H\-'< 
 
 IPJ 
 
 ^y,r?tj/'//A ^^^r/^/Zi 
 
 'f !
 
 a I E) RAR.Y 
 
 OF THE 
 U N IVLRSITY 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
 8^3 
 
 ^583d 
 v.l
 
 THE DISCARDED SON 
 
 A TALE» 
 
 Lane, Darling, and Co. Leadenhall-S'reel.
 
 THE 
 
 BISCAMBED SON| 
 
 OR, 
 
 HAUNT OF THE BANDITTI, 
 
 IN FIVE VOLUMES. 
 
 — — =3««»®e®««== — 
 
 BY 
 
 REGINA MARIA ROCHE, 
 
 4VTH0R OF THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY ^ ^*C. 
 
 Thou hast been 
 As one in suffering all, that suffers nothing; 
 A man who Fortune's buffets and rewards 
 Has ta'en with equal thanks : and blest are they 
 Whose blood and judgment n-.ingled are so well, 
 That they are not a pipe for Fortune's finger, 
 To sound what stop she please. 
 
 SHAKESPEARB. 
 
 londo:n: 
 printed at the 
 
 for lane, newman, and co, 
 
 LEADENHALL-STREIT. 
 
 1807.
 
 8P «:. 
 
 V 1 
 
 THE BISCAEBEB SON> 
 
 >»^<^g» tir. ii 
 
 CHAP. L 
 
 "In struggling with misfortunes 
 Lies the proof of virtue : on smooth seas 
 How many bawble boats dare set their sails. 
 And make an equal way with tirmer vessels ! 
 But let the tempest once enrage the sea. 
 And then behold rhe strong-ribb'd Jrgosie 
 Bounding between the ocean and the air. 
 Like Perseus mounted on his Pegasits : 
 Then where are those weak rivals of the main ! 
 Or to avoid the tempest fled to port. 
 Or made a prey to Neptune. Even thus 
 Do empty show and true priz'd worth divide 
 In storms of fortune." Shakespeare. 
 
 TT 
 
 A HAT the race is not always to the swift, 
 nor the battle to the strong ; neither bread 
 to the wise, nor yet riches to the men of 
 understanding, nor favour to men of 
 
 skill-
 
 2 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 skill — all ages, all countries have furnished 
 us with instances. Of these, Captain Munro 
 perhaps was not the least striking ; gifted 
 ty nature with all that was requisite to ren- 
 der him amiable — possessed of every ad- 
 vantage that education and fortune could 
 bestow — born under the happiest auspices, 
 and surrounded, on his outset in life, by 
 friends affectionate and anxious in the ex- 
 treme for his advancement in it, he had 
 not advanced far in his career ere he found 
 himself rapidly descending into the vale of 
 adversity, and others as rapidly ascending 
 to the summit of prosperity, who, from 
 the early disadvantages under which they 
 had laboured, he could not have supposed 
 would have been able to have made a suc- 
 cessful effort to approach it. 
 
 Of these, the chances and changes of 
 this mortal state, the little fortitude man 
 would have to support himself beneath 
 them, but for the strength and consolation 
 derived from religion. Captain Munro 
 deeply pondered^ as he journeyed from 
 
 Glengary
 
 THE CISCARDED SON. 3 
 
 Glengary Castle, the residence of his father, 
 towards his own. 
 
 The day was far advanced when he re- 
 mounted his horse at the ancient gateway 
 of the castle, for the last time, he was in- 
 clined to believe, as no consideration ^vhat- 
 ever should induce him ai^^ain, he deter— 
 mined, to seek a reconciliation with his 
 father, so cruelly, so insultingly had his 
 overtures for one been now rejected. 
 
 Rain also fell in torrents, and the wind 
 swept in hollow gusts over the heath, driv- 
 ing before it the withered burrs, and mak- 
 ing the old trees, that scantily dotted the 
 soil, groan beneath its fury. 
 
 But notwithstanding the resentment 
 which glowed in his breast — notwithstand- 
 ing the violence of the tempest to which 
 he was exposed. Captain Munro, on reach- 
 ing the top of a hill that afforded a view 
 of his native home, could not prevent 
 himself from checking his horse, in order 
 to indulge himself with another view of 
 it — yes, indulge ; for though it no longer 
 B 2 afforded
 
 4 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 afforded him a shelter, he could not forget 
 the happy days in which it had done so ; 
 and the remembrance of these made him 
 feel something of that kind of pleasure in 
 gazing on it, he would have done in con- 
 templating the features of an old friend. 
 The idea of his departed mother, the ten- 
 derest of parents, the most amiable of 
 'women, was associated with every view, 
 with every recollection of it. He sighed 
 as her memory now revived in his mind, 
 and involuntarily thought what she must 
 suffer, if departed spirits were allowed to 
 review the transactions of this world, at the 
 shameless scenes now passing in the man- 
 sion to which she had given consequence 
 and estimation. 
 
 '' But heaven,'" exclaimed he, suddenly 
 and aloud, with an outstretched arm and 
 uplifted eyes, '' heaven would not be hea- 
 ven, were the cares, the inquietudes of 
 this life to gain admission to it. No — all 
 there is peace and joy ; no tear is in the 
 eye, no sorrow in the heart, to engender 
 
 one.
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 5 
 
 ©ne. Happy state of rest ; happy he^ be 
 his troubles what they may^ whose con- 
 science insures him such, — Oh God !" he 
 continued^ with increasing fervour, '' let 
 me never be deprived of this last conso- 
 lation ; though happiness may be denied 
 me herej let me never despair of it here- 
 after. — Nor will I despair of it here/' he 
 added, after a pause; "for to despair, is 
 to doubt the goodness of that Being v/ho 
 has promised to befriend those that put 
 their trust in him. As the sun vriH agjaiii 
 look forth, in all his beauty, upon these 
 now streaming fields; as the clouds v.liich 
 veil the heavens will be disper ed, so will 
 I hope for the restoration of pro perity, 
 and the dispersion of the clouds that now 
 obscure my horizon.'* 
 
 He cast another lingering look at old 
 Glengary (as he styled the castle), and 
 rode on. While he pursues his journey, 
 we shall take a retrospective view of his 
 life. 
 
 Captain Robert Munro was the only 
 9 Z child
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 child of a Scotch gentleman of considera- 
 ble property^, and who bestowed on him 
 an education suitable to his prospects. Dis- 
 liking a life of idleness for him^ in conse- 
 quence of the dissipation he had known 
 such to occasion^ he intended him for one 
 of the learned professions: this intention 
 proved by no means agreeable to the 
 young gentleman; he possessed an ardent 
 temper^ an enthusiastic imagination, had 
 heard, like Douglas, of battles, and longed 
 to follow to the field some warlike lord — 
 in shorty he was too much fired, by what he 
 had heard of the deeds of heroes, not to 
 resolve on seeking, like them, to immor- 
 talize himself in the fields of the valiant. 
 His father warmly opposed this resolution; 
 but, although his mother dreaded the dan- 
 gers attached to a military life, the constant 
 and animated pleadings of this her adored 
 son, by degrees obtained her acquiescence 
 to his wishes; she became his advocate, and 
 soon prevailed on his father to purchase a 
 commission for him in a marching regi- 
 
 menty
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 7 
 
 merit J which, shortly after he had entered, 
 was ordered on foreign service. During 
 the period of hrs continuance abroad, 
 young Munro visited various climates, and 
 had ample experience of the dangers and 
 hardships incidental to his profession, but 
 which neither damped hk spirit, nor for an 
 instant caused him to regret the one he 
 had chosen. This, however, was by no 
 means the case with his parents; they never 
 ceased lamenting it, more especially when 
 intelligence reached them of his having 
 been dreadfully wounded in an engagement 
 in one of the West India islands; intelli- 
 gence which was speedily followed by his 
 return to his native kingdom, owing to the 
 advice of his physicians, who, without such 
 a measure, protested his recovery was every- 
 thing but impossible. 
 
 His mother made use of the opportu- 
 nity his r-eturn afforded, to endeavour to 
 prevail on him to quit the army, but, 
 though naturally of a yielding disposition, 
 without avail, since he was now not only 
 B 4 more
 
 b THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 iT^ore 3f t:\ched than ever to his profession^ 
 but conceived his leaving it at this crisis 
 wcnki be to comprcmise his honour^ as he 
 doubted not his doing so would be im- 
 puted to the danger he had been in. 
 Finding him inexorable^ she prevailed on 
 his father to purchase him a troop in a 
 regiment of dragoons, in consequence of 
 being informed, by some military friends^ 
 the cavalry was not so liable to be ordered 
 abroad as the infantry. Of what she had 
 done he received no intimation, until his 
 promotion appeared in the gazette. The 
 young captain would infinitely have pre- 
 ferred continuing in his old regiment, 
 as in it he fancied he should have 
 had a quicker opportunity of reaping 
 the laurels he was so ambitious of ob- 
 taining — that he would have done so, how- 
 ever^ neit'/icr his filial duty or grateful 
 nature, would permit his acknowledging 
 to his idolizing mother. 
 
 The monotonous life to which he found 
 himself doomed on joininghis^new regiment, 
 
 quartered
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 9 
 
 <5uarterecl in a conritrv town in England, 
 by no means accorded with his active spirit. 
 He derived, however, one advantage from it 
 — that of being able to renew the studies 
 which the pressure of his professional 
 duties, vvhile abroad, had obliged him to 
 suspend; but he was not allowed to pur- 
 sue them without interruption — there were 
 in this corps, as there are in many others^, 
 several idle dissipated characters, disin- 
 clined to do good themselves, and equally 
 so to let others. These beset Munro, and, 
 by degrees, drew him into the pernicious 
 practice of gaming, in which he was too 
 great a novice not to let them reap all the 
 advantages they wished for. In conse- 
 quence his drafts upon his fatl^er became 
 so frequent, and so considerable, that a 
 serious investigation into the cause of 
 them at length took place. 
 
 Munro shrunk not from it; he candidly 
 
 answered the enquiries addressed to hir^,. 
 
 was admonished by his mother of the 
 
 enormity of the vice he had been led inroj 
 
 B 5 solemnly.
 
 10 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 solemnly "abjured it, and was forgiven, at 
 least by her. The mind, however, which 
 has been for any period dissipated, cannot 
 im-^^ed lately revert to rational pursuits — - 
 like the sea after a storm, it requires some 
 time to subside into calmness: Munro 
 more eagerly, therefore, than ever, though 
 always from a lively and social temper so 
 inclined, entered into company. Amongst 
 the families in the neiohbourhood in which 
 he was quartered, who paid particular atten- 
 tion to him and his brother officers, was that 
 of a respectable merchant,who, after making 
 a handsome fortune in Cadiz, had returned 
 to spend the fruits of his industry in his 
 native country. As he was quitting Spain 
 there was committed to his care a young 
 Spanish lady, for the purpose of having 
 her educated in England. Her education 
 was completed just as. Munro became ac- 
 quainted with her, and she only delayed 
 returning to her native country till she had 
 acquired that perfect kno'.vledge of the 
 manners and customs of the people she
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. ll 
 
 had been brought up amongst, whichj 
 Vv^hile at school, it was impossible for her 
 to do. Nothing could be more attractive, 
 more engaging than she was; but in place 
 of giving a description o*' her, we will give 
 the animated one the Chevalier de Bour- 
 goanne has given of her countrv-women 
 in general, as one she perfectly accorded 
 with. 
 
 " Nothing/' says he, '' is more engaging 
 than a voung female Spaniard at nneen 
 years of a$^e — a face perfectly oval; hair 
 of a fine clear auburn, equally divided on 
 the forehead, and only bound by a silk net; 
 large black eves; a mouth full of graces; 
 an attitude always modest; a simple habit 
 of neat black ser«^e, exactlv littinor the 
 body, and gently pressing the wrist; a 
 little hand, perfectly proportioned : in 
 fine, every thing charms in these youthful 
 virgins: they recal to our recollection the 
 softness, beautv, dress, and simpl'city of 
 the young Grecian females, of whom anti- 
 ' quity has left such elegant models — the 
 B G angels
 
 19 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 angels in Spanish coinedy are always re- 
 presented by young girls/* 
 
 The heart of our young soldier was sus- 
 ceptible, in the extreme, of the power of 
 beauty, particularly when combined, as 
 was the case in the present instance, with 
 elegance, modesty, and intel]ig;ence ; in 
 short, he soon became the captive of the 
 fair foreigner, nor did she seem insensible 
 to his merits; but, enamoured as he was, 
 he did not seek to inspire her with a reci- 
 procal passion. There were obstacles, he 
 feared, in the w^ay of their union, which 
 would prove insurmountable; honour, 
 therefore, forbade his endeavouring to 
 create too lively an interest for himself in 
 her heart — these obstacles were the nation- 
 ality and bigotry of his father: he deter- 
 in in cd/nowever, not to despair altogether of 
 overcoming tliem, till he had applied to his 
 mother on the subject. Just as he had 
 made up his mind to do this, an express 
 arrived to inform him she was given over: 
 he instantly set off for Scotland, but, not- 
 withstanding
 
 THE DISCARDED SON". 13 
 
 withstanding his travelling without inter- 
 mission, he only reached home time enough 
 to assist in paying the last sad duties to her 
 remains. Her de^th overwhelmed him 
 with the most poignant grief; in losing 
 her he lost not only the tenderest of pa- 
 rents, but the most faithful of friends, one 
 to whom upon all occasions he could safely 
 open his heart, with confidence of receiv- 
 ing both advice and consolation, did he 
 stand in need of either. But it was not 
 simply grief it excited, it also occasioned 
 repentance, for he now began to think, 
 that the anxiety she sufiered, in conse- 
 quence of his remaining in the anir/, had 
 shortened her days; and, from the horror 
 he felt at the idea, he would have given 
 worlds, had they been in his power, to 
 have recalled the period in which he had 
 the power of ceding his wishes to her's. 
 But, alas! time will not return, neither will 
 the grave give up its dead; how scrupu- 
 lous, therefore, should we be in our con- 
 duct to our relatives and friends, since, 
 
 terrible
 
 14 THE DrSCARDED SON. 
 
 terrible to the heart of feeling is the re- 
 mcrse it experiences for errors not to be 
 repaired. 
 
 " The woods, the wilds, the melancholy 
 glooms" by which his paternal home was 
 surrounded, too well suited his feelings at 
 this juncture, not to make him wish to 
 continue there some time; but, even if this 
 had not been the case, he would still have 
 felt this wish on account of his father, to 
 whom, at this period, he conceived his so- 
 ciety absolutely indispensible ; he soon, 
 however, found that he vv^as mistaken in 
 thinking so — that his father had felt but a 
 transient regret, if any, for his mother's 
 loss, and that, for the estimation in which 
 he had been so long held in the neigh- 
 bourhood, he was solely indebted to her. 
 Mr. Munro was indeed the very reverse of 
 "what his amiable lady had made him ap- 
 pear. The defects in his disposition were 
 not known to her till they w^ere married; 
 but though her uniting her fate with his 
 was in obedience to the wishes of her fa- 
 ther.
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 15 
 
 tlier, not ber own, she as scrupulously 
 concealed them as if he had been her own 
 immediate choice, and she had conse- 
 quently dreaded their discovery occasion- 
 ing her judgment to be called in question. 
 She did more than conceal, she tried to 
 remove them, but to no purpose — as he 
 clearly demonstrated, by marrying, a very 
 few weeks after her death, a woman for- 
 merly in her service, but whom he had 
 seduced from it, and from that period till 
 the one he made her his wife, kept in an 
 obscure house in the vicinity of the castle. 
 This event, of which he had neither 
 warning nor suspicion, till it took place, 
 excited feelings in the pure and noble 
 mind of Munro, easier to be conceived 
 than described. It was not, howevxr^ so 
 much on account of the ruin in which it 
 threatened to involve his prospects ( for he 
 was entirely dependant on his father), and 
 that he could easily be warped from pay- 
 ing attention to the claims of nature, he 
 had given too striking a proof to permit a 
 3 doubt
 
 IS THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 doubt to be entertained on the subject^, a3 
 on account of the disrespect it evinced 'to 
 the memory of his mother^ that he mourned 
 and resented it. That, ere the tomb was 
 well closed upon her^ her place should be 
 filled up, by such a woman too — so vile I 
 so abject!, so despicable! so every way 
 unworthy of being her successor, filled him 
 with indignation too great for suppression; 
 in the fust paroxysm of which, though his 
 leave of absence was not expired, he fled 
 precipitately from the house, with almost 
 a determination never to enter it again. 
 
 Dejected and unhappy, he rejoined his 
 regiment; but in place of seeking, as he 
 had heretofore done, he now sedulously 
 shunned society^ particularly that of the 
 family in which the lovely Spaniard re- 
 sided; for since all hope of being united 
 to her was at an end, now that he had lost 
 the friend, through whose interference 
 alone he had ever believed it possible his 
 father's consent to their being so could be 
 obtained, he thought the sooner they ceased 
 
 to
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 17 
 
 fo have any communication with one ano- 
 ther the better. 
 
 In his resolution of avoiding her he per- 
 severed for some time^ when one afternoon^ 
 as he was returning, heated, fatigued, and 
 covered with dust, from a solitary excur- 
 sion he had taken to some mountains in 
 the neighbourhood, for the purpose of 
 amusing himself Vr'ith his gun, he came 
 suddenly upon a large party of ladies and 
 gentlemen on horseback, amongst whom 
 he soon discovered his fair Spaniard and 
 the friends she resided with. The delight 
 which these latter testified at seeing him, 
 the kind reproaches they made him for so 
 long absenting himself from their society, 
 and the earnest manner in which they 
 pressed him to come again amongst them, 
 overcame his honourable, his prudential 
 resolutions. The consequence of his again 
 becoming a visitor at their cheerful, hos- 
 pitable mansion was, the renewal of his 
 love for the beautiful Spaniard, which ab- 
 sence from her had begun a little to weaken. 
 
 How
 
 18 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 How he told his soft tale, or she replied to 
 it, is not necessary to mention; suffice, one 
 fine moonlight night, but whether tempted 
 by jCinthia, by Cupid, or by both together, 
 cannot, here at least, be determined, she 
 suffered him to hand her into a chaise-and- 
 four, which stood most conveniently, at the 
 moment, near the garden of her guardian, 
 step in himself after her, and bid the pos- 
 tillions face to the North. Ere their matri- 
 monial fetters were well rivetted, intelli- 
 gence of this step was received by Mr. 
 Munro, owing to the vigilant eye which 
 his new helpmate kept upon his son, under 
 the hope of being able to detect him in 
 some act, which should give her an oppor- 
 tunity of completely ruining him with his 
 father, and thus of gratifying the malice 
 his refusing to notice her had engendered in 
 her heart against him; as also of quieting 
 her fears of his yet regaining his wonted 
 ascendancy at home, than which nothing 
 she knew could be more inimical to the 
 designs she entertained upon the fortune 
 
 he
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 19 
 
 he had so lon<r been considered undoubted 
 heir to. Had she been as well acquainted 
 with the disposition of her husband as her 
 predecessor was^ she would have spared 
 herself half the pains she took to aggra- 
 vate his resentment against his son^ as she 
 would then have known he wanted no 
 stimulus to render him cruel and severe 
 to those who in the least offended him. 
 But though this imprudent marriage of his 
 son's galled him, by disappointing the am- 
 bitious projects he had formed for him, he 
 still could scarcely regret it, since it fur- 
 nished him with a plausible pretext for 
 exiling him from his society, and thus 
 freeing himself from a person whose pre- 
 sence, from being a reproach, was hateful 
 to him. 
 
