Indeed, Miss Wilson, this is very unkind 
 of you ; I am sure my reception of you did 
 not warrant this anger. I was very far from 
 intending to offend you ; and if I expressed 
 myself eagerly on seeing you, it was, because 
 the intelligence I have to communicate to you 
 is so extraordinary, that I felt certain you 
 would be impatient to learn it." 
 
 These last words were cabal istical : the old 
 lady stopped short, and, soothing her ire by 
 degrees, returned to the arm-chair placed for 
 her before the tire, and by the side of the tea-
 
 MARSTON. [33 
 
 table ; the usual condiment of scandal being- 
 ready prepared to give savour and enjoyment 
 to the delectable news. 
 
 She sat down in eager anticipation of the 
 interesting communication, and turned an en- 
 quiring and anxious look on her hostess ; but 
 our vixen was not disposed to gratify her so 
 soon : she had gained her point, and drawn 
 her back ; but now that she was fairly seated, 
 and that there was no danger of a second re- 
 treat, she resolved to punish her for her irrita- 
 bility, and make her wait and languish ; pre- 
 tending first a cough, then the duties of the 
 tea-table, which could be eked out so as to 
 form a long operation ; then the fire must be 
 arranged ; then she trod on her little dog's 
 tail, and he must be consoled ; till her victim 
 fidgetted, and coughed, and hemmed, and was 
 ready to fly out again in fury. At length, tlir
 
 134 MAHSTON. 
 
 pleasure of communicating a tale of slander got 
 the upper hand, and she began. 
 
 " Well, Miss Wilson, what times we live in ; 
 where shall we now find virtuous women, or 
 holy men ? I confess, I am so horror-struck 
 at what I have to communicate, I don't know 
 how or where to begin ! Did you not suppose 
 that Mrs. Howard, of Netherwood, was quite 
 a model of virtue?" 
 
 " Why, indeed, I must acknowledge she has 
 had that reputation," rejoined Miss Wilson ; 
 but /, for my part, rarely believe in the ex- 
 istence of those great models of perfection. 
 Her reserve with her country neighbours, re- 
 fusing to see or call on them, as though they 
 were not good enough for her, always struck 
 me, I will own, as a pretext for concealing 
 what, she did not choose should be known ; 
 however, I may be mistaken."
 
 MARSTON. 135 
 
 " Mistaken, madam ! no indeed you are not 
 mistaken, but, on the contrary, have given 
 convincing proof of the perspicacity of your 
 judgment; and when these self-reputed Pa- 
 melas set about wickedness, I believe they sur- 
 pass moderate sinners at a pretty rate. Why, 
 madam, she taken her confessor for her para- 
 mour ! Ah, you may well look astonished, and 
 smile ; I know what I am telling you for cer- 
 tain ; and were I to detail to you all the par- 
 ticulars which have come within my knowledge, 
 your hair would stand on end." 
 
 The eyes of the old hags glared brighter 
 than the lights which stood on the table be- 
 tween them ; and never was malice more truly 
 pourtrayed than in the two awful smiles which 
 accompanied the last phrase. 
 
 " I always thought that Mrs. Howard had 
 been a Protestant." 
 
 "So have many supposed; but you see
 
 18(6 MAKVKiN 
 
 plainly she is not, since Mr. Mars ton, of Man 
 
 ton Abbey, is her confessor." 
 
 "Mr. Marston!" ejaculated Miss Wilson, 
 raising her withered hands and eyes ; " why, 
 this is quite beyond shameful. What, the 
 man who inspired us all with such interest 
 when he lost his wife ; and who must needs 
 turn priest, because he should never be con- 
 soled for the loss of her 1 Well, well, I don't 
 know what may be your intention, Mrs. Carl- 
 ton, but this I know, that if I should chance 
 to meet Mrs. Howard, which sometimes hap- 
 pens when she comes into the town to make 
 purchases, I shall be very careful to have no 
 communication with her." 
 
 "You will do perfectly right ; and 1 shall 
 take special measures for letting all the re- 
 spectable families of our country be informed 
 of her conduct. It would be quite shameful 
 if -lie were to be received in houses where
 
 MARSTON. L37 
 
 there are young girls, who might be contami- 
 nated by the conversation and example of such 
 an abandoned, unprincipled woman!" 
 
 They continued their charitable conversation, 
 until they had comfortably settled their un- 
 conscious, and innocent, neighbour's present 
 and future position entirely to their satisfaction ; 
 and then Miss Wilson withdrew, more ami- 
 cably disposed to Mrs. Carlton than when she 
 arrived, and more satisfied than ever with her 
 own virtue ; and transported at the frailty, 
 which she considered certain, of the odious, 
 young, and handsome Mrs. Howard. The 
 next morning she proceeded to London, to 
 remain there a month.
 
 1:38 MAS8TON. 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 Iago. — " O beware, ruy lord, of jealousy ; 
 
 It is the green-eyed monster, which doth mock 
 The meat it feeds on. That cuckold lives in bliss, 
 Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger ; 
 But, O, what damned minutes tells he o'er, 
 Who dotes, yet doubts; suspects, yet strongly lo\ 
 
 ShAKSPS \r. t. 
 
 When Captain Harris took coach ;it Lon- 
 don, accompanied by young Norris, <m Ins 
 return to Notherwood, a month after his de- 
 parture from the latter place, to claim his 
 ward, according to the intentions he had an- 
 nounced on taking leave of Mrs. Howard, he
 
 MARSTON. 139 
 
 found the coach occupied by a grim-looking 
 old lady, — the same Miss Wilson whom we 
 have before noticed, now on her return to her 
 home, having payed the obligatory visit to her 
 mad relative, and passed the time, strictly 
 prescribed, with him. By her side was seated 
 Mrs. Sturgeon, the apothecary's wife, residing 
 at Wetherby ; and snugly tucked in the corner, 
 on the same side of the coach, a Quaker, with 
 a good-humoured countenance, half-shrouded 
 by his broad-brimmed hat. 
 
 Nothing particular occurred to the travel- 
 lers, who severally remained absorbed in their 
 own thoughts, until they changed horses at 
 Abberford, when a man, who appeared wait- 
 ing at the inn-door for the arrival of the stage- 
 coach, handed in to the apothecary's wife a 
 little spaniel, delivering at the same time re- 
 commendations to her to be very careful oi' it, 
 and make it over i«> Mrs. Carlton, on her ai-
 
 140 \i\iom\. 
 
 rival at Wetherby. Mrs. Sturgeon received 
 the charming little animal, with many pro- 
 mises of care, and placed it on her knees ; but 
 it seemed unaccustomed to the motion of a 
 carriage, and not extremely disposed to ap- 
 prove of it, — so that it fidgetted, and jumped, 
 till it came several times in contact with the 
 elderly lady's knees; at length, it fell on one 
 of her feet, — on the extremity of one of which 
 grew what we are distressed to name. A shrill 
 shout, however, proclaimed it. 
 
 " Gracious heaven, madam, cannot you 
 keep your nasty little dog to yourself? He 
 has trod on my corn, and I declare the pain of 
 it quite goes to my heart." 
 
 The apothecary's lady used every expression 
 of contrition that she could think of to soften 
 the resentment of her neighbour, and might 
 perhaps have succeeded, had not young Nor- 
 rjs. who had been highly diverted with the
 
 MARSTON. 141 
 
 irritability of the old lady, in vain endeavoured 
 to suppress a laugh, which burst out only with 
 the more violence, whispering, as soon as he 
 recovered his breath, to Captain Harris, — 
 
 " The only thing, I should suspect, that ever 
 went to her heart." 
 
 Miss Wilson was remarkably quick of hear- 
 ing, and the phrase unhappily arrived intact 
 to her oral faculties. It was a cruel one, it 
 must be owned, considering all circumstances. 
 It was bitter ; and it roused all the hatred, that 
 good lady nourished with constancy in her 
 bosom, against the whole sex. 
 
 " If all the world was peopled with rude 
 boys, young gentleman, your opinion of me 
 might most certainly be justified ; and, I thank 
 heaven, my heart has never granted a place in 
 it to any such vermin." 
 
 This retort increased the merriment of the 
 youngster beyond all bounds, and bi< mirth
 
 M*2 KAR8TON. 
 
 became contagious, for Captain Harris, not- 
 withstanding his efforts to look serious, could 
 not succeed, and some mischief worse than mere 
 angry words might have occurred, if the fat, 
 peaceable Quaker had not interposed with his 
 phlegmatic counsel. 
 
 " Verily, woman, thou forget test thyself, and 
 the travellers that journey with thee. Be more 
 moderate in thy expressions of anger ; and if 
 thou must needs rebuke the youth for his un- 
 seemly mirth, let it be in words and manner 
 better suiting thy sex and condition, or there 
 will be no tarrying with thee until we reach 
 the town of Wetherby, from which untowardly 
 we are still removed nearly eight miles, for 
 yonder I see the park of Netherwood. It i> a 
 comely place, friend," said the good Quaker, 
 addressing Captain Harris ; for, having ob- 
 tained silence from his neighbour, he continued 
 speaking, in order to give her the needful time
 
 MARSTON. I 4. '3 
 
 to calm herself, and regain a moderate degree 
 of temper. " It is a comely dwelling also, 
 and the owner thereof a godly woman. I may 
 in truth bear such testimony of her, for I 
 know much of her ways and dealings, and 
 they are good and just. My daughter hath 
 plied the needle for her, and sojourned with 
 her at sundry times, and verily I have heard 
 her testify loudly of her praiseworthy deeds. 
 She is a good Christian ; and so it is recorded 
 of her by my daughter Sarah, and all those 
 who have dealings with her." 
 
 Miss Wilson had been thus far forcibly si- 
 lent ; but her tongue now refused any further 
 compulsion, and the theme of the Quaker pre- 
 sentecl itself to her vindictive spirit as sweet 
 comfits to a longing palate. 
 
 " Now / shall give you a piece of advice in 
 return for yours, Jeremiah Esketh," shrieked 
 out Miss Wilson. " First, give your daughter
 
 144 MARSTOK. 
 
 Sarah a good beating for bearing false witn- 
 and, next, lock her up, that she may not cor- 
 rupt modest young women with her notions of 
 praiseworthy deeds. Praiseworthy, forsooth! 
 This is what comes of your Quakerly speeches, 
 and gibberish, which a true Christian cannot 
 understand. I shall not defile my mouth by 
 using the proper expressions for Mrs. Howard's 
 conduct ; but any body, knowing as much as 
 / do of it, may be at the trouble of guessing 
 them." 
 
 It was now the apothecary's wife's turn to 
 address some words to Miss Wilson, which she 
 did, mincing and holding the little dog ?erj 
 tight, that he might not again be the cause of 
 tumult and disorder. 
 
 " You quite astonish me, madam! Thi> is 
 the very first I have heard of it ; and yel I 
 cannot but think I should have been made ac- 
 quainted with it, had there been any thing, bo
 
 MARSTON. 145 
 
 intimate as I am with Mrs. Carlton ; who, be- 
 sides having numberless opportunities of know- 
 ing what goes on at Netherwood, from being a 
 neighbour of Mrs. Howard's, must also have 
 it in her power to obtain much information, in 
 consequence of Dr. Carlton's attending her 
 professionally." 
 
 " Upon my word," said Miss Wilson, bri- 
 dling up, " I never heard of that intimacy, 
 although I have the advantage of being Mrs. 
 Carlton's nearest neighbour ; nor do I know 
 what your intimacy with her (supposing it to 
 exist) can have to do with Mrs. Howard's 
 amours with Mr. Marston ; but what I do 
 know is, that Mr. Marston, of Marston Ab- 
 bey, went raving mad, from a fit of jealousy 
 about some navy captain who came down to 
 Netherwood, and who, I suppose, supplanted 
 him ; and that Mrs. Howard came to fetch 
 Dr. Carlton to him, ami confessed the whole 
 
 VOL I. L
 
 I4(i MARSTOK. 
 
 to him ; and since that, I understand, Mr. 
 Marston has been residing at Netherwood, 
 and is probably consoled, as I am informed 
 that the navy captain quitted the ground very 
 suddenly, and has not been heard of since." 
 
 Here were circumstance, time, and place ; 
 and some of Miss Wilson's auditors could no 
 longer doubt of the veracity of her assertions, 
 but felt a sort of reverential awe creep over 
 them, as she proceeded in her history, and 
 seemed to sit accuser and judge over a frail 
 and fallen woman. No one ventured a reply, 
 or to defend her. Jeremiah Esketh, following 
 the bent of his natural good nature, was not 
 entirely persuaded ; but his soul was sufficiently 
 troubled for him to groan audibly. Mrs. 
 Sturgeon reflected that the authority quoted 
 for all this information was her particular 
 friend, and therefore not to be questioned. 
 Young Norris meant to refer to Captain Har-
 
 MANSION. 147 
 
 ris for his opinion at some more suitable op- 
 portunity ; and the latter had his reasons for 
 maintaining a profound silence, but he longed 
 in his heart to take the mischievous old hag by 
 the throat, and fling her out of the coach-win- 
 dow into the ditch by the road-side, like a 
 noxious reptile. 
 
 Jeremiah Esketh summoned his daughter 
 Sarah instantly on his arrival at his clean, tidy, 
 comfortable haberdasher's shop, at the entrance 
 of the town, saying, — 
 
 " Child of my bosom, come hither. Where- 
 fore hast thou deceived thy father, and borne 
 false testimonies concerning the dweller at 
 Netherwood ? Didst thou not declare her to be 
 a godly woman, of decent manners, and bear- 
 ing herself as becometh a meek and virtuous 
 woman ? — whereas, she liveth in lewdness, and 
 hath paramours. Tell thy father, wherefore 
 hast thou dour this ? — wherefore must I rv-
 
 148 M.VK-TON. 
 
 buke thee ; and wherefore hast thou tailed in 
 thy duty?" 
 
 " Father," replied Sarah, " no falsehood has 
 been uttered by me. Verily, I bore testimony 
 of the charity and goodness of that kind 
 Christian. Thou knowest how oftentimes I 
 have been sent for to Netherwood to do needle- 
 work ; many months at a time have I sojourned 
 there, and never did I see aught, or hear 
 aught, that might not be said and repeated of 
 the owner of that mansion. All her servants 
 speak of her with attachment. Thou knowest, 
 father, when the poor woman departed this 
 life, who lingered so long in sorrow, in the 
 cottage hard by, that same good and just wo- 
 man sent her raiment and food. She doeth 
 boundless charity, and liveth a retired, sober, 
 quiet life ; nor is there any one that visiteth 
 her constantly but a devout man — a Romish 
 priest."
 
 MARS TON. 149 
 
 "Child, it is of him they speak," rejoined 
 Jeremiah ; " but, in sooth, I do much discredit 
 the report as being one invented by slanderous 
 and evil-tongued people : but I will put them 
 to confusion and shame, and rebuke them to 
 silence ; for 1 will go straightways, and take 
 thy testimony to them, who have harboured 
 such wicked thoughts of their neighbour." 
 
 How the good Quaker was received, on his 
 charitable errand, by Miss Wilson has not 
 been recorded ; but when he returned home, 
 he gave orders to Sarah to have no dealings 
 with the elderly maiden, Wilson, who lived at 
 Thornhill, should she nune to purchase haber- 
 dashery at his shop. Nor was his zeal in the 
 cause of truth abated by his ill-success with 
 that lady. The next morning, at an early 
 hour, lie mounted his little grey pad, his brown 
 square coat being neatly brushed, and his 
 broad-brimmed hat shining in all the gloss of
 
 150 MAfcSTO* 
 
 its first month's wear, and proceeded to the 
 mansion of Dr. Carlton. He was in the hahit 
 of being occasionally summoned by Mrs. Carl- 
 ton to exhibit his wares ; and on this occa- 
 sion, being uninvited, took with him some 
 articles he had purchased in London, and 
 which he thought would furnish a decent pre- 
 text for the intrusion of his visit. 
 
 The apothecary's wife had also that same 
 morning repaired to Fairbank, the name of the 
 doctor's place, in order to get fairly, and tho- 
 roughly, acquainted with the history related 
 by Miss Wilson in the stage-coach. She WW 
 the bearer of the little spaniel, the innocent 
 cause of all the mischief hatched the preceding- 
 day ; a present to her patroness, ergo, self- 
 styled, friend ; and Jeremiah, who found in- 
 stant admittance to the presence of Mrs. Carl- 
 ton, was not sorry to meet her there, as the 
 terrible appearance of the former a little in-
 
 MARSTON. 151 
 
 timidated him. As he spread forth his wares, 
 he summoned up courage, and introduced the 
 subject thus : — 
 
 " These stockings are good merchandize, and 
 well worth the price I set upon them ; shall I 
 put aside some dozen for thee? I brought 
 some with me expressly for my kind and good 
 customer at Netherwood. She is a good Chris- 
 tian, and one highly esteemed and beloved in 
 all the neighbourhood, although slander hath 
 been set abroad against her, as thou canst wit- 
 ness," turning to the apothecary's wife. The 
 latter had not yet touched that question, the 
 conversation, previous to Jeremiah's arrival, 
 having been on the little spaniel and its me- 
 rits : she was, therefore, much annoyed at the 
 appeal, and fidgeted about, not knowing ex- 
 actly what she was to answer. 
 
 Mrs. Carlton looked at the good haberdasher 
 with an expression of much malice and con-
 
 L52 makston. 
 
 tempt, but said nothing; and the conseqw 
 was, an obligation, on the part of Jeremiah- 
 fellow traveller, to speak. 
 
 " Pray, madam, what is all this story to 
 which Esketh is alluding ; it formed the sub- 
 ject of conversation in the stage yesterday, and 
 quite astounded me. Is it possible, that Mrs. 
 Howard can be leading such a life of abomi- 
 nation as I heard reported ? " 
 
 " More difficult things have been possible," 
 mumbled forth Mrs. Carlton, turning over the 
 wares of Esketh meanwhile. 
 
 " Take not amiss," said the good Quaker, 
 "that I come with testimony in favour of the 
 accused ; she is a worthy woman, and not the 
 loose creature malice would make her appear. 
 My daughter Sarah hath tarried many months 
 in her house, and never saw or heard aught 
 which might be spoken against her. 1 know 
 myself of her charities, which must commend
 
 MARSTON. 153 
 
 her as a good Christian. She caused raiment 
 and food to be given to the poor Catholic wo- 
 man, who died after long suffering : she sent 
 her a priest, of her persuasion, to comfort her 
 in her dying moments ; and she bestowed, and 
 bountifully, charity on her misguided daughter. 
 All this I can certify of mine own knowledge." 
 u I make no doubt," said Mrs. Carlton, 
 " your daughter Sarah is a most excellent 
 judge, and yourself too, good friend ; but there 
 arc others, perhaps, a little better informed as 
 to the conduct of the lady, and her motives 
 for all her actions ;" and, turning to Mrs. 
 Sturgeon, she began the whole story which 
 she had related already to Miss Wilson ; not 
 sorry to expose her to her humble advocate, 
 although she would not have condescended to 
 address him directly on the subject. She con- 
 cluded by saying, — "You see that eVen this 
 champion of hers proves how zealous she was
 
 I.) I MAFMdN. 
 
 for the Catholic mendicant, and that she senl 
 her paramour to her." 
 
 Poor Jeremiah was confounded, but still un- 
 convinced, and withdrew ; feeling a much 
 stronger antipathy to his customers than his 
 kind nature had ever been known to entertain 
 towards any body. 
 
 We left Mrs. Howard and Captain Hani- 
 walking in the shrubbery ; and it was some 
 time before the latter acquired sufficient cou- 
 rage to break the silence, which they had both 
 observed from different causes. At length, he 
 addressed her, clearing his voice, and begin- 
 ning with another subject, in order to gain 
 time ere he arrived at the one uppermost in 
 his thoughts. 
 