 The young Captain, accordingly, in re- 
 ply to the letter he wrote to acquaint him 
 with his marriage, and deprecate the re« 
 sentment he knew it calculated to excite, 
 received one couched in the most violent 
 and virulent terms, informing him his noti- 
 
 licatioii
 
 THE DISCARDED SOF. 
 
 fication on the subject was totally unneccs- 
 sary^thatno entreaty, no supplication should 
 ever obtain from him the forgiveness he re- 
 quired, nor any share again of his favour 
 or fortune. Munro expected him to be 
 violent in the first instance, and was not, 
 therefore, much disappcfintment by this 
 letter; notwithstanding it and his preced- 
 ing conduct, however, he could not, when 
 he took a retrospective view of things, di- 
 vest himself of a hope that time might yet 
 bring about a reconciliation between them. 
 In the mean while, his wife made a similar 
 application to her father, but to as little 
 purpose — he was not only as national and 
 bigotted as old Munro, but ten times more 
 proud and ambitious, looking forward to 
 nothing less than matching his daughter 
 ■with some great hidalgo. If therefore the 
 Squire was irritated here, the Don was irri- 
 tated there, and, in terms scarcely more 
 civil than Munro had expressed himself in 
 to his son, declared his total and solemn 
 renunciation of her. Ske endeavoured to 
 
 obtain.
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 2i 
 
 obtain the merchant's interference with 
 him, but he was so exasperated at what he 
 styled the slippery trick she had played 
 him^ the bad example he conceived she 
 had set his daughters, and the suspicious 
 light in which she had made his character 
 appear to her father, whom he had many 
 reasons for wishing to stand well with, that 
 he positively refused either to aid her in 
 this instance, or to have any further com- 
 munication with her. 
 
 Time, at length, that great dispeller of 
 illusions, began to convince Captain Mun- 
 ro, that the hopes with which he had hitherto 
 buoyed himself up, of yet obtaining his 
 father's forgiveness, were completely fal- 
 lacious. He was no sooner convinced 
 of this, than he made up his mind to 
 leave the army, for some situation that 
 might give him a chance of being able 
 to provide for the family there was a pro- 
 bability of his having. After some little 
 consultation with himself and his fair part- 
 ner, a country life was decided on, as both 
 
 were
 
 •82 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 were partial to Nature in her rural walks, 
 and he besides had^ he conceived, a suffi- 
 cient knowledge of agriculture to under- 
 take the management of a farm. 
 
 These p!ans for the future, once formed, 
 no time was lost in carrying them into 
 effect. Munro retired from the service on 
 half- pay, taking a difference, with which, 
 and his bond for three hundred pounds, 
 payable in the course of some years, he 
 purchased a small farm, about twenty miles 
 from the place of his nativity, for which he 
 had still something of that kind of at- 
 tachment some believe the disembodied 
 spirit to have for its deserted mansion of 
 clay. 
 
 For some years, during which he became 
 the father of two fine children, a boy and 
 a girl, he went on, perfectly satisfied at 
 iiaving, like Cincinnatus, turned his sword 
 into a ploughshare, when a bad harvest, and 
 the failure of some expensive speculative 
 experiments in agriculture, which he had 
 been induced to make by the example of 
 
 others
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 23 
 
 Others in the neighbourhood^ so embar- 
 rassed him, as to make him resolve on ano- 
 ther effort for a reconciliation with his father. 
 To resolve and to execute were almost the 
 same thing with him; he accordingly^ after 
 very little deliberation on the subject, set 
 off early one morning for the ancient man- 
 sion of his forefathers. 
 
 Various and affecting were the feelings 
 and reflections which arose in his mind, as 
 he drew near it. He could not, without 
 the liveliest emotion, review the haunts of 
 his youth, or think of those halcyon days, 
 in which no cloud rested on his prospect^ 
 no care dwelt on his heart, that they 
 brought to his remembrance; nevertheless, 
 he alighted at the castle with tolerable 
 composure, but which the sight, or rather 
 the emotion they evinced at seeing him, of 
 some of the old domestics who had lived 
 there during the lifetime of his mother, 
 and whom her successor, partly for the sake 
 of appearances, partly for the sake of gra- 
 tifying her pride, by being served by those 
 
 with
 
 ^4 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 with whom she had served, had been in- 
 duced to retain, nearly overcame him. 
 
 He imagined he should have found it a 
 difficult matter to gain access to his father, 
 but in this he was mistaken; since he had 
 found the way to the castle again, the old 
 gentleman doubted not his persisting in vi- 
 siting it until he had seen him ; he, therefore, 
 conceived it better at once to give him an 
 interview, in which opinion his lady and 
 oracle, as with reason she might be styled, 
 since he appealed to her judgment in every 
 instance, perfectly coincided, a concidence 
 for which he was indebted to her having 
 no longer any apprehension of his son's 
 regaining any influence over him, as also 
 to a wish of beholding him (the younger 
 Munro) mortified and disappointed — he 
 was accordingly admitted. To detail the 
 particulars of the interview were super- 
 fluous; suffice, after much argument on 
 one side, much altercation and invective 
 on the other, -Mr. Munro agreed to take 
 his son again into favour, provided he en- 
 deavoured
 
 THE DISCARDED SON", 55 
 
 dearourcd fo repudiate his wife, or,, at all 
 events, consented to send her and her chil- 
 dren to Spain. This inhuman, as well as 
 infamous proposal, was received with the 
 indignation it merited by the person to 
 whom it was addressed — an indignation 
 which nothing but its having come from 
 the lips of a parent could possibly have 
 restrained. 
 
 '' I am answered^ Sir/* said he, with forced 
 calmness, but an ashy ^nd quivering lip; 
 '• and that I may not forget v/har, from the 
 connexion which subsists between us, I 
 still wish to feel for you^ I will endeavour 
 to forget what you have said.'^ 
 
 He hurried to the hall — the old servants; 
 still lingered there, conjecturing and con- 
 versing—the pleasing expectations in v.diich 
 they had been rather indulging, from judg- 
 ing a little of the heart of his father by their 
 own, vanished the moment he appeared^as 
 his countenance was a faithful index t^o-^' 
 volume within. He pressed f-^^'tinie 
 the door^, but there wa" '' ^ ^^^'^ 
 
 YOL. I.
 
 20 THE DiSCArvDED SON. 
 
 and a mist in his eyes, at the moment, 
 'which prevented his immediately seeing 
 his horse was not there. The poor animal^ 
 indeed^ had met with a much better re- 
 ception than he had^ having been taken 
 into the stable and well fed. MunrOj the 
 instant he missed him^ requested he might 
 be broug:ht to him. He was obeved: but 
 as the old groom (Munro's first instructor 
 in the exercise of riding) held the stirrup 
 for him to mounts he could not forbear 
 saying, he was sure there was a more peri- 
 lous storm coming on than just then pre- 
 vailed. 
 
 ^'Aye, and so am I too^ Andrew^" cried 
 the housekeeper^, eagerly coming forward^ 
 though at the riok of having the fine crim- 
 son-coloured ribbon with which her cap 
 was bedecked, and on which she set no 
 small store^ in consequence of thinking it 
 vastly becoming, completely spoiled by 
 OK the rain — '''so am I too; it would be mad- 
 on the therefore, for any one who could get 
 his son again int(T9/'' 
 
 Munro^
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. ST 
 
 MiinrO;, as he settled himself in his saddle^ 
 looked earnestly in her face, and ^'but, my 
 friend, I can get no shelter here," nearly 
 escaped him; but though he could prevent 
 his tongue from speaking, he could not his 
 looks. 
 
 '' I have got a snug fire in my room/* 
 resumed the housekeeper, who read his 
 countenance quite as well as Lavater him- 
 self could have done, "and — and " 
 
 '' God bless you all, my good friends!" 
 cried Munro, in a broken and not very ar- 
 ticulate voice, his swimming eyes glanc- 
 ing hastily round; '' God bless you alii'' 
 he repeated more collectedly, and more 
 emphatically, as, ki.ssing and waving his 
 hand, he rode off, leaving them, in defiance 
 of the rain that {ell, the wind that howled, 
 rivettcd to the spot on which he had parted 
 from them, till he was out of sfght. 
 
 '' Ah, weel, weel ! "cried old Andrew, shak- 
 ing his grey locks, when he could no longer 
 sec him, '*^ all in God's own good time — 
 c 2 I dare
 
 28 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 I dare to say you'll be comforted for all 
 this." 
 
 "Oh, the savage! the barbarian!" ex- 
 claimed the housekeeper^, "with a kind of 
 wild stare, as if just avraking from a 
 trance, " to send his own flesh and blood 
 from the door in such an hour. Andrew," 
 lowering her voice a little, '' what do you 
 think such a body may expect in the next 
 world?" 
 
 Andrew, from perhaps thinking this ra- 
 ther too delicate a subject to enter upon, 
 declined answering the question ; but 
 days, weeks, months, nay years elapsed, 
 ere this the last visit of their young master, 
 as they all persisted in calling him, to his 
 native home, and the cruel treatment he 
 had experienced at it, ceased to be talked 
 of by them. 
 
 It was late when Munro reached Heath- 
 wood Farm, the name of his little purchase; 
 so late, that he found all his family, but 
 his wife, in bed. She had determined on 
 
 not
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. §9' 
 
 not retiring to repose till all hope of his 
 returning that night should be at an end. 
 His doing so destroyed the hopes she was 
 beginning to indulge^ as he had said^ if the 
 issue of his journey was prosperous, he 
 possibly, nay was almost positive he should 
 remain for the night at Glengary. She 
 endeavoured^ however, to conceal the 
 pangs which disappointment gave her, in 
 order to prevent her husband from being 
 more distressed than, with pain, with heart- 
 felt grief, she already saw he was. In place 
 of questioning him directly as to what had 
 passed, as perhaps some of the fair daugh- 
 ters of Eve might have done, she hastened 
 to assist him in changing his thoroughly 
 soaked garments for dry ones, threw fresh 
 wood upon the almost expiring fire, 
 ■which soon began to sparkle, and send 
 forth an animating blaze, and spread 
 the remains of her frugal dinner upon the 
 board. Munro was aflected, even to tears, 
 by her tender attentions — for, as the glo- 
 rious orb of day never appears so bright, 
 e 3 &•
 
 30 TEE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 fo cheering, as immediately after a storm, 
 so kindness never makes such an impres- 
 si-on upon the hejirt, as in the moment 
 that it is smarting beneath a sense of the 
 xeverse. 
 
 He clasped her to his bosom, he thanked 
 her for the comfort which, by her tender- 
 ness, she administered to his afflictions. 
 
 *' Should I not be very cruel, very un- 
 kind, not to comfort you for what I have 
 brought upon you?'' she fondly asked him, 
 as, sifting on his knee, her arm rested on 
 his shoulder. 
 
 ''You! youl** cried Munro, with a de- 
 gree of wildness, ''you bring afflictions on 
 me! — No, no,'' he passionately exclaimed, 
 ''it is my own imprudence, my own folly." 
 
 '* I shall be angry, very angry indeed," 
 cried Mrs. Munro, feigning a gaiety foreign 
 to her heart at the moment, and laying her 
 beautiful little hand upon his mouth, " if 
 you say that again — what, accuse yourself 
 of folly for marrying me!" 
 '"Of something worse," said he, with a 
 
 kind
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 31 
 
 land of reproachfal bitterness against him- 
 self; '' for have I not marred all thy flat- 
 tering prospects by doing so ?" 
 
 ^' And have you not equally injured your 
 ovv'n?*' 
 
 *■' Vv'ell, if you do not reproach me/* 
 resumed Munro, after a fe^v^ minutes of 
 thoughtfulness — '' if you do not repent 
 our union " 
 
 " I ! — Oh, if I never ha^ e cause to repent 
 any thing' more, I shall consider myself a 
 most fortunate woman.'* 
 
 " Then we may yet be happy, spite of 
 fortune/* cried her husband, straining her 
 to his heart. 
 
 " Nay, can we truly say we are now 
 altogether the reverse, possessed, as we are^ 
 of health, innocence, and liberty?** 
 
 "' True, true, these are blessings, indeed, 
 too great to permit those who possess them 
 to reckon themselves wretched ; inesti- 
 mable blessings, which, with gratitude, I 
 acknowledge ours ; and which, with the 
 assistance of Heaven, and by the exertions 
 c4 of
 
 32 TUB DISCARDED SON. 
 
 of industry^ I trust — my, morCj I doubt 
 not V7e shall be able to retain/' 
 
 '^ And if we should/* eagerly cried his 
 wife, clasping his hands in her% and look- 
 ing full in his face, ^' oh ! my dear friend, 
 though the roof %vhich sheltered our heads 
 was ten times more humble than it is, should 
 we not be content ?" 
 
 Muiiro bowed his head assentingly — to 
 speak at the moment was impossible. 
 
 Munro arose, the morning after his un- 
 successful journey toGlengary, with a heavy 
 heart — and, like Shakespeare's splenetic 
 Jacques, well disposed to rail at the world. 
 But as he knew melancholy and misan- 
 thropy would only render bad worse, he 
 checked his present inclination to each, 
 and resolved on losing no time in applying 
 his shoulder to the wheel — that by endea- 
 VfOuring to aid himself by virtuous exer- 
 tion, he might render himself deserving 
 of that of heaven. — The bond for three 
 hundred pounds was about this crisis nearly 
 due; on applying to know- whether a re- 
 newal
 
 THM 0lSCAFtIXED SpN^ 33 
 
 riewal of it would be accepted instead of 
 payment^ he learned that it had been passed 
 into the hands of a person who either hadjj 
 or pretended to have, immediate occasion 
 for the money. To prevent unpleasant 
 consequences, therefore) it was requisite i^ 
 should imm?ediately be discharged ; he there- 
 fore took the necessary steps for that pur- 
 pose; and with the sum he with difficulty ob- 
 tained, discharged his obligation, and: freed 
 himself also from some smaller debts, whfcch 
 he had iraiaivoidably contracted;, in conse* 
 q^nce of. the expence anddi^appoiatment 
 that hod attended hig experiments in agrii- 
 €#Mure. 
 
 For sQ-nae^ tsrae after this> thi^ngs wenton 
 pKetfey vv^elt at Heath^wood ; the children 
 -throve apace, and were at aiace the pride 
 atiid pri»4'ii|p^d. pleasure of their parents, 
 wh© mu-tuaUy assisted in tfhie task of in- 
 styucling them. A thousand, times, as the 
 foi^d fiat«heK g'az.ed upon-, trtem, he won- 
 dered haw his, owa caidd have prxDved so" 
 libd.ua;a>te to aim. — '"*■ What, what," he has 
 V^if]A e:iclaimtd to himself, as his eyes 
 c 5 wandered
 
 54 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 wandered alternately from one to the other, 
 '' could induce me to abandon these crea- 
 tures ? though stained with ten thousand 
 crimes — though loaded with obloquy — 
 though loathed and shunned by all the rest 
 of their species, yet, if sorrowful and con- 
 trite they approached my door, could I 
 keep it closed against them ? — oh, no! — 
 oh, no ! — worlds upon w^orlds could not 
 tempt, could not pre^pil on me to do so ; 
 their griefs^ their shame should be shel- 
 tered where their innocence once was, and 
 with their prayers mine should mingle, 
 and be offered up to Heaven for forgive^ 
 ness for them — that Heaven which disdains 
 not, as its creature man but too frequently 
 does, to accept repentance as an atone- 
 ment for error." 
 
 But the pleasure which the idolizing pa- 
 rents took in their children was often 
 damped and interrupted by anxiety for their 
 future welfare ; unable to make any cer- 
 tain provision for them, and aware of the 
 precariousness of life, they frequently 
 
 trendbled
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 35 
 
 trembled to think what their destiny might 
 be. 
 
 These fears, however, were never en- 
 couraged, and often lost, for a considerable 
 period, in their confidence in heaven. — As 
 the mind of Osmond (the name of their 
 son) began to expand, Munro felt per- 
 suaded, from the genius and understanding 
 he evinced, that if both were properly cul- 
 tivated, he would in all probability make 
 a distinguished figure in life, and obtain 
 the means, if not of greatly advancing, at 
 least of rendering his family comfortable. 
 This idea no sooner took possession of his 
 mind, than he determined on straining 
 every point to give him a liberal educa- 
 tion ; accordingly, as soon as he was qua- 
 lified to be sent thither, he accepted the 
 sacrifice of some rich trinkets of his wife's, 
 memorials of happier and more prosperous 
 days, for the purpose of raising a sufficient 
 sum to place and keep him at an English 
 university, which he preferred, on account 
 of the obstacles he doubted no; would be 
 c 6 thrown
 
 $9 THE BISCARDED SON. 
 
 thrown in the way of his advancement^ b?* 
 the malice of his grandfather's new con- 
 nexionSj if he attempted to settle in any 
 of the learned professions in Scatland. 
 
 For some time after this favourite plan 
 had been carried into execution, Munro 
 felt happier than he had been for a long 
 time before ; but ere the period allotted 
 for the academic pursuits of Osmond was 
 well more than half expired^ the expences 
 attending his being at the university, 
 though none but what were absolutely un- 
 avoidable were incurred, so greatly ex- 
 ceeded what he had conceived they would 
 be, that he dreaded he must be under th* 
 necessity of recalling him ere his education 
 was completed, and thus of resigning all 
 the flattering visions in which he had so 
 long indulged. More, he dreaded if this 
 should prove the case, seeing him the prey 
 of discontentand langour — unwilling, from 
 the notions he had probably given him, to 
 enter into any other than the line of life 
 which his unfinished education would then 
 4 incapacitate
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. S7 
 
 incapacitate him for. Cut the above ap- 
 prehension was not the only source of anx* 
 iety and uneasiness Munro now had ; he 
 now began to feel unhappy at seeing his 
 daughter, to whom, with the assistance of 
 her mother, he had, without senciing her 
 from the paternal roof, given an education 
 suitable to her birth, and what there was 
 €very reason to suppose her expectations 
 would have been, if he had not beej* 
 discarded by his- family, literally wasting 
 her sweetness on the desert air^ excluded 
 from the amusements suitable to her time 
 of life, and destined, to all appearance^ 
 either to marry som.e person inferior to 
 her, or find herself^ on advancing in life, 
 a solitary, unconnected being. 
 
 " Oh God !'* he has frequently exh 
 claimed at these moments, when his heart 
 was weighed down with anxiety about his 
 children, *' how maturely should a man 
 weigh every circumstance, ere he enters 
 into a state in which he is liable to incur 
 duties which cannot remain unfulfilled 
 
 without
 
 38 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 without making him feel torture 1 How 
 awful is the responsibility that the child 
 attaches to the parent, and yet how often 
 is it thoughtlessly incurred ! Oh ! in how 
 many instances does passion, headlong pas- 
 sion, make man, notwithstanding all his 
 boasted advantages, his reason, his powers 
 of reflection, appear inferior to the crea- 
 tures who have only instinct for their 
 .guide ! — he only seems to take no thought 
 for the future, he only who cannot untwist 
 the ties which nature winds around the 
 heart/' 
 
 Whatever W'Cre the feelings of the young 
 Elizabeth relative to her situation, she 
 carefully confined them to her own bosom ; 
 she clearly saw her parents stood too much 
 in need of consolation, not to endeavour 
 to administer it to them by a constant ap- 
 pearance of chearfulness. She had nearly 
 completed her seventeenth year, at the 
 period her father began to fear his pro- 
 jects^relative to her brother must be re- 
 linquished.
 
 TriE DISCARDED SON. 59 
 
 linquishedj and bore a strong resemblance 
 to her mother^ with this difference, that 
 her complexion was fairer, her stature 
 taller,, her black eyes still more bril- 
 liant and expressive. Her smile evinced 
 the sweetness of her temper, her voice 
 proclaimed the sensibility of her soul, her 
 actions and deportment the goodness of 
 her heart and excellence of her under- 
 standing, both of which had been most 
 assiduously cultivated. 
 
 She had early been taught the luxury of 
 doing good ; and that a well-improved 
 mind, like a contented heart, was a con- 
 tinual feast — like the woman celebrated in 
 the Proverbs, who cloathed her household 
 in scarlet and purple, she stretched out 
 her hand to the needy, though small thq 
 offering her narrow circumstances permit- 
 ted it to contain; but she remembered the 
 widow's mite, and small as it was, believed 
 it acceptable in the eyes of heaven. Her 
 mother, who had all that inherent gran- 
 deur of soul for which the Spaniards are 
 
 in
 
 40 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 in general distinguished, had rendered her 
 somewhat romantic, not only by their 
 conversation, out the studies in which she 
 had indulged her. 
 
 Munro, however, was not displeased at 
 this, since he considered romance the par- 
 rent of enthusiasm ; without a certain por- 
 tion of which, he believed it scarcely pos- 
 sible any thing great, any thing gloriou* 
 could be achieved. 
 