 " If the wind keep* in the same quarter aa 
 at present, I shall have fair weather to drop 
 down the channel; for my ship i> manned and 
 ready to start, and 1 shall be tailing in a lew
 
 MARSTON. 155 
 
 days. How rapidly she will place a whole he- 
 misphere between us ! — You must be prepared 
 to expect that it will be many months ere we 
 meet again. I am afraid I must renounce the 
 protecting charge of you confided to me, at 
 the same time as the guardianship of your lit- 
 tle boy ! But, happily, the choice you have 
 made of a spiritual adviser and protector re- 
 lieves me from anxiety on your account. — 
 Were you always a Catholic ; or is it since the 
 death of my poor friend that you have changed 
 your religion 1 " 
 
 " Have I always been a Catholic ! I change 
 my religion ! I take a spiritual adviser and 
 protector ! What on earth can you mean ? — 
 What are you thinking of, Captain Harris ? — 
 What can have put such extraordinary ideas 
 into your heard?" replied Mrs. Howard, in 
 amazement at his speech, and at his manner 
 of delivering it.
 
 156 MAKSTON. 
 
 " Is is not true?" said Captain Harris. " I 
 own the intelligence astonished me ; but ii' 
 these had been the only rumours which had 
 reached me, I should not have ventured to 
 
 speak to you on the subject. You know 1 
 
 am not your spiritual adviser ; but I engaged 
 myself to be, and ought to be, your worldly 
 protector, and shield you from unmerited slan- 
 der. You look surprised, and well may. 
 
 You are so good and guileless, that the possi- 
 bility of malicious tongues attaching evil to 
 your most praiseworthy actions, could never 
 enter your mind. You forget that the very 
 fact of your innocence, and purity of conduct, 
 added (if I may be allowed to subjoin a less 
 important phrase without being Buspected of 
 flattery) to your beauty, are sufficient ca 
 for the envy, hatred, malice, and all uncha- 
 ritableness »>f those possessing the revere 
 all your excellent qualities
 
 MARSTON. I.")? 
 
 Mrs. Howard turned her beautiful, flushed, 
 and agitated countenance towards Captain 
 Harris, in mute astonishment, and dismay at 
 what was to follow this preamble ; and, at the 
 same moment, coming near a path which 
 Marston was crossing, in an agony of mind 
 beyond description, she hastily checked the 
 arm she was leaning on, fearing that the en- 
 counter might occasion an interruption in the 
 communication, which she naturally most 
 eagerly desired ; and turned down another 
 path. 
 
 The action, however slight, did not escape 
 the notice of the keen eye of the unhappy 
 man, who, with the jaundiced feeling of that 
 fatal passion — jealousy — construed it imme- 
 diately as a corroboration of the judgment he 
 had so hastily formed, and which he willingly 
 encouraged, to torture himself. He even did 
 not allow reflection, or reason, to have the least
 
 108 MARSTOIf. 
 
 influence upon him, but followed the two 
 
 friends at a distance, determined to observe 
 them, and obtain further confirmation of his 
 fears and maddening thoughts. 
 
 " I grieve," continued Captain Harris, ob- 
 serving the distress of her countenance, " to 
 inflict this mental torture on you, who should 
 be one of the last to know its sufferings, from 
 the amiable habit you have of endeavouring 
 to relieve that of others ; but so firm is my 
 conviction of the slander set on foot being 
 quite unmerited, that, notwithstanding the 
 pain its knowledge will give you, I deem it 
 advisable to let you know it, since, by a Utile 
 prudent reserve and caution, you may at once 
 silence and destroy it. Does that priest always 
 reside with you ; for his holy calling does not 
 protect him from the same malevolence which 
 attacks you ? How long have you known him ; 
 and whal is his position in vour house ? For-
 
 MARSTON. 159 
 
 give questions which, under all other circum- 
 stances than those in which I am placed at 
 this present moment, might appear imperti- 
 nent ; but, as the guardian of Harry, I feel 
 myself bound to make these enquiries. How- 
 ard was a true Protestant, and I think would 
 not have wished his son to be a Catholic. 
 Furthermore, his views for him naturally 
 prove this, as he could not at a future period 
 attain great advancement in the profession to 
 which he is destined, unless he were of the 
 established religion of his country. But this 
 worldly consideration apart, — I do not think 
 Howard would have approved of his son's be- 
 coming a Catholic." 
 
 Mrs. Howard's astonishment now became 
 too great for utterance, and she gazed vacantly 
 on him, in a state of bewilderment. Her 
 confusion led him, for a moment, to believe 
 that he had rather too hastily pronounced ber
 
 \(U) 
 
 MANSION 
 
 unjustly accused; and it became bis turn to 
 be confused. After a pause, she reco\< 
 sufficiently to articulate, — 
 
 "That priest! What is his position! Is it. 
 possible, that in the number of years you 
 lived in intimacy with my dear Howard, he 
 never mentioned Marston to you ? — the friend 
 of my childhood, and our mutual friend; with- 
 out whose kind offices we never should have 
 been united ; and with whom we always lived 
 in the greatest habits of friendship and in- 
 timacy?" 
 
 " No, truly, he never did ; and the first time 
 I think I ever heard his name mentioned, was 
 but a few weeks since, when an old man came 
 to enquire of you where he was ; and when I 
 volunteered my services to beat about the coun- 
 try to find him, seeing how visibly his absence 
 seemed to distress you." 
 
 Mrs. Howard then narrated all the eireuni-
 
 MARSTON. I<)| 
 
 stances we have previously detailed, as con- 
 necting her history with Marston's. 
 
 Captain Harris and Howard had been school- 
 fellows and friends, and had continued their 
 friendship in manhood. They had both se- 
 lected the navy as their profession, and had 
 served together until three years previously to 
 the latter's acquaintance with Mrs. Howard, 
 and subsequent marriage. At that period 
 Captain Harris was sent on the West India 
 station ; and various circumstances combined 
 to keep the two friends apart for some time, 
 but at a later period they again found them- 
 selves serving in the same fleet. They were 
 together in the same action in which Howard 
 was mortally wounded ; and, on his death- 
 bed, he confided the care of his wife and child 
 to his friend, whose honourable character was 
 so well known to him . 
 
 Captain Harris did nol return to England 
 
 \ OL 1. M
 
 162 MANSION 
 
 for two years after the death of his friend, 
 when Mrs. Howard was in Ireland. He was 
 soon detached on active service, and had only 
 again put into port, at the time of her return 
 to reside at Netherwood ; but his professional 
 duties and occupations had always prevented 
 his going down to Yorkshire, until the visit 
 already mentioned, so that he had never met 
 with Marston. 
 
 " It is very abominable that so simple a his- 
 tory, so honourable, and so in harmony with 
 your good feelings, should be so vilely, nay in- 
 famously, construed as it has been by some old 
 women, your neighbours in Wetherby, and cir- 
 culated with such persevering industry by 
 them," said Captain Harris; "but I fear you 
 must impose on yourself the obligation of 
 making a sacrifice of some portion of your 
 kind attentions to your friend, and cease re- 
 ceiving him as a guest ; unless indeed you dis-
 
 MARSTON. 163 
 
 regard entirely accusations, which, being to- 
 tally without foundation, are perhaps, after all, 
 not worthy of your attention." 
 
 " As yet," replied Mrs. Howard, " it ap- 
 pears to me that the accusations bearing on me 
 are not of a nature to alarm me, and I see no 
 reason which can justify my abandoning my 
 unhappy friend ; who is so lonely, so oppressed 
 by corroding griefs, which he concentrates 
 within his own bosom, and which I have in 
 vain endeavoured to persuade him to communi- 
 cate ; hoping, that by unburthening his sor- 
 rows to a true friend, I might find some argu- 
 ments to soften and diminish them. He is so 
 wretched, his afflictions prey on his health so 
 much, I could not for selfish reasons, of really 
 trifling importance, add another pang to the 
 many he endures. After all, the good people 
 of Wetherby supposing me to be a Call 1 olio 
 \< not of much consequence, :»n<l were I such 
 
 M 2
 
 1G4 MAKSTON. 
 
 I should not consider it a very heinous offence ; 
 but, believe me, it is not their suppositions 
 which can deter me from a positive duty ; nor 
 can the society of a friend of another persua- 
 sion destroy principles, so carefully instilled 
 into my mind by my parents, as mine have 
 been, confirmed too as they are by reason and 
 reflection. In honour to Marston, I must also 
 assure you, that he never has attempted to con- 
 vert me to his religion ; indeed, he very rarely 
 converses on the subject." 
 
 Captain Harris hesitated to pursue the con- 
 versation any further, and continued walking 
 with his eyes bent on the ground, and MrSi 
 Howard resumed. 
 
 " Do you not agree with me, that it would 
 be cruel to break off all connection with the 
 lonely and unhappy man?" 
 
 " Women feel so very differently from what 
 we do on many occasions," replied Captain
 
 MARSTON. 165 
 
 Harris, " that it is sometimes very difficult to 
 be of the same opinion with them; I mean, 
 that there is such a delicate and fine-drawn 
 web of feeling encircling their hearts, that they 
 enter into minute distinctions, which our 
 rougher natures either do not consider, or re- 
 gard as fanciful. We look at a subject in its 
 broad effects, and leave the details to the 
 gentler and more sensitive sex. For instance, 
 if I had an infirm limb, likely to injure the 
 rest of my body, I should send for the shin- 
 surgeon, and desire him to cut it off. I sup- 
 pose you would protract the evil moment ; and 
 it would not be till after many struggles, and 
 when perhaps the resolution would be too late, 
 that you would bring your mind to submit to 
 the amputation. But come, let me be the 
 surgeon. Find some civil and natural reason 
 for Mr. Marston's curtailing his visit ; and, 
 afyer a little while has passed away, you can
 
 ]66 MANSION. 
 
 see him occasionally. Since his sorrows are 
 too great for utterance, or of a nature not to 
 be communicated, he can bear them as well 
 in his own house as in yours ; and believe me 
 I am giving you good advice." 
 
 " Now then shall you perceive how true a 
 heretic I am," replied Mrs. Howard, smiling; 
 " for unless it is in your power to convince 
 me of the necessity of the measure you pro- 
 pose, by some more conclusive reasoning than 
 all you have already advanced, I will not fol- 
 low your advice, although I am quite per- 
 suaded you have given it to me from friendly 
 motives ; but I will own to you I cannot pe- 
 netrate them or comprehend them." 
 
 "Why then," said Captain Harris, "sup- 
 pose your good fame had been attacked ; and 
 that you were accused of encouraging, and 
 participating in, sentiments which Mr. Mars- 
 ton's profession prohibits, would you consider
 
 MARSTON. 167 
 
 this a sufficient reason for my giving such 
 advice?" 
 
 The blood flew to Mrs. Howard's cheeks, 
 and a look of shame and resentment animated 
 her gentle countenance. 
 
 " Impossible ! Shameful ! Can this be said of 
 me? Can any body have been so unjust, so 
 cruel ?" and she clasped her hands in agitation 
 and trembling ; and then withdrawing her arm 
 from the one she was leaning on, let herself 
 fall, rather than seat herself, on a bank which 
 bordered the walk. 
 
 Captain Harris stood before her, pained, dis- 
 tressed, angry with himself, with Marston, with 
 the old women, the cause of all this scene. At 
 last, tears came to her relief, and she wept 
 silently. 
 
 Marston, meanwhile, who had not lost sight 
 of her and Captain Harris, suffered tortures 
 beyond all lie had ever endured ; and n<> Lon-
 
 168 MAKSTON. 
 
 ger able to resist his feelings, hastily approached 
 them ; nor was it till he was before them, that 
 he awoke to a sense of his indiscretion, and felt 
 how much his intrusion must astonish them. 
 He did not attempt to give any reason, or frame 
 any excuse for his conduct ; but fixed his large, 
 penetrating eyes, upon her in silence, endea- 
 vouring to fathom the mystery, which seemed 
 to surround him; and comprehend, why she 
 was so agitated, why she shed tears which wrung 
 his heart. 
 
 She, meanwhile, confused, just looked at him, 
 and then withdrew her eyes, while a multitude 
 of thoughts passed rapidly in her mind ; and a 
 sense of the truth of the accusation, as regarded 
 Marston, burst suddenly upon her. Now, 
 phrases innumerable, circumstances countless, 
 came in support of what she had been told, and 
 if any thing had been wanting to confirm am 
 remaining doubts, the deathly pallor of hie
 
 MARSTON. 169 
 
 anxious countenance told volumes. Captain 
 Harris, calmer, and more capable of obser- 
 vation, also now saw the real state of the 
 case ; and the three, by their different ex- 
 pressions of countenance and attitude, formed 
 a group not unworthy of a painter's study. 
 
 The moments, thus passed, were few in num- 
 ber, but were years to those concerned ; and 
 each felt too intensely, according to his different 
 position , to attempt to break the silence . Years 
 after, when Marston thought of that scene, his 
 feelings would return to him with all the suf- 
 fering of the moment. Little Eleanor, drawing 
 near them with her nurse, relieved them, in a 
 degree, from their embarrassment. 
 
 Mrs. Howard rose, and motioning with her 
 hand an adieu to them both, returned slowly 
 and alone to the house. 
 
 Marston followed her with his eyes, till a 
 turn in the walk concealed her from hi* obser-
 
 170 MAKSTON. 
 
 vation ; and then with a convulsive shudder, 
 taking his daughter by the hand, he turned, 
 without noticing Captain Harris, in the direc- 
 tion of his own park ; the nurse, alarmed, 
 though she could not define to herself why, fol- 
 lowing him at a short distance. 
 
 On Mrs. Howard's reaching home, she in- 
 stantly retired to her own apartment, and did 
 not appear again until dinner was announced. 
 She entered the dining-room, casting a timid 
 glance around her. Only Captain Harris, and 
 young Norris, were in the room. She had 
 wept ; her eyes were swollen ; and she avoided 
 looking at Captain Harris, as she approached 
 the table. He was uncomfortable, and the ser- 
 vants officiated in silence. 
 
 Marston's place at table had been prepared 
 as usual; his chair was there, but was unoccu- 
 pied; and she had not the courage to enquire 
 wherefore he was not there. Captain Harri
 
 MAHSTON. 171 
 
 felt the same constraint ; and never was repast 
 taken more uncomfortably ; yet, neither of those 
 who assisted at it, was angry with the other ; 
 thoughts too deep for words embarrassed them. 
 
 At dessert, the children were in the habit of 
 coming to partake of it ; but only little Harry 
 entered. The little fellow seemed to share the 
 general uneasiness. 
 
 "Mamma, where is Eleanor? She did not 
 come home to supper, and we cannot find her." 
 
 This observation roused Mrs. Howard, who 
 looked alarmed. She had not connected the 
 little girl in her thoughts with Marston's ab- 
 sense ; and she turned to the servants for some 
 explanation ; but they knew nothing further, 
 than that the nurse had taken her out walking 
 at the usual hour, and had not since returned. 
 Captain Harris, however, stated, that Marston 
 had taken her along with him in his continued 
 walk, when Mrs Howard had quitted them.
 
 172 UARBTON. 
 
 The remainder she suspected ; and bursting 
 into fresh tears, rose from the table, and taking 
 little Harry and her guests with her, withdrew 
 to the next room, to avoid the observation of 
 the servants. 
 
 Captain Harris felt with her, and for her, 
 and endeavoured to relieve her by turning her 
 thoughts into another channel. He addressed 
 little Harry, — for, in cases of embarrassment, 
 one generally turns for relief to children or 
 dogs, if happily there are any ; if not, the state 
 of the weather is largely discussed, with all its 
 variations. 
 
 "Well, my fine little fellow, are you ready 
 to start with us? Shall you like to be a navy 
 officer, and return to your mother one of the<e 
 days, covered with laurels?" 
 
 " I shall like to be an officer very much," 
 replied Harry ; " shall I be one very soon l v 
 , " Aye, very soon, if you deserve it : Norris,
 
 BtARSTON. 173 
 
 some letters were put into my hands as I got 
 into the coach, and I find by them, that the 
 Diamond is manned, and ready to put to sea. 
 Indeed, she has dropped down to Gravesend." 
 
 "Then, sir, I suppose we are to start," re- 
 plied Norris. 
 
 " Yes : my orders are to sail immediately. 
 You must now truly screw up your courage," 
 he said, turning to Mrs Howard ; "I must quit 
 you to-morrow, with this nice little recruit." 
 
 Her thoughts did indeed turn into a new 
 channel ; and she pleaded, argued, entreated, 
 but all in vain ; and she was at length obliged 
 to yield. It was then settled, that she should 
 accompany them to Gravesend, and not pari 
 with her little treasure, till the vessel actually 
 sailed. The necessary preparations for their 
 journey, and, in some measure, for Harry's 
 voyage, (for the remainder was to be done al
 
 174 MAB8T0V. 
 
 Gravesencl,) occupied her almost all the night, 
 and allowed her but little time for reflection. 
 
 Captain Harris, to tranquillize her mind, as- 
 certained, in the evening, that little Eleanor 
 was at Marston Abbey with her father. 
 
 The next morning, at daylight, all was bustle 
 and movement in the house ; the servants run- 
 ning to and fro, packing the carriage, carrying 
 trunks, and adding confusion to the hurry, so 
 sudden a departure occasioned. At an early 
 hour they were ready to start. 
 
 How desolate does a house appear, when it- 
 inhabitants are gone from it! The movement, 
 the animation, their presence gives, seem to 
 bestow life on the walls, and all the objects, 
 which adorn them. The furniture, the orna- 
 ments, the flowers, all partake of the presence 
 or absence of their masters. 
 
 As Mrs. Howard descended from her room,
 
 MARSTON. 17.") 
 
 she passed the one Eleanor had inhabited. A 
 
 pair of little shoes(&)was near the door, which 
 was open ; and further on, a toy was lying on 
 the floor, calling to mind the taste and age of 
 the little owner. The sight of them deeply 
 affected her ; and as she cast a look into the 
 room, and saw the bed, in which the child had 
 always slept, and where she visited her previous 
 to retiring to rest every night, her heart swelled 
 with sorrow at the thought, that the little being 
 in whom she had taken such interest was with- 
 drawn from her. 
 
 Marston's room was adjoining; and other 
 new, though silent objects attracted her atten- 
 tion. Some flowers he had selected, were on 
 a table, drooping, and declaring the absence of 
 him who had taken care of them. A book 
 with a leaf folded down marked his studies of 
 the preceding morning. 
 
 " Poor man !" she thought, " were not your
 
 17f) MARSTON. 
 
 sorrows sufficient, without adding fresh ones of 
 your own creation, loaded too with reproach V 
 and she paused a moment at the door. 
 
 The voices of the servants, announcing that 
 all was ready, drew her from her reverie ; and 
 she descended to the hall, where the travellers 
 were assembled waiting for her ; and in a few 
 minutes, all was silence at Netherwood, saving 
 the echo of a door or two shutting after the 
 servants, as they closed the shutters, placed the 
 apartments in order, and then withdrew to 
 another part of the building.
 
 MARSTON. 177 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 Hermionk. ■ -" Pray you, sit by us, 
 
 And tell's a tale. 
 
 Mamillius. " Merry, or sad, shall't be? 
 
 Hekmione. "As merry as you will. 
 
 Mamillius. "A sad tale's best for winter : 
 
 I have one of sprites and goblins. 
 
 Hermione. " Let's have that, sir. 
 
 Come on, sit down : — Come on, and do your best 
 To fright me with your sprites : you're powerful at it. 
 