 Elizabeth had heard of balls, and plays, 
 and courts, and 'rasquerades, and she was 
 certain they must be all delightful ; yet 
 lively as her imagination was, she could 
 not conceive a higher pleasure to be de- 
 rived from them than she experienced whea 
 seated with an entertaining book, the oiTr 
 spring oF some vivid and liixuriattt fancy, 
 beneath a fresh tree's shade, inhaling th^ 
 \ight breeze that whispered through the 
 folia;;e, literally w-afting both health and 
 harmony. 
 
 This pleasure was heightened by its 
 lacing one she could »ot always indulge 
 
 in —
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 41 
 
 in — for Elizabeth had much to do at home; 
 she had been brought up to be useful to 
 herself and others^ and the principal ma- 
 nagement of the household concerns de- 
 volved on her;, as soon as she was of an age 
 to take it upon herself, her mother having a 
 large share of that indolence which in ge- 
 neral characterizes the natives of v/arm 
 climates^ particularly those of the one she 
 came from — and wishing, besides, to give 
 her a perfect knowledge of such affairs^ 
 in case she came to have a family of her 
 own. 
 
 Equal to her love of lifeerature, and 
 taste for it^ was Elizabeth's fondness and 
 taste for rural scenery ; she was a perfect 
 devotee of Nature's — a bold and beautiful 
 landscape never failed of inspiring her 
 with a thrilling sensation of delight; nor 
 was there any amusement which afforded 
 her gi eater gratification than did such con- 
 templations. To range over the slow ris- 
 ing hills — to lest on a rock whence the 
 streamlet distilled — to watch the rising of 
 
 the
 
 i2 
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 the golden-haired son of the sky — to be- 
 hold the clouds of night come rolling down 
 upon the dark brown steeps — the stars of 
 the north rising over the waves of the 
 ocean^ and shewing their heads of fire 
 through the flying, mists of heaven, were 
 ail sources of inexpressible delight to her, 
 such as inspired her mind with the most 
 rapturous enthusiasm, and made her heart 
 beat with the most delicious emotions. 
 
 The prospects to which she had been 
 accustomed from infancy, early furnished 
 her with ideas of the sublime, and, though 
 in a lesser degree, the beautiful. The 
 blue-fading mountains of the western High- 
 lands — a vast expanse of ocean and im- 
 mense forests of iir, composed the horizon 
 sSe was daily in the habit of contemplat- 
 ing ; while nearer, the natural wildness of 
 the scenery was here and there varied and 
 restrained by the hand of cultivation. 
 
 The house of Munro was an antique 
 rambling mansion, rough on the outside, 
 and plain within ; nothing fine, nothing 
 
 gaudy
 
 THK DISCARDED SON. 43 
 
 gaudy was to be seen in any part of it, 
 but in one room fitted up as a chapel for 
 Mrs. Munro^ who scrupulously adhered to 
 the faith of her ancestors, and at which 
 a priest, from a neighbouring town, at 
 stated periods officiated. 
 
 Mrs. Munro could not forbear express— 
 ing a wish to be allowed to bring up her 
 daughter at least in her own persuasion ; 
 but a wish which she relinquished without 
 a murmur, since, though devout, she was 
 not bigotted, on her husband's candidly 
 informing her that the indulgence of it 
 would in all probability render his father 
 more averse than ever to a reconciliation 
 with him, his bigotry being excessive, and 
 of consequence, his dislike to all who 
 either differed, or shewed any indulgence 
 to those who did, in the article of religion 
 from him. 
 
 In allowin<j his daughter to have been 
 educated in the religious tenets of her 
 mother, Munro would have done no vio-' 
 lence to his own feelings ; since, thougli 
 
 decidedly
 
 44 THB DISCARDED SON. 
 
 decidedly of opinion that, from the wa- 
 vering nature cf man, a settled form of 
 religion was necessary for all, he was 
 equally so, that if the heart was sincere 
 in its devotions, it mattered not to God 
 what that form was. In short, various 
 were the roads, he conceived, to heaven ; 
 and that the untutored Indian, who fancies 
 he sees God in the clouds, and hears hira 
 in the winds, so he performs his allotted 
 part to the best of his abilities, will have 
 an equal chance of happiness with the 
 most enlightened bishop. — But to revert 
 to the house. A few forest trees, of an- 
 cient date, cast a shade upon the Vv'indows; 
 and it was still further shrowded by a lux- 
 uriant shrubbery. Here intermingled the 
 various beauties of 
 
 •** L'dbarnam, rich 
 
 Its streaming gold ; syringa iv'ry pure ; 
 The scented and the scentless rose ; this red 
 And of an humbler growth, the other tall. 
 And tiirowing up into the darkest gloom 
 Of iA'ighb'ring cypress, or more sable yew, 
 
 Hei
 
 tHE DISCARDED SON. 45 
 
 Her silver globes, light as the foamy surf 
 
 That the wind severs from the broken wave j 
 
 The lilac, various in array, now white. 
 
 Now sanguine, and her beauteous head now set 
 
 With purple spikes pyramidal, as if 
 
 Studious of ornament, yet unresolv'd 
 
 Which hue she most approv'd, she chose them all. 
 
 Copious of flow'rs the woodbine, pale and wan, 
 
 But v;ell compensating her sickly looks 
 
 With never-cloying odours, early and late. 
 
 Hypericum all blown, so thick a swarm 
 
 Of flow'rs, like flies cloathing her slender rods. 
 
 That scarce a leaf appears ; mezerion too. 
 
 Though leafless, well attir'd, and thick beset 
 
 With blushing wreaths, investing cv'ry spray, 
 
 Alth^a with the purple eye j the broom, 
 
 Vellow and bright, as bullion unalloy'd. 
 
 Her blossoms ; and luxuriant above all 
 
 The jasmine, throwing wide her elegant sweets. 
 
 The deep dark green of whose unvarnish'd leaf 
 
 Makes more conspicuous, and illumines more 
 
 The bright profusion of her scatter'd stars." 
 
 This luxuriant shrubbery was laid out 
 in winding walks, the whole enclosed by 
 a neat paling, in which were different 
 openings leading to sequestered seats, si- 
 tuated
 
 45 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 tuated so as to command the most pleasing 
 views of the distant country. • 
 
 The house stood upon an extensive 
 heath, to the wildness of which the fields 
 and copses, together \v*ith the sheltered 
 cots, and here and there cultivated farms^ 
 which were discovered at its verge, formed 
 an agreeable contrast. The central track 
 through the heath became lost at some 
 distance from the house, in the tangled 
 mazes of what had formerly been a noble 
 forest, but of which, except a quantity of 
 underwood, no vestiges, save a few vene- 
 rable trees, now remained ; beneath the 
 shadow of whose melancholy boughs, the 
 ruins of a once celebrated abbey were 
 espied, now literally 
 
 ** A place of tcmbs. 
 Waste, desolate, where ruin dreary dwelt, 
 ^ Brooding o*er sightless skalls and crumbling bones j 
 Ghustful he sat, and e3'ed with stedfast glare 
 (Sad trophies of his power, where ivy t\Nmes 
 Its fatal green around) the falling roof. 
 The time-struck arch, the column grey with moss, 
 The leaning wall, the sculptur'd stone dcfac'd, 
 
 Whost
 
 TftE DISCARDED SON. 47 
 
 Whose mofiuraental flatt'ry, mix'd with dust. 
 Now hid the name it vainly meant to raise. 
 All was dread silence here and un:'".3turb'd. 
 Save what the wind sigh'd, and tae walling owl 
 Scrcam'd solitary to the mournful moon/* 
 
 The far-extended walls of this edifice, 
 magnificent in decay, and whether tinted 
 with the warm glow of the setting sun, or 
 silvered by the beams of the pale moon, 
 presenting an interesting object to the 
 eye of taste and feeling, gave an adequate 
 idcT of the grandeur of its original dimen- 
 sions, r>nd was stiH capable of affording a 
 temporary shelter. Amid.t the brambles 
 and brn hv;ood that overs^rew the oroiind 
 about.it, " grey stones, with their heads of 
 mobs/' here and there betrayed the nar- 
 row houses of death — the graves of those 
 who had lonsj since ceased to converse 
 with mortal men. 
 
 This decaying pile vvns a favourite haunt 
 of Elizabeth's ; the w^hispering echoes 
 which her stealing steps through its long- 
 drawn aisles and fretted vaults awakened, 
 
 where
 
 43 THE DISGAl^DED SON. 
 
 where once the pealing anthem swelled the 
 note of praise^ gave rise to sensations plea- 
 singly awful. The solemn meditations it led 
 to, suited the tender pensiveness of her spi- 
 rit — a tenderness, a pensiveness encreased 
 by the scenes she delighted to frequent; for 
 as an elegant writer has observed — '' The 
 lonely mountain and the silent grove sel- 
 dom fail of encreasing the susceptibility 
 of the female bosom." . 
 
 Wrapped in these meditations, she not 
 unfrequently wandered about, unmindful 
 of how the minutes waned, till roused to 
 recollection by some harsh note, somd 
 discordant cry, the hooting of the owl, 
 or the chattering of the daws, that held 
 their unmolested reign v;iihin the ruin. 
 These, however, v/ere not the only inha- 
 bitants it had, if the reports of the country 
 people in its vicinity were to be believed. 
 Tradition had given it other tenants, of 
 which superstition did not attempt to dis- 
 possess it — indeed it would have beon ra- 
 ther unkind and unmannerly to have done 
 
 so.
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 49 
 
 so^ as for a considerable time they gave 
 no cause of complaint whatever to their 
 neighbours. But every thing in this life, 
 sooner or later, must have an end, and 
 so had their peaceable behaviour; for just 
 about the period that Munro began to ex- 
 perience such uneasiness about his son, the 
 whole neighbourhood was thrpwn into a 
 state of confusion and dismay, in conse- 
 quence of the malicious tricks and vagaries 
 these idle and airy gentry began to play. 
 Willingly would the affrighted rustics have 
 entered into a subscription to defray the 
 expence of sending them to join Pharoah 
 and his host in the Red Sea — but, alas ! that 
 they knew not how to set about the matter. 
 
 Munro at first imputed their terror to 
 the power of imagination, but a very short 
 time served to convince him, from the tes- 
 timony of his own senses, that there was 
 some real foundation for it, as once or 
 twice, in passing the now dreaded ruin at 
 rather a late hour, and pausing near it, in 
 consequence of the prevailing report, he 
 
 VOL. I. D clearly
 
 50 TFIE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 clearly heard noises from within, well cal- 
 culated to alarm the unenlightened mind. — 
 This circumstance induced him, more than 
 once, to go over the building in the day- 
 time, and take his station near it at night ; 
 but nothing resulted from this measure, 
 as he had rather hoped and expected would 
 be the case, to enable him to prove, to his 
 rustic neighbours, that their credulity was 
 grossly imposed upon, doubtless for some- 
 thing more than the mere purpose of fright- 
 ening them. 
 
 The consternation gradually became 
 greater, and idleness, gossipping, and in- 
 ebriety, ensued from it. The alehouses 
 alone had reason to rejoice at the general 
 disturbance and dismay, as, owing to these, 
 they were regularly filled every evening 
 after sunset, and continued so till sunrise. 
 This conduct of the lower rustics was too 
 grievous and alarming to the higher ones, 
 particularly as the harvest was just on the 
 point of commencing, not to give rise to 
 much consultation among them ; but from 
 
 which.
 
 tHte DISCARDED SON. 5 1 
 
 vrhich, owing to want of r^soliition in 
 some^ and obstinacy in others^ no good 
 whatever resulted. 
 
 Munro^ who purposely joined in all 
 their deliberations on the subject^ proposed 
 a nightly watch being kept for some time 
 in the abbey ; but this proposition was 
 almost unanimously rejected. At lengtli, 
 one evenings a farmer/ of the name of 
 Stubbs^ whose land joined his^ came into 
 a field where he was^ and after some little 
 conversation, " Captain/' said he^ ^' I have 
 been thinking of what you said about pass- 
 sing a night or two in that crazy old build* 
 ing yonder, which, God forgive me for say- 
 ing such wicked words, I wish the devil 
 had dropt some of his burning brimstone 
 into long ago, for then we should not have 
 been in such a mess as we are now in about 
 it; and if so be as how }ou still think it 
 would be a good thing to do, why I am 
 agreeable to doing so along with you ; for 
 one may as well — nay, had better run the 
 risk of facing old Nick himself (the Lord 
 D 2 sav« 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF
 
 B2 THE DISCARDED SOX. 
 
 save and defend us from ever seeing his 
 cloven feet or long tail), as let matters go 
 on in this way. There was last night, after 
 being comfortably settled in bed and 
 asleep, I was forced to get np to go and 
 pen the sheep myself, because the boy 
 that looks a'ter them could neither be 
 made to do so by fair or by foul means ; 
 flat and plain, he told his mistress the devil 
 might pen them for him — he wouldn't run 
 the risk of his life or his senses by going 
 a'ter them to the ruin, about which they 
 were feeding— not he, for the best wither 
 in the flock.'' 
 
 Munro assured the farmer he ivas as w^ell 
 inclined as ever to do what he had pro- 
 posed, as a probable means of detecting 
 the nocturnal disturbers of the abbey. He 
 advised him, however, to keep their inten- 
 tion a profound secret, which the other 
 readily promised ; and it was agreed that 
 they should go thither that very night, as 
 soon as darkness had spread its raven wings 
 pver the hemisphere. This agreement 
 
 Munro
 
 * THE DISCARDED SON, 55' 
 
 Miinro could not think of concealing from 
 his family^ well knowing the uneasiness his 
 absence from home for a night would oc- 
 casion, if thev could not account for it. — 
 At the appointed hour Stubbs called upon 
 him^ and both immediately proceeded on 
 their secret expedition » Munro armed 
 with a swordj and his companion with a 
 pitch-forkj as the weapon he was best ac- 
 customed iOj but which for the present 
 was laid across a basket of provisions, 
 that, together with a dark lanthorn, he 
 carried. 
 
 Munro had scarcely entered the deso- 
 lated pile, ere its cold and dampness struck 
 a chill to his heart, as did its darkness to 
 that of the farmer. What the latter did 
 not like, he never patiently endured, ex- 
 cept compelled to do so ; he therefore 
 never ceased groping about till he had 
 collected a sufficient quantity of sticks and 
 rotten wood, to form a large pile in the 
 stone hall in which they were, and to 
 which (notwithstanding all the remon- 
 D 3 stranees
 
 54 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 strances of Munro^ who represented to 
 hiin the little probability there was of their 
 being able to make any discovery^ if they 
 exposed themselves to detection^ as they 
 must inevitably do^ by surrounding them- 
 selves with light) he set fire. 
 
 " Why dang it — dang it. Captain/' cried 
 the farmer, rubbing his head as soon as 
 be had satisfied himself, '' 'tis bad enough 
 in any way to be here ; but to be so in 
 the coldanddark, would be more than any 
 one could put up with. I am sure you 
 may be glad I have lit a fire, for you look 
 as cold and as blue, as the saying is, as a 
 calf of a frosty morning. Besides, Cap- 
 tain, if there was any thing to be seen, 
 how the duce could we see it without 
 light ?^* 
 
 '' True, true, my friend,'* replied Munro 
 wiili affected gravity; " I see you are at 
 no loss for sound argument to support the 
 propriety of what you do." 
 
 '' Why yes," cried the farmer, with a 
 look of the most perfect self-compla- 
 
 cencVjj
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 55 
 
 cenc}^ " why yes/' his broad features dis- 
 tended by a smile of mingled satisfaction 
 and importance^ and giving what he cal- 
 led a knowing look, " I think I know 
 what I am about, but I shouldn't be vain — 
 noa ! noa \" shaking his head, '' 1 should 
 not indeed; for it is my poor father, 
 God rest his soul, I may thank for being 
 what I am, for he gave me good learning as 
 soon as I could take it. I was for two years 
 and three months at a school, at the rate 
 of a crown a-quarter, kept by ■" 
 
 *' Oh well^'' said Munro, perhaps not 
 consciously interrupting him, '' the ex- 
 pence was not thrown away/' 
 
 '' No, no, that's what father said. — 
 ' Boy,' he has often and often said, ' I 
 don't grudge w^hat I have laid out upon 
 your learning, because I see as- how you 
 takes to it.' — Just as you and I, Captain, 
 said last autumn, about our two corn-fields 
 that cost us so much to manure. — ' We 
 don't grudge,' says we, ' the expence these 
 here fields have cost- us in manuring, be- 
 D 4 cause
 
 h6 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 cause they have yielded us such a plentiful 
 crop this season." 
 
 On each side of the yawning chasm in 
 which Stubbs had kindled the fire, a kind 
 of rude and partly-demolished bench pro- 
 jected a little way into the hall^ on which 
 he and bis companion seated themselves 
 opposite one another; the basket of pro- 
 visions^ containing a jar of strong ale, 
 ham, cheese, and bread, was unpacked and 
 placed between them, and they soon fell to 
 upon its contents. But though the farmer 
 had recourse to every method in his power 
 to keep up his spirits, and continued to 
 talk boldly, it was evident to Munro that 
 he gradually began to grow faint-hearted : 
 this, however, he did not pretend to see, 
 trusting, that by giving him credit for 
 courage, he should inspirit him suffici- 
 ently to enable him to retain, at least, 
 the semblance of it — That a scene more 
 calculated than the present to affect a mind 
 inclined to superstition, could not well be 
 found, be could not help acknowledging 
 
 to
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 57 
 
 to himself, and of course, in some de- 
 gree, excusing the gradual evaporation 
 of poor Stubbs's valour. The building 
 ^vas not only known to be remote from 
 every inhabited one, but the wind made 
 a hollow and a moaning noise throughout 
 it, that might well at times have been 
 mistaken for the sighings and lamen- 
 tations of distrerss : a shattered staircase 
 descended to the hall, above which all 
 appeared involved in ruin, mystery, and 
 darkness; while, on the green and slimy 
 w^alls, the quivering and uncertain light 
 threw shadows more fantastic than any but 
 the most disordered imagination could 
 possibly have given birth to, 
 
 '' It is a cheerless spot indeed,'' said 
 he, after a short iiiterval of silence, during 
 which his eye had been busily employed 
 in looking about him ;. '' many years, I 
 doubt, have elapsed since any thing like 
 social comfort has before been seen in it." 
 
 '' Yes, and many more, s!:ouId it last 
 
 30 long, will pass away, ere any thing of 
 
 a 5> thQ-
 
 58 THE DfSCARDED SON. 
 
 the like will be seen again in it/' replied 
 the farmer; '' for I am beginning to think. 
 Captain, that ghost-watching is not the 
 most agreeable employment in the world ; 
 and as to my neighbours, I needn't say 
 "what their opinion on the subject is.'* 
 
 '^ The speedy detection of those who 
 occasioned them so much uneasiness, will, 
 I trust, render any further watching unne- 
 cessary,*' answered Munro. 
 
 CHAP,
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 59 
 
 CHAP. II. 
 
 ** Heav'n has to all allotted, soon or late, 
 Some lucky revolutions of their fate. 
 Whose motions, if we watch and guide with skilly 
 (For human good depends on human will). 
 Our fortune rolls as from a smooth descent. 
 And from the first impression takes the bent; 
 But, if unseiz'd, she glides away Hke wind. 
 And leaves repenting Folly far behind.** 
 
 DRVDEK, 
 
 OW that we are upon the subject of 
 ghosts and hobgoblins, and suchlike trum- 
 pery^ pray may I ask you. Captain, (for I 
 know you are a good scholar, and have 
 seen a good deal of the world, and can, 
 therefore, give an opinion on these 
 matters one may depend on), do you 
 think," cried the farmer, making an effort, 
 B 6 but
 
 60 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 but a vain one, the bench being fastened 
 to the ground, to pull his seat nearer to 
 Munro, ''^that a man, having all the Chris- 
 tian duties paid to his remains, such as 
 having a good coffin given to him, and 
 being laid in a snug grave, either has a 
 right to, or can come back to disturb his 
 neighbours, which, God knows, perhaps, 
 he did sufficiently while living?" 
 