 Mamillius. "There was a man — 
 
 Hermione. "Nay, come, sit down ; then on. 
 
 Mamillius. " Dwelt by a church-yard; I will tell it softly ; 
 Von crickets shall not hear it." 
 
 Winter's Tale. 
 
 In the course of the day, old Joseph came to 
 Netherwood, and according to Ins custom, iv- 
 
 VOl. I. N
 
 I7S HAB8TON. 
 
 sorted to Mrs. Davenport's (the housekeep 
 
 room . 
 
 " Why, here are strange doings, Mrs Daven- 
 port ! What has been the matter ? Has there 
 been a rumpus ? What ! all the family gone off"! 
 and all in such a hurry ! And my poor mas- 
 ter is returned home, more gloomy than ever, 
 and has brought his younglady with him . M rs. 
 Betty is all forlorn ; she finds the house so dull 
 after Netherwood ; and truly, if it war'nt for 
 my company, which I give her as much as I 
 can, (but my duty leaves me but little time to 
 dispose of,) the poor maiden would be very dull . 
 Marston Abbey arn't full of servants and com- 
 pany, and what not, coming here, running there, 
 making such a clatter and noise. Sometimes, 
 when I return to the Abbey after having been 
 here, it seems as thof I was entering a tomb. 
 Not a sound to be heard ; not a face to be seen 
 but my master's, which is none of th<
 
 MAHSTON. 17!) 
 
 (although he be a handsome man, that 1 must 
 own.) Not a step passing across the marble 
 hall but my own ; and I don't go so lightly as 
 I used once to do. Ah me ! well, as I was say- 
 ing, I'm not surprised Mrs. Betty should not 
 fancy our Abbey; poor soul! she'll just be 
 moped to death. My poor young lady, too, 
 looks all amazed ; the dear child takes on sadly, 
 and master don't say much to her or to any one ; 
 he looks so melancholic, and goes from the 
 library to the chapel, and back again to the 
 library, and away again to the chapel, it makes 
 me feel all over somehow to see all this." 
 
 " I really know no more than you do, Mr. 
 Joseph, what it all means," said Mrs. Daven- 
 port, raising her round, grey, good-nnturnl 
 eyes, to meet the little, sharp, inquisitive ones, 
 which were scrutinizing her countenance ; " \ 
 am quite at a loss to explain it all. My poor 
 lady does nothing but cry, and take on in a 
 
 n 2
 
 ISO HARSTON. 
 
 heart-breaking manner; and I'm morally cer- 
 tain it isn't always all along of Master Harry. 
 They all set off this morning, by break of clay, 
 quite of a sudden. There was no mention of 
 it till after dinner yesterday, and we sat up all 
 night packing and preparing. I think as they 
 are gone to Lunnun ; but we have had no orders 
 to send on letters ; only my lady said, a- -h< 
 got into the carriage, says she, ' I shall be back 
 again, alas, too soon ! ' ' 
 
 "Well, well, I hope, however, now you will 
 have a little leisure time to yourself, you will 
 come and take a friendly cup of tea with us at 
 the Abbey; it will be a comfort to Mrs. Betty 
 to see you." 
 
 "Indeed, I will, Mr. Joseph ; and in truth, 
 T shall be very glad to sec Marston Abbey, for 
 they say it is a very fine building." 
 
 " Aye, truly, it is a noble building ; and when 
 my poor mistress lived, and the house was
 
 MARSTON. 181 
 
 always full of company, many hundreds used 
 to come and see it, and its fine gallery of family 
 pictures; but now it' s quite different ; it's just 
 for all the world like a place deserted. The 
 fine lawns, and walks, and shrubberies, are all 
 filled with weeds and wild plants ; and it almost 
 frightens one to cross the great galleries and 
 staircases at nightfall, the echo of one's feet 
 sounds so hollow, and as thof one walked over 
 tombs. My poor master wanders about the 
 great empty house, and large oak woods, like 
 the ghost of him who was once so cheerful, and 
 made every body around him so happy. The 
 great gates at the grand entry, which used for- 
 merly to be always open, arc now never un- 
 closed ; indeed, there is no porter there to open 
 them ; and when you come to see us, which I 
 hope you will, you must go round the house to 
 a small door near the pantry, through which 
 my master and J always pass.
 
 182 MARSTON. 
 
 After this glorious dish of chat, they parted , 
 Mrs Davenport promising to go to the Abbey 
 the following week. 
 
 Marston Abbey had formerly been a monas- 
 tery, as its name indicates ; and had belonged 
 to the family bearing the same name for several 
 hundred years. The founder of the Abbey was 
 a Marston. At his death, he had bequeathed 
 it to his descendants, on condition that it should 
 remain a monastic establishment. 
 
 At the battle of Marston-moor already allu- 
 ded to, the Abbey had been chosen as the head 
 quarters of the Prince Rupert. During the 
 course of that eventful battle, it had been at- 
 tacked with vigour by the enemy, and had been 
 promised to the troops for plunder; but by the 
 subsequent hasty retreat of the loyalists, which 
 had drawn off the enemy in rapid pursuit, the 
 Abbey had been abandoned, and remained un- 
 molested. The monks, however, had fled ;
 
 MARSTON. 1S;> 
 
 many of them were slaughtered by the victo- 
 rious fanatics, and from that time Marston 
 Abbey had no longer been inhabited as a mo- 
 nastery, but by the direct ancestors of its pre- 
 sent possessor. 
 
 The Abbey, standing in the centre of a large 
 park, was remarkable for the grandeur of its 
 appearance, and the beauty of its construction ; 
 being considered a fine specimen of Gothic ar- 
 chitecture. The facade was particularly mag- 
 nificent ; rising in spiral forms, decorated with 
 fret-work and ornaments, carved after the fash- 
 ion of the times in which the building had been 
 constructed. 
 
 The great portal in its centre, formed the 
 principal entrance to the Abbey; it conducted 
 to a large square court surrounded by galleries, 
 lighted by large casements of coloured gla 
 representing subjects from Scripture. 
 
 On entering folding-doors in the centre of
 
 184 M LBSTON. 
 
 this inward pile, the eye was struck with the 
 magnificence of a large and lofty marble hall, 
 having at the four corners large open stair-cases 
 of easy ascent, also of marble, which conducted 
 to the four wings of the building. 
 
 Each wing contained a whole suite of noble 
 apartments. The two suites forming the north 
 and south corners on the eastern side of the 
 square, were connected by a large and long 
 gallery, which contained the portraits of Mars- 
 ton's ancestors. 
 
 The other two suites, forming the north and 
 south corners of the western side, were connec- 
 ted by a long, large, and lofty banqueting room, 
 formerly the refectory upon state occasions. 
 
 There were doors of communication with the 
 wings, extending east and west. One of these 
 wings had been inhabited by Mr. and Mrs. 
 Marston, during the life of the latter, but had 
 not been opened bince her death. The other,
 
 MARSTON. 185 
 
 containing the library, chapel, and apartments, 
 was now occupied by Marston. There was a 
 communication with the cloisters, forming a 
 square round the burial-ground, which was ex- 
 tensive, and planted with cypresses, yews, wil- 
 lows, and other trees, which gave a melancholy 
 grace to the abode of death. Behind the 
 cloisters was a large garden, which opened into 
 the park. 
 
 The poor little Eleanor — separated so sud- 
 denly from her, whom, from her infancy, she 
 had considered as a mother ; from little Harry, 
 her playmate, and self-named brother ; and 
 constantly in presence of her gloomy father, 
 whose abstracted countenance and haggard 
 appearance inspired sadness, and were any 
 thing but inviting or amusing for a little child 
 — had already lost all the gaiety of her years ; 
 and at the sight of Mrs. Davenport — who was 
 a good-natured motherly woman, and had al-
 
 186 MAUSTON. 
 
 ways been very kind to her, giving her 
 
 " the biscuit, and confectionary plum," when 
 she came into the housekeeper's room, and 
 who now, in fulfilment of her promise to 
 Joseph, had come to the abbey a few days after 
 the departure of Mrs. Howard — burst into 
 tears, and threw herself into her arms. 
 
 Mars ton, passing at the moment into the 
 chapel, caught the sound of voices in the great 
 hall, and would have passed unheedingly, had 
 not certain words attracted his attention, at 
 which he remained transfixed and astounded. 
 
 " My good Mrs. Davenport, take me back 
 with you to mamma, and little brother ; il is 
 so dull here. I have nobody to play with ; no- 
 body takes any notice of me : it is so quiet, so 
 still. Why has mamma sent me away?" 
 
 " 1 do not know, my sweet child, but I Bup- 
 pose it is your papa's will. I cannot take you 
 back to her, 1 am sorry to say, for she is gone
 
 MAHSTON. 187 
 
 away. Do not cry, my dear ; poor little child, 
 it makes my heart ache to see her." 
 
 "Is Mrs. Howard gone away?" said Mrs. 
 Betty. 
 
 " Aye, truly, with Captain Harris and Mas- 
 ter Harry. I shouldn't wonder if my lady 
 didn't return awhile, for I'm moral certain 
 she'll never part with Master Harry; she'd 
 sooner go to Hingie with him." 
 
 "Gone!" echoed Marston to himself, with 
 a groan. 
 
 What a gloom overshadows the mind when 
 the object of our adoration is gone ! It is the 
 night-season of the heart, — dark, silent, noise- 
 less, melancholy night ! 
 
 In all cases of separation, it is not the one 
 who goes who is to be pitied, it is the one who 
 remains. The change of scene, the obligation 
 of movement, the novelties the eye meets with, 
 the fact of going, so put the thoughts into a
 
 188 M.\K>T<>.\. 
 
 new channel, that half the sorrow of parting 
 is removed ; but the forsaken one bears more 
 than his sum of grief : every surrounding ob- 
 ject becomes a remembrance of the departed. 
 Time seems to crawl with a snail-like space, 
 and " the burthen of the mystery" of life is 
 doubled. 
 
 Marston, in quitting Netherwood so ab- 
 ruptly, had been prompted by two feelings 
 widely opposite, but each acting with violence 
 on him : — the one, a determination to fly from 
 such suffering as he endured in her presence, 
 and to break his heart in solitude, if he could 
 not surmount his passion; the other was to 
 prove to her that he saw clearly (clearly as 
 jealous madness sees), and, by withdrawing, 
 manifest to her his disapprobation of her 
 conduct. 
 
 Mrs. Howard, however, in the short interval 
 of time which occurred between his departure
 
 MAHSTON. 189 
 
 and her own, had little leisure to reflect on 
 the motives which had caused his sudden 
 withdrawal, more than supposing that he fled 
 her society from self-reproach at indulging a 
 passion, which, in his position, it was sinful to 
 encourage. The situation of Marston was 
 thus entirely changed, both from what he had 
 supposed it to be, and in the reality. His 
 leaving Netherwood, which was only half a 
 mile from his home, and to which he flattered 
 himself he could return when he should be so 
 disposed, widely differed from Mrs. Howard's 
 going far away, without his being acquainted 
 with her intentions, or informed when she 
 would return ; and accompanied too by the 
 very person he most disapproved of. Any 
 other would have caused him less anxiety ; — 
 he felt an antipathy to that man ! 
 
 The word gone therefore — pronounced l>y 
 the good fat housekeeper, whose flat, contented
 
 h)0 MAIOInN 
 
 tone of voice uttered it with the Bame indiffe- 
 rence that she would have done had she been 
 superintending the important manufacture of 
 jellies, or any thing within her ministry — sank 
 into his heart, as though it had been his death- 
 knell. That one word had struck desolation 
 to his heart! He was more than alone! He 
 stood a solitary being in this world! — She was 
 gone ! 
 
 He remained as if rooted to the spot for some 
 time, and then turned unconsciously from the 
 chapel, whither he had been going, and passing 
 through the small door near the pantry, men- 
 tioned by Joseph, proceeded in the direction of 
 Netherwood. It would be impossible to de- 
 scribe the agonies which racked the heart of 
 the unhappy man as he entered the grounds, 
 and proceeded slowly towards the house, Where 
 all was silent and motionless. Each tree, eaeh 
 walk, seemed to remind him of some feeling,
 
 MARSTON. IK) I 
 
 some word, some thought of her, wlio embel- 
 lished every thing she approached. 
 
 One of the drawing-room windows had been 
 opened to give air to the apartment. He en- 
 tered by it, and flinging himself on a couch, 
 indulged in deep, poignant, absorbing grief. 
 
 Meanwhile, the worthy Joseph did the ho- 
 nours of the abbey, and showed all its marvels 
 to the wondering housekeeper. 
 
 " It is a princely place indeed," said Mrs. 
 Davenport, as she surveyed the great marble 
 hall, and ascended one of the staircases con- 
 ducting to the eastern gallery; "worthy of 
 noble masters! And this is the picture-gal- 
 lery! What a pity, what a thousand pities, 
 Mr. Marston hasn't a son, and that he should 
 have made himself a priest! He ought to 
 have married again, and left along line of suc- 
 cessors to this noble house." 
 
 " It arn't at nil clear," replied Joseph, "thai
 
 1!)'2 MARBTO* 
 
 if he had married again, he would have had 
 descendants. There is a prophecy concern tog 
 the owners of this abbey, which was made a 
 long time ago, and it seems to have come to 
 pass. It was foretold, that when an eagle 
 from the north should alight at the abbey, tin- 
 last male heir to the Marston family would re- 
 fuse it admittance. 
 
 "It so happened that Mr. Marston, when a 
 lad, was travelling in Scotland with his father, 
 and, exploring the Scottish mountains, he had 
 the good fortune to save the life of a young 
 Highlander, who had nearly perished by losing 
 his balance, whilst on the top of a high cliff, 
 seeking an eagle's nest. The youth vowed him 
 eternal gratitude ; and some years after, when 
 my master was married, he heard of it, and 
 made the journey on foot from the Highlands 
 to visit him, bringing with him a young eagle 
 as a present.
 
 MARSTON. \\): J > 
 
 " It was a stormy night, in the month of 
 November (I remember it well), when the 
 Highlander arrived at the abbey-gates. The 
 wind was howling furiously, the rain beating 
 violently ; and the porter was loath to unbar 
 the gates at so late an hour of night. My 
 lady was in travail of Miss Eleanor, and the 
 house was in consequence all in confusion and 
 bustle, — all attending upon the poor lady, 
 and hurrying backwards and forwards; and 
 the porter called through the gates to enquire 
 who came at such an unusual hour of night. 
 
 " The Highlander replied, that it was Fergus, 
 with an eagle from the north. 
 
 " ' Go your ways then,' said the porter, 
 ' there's no seed of eagles here, and I'll no! 
 be unbarring the gates at this time of nighl 
 and in such weather, for any such carrion/ 
 
 "Fergus called after him, but 'twas nil in 
 vain, and then 1h v look to thumping al the 
 
 VOL I.
 
 194 MAB8T0N. 
 
 gates with all his might. My master, going 
 to and fro, heard the knocking, and I told him 
 what it was, and that the porter would not 
 open the gates. Poor master was thinking of 
 aught but eagles ; my lady was shrieking pi- 
 teously, and, says he, ' Stop the fellow's noise, 
 and send him about his business.' We had 
 hard to do, for the Highlander would nut take 
 an answer ; but howsomdever he went away at 
 last, growling like a mastiff. 
 
 " My lady was just then delivered of a 
 daughter, and died towards morning. * * 
 
 "It was some time after — nay, many months 
 I think — when I minded me of t: and 
 
 the prophecy ; and then Bure enough, Bays 1. 
 there it is fulfilled ; and so indeed thought 
 many. It was when my master became a 
 priest, that some of our neighbours bethought 
 them of the prophecy; v<>u warn'l here al that 
 time, Mr-. Davenport, or you would have
 
 MARSTON 
 
 heard it said ; — but come this way, and I'll 
 show you the picture-gallery." 
 
 This gallery, in the time that the monks in- 
 habited the abbey, had been used as the state- 
 room, and was opened only on very solemn 
 and great occasions, when some abbot of im- 
 portance, or traveller of rank, visited the su- 
 perior of the monastery. 
 
 Much magnificence had been displayed, ac- 
 cording to the taste of the age when it was 
 constructed, in its decorations; and fretted 
 wood-work, of Gothic design, ornamented the 
 upper pari of the walls. The ceiling was also 
 carved and embellished in the same style. The 
 casements, in deep recesses, were of very larg< 
 dimensions; and the small panes of gloss, Hi 
 ted into tin frame-work, still subsisted in pri- 
 mitive integrity. Rude and unskilful paintings 
 ornamented these deep reres>es ; Imt their an- 
 tiquity had l; i \ cm them ;» sorl of merit, whirl,
 
 196 MAB8TON. 
 
 had obtained for them the permission of re- 
 maining untouched. 
 
 Three large fire-places, at some distance from 
 each other, warmed this gallery. They also 
 formed deep recesses, of the same dimensions 
 as the windows; and so large, that several 
 persons could sit inside of them on either side, 
 without experiencing inconvenient heat from 
 the fires. Rich carvings, of dark-coloured 
 wood, ornamented the fronts of these chim- 
 neys ; along the walls, on either side between 
 the recesses of the windows and fire-places, 
 were ranged the portraits of the different 
 owners of the abbey, rudely or skilfully limned, 
 according to the epoch at which they were 
 painted. 
 
 It was in this gallery that Joseph was always 
 most eloquent in his account, which he never 
 curtailed, of the family he served. Here the 
 pride of ancestry s £ med almost to extend it-
 
 MARSTON. H)7 
 
 self to him : he felt as vain of the heroes who 
 had, from time to time, added lustre to the 
 genealogical tree, as though his own blood 
 was derived from them. 
 
 He would make his auditors pause with re- 
 verence before the portrait of the first founder 
 of the abbey, a descendant of a Norman baron, 
 who came over to England with William the 
 Conqueror; although nothing was to be re- 
 marked beyond a very black, indistinct paint- 
 ing of an old man, with a long beard. Two 
 or three dozen abbots, ranged side by side, in 
 succession after him, equally received his ho- 
 mage. His very voice was adapted to the so- 
 lemnity of his manner : he spoke slowly and 
 distinctly; and a pause of more than usual 
 length invariably marked the importance of ;i 
 warrior, clad in armour, with a terrible frown- 
 ing aspect, occupying a space alone, in the 
 centre of tin- gallery.
 
 lf)8 HAB8TON 
 
 Sir Hildcbrand Marston was a peculiar fa- 
 vourite with Joseph: it was through him thai 
 the abbey had descended in direct line to hie 
 master ; and he had been a warrior and a hero. 
 Knighted on the field of battle of Marston 
 Moor by Prince Rupert, at an early hour of 
 the day, while fortune smiled on the Royalist 
 party, and that valorous deeds seemed to pro- 
 mise success to their cause, — Sir Hildcbrand . 
 nephew to the reigning abbot of Marston, had, 
 with his followers, a body of stout-hearted 
 peasants, repulsed various attacks of the Pres- 
 byterian forces on the abbey, and had sprang 
 to the rescue of Prince Rupert, when he had 
 suddenly been surrounded by the enemy, in a 
 charge of their cavalry, his horse having been 
 killed under him. Sir Hildebrand dismounted, 
 and gave his own charger to the prince, dealing - 
 at the same time, such stalwart blows to the 
 right and left as opened a passage for him,
 
 MARSTON. i <M ) 
 
 and secured his own safety. The prince 
 knighted him on the spot. 
 
 The monastery having been abandoned by 
 the monks, and their abbot murdered, Sir 
 Hildebrand took possession of the abbey, as 
 being the lineal heir ; and from that time it 
 had ceased to be an ecclesiastical establishment. 
 