 '' With God nothing is impossible," re- 
 plied Munro, in a solemn tone; "but i 
 seems most improbable, to a mind of sensi 
 and reflection at least, that a Being ot 
 mercy and benevolence, such as he is re- 
 presented, such as all his works testify him 
 to be, such as daily experience and obser- 
 vation convince us he is, for who is there 
 that has not h]i his manifold mercies anc' 
 loving -kindness, should permit his crea- 
 tures to be needlessly tormented; it is, 
 therefore, my firm^ my immutable opinion, 
 that the spirit once returned unto God, 
 who gave it, it revisits this nether scene no 
 
 iQore, " to make night hideous, and us " 
 
 '^Aye^
 
 THE DISCARDED SO^T^ 61 
 
 '•"Aye^ ^y^/* eagerly interrupted the far- 
 mer, '' you may well say that, indeed — to 
 make niglit hideous — well, well, this is 
 comfortable — this is comfortable," wiping 
 his forehead (which was rather a little damp 
 at the moment, but whether from the heat 
 of the fire, or whether from the oozing out 
 of his valour, cannot be determined \ with 
 the corner of his coloured neckcloth; '' 1 
 shall tell my folks at home what you have 
 said, in hopes it may have some effect 
 upon them; for, if a mouse does but scratch 
 now in the cupboard, or a bat flit across 
 the room. Lord, there is such a kick-up in a 
 moment, that one would be tempted ta 
 think Bedlam was broke loose/^ 
 
 They continued to converse with very 
 little intermission, but much against the 
 inclination of Munro, as too much silence 
 could not, he conceived, be observed, for 
 the enabling them to accomplish the pur- 
 pose which had brought them to the build- 
 ing. The farmer, however, derived a kind 
 of false courage, from hearing the sound 
 
 of
 
 62 THE BISCARDED SON. 
 
 of his own voice and his companioh'is^ 
 which rendered him regardless of the re- 
 monstrances Munro made on the subject. 
 At lengthy after a long sitting, and when 
 the contents of the basket, and the fire, 
 and light in the lanthorn^ were nearly ex- 
 hausted, the farmer, whose patience was 
 also by the same time equally so, proposed 
 their breaking up watch for that night: to 
 •which proposal Munro, who, frqm the con- 
 duct the farmer had pursued, had no idea 
 of their being able to efiect any discovery^ 
 "Was on the point of acquiescing, when a 
 tremendous noise^ immediately over their 
 heads, resembling that which thunder makes 
 when rumbling over a building, arrested 
 his words. He started, grasped his sword 
 with firmness, and looked around him; 
 while the eyes of the farmer began to stare, 
 his teeth to chatter, and his complexion 
 to assume a livid hue. The rumbling noise 
 over head continued for some minutes, and 
 was then succeeded by shrieks, or rather 
 yells, of a most terrific nature^, such as 
 
 torture
 
 THE DISCARDED SON, S3t 
 
 torture alone could be supposed to occa- 
 sion. 
 
 " Oh, CaptaiUj, Captain!" cried the far- 
 mer, on hearing these appalling sounds, 
 and starting from the bench to which ter- 
 ror had at first rivetted him — '' Oh, Captain, 
 Captain V extending his arms towards 
 him. 
 
 Munro raised his finger significantly to 
 motion him to silence; the next instan^t he 
 heard the stairs creaking, he glanced his 
 quick eye upwards, and at the head per- 
 ceived a tall skeleton-like figure, enve- 
 loped in what appeared to be a winding- 
 sheet, and surrounded by a pale luminous 
 light. He instantly snatched up the Ian- 
 thorn, and darted to the staircase, forgetful 
 of its shattered state; scarcely, however, 
 had he set his foot on it, ere he was re- 
 minded of this by the failure of one of the 
 steps, and but that he caught, as it gave 
 way, at a banister, he must have fallen 
 through the chasm he had thus made. He 
 now recollected what sudden emotion had 
 5 before
 
 64 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 before rendered him forfjetfiil of, that, at 
 the side of the staircase, there was a door 
 leading to a narrow shelving passage, end- 
 ing at a flight of winding steps, which he 
 doubted not having a communication with 
 the apartments above; he therefore hasten- 
 ed onward, and had just reached them, when 
 the frightful apparition he was in quest of 
 rushed down them, and passing him with the 
 quickness of'lightning, vanished through a 
 small space at the side of the passage which a 
 door had once occupied. Munro pursued, 
 and found himself in a small square stone 
 room, half sunk underground, and which 
 he perfectly recollected having examined 
 before, but without beino* able to dis- 
 cover more than one inlet into it. Again 
 he went round it, feeVmf^j as he did so, 
 all along the walls, but without meeting 
 with any thing to impede the progress 
 of his hand. ^u\fter a little deliberation, he 
 determined on pursuing this adventure no 
 further for the present, since he could not 
 avoid thinking his doing so incompatible 
 
 "with
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. ()5 
 
 with his safety^ alone and unaided as he 
 was; besides^ he doubted not the farmer 
 being in want of his assistance. He ac- 
 cordingly hastened back to the hall^ where 
 he found him exactly in the same spot 
 in which he had left him^ his pitchfork 
 presented^ his eyes staring wildly^ his hair 
 upright, every feature, in short, betoken- 
 ing horror and dismay. Munro shook 
 him several times by the shoulder, and 
 then made him swallow some ale which 
 fortunately remained; this brought him a 
 little to himself, and after heaving a deep 
 sigh, or rather groan, and wiping his 
 damp forehead — " Well, Captain, well,'* 
 cried he, *^ did you catch it?" Munro in- 
 formed him of the issue of the adventure, 
 " The Lord have mercy upon us!" cried 
 he, after hearing it — '' Captain, Captain, 
 let us be going; but don't ye think, don't 
 ye, that I'm afraid — no, no, if I had been 
 so, instead of keeping my ground here, as 
 you yourself saw I did, I should have kept 
 at your heels." 
 
 '- Oh,
 
 €J3 the DISCARDTiD SON. 
 
 " Ohj no doubt," cried Miinro encou- 
 ragingly ; " but come, as you say, my good 
 friend, let us be off, for we shall make no 
 further discovery here to-night, I am sure. 
 Take my advice, and keep what we have 
 seen a secret, or else things will be worse 
 than ever; and also take my word for it, 
 that the spirit we saw this night is one 
 enveloped in wicked flesh and blood, to 
 which, I most sincerely hope, you may yet 
 have an opportunity of giving a good 
 ducking in your horse-pond, since I can 
 scarcely think any punishment too severe 
 for the, person ^yho wantonly sports wirh 
 the feelings of his fellow-creatures/* 
 
 The fanrrcr readily promised the secresy 
 he desired, but by his silence relative to 
 what he had said of the apparition, evi- 
 dently proved he could not be persuaded 
 to be of his opinion respecting it. They 
 quitted the building, and Munro saw his 
 companion safely housed ere he parted 
 from him. 
 
 The next day he re-examined the abbey 
 
 more
 
 THi: DISCARDED SON. 67 
 
 more narrowly than he had ever done 
 before^ but without being able to discover 
 the traces of any human beings, but the 
 farmer and himself, having been lately in 
 it. He again proposed having a watch kept 
 there for a few nights, but the proposal 
 was now so universally negatived, and his 
 wife and daughter expressed such uneasi* 
 ness at the idea of his going thither again 
 at such a time, that he gave up all inten- 
 tion of doing so. 
 
 His anxiety about his son now daily en- 
 creased, as every day tended still further 
 to convince him of the impracticability of 
 keeping him much longer at the Univer- 
 sity, except some unexpected change took 
 place in his circumstances, of which he had 
 not the remotest expectation ; no, his 
 prospects were now, on every side, cheer- 
 less and barren; and, by degrees, his in-» 
 cessant contemplation of them made him 
 acquire an abstracted manner, and a look 
 of »moody care, which drew upon him the 
 observations of his neighbours, and excited 
 
 variousi
 
 68 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 rarious conjectures among them as to the 
 cause of it; some thought one thing, some 
 another; all agreed^ however, that it must 
 be something very grievous which thus 
 Weighed upon him. 
 
 Farmer Stubbs, who, whatever may be 
 thought to the contrary, was (ghosts and 
 fiuch like trumpery, as he styled them, out 
 of the question) not only one of the 
 bravest but honestest of men, saw and 
 thought as much as his neighbours, but,. 
 unlike them, remained silent with respect 
 both to his remarks and surmises, it beinof 
 a maxim with him, that a man has no right 
 to busy himself, unasked, about the affairs 
 of another. He had somehow^ (doubtless 
 from that secret sympathy which, be their 
 education ever so different, exists between 
 worthy hearts), contracted avast liking for 
 the Captain, he said, such as at any time 
 would have made him fi^ht for him through 
 thick and thin; and it now vexed him to 
 the soul, though he said nothing about the 
 matter, to see him drooping his head, like 
 
 a blighted
 
 THE DISCAHDED SON, 69 
 
 a blighted ear of corn^ and going about as 
 if crazed with care. 
 
 One evening;, as this honest farmer was 
 digging in a fields, he was joined by a 
 neighbour of the name of Watkins^ a sly, 
 cunning, canting man, of Methodistical 
 manners and appearance, who, though he 
 professed to love good works above all 
 things, was supposed to love good cheer 
 better; and who, having by some means 
 or other (not altogether to his credit, 
 if the report of the goddess who blew 
 the brazen trump in the little village of 
 Heathwood v/as to be believed) scraped to- 
 gether sufficient to permit him to indulge 
 his propensity for idleness, the offspring of 
 a creeping, grovelling disposition, passed 
 much of his time in running about to col- 
 lect new^s of his neighbours, which he de- 
 tailed Vs^ith.the utmost avidity, especially 
 if it was of an unfavourable nature, as he 
 was quite as malicious and envious as he 
 was greedy and hypocritical. 
 
 Against Munro he had what is vulgarly 
 
 called
 
 70 THE DISCAP.DED SOX. 
 
 called a particular gruclge, owing to Ms 
 having espoused, and finally enabled her to 
 triumph over him, the cause of a poor 
 widow, who, by some unexpected casualty^ 
 had fallen into his power; as also on ac- 
 count of his having repulsed the eflfbrtS he 
 made to be on familiar terms with him and 
 his family. 
 
 Stubbs, who had but little notion of 
 ceremony, and who, moreover, did every 
 thing but hate Watkins, for to do that he 
 knew would be unchristian-like, took no 
 notice whatever of his approach, but con- 
 tinued digging away as if he had seen no 
 one. Watkins, who knew him well, and 
 stood much in dread of him, so much, in- 
 deed, that he did every thing he could think 
 of as likely to conciliate his regard, at- 
 tempted not to interrupt him by speaking, 
 till he paused to take breath; he then, 
 after ^^ A fine evening, neighbour, a fine 
 evening,*' added, with what he intended 
 for an approving smile — '' I see thou dost 
 not eat the bread of idleness." 
 
 '^No,"
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 71 
 
 '"•'No/* replied Stubbs, as^ after rubbing 
 his hand against his waistcoat^ he dug- his 
 spade, with the assistance of his foot, again 
 into the ground, '' no, 'tis bad bread for 
 any one/' 
 
 " Truly thou sayest right in saying so; 
 those who hanker after it will surely meet 
 with punishment/' 
 
 " Doubtless, doubtless," returned the 
 farmer, again applying his foot to the 
 spade. 
 
 " I say, neighbour," resumed Watkins, 
 after a short pause — '' I say," twitching him 
 by the sleeve, and pointing with his thumb 
 over his left shoulder towards the house of 
 Munro, conspicuous from the spot on 
 which they were, " some folks yonder will 
 soon repent, if they already don't, having 
 indulged themselves in it/' 
 
 "Well, what's that to you?" replied the 
 other, but without seeming to understand 
 who he alluded to; "'you won't be obliged 
 also to repent for their having done so/' 
 
 '^'Me! no, God forbid that any of us 
 
 should
 
 f^ THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 should be obliged to answer for' the siiis 
 or indiscretions of others !'* 
 
 ^' Why, I believe/' and Stubbs leered a 
 little slily at the demure and sanctified- 
 looking Watkins, '' it would be a bad job 
 for some folks if they were, seeing as how 
 they are loaded with so heavy a burthen of 
 their own." 
 
 '' But I say, neighbour/' cried Watkins, 
 eagerly returning to the subject, for the 
 purpose of discussing which with him, he 
 had alone sought out Stubbs — " I say, you 
 must lately have seen something wrong in 
 the house of the Captain, as he is called, 
 though why he should, since not receiving 
 the king's pay, I can't tell?" 
 
 '' No, not I," replied Stubbs, without 
 seeming to notice this last observation — 
 "not I," digging aw^ay ; " what should I see 
 wrong in it? have the rats eat through the 
 walls?" 
 
 " The rats ! — ha ! ha ! — No — yet, never- 
 theless, the prop, the main beam, the 
 grand support of the building, is, I think, 
 
 going
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 75 
 
 going fast; but thou dost not, perhaps/' 
 observing the other suddenly suspend his 
 labour, and regard him with a kind of 
 vacant stare, " understand metaphorical 
 language; I will, therefore, explain — Thou 
 must know, then, that the Captain (I know 
 I should not please thee if I styled him 
 otherwise) has brought himself into such 
 trouble, by trying to bring up his son 
 as a gentleman, that I should not won- 
 der if he soon went the way of all flesh," 
 and he pointed with his finger to the 
 ground, " he frets, and takes on so — for 
 which, verily, I should pity him, but that 
 I think his pride merits chastisement: for 
 what biit pride, his wishing to have his' 
 brats hold their heads, like himself, above 
 the honest folks about them, could have 
 made him think of sending his son to the 
 University forsooth, knowing, as to be 
 sure he must, he hadn't a shilling, nor a 
 chance of getting a shilling, to give him?'* . 
 
 *' Has he asked you," demanded Stubbs, 
 *^ to help him to pay for his being there?'* 
 
 VOL. I. E '"Me!
 
 74 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 '' Me! no truly, it would be strange if 
 he had, being, as I am, of no kindred to 
 him." 
 
 *' Then, since he has not, I see no right 
 you have to trouble yourself about the 
 matter, for I suppose you'H'allow every 
 one has a right to do what they please with 
 their own ?" 
 
 '' Yea, truly, I grant it; but, notwith- 
 standing a man may give an opinion about 
 another/* 
 
 '' To be sure — to 1. ' sure he may/' 
 cried Stubbs; '' bi;:, by goles, he had 
 sometimes better not/' 
 
 ^^ Nay, veiily this is the land of liberty," 
 said the other, waxing a little, very little 
 warm, for he was a peaceable man when in 
 company, as was the case at present, with 
 any one he was afraid of, " and a man 
 may, therefore, say what he pleases/' 
 
 '^ No, there you are out/' cried Stubbs; 
 ^' he mayn't talk trea.oii, \ei him like to do 
 so never so much; and, I believe," looking 
 significantly at WatkinSj who was shrewdly 
 
 suspected
 
 TKE DISCARDED SON. 75 
 
 suspected of Jacobinical principles, '' I 
 know some folks who would well enough.*' 
 
 '' PhOj every fool knows tliat ! But, as I 
 was saying, it goes so heavily now with 
 the Captain, that truly I should not wonder 
 if he soon broke his heart, or/' and he 
 
 drew his hand across his throat '^ you 
 
 understand me — the unrighteous have ever 
 a bad end/' 
 
 "The unrighteous! — And who told you 
 Captain Munro was an unrighteous man?" 
 
 " Why, hath he not been cast off by the 
 father who begot him?" 
 
 '' Yes, but there are unnatural fathers." 
 
 " But, I tell thee, old Squire Munro had 
 reason to throw off his son, for he wasted 
 his substance in riotous living, and brought 
 the grey hairs of his mother with sorrow to 
 the grave." 
 
 "■ You tell me ! but who told you ? 
 Amongst the things," continued Stubbs, 
 suddenly sticking his spade into the earth, 
 putting his arms akimbo, and advancing 
 nearer to the other, '' you have heard of 
 E % men's
 
 76 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 men's eating, have you ever heard, neigh- 
 bour Watkins^ of their eating their own 
 words?" 
 
 '' Why, verily no/' cried the other^ 
 stepping a little backward, '' I can't say, 
 neighbour Stubbs, that I have/* 
 
 ^' Then I have/' resumed Stubbs; ^^and, 
 what is more, I have often made a man do 
 so; and, what is more again, Ihavn'tlost 
 the knack yet by wbich I did so," and he 
 nodded his head with meaning to him, and 
 returned to his spade. 
 
 '' I protest thou art a facetious man," 
 cried Watkins, returning in a few minutes 
 to the spot from which he had just made a 
 retrogade motion. 
 
 '' Not always — I am not facetious now," 
 said the other in rather a surly tone. 
 
 '^And why art thou not? I have not an- 
 gered thy spirit, I hope — verily, if I have, 
 it was without intending, for I only meant 
 to have a little harmless gossip with thee/* 
 
 ^'l don't like gossip," in the same surly 
 tone he had just spoken in; '^ 'tis only fit for 
 
 women
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 77 
 
 women and maudlin men ; if you Avant any 
 more^ therefore, you had better go off to 
 your wife, and I take it you'll have enough; 
 and, hearkee, by the hye, tell her she had bet- 
 ter not let that old turkey-cock of her's be 
 ranging about at large, as he has done for 
 some time past, scaring all the women and 
 children — there's not a girl in the parish 
 can wear a bit of pink ribbon for him; and^ 
 as to my dame, she's mad as the duece, be- 
 cause she can't wear the red petticoat her 
 daughter sent her a present of, for fear of 
 him. Dang me, if the old bully comes in 
 my way, if I don't hit him a stounder shall 
 make him look about him." 
 
 '' That would not be right nor seemly — 
 thy neighbour's land-mark," added Wat- 
 kins in a nasal tone, '' or thy neighbour's 
 cattle, thou should'st not touch." 
 
 '' Why, as to touching his land-mark, by 
 which I take it you mean his hedges and 
 stakes, I should do no such thing, because 
 I think to do so would be roguish, and, 
 moreover, might bring me into trouble; 
 E 3 but.
 
 7S THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 but, as to giving any of his cattle a douse 
 in the chops, if they affront id me, I should 
 make no more bones of doing so, than I 
 would to my neighbour himself, if he did 
 the same." 
 
 " Yet it is a bad thing to smite a man; 
 the Lord delighteth to behold brethren 
 dwelling together in unity, in that good 
 peace and fellowship, which, I trusty neigh- 
 bour Stubbs, will ever exist between us^ for 
 I like thee much; thou art a man of a plea- 
 sant countenance;, and thy discourse also is 
 pleasant: why wilt not thou and thy spouse 
 let me and my wife have more of thy com- 
 pany? we do desire it much.'' 
 
 " I have something else to do than to 
 company keep; and, as to my dame, why, 
 havn't I told vou already of that old black- 
 guard sentinel of a turkey-cock you keep 
 strutting before your door; you don't sup- 
 pose she wants to be gobbled up as Tom 
 Thumb was?" 
 
 ''Ha! ha! you maketh me of a cheerful 
 spirit — truly I did not know^ till now, the 
 
 bird
 
 THE DISCARDED SON, 79 
 
 tird was so troublesome to the maidens; if 
 he doth not deport himself better for the 
 future^ I shall rebuke him." 
 
 "Rebuke him !— O Lord! O Lord!" 
 cried Stubbs^, seized with an immoderate 
 fit of laughter^ and supporting himself 
 with the spade; " and so you didn't know 
 that^ like yourself, he was running after 
 the maidens?'* 
 
 '' Fye, neighbour, fye ! I run aitei them ! 
 no: — I can't deny but J like the damsels^ 
 but then it is " 
 
 '^ Come, come, don't burthen your poor 
 soul with any more lies this dav — if you 
 never did worse than like a prettv girl^ 
 why no one could say bad of you except 
 they lied." " 
 
 " I know not that any one speaketh 
 ill of me." 
 
 " No ! why then in time, perhaps, you'll 
 be wiser." 
 
 '' Neighbour," cried Watkins, '' I like 
 
 r.ot dark sayings; let me know who speaketh 
 
 E 4 evil
 
 ^0 THE DISCAP-DED SON. 
 
 evil of me, that I may bring an action 
 against them, and obtain damages/* 
 
 "No, I'll never put it in any one's 
 power, if I can help it, to make a man pay 
 for telling the truth/' replied Stubbs, with 
 the utmost coolness. 
 
 '*■ Truth!'' vexedly repeated Watkins. 
 
 *^ Yes; and now that we are upon the 
 subject of truth, pray may I make just so 
 bold as to ask you, who told you that Cap- 
 tain Munro was in trouble for having sent 
 his son to the University?" 
 
 Watkins hesitated to reply. 
 
 '' Oh, if you don't give me an author 
 for what you have said, I shan't believe a 
 word of it." 
 
 Watkins still hesitated; but, at length, 
 rather than have his veracity doubted, and 
 himself perhaps brought into trouble for 
 the supposed fabrication of a falsehood, 
 proceeded to say it was his niece, who lived 
 as servant at the Captain's. 
 
 *' And pray how came she by her know- 
 ledge
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 81 
 
 ledge of his uneasiness ?" asked Stubbs. *^ I 
 take It, neither the Captain^ nor any of his 
 family^ made her their confidant." 
 
 '' No, to be sure not/' Watkins replied, 
 '' but she had ears.'' 
 
 '' Which she applied to the key-hole/* 
 resumed Stubbs^ with quickness. ^^ I wish 
 to the Lord that Old Nick, who tempted 
 her to do so, had nailed them to it ! this is 
 the way in which so much mischief is done 
 in the world, peaceable people set by the 
 ears, and innocent characters destroyed; 
 for what an eaves -dropper cannot hear 
 they will make out, out of their own 
 wicked heads, that they may have a story 
 to tell. Shame, shame unto those who 
 hearken to them ! thev are, like the receiver 
 of stolen goods, worse than the thief him- 
 self You who pretend to be so good, and 
 so pious, and so discreet, to encourage 
 a young thing, like your niece, in such 
 shameless doings ! why you may just as well 
 encourage her to give away his property, 
 his meat^ and his drink, and his coals, and 
 E 5 his
 
 82 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 his candles, as to pry into his secrets and 
 betray them. By the Lord, if a wench be- 
 longing to me was to bring me such tattle, 
 I'd give her chops a boxing that should 
 make them tingle for hours! I am John 
 Bull — I was born on the other side of the 
 Tweed — and I like to speak my mind/' 
 
 *'But how dost thou know I encouraged 
 my niece to speak of her master?'' 
 
 *' How do I know 1 why, if you didn't, 
 wouldn't you have stopped her mouth the 
 moment she attempted to open it about 
 his affairs? But I know^ the reason you are 
 so anxious to pry into his concerns; I know 
 'tis in hopes of discovering some ill, some 
 evil of him, for you hate him — yes, I know 
 your heart is full of spite and malice against 
 him, and I know also for why. But you'll 
 spit them forth in vain against him," and 
 with violence Stubbs again drove his spade 
 into the ground — " yes, in vain, I say, for 
 the Lord will uphold the good against the 
 machinations of the wicked; and Captain 
 Munro is good; yes, he is a just man — he 
 
 gives
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 83 
 
 gives to every one their due; he speaks ill 
 of no one; out of his little he giveth to the 
 poor; he has brought up his children to 
 fear God, to honour the king, and to love 
 their neighbours — that is, 1 suppose^*' said 
 the Farmer, a little hesitatingly, ''such as 
 he thinks deserving of their love; and what 
 can any man do more? He, therefore^ that 
 wishes ill to such a man is a scoundrel ; he 
 who speaks ill of him is a liar, and a back- 
 biter, and a slanderer. Go, go,** he added, 
 after a pause, occasioned by the fulness 
 of his heart, indignantly waving his hand 
 as he spoke — '' go, go, I am quite ashamed 
 of you, quite ashamed to find one, who, 
 from his knowledge of holy writ, knows 
 his duty to his neighbour so well, performs 
 it so badly; 'tis such hypocritical fellows 
 as you who bring religion and the holy 
 wor-d of God into disrepute ; for the wicked 
 would never scoff at piety, but that they too 
 often see those who pretend to it following 
 the vvays of unrighteousness. Go, go, take 
 yourself to task; and, instead of saying 
 E G godly
 
 84 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 gocMy things^ strive to do godly things, for 
 words are but wind, but by our actions we 
 must stand or fall — the angel of the Lord 
 marks them all down upon a table, at which 
 he will look at the last day/' 
 
 Watkins attempted to say something; 
 but the indignation with which Stubbs 
 turned from him, soon made him close his 
 lips, and take himself quickly and quietly 
 off. 
 
 As soon as he was out of sight Stubbs 
 ceased his digging, which he had recom- 
 menced with violence, and remained for 
 some minutes in a thoughtful attitude 
 leaning on his spade — the exclamation of 
 — '' Oh, 'tis a scurvy, scurvy world!'* then 
 burst from him, as, drawing it out of the 
 earth, he threw it over his shoulder and 
 proceeded home. 
 
 The confirmation he had received of 
 Munro*s unhappiness, as also the cause of 
 that unhappiness, deeply affected him; for 
 he was a father, a tender father himself, and 
 judged of the anguish he must experience, 
 
 at
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 85 
 
 at the idea of not being able to give his 
 children the advantages he desired for them^ 
 by that which his own feelings as a parent 
 convinced him he should have i^elt, if unable 
 to have sent his family into the world pro- 
 perly qualified for their stations in ii — 
 ''But the worst of all/' muttered he to 
 himself between his closed teeth, as, but 
 not as cheerily as usual, he pursued his 
 way homewards, '' is the thought of such 
 a mean fellow as that Watkins, yet perhaps 
 being able to hold his head above such a 
 real gentleman, such a kind and worthy- 
 hearted man as Captain Munro is. Dang 
 me!'' and he suddenly clenched his hand, 
 ''if any evil happens to the poor gentle- 
 man, and that scoundrel attempts to crow 
 
 over him But evil will not happen unto 
 
 him; the Lord hath promised he will not 
 forsake those that put their trust in him^ 
 and I am sure Captain Munro does. He 
 may seem to forsake them for a season, in 
 order to try them ; for trials are, 'tis said, 
 for the hearty like what the furnace is for 
 
 gold.
 
 86 THE DISCArvDED SON. 
 
 gold, necessary to purify it; but he will 
 turn bis face again towards them, if they 
 still continue to call upon hirn " 
 
 About this time there arrived in the 
 neighbourhood a nobleman of the title of 
 O'Sinister, who had an old, but magnificent 
 seat in it, to which he came but seldom — so 
 seldom, that this was his first visit to it since 
 Munro had settled at Heathwood. 
 
 A few evenings after the conversation 
 just recounted. Farmer Stubbs called on 
 Munro, just as he was sitting down to tea 
 with the ladies; he was invited to take a 
 cup, or some other refreshment, but de- 
 clined either, saying he had only made 
 bold to call on the Captain for a few bro- 
 coli plants, which he had promised to give 
 ,him the day before. IVfunro recollected 
 the promise, and took him into the garden 
 the moment tea v;as over. They had not 
 got many paces from the house when the 
 farmer, suddenly stopping, seized Munro 
 by a button of his coat, and, after looking 
 earnestly in his face for an instant — ''Cap- 
 tain/'
 
 THE DISCAllDED SON. 87 
 
 tain," said he, '•' the brocoli plants were 
 but a fetch to oet voii from the ladies — I 
 have something for your private ear." 
 
 *' Well^ my friend/' returned Munro^, 
 " recovering from the surprise his so 
 suddenly stopping and taking hold of him 
 had caused, " I am all attention.'' 
 
 *■' You must know then/' resumed the 
 
 farmer, ''that od's rabbit it!" cried he, 
 
 rubbing his hands, and looking with a dis- 
 contented air, after pausing a few minutes; 
 *"' od's rabbit it ! I find, after all, I must tell 
 you a story I hate to think of." 
 
 ^^ Then the sooner you gQ:\ over it the 
 better, my friend/' said Munro — '^ so pro- 
 ceed/' 
 
 The farmer testified, by a nod, being of 
 his opinion, and then proceeded to give 
 the purport of his recent conversation with 
 Watkins; which Munro did not hear v/ith- 
 out much emotion, though without making 
 any comments on it. — " For the life of 
 me," proceeded Stubbs, '^\ could not drive 
 from my mind the pain I felt at the thoughts 
 4 of
 
 88 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 of your being obliged, for I knew how 
 unhappy it must make you, to take that 
 fine youth, Mr Osmond, from the Univer- 
 sity before his education was finished. I 
 won't say what I wished and wished; be- 
 cause, in my mind, when a man can 
 only wish, speaking of his goodnature is 
 but like a vain boast. This morning, as 
 I w.^s still brooding over what Farmer 
 Watkins told me, I got a summons to at- 
 tend my Lord O'Sinister, who, you know, 
 is lately arrived in these parts — It was 
 all along cf his Lordship that father and 
 I settled on this side the Tweed; but his 
 Lordship being desirous of having his land 
 cultivated here after our English fashion, 
 never rested till he got father and I 
 (seeing as how we were reckoned as good 
 agriculturists as any in the kingdom) to 
 give up a farm we rented from him in 
 Derbyshire for one here — But, as I was 
 saying, I was summoned to him; and, after 
 he had asked me a power of questions 
 about this part and that part of his land, 
 
 and
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. SO 
 
 and so on, and made much of me, for 
 though a lord, and a marvellous proud man, 
 he can be very courteous; and the prouder 
 a rich man is to his equals, why the more 
 pleased a poor man is with his affability to 
 himself '' 
 
 " No doubt, no doubt,'* cried Munro, 
 finding the farmer paused, and looked as if 
 he expected him to say something. 
 
 '^ Well, after my Lord, as I said, had 
 made much of me,'' resumed the farmer, 
 ^' he began to question me about this here 
 farm of yours, which you must know, per- 
 haps you do already, once belonged to 
 him, but was sold to a friend who wanted 
 to be qualified for a company in the county 
 militia, from whose hands, he being a sad 
 spendthrift, it soon passed into others, and 
 so on, t'll at length, all tattered and torn, 
 as one may say, it came into vour^s. ' Far- 
 m'^r/ says he, ' who owns H?athwood Farm? 
 h:3> it got into any thing of better ha Is 
 than it was in when I was last here?* 
 
 '' Has it! repeated I; so then I tells him 
 
 how
 
 60' THE DlSCAl^DED SON. 
 
 how that it had and all about what yon 
 did for it. ' And yho is this Captain or 
 Mr. Munro, that yen tell me is so clever 
 in the management of land?' said he; so 
 I also told him that, and, from thence,, he 
 began to ask me question after question 
 concerning you. At first I was a little 
 shyish or so of answering him, for I don't 
 much like, nor never did, talking of other 
 people's aiTairs; till/at length, pop it came 
 into my head, all of a sudden, that, per- 
 haps, as I had told him what a worthy 
 gentleman, and what a good subject, and 
 a good m.an altogether you were, he might, 
 if I also told him how you were straigh- 
 tened a little bit or so in your circum- 
 stances, lend a hand to help you; and so, 
 the thought had no sooner entered my 
 brain, than out came every thing I knew^ 
 aye, and moreover, every thing I thought 
 of you.*' 
 
 "^ Every thing!" involuntarily echoed 
 Munro, scarcely knowing whether to be 
 pleased or displeased. 
 
 ^^^\ye.
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 91 
 
 *' Aye, by goles!" cried the farmer; 
 •' w hen once I began to tell him how your 
 father had used you, and what a different 
 one you were yourself, I couldn't have 
 stopped myself for the life of me. But^, 
 Captain/' suddenly changing his tone of 
 exultation into one of submission, '' I 
 hope you don't take amiss what I did; it 
 was not for the sake of tattling; I have 
 already said I spoke of your affairs^ but 
 merely in hopes of getting you a friend, 
 because I had not the power of being such 
 a one to you myself as I knew you wanted 
 and deserved/' 
 
 These words determined the feelings of 
 Munro; he eagerly grasped the hand of 
 the farmer — '' My friend, my friend/* he 
 said, perhaps not as articulately as he had 
 just before spoken, ^' I believe you; and 
 you are, therefore, entitled to my grati- 
 tude, be the result of your communication 
 respecting me what it may. But I trust 
 Lord O'Sinister could not imagine you 
 were set on to speak of me — I confess it 
 
 would
 
 92 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 would hurt me if I thought he did;, as at 
 any time I would rather make a direot 
 than an indirect application for a kind- 
 ness." 
 
 '^ Bless yoUj he think a thing of the 
 kind] not he indeed; it must have been 
 clear enough to him^ even if he had less 
 sense than he has^ that what I told him of 
 you was all of a sudden thought." 
 
 " Vv'ell^ did he make any observation 
 upon it?" 
 
 ^' You shall hear — ' Farmer/ says he, lay- 
 ing down a cup of coffee he was raising to his 
 mouthy ^you have affected me inuch^ by w^hat 
 you have told me of your worthy friend. 
 Captain Munro; and I promise you/ says 
 he, *■ it shan't be my fault if he and I are 
 not better acquainted; for/ says he^ (and 
 he laid his hand, w^hich I do verily think to 
 be as white as Mrs. Munro's, or Miss Eliza- 
 beth's, but which, to be sure is no marvel, 
 seeing as how% in the course of his whole 
 life, I don't suppose he ever did as much 
 
 as
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 93 
 
 a& brush a hat for himself); 'for/ says he, 
 ' my heart warms to a character of his 
 kind — but how should it not^ seeing as 
 how it is so like my own ; yes^ there is too 
 great an analogy/ yes^ that was the word, 
 ' between his and mine, not to make me 
 feel an interest for him' — a sympathy too 
 I think he said^ but indeed I won't be po- 
 sitive^ for I did not entirely comprehend 
 the meaning of all his words; for though, 
 as I have already said, I got a good educa- 
 tioUj I didn't go as far as the words that are 
 of Roman and Grecian extraction, I think 
 they call it, as they say all the hard ones 
 are. So," continued the farmer, ^* after 
 thinking a little on the subject, I thought 
 it would only be right and proper to come 
 and let you know what passed between 
 my Lord and me concerning you, lest, if 
 I did not, you might be taken at a nonplus 
 by him." 
 
 '^Certainly, my friend, it was right I 
 should be acquainted with it; and I thank 
 you for the consideration that induced you 
 
 to
 
 94 THE DISCABDED SON. 
 
 to make the disclosure^ as also for the kind 
 interest you take in my concerns." 
 
 '' And you are not in the least angry 
 with me?" asked Stubbs^ with an anxious 
 look and in a corresponding tone. 
 
 " Angry ! how could you suppose it 
 possible I could be angry with a person I 
 look upon as a sincere friend? No, the 
 motive with me is every thing — he of 
 whose wishing to serve me I was assured, 
 would be entitled to my gratitude, even 
 though he mistook the way." 
 
 ^*^Ah, yours is an honest, honest heart. 
 Captain!" cried the farmer; '' and I trust 
 it will soon be a joyful one; however, I 
 say nothing positive about my Lord; he 
 may think, and he mayn't think more about 
 what he said — he— in short what I Wf^uld 
 say is, that it is a bad thing to reckon one's 
 chickens before they are hatched." 
 
 '^^ I understand you, my friend; but don't 
 fear that I shall draw disappointment upon 
 myself, by being too sanguine in my hopes 
 -—the season for castle-building is past." 
 
 '' No,
 
 TliE DISCARDED SON. 9 J 
 
 ^'' No, I don't fear your doing any thing 
 that is foolish/' replied the farmer, "which 
 to be sure it is to place too great a depen- 
 dance on the promise of any man, that is> 
 of any great man I mean, seeing as how 
 they are all bits of courtiers in their hearts, 
 I believe: but good ni^ht. Captain; if no- 
 thing comes of what has passed, why you 
 are only still as you were, and, if there 
 does, why then we'll sing. Oh, be joyful, 
 and drive old Care away/' 
 
 The reflections to which his conference 
 with the farmer gave rise, prevented Muuro 
 from returning to the parlour on his 
 lea^ing him. Wrapt in thought, musing 
 on the consequences which might result 
 from the farmer communication respect- 
 ing him to Lord O'Sinister, he continued, 
 till roused from it by his Wife and daugh- 
 ter joining hin. A fear of awaking 
 hopes there was no certainty of having 
 real'/ed, forbade his touching on ihc 
 subject on vvhich he and the- farmer had 
 been conversing. The garden in which 
 
 they
 
 96 THE DISCARDED SOK. 
 
 they had joined him was the favourite 
 scene of all at the close of day — here they 
 delighted, amidst the fragrance of exhaling 
 plants and flowers^ to watch the sun gra- 
 dually fading from the summits of the 
 mountains, the evening yielding the world 
 to night; and to listen to the soft and ex- 
 piring sounds, so well according with the 
 fading scenery, and ever, in the country, 
 the certain precursor of the weary labourer's 
 hour of repose. Hither Elizabeth fre- 
 quently brought her guitar or harp, from 
 both of which she had been taught by her 
 mother to draw the most exquisite tones, 
 such as sensibility could not hear without 
 emotion. 
 
 The kind of sylvan wildness which pre- 
 vailed in the garden, was what rendered it 
 so particularly pleasing to its owners; it was 
 5urge, and encompassed with steep banks, 
 completely overspread with shrubwood, 
 and topped in many places with old thorns, 
 hollies, and blackberry bushes; contiguous 
 to the house it was laid out for flowers; 
 
 the
 
 "?1IE DISCARDED SON. ^7 
 
 (he centre was devoted to vegetables; and 
 at the extremity was an orchard, inter- 
 spersed with hazel copses: a little rill 
 here wildly meandered through the soil, 
 till it came to a deep hollow beneath a 
 jutting rock, into which it fell, forming 
 a spacious pool of limpid water, planted 
 round with oziers, in the soft but incessant 
 rustlino- of which there is somethino^ of the 
 melancholy sound of the JEoYmn harp; nor 
 can this be wondered at, since the same 
 invisible musician plays on both. 
 
 The next morning, while at breakfast, 
 the following]: note was delivered to Munro : 
 
 To Eohert Munro, Esq, 
 '' Sir, 
 
 '' It was but yesterday T had 
 the pleasure of hearing I had a neighbour 
 of your description ; the moment I was 
 apprized of the agreeable circumstance, I 
 should have hastened to pay my compliments 
 
 VOL. I. F t0
 
 98 THE DISCARDED SOX. 
 
 to you, but for a sudden attack of the gout^ 
 which prevents me, at present^ quitting the 
 house; my confinement to it, however, I 
 shall less regret than would otherwise be 
 the case, if you will now and then favour 
 me with your society. The pleasure of 
 your company to dinner to-day, at five 
 o*clock, will confer a particular obliga- 
 tion on, 
 
 " Sir, 
 '^ Your most obedient servant, 
 
 '' O'Simster/* 
 Firgrote, 
 Friday Morning* 
 
 It may readily be imagined Munro had 
 no hesitation in accepting this polite in- 
 vitation; still, however, he confined to his 
 own bosom the hopes it tended to confirm, 
 lest, after all, they should be disappointed. 
 
 At the appointed hour he repaired to 
 Firgrove, and was ushered into a sump- 
 tuous
 
 THE DISCARDFO SO>T. 99 
 
 tuous drawing-room^ where he was pre- 
 sently joined by the Peer^ in his morning 
 gown and flannel shoes, for which undress 
 illness was his apology. H"3 Lordship 
 appeared about fifty, and was, both in 
 manners and appearance, the finished gen- 
 tleman — to all the politeness of the old 
 school uniting all the ease of the new 
 one. His features, though somewhat in- 
 jured by time, were still handsome; and 
 there was an animation and keenness in 
 his countenance, which proved him still in 
 possession of all the mental vigour of 
 youth, and endowed with no small share of 
 penetration; he had literally indeed, as 
 Shakespeare says, a hawking eye, such as 
 seemed calculated to dive into the very 
 recesses of the heart. 
 
 His reception of Munro was truly flat- 
 tering — they dined icie-d-tete; and, during 
 dinner^ and for a short time after the at- 
 tendants were withdrawn, the politics of 
 the day, the liberal methods lately devised 
 for the encouragement of agriculture^ and 
 F 2 other
 
 10.0 THE DISCARDED SOM, 
 
 other useful arts^ were the topics thcj 
 principally discussed. The conversation 
 then, in consequence of a question or 
 two from the Peer to Munro, relative to 
 his connections in Scotland, became more 
 particular and interesting; till at length 
 the former, but in the most delicate man- 
 ner, hinted to his guest his perfect know- 
 ledge of the cruelty and injustice he had 
 met with from his family, aif3 his ardent 
 wish to render him a service. 
 
 Notwithstanding Munro's expectation of 
 something of this nature, his emotion was 
 quite as great at the moment as if he had 
 not entertained one of the kind. 
 