 " Pray, Mr. Joseph," said Mrs. Davenport, 
 who had listened to him with apparent atten- 
 tion, while her eye had wandered to other 
 pictures, which seemed to promise more in- 
 terest to her. " Pray, whose picture is that 
 young man's, by the side of the chimney, 
 dressed in a curious fashion ; he has a very 
 pretty face, and seems to be quite young?" 
 
 " What the one four off from Sir Hilde- 
 brand, where there are all sorts of things in 
 the picture, — a priest tied to a stake at a <!i^ 
 lance, and a young woman doing penance I
 
 200 MARSTOK 
 
 " Yes, that is the one I mean ; then 1 must 
 be some curious history belonging- to it." 
 
 " Indeed there is; and if you have a mind 
 to know it I can tell it to you ; for I have heard 
 my master tell my lady — poor soul, now dead 
 and gone ! — the whole story, some time after 
 their marriage. 
 
 "That young man was the youngest son of 
 Mr. Marston's great grandfather ; he was only 
 eighteen years of age when he entered the 
 army, and served with much distinction on 
 the Continent. He was in the Russian army, 
 and rose to a high rank in the service. Upon 
 .one occasion, he had been sent, with a party 
 of troops, to disperse some rioters in a village 
 a few miles from Moscow. As he passed 
 through that town, he saw by accident the 
 daughter of an old Russian prince, who re- 
 sided on his estate, with much splendour and
 
 MARST0N, 201 
 
 dignity, near Moscow. This old prince was a 
 great tyrant, and kept his vassals in great awe 
 of him : he had numbers of villages surround- 
 ing his estates, and many hundred slaves who 
 
 peopled them. 
 
 " His time was almost entirely spent in 
 hunting the wild boar, an amusement he was 
 very fond of; and he never saw any company. 
 It was very seldom that he went to Moscow ; 
 but it so chanced that business had occasioned 
 his going there, and taking his daughter along 
 with him, at the same time that young Mr. 
 Marston was sent there with his troops. The 
 young man saw the prince's daughter, as she 
 descended from a sort of covered cart, the only 
 conveyance in that country, I have heard mas- 
 ter say, for the great and rich, on account of 
 the rough and bad roads. The young officer 
 became suddenly enamoured of her; and not 
 knowing how to be further acquainted with
 
 202 MABSTON. 
 
 her, and being a high-Bpirited character, In- 
 ventured on a plan, fraught with much dang 
 He ascertained that in the prince's establish- 
 ment the major-domo, or chamberlain, had 
 lately died, and had not as yet been replaced. 
 He disguised himself, and went to the old 
 chief's castle, and offered himself to be hie 
 chamberlain. His manners pleased the pri 
 and he was accepted. He thus saw the young 
 lady constantly, and had many opportunities of 
 declaring his passion, which met with a return. 
 They were obliged, however, to be very cau- 
 tious, as discovery might cost the lives of both 
 of them ; and they generally met when the 
 prince was out hunting. 
 
 " On one occasion, the latter announced thai 
 he should be absent at the chace several days - 
 and, as soon as he was gone, the young lady 
 invited her lover to her chamber. Then' was 
 no other entrance to this apartment than ao
 
 MARSTON. i03 
 
 outward stair-case and door. They had not 
 been long together, when, to their terror and 
 confusion, the prince returned, having changed 
 his mind, and given up the chace. 
 
 "They heard the hounds barking, and the 
 bugles sounding, and presently saw through 
 the window the prince ascending the stair-case 
 leading to their room. No time was left for 
 flight or retreat; reflection even was impos- 
 sible ; and no other resource occurred to them 
 than for the young man to conceal himself in 
 a large trunk, in which furs were kept. The 
 prince was in an unusual good humour, and 
 remained with his daughter a considerable 
 time, telling stories, smoking his pipe, and oc- 
 casionally dozing; while his daughter was in 
 an agony of terror, — for he had sat down, i- 
 ill luck would have it, on thai very trunk ! 
 
 " At last, he withdrew ; she hastened imme- 
 diately to the trunk to release her lover; l>m
 
 204 MAR8TON. 
 
 to her horror, db lifting the lid of the case, Bhe 
 
 saw him breathless, motionless, dead ! 
 
 " She fell senseless on the floor. When she 
 recovered from her swoon, the daylight was 
 fast receding ; and her perplexity became ex- 
 treme, how to conceal and bury her unfortunate 
 lover. After some reflection, she determined 
 to confide herself to a slave who had been born 
 on the estate, and to whom she had occasionally 
 shown some kindness. She offered him gold 
 if he would assist her ; and the bribe, glittering 
 before his eyes, decided him to consent to her 
 demand, and furthermore, to promise inviolable 
 secrecy. 
 
 " When all were retired to rest in the castle, 
 he entered her chamber, and taking the lifeless 
 body on his shoulders, carried it down to the 
 river, and threw it in. 
 
 "The possession of gold, to one who had 
 never owned any thins beyond a coarse coal
 
 MARST0N. .><>.", 
 
 and wooden pipe, was too dangerous. He spent 
 it with profusion, in drinking* in the public- 
 houses, till he became in a state bordering on 
 madness. He forgot his promises of secrecy, 
 he forgot the danger to which he exposed his 
 benefactress ; and boasted publicly to his 
 drunken companions, of his mistress's favour 
 and protection ; adding, that she did not dare 
 refuse him any thing he desired her to do. 
 
 "The public-house, to which he mostly re- 
 sorted, and which was situated in a village ad- 
 joining the prince's castle, was held by Jews, 
 who coveted the wealth of which the slave 
 boasted. His vaunting awakened their suspi- 
 cion as to the source from whence he drew it ; 
 and they laid a plan to make him betray fur- 
 ther, by stimulating him with liquors ; hoping, 
 when once in possession of his secret, to become 
 sharers in his riches. 
 
 "They then taunted him, pretending to di9
 
 *2(M) MARSTOK 
 
 believe his assertions, until he offered to lay a 
 wager, that he would invite his young mistress 
 to come and drink a glass of brandy with him 
 in the public-house, and that she would not 
 refuse. His wager was accepted, and a mes- 
 sage conveyed to the castle ; when, to the asto- 
 nishment of the Jews and the peasants assem- 
 bled, in a few minutes, she appeared. 
 
 " She concealed the fears the boor had awa- 
 kened in her mind, and with much grace, as- 
 sured the persons present, that to give pleasure 
 to so faithful a servant as the one who had 
 invited her, she had granted his request, and 
 was ready to pledge him in a glass of brandy 
 She added, that to give a further proof of her 
 kindness and interest for him and his friend-, 
 she would treat all those assembled, including 
 the host. and boste>s to as much brandy as they 
 chose to drink. 
 
 "The calculation she had made was soon
 
 MARSTON. ,>()? 
 
 justified. A short time sufficed to intoxicate 
 them all ; and she withdrew with caution, and 
 concealed herself in the wood near the cabin 
 till the night came on. 
 
 " The cabins of the peasants are built of 
 wood ; their articles of furniture few and 
 clumsy ; neatness or cleanliness is scarcely 
 known ; they hardly use other light than that 
 issuing from the fires in the centre of their huts, 
 round which they sit, and smoke, and drink, 
 and sleep. The public-house, however, being 
 one of general resort, had more attempt at 
 luxury ; and a candle was stuck through the 
 chinks of wood near the small casement, to 
 illuminate the room. 
 
 "When all was hushed in the cabin, and 
 excess of intoxication had rendered them all 
 in a state of insensibility, the lady stole from 
 her retreat, and taking the candle from the
 
 "208 MAR8TON. 
 
 window, set fire to the house, which blazed in 
 a few minutes; and all the inmates were burnt 
 
 to ashes. * 
 
 " A short time after this event, the old prince 
 fell dangerously ill. He sent for a Greek 
 priest, to whom he confessed himself, and died. 
 His daughter was present at his death. The 
 awful scene struck her conscience ; and she was 
 filled with remorse at the recollection of the 
 horrible deed she had done ; so that she asked 
 to confess herself to the same priest, who had 
 received her father's confession. 
 
 " She unburthened her mind to him ; but her 
 narration was of so dreadful a nature, that the 
 priest was horror-struck ; and tin 1 recollection 
 of it weighed on his mind, and affected his 
 spirits. 
 
 " In the night-time, he was heard talking to 
 himself in much agitation. His wife became
 
 MARSTON. 209 
 
 alarmed, and questioned him earnestly as to the 
 cause of his trouble ; but he resisted her impor- 
 tunities. 
 
 " By degrees, she got together different por- 
 tions of the dreadful story, from the broken 
 phrases which escaped him in his agitated sleep ; 
 and she accused and upbraided him as the au- 
 thor of the crimes, by which he was so ter- 
 ribly affected. In short, she succeeded in 
 drawing from him the details, which had been 
 confided to him ; and partaking then all his 
 feelings, urged him to denounce the mur- 
 deress, and declare the whole to the magistrates. 
 This he positively refused her ; the laws againsl 
 betraying a confession being extremely severe, 
 and particularly in the Greek church. 
 
 " His wife, indignant that such crimes should 
 not meet with the severest punishment, ignorant 
 of the consequences of her indiscretion, and 
 urged on by a fatal zeal for justice, then took 
 
 VOL I. J'
 
 2 10 MAKSTON 
 
 the matter into her own hands ; and without 
 
 informing any one of her intentions, went to 
 Moscow and declared all she knew to the 
 magistrates. 
 
 " The young lady's estates were forfeited to 
 government. She was secluded for life ; and 
 the priest was tied to a stake and burnt alive, 
 for having betrayed the sacred secrets of 
 confession." 
 
 " What a frightful story ! " ejaculated Mrs. 
 Davenport; "it makes one's hair to stand on 
 end. How came the picture, which represents 
 it, to be painted 1 " 
 
 " The young man's father," replied Joseph, 
 learned most of the particulars of his son's death , 
 from the British merchants, who happened to 
 be in Moscow at the time of the execution of 
 the Greek priest ; and he caused the picture to 
 be painted, to record the tragical history." 
 
 Joseph continued his account of the various
 
 MARSTON. il I 
 
 portraits of the Marston family, relating many 
 curious anecdotes concerning them ; and was 
 still (so agreeably to himself) engaged, when 
 the sound of horses' hoofs in the avenue, re- 
 quired his presence at the great gates, to unbar 
 them for the unusual event of the entrance of 
 a visiter. This was no other than Dr. Carlton, 
 who, according to a promise he had made to 
 Mrs. Howard, was come to call on Marston, 
 and offer his ministry if required. 
 
 " I think my master is in the park, sir,' 
 said Joseph, after seeking him in the library 
 and chapel ; " his favourite walk is the avenue 
 leading to the moor." 
 
 " Well, then, I will return to Wetherby by 
 that road, and shall probably meet him," said 
 the doctor. 
 
 Joseph observed to him, that the avenue li«' 
 alluded to, only conducted to the moor, from 
 
 p 2
 
 212 MARSTON. 
 
 which there was a foot-path to the village of 
 Netherwood. 
 
 "If you then wish to gain the high-road to 
 Wetherby, you must please to cross the park to 
 Netherwood." 
 
 " I am going home there, sir," said Mrs. 
 Davenport; " if you please, I will show you 
 the way." 
 
 "Oh! good Mrs. Davenport," said little 
 Eleanor, who had heard the offer the latter had 
 made, from the gallery where she still remained, 
 while the fat housekeeper had moved on to 
 make the offer ; " take me with you ; I shall 
 see my dear mamma ; pray, take me." 
 
 The doctor heard little Eleanor's voice, and 
 instantly called out, " Come along, little lady, 
 you shall take the walk with us, not excepting 
 Mrs. Betty, who, I dare say, will not object to 
 such a ramble."
 
 MARSTON. 213 
 
 The party, thus arranged, set off in a few 
 minutes ; the little girl hurrying her nurse to 
 equip her for the walk with fluttering impa- 
 tience.
 
 214 M kRSTOK 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 Hamlet. — " If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague 
 for thy dowry : Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thon 
 shalt not escape calumny." Shakspeare. 
 
 " How are we tortured with the absence of what we covet 
 to possess, when it appears lost to us ! What excursions does 
 the soul make in imagination after it; and how does it turn 
 into itself again, more foolishly fond and dejected at the 
 disappointment! Our grief, instead of having recourse to 
 reason, which might restrain it, searches to find a further 
 nourishment. It calls upon memory, to relate the several 
 passages and circumstances of satisfaction which we formerly 
 enjoyed." Doctor Parnell. 
 
 We must go back in our narrative a few 
 days, to the one on which Mrs. Howard lci'i
 
 MARSTON, 
 
 Nethenvood with Captain Harris and her son. 
 The town of Wetherby was all in commotion, 
 attlie unusual event of a travelling carriage and 
 four passing through it ; and many were the 
 conjectures concerning the travellers. Where 
 they were going! — why they were going! &c. 
 A short mile before arriving at the town, as 
 the carriage drove up to Dr. Carlton's door, 
 and Mrs. Howard alighted, leaving Captain 
 Harris in the carriage, the surmises of some of 
 the inhabitants of the house were not less in 
 number, and infinitely less charitable. 
 
 Mrs. Howard was pale, and agitated, with 
 the various emotions the late events had oc- 
 casioned ; and she desired the servant to re- 
 quest that Dr. Carlton would receive her in 
 his study. There, she told him of Marston's 
 miserable state of health and spirits, withoul 
 acknowledging that she was aware of the
 
 2*16 MARSTON. 
 
 cause ; and she intreated him to watch i 
 the unhappy man, and render him every as- 
 sistance in his power. 
 
 The good doctor solemnly promised to fulfil 
 her wishes to the utmost of his ability ; and 
 zealously offered those services, which his in- 
 terest for Marston would have led him to per- 
 form spontaneously. She then took leave of 
 him, and, as he attended her to the carriage, 
 acquainted him with the object of her present 
 journey. 
 
 The latter part of her communication did 
 not reach the watchful ears of Mrs. Carlton, 
 but the first unhappily did. She also recon- 
 noitred the carriage from the window, and 
 saw, distinctly saw, a stranger in it ! She also 
 heard the doctor pronounce the words Captain 
 Harris, as he bowed into the carriage ; and 
 there was food sufficient for her malevolent
 
 MARSTON. 217 
 
 soul, and ample matter for much gossip and 
 scandal. The following week she arrived at 
 Miss Wilson's door, with a triumphant smile. 
 " Well, my dear Miss Wilson, our neigh- 
 bourhood does not lack incident. Here is our 
 fair neighbour of Netherwood actually gone 
 off, in a coach and four, with Mr. Marston's 
 rival ! She came last week to my house, beg- 
 ging the doctor to take care of her discarded 
 lover, and console him forsooth. It is really 
 abominable of the doctor to countenance such 
 proceedings. You know he does not conde- 
 scend to confide any thing to me ; but happily 
 I have ears; and I am determined he shall 
 not bring shame on my house, by conniving 
 at such flagrant misconduct. My only em- 
 barrassment is how to thwart him, for I know 
 him. He ordered his horses an hour ago, and 
 1 am certain lie is now gone to sec this sinful 
 priest ; nay, he would have been with him ;■
 
 218 MAR8TON. 
 
 full week ago,^ when Mrs. Howard ir*s BO 
 obliging as to select him for this honourable 
 service, if his saddle-horse had not been lame ; 
 for you may well suppose he would not ven- 
 ture to borrow my carriage ; he knew too well 
 I should have refused him. Do council me, 
 Miss Wilson, how to stop the continuation of 
 this scandal." 
 
 " Indeed, I feel for you, my dear madam," 
 replied her worthy confidante, " to have your 
 husband made a tool of by such an artful wo- 
 man ; but really, I always say, there is no folly 
 of which a man is not capable; and, for 
 my part, none of them shall ever have it in 
 their power to pass their tricks on me. 1 bl 
 my stars, I am aware of them : but you are 
 tied and bound, and must needs drag on the 
 chain and load to the last. You ask me ad- 
 vice, which is really very difficult to give. I 
 see but one way to put an end to this iniaim
 
 MARSTON. 219 
 
 and that would be very disagreeable to you. 
 It would be to speak to Mr. Marston, and tell 
 him not to trouble your family with his im- 
 pertinent and disgusting distresses." 
 
 " Indeed, I believe you are right, Miss Wil- 
 son, "there is nothing like plain dealing; 
 and if you will accompany me, for I do not 
 care to encounter the man alone, we will drive 
 to Netherwood, where I understand he resides, 
 and I will settle these scandalous proceedings 
 at once. There is a carriage-road, I believe, 
 as far as the village of Netherwood. We 
 can make our inquiries there, and proceed ac- 
 cordingly." 
 
 " Nothing will be so easy," replied Miss 
 Wilson ; "close to the village, is one of the 
 park-gates opening on the moor ; and we can 
 thus cross the park to the house." 
 
 Every thing being thus settled, the well-
 
 220 MARSTON. 
 
 assorted friends set out upon their charitable 
 visit. 
 
 Marston was still sitting on the same couch, 
 on which he had flung himself on entering the 
 drawing-room at Netherwood. His head had 
 sunk on his breast, his two hands were pressed 
 on his forehead, and his thoughts so intense 
 and abstracted, that he neither heard the ap- 
 proach of horses, nor was aware of the en- 
 trance of Dr. Carlton into the room. 
 
 The doctor, pursuing his walk, accompanied 
 by Eleanor, her nurse, and Mrs. Davenport, 
 had reached the gates of Netherwood-park ; 
 and here the little girl untreated so earnestly to 
 be allowed to go up to the house, and seemed 
 so unhappy at the refusal of a wish, which, 
 after all, was so natural, that he had consented 
 to her request; and she ran on, with the nim- 
 bleness of a rue, till Bhe reached the lawn
 
 MARSTON. 221 
 
 fronting the house ; when near the open win- 
 dow of the drawing-room, she halted for the 
 rest of the party to join her, and then bounded 
 into the room, without looking to the right or 
 left. 
 
 Mrs. Betty, however, caught a glance of 
 Marston's figure, and pulling the child by her 
 frock, made her a sign, and drew her out of 
 the room, before Marston was roused from the 
 deep reverie in which he was plunged. His 
 mind had been a chaos of agitating thoughts : 
 now his crushed heart resigned itself to passive 
 suffering ; and now he chafed with anger at 
 himself, for his rashness, his precipitancy, 
 which had caused all his misery. 
 
 " And she had urged me to delay, and re- 
 flection ; she intreatedme to retard the fatal vow; 
 and I was mad enough not to listen to her!" 
 
 Then suddenly his rage turned towards hi< 
 supposed rival. " Yes, it was evident that she
 
 '22'2 HAK8T01 
 
 encouraged the addressee of that self-sufficient, 
 impertinent coxcomb! Else would she have 
 received him with such warmth: would she 
 have set off with him at a few hours' notice : 
 the taking- her son with her was evidently a 
 mere blind. She had then carried on this in- 
 trigue by letter, since the last visit lie had made, 
 at the time he (Marston) was ill. Oh. it was 
 clear, perfectly clear ; the report of the vil- 
 lagers, which Joseph had repeated to him at 
 that time, was quite correct. Could she b - 
 false, so deceitful ? Could she thus conceal 
 her feelings, and her secret ; and witness his 
 love, his Bufferings, with a cold, indifferent 
 eye! No, no!" he thought again, "she d - 
 not love him ; I injure her by supposing it. 
 That Captain Harris loves her 1 do not doubt : 
 it is very evident : but she does not share hi- 
 passion !" 
 Then again his mini glanced on hi-
 
 MARSTON. 223 
 
 present condition, — the future seemed to be re- 
 flected as in a mirror. It was but momentary ; 
 but he recoiled with terror. "Yes, I have 
 damned myself for her ! My soul is condemned 
 to endless tortures ; while torments, worse 
 than the flames of hell, consume me now." — 
 Satan had grasped his victim ! The fever of 
 his brain hurried him to thoughts of deep 
 and damning guilt. "No; if all is lost of 
 futurity for me, I am a fool to endure further 
 misery. Now at least I will enjoy, if suffering 
 
 awaits me hereafter ! She shall be mine !" 
 
 and then a glare of joy flashed in his 
 
 eyes, and his heart throbbed with anticipated 
 passion and enjoyment. He raised his head, 
 and his eye fell on her picture, which was 
 facing him. " Lovely, adored Louisa; yes, I 
 will strain you to my heart : the ardent fire 
 which consumes me shall pass into thy bosom. 
 Thou shalt calm my madness; thy gentle na-
 
 224 MANSION 
 
 lure shall teach my turbulent one to become 
 like thine ;" and his head sank into its former 
 position. 
 
 It was at this moment that Dr. Carlton en- 
 tered the room, having heard the nurse tell 
 Eleanor that her papa was there, and might 
 not like to be disturbed. He remained a few 
 minutes, contemplating the agitated counte- 
 nance of the unhappy Marston ; and finding 
 that he was so lost in thought, as not to be 
 aware of his presence, coughed once or twice, 
 to draw his attention. Marston started, and 
 looked up ; and the expression of his eyes in- 
 stantly changed from melancholy to a deg 
 of irritation and anger, for which the doctor 
 was little prepared. 
 
 " I am afraid I have disturbed your medi- 
 tations, Mr. Marston," he said, drawing, at the 
 same time, a chair near to the couch on which 
 the former was reclining; ik I have been seek-
 
 MAR9TON. 225 
 
 ing you at the abbey, and chance makes me 
 find you here." 
 
 "It is a happy chance, no doubt," said 
 Marston, ironically ; "a most happy chance 
 for me." 
 
 " You look angry with me, Mr. Marston ; 
 have I been so unfortunate as to offend you 1 " 
 
 " No, sir," replied Marston, endeavouring 
 to recover his composure, " far from it. I am 
 under obligations to you, which the generality 
 of mankind consider great. Had it been ray 
 fate to have known you under other circum- 
 stances than those in which you found me, I 
 should have echoed this opinion with gratitude 
 and fervour. You restored me to life, when 
 I was about to shake off that dreadful burthen ; 
 and life is considered so precious by almost all, 
 that J ought to be bounden to you for ever for 
 this supposed service: yet far. from feeling ij,rat»'- 
 i'ul to you, I could load you with reproaches, bill 
 
 VOL. I. <j
 
 '2'2() mahsTon. 
 
 for the good intentions under which you Beted. 
 
 Oh, could I have died then ! Now I cannot 
 
 look to that event as a relief!" 
 
 Dr. Carlton was not of a very tender na- 
 ture ; yet there was so much Buffering in the 
 voice and in the manner of Marston, and 
 something so inexplicable in his last phrase, 
 that he felt a sensation, amounting to tears, 
 which seemed to choke him. 
 
 " It shocks me to witness yourunhappiness ; 
 at the same time, you merit much blame. Why 
 not endeavour to shake off this morbid state of 
 feeling, instead of encouraging it ? Rouse your- 
 self, if but for a moment, to consider your grief, 
 as a stranger would look on it. You love a 
 most deserving, delightful woman, I allow ; 
 but you may not love. Then, surely, you have 
 strength of character sufficient to chace the 
 thought, from you. Turn your mind to some 
 other interest ; endeavour to forget her ; and
 
 MARSTON. 227 
 
 do not undermine your strength, and destroy 
 your peace of mind, in such a useless, wretched 
 manner. Strive to turn your thoughts into an 
 entirely new channel. Since you cannot en- 
 dure the presence of danger, why not fly from 
 it? Why not travel on the continent ? There, 
 nothing would remind you of her ; and the 
 total change of scene might do more for you 
 than all the reasoning in the world." 
 
 Marston listened to him in silence ; and con- 
 tinued looking at him with an earnest stare, 
 when he had ceased speaking. 
 
 The doctor had, indeed, directed his thoughts 
 into another channel ; but not in the manner 
 he had intended. The excited mind of Mars- 
 ton followed up a thought which struck him 
 suddenly ; not towards destroying the one con- 
 stantly occupying him, but in support of it. 
 
 " Yes, if he travelled to Rome to obtain 
 
 from the Pope absolution from bis vows ! " 
 
 q2
 
 228 MARfcTON. 
 
 He stared wildly, while these thoughts tuinul- 
 tuously rushed across his mind, with that rapi- 
 dity, with which, time, space, events, and argu- 
 ments, are crowded into fleeting minutes. At 
 last he said eagerly to the doctor, 
 
 " You are right ; I ought to travel — you are 
 quite right. How did I not think of this I " 
 
 There was a degree of wildness in his man - 
 ner which did not quite satisfy the doctor; 
 and assuming the authoritative tone, with which 
 medical men sometimes treat their patients, he 
 said, 
 
 " Let me feel your pulse, and judge if you are 
 in a state to travel." 
 
 The pulse was throbbing with great violence. 
 
 " Let me advise you to return home for die 
 moment," he said ; " we will walk together, if 
 you please, and we can mature these plans on 
 our way." 
 
 Marston allowed himself to be conducted In
 
 MARSTON. 229 
 
 the doctor, who desired his groom to follow 
 him with his horses to the abbey ; and proceeded 
 slowly with his charge, who, he began to fear, 
 was beyond his control. 
 
 " Your advice is most excellent, doctor, and 
 I will follow it forthwith." 
 
 " The doctor, who was not acquainted with 
 his motives for approving of his counsel, thought 
 that it was with a view of endeavouring to con- 
 quer his fatal passion ; and began to anticipate 
 vain hopes of seeing him one day restored to 
 tranquillity. 
 
 " I am much pleased to find you intend to 
 adopt it, and I hope you will instantly occupy 
 yourself with the necessary preparations for a 
 long journey. What countries do you feel 
 disposed to visit ? " 
 
 " Countries! " said Marston, seemingly asto- 
 nished; " why there is only one Pope that I am 
 aware of, and he resides at Rome."
 
 230 MABSTOK. 
 
 The poor doctor began to be alarmed, and in 
 his turn stared at his patient ; but saw no signs 
 of increase of agitation, beyond what he had 
 already witnessed ; and after a pause, he said ; — 
 
 " Oh ! you would wish to go to Rome ! true, 
 it is the classic city, and replete with interest. 
 The churches and public edifices will be objects 
 of the greatest possible interest to you." 
 
 " I shall not go near one, if I can help it," 
 said Marston, passionately. 
 
 "Indeed!" said the doctor, again at fault. 
 "The arts and sciences will then be your pur- 
 suit ? " 
 
 "Doctor," said Marston, "either you are 
 bantering me, which, allow me to say, is very 
 ill-timed mirth, or you do not understand me, 
 which seems to me to be impossible." 
 
 The doctor began to look very grave, as he 
 answered ; 
 
 " I have never been considered u banterer.
 
 MARSTON. 231 
 
 Mr. Marston ; and the interest I have taken in 
 your sorrows, should have shielded me from 
 such an accusation. I give you my word, I do 
 not now understand you. I thought you had 
 been disposed to adopt an idea I had ventured 
 to suggest to you, — that of travelling on the 
 continent, by way of relieving your harassed 
 spirits; but, I suppose, I am mistaken." 
 
 " Not in the least, sir, not in the least. I 
 thank you sincerely for all your kind interest, 
 and approve so much of your advice, that it is 
 my intention instantly to follow it ; and if I can 
 obtain the consent of the Holy See, shall per- 
 haps live to bless you for your very wise counsel 
 and friendship." 
 
 He said this with much warmth and affection, 
 which diminished, in a degree, the alarm the 
 doctor was disposed to feel ; for he was con- 
 vinced his sorrows had driven him mad, and
 
 1.Y2 M \IOTON . 
 
 was anxious to see him safely housed in the 
 abbey. 
 
 " I do indeed trust, that a year or two passed 
 in foreign countries, may be of essential ser- 
 vice to your spirits ; and I shall be rejoiced to 
 learn, that you have commenced your pilgri- 
 mage." 
 
 " Yes, it shall be a pilgrimage ; but I trust 
 not one of two years' lasting," said Marston, 
 cheeringly. 
 
 " I am glad to hear you say, that less time 
 will suffice to eradicate this unhappy passion 
 from your heart." 
 
 "Eradicate!" shouted Marston; you have 
 but a very weak opinion of my sentiment-, if 
 you conclude, that the attainment of my ardent 
 wishes will be the eradication of them." 
 
 It was in vain that the doctor endeavoured 
 to steer clear; he was only more and more
 
 MARSTON. 233 
 
 convinced of the unhappy state of his friend's 
 mind ; and was much perplexed how to answer 
 him in a satisfactory manner. They walked 
 on some minutes in silence, which was at last 
 broken by Marston's saying, 
 
 " Examples are not wanting of the Pope's 
 concession in such cases." 
 
 " Certainly not," replied the doctor. 
 
 "All would then be happily settled, for 1 
 should no longer struggle against my con- 
 science." 
 
 " Most true," said the doctor. 
 
 " I cannot for a moment suppose that she 
 would refuse her consent ? " 
 
 " Oh, by no means." 
 
 "Oh, doctor! I shall again know happi- 
 ness, after such long misery ; and all owing to 
 your kindness and advice." 
 
 "Itwill make me very happy to find it bo.'
 
 234 
 
 MAR8T0N 
 
 " Will you be my advocate with her dung 
 
 my absence ? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " I may count on your friendship to dispose 
 her to listen to me?" 
 
 " You may depend upon me." 
 
 "Then I shall wait her return, and obtain 
 her consent, previous to setting off. When 
 will she return ? " 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "Tell me truly, doctor; what has been the 
 motive of her journey 1 " 
 
 " Whose? " said his companion. 
 
 "Whose! why Mrs. Howard's, to begun?" 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 Just then they reached the gate of the park 
 opening on the moor, and the doctor started 
 slightly on seeing Mrs. Carlton and Mi>< Wil- 
 son, who had alighted from their carriage, and
 
 MAItSTON. 235 
 
 were in deep conversation with Mrs. Betty, ac- 
 companied by Eleanor. The former, when she 
 had withdrawn the little girl from the drawing- 
 room window, on perceiving Marston, whom 
 she greatly feared, had proceeded to Mrs. Da- 
 venport's room, '"to rest a bit," as she said ; 
 but in truth, to indulge in a little gossip, pre- 
 viously to returning to her dull residence. 
 Mrs. Betty had formerly lived with Mrs. Carl- 
 ton as housemaid, and was consequently well 
 known to that lady. When the gossip in the 
 housekeeper's room was ended, the nurse and 
 Eleanor proceeded on their return to the abbey, 
 and were just at the park gate, as the two amia- 
 ble ladies arrived. 
 
 " Did I not tell you, Miss Wilson, that Mr. 
 Marston resided here ? See, there is his daugh- 
 ter taking a walk with her nurse. I know the 
 young woman ; she was formerly a servant of
 
 •I'M MAHSTliN. 
 
 mine. Suppose we stop her, and question her 
 
 a little." 
 
 This was quite convenient ; so the ladies 
 quitted the carriage, and beckoned Mrs. Betty 
 to draw near. 
 
 " So, Betty, you are nurse to Mr. Marston's 
 daughter, I suppose ? " How long have you 
 been in his family ? " 
 
 " Only a few days, ma'am," said Mrs. Betty ; 
 " I have been with Mrs. Howard, taking care 
 of Miss Eleanor, five years ; but it is only 
 within a few days we have removed to Marston 
 Abbey." 
 
 The two old ladies exchanged very significant 
 glances. 
 
 "What! I suppose, since Mrs. Howards 
 elopement with her new admirer I " 
 
 "Ma'am!" said Mrs. Betty, a little ast.>- 
 nished.
 
 MARSTON. 237 
 
 " I said, I suppose since Mrs. Howard went 
 off with a navy captain. Are you deaf, young 
 woman ? " 
 
 " I believe, ma'am," said Betty, " mistress 
 is gone to take young master to his ship with 
 Captain Harris, who is going to take him to sea."' 
 
 " I dare say they said so, my good girl," said 
 Miss Wilson, bridling and smiling. " Always 
 make a good story out, when you do as you 
 shouldn't do." 
 
 " It is really terrible," said Mrs. Carlton, 
 turning to Miss Wilson, " that such examples 
 of the frailty of our sex should be brought into 
 our neighbourhood." 
 
 " But why," replied Miss Wilson, "should 
 she have taken the trouble of going off? That, 
 I confess, I cannot understand. For she had 
 no husband to control her actions, and slio 
 might surely have stayed at home and followed 
 her fancies."
 
 238 MARSTON. 
 
 "You forget that she had another foyer 
 before, and it was to get rid of him that she 
 
 went oft" with Captain 1 don't know what 
 
 they call him. I know all this for certain, for 
 she called at my house, and told Dr. Carlton 
 the whole story, and even begged of him to go 
 and see Mr. Marston, and bring him by degrees 
 to be reconciled to her loss. Now you will 
 allow, my dear madam, that this is very har- 
 dened conduct ; and that it is putting Dr. Carl- 
 ton to very dishonourable work, and indeed, 
 what I can neither approve nor allow. I 
 heard him promise Mrs. Howard, that he 
 would take a circuitous manner of beginning, 
 in order that Mr. Marston might not suspecl 
 him. I really feel for Mr. Marston in all this; 
 for she has used him cruelly. And yet, I can 
 by no means approve of his conduct, for it i- 
 quite infamous. A priest ! a holy man ! fie, 
 fie!"
 
 MARSTON. 2:V.) 
 
 Mrs Betty, for whom all this was spoken, 
 (as Mrs. Carlton often made use of such hum- 
 ble means, for conveying an indirect message, 
 or spreading a malicious tale,) began to be much 
 confused. She had always considered Mrs. 
 Howard as a pattern of virtue and goodness, 
 and it was not in a minute that she could adopt 
 convictions of a totally opposite nature ; yet 
 she felt it was true, Mrs. Howard was gone 
 with Captain Harris and her son ; that she 
 and her little charge had been removed quite 
 suddenly and inexplicably from what they con- 
 sidered their home ; and she recollected the 
 embarrassed look of the two, which she had 
 witnessed the day when Marston returned to 
 the abbey. She remembered too, how angry 
 and terrible he had looked, on his way to his 
 own home; and the fierce tone of his voice 
 and manner, when he told her that she was to 
 remain at the abbey, and not return to Nether-
 
 •240 MARSTON. 
 
 wood any more. She also thought on a re- 
 mark of Joseph's " that there must have been a 
 rumpus or snmmut, for master to be so strange ; " 
 and all this passed through her mind with ra- 
 pidity, whilst the old ladies went on talking to 
 each other. 
 
 " Poor little girl " said Mrs. Carlton, affec- 
 ting sensibility, as she looked at Eleanor, "it 
 is a sad thing to have such a father, and be Bur- 
 rounded by such people." 
 
 It was just then that Dr. Carlton and Mars- 
 ton issued forth from the gates, and came full 
 in front of the two ladies. 
 
 The doctor would have receded, had he been 
 in time ; for he felt that his better half would 
 find food for gossip in so trifling au incident as 
 his being seen walking in Netherwood park 
 with Mr. Marston. Little did he know of how 
 much gossip he had been the innocent cause. 
 
 Marston, who knew neither of the ladies by
 
 MARSTON. 241 
 
 sight, and was entirely engrossed with the new 
 plan which he had formed, came up to them, 
 and would have passed them, without further 
 notice than a slight bow, but for the shrill 
 voice which addressed his companion, and 
 grated on his ear with unpleasant discordance. 
 " So here you are," said Mrs. Carlton to the 
 doctor, without noticing Marston, or returning 
 his salutation ; "I thought you knew that 
 Mrs. Howard was gone away : surely you 
 can't have forgotten it; for she came to see 
 you on her way, accompanied by her fine gal- 
 lant. I assure you, if you have so short a 
 memory, you have only to walk through We- 
 therby, where every body is talking of the 
 elopement, and the tender looks the loving 
 couple gave each other, as they drove side by 
 side, as though they were already man and 
 wife, which, for the sake of morals, I hope 
 they will soon be." 
 
 VOL I. R
 
 242 MARSTON. 
 
 " Certainly, I ought to say amen to your 
 pious hope," said the doctor, " wishing, as I 
 do, Mrs. Howard all the happiness she de- 
 serves. I, in particular, ought to desire her to 
 re-enter the matrimonial state, from the expe- 
 rience I have of its blessedness." 
 
 "Of course," retorted Mrs. Carlton, "you 
 will recommend her to select for her husband 
 a man with little fortune, that he may enjoy 
 hers, and treat her as some people I know treat 
 their wives." 
 
 " Pray," said Miss Wilson, primming, but 
 speaking, as she began to fear an explosion of 
 her friend's choler ; " pray, ma'am, is this 
 lady going to be married, did you say ?" 
 
 " Oh, ma'am, lam not sufficiently acquainted 
 with her secrets to be able to answer you that 
 question. You should ask my husband, who 
 is frequently closeted with her ; she never 
 condescends to come and see me ; she is fonder
 
 MARSTON. 24$ 
 
 of tfye society of men than of women, not ex- 
 cepting men of holy calling, if report says 
 true, which you will allow speaks in favour of 
 her morals ; though, from all I hear, one can- 
 not commend her as much for her constancy." 
 
 " Woman," said Marston, trembling from 
 anger and conflicting emotions, "how dare 
 you slander innocence and virtue? How dare 
 you even breathe a name, fit only to be pro- 
 nounced by lips as pure as her own." 
 
 "What?" said the vixen sneering. "Are 
 you her champion ? Will you chant her praise 
 for virtue, without practising it yourself? Do 
 you suppose I don't know you, Mr. Marston, 
 and all the country round, for twenty miles ? 
 I came on purpose to see you, and, now that I 
 have found you, shall tell you my mind. Be 
 so good as to leave off enveigling that man 
 (pointing to her husband), who used to be an 
 honourable one, to listen to your scandalous 
 
 H 2
 
 244 MARBTON. 
 
 amours, — thus making him a partner in your 
 infamous conduct, — or I will expose you both 
 to the whole county as you deserve." 
 
 " Come along," said the doctor, pulling 
 Marston forcibly away, while his voice trem- 
 bled with concentrated passion, which he felt 
 very much disposed to wreak on his odious 
 wife. "Come along; the day would not be 
 long enough, were we to listen to the scandal 
 and impertinence of Mrs. Carlton. Let her 
 take care of her own reputation ; I promise 
 you, she has made herself one which I should 
 be very sorry to share ! " 
 
 "Ah!" said the poor Benedict, when they 
 had moved on a few paces in silence, "women 
 contrive to make one wretched, in more ways 
 than one. When they are amiable and lovely, 
 they make us sigh for them ; when they are like 
 my dame, they make us regret ever to have 
 known them ; I believe 1 , fair or ugly, good or
 
 MARSTON. 24.') 
 
 bad, virtuous or frail, they are Satan's own 
 creatures on earth. 
 
 " And therefore draw one to perdition," said 
 Marston. 
 
 " Aye, truly, nine times in ten !" 
 
 " My mistress desires me to say, sir," said 
 the servant, who had been standing near the 
 carriage all the time, and was now sent run- 
 ning after the doctor; " my mistress desires 
 me to say (grinning as he spoke) that it 
 is getting late, and that she is returning home ; 
 and that you will be too late, if you don't come 
 too, as there is company to dinner." 
 
 The doctor muttered something like an oath, 
 from vexation ; and looking more apologies 
 than he ventured to express, for quitting his 
 friend so abruptly, parted with him, promising 
 to return next day, and talk over the new 
 scheme. 
 