 ^^ Good Heaven!" he involuntarily and 
 mentally exclaimed, '' in how many unex- 
 pected wavs does Providence interfere for 
 man ! how little, when listening to the 
 rough elTusions of Farmer Stubbs's honest 
 heart, did I imagine I should ever be in- 
 debted to him for a powerful friend!" 
 
 With all the warmth of gratitude he 
 thanked the Peer for his proffered kind- 
 ness;
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 101 
 
 Ress; and now^, the ice being broke, his 
 situation was freely and candidly discussed. 
 The result of this discussion was^ Lord 
 O'Sinister's insisting that Mr. Osmond 
 should in future be considered his care^, 
 continued at the University for the usual 
 time, and immediately instructed to com- 
 mence the study of divinity, for the pur- 
 pose of qualifying himself for a living of 
 considerable value in the gift of his Lord- 
 ship, and the incumbent of which Vvas at 
 this time so far advanced in life, that it 
 might reasonably be expected it would 
 soon become vacant. 
 
 " And now, mv worthy vSir," cried Lord 
 O'Sinister, w^hen this matter was settled, 
 lookino^ at Munro, with a countenance 
 beaming with the satisfaction of a well- 
 pleased mind, ^^ how c?.n I serve you?'* 
 
 *■' Oh, my Lord, in serving my s^n you 
 serve me," replied the greatly agitated 
 ?vIunro. 
 
 '' Vs^ell, w^ell, that ma} be,'* returned the 
 
 Peer, smilingly, ''but I never approved of 
 
 F 5 parents
 
 102 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 parents being dependent on their children^ 
 new connections but too frequently causing 
 old one's to be neglected; not J confess, with 
 impunity, but the hour of remorse* often ar- 
 rives too late; so tell me what kind of 
 situation you would like, for I cannot think 
 your present laborious one of a farmer^ so 
 ill according wnth your former habits^ can 
 be pleasing to you.'' 
 
 " It certainly neither is or ever was, my 
 Lord, but necessity is. an arbitrary power^ 
 at whose shrine inclination is often obliged 
 to be immolated."' 
 
 '' What say you to i^turning to your 
 former profession?'' 
 
 Munro started, and remained silent for a 
 few minutes — '' My Lord/' he then said, 
 '' I will be very candid with you ; I should be 
 very unwilling to enter into a situation 
 that would be liable to separate me from 
 my family, as a military one certainly would, 
 or else oblige mc to expose them to diffi- 
 culties and dangers they are not accus- 
 tomed to/* 
 
 '^You
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 103 
 
 '* You entirely mistook my meaning/' 
 cried Lord O'Sinister with quickness, " if 
 you thought I had an idea of offering any 
 thing to your acceptance that would re- 
 duce you to the alternative of either leav- 
 ing your family, or else introducing them 
 into scenes of danger — ^^what I meant was, 
 merely to know whether, if a military 
 appointment that v/ould not render you 
 liable to be ordered abroad could be 
 procured for you, you would hav^ any 
 objection to accept it — for instance, an 
 adjutancy of militia?" 
 
 "The thing, of all others, I should like,'' 
 replied Munro eagerly, and with a flush of 
 joy upon his cheek. 
 
 '' I am truly happy to hear you say so," 
 returned his Lordship, '' since I have one 
 at my disposal, which, from this moment, I 
 consider yours." 
 
 "My Lord, I cannot, cannot," said Munro 
 falteringly, and with his hand spread upon 
 his labouring breast, " speak the sense I 
 have of your kindness." 
 
 f4 ^^Well,
 
 104 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 '' Well, vveil/' returned the Peer, with a 
 still more expressive smile than he had 
 before siven him, '' that it mav not be 
 oppressive, I'll point out a v,ay by which 
 you may make me some requital for it — 
 you see, Mr. Munro, I am what is called a 
 plain spoken man, but I love to come to 
 the point at once, since I think there can- 
 not be a greater proof of folly than ta 
 waste minutes, " the fleeting minutes of 
 too short a life,'* as the poet jiisily and 
 emphatically styles them, which might be 
 usefully employed^ in unnecessary punc- 
 tilios. If a man can render me a ser- 
 vice, I like at once to ask him — will he? if 
 I can do him one, I should think myself 
 undeserving of any gratitude for it, if I did 
 not directly tell him so. The service you 
 can render me is by repairing immediately 
 to Ireland, in the northern part of wiiicK 
 kingdom I have a very considerable pro- 
 perty, and endeavouring to conciliate the 
 confidence of my dependants and tenants, 
 and induce them to acquiesce quietly in the 
 
 measures
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 105 
 
 irteasures now pursuing by g(n^ernment for 
 raising a railiti:! there, and to which, either 
 through ignorance, obstinacy, or the ma- 
 chinations of evil-minded persons, perhaps 
 all together, they, like the majority of 
 the common people, are averse, and 
 trying to resist; should they continiic to 
 do sOj some blame will probably attach to 
 me, as, from the influence my property 
 gives me in the county, and my being 
 appointed to the command of the regi- 
 ment there raising, and in whicli I no^v 
 beg you to understand your adjutancy is, 
 it will, perhaps, be supposed that if I ex- 
 erted myself properly, the reverse would be 
 the case. To let government imagine I was 
 not anxious to forward their views, v*-ould 
 be to do myself a serious, in all probability 
 au irreparable injury; yet, notwithstanding 
 my thorough conviction of this, I am, at 
 this period, so situated, that, without put- 
 ting mys'eif to the greatest inconvenience^ 
 I cannot go to Ireland; in consequence, I 
 have, for some time past^ been looking out 
 F 5 for
 
 lot} THE DISCARDED SDK. 
 
 for some friend, to whom I might safely 
 entrust my ii^terests in that quarter; but, 
 till nr>w (don't imagine I flatter), did not 
 meet with one to whom I thoiio-ht I could: 
 my wi^h is, that you should repair directly 
 to Ireland, take possession of the mansion- 
 house at Temora, and use every means 
 in your power to gain, as I have already 
 said, the good will of my people there, 
 which obtained, all the rest will follow 
 of course ; for once obtain the regard 
 and confidence of an Irishman, and yon 
 may almost persuade him to what you 
 please. Will it be inconvenient to you to 
 se t o if to- m orro w ? " 
 
 Munro hesitated to reply; there w^as, 'tis 
 true, but one obstacle to his immediate 
 departure, but that was insurmountable, 
 being nothing less than a want of cash, 
 that grand mover, now-a-days, both of 
 animate and inanimate bodies — a want sa 
 painful to the feelings of a man of delicacy 
 to disclose, that poor Munro knew not how 
 to confess it. From being compelled to 
 
 do
 
 THE. DISCARDED SON. 107 
 
 I 
 
 do so he was saved by the quick-sighted 
 Peer, who, with one half glance of his 
 hawking eye, perceived his embarrassment, 
 and instantly conjecturing the cause — 
 '' Come, come, my dear Mr. Munro," said 
 he, laying his hand, as he spoke, upon 
 the arm of his again greatly agitated com- 
 panion, and regarding him with the most 
 smiling and complacent countenance pos- 
 sible, '' we must no longer consider our- 
 selves as strangers to each other — I have 
 already mentioned my being a blunt man; 
 the truth therefore is, you at present re- 
 quire a little pecuniary assistance." 
 
 ''I cannot contradict your Lordship, but 
 a few days will, I trust, suffice for the pur- 
 pose of enabling me to raise a sufficient 
 sum on my farm, to '* 
 
 " Tut, tut!" interposed his Lordship im- 
 patiently, '' I beg your pardon Mr. Munra 
 for interrupting you, but, before you could 
 mortgage an acre in such an out-of-the- 
 way place as this, why the Irish militia 
 might not only, I am persuaded, be em- 
 f6 bodied^
 
 JOS THE DISCARDED T^ON". 
 
 bodied, but disembodied and embodied 
 again; no, no, dispatch is the soul of busi- 
 ness; you must, therefore, permit me to be 
 your banker on this occasion — will fi\c 
 hundred pounds answer your present exi- 
 gencies? speak candidly 1 entreat/' 
 
 "O more; more than answer, my Lord/' 
 replied Munro eagerly. 
 
 '' Nay, excuse me for thinlJng differ- 
 ent! v; in the first place, you must imny- 
 diatelyr provide for your son's prok.iiged 
 stay at college; in the next, all that is re- 
 quisite to prevent thase you leave at home 
 suffering any inconvenience during your 
 absence; for, doubtless," contAUied his 
 Lordiihip, with encreasing earnestness, 
 '' you have no idea of removing your 
 family, till comfortably settled with the 
 regiment; to do so before^ indeed, would 
 be highly improper; and, thirdly, though 
 your journey to Ireland will not, or rather, I 
 mean, need not, be a very expensive one,yoir 
 will find a residence there just at this time ra- 
 ther so, as, to facilitate the accomplishment 
 
 of
 
 THE DISCARDED SON, SO 9 
 
 of the business you are going on, it will be 
 necessary for you to entertain a good deal/' 
 
 '^'^ But such a loan, without any security^ 
 without specifying any time for the repay- 
 ment of it/' said Munro anxiously. 
 
 '' Vv'ellj \vell_, since so scrupulous, so 
 over-delicate/' replied Lord O'Sinister, still 
 smiling, '' you shall do both — yes, as Shy- 
 lock says, you shall sign me n bond^ in a 
 merry mood,, but not for a pourd of ilesh." 
 
 '^•^ But when, when, my Lord?" eagerly 
 demanded Munro. 
 
 ''Why now, or to-morrow, or when you 
 return from Ireland, or — whenever you 
 please: my steward here has alv;ays bonds 
 and stamps of every description lying by 
 him," answered the Peer, with seeming 
 carelessness. 
 
 '^ Nov/, now then, my Lord, if you 
 please,'' cried IVIunro, who felt that he 
 should breathe more freely that the obli- 
 gations his Lordship had conferred on him 
 would sit lighter on his heart when he had 
 given an acknowledgment for the sum in 
 
 cjuestion;
 
 no THE DISCARDED SOX. 
 
 question; ''pray let hini be instructed to 
 prepare a bond for my signature/' 
 
 '' Well, since you are so very urgent — 
 but really, Mr. Munro, this between 
 friends/' pulling a bell, however, as he 
 spoke, " is quite unnecessary/' 
 
 On his summons being obeyed^ he oj- 
 dered the steward to be sent in: accord- 
 ingly in a fev/ minutes he made his appear- 
 ance, and, having received the necessary 
 instructions respecting the bond, returned 
 %vith it by the time coffee was over, and, 
 together with an inkstand;, laid it before 
 Munro for his signature. 
 
 Munro was stretching out his hand for a 
 pen, when the steward suddenly exclaimed 
 — '' But, my Lord, you know two persons 
 are required to \vitness the execution of a 
 bond/' 
 
 '' What a preeise blockhead !" returned 
 his Lordship, but without taking his eyes 
 off of a fine spaniel with which he was play- 
 ing; "have I not told you that that bond 
 is a mere matter of form?" 
 
 " By
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. HI 
 
 ''^ By no means, iiy Lord; I neither can 
 inyseir, nor wish any other person to look 
 upon i\ ns such/' cried Munro. ^' I t'lere- 
 fore request another witness may be called/' 
 
 '' Well^ \v^ll, you shall be gratified/' said 
 his Lordship^ again applying his hand to 
 the bell. 
 
 '''You write, John, I suppose?'' to the 
 servant who answered it. 
 
 '' No, my Lord^ no,'' replied John, with 
 evident reluctance, and an air of confusion. 
 
 '' But, I presume, some of the other ser- 
 vants do," said his Lordship. 
 
 " I don't know, indeed, my Lord, but I'll 
 ask as soon as they come in." 
 
 *' In ! why where are they ?" 
 
 '' Gone to a wedding in the neighbour- 
 hood, my Lord." 
 
 "A wedding! oh then,, I must excuse 
 them." 
 
 '' Especially, my Lord," observed rhe 
 
 steward, " as this business need not be 
 
 delayed on their account, as there is a 
 
 young man now with m.Cj who will 
 
 5 answer
 
 112 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 answer for a witness^ if your Lordship has 
 no objection to admit him." 
 
 '' Oh, none in the world, since Mr. Munro 
 will have all the legal forms gone through.''/ ^^^ 
 
 The steward accordingly withdrew for 
 his visitor, with whom presently returning, 
 the bond was legally executed, and de- 
 livered to Lord O'Sinister. 
 
 ''''Upon my honour (with a laugh) this 
 is a good thing," cried he, as he folded up 
 the paper; '^ here I have got y.cur bond, 
 for a sum you have not received;" he rose 
 as he spoke, and, going to an escritoire ia 
 a corner of the room, drev/ out a drawer. 
 '"'Idon't think, Mr. Munro," pausing here, 
 his back rather turned towards him — ''"that 
 you looked over this bond?" putting it 
 up, however, at the same moment. 
 
 '' No, my Lord, I did not think it neces- 
 sary to do so." 
 
 *'No, certainly not, Jenkins is exces- 
 sively exact in all matters of this nature; I 
 have glanced over it, and find he has strictly 
 adhered to his instructions^ rendering it 
 
 payable
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. ] iS 
 
 pnyable in the course of five years, by in- 
 sfahnents of a hundred a-year, of which 
 said instalments (in a goodnatured tone) 
 you and I will speak hereafter. In the 
 mean while I must tell you, that I shall 
 expect you'll keep a regular account of 
 your disbursements at Temora, that I may 
 .settle with you concerning them, as what- 
 ever you expend there I shall consider laid 
 out on my account." Then locking tip 
 the escritoire, and returning to the table^ 
 " I believe/' laying some bank-notes before 
 him, '' you'll find these right." 
 
 '^Perfectly, perfectly, my Lord," in an 
 agitated tone replied Munro, as he crushed 
 them in his hand, and put them into his 
 waistcoat pocket. 
 
 CHAP.
 
 114 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 CHAP. III. 
 
 ** Mow abandoricd is that heart which bulges the tear of inno- 
 cence, and is the cause, the fatal cause, of overwhelming the 
 spotless soul, and pJunging the yet untainted mind into a sea of 
 sorrow and repentance. Though born to protect the fair, docs 
 not man act the part of a demon — first alluring by his tempta- 
 tions, and then triumphing in his victory : when villainy gets 
 the ascendancy, it seldom leaves the wretch till it has thoroughly 
 polluted him." 
 
 Sterne's Letters. 
 
 JLiORD O'Sinister resumed his seat and 
 the conversation, which the entrance of the 
 steward had interrupted: this principally 
 treated of the neighbourhood and beauties 
 of Temora, which his Lordship represented 
 as a very fine seat, and contiguous to the 
 sea; so that Munro, on landing at Donagha^ 
 
 dee>
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 115 
 
 dee, would have but a short journey to it. 
 After a short interval of silence, he sud- 
 denly enquired whether Munro had many 
 children ? On receiving his reply — " Aye^ 
 true, true," said he, ''I now recollect Far- 
 mer Stubbs told me you had but a son and 
 daughter — Is the young lady younger than 
 her brother?'* 
 
 Munro bowled. 
 
 ''And a fine girl, I make no doubt; 
 well, I hope, Mr. Munro, you won't dislike 
 the idea of having an Irishman for a son- 
 in-law; for I think it very, probable you 
 will, as the Irish are, I assure you, quite as 
 capable of forming disinterested, as fer- 
 vent attachments." 
 
 "I know they are, my Lord; and, as 
 none can admire the warmth of soul and 
 generosity that' characterises them more 
 than I do, so, of course, I should be happy 
 at a connexion with them: the worth of 
 the man who may wish to blend his fate 
 witK n]y daughter's, and not his country, is 
 what I shall look to/* 
 
 The
 
 lie " THE DI?CAT^Dt:D 501*, 
 
 The Peer testified the warmest approba- 
 tion of his sentiments, and then proceeded 
 to express the regret he felt at the little 
 probability there was of his being able^, at 
 this period, owing to illness, and the affairs 
 which had brought him into Scotland, 
 to pay his compliments to Mrs. Mnnro and 
 her fair daughter — '' Should I not, how* 
 ever,*' he continued, '' 'tis some consola- 
 tion to think, that next summer I may hope 
 for the honour of an introduction to them, 
 as I then purpose bringing Lady O'Sinister, 
 and Miss Athelstone, my daughter, here, 
 and so on to Ireland ; in the meanwhile 
 you'll oblige me much by presenting my 
 compliments to them, and informing them 
 it is my earnest request that they ^vould 
 make the same use of the oardens here as if 
 they weic their own." 
 
 Munro made a suitable reply to this 
 obliging speech; and soon after, conclud- 
 ing his Lordship must, from the present 
 state of his health, wish io retire early to 
 repose, arose to take leave, but was com- 
 pelled
 
 fnS DISCARDED SON. 117" 
 
 pelled to resume his seat^ nor suffered to 
 depart till he had partaken of a collation 
 with the Peer. He then quitted him, with 
 a heart overflowing with gratitude — a 
 gratitude too great for words, but which 
 caused him, as they parted, silently to pray 
 that the dews of heaven might fall thick in 
 blessings on him. 
 
 He had scarcely passed the outer gate, 
 when he felt his arm suddenly seized be- 
 hind. He turned round with quickness, 
 and though the light was but faint, dis- 
 cerned the honest countenance of Farmer 
 Stubbs. 
 
 '' Captain, I beg pardon for stopping 
 you,"' he cried, '' but — but — " and his 
 heart seemed so full he could scarcely 
 speak — '' I find," pointing with his thumb 
 over his shoulder towards Firgrove, '' you 
 have been up at the great house with the 
 great man." 
 
 ^'With the good man," said Munro em- 
 phatically, and laying his hand upon his 
 shoulder. '"Farmer," added he, his heart 
 
 dilated
 
 iiS THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 dilated with unexpected happiness, and 
 warmed by the generous juice of the grape, 
 ^' give me thy hand."' 
 
 '■'Dang it, that I will, with a heart and a 
 half/* answered honest Stubbs, directly 
 striking his hand into the extended one of 
 Munro. 
 
 Munro pressed it between his — '^ Far- 
 mer/' said he, '' may'st thou never stand 
 so much in need of a friend as I did; but 
 should'st thou — " he paused for an instant, 
 and elevated his fine eyes towards heaven, 
 '' may'st thou obtain just such a one as 
 thou hast been the means of procuring 
 .me." 
 
 ''Amen, amen!" ejaculated Stubbs sob- 
 
 bingly ; '' and so my Lord O'Sinister 
 
 well, well, he shall, from this time forth, 
 
 be my white-headed boy but. Captain, 
 
 don't — don't ye, I pray, go for to say as 
 how you are so much obligated to me; it 
 was myself I was obliging when trying to 
 oblige you, for I did feel so lumpish when 
 I thought of your being forced to bring 
 
 home
 
 THE DISCARDED SON". 119 
 
 "home that fine youth, Mr. Osmond, be- 
 fore but, but we won't look back to 
 
 old grievances ads dads. Captain, if joy- 
 made one as light here/' pointing to his 
 forehead, ^' as it does here,'' pointing to 
 his heart, ''some folks just now might well 
 be mistaken for crazy." 
 
 He then, o>wing, Munro could not avoid 
 thinkings to an intuitive delicacy not al- 
 "ways to be found in persons of a higher 
 description, ran off^ without asking a ques- 
 tion as to what Lord O'Sinister had done. 
 
 Munro found his wife and daughter sit- 
 ting up for him. The joyful tidings he 
 had to reveal w^ere soon made known, and 
 their joy was unspeakable. 
 
 " Oh what a worthy, what a charming 
 man must Lord O'Sinister be!" cried the 
 gentle, yet warm-hearted Elizabeth; ''what 
 a noble use docs he make of his riches, and 
 the power Providence has invested him 
 with of doing good! — if all great men were 
 like him, there would not be so much 
 misery in the world as there is.'* 
 
 " Certainly
 
 126 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 '' Certainly not/' returned her father. 
 
 *' Yet/' said Mrs. Miinro, in visible emo- 
 tion, and smiling tenderly on her husband^ 
 *"' the happiness he has conferred, in the 
 present instance, is like human happiness 
 in general, not without alloy/' 
 
 *^' iVlloy, my love!" repeated Munro 
 eagerly, grasping her hand, and looking 
 earnestly in her still beautiful, still interest- 
 ing countenance; for, like the rose, in 
 losing her bloom, Mrs. Munro did not lose 
 all her attractions. 
 
 '' Yes; iov does not what he has done 
 for you obiir>e you to leave us?" 
 