 Marston motioned an adieu to the doctor;
 
 246 .MARSTOV 
 
 and walked rapidly on towards the abbey. — 
 Wretched man ! it was in vain he sought relief 
 by locomotion ; he carried with him the fire 
 which consumed his brain, and tortured his 
 soul. 
 
 Mrs. Betty returned to the abbey with Elea- 
 nor, soon after the arrival of Marston: it was 
 getting late, as Mrs. Carlton had observed, 
 and the little girl's supper was hurried and 
 over sooner than usual, her attendant being 
 very impatient to descend to the pantry, and 
 have a little talk with Mr. Joseph. She felt 
 herself of more importance than usual : she 
 had a budget of news to relate to the old 
 man. 
 
 " There, my dear," she said, putting Eleanor 
 to bed ; " now go to sleep, like a good child, 
 and we'll be up by times to-morrow ;" and she 
 hurried down to the pantry. " So, Mr. Jo- 
 seph, here's strange goings on ! Master gone
 
 MARSTON. 247 
 
 mad for love! and mistress gone off* with a 
 captain." 
 
 " Nonsense, nonsense," grumbled Joseph, 
 4 'who has been stuffing your head with such 
 a pack of stories? Master's neither mad, nor 
 in love either with any body ; he has got other 
 things to think of." 
 
 " That's neither here nor there, Mr. Joseph ; 
 1 knows what I knows, aud its none of our 
 sort as told me. I tell you, master's gone jea- 
 lous-mad! Didn't you mind him, the day as 
 he corned here ; the air with which he spoke. 
 ' Betty,' says he (quite tragedy-like), ' you'll go 
 no more to Netherwood !' — and then he looked 
 just so, and crossed his arms ; and says you to 
 me, just after, ' There's been a rumpus, or I'm 
 mistaken.' Well, there has been a rumpus; 
 and all Wetherby's talking about it. Mistress 
 is to be married to put all straight ; and she's 
 to marry the captain, and then he wo'n't take
 
 248 MABSTOK 
 
 young master to sea ; and so all will be settled - 
 and that's what vexes master so." 
 
 " Now, Mrs. Betty, do you suppose that I 
 shouldn't know all this, if it was true ; arn't I 
 master's old servant; and do you think that 
 had he been in all this trouble, he would not 
 have told me? Besides, master's a Romish 
 priest, and to be in love with any one would 
 be a mortal sin." 
 
 " Then the more shame for him," said 
 Betty, " for I'll never disbelieve what I have 
 been told from such good authority." 
 
 Joseph stoutly defended the honour of his 
 master, although he believed there was some 
 truth in what she said. 
 
 " Now mind me, Mrs. Betty, it's no good to 
 be speaking ill of our master; and you, afore 
 every one, should not spread reports to his pre- 
 judice, for you have always been kindly treated ; 
 so just never speak again of what you ban
 
 MARSTON. 24 9 
 
 been saying, which I don't believe, and nobody 
 else will." 
 
 " That's not so certain," said Mrs. Betty, 
 flouting; " I suppose when you hear the bells 
 ringing at Wetherby, and the bans being pub- 
 lished ; I suppose you'll believe then ; and in- 
 deed I hope that will be very soon, for between 
 you and I, Mr. Joseph, I don't care to serve 
 any one with a bad reputation. It does no 
 good to an honest young woman ; besides, as 
 to being moped as I am here, I'd just as lief 
 be buried : so, when Mrs. Howard is married, 
 I shall seek a sitivation with her ; and master 
 may get a Romish woman to wait on Miss 
 Eleanor, if he likes it." 
 
 " Now hold your tongue, you silly ape, "said 
 Joseph ; " here's master going by, and I'd like 
 to hear you holding such language before him." 
 
 " Would you," said Betty ; but, at the same 
 time, she lowered her voice, and returned to
 
 250 MARSTOff. 
 
 little Eleanor, resolving however to consult 
 some one before she took the important step 
 of giving warning. 
 
 Joseph ruminated on what she had said, and 
 felt something like conviction, the more he re- 
 flected ; and, by the time Marston summoned 
 him to attend in his dressing-room, he had 
 worked himself up to the point of acquainting 
 his master with a portion of his intelligence ; 
 prudently and carefully, however, resolving to 
 suppress all that regarded him personally. 
 Marston furnished him the means of begin- 
 ning, by saying,— 
 
 "Joseph, would you like to travel abroad 
 with me ?" 
 
 The thought instantly struck the old man 
 that his master was quitting the field on pur- 
 pose, and he replied, — 
 
 " Wherever your honour chooses me to go, 
 I will most willingly. Your honour, indeed,
 
 MARSTON. \ld\ 
 
 could do no otherwise than take me along with 
 you, seeing that I have been your servant, boy 
 and man, five-and-thirty years, come Christ- 
 mas. And, as for going abroad, and leaving 
 my friends, why, I may almost say, I have 
 none ; seeing as I've buried 'em all, — and that 
 I've no sweetheart, or woman, to say, * Don't 
 go!' Ah, sir," he added, shaking his head 
 (having, as he thought, arrived most cleverly at 
 the subject he wished to talk upon), " them wo- 
 men are mortal plagues! and so worrits one 
 like, one never knows what they would be 
 after; no, not the best on 'em. There's Mrs. 
 Howard now, as is going to be married, one 
 wouldn't have thoft she would have behaved 
 so, all of a sudden." 
 
 "Behaved! how?" said Marston, with a 
 thundering voice ; " what do you know about 
 the lady, or her behaviour?"
 
 252 KAR8TOH 
 
 " Oh, sir, I only know what every body 
 knows," said Joseph, frightened. 
 
 " And, pray, what may every body knov. 
 said Mars ton, sternly. 
 
 " I can't say as they say any harm of her,*' 
 said Joseph, trembling, " only " 
 
 "Only, well! " 
 
 " Only the bans are published at Wetherby, 
 and the bells will be ringing next Sunday, and 
 the captain as she marries has consented to not 
 taking young master Harry to sea, on account 
 of the marriage, and its been kept very snug- 
 all this time, and '* 
 
 " And, blockhead ! who told you all this I" 
 
 " Its the talk of all the town,"' said Joseph, 
 sullenly. 
 
 " Leave me," said Marston ; and Joseph did 
 not wait to be told twice. 
 
 " It is not possible!" thought Marston ; and
 
 MARSTON. '>■'>'■> 
 
 yet her manner, the day he had seen them to- 
 gether, had displeased and perplexed him. 
 How came it, too, that there should be so much 
 gossip about her ! He had heard it from dif- 
 ferent people. There must be some foundation 
 for this rumour, thus suddenly spread abroad. 
 The more he dwelt on the subject, the more cir- 
 cumstances seemed to confirm the report. This, 
 if true, was indeed a dreadful overthrow of all 
 his hopes, of all his plans. He had been so- 
 lacing himself, since his return home, with the 
 thought of the delight he should experience in 
 declaring his sentiments to her ; and never, 
 for a moment, doubted the reception she would 
 give this declaration. Then he would have set 
 off immediately for Rome ; he was as sure of 
 the pope's consent as of hers : and he had con- 
 tinued his pleasing dream, until it was thus 
 disagreeably disturbed by Joseph.
 
 254 UftRSTOK. 
 
 The following morning Dr. Carlton arrived 
 at an early hour ; and his first inquiries were 
 about his rest, whilst he silently examined the 
 countenance of his patient, which bore an ex- 
 pression of much irritation and unsettledness. 
 The latter instantly asked him, how much 
 truth there might be in his servant's gossip, 
 corroborated as it had been by Mrs. Carlton, 
 adding, " Should this be the case, all my 
 dreams for the future are at an end."' 
 
 " I have heard of no marriage," said the 
 doctor ; " but cannot see, my good friend, how 
 such an event, supposing it was to be, would 
 alter your plans." 
 
 " Most extraordinary reasoning," said Mars- 
 ton, " will you have the goodness to explain 
 your meaning?" 
 
 "It seems to me to be very clear. If you 
 succeed in turning your thoughts into some
 
 MARSTON. 255 
 
 other channel, and shaking off the fatal passion 
 which is destroying you, it will be immaterial 
 to you who she marries." 
 
 " And pray, sir, when did I [intimate the 
 possibility of such an event ? or, rather, is not 
 my intention of submitting my case to the pope, 
 and getting his absolution from my vows, so 
 as to obtain honorably the hand of the person 
 to whom I am devotedly attached, the strong- 
 est proof of the depth and durability of my 
 sentiments'? How then are you for an instant 
 to suppose, I can contemplate with patience 
 the possibility of her being united to another V 
 
 " Now then," said the doctor, after a pause, 
 " I do understand you ; and, I confess, that a 
 less explicit declaration would have still left 
 me in the dark. 
 
 " Now then you approve," said Marston, 
 with alacrity.
 
 20u' MARSTON. 
 
 " Approve," said the doctor, " hem 1 
 
 hardly think that is the word." 
 
 " How!— what?" 
 
 " Our manner of viewing religious subjects 
 is so different, that I believe it would be very 
 difficult for us to meet and agree on any point 
 connected with them. So opposed as I am to 
 the nature of the vows pronounced by the Ca- 
 tholic priesthood, I am equally in opposition to 
 their breaking them when once made. It seems 
 to me, that a contract made with heaven can- 
 not be dissolved on earth ; and I cannot ac- 
 knowledge the existence of any power, short 
 of the Great One with whom you have con- 
 tracted, who could authorize you to break your 
 vows." 
 
 " What, not his representative on earth ?" 
 
 "No! not a self-created representative, con- 
 stitutedby laws of his own making, and vested 
 with powers also self-derived!"
 
 MARSTON. 257 
 
 Here the discussion was open on fair grounds 
 with either party ; and all the beaten argu- 
 ments of controversy might have again been 
 brought forward, but Marston, weary of op- 
 position to that on which he was resolved, 
 broke suddenly off, and proposed a walk to 
 his friend ; avoiding, for the remainder of the 
 time that he stayed with him, conversing on the 
 subject nearest his thoughts. 
 
 Dr. Carlton saw that he was irritated, and 
 therefore humoured him ; and soon after they 
 parted. 
 
 VOL I
 
 258 MABSTON 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 Ghost. " But that I am forbid 
 
 To tell the secrets of my prison-house, 
 
 I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word 
 
 Would harrow up thy soul ; freeze thy young blood ; 
 
 Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres; 
 
 Thy knotted and combined locks to part, 
 
 And each particular hair to stand on end, 
 
 Like quills upon the fretful porcupine : 
 
 But this eternal blazon must not be 
 
 To ears of flesh and blood." Shakspeake. 
 
 Mrs. Howard returned to Netherwood, in 
 six weeks after her departure thence for Graves- 
 end ; and a fortnight passed subsequently with- 
 out any remarkable event occurring. Her days
 
 MARSTON. 259 
 
 were marked by melancholy and monotony. 
 Once or twice she drove to Wetherby to make 
 purchases ; on one of these occasions, she was 
 surprised at Miss Wilson's not returning her 
 salutation, as she passed her on the road en- 
 tering the town, but thought little of the cir- 
 cumstance, supposing that the old lady had 
 not seen her. Upon another occasion, she also 
 met Mrs. Carlton, as she entered Jeremiah 
 Esketh's shop; and that lady hurried out, 
 without returning her curtsey, in so precipi- 
 tate a manner, that she nearly fell in so doing. 
 Mrs. Howard turned and looked after her, a 
 little astonished ; but was so little conscious 
 that it was her presence which occasioned the 
 flurry, that she again supposed accident was 
 the cause of it ; and consequently gave it no 
 further thought. 
 
 The two friends would have been severel] 
 mortified, could they have supposed so little
 
 260 MABSTOK. 
 
 effect had been produced by their malicious 
 rudeness. The good Quaker had been more 
 aware of the affront intended ; and endea- 
 voured, by his attention to his customer, to 
 balance the proportion of civility she ought to 
 have received in his shop. 
 
 " I am sorry to see thee look so pale ! Art 
 thou ailing? And is there ought I can offer 
 thee? Surely, refreshment might do thee 
 good." 
 
 Mrs. Howard thanked him for his kindness, 
 and told him she had been parting with her 
 son, and that she supposed the grief she felt 
 had affected her looks. 
 
 " And, truly, it is enough to do so ; thy son 
 is a comely child, and Sarah hath often spoken 
 to me of him ;" and the good Quaker brushed 
 the chair he offered her, and pulled a mat to 
 place under her feet ; and sought, by many lit- 
 tle attentions, to prove his respect and esteem
 
 MARSTON. 261 
 
 The walks which Mrs. Howard most care- 
 fully avoided were the moor, and the road 
 leading to Marston Abbey. She feared to 
 meet Marston. He, on his side, did not like 
 to enquire of Joseph when she was expected 
 to return, after the conversation he had had 
 with him concerning her ; and he walked al- 
 most daily to the gate of Netherwood-park, in 
 the hope of ascertaining her arrival : but, af- 
 ter two months of suspense had thus passed, 
 his impatience knew no bounds, and he ven- 
 tured through the gates, and, entering the 
 grounds, proceeded to the house. 
 
 The day was mild, the sun was shining with 
 unusual brightness for the season, and Mrs. 
 Howard was sitting at the open window of the 
 drawing-room reading, when Marston ap- 
 proached. His resolution almost failed him 
 when he saw her, and he stood in contempla- 
 tion of her for some minutes.
 
 262 MAKSTON. 
 
 A deep-drawn sigh relieved his !><>-. >m ; and 
 as he drew near to her, she raised her eyes. 
 The moment she dreaded was arrived ; and her 
 colour rose high, as she attempted to look un- 
 embarrassed, and to receive him as formerly. 
 Still there was constraint in her manner. In 
 his, it was every thing by turns — fear, joy, em- 
 barrassment. He said several incoherent 
 words, which she did not answer; but he 
 looked, at the same time, the passion which he 
 felt to the extreme extent of what was possible 
 to be experienced . 
 
 There was such gentleness in his manner, 
 she could not have received him unkindly ; 
 and she began enquiring after his health. He 
 answered, but knew not what he answered : 
 his thoughts were of her, — of how he should 
 begin the subject which was to decide his fu- 
 ture destiny. 
 
 She again endeavoured to assume unconcern
 
 MARSTON. 263 
 
 and spoke of the weather, the wind ; was it a 
 favourable one for the Diamond to get down 
 the channel?" 
 
 " I suppose so," said Marston, who knew 
 nothing about it. 
 
 " I have had a severe trial in parting with 
 
 my poor child but he was cheerful, and 
 
 full of the future. It is a great thing his being 
 with Captain Harris, who will be like a father 
 to him." 
 
 Marston winced a little. 
 
 " Will he remain long at sea?" 
 
 " Ah, perhaps three long years!" 
 
 Marston breathed a little easier. 
 
 " Three years may appear long or short, ac- 
 cording to different circumstances. Three 
 years seem a long space of time to you to be 
 separated from your son ; the same length of 
 lime would be but as a day to me, if hope
 
 264 MARSTON. 
 
 were, at the end of that space, to give me 
 courage and life." 
 
 " We all hope, Mr. Marston ; it is the prin- 
 ciple of life. There is a Persian proverb, 
 which has been translated to me in French ; 
 and which, I think, prettily expresses the sen- 
 timent of Hope : — 
 
 ' Espoir est la fin de desespoir. 
 Apres la nuit la plus noire, 
 Arrive l'aurore d'autant plus brillante.' " 
 
 " I think," said Marston, reproachfully, 
 " this is the first time in our lives that you 
 have called me, Mr. Marston. Am I become 
 a stranger to you, Louisa ? Have I offended 
 you? Oh, if you knew how far I am from 
 intending it, — how much I fear it, — you would 
 not look so severely on me." 
 
 " We are too old friends, for it to be possible 
 that we should be angry with one another," 
 said Mrs. Howard, smiling, (though she felt
 
 MARSTON. 265 
 
 something like what they must feel, who rush 
 on the forlorn hope ;) " and the holy character 
 you bear, would not allow me to dare to be 
 angry with you, were it otherwise. I assure 
 you, I feel too much reverence towards you, to 
 be influenced by any sentiment of anger." 
 
 Marston felt as though a dagger had entered 
 his soul. One word had overthrown his whole 
 fabric of hope . How venture to talk of his love 
 or his plans, while she was in such a mood ! 
 He threw himself on a chair, and took the 
 book, which she had been reading, from her 
 hand, to cover his confusion. 
 
 " What are you reading? " he said ; " ' Le 
 Lepreux de la cite d'Aoste,' (Le Maistre.) 
 It is a very melancholy subject you have selec- 
 ted for your lecture." 
 
 4 ' It is so, but it suits my present temper of 
 mind." 
 
 " Do you then interest yourself in the sor-
 
 266 HAR8TOH 
 
 row- of the unhappy, solitary Lepreux? How 
 beautifully, how truly, has the author described 
 all the sufferings the human heart endures in 
 solitude ! Did you remark the passage relating 
 to the sleepless nights the Lepreux passes ? Le 
 Maistre must have undergone those sufferings 
 to have described them so perfectly. I have 
 read that little book so often, that I could re- 
 peat nearly every line. I love the author for 
 having written so many of my thoughts and 
 feelings; oftentimes he has soothed my aching 
 heart. Tell me ; if there existed a lonely, un- 
 happy man, as miserable in his solitude as the 
 leper of Le Maistre, with only one affliction 
 less than his, would you shun that unhappy 
 man, when your presence, your kindness, your 
 compassion, your intercourse with him, would 
 soothe his sorrows, cheer his heart, and give 
 new life to his desolate existence; when a kind 
 look would spread a glow of happiness o\ er his
 
 MARSTON. "2()7 
 
 whole frame ; when a hand extended to raise 
 the supplicant, whose only wish, only hope, 
 only happiness, depended on that hand, would 
 restore him to peace, would you refuse it to 
 him? Could you precipitate him into the 
 abyss of anguish and despondence, which one 
 word of yours would have power to do 1 Oh 
 no ! your nature is too gentle, too lovely ; you 
 could not refuse a heaven on earth, to one so 
 chased, so tried, so long unhappy. Do not 
 turn your looks aside ; do not motion a nega- 
 tive with your hand ; listen to me, Louisa ; one 
 word of yours destines me to madness, to death, 
 or to life and blessedness ! Nay, listen to me, 
 1 implore you. From childhood until now we 
 have been friends ; you have been more to me, 
 ten thousand times more. From the brink of 
 despair you brought me back to reason ; you 
 solaced me; would you drive me back again
 
 268 MARSTON. 
 
 to the state of wretchedness, from which yon 
 raised me ? Oh ! let me hope that our exist- 
 ences may be linked together. Louisa, my 
 own Louisa, shall I call you so ? " 
 
 Mrs. Howard was distressed beyond mea- 
 sure. A burning flush was diffused over her 
 fair countenance. A feeling of anger against 
 Marston was mixed with pity for him. She 
 did not wish to give him pain, and endeavoured 
 to frame her answer mildly. 
 
 " You quite forget your position, my poor 
 friend ; you overlook the insurmountable bar- 
 rier, which exists between us." 
 
 " No, no, I do not forget it, if that is the 
 only one; if there is no other obstacle to the 
 realization of wishes, prompted by the truest, 
 the most ardent love, I may hope to attain the 
 summit of all earthly happiness. 1 will go to 
 Rome ; 1 will got absolved from vows which I
 
 MARSTON. 2CM 
 
 was mad to pronounce ; which have caused all 
 the struggle and suffering of my soul, and 
 from which lean, thank heaven, be released." 
 
 Mrs. Howard shook her head and again 
 motioned a negative. 
 
 "What does that mean?" he said impati- 
 ently ; "speak ; your silence now tortures me." 
 
 ' ' It is unkind of you, Marston, to put me 
 to such a trial as the present one ; to oblige 
 me to inflict pain on one already so unhappy. 
 But since you urge me to reply, you force me 
 to declare, that that which you propose is im- 
 possible — must be impossible. Renounce all 
 thoughts of it, at least so far as I am concerned. 
 Do you think 1 could enter into an engage- 
 ment at the altar of God, with one perjured in 
 his vows towards him 1 never. Do you think, 
 with the friendship I bear you, which is most 
 true, most sincere, do you think I could, l>y 
 consenting ,to such perjury, link my fate to one
 
 •270 MANSION. 
 
 whom I should have caused to lose the joys oi 
 everlasting life ? never. Do you think that an 
 absolution granted by man, can dissolve en- 
 gagements made with God ? No, no, I do not 
 believe it. I, as a protestant, should not make 
 an engagement to take the veil, and become a 
 nun ; but if I made any other vow to Almighty 
 God, no power on earth could annul that v< m. 
 By breaking it, I should condemn myself to 
 eternal punishment. Believe me, dear Mars- 
 ton ; banish from your breast a hope impossi- 
 ble to realize; let us be friends, but only 
 friends." 
 
 Marston's agitation at this reply, which he 
 had not once contemplated, was extreme. He 
 was mortified, humbled, and even felt resent- 
 ful ; and remained some minutes silent, his 
 eyes cast down, and a bitter smile quivering 
 on his lips. At last he said, 
 
 "May 1 venture to inquire if an interest fbi
 
 MARST0N. 271 
 
 Captain Harris, of a warmer nature than that 
 which you evidently bestow on me, has influ- 
 enced you in this decision 1 " 
 
 Mrs. Howard felt offended, and replied with 
 some severity, that the motives of her reply 
 had been too explicitly avowed, for it to be 
 necessary to seek them elsewhere than in 
 themselves. Marston was too wretched to 
 continue resentful, and he again pleaded : — 
 
 " You view my engagement," he said, " in a 
 different light from that which I even did in 
 making it. True it is, that the vow of celibacy 
 is made towards God, but it is a vow ordained 
 by the Church, and therefore under the autho- 
 rity of the Church to absolve ; else, why is 
 that power vested in the Holy See I It is cruel , 
 oh, most cruel, infinitely more so than you can 
 form any idea of, to be severer towards me 
 than the Church would be. Suffer not your- 
 self to be influenced by Buch opinions. Louisa !
 
 272 MARSTON. 
 
 have pity! do not condemn me to a life of 
 despair ! " 
 
 Mrs. Howard would have given the world 
 for some interruption to relieve her, and break 
 off the subject. The earnest, anxious look of 
 Marston distressed her extremely. At last she 
 said, "J am so little prepared to answer you, 
 Marston, — give me time, I will write to you." 
 
 She rose as she said this from her chair, and 
 moved towards the flight of steps which de- 
 scended to the terrace ; but he caught hold of 
 her hand to detain her, saying, 
 
 " Do not write. I know that if you write, 
 it is my doom you will pronounce. Wherefore 
 write ? If you have any particle of feeling for 
 me, if your heart is not cold as marble, if the 
 most perfect indifference for me does not dictate 
 this reply, you cannot thus quit me, and de- 
 stroy in one moment the hope which I have 
 nourished, and which has prevented my sink-
 
 MARSTON. 273 
 
 ing in despair. Talk with Dr. Carlton ; he 
 knows all I have suffered for your sake. I did 
 not dare let you know it : he has felt for me : 
 let his friendship for us both be my mediator." 
 
 He spoke with hurry and agitation, while she 
 endeavoured to withdraw her hand and retire. 
 At last she said with some anger, 
 
 f ' Allow me to pass, Mr. Marston ; this re- 
 straint is irksome to me. I have no need of 
 the counsel of a friend, when my conviction of 
 what is right prompts my actions or decisions. 
 I have a more earnest desire for your welfare 
 than you give me credit for ; and I must add 
 to my former answer, that independent of the 
 motives which would make me decline an union 
 with you, the difference of our religion alone 
 is an insurmountable obstacle. We have lived 
 a number of years as friends ; let that friend- 
 ship continue pure, warm, sincere, a solace to 
 us both; but never again letusreverl i»» the
 
 274 MARSTOX. 
 
 conversation of this day ; upon that condition 
 only we may continue to see each other ; " and 
 she drew her hand from his, and descended 
 into the park. He followed in silence as far 
 as the lawn, and then darted off in the direction 
 of the moor. 
 
 To turn from the principal to the subordi- 
 nate actors in this, our too true narrative. 
 
 " Mr. Joseph," said Mrs. Betty, with the 
 pert, decided tone of voice, which Abigails well 
 know how to assume, when they intend to 
 offend, " Mr. Joseph, you may tell your mas- 
 ter to seek another nurse for Miss Eleanor ; 
 I'm none of the sort as stays with such as he.*' 
 
 " Such as he, Mrs. Betty, indeed ! I'll not 
 be the bearer of any such message ; and you 
 may e'en do your errand yourself, if you are so 
 minded. But take a bit of advice by the way, 
 and speak a little more civilly, or you may 
 come by worse than you expect."
 
 M AKSTON. 275 
 
 This colloquy occurred a few days after Mars- 
 ton's last interview with Mrs. Howard. Mrs. 
 Betty had walked herself off in the morning 
 to Mrs. Carlton's, to take advice as to what so 
 respectable a young woman, as she considered 
 herself, ought to do ; and had acquired courage 
 and insolence sufficient, by this visit, to form 
 her determination, and to execute it in the 
 manner above described. Joseph's refusal to 
 be the bearer of her message, forced her to 
 delay for that day any further measures, and 
 for ten days following she found it equally im- 
 possible to effect her wishes. 
 
 Marston confined himself entirely to his 
 room, and did not even ask to see his daugh- 
 ter. The poor child pined at the neglect she 
 experienced, and her loneliness even touched 
 the heart of Betty, who could not quit her at 
 such a time after having had the care of her du- 
 ring five years. It was impossible not to feel 
 
 t 2
 
 270 M IVSTOlf. 
 
 affection for the little* girl, who was of a i 
 
 endearing disposition. Joseph avoided Mrs. 
 Betty as much as he did his master, from other 
 causes; and she perceived that something waa 
 wrono* in the house, though she knew not what. 
 The old man appeared uneasy, and was con- 
 stantly going to and fro, from the pantry to 
 Marston's room. Sometimes he would remain 
 listening a long while at the door of his mas- 
 ter's chamber ; then he would withdraw gently, 
 with a little nod of satisfaction, as much as to 
 say, " come, I think he' s asleep." On the last 
 morning, however, of these days, he hurried 
 out as fast as his age would permit, and sent 
 one of the labourers in the park to fetch Dr. 
 Carlton; and as he went out, said to Mrs. 
 Betty, " Keep Miss Eleanor out of master's 
 sight, and watch yourself if anything happens 
 while I am gone ; I will be back directly." 
 Dr. Carlton arrived in three hours; he pro-
 
 MARSTON. 
 
 nounced Marston to be in a state of delirium, 
 recommended darkness and quiet, and having 
 bled him, desired that a woman might be sent 
 for from the village, to nurse him and watch 
 by him with Joseph. 
 
 Marston continued in a state of delirium for 
 several days, Dr. Carlton attending him with 
 the kindest care. The fever then subsided, but 
 was followed by sullenness and silence. A 
 great expression of melancholy was observable 
 if he raised his eyes to any one speaking to 
 him ; but his answers were brief, and unsatis- 
 factory, and the greatest dejection was visible 
 in his whole manner. Dr. Carlton endea- 
 voured in vain to rouse him. lie encouraged 
 him to take gentle exercise, and desired Jo- 
 seph to accompany him in his walks. The old 
 man did as much as his age would permit, but 
 sometimes he was left far behind, as Marston
 
 278 MABfTOH. 
 
 would suddenly stride on at a rate he could 
 not follow. 
 
 It was on their return from one of these ex- 
 cursions, that Mrs. Betty and Eleanor met 
 them, after the lapse of nearly a month without 
 the latter having seen her father. She ran to him 
 and burst into tears. Mars ton seemed affected, 
 and stooping down, looked earnestly at her ; 
 and then embracing her, led her on with him 
 towards the house. Mrs. Betty now thought 
 the moment was propitious for her, and smooth- 
 ing her apron, and mincing her words, she inti- 
 mated her intention of seeking another sltira- 
 tion. Marston stared at her ; and as she told 
 Mrs. Davenport, to whom she repaired in- 
 stantly on quitting Marston Abbey, " he allot" 
 a sudden looked quite terrible like; I w&i 
 frighted out of my wits; and, says he, 'what 
 does the woman say ? ' just for all the world
 
 MARSTON. 279 
 
 like the player as came to Wetherby last year, 
 and played the tragedy ; and, says I, ' woman 
 indeed ! I shan't stay for to be called names, 
 I can tell you ; ' and so I got up my things and 
 came away ; and poor Miss Eleanor, she must 
 be minded by the char-woman, as has been 
 nursing master, for I would not stay, not for 
 nothing ; he's enough to fright one to death." 
 It was at this period of our history that Mrs. 
 Howard at length received a letter from Cap- 
 tain Harris, dated from the Land's-end, en- 
 closing one from little Harry. The captain 
 had, according to a promise he made, sent a 
 boat on shore when he reached that point ; 
 with a few lines, to state that they had pros- 
 pered thus far on their voyage, after having 
 been detained a month in the Downs by con- 
 trary winds. Little Harry's letter ended by 
 begging hia mamma to lake care of his little
 
 *280 M IRSTOK. 
 
 birds in the aviary, and to ki*s sister Eleaaoi 
 
 for him. 
 
 It was one of December's gloomiest days on 
 which Mrs. Howard received this letter. A 
 thick yellow fog, and mist, enveloped all exte- 
 rior objects ; and a cold, raw air combined with 
 the fog to render every thing comfortless and 
 melancholy. The last leaves of autumn fell 
 fast under the destructive power of the season, 
 and strewed the park of Netherwood with 
 their withered remains. No song of birds en- 
 livened the air ; no whistling of labourers an- 
 nounced that industry, and activity, rendered 
 them insensible to the oppressive influence of 
 the season. 
 
 All was cheerless ; and Mrs. Howard's heart 
 sunk within her, at the correspondence of the 
 day and season with her own feelings. How 
 different they were, little more than one \»;h
 
 MARSTON. '281 
 
 before ! Then she had her dear boy with her ; 
 little Eleanor also; and she had a friend, in 
 whom she could confide almost as mistrustingly 
 as in a female companion. Then her days suc- 
 ceeded each other, without any event of sad 
 import to mark their date, or remind her that 
 existence was a state of trial and suffering. 
 
 Her life might have been compared to a 
 smooth rivulet, gliding gently along through 
 flow r ery meadows ; neither troubled by the 
 rushing of waterfalls, nor the obstacles which 
 rocky soils present. Time insensibly advanced 
 in its march ; and although those accustomed 
 to the excitement of an active life, filled 
 with events, would have considered so peace- 
 ful an existence as monotonous, and void of 
 incident, she was in the happiest state the 
 doom of life allows of: and she had the good 
 sense l<> know and appreciate it. 
 
 Now how differently she was situated ! Hei
 
 282 MAKSTON. 
 
 son, the idol of her existence, almost torn 
 from her, and already on the ocean, to be ex- 
 posed to all its dangers, and to be removed 
 from her to the other end of the globe: she 
 no longer near him, to watch over him in ill- 
 ness, to comfort him in his early sorrow, to 
 enjoy his youthful gaiety. Little Eleanor was 
 withdrawn from her, and she had become at- 
 tached to her as to a daughter ; and the friend 
 of her childhood, and maturer years, was one 
 she must no longer see, though she knew him 
 to be unhappy , and this through her ! Her repu- 
 tation injured by malevolence ! Alone, — no one 
 to whom she could communicate her feelifl 
 
 Netherwood was suddenly become a prison 
 to her. She turned her thoughts towards Ire- 
 land — towards the home of her family. Her 
 mother still existed ; she was aged, morose, and 
 severe; still she was her mother ; and with hei 
 shewould no! be so lonely as she now found her-
 
 MARSTON. 283 
 
 self. Her sad thoughts oppressed her ; and with 
 restless agitation she took the letter she had 
 just received with her, and, notwithstanding 
 the weather, proceeded to the green-house. 
 This green-house was her favourite resort, and 
 had by degrees become the daily object of her 
 walks. Here she was certain to meet with no 
 interruption. It was removed from every path, 
 or communication, with the village ; and 
 neither servants nor peasants had occasion to 
 pass by, or intrude on her solitude or reveries . 
 There was a small door at the back of the 
 building, which opened on the extensive moor ; 
 but it was only used by the gardener for the 
 purpose of throwing out weeds and rubbish ; 
 and he generally kept the key of this entry 
 into the grounds. 
 
 In the winter season Marston Moor pre- 
 sented a barren and gloomy aspect, more so 
 even than waste lands in general disclose
 
 '284 M LRST0N. 
 
 owing to a large portion of it having been dug 
 into gravel-pits ; which thus displayed a series 
 of large barren excavations. Here and there 
 were spaces covered only by the brown turf, 
 cut up by the peasants to make peat for their 
 fires. In other parts, the eye was a little re- 
 lieved by patches of broom and heather ; but 
 these were now cheerless, and added melan- 
 choly to the scene, from the withered hue with 
 which approaching winter had clothed them. 
 The largest of these excavations, being a stone 
 quarry, lay not far from the road which led 
 from the village of Netherwood to the abbey. 
 The moor had acquired, by these stone and 
 gravel-pits, a fearful reputation. They were 
 said to be places of concealment for robbers ; 
 and the peasantry avoided crossing near them 
 after sun-set; various tales of murder and 
 horror being told by the villagers, as having 
 occurred there, when assembled on wintry-
 
 MAKSTON, 
 
 nights round their turf fires, — whilst the snow 
 would fall thick upon their thatched- roof cot- 
 tages, and the wind howl dismally, shaking 
 their feebly-constructed casements. 
 
 Even old Joseph, who had lived at the ab- 
 bey five-and-thirty years, without hearing of 
 any actual robbery or murder happening in 
 those parts, had adopted the prejudices of the 
 country on the subject ; and would take a 
 long circuitous route home, when returning 
 from Netherwood, rather than pass that awful 
 spot. 
 
 It was from the same principle that the gar- 
 dener at Netherwood carefully kept the door 
 of the green-house, which opened on the moor, 
 locked, bolted, and barred ; but at the moment 
 Mrs. Howard entered there he was engaged in 
 flinging out rubbish, and it was consequently 
 open . 
 
 Little Harry's aviary was situated in this
 
 286 MAUSTOX. 
 
 green-house ; he had been very fond of it ; 
 since his departure the care of it had devolved 
 on the gardener, until Mrs. Howard's return 
 home, when she constantly attended to it her- 
 self, for her little boy's sake. The recommen- 
 dation, contained in his letter, induced her to 
 return to see if all was well with the little fea- 
 thered inmates ; and she remained there a 
 long while, dwelling on recollections now 
 mingled with pain ; remembering various mo- 
 ments of great interest, as connected with her 
 son's birth, and her husband's subsequent 
 death, — and her heart found relief in the tears 
 which she shed. A parent's love for a child i- 
 so pure, so warm, so disinterested, and yet bo 
 feebly requited. The affection of a child for a 
 parent, in its strongest degree, does not amount 
 to a hundredth part of that which a parent 
 feels for a child; and it is not until the child 
 becomes a parent thai he is aware o\^ this.
 
 MARSTON. 287 
 
 " There is a philosophical reasoning, which 
 accounts for this ; and I will explain it entirely 
 to your satisfaction," said the learned Dr. 
 Murphy to Mrs. Murphy, who sat hy her fire- 
 side, repining at the indifference of her son to 
 her. " The nature of man, from his infancy 
 to his manhood, and thence to his decrepitude, 
 is to lean towards those who are needful to 
 him, in the same manner as he would lean on 
 the staff which supports his steps. Thus, in 
 infancy our children feel their helplessness, 
 and cling to us for support and assistance ; and 
 to that feebleness are joined their affection and 
 attachment. But when they have acquired 
 the force and power, both morally and phy- 
 sically, which enables them no longer to re- 
 quire our aid, but rather to bestow it on others, 
 then the affections take a lighter shade of co- 
 louring, and gradually diminish in intensity as 
 the age advances ; thereby preparing the heart,
 
 288 MARSTON. 
 
 by degrees, for that separation which the law 
 of nature imposes finally upon us all. It is 
 very rarely that you can witness the same 
 warmth of attachment existing hetween child- 
 ren and their parents, at a very advanced stage 
 of life, as at an earlier period of their ex- 
 istence. It is when the sentiment of strong 
 affection commences to diminish towards our 
 progenitors, that it is conveyed full of hope to 
 the rising generation ; at the very . epoch 
 that the ambitious propensities of man dis- 
 cover themselves. Then he attaches himself 
 to rising powers, and leans towards them for 
 another kind of support. Then it is that he 
 courts the sons of kings and great men ; for 
 remark, Mrs. Murphy, it is rather those, than 
 the kings and great men themselves, who art- 
 surrounded by the large mass of courtiers. It 
 should seem natural rather to adulate and 
 court those in power, than those in expectancy
 
 MARST0N. 289 
 
 of power ; but, no — the same principle uncon- 
 sciously guides them. The rising sun throws 
 out warmer rays than the setting ; and the 
 rising sun, in expectancy of power, is in the 
 position of the young man, just in the ascen- 
 dant, shaking off his younger feelings, and 
 becoming protector instead of protected." 
 
 " And is it that you'll be proving me, doc- 
 tor," said the impatient Mrs. Murphy ; " and 
 you'll be convincing me, that my son is an as- 
 cendant, as you call him, whereas all the world 
 will be proving you that he is my descendant. 
 It's just all blarney! and I'll not be reasoned 
 out of common sense. I am his mother, and 
 made him ; and he shall obey, love, and ho- 
 nour me." 
 
 " As for love, honour, and obey, I have 
 
 been just explaining to you, Mrs. Murphy, 
 
 that your son is coming of an age when you 
 
 cannot expect the same degree of those sen- 
 
 vol. i. u
 
 •2!)0 MABSTON 
 
 timents as when lie was younger. And a- I 
 your having made him, that is a clear mistake ! 
 And if you listened with more suitable at tril- 
 lion to my discourses, on various matters, you 
 would not make phrases which are altogether 
 nonsense, but would improve your mind and 
 conversation." 
 
 Dr. Murphy had many more excellent thmgs 
 still in store to urge, as consolation to Mrs. 
 Murphy ; but we must return to our history. 
 
 The day passed cheerlessly at Netherwood. 
 The servants, who were all attached to their 
 mistress, were aware of her melancholy, and 
 felt for her ; the gloom which hung around 
 her pervaded the whole house ; the domestics 
 were dismal themselves. The dull darkness, 
 and damp cold of the atmosphere, made them 
 shudder, as tiny went about on their several 
 duties. 
 
 The day-light began to decline, and then the
 
 MARST0N. '291 
 
 house assumed rather a more cheerful aspect, 
 from the bright blaze of the fires in the se- 
 veral apartments ; but even this had a com- 
 fortless appearance, as lights were not brought 
 into the rooms Mrs. Howard inhabited, since 
 she had not returned home. The shutters 
 were not closed, as the servants did not know 
 whether she would enter the house by the 
 drawing-room window, or the hall door. 
 
 By degrees, the flames from the fires sub- 
 sided, sending up only at intervals a flickering 
 faint light ; while the mizzling shower, which 
 had fallen latterly, now beat against the win- 
 dows in torrents of heavy rain. 
 