 '' But, my love, for so short a time only.'* 
 
 '' Aye, but then you have the sea also 
 to cross." 
 
 ^^ The seal" repeated Munro Avith a 
 laugh, "71 brook, my love, vou mean; 
 why the passage between Port Patrick and 
 Donaghadee is so short, that if the breeze 
 be at all favourable, you may, with ease, in 
 the course of one day, breakfast at one, 
 
 din€
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 121 
 
 dine at the other^ and be back time enough 
 to sup at the first." 
 
 " Well^ I'm glad to hear this/' said Mrs. 
 Munro, hastily wiping away a tear which 
 had gathered in her eye — ''my fears 
 have made me betray what a bad geogra- 
 phist I am.'* 
 
 Thou£fh Munro had never been more 
 inclined to social chat^ to domestic con- 
 verse, than at this moment, he had too 
 little time to make the necessary prepara- 
 tions for his departure, which was fixed 
 for the ensuing morning, to remain long 
 inactive. 
 
 He wrote a circumstantial account of all 
 that had lately occurred to his son, con- 
 gratulated him on the smiling prospects 
 that were now opening to his view, and 
 enclosed him a handsome remittance. 
 
 At an early hour the next day he com- 
 menced his journey. He drove from his own 
 house, followed, till he was completely out 
 of sight, by the fond and tearful looks of 
 his wife and daughter, to Firgrove, for the 
 
 vcL, I. G purpose
 
 122 ' THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 purpose of receiving from the Peer some 
 introductory letters to a few of the prin- 
 cipal families in the neighbourhood of 
 Temora, 
 
 Unsuspicious of deceit^ unforeboding of 
 evilj he began and continued his journey — 
 a journey which^ though alone, his agree- 
 able reflections, and the beautiful and ro- 
 mantic scenery it gave him an opportunity 
 of beholding, in which the richness of 
 summer was just at this period beginning 
 to be blended with the verdure of spring, 
 prevented his thinking tedious. Many of 
 the scenes he beheld in the course of it 
 were familiar to his view^ but they were 
 such as required not novelty to render 
 them charming; and, from the interesting 
 remembrances they awakened in his mind, 
 were probably contemplated with greater 
 pleasure by him than others he had pre- 
 viously been unacquainted with. 
 
 Within a few miles of Port Patrick the 
 
 heavens suddenly lowered, and a dreadful 
 
 storm of thunder^ lightning, and rain en- 
 sued.
 
 THE DISCARDED SOX. ] 25 
 
 sued. Munro had soon selfish motives for 
 regretting this change in the weather, 
 being compelled to expose hiinself to its 
 fury, in consequence of the failure of one 
 of the wheels of the chaise. By the time 
 he reached Port Patrick, he was completely 
 wet through. He eagerly entered the first 
 inn he came to, but had scarcely done so, 
 when^ to his great chagrin, he was in- 
 formed, thatj owing to a number of pas- 
 sengers having just landed from one of the 
 packets, the house was so full, a temporary 
 shelter was all he could obtain in it, and 
 not even that, except in a room already 
 crow^ded. 
 
 Accordingly he enquired for another 
 inn, and was directed to one of a very 
 humble description, close to the sea. On 
 ent^ering this, he found himself in a room, 
 which, from the manner it was fitted up, 
 answered, he saw, the various purposes of 
 hall, parlour, and kitchen: contiguous to 
 the fire some rough-looking men, habited 
 as sailors, sat drinking; and, at a little dis- 
 ci 2 tancc
 
 124 TIIE DISCARDED SO?C. 
 
 tance from them^ an elderly woman, whose 
 immediate approach to him evinced her 
 being mistress of the mansion, was busied 
 in unpacking a basket of fish on a table. 
 
 Munro, after informing htr of the accident 
 he had met with, begged to know wliether 
 she could accommodate him for the night? 
 On being answered in the affirmative, he 
 desired to have a room to himself; and 
 was- accordingly conducted up a few stairs 
 to one, which instantly brought to his re- 
 collection the parlour splendors of that 
 belonoinoj to the inn described in the De- 
 serted Village — like that, its wall was white- 
 washed, its floor nicely sanded, its hearth 
 with aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel 
 gay, its chimney-piece ornamented with 
 broken tea-cups wisely kept for shew, and 
 its furniture consisting of a 
 
 " Varnish'd clock that tick'd behind the door, 
 A chest, contriv'd a double debt to pay, 
 A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day." 
 
 Munro stood too much in need of a fire 
 to have any hesitation in requesting that the 
 
 ornaments
 
 THE DISCAKDED SON. 1S6 
 
 ©rnaments of the hearth might be displaced 
 for one. He was immediately obeyed: soon 
 after which^ not having dined^, he sat down 
 to a dish of the lish he had seen his hostess 
 unpacking, and one of potatoes^ with which 
 frugal fare, at least so an alderman would 
 probably have called it, he was qr.ite as 
 Tvell satisfied as if a feast that might have 
 vied with a city one had been spread 
 before him. 
 
 Dinner over^ and left entirely to his 
 own reflections, his spirits, for the first 
 time since his departure from home, bei^an 
 to flag ; the melancholy howling of the 
 wind round the house, the still more me- 
 lancholy and monotonous noise of the 
 waves breaking on the rochy shore beneath, 
 the heavy and threatening clouds that 
 scudded before the gale, and rapidly suc- 
 ceeding each other, kept the horizon still 
 dark and gloom.y, gradually affected him. 
 
 At length, as a means of dispelling the 
 
 melancholy that had thus crept upon him, 
 
 he was induced to tinkle the little bell that 
 
 g3 hung
 
 J 26 THE DISCAEDED SON. 
 
 hung over his head^ in order to enquire whe- 
 ther the landlord;, of whom;, while attending 
 at dinner, the landlady had spoken, was yet 
 come home, that, if so^, he might have his 
 company over a bowl of punch. 
 
 The landlady answered his summons, 
 and, replying to his interrogatory relative 
 to her husband in the affirmative, was 
 desired to send him up; accordingly, in a 
 fewniinutes a tall thin elderly man, in (he 
 dr^ss of an invalid, with a wooden leg, and 
 a small cocked hat on, made his appear- 
 ance;, and, literally marching up to the 
 table at which Munro was seated, suddenly 
 stopped before him, and, Iiaving saluted 
 him by putting his hand to his hat, desired 
 orders. 
 
 *^ That you should sit down," returned 
 Munro, laughing at the appearance of ori- 
 ginality he betrayed, '' and partake of this 
 bowl of punch, %vhich I assure you does 
 credit to }our wife.'* 
 
 ** Sir, you are my commanding officer at 
 present," the other replied, with a flourish 
 
 of
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 127 
 
 of his hand^ " and shall therefore be obey- 
 ed." Then takin;^ off his hat he huncr it oi> 
 a peg, and look a chair at the table. " Yes^ 
 yes/' he continued, alluding to what Miinro 
 had just said of his wife, '' like the rest of 
 her sex, she knows lioxv to mingle contra- 
 dictions; for punch. Sir, one may say, is 
 made of contradictions, seeing as how the 
 ingredients of which it is composed are all 
 of a contrary nature/' 
 
 "True/' cried Muni'o, ''and it therefore 
 proves, that, by skilful management, things 
 opposite and contradictory in theniselves 
 may yet be so blended as to be rendered 
 agreeable " 
 
 There are certain signs by which soldiers 
 and freemasons discover one another, be 
 their habiliments what they miay; the host, 
 therefore, had not been many minutes in 
 company with Munro ere he was persuaded 
 he was conversing with a military man; to 
 put the matter, however, out of doubt, he 
 enquired, and seemed highly pleased to 
 find he was not mistaken, never feeling so 
 G 4 happy.
 
 128 THE mSCARDKU SON. 
 
 happy^ he said, as when in the society of a. 
 person, who, like himself, had been of the 
 honourable profession of arms — the result 
 of this discovery was a long account of the 
 service he had seen, »nd which, if he was 
 to be believed, had been of the most 
 perilous nature, for still his stories ran 
 
 ** Of most disastrous chances, 
 Of moving accidents by flood arid field, 
 Of hair breadth 'scapes i'the imminent deadly breach. 
 Of being taken by the insolent foe,'* 
 
 To all of which Munro lent quite as patient, 
 though not, perhaps, quite as delighted an 
 ear, as Desdemona did to Othello's rela- 
 tion of the same: that this was not the 
 case, however, he gave no indication ; he 
 knew human nature, and, consequently, 
 that nothing more galled a man than inat- 
 tention to a narrative of which he has 
 made himself the hero: but, though he 
 neither interrupted, nor discouraged his 
 host from proceeding, he scrupled not to 
 avail himself of a pause in his conversation 
 
 to
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 129 
 
 to try and give a turn to it, by enquiring 
 how he liked his neighbours on the op- 
 posite side of the water? 
 
 "'Like them ''* repeated the other; "by 
 St. Patrick, their own dear saint, I like 
 them much, for they spend their money 
 like princes, and, as the old song says, on 
 friend or on foe never turn their backs " 
 
 " Are they beginning to be better re- 
 conciled than they were to the new mili- 
 tary establishment forming amongst them ?" 
 
 "T cannot say; but if not already, in 
 time I dare say they will, that is, if pro- 
 perly managed, by which I mean, if mild 
 measures are pursued with them ; for, like 
 the man in the fable, about whom there was 
 a vvs'^'cr between -the sun and the w^nd, 
 blustering measures will never do with 
 them; convince their reason, give in a 
 little to their humour, and you may, I am 
 certain, do almost any thing with them." 
 
 "Knowing this, and how ungenerous in 
 any one to attemj^t having recourse to* 
 har^h ones.'' 
 
 G 5 *' Yes,
 
 130 THE DISCARDED SOV. 
 
 " Yes^ and as impolitic as ungenerous; 
 since, like the willow, they will reaclilv 
 bend if they conceive themselves \vell 
 treated, but^ like the sturdy oak, sooner suf- 
 fer themselves to be torn by the violence of 
 the storm from their native soib than yield 
 to it if they imagine otherwise." 
 
 *' You speak well, landlord/' observed 
 Munro; '^ from your language I conjec- 
 ture the study of arms has not been your 
 only one." 
 
 '^^ Why no, master^ no; I had good pa- 
 rents, who gave me good learning, and 
 once I was quite a bookworm ; but just as 
 they were on the point of binding me to 
 a good trade, I took it into my head to be 
 a soldier, in spite of all they could say or 
 do to prevent me, for I was their only 
 childj and they thought much — a great 
 deal perhaps too much of me — my poor 
 mother in particular; but I paid for mv, 
 J can't help calling it, disobedience to her 
 wishes^ for had 1 staid at home quietly, as 
 
 she
 
 THJi DISCARDED SON. 131 
 
 she wanted me, I probably/' glancing at 
 his wooden leg, '' should have had no oc- 
 casion for this; however, if I had no other 
 cause of sorrow for not having- done so, 
 why I should think nothing of the matter; 
 but, at times, when I think that perhaps 
 my going to the wars shortened her days, 
 why then,'' laying his hand on his breast, 
 
 '^ I have such twitches here, that " but 
 
 suddenly brightening up — " there is no 
 use, Caprain, in ripping up old sores — if we 
 do wrong, why all we can do is to repent as 
 fast as we can, and so the matter is 
 settled/' 
 
 He paused, but a deep sigh was ail that 
 Munro at the moment had the power of 
 uttering, owing to his just then feeling- 
 something similar to the twitches he com- 
 plained of. 
 
 '' And so. Captain," after a short inter- 
 val of silence^ resumed the landlord, ''von 
 are now going, for the first time, amongst 
 my opposite neighbours?" 
 
 Munro nodded. 
 
 G 6 *' Welt
 
 1'32 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 " Well, if ever we should chance to 
 stumble upon one another again, I dare 
 say I shall have the pleasure of hearing 
 you say you like them much." 
 
 ^'l make no doubt you will — but do you 
 ever pay them a \i^it?'' 
 
 " O yes, maGter, often; sometimes oii 
 one account^ sometimes on another — I am 
 glad enough, whenever I have occasion to 
 do so^ they are such jolly souls, than 
 which there is nothing I like more^ although 
 I am not quite as young as I was twenty 
 years ago; and, moreover,'' laughing hear- 
 tily as he spoke, and laying hold of his 
 wooden It-g, "have, Vviih truth it may be 
 said, one leg already in the grave/' 
 
 Munro assured him if he came into the 
 neighbourhood of Temora, he should be 
 happy to see him ; and, after eating a crust 
 of bread, and drinking again to the health 
 of one another in a tankard of ale^, they 
 separated for the night. 
 
 The heavens the ensuing morning wore a 
 \ery diflerent aspect to what they had done 
 
 the
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 153- 
 
 the preceding night; the sun shcne forth, 
 "with all his summer brightness^ the glitter- 
 ins: waves seemed thron;>iiJ,Q: and rollino; 
 from afar to behold his awful beauty, the 
 clearness of the atmosphere permiited the 
 wavy outline of the green hills of Erin to 
 be distinctly seen^ and the shore resounded 
 with the noise of passengers and mariners, 
 whilst the packet in which Munro was to 
 embark appeared to be dancing on the 
 trembling waters^ as if impatient to pur- 
 sue its destined course — emblem of youth! 
 Etill eai>er, still anxious to rush forward 
 into lifC;, reckless of storms, unapprehen- 
 sive of danger ! 
 
 " Ohj life!" cried Munro to himself, Tis 
 he stood upon the deck of the receding 
 vessel, his eyes still turned towards the 
 shore, where fancy at the moment had 
 conjured up the images of his wife and 
 daughter, pursuing, with looks of love and 
 wishes for his quick return, his trackless 
 course through the waters of the deep — ■ 
 
 '' Oh,
 
 134 TflE DISCARDED SOX. 
 
 "^^ Oh, life," as he compared his present 
 prospects with his late ones, as he reflected 
 on the sndden manner in which they had 
 been changed^ '' how chequered is thy 
 path, how rapid thy vicissitudes ! to-day 
 we sink beneath the storm, to-morrow we 
 bask in the sunshine — this hour beholds 
 us chilled with apprehension, the next 
 warmed and enlivened by hope and con- 
 fidence — what an argument against des- 
 pair! what an equally powerful one against 
 presumption! — for, as the drooping flower 
 may in an instant be revived, so may the 
 proudest edifice be levelled to the dust." 
 
 Having now^ done all that is im. mediately 
 requisite for Munro, by giving him a 
 smooth sea, a propitious breeze, snd agree- 
 able company in the packet, we shall bid 
 him adieu for the present, and return to 
 Heathwood. 
 
 This separation, the first that promised to 
 be of any length which had taken place be- 
 tween Munro and his wife since their mar- 
 riage.
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 135 
 
 rlage, was most acutely felt by the latter; the 
 regretj and consequent dejection^ hov;ever, 
 it occasioned her, would probably soon ha^ e 
 worn away, but that she relished not the 
 situation into which he was entering, since 
 one, from what she had heard of it, likely, 
 she conceived, to engross those hours hi- 
 therto devoted to domestic happiness. On 
 the subject of her dislike to it, however, she 
 touched not to him ; tenderness for his 
 feelings, as well as a conviction of the use- 
 lessness of the measure, since he had no 
 other alternative, withheld her from giving 
 utterance to it; but in the hour of emotion 
 and melancholy which succeeded his de- 
 parture, she involuntarily mentioned it to 
 her daughter. 
 
 Elizabeth immediately exerted herself to 
 inspire her with more pleasing hopes of 
 the future, and had, at length, the satisfac- 
 tion of perceiving, that if she had not abso- 
 lutely succeeded in doijig this, she had at 
 least in rendering her more cheerful. 
 
 The evening after the departure of Munra, 
 
 as
 
 136 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 as they were seated at tea near an open 
 windoWj commanding an extensive view of 
 the distant country, then glowing with the 
 bhish of evening, and round which a beau- 
 tiful honeysuckle flaunted, diffusing fra- 
 grance through the room, they were some- 
 what surprised at beholding a gentleman^ 
 rather advanced in life, but of a strikingly 
 dignified and fashionable air, approaching 
 them through one of the winding walks in 
 the shrubbery^ and who, on reaching the 
 window at which they sat, took off his hat, 
 and, respectfully bowing, entreated, in a 
 voice pleasingly modulated, their pardon 
 for the liberty he had taken in entering 
 
 their garden to enquire his way to E , 
 
 a small romantically situated village a few 
 miles from Heath v/ood. 
 
 Mrs. Munro politely assured him an 
 apology on the subject was unnecessary; 
 and Elizabeth, who knew all the beaten 
 tracks about the neighbourhood much 
 better than she did, immediately gave him 
 the required direction. He received it 
 
 with
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 137 
 
 with gratitude, but also with a look so 
 expressive of weariness, that Mrs. Munro, 
 who was goodnature itself, invited him to 
 enter and take a chair. With evident plea- 
 sure^, and many thanks, he accepted this 
 invitation. Elizabeth presented him with 
 a cup of tea, and a general conversation 
 soon took place, in the course of which, 
 the stranger displayed much knowledge of 
 the world and a highly cultivated mind, 
 and spoke of himself as being lately re- 
 turned from the continent, totally unac- 
 quainted in the neighbourhood, and now 
 on a pleasurable tour through the king- 
 dom — " Whenever, therefore," said he, '' I 
 come to any very agreeable place, such, 
 
 for instance, as E , I make it a point 
 
 to stop there for a few days; and, in order 
 to let nothing escape my observation, since, 
 if I cannot lay claim (and he smiled) to 
 the title of a sentimental, I can at least to 
 that of an inquisitive traveller, make my 
 excursions about on foot,thoi]gh frequently 
 involved in awkward predicaments from, 
 
 doing
 
 138 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 doing so, such as often oblige me fo put 
 goodnature and politeness to the test, as 
 you^ ladies/' again bowing and smiling;^ 
 " have had a recent proof/' 
 
 Elizabeth^ anxious for information, was 
 minute in her enquiries relative to his 
 travels on the continent. With the most 
 obliging readiness he answered these^ again^ 
 evidently to afford her gratification, going 
 over the principal part of the classic ground 
 of Italy, lingering amidst the enchanting 
 beauties of Tivoli, prying into the craters 
 of Mount Vesuvia.re-examinino- the mao-ni- 
 ficent mementoes of Rome's former great- 
 ness, and touching on the emotions awa- 
 kened in his mind on his first entering that 
 celebrated city, once so justly termed the 
 mistress of the world — that theatre, where, 
 as an elegant wTiter observes, human nature 
 has been all that it ever can be, has per- 
 formed every thing that it ever can perform, 
 has displayed all the virtues, exhibited all 
 the vices, brought forth the sublimest 
 heroes and the most execrable monsters, has 
 
 been
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 139 
 
 been elevated to a Brutus, degraded to a 
 Nero, and re-ascended to a Marcus Aurelius.^ 
 On the wonders of Etna he also dwelt, its 
 vast extent, its boundless prospects, its ice 
 impervious to fire, its fire unextinguishable 
 w by ice, its eruptive mountains shaded v/ith 
 stately forests, the mountains caused by 
 these eruptions, the fields of lava, taking 
 ages to coolj the traces of the dreadful de- 
 predations committed by it, when raging, 
 boiling with terrific fury, it has poured 
 into the very bosom of the sea, driving 
 far back the proud waves, as if to usu-rp 
 their place, — '' Scenes of this nature," he 
 continued, '' from the mingled horror and 
 magnificence which they present to the 
 view, the astonishment, the sublime and 
 affecting emotions they excite, are infi- 
 nitely more successful in impressing the 
 mind w^'th reverence for, and devotion to, 
 the Creator, than any the most elaborate 
 treatises that were ever published for the 
 purpose/' 
 ''Assuredly/' assented Mrs.Munro, ''since 
 
 'tis
 
 340 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 'tis through the medium of the senses the 
 feelings are a flee ted." 
 
 In short, the stranger so amused his fair 
 auditors, that, on his rising to take leave, 
 which was not till twilight grey had in its 
 sober livery all things clad, neither were sor- 
 ry to hear him ask permission to wait upon 
 them again, for the purpose, he said, of 
 repeating the acknowledgments their good- 
 ness to him had entitled them to. 
 