 The servants ran out, in various directions, 
 with umbrellas to meet their mistress. The 
 gardener stated, that he had seen her enter the 
 green-house at an early hour of the day, but 
 that, on his returning to lock the door two 
 hours after, slu.- was no longer there. Thej 
 
 . 2
 
 292 MAKSTON. 
 
 sought for her in all the various walks of the 
 shrubbery and park, and even went as far li- 
 the village ; but their search was all in vain, 
 and they returned, after some time, with 
 the perplexing news that no trace could be 
 found of her. 
 
 The night was by this time far advanced, 
 and was extremely dark. Those who were 
 seeking could no longer distinguish each 
 other, and shouted loud, and called, in the 
 hopes of a returning answer, — but none greeted 
 their anxious ears. 
 
 Mrs. Davenport suggested the possibility of 
 her being gone to Marston Abbey ; and she 
 dispatched them again in that direction with 
 torches. 
 
 The storm augmented, until it became fu- 
 rious ; the torches could not resist the violent 
 wind and rain, and were extinguished one by 
 one. The blast howled, as if terrified at its
 
 MARST0N. 293 
 
 own force ; — lightnings flashed, and heavy 
 thunder continued with incessant roll. 
 
 Several of the servants, intimidated, returned 
 home. One, who had intended to explore the 
 moor, got as far as the greenhouse, and then 
 took shelter there without daring to quit it. 
 Only one of them (the gardener) proceeded as 
 far as the abbey, taking the circuitous route 
 already mentioned ; but the combined noise of 
 thunder, hail, and wind, drowned his voice, 
 and rendered all his knocking at the portal 
 unavailing; and he returned drenched with 
 rain, and dispirited at his failure . The tem- 
 pest lasted all night. In the morning, as soou 
 as daylight appeared, a fresh search was insti- 
 tuted. 
 
 The havoc that the storm had made was im- 
 mense. Enormous oaks had been torn ug I>y 
 the roots. Smooth walks were now deep ra- 
 vines ; the lawns appeared lakes ; brandies
 
 _>f) I MAKston. 
 
 1 1 cwcd the ground, and all wore a look ofdeto 
 fation. The same gloomy darkness prevailed 
 as on the preceding day : all nature seemed in 
 mourning. The servants returned with fresh 
 disappointment in their looks. They had been 
 to the abbey, but had knocked in vain ; the 
 doors and windows were closed, and there was 
 no possibility of gaining admittance or inform- 
 ation. They went round the vast building in 
 hopes of finding some door unclosed, but every 
 thing was fast. They went under the windows 
 of the room occupied by little Eleanor, and 
 called ; no sound was returned. The buttery 
 and pantry were on the ground floor, near 
 Marston's apartments ; and had a small door 
 leading into the large court, in the interior of 
 the great facade before described; and they 
 succeeded in scaling the wall, and so reached 
 the window of the pantry, by which they hoped 
 to enter, and thus pass into the interior of the
 
 MARSTON. 295 
 
 building. By continued efforts they at length 
 succeeded in forcing the window open, and 
 entering the house ; but all was silence and 
 solitude. In little Eleanor's room, some toys 
 were on the floor, but no other signs of its 
 being inhabited were visible. In Marston's 
 room, there were quantities of papers torn and 
 strewed about. The bed had not been disturbed 
 bince it had been last made. In Joseph's room 
 there appeared to be more confusion ; every 
 thing had been deranged. The closets open and 
 empty ; the sheets and coverings of the bed had 
 been removed. In the chapel, where lights 
 always burned over Mrs. Marston's tomb, all 
 was darkness. The lamp had not been reple- 
 nished. But nothing further could be learned; 
 there was no one in the abbey. 
 
 Towards evening, one of the servants entered 
 Mrs. Davenport's room, pale, and breathless. 
 llib eyes seemed starting out of hi^ head with
 
 '2 ( .)() MAKSTON. 
 
 terror ; and he eould only point towards the 
 window, in the direetion of the green-house. 
 It was some time before he could succeed in 
 articulating broken sounds. 
 
 << Go the moor the stone pit my 
 
 poor mistress good God too late 
 
 dead dead murdered ! ! " 
 
 "Dead! Murdered!" shrieked the old 
 housekeeper ; and her cries brought the other 
 servants into the room. But silence succeeded 
 to the first scream of terror ; and they looked 
 with horror in their countenances towards the 
 spot indicated by the footman. Several then 
 rushed out, and in the course of two hours 
 returned, bearing the inanimate body of their 
 beloved mistress. 
 
 As they passed through the hall carrying her 
 on branches, which they had laid together in 
 haste as a sort of litter, the rustling noise of 
 their feet on the marble floor produced a melan-
 
 MARSTON. '297 
 
 choly and sepulchral sound ; and the domestics 
 wept in silence, while an awful terror oppressed 
 them. They laid her on the couch in the 
 drawing-room, on which Marston had reclined 
 hut a short time before . Now, the canvass on 
 which she was represented, and which he had 
 contemplated with such rapture, was more 
 animated than she, once so lovely ! 
 
 She seemed to have suffered some violence 
 previous to her murder, and to have made con- 
 siderable resistance ; for her clothes were torn, 
 and her hat thrown back and broken under 
 her. On raising her hair, which was drenched 
 with rain, and fell over her face and neck clot- 
 ted with blood, there were marks of a gun or 
 pistol-shot on the back part of the head. A 
 ball had entered there, and passed across in an 
 oblique direction. 
 
 This circumstance was dwelt upon by the 
 coroner's inquest, which was- held upon the
 
 298 MAR8TON 
 
 body. They observed, and so did the surgeon 
 who attended, (for Dr. Carlton was too afflic- 
 ted at the loss of his friend, to be able to assist 
 at so distressing an examination,) that had a 
 pistol been presented to her head with a view 
 of threatening or killing her, it would probably 
 have been directed nearer the temple or fore- 
 head. The right arm, which was extended and 
 stiff, was much bruised ; the hand especially 
 was greatly injured, the flesh being torn off as 
 though she had seized the pistol or gun which 
 had destroyed her, and struggled violently with 
 her murderer. 
 
 The coroner brought in a verdict of wilful 
 murder against some person or persons un- 
 known, 
 
 LM) OF VOL. I.
 
 NOTES. 
 
 (a) Walter Scott, in his notes to the poem of Rokeby, gives 
 the following interesting accounts of the battle of Marston-inoor. 
 
 " The well known and desperate battle of Long-Marston- 
 moor, which terminated so unfortunately for the cause of 
 Charles, commenced under very different auspices. Prince 
 Rupert had marched with an army of 20, 000 men for the relief 
 of York, then besieged by Sir Thomas Fairfax, at the head of 
 the parliamentary army, and the Earl of Leven, with the Scot- 
 tish auxiliary forces. In this he so completely succeeded, that 
 he compelled the besiegers to retreat to Marston-moor, a large, 
 open plain about eight miles distant from the city. Thither 
 they were followed by the prince, who had now united to his 
 army the garrison of York, probably not less than ten thousand 
 men strong, under the gallant Marquis (then Earl) of Newcas- 
 tle. Whitelockc has recorded with much impartiality the fol- 
 lowing particulars of this eventful clay: ' The right wing of 
 the parliament was commanded by Six Thomas Fairfax, and 
 consisted of all hii horse, and three rcgmieub of the Scot)
 
 300 
 
 horse. Tho left wing was commanded by the Earl of Manches- 
 ter, and Colonel Cromwell. One body of their foot was com- 
 manded by Lord Fairfax, and consisted of his foot and 
 two brigades of the Scots foot for a reserve ; and the main 
 body of the rest of the foot was commanded by General Leven. 
 
 " ' The right wing of the prince's army was commanded by 
 the Earl of Newcastle; the left wing by the prince himself; 
 and the main body by General Goring, Sir Charles Lucas, and 
 Major General Porter. Thus were both sides drawn up 
 into batalia, July 3rd, 1644. In this posture both armies faced 
 each other, and about seven o'clock in the morning the fight 
 began between them. The prince with his left wing fell on 
 the parliament's right wing, routed them, and pursued them a 
 great way. The like did Generals Goring, Lucas, and Porter, 
 upon the parliament's main body. The three generals, giving 
 all for lost, hasted out of the held, and many of their soldiers 
 fled, and threw down their arms ; the king's forces too eagerly 
 following them, the victory, now almost achieved by them, was 
 again snatched out of their hands : for Colonel Cromwell with 
 the brave regiment of his countrymen, and Sir Thomas Fair- 
 fax, having rallied some of his horse, fell upon the prince's 
 right wing, where the Earl of Newcastle was, and routed them, 
 and the rest of their companions rallying, they fell all together 
 upon the divided bodies of Rupert and Goring, and totally dis- 
 persed them, and obtained a compleat victory after three hours' 
 fight. 
 
 " ' From this battle and the pursuit, some reckon were buried 
 7000 Englishmen , all agree that above 3000 of the prince':?
 
 $01 
 
 men were slain in the battle, besides those in the chace, and 
 3000 prisoners taken, many of their chief officers, 25 pieces of 
 ordnance, 47 colours, 10,000 arms, two waggons of carabins 
 and pistols, 130 barrels of powder, and all their bag and bag- 
 gage.' " — Whitelocke's Memoirs, Lond. 1682, fol. p. 89. 
 
 " Lord Clarendon informs us that the king, previous to re- 
 ceiving the real account of the battle, had been informed, by 
 an express from Oxford, ' that Prince Rupert had not only re- 
 lieved York, but totally defeated the Scots, with many par- 
 ticulars to confirm it, all which was so much believed there, 
 that they had made public fires of joy for the victory.' 
 
 " Monckton and Mitton told the news, 
 How troops of Roundheads choked the Ouse, 
 And many a bonny Scot aghast, 
 Spurring his palfrey northward pass'd, 
 Cursing the day when zeal, or meed, 
 First lured their Lesley o'er the Tweed." 
 
 P. 20, Note to Canto 1st. Rokeby. 
 
 u Monckton and Mitton are villages 'near the river Ousc, 
 and not very distant from the field of battle. The particulars 
 of the action were violently disputed at the time ; but the fol- 
 lowing extract, from the manuscript history of the Baronial 
 House of Somerville, is decisive as to the flight of the Scot- 
 tish general, the earl of Levcn. The particulars arc given bj 
 the author of the history, on the authority of his father, then 
 the representative of the family. This curious mantucripl
 
 302 
 
 lias bern published by the consent oi my noble friend, th< 
 
 present Lord Somorville : — 
 
 " { The order of this great Lattell, wherin both anniei 
 was so neer of ane cquall number, consisting, to the best cab 
 culatione, near to three score thousand men upon both sydes, 
 I shall not take upon me to discryve ; albeit, from the draught- 
 then taken upon the place, and information I received from 
 this gentleman, who being then a volunteer, as having no 
 command, had opportunitie and libertie to ryde from one wing 
 of the armie to the other, to view all ther severall squadrons 
 of horse, and battallions of foot how formed, and in what 
 manner drawn up, with every other circumstance relateing to 
 the fight, — and that both as to the King's armies and that of 
 the Parliament's ; amongst whom, until the cngadgment, he 
 went from statione to statione to observe ther order and forme ; 
 but the descriptione of this battell, with the various success on 
 both sides at the beginning, with the losse of the royal armie, 
 and the sad effects that followed that misfortune as to his Ma- 
 jestic's interest, has been done so often already by English 
 authors, little to our commendatione, how justly I shall not 
 dispute, seiug the truth is, as our principal] generall fled that 
 night ncer fourtie mylles from the place of the fight, that part 
 of the armie where he commanded being totallie routed : but 
 it is as true, that much of the victorie is attributed to the good 
 conduct of David Lesselie, licvctennent-gencral of our horse. 
 Cromwell himself, that minione of fortune, but the rod of 
 God's wrath, to punish afterward three rebellious nation*, dis- 
 dained not to take orders from him, albeit then in the same
 
 NOTES. 303 
 
 qualitie of command for the parliament, as being licvetennonl 
 generall to the Earl of Manchester's horse, whom, with the 
 assistance of the Scots horse, haveing routed the Prince's right 
 wing, as he had done that of the Parliament's. 
 
 "'These two commanders of the horse upon that wing, 
 wisely restrained the great bodies of thir horse from persuing 
 these brocken troups, but, wheelling to the left-hand, falls in 
 upon the naked flanks of the prince's main battallion of foot, 
 carving them doune with great violence; nether mett they 
 with any great resistance untill they came to the Marques of 
 Newcastle his battallione of white coats, who, first peppering 
 them soundly with thcr shott, when they came to the charge, 
 stoutly boor them up with their picks that they could not en- 
 ter to break them. Here the parliament's horse of that wing 
 rcceaved their greatest losse, and a stop for sometyme putt to 
 their hoped-for victorie, and that only by the stout resistance 
 of this gallant battallione, which consisted neer of four thou- 
 sand foot, untill at length a Scot's regiment of dragouns, com- 
 manded by Collonell Frizeall, with other two, was brought to 
 open them upon some hand, which at length they did, when all 
 their ammunitione was spent. Having refused quarters, 
 every man fell in the same order and ranke wherein he had 
 foughten. 
 
 " ' Be this execution was done, the prince returned from 
 the pcrsuite of the right wing of the parliament's horse, which 
 he had beatten and followed too fane, to the losse of the bat- 
 tell, which ccrtanely, in all men's opinions, he might have 
 caryed, if he had not been too violent upon the pcrsuite;
 
 304 NOTES. 
 
 which gave his enemies upon the left-hand opportunitie to dis- 
 perse and cutdoune his infantcrie, who, haveing cleared the field 
 
 of all the standing bodies of foot, wcr now, with many 
 
 of ther oune, standing ready to receave the charge of his all- 
 most spent horses, if he should attempt it, which the prince 
 observeing, and seeing all lost, he retreated to Yorke with two 
 thousand horse. Notwithstanding of this, ther was that night 
 such a consternatione in the parliament' armies, that it's be- 
 lieved by most of those that wer there present, that if the 
 prince, haveing so great a body of horse inteire, had made 
 anc on fall that night, or the ensueing morning be tjme, he 
 had carryed the victorie out of their hands ; for it's certane, by 
 the morning's light, he had rallyed a body of ten thousand 
 men, whereof there was neer three thousand gallant horse. 
 These, with the assistance of the toune and garrisone of 
 Yorke, might have done much to have recovered the victory, 
 for the losse of this battell in effect lost the king and his in- 
 terest in the three kingdomes, his majestie never being able 
 eftir this to make head in the north, but lost his garrisons every 
 day. 
 
 " ' As for Generall Lessclie, in the beginning of this flight 
 haveing that part of the armie quite brocken, where he had 
 placed himself, by the valour of the prince, he imagined, and 
 was conformed by the opinione of others then upon the place 
 with him, that the battell was irrecoverably lost, seeing they 
 were fleeing upon all hands; theircfore they humblie intveated 
 his excellence to reteir and wait his better fortune; which, 
 without farder advyseing, he did; and never drew bridle untill
 
 305 
 
 he came the lenth of Leads, having ridden all that night with 
 a cloak of drap de berrie about him, belonging to this gentle- 
 man of whom I write, then in his retinue, with many other 
 officers of good qualitie. It was neer twelve the next day 
 before they had the certanety who was master of the field, 
 when at length there arryves ane express, sent by David Les- 
 selie, to acquaint the general they had obtained a most glo- 
 rious victorie, and that the prince, with his brocken troupe, 
 was fled from Yorke. This intelligence was somewhat 
 amazeing to these gentlemen that had been eye witnesses to 
 the disorder of the armie before ther retearing, and had then 
 accompanyed the general in his flight, who being much wearyed 
 that evening of the battell with ordering his armie, and now 
 quite spent with his long journey in the night, had fasten him- 
 selfe doune upon a bed to reste, when this gentleman coming 
 quyetly into his chamber, he awoke, and hastily cries out, — 
 4 Lievetennent-collonell, what news ?' — ' All is safe, may it 
 please your excellence ; the parliament's armie has obtained 
 a great victory ;' and then dclyvers the letter. The generall, 
 upon the hearing of this, knocked upon his breast, and sayes, 
 ' I would to God I had dyed upon the place ;' and then opens 
 the letter, which in a few lines gave him ane account of the 
 victory, and in the close pressed his speedy returnc to the 
 armie, which he did the next day, being accompanyed some 
 mylles back by this gentleman, who then takes his leave of 
 him, and receaved at parting many expressions of kyndencsse, 
 with promises that he would never be unmyndful of his care 
 and respect towards him; and in the end he intrcats him to 
 VOL I. \
 
 30G 
 
 present bis servi< e to all iui friendi and acquaintances in Scot- 
 land. Thereitir the generall sets forward in his journey for 
 
 the armie, as this gentleman did for , in order to his 
 
 transportationc for Scotland, where he arryved sex days after 
 the fight of Mestoune Muir, and gave the first true account 
 and descriptione of that great battell, wherein the Covenanters 
 then gloryed soe much, thai they impiously boasted the Lord 
 had now signally appeared for his cause, and people, it being 
 ordinary for them, dureing the wholl time of this warre, to 
 attribute the greatnes of their success to the goodnes and 
 justice of ther cause, until Divine justice trysted them with 
 some cross dispensatione, and then you might have heard this 
 language from them, — ' That it pleases the Lord to give his 
 oune the heavyest end of the tree to bear, that the saints, and 
 the people of God, must still be sufferers while they are here 
 away, that that malignant party was God's rod to punish them 
 for their unthankfulnesse, which in the end he will cast into 
 the fire ;' with a thousand other expressions and Scripture 
 citations, prophanely and blasphemously uttered by them to 
 palliate their villainie and rebellion.' 
 
 " ' M.S. History of the 
 Somcrville Family, Ediu. 1815.' 
 
 " With his barb'd horse, fresh tidings 
 Stout Cromwell hath rcdeem'd the day." 
 
 Rokeby, canto 1. p. 20. 
 
 "Cromwell, with his regiment of cuirassiers, had a principal
 
 307 
 
 share in turning the fate of the day at Marston Moor, which 
 was equally matter of triumph to the Independents, and of 
 grief and heart-burning to the Presbyterians and to the Scot- 
 tish. Principal Baillie expresses his dissatisfaction as follows : 
 " ' The Independents sent up one quickly to assure that all 
 the glory of that night was theirs ; that they and their major- 
 generall Cromwell had done it all there alone ; but Captain 
 Stuart afterwards shewed the vanity and falsehood of their 
 disgraceful relation. — ' God gave us that victory wonderfully. 
 There were three generals on each side — Lesley, Fairfax, and 
 Manchester ; Rupert, Newcastle, and King. Within half an 
 hour, and less, all six took them to their heels ; this to you 
 alone. The disadvantage of the ground, and violence of the 
 flower of Prince Rupert's horse, carried all our right wing 
 down ; only Eglington kept ground, to his great loss : his 
 lieutenant-crowner, a brave man, I fear shall die, and his son 
 Robert be mutilated of an arm. Lindsay had the greatest ha- 
 zard of any; but the beginning of the victory was from 
 David Lesley, who before was much suspected of evil designs ; 
 he, with the Scots and Cromwell's horse, having the advantage 
 of the ground, did dissipate all before them.' " — Baillie's Let- 
 ters and Journals, Edin. 1785. 8vo. ii. 36. 
 
 (b) It is an observation, which has been made many times, 
 that nothing brings a little child to one's recollection in a more 
 affecting manner than the sight of its little shoes. Victor 
 Hugo has represented this fact with much eloquence and in- 
 teresl in hi< novel, entitled ''Notre Dame, de Paris."
 
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