 Scarcely had he retired, ere a lettier was 
 delivered to Mrs. Munro from Lord O 'Si- 
 nister, acquainting her of his Lordship's 
 being on the point of setting off for Lon- 
 don, owing to an unexpected, as also, since 
 it prevented his having yet awhile the plea- 
 sure of introducing himself to her and her 
 amiable daughter, '^in welcome summons 
 thither, on business of such importance, as 
 compelled him to leave unfinished that 
 which had brought him into Scotland; and 
 entreating her, as he had previously done 
 through the medlu'.n of her husband, to 
 make the same use of the library and gar- 
 dens
 
 THE DISCARDED SOK. 141 
 
 dens of Firgrove as if they were her 
 own. 
 
 This polite letter failed not to heighten 
 the gratitude and esteem w^ith w^hich his 
 Lordship had already impressed the sus- 
 ceptible minds of the mother and daughter^, 
 and both united in regretting not having 
 an earlier opportunity than they now 
 looked for of expressing the same in per- 
 son to him. 
 
 The ensuing evening brought their new 
 acquaintance, Mr. Eaton, for so he styled 
 himself aoain to Heathwood, and a^ain he 
 gave life and variety to the passing hours 
 bv his animated conversation. He now 
 hinted a probability of his remaining some 
 time longer in their neighbourhood, and 
 entreated, should this be the case, permis- 
 sion from time to time to pay his respects 
 to them; this Mrs. Munro had no hesita- 
 tion in granting, his manners and appear- 
 ance being altogether such as to preclude 
 an idea to his prejudice; he seemed to be 
 amiable, and Mrs. Munro was too great a 
 5 novice
 
 142 THE DISCARDED SON* 
 
 novice in the ways of the world, too pure, 
 too innocent herself, to doubt his being 
 other than he appeared. 
 
 Accordingly, from this period, not a 
 day passed in which he did not make his 
 appearance at Heathwood; and each visit 
 rendered the succeeding one still more 
 welcome, so pleasing were his manners, so 
 lively, so intelligent his conversation. At 
 the expiration of a fortnight, as he was 
 sitting alone one morning with Mrs. Mun- 
 ro, Elizabeth beino; enoaoed in writing: to 
 
 ■^ .000 o 
 
 her father, she, for the first time, noticed 
 an appearance of thoughtfulneas in his 
 looks and manner — she smiled — '' Our re- 
 tired neighbourhood is beginning to lose 
 its charms in your eyes, I fancy, Mr. 
 Eaton," said she. 
 
 '^ On the contrary,'* replied he, with 
 quickness, '' every day renders me still 
 more attached to it; but it would be strange 
 indeed if this were not the case, since never 
 have any of my hours passed so delight- 
 fully as those spent here — ah, my dear 
 
 Madam,
 
 THE DISCARDED SOX. 145 
 
 Madam, not to weariness^ but anxiety, is 
 owing the depression you have just re- 
 marked ! I dread the disappointment of the 
 wishes which the contemplation of loveli- 
 ness and virtue has inspired me with. Oh, 
 Madam V quitting his seat with an agitated 
 air, and drawing nearer to Mrs. Munro^ 
 *'Mieed I explain the nature of these wishes? 
 need I say they point to your lovely 
 daughter?" 
 
 " My daughter!" repeated Mrs. Munro 
 involuntarily, and with an expression of 
 the greatest surprise on her countenance, 
 as an idea of his having conceived, or 
 being likely to conceive, a passion for her, 
 had never, owing to the disparity of their 
 ages, entered her head. 
 
 '' Yes^ your angelic, your fascinating 
 daughter! she has given birth to a passion 
 to which language cannot do justice — a 
 passion which, should she reject my suit, 
 must entail misery on me, since to conquer 
 it is not, I am thoroughly persuaded, in my 
 power.'* 
 
 '' Are
 
 114 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 '' Are you aware. Sir/' asked Mrs. Munro, 
 " that my daughter has no fortune, nei- 
 ther any prospect of one?'* 
 
 '' I never bestowed a thought on the 
 subject, my dear Madam, for fortune is no 
 object to me, my own being more than 
 adequate to all my wants; should I be so 
 blest as to obtain your daughter, I shall, 
 in obtaining her, acquire all I sigh for, the 
 possession of consummate loveliness, a 
 companion rich in all those intellectual 
 endowments calculated to render her a de- 
 lightful one, such as could not fail of 
 giving her charms in the eyes of taste and 
 refinement, even though her personal 
 ones were infinitely inferior to what they 
 are." 
 
 '''You honour her. Sir, by your favour- 
 able sentiments/' 
 
 ." O Madam, I honour myself by enter- 
 taining such, since the homage we pay to 
 w^orth and beauty reflects lustre on our- 
 selves, by the evidence it affords of our 
 taste and judgment; but (in accents 
 
 apparently
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 14'5 
 
 apparently tremulous through emotion) 
 do you. Madam, permit me to hope?" 
 
 "It rests not with me to do so, Sir/' an- 
 swered Mrs. Munro; " I shall certainly ac- 
 quaint my daughter with your proposal, 
 but more I cannot promise." 
 
 '' What, not your influence with her in 
 my behalf?" 
 
 " No, Sir, since, should that influence be 
 requisite, she must be averse to the match; 
 and no parent, in my opinion, has a right 
 to urge a child to a union contrary io 
 their inclination, though certainly one to 
 prevent their forming a connection they 
 conceive imprudent.'* 
 
 " But young ladies, that is, such very 
 young ladies as your daughter,' rejoined 
 Mr. Eaton, with rather a disappointed 
 look, '' are sometimes so apt to be roman- 
 tic, that the interference of friends is often 
 essential to their well-doing." 
 
 " Perhaps so; but (smiling) I flatter 
 myself my daughter has profited too much 
 by the precepts of the best of fathers, not 
 
 VOL. I. H at
 
 145 THE DISCARDED SOX. 
 
 at all times to let her reason have empire 
 over her." 
 
 "Well, Madam, I will not importune 
 you to any measure you are averse to, 
 neither at present longer intrude on you, 
 aware as I am of my agitation being too 
 great to allow of my being any thing like 
 an agreeable companion. This evening, 
 with your permission, I will return hither 
 to learn Miss Munro's decision respecting 
 me — return literally to learn whether 
 my future days are to be happy or i^i- 
 serable.'* 
 
 Elizabeth's surprise at the proposal of 
 Mr. Eaton fully equalled that which it had 
 occasioned her mother, since, like her, she 
 had no idea, from the disparity of their 
 ages, of any thing of the kind. On reco- 
 vering in some degree from this surprise, 
 she requested a day to deliberate on it, a 
 request which her mother readily granted. 
 The result of this deliberation was favour- 
 able to the enamoured swain — filial love 
 did for him what he wished; she saw her 
 3 mother
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 147 
 
 mother pining over the idea of quitting 
 Heathwood^ from her dislike to the bustle 
 and unsettledness of a military life^ as ini- 
 mical in her opinion to the enjoyment of 
 that domestic tranquillity she delighted in; 
 her father too^ she made no doubt^ from 
 her knowledge of his disposition, would 
 have been better pleased to have obtained 
 a situation less likely than his present one 
 to interfere with the habits he had con- 
 tracted from retirement. For the purpose, 
 therefore, of procuring him this, and thus 
 removing from the mind of her mother the 
 uneasiness that preyed on it, she decided 
 on accepting the addresses of Mr. Eaton; 
 the fortune she was led to suppose him 
 master of, and the liberality of sentiment 
 and benevolence he appeared possessed 
 of, inducing her to believe that he not only 
 could, but would do all she wished for her 
 family, provided she became his wife. 
 
 But that she would ever have consented 
 
 to this but for the above consideration, 
 
 admitted not a doubt; not that she disliked 
 
 II 2 Mr,
 
 148 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 Mr. Eaton — on the contrary, she thought 
 him extremely amiable, and, of course, 
 admired him much — but that she conceived, 
 from the difference of their ages, there 
 could not exist that congeniality of feeling 
 and sentiment between them which she 
 had been taught to believe essential to 
 domestic felicity; at least that refined and 
 exquisite felicity which the heart of sensi- 
 bility pants for, and which can only be 
 derived from a similarity of taste and feel- 
 ing. Still, however, though her lot as the 
 wife of Mr. Eaton might not be the hap- 
 piest, the high opinion she entertained of 
 him permitted her not to fear its being 
 absolutely the reverse; and, even if it were, 
 she was almost inclined to believe she 
 could support it with cheerfulness, if tlie 
 consequences she looked to from her 
 liiiion with him resulted from it. 
 
 Generosity and delicacy of feeling pre- 
 vented her revealing to her mother her 
 real motives for acceding to his wishes; 
 Mrs. Munro, therefore, felt rather surprised 
 
 at
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 149 
 
 af learning her determination on the sub- 
 ject, the inequality of their ages having 
 inclined her to believe^ that^ as a suitor, 
 he could not have proved agreeable. This 
 surprise, however, vanished, when she came 
 to reflect on the elegance of his manners 
 and the cultivation of his mind, and that^ 
 though beyond the prime of life, he still, 
 to all appearance at least, remained a 
 stranger to any of the infirmities of age; 
 her prepossession in his favour inducing 
 her to believe Elizabeth would have as fair 
 a chance of happiness with him as with any 
 other person, she rejoiced at her decision 
 respecting him being such as she wished, 
 more especially when she considered, that 
 her union with him would exempt her 
 from all future experience of the ills at- 
 tendant on narrow circumstances, . those 
 ills of which she herself had had, alas! such 
 bitter knowledoe. 
 
 The raptures of Mr. Eaton at the ac- 
 ceptance of his addresses were too great 
 for description, and as the heart of the 
 II 3 timid
 
 150 THJS DISCARDED SON. 
 
 timid and shrinking Elizabeth did not by 
 any means participate in them, she would 
 have been better pleased^ had they been 
 less violent: they were quickly damped, 
 however, by her mother's positively refus- 
 ing to let their marriage take place until 
 her father's consent to it had been obtained. 
 
 '' For, lest you should not be already 
 aware of the circumstance," she added, ad- 
 dressing Mr. Eaton, " I now deem it ne- 
 cessary. Sir, to inform you that my daugh- 
 ter's promise to become your's is but a 
 conditional one — except ratified by her 
 father, it must be considered void." 
 
 '- Well, my dear Madam,'' cried Mr. 
 Eaton, with all his wonted animation^ and 
 gently seizing her hand as he spoke, "^ if 
 you are resolved on putting my patience 
 to the test, have the goodness, at least, to 
 let the trial be as short as possible, by 
 writing immediately to Mr. Munro." 
 
 Such was her intention, Mrs. Munro as- 
 sured him. The hopes in which Mr. Eaton 
 was allowed to indulge did not, it may be 
 
 concluded.
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 151 
 
 concluded, render him a less constant visi- 
 tor than usual at Heathwood — he now in- 
 deed almost lived ihere. To Mi-s. Munro, 
 in whose good opinion he daily gained 
 ground, his company was always welcome; 
 but Elizabeth would gladly have dispensed 
 with so much of it, as, since she had pro- 
 mised to become his, her mind became 
 frequently oppressed by feelings that made 
 her consider the solitude that afforded her 
 an opportunity of endeavouring to argue 
 herself out of them an indulgence; the 
 involuntary repugnance w^hich she at mo- 
 ments felt to fulfil the promise she had 
 plighted to him, she still tried to conquer, 
 by reflecting on the happy change its 
 realization would, in all probability, cause 
 in the situation of her pare .t ; an' that, 
 with a partner at once so enlightened and 
 accomplished as he was, her days could 
 scarcely pass otherwise than agreeably; 
 she did more, she accused herself of caprice 
 for harbouring such a repugnance, since 
 certainly she could not avoid acknowledg- 
 H 4 ing
 
 152 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 lug Mr. Eaton had done nothing to lessee 
 the exalted opinion of his merits which had 
 induced her to listen to his proposals. 
 
 From her mother she carefully concealed 
 whatever had a tendency to give her unea- 
 siness;, and, by the uniform complacency 
 of her manner to Mr. Eaton^ evinced an 
 almost equal regard for his tranquillity. 
 
 At the expected time a letter was re- 
 ceived from her father^ in reply to the one 
 acquainting him with the overture of Mr. 
 Eaton; but, instead of sanctioning her ac- 
 ceptance of thiS;, as expected, he positively 
 forbade her (to the utter disappointment 
 of her lover, as both his looks and words 
 testified, as well as to the surprise of Mrs. 
 Munro, her ignorance of the deceptions 
 common amongst mankind occasioning her 
 to wonder at others not placing the same 
 faith and confidence in appearances that 
 ?he did) from thinking more of Mr. Eaton, 
 except he brought forward the most un- 
 questionable proofs of his being really 
 what he had represented himself — " For, 
 
 though
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 153 
 
 though incapable of practising art myself," 
 observed Munro, " I have not lived so long 
 in the world without knowing that there 
 are others not equally so; and though 
 revolting to my feelings to do any thing 
 calculated to wound those of another, stilly 
 where the happiness of a child is at stake, 
 suth a child too as my Elizabeth, I cannot 
 think of acting otherwise than with the 
 greatest caution. Mr. Eaton must, there- 
 fore, relinquish all hope of obtaining her 
 hand, except he proves himself, beyond a 
 doubt, worthy of it/' 
 
 '' I must confess,'' said Mr. Eaton, who 
 was present at the receipt of this letter, 
 and to whom Mrs. Munro, after glancing 
 over it, candidlv communicated the con- 
 tents, '' I must confess," after a moody 
 silence of some minutes, '' I did not look 
 for a letter of this kind from Mr. Munro, 
 the mind of candour being seldom the seat 
 of distrust ; but, perhaps," and suddenly 
 ceasing to pace the room, which for some 
 minutes he had done, evidently through agi- 
 n 5 tat ion.
 
 iJ4 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 tion, " perhaps/' turning a look full of 
 scrutiny upon Mrs. MunrO;, " he may have 
 grounds for suspicion; some invidious per- 
 son in the neighbourhood may have mis- 
 represented me to him.'' 
 
 '' Noj I am convinced not/' replied Mrs. 
 Munro; "I am certain you have never been 
 mentioned to him by any one but myself; 
 and the terms in which I wrote of you were 
 not calculated/' with a smile of sweetness 
 she added, *^'to excite suspicion." 
 
 '' Then, since he is so unjust as to har- 
 bour it without cause, I trust you will not 
 permit it to have any weight with you: 
 complete your goodness to me, convince 
 me, beyond a doubt, that you really enter- 
 tain the favourable sentiments for me you 
 wish to make me believe, and thus entitle 
 yourself to my lasting gratitude, by letting 
 me no longer sigh for the treasure I am so 
 anxious to obtain." 
 
 "No, Sir," replied Mrs. Munro, in a 
 decided tone, and with a cold and repelling 
 air; *' did I think I had a right, which, 
 
 however.
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 155 
 
 however, I by no means do, to act in op- 
 position to the wishes of Mr. Munro with 
 regard to his daughter, still would I be 
 withheld from exercising that rights by the 
 conviction I entertain of the superiority 
 of his judgment to mine — what he does I 
 have ever found to be wisest, virtuousest, 
 discreetest, best ; consequentiy, worlds 
 should not tempt me to act contrary to his 
 wishes/' 
 
 '' What a happy man to have them so 
 respected!'' cried Mr. Eaton, but with 
 rather a sarcastic smile ; then, after another 
 pause of some minutes, during which he 
 again paced the room with agitated steps^ 
 and a countenance strongly expressive of 
 anger, vexation, and resentment — '' well. 
 Madam, since Mr. Munro must have un- 
 questionable proofs of my being worthy of 
 entering his family, ere he admits me to 
 that honour, may I hope that the testimo- 
 ny of your friend. Lord O'Sinister, in my 
 favour will satisfy him?" 
 
 " Assuredly/' returned Mrs. Munro. 
 
 H 6 " Then
 
 156 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 '' Then T shall write immediately to a 
 relation in London^ who is not only inti- 
 mately acquainted, but connected with his 
 Lordship, and disclose my present situa- 
 tion." 
 
 " And I trust/' rejoined Mrs. Munro, 
 whose gentle nature made her feel hurt a* 
 his appearing to be so, " that a little reflec- 
 tion will prevent your remaining offended 
 at Mr. Munro's conduct on this occasion — 
 be assured none can do greater justice to 
 your merits than he will.'* 
 
 " When once convinced of them,*' added 
 he with quickness, and again a sarcastic 
 smile. "Well, my dear Madam, ere many 
 days elapse, I trust he will be satisfied, that^ 
 if I have not qualities to entitle me to his 
 admiration, I have at least to his esteem." 
 
 Though Elizabeth was concerned that 
 any thing had occurred to wound the 
 feelings of Mr. Eaton, still she could not 
 bring herself to feel concerned that some- 
 thing had occurred to delay their nuptials; 
 neither that, from the day h^r father's 
 
 letter
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 151 
 
 letter had arrived^ his visits became not 
 only shorter, but less frequent than usual^ 
 owing, both she and her mother naturally 
 concluded;, to some degree of pique. 
 
 As she and her mother were sitting to- 
 gether one day at work;, about the time an 
 answer was expected to the letter he had 
 written to his friend in London — "^ I won- 
 der, mother/' said she, suddenly withdraw- 
 ing her eyes from the window, whence for 
 some minutes she appeared to have been 
 earnestly regarding some object, " who 
 that gentleman is/* 
 
 - " What gentleman, my dear?" a&ked her 
 mother, raising her eyes from her work— 
 "do you mean the young man we have 
 seen these few days loitering about the 
 heath!/' 
 
 Elizabeth bowed; 
 
 '"^ Oh, probably some one induced hj 
 the romantic beauties of the neighbour- 
 hood to stop a few days in it." 
 
 '' It's strange then that he should confine 
 }iis rambles entirely to the heath." 
 
 "Weir,
 
 158 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 *■' Wellj perhaps he may be on a visit at 
 one of the cottages.'* 
 
 ''No, no, (with vivacity) I cannot be- 
 lieve that; his manners are quite too ele- 
 gant to permit me to do so/' 
 
 ''His manners, my dear!" repeated her 
 mother — " why how can you possibly 
 know whether they are elegant or not?'* 
 
 " By having had a — a few minutes con- 
 versation wath him/' replied Elizabeth, 
 stam.mering, blushing, and letting her eyes^ 
 drop on her work. 
 
 "A few minutes conversation Vv'ith him !" 
 in accents indicative of the greatest sur- 
 prise — "and pray when had you an op- 
 portunity for this?'* 
 
 "This morning, at the old abbey, tO' 
 %vhich I walked before breakfast: as I was 
 thoughtfully leaning against one of its 
 broken arches, an approaching step made 
 me suddenly turn round, and I beheld him 
 making his way through one of the aisles; 
 somewhat startled, I instantly hurried from 
 the spot; he perceived my emotion, and, 
 
 hastening
 
 THE 'discarded SON. 159 
 
 iiastening after me, entreated me, in ac- 
 cents well calculated to dispel it, to excuse 
 the alarm he had given me." 
 
 'MVell, and then I suppose ]ei't you?'* 
 said Mrs. Munro, rather anxiously. 
 
 '^ No/' returned Elizabeth, but hesi- 
 tatingly, and blushing a still deeper dye^, 
 *' he — he — continued to walk on with me, 
 conversing about the different places in 
 the neighbourhood. On coming w^ithin 
 sight of home, however, feeling that I 
 should appear awkward if I suffered him to 
 attend me to the door without asking him 
 in, and convinced my doing so would not 
 be pleasing to you, I stopped, and told 
 him I must then bid him good bye, upon 
 which he immediately took leave of me in 
 the most respectful manner.'"* 
 
 '' You were right," said her mother, '''in 
 not suffering him to accompany you home, 
 for, as your father says, young w^omen can- 
 not be too circumspect in their conduct.'* 
 
 ''Certainly," assented Elizabeth; "he 
 is one of those characters, however, I 
 
 think.
 
 160 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 tYiinkj that would not encroach upon any 
 civility.'* 
 
 "As far as I can judge, from the distant 
 \iew I have had of him, he appeal's to be 
 rather handsome," rejoined her mother. 
 
 '' Rather!'' repeated Elizabeth, but evi- 
 dently involuntarily — '' he is excessively 
 handsome; I never saw a more expressive 
 countenance, or finer features: — his eyes in 
 particular '' 
 
 ^^ Cannot surpass Mr. Eaton's, I am cer- 
 tain,'' interrupted Mrs. Munro with a laugh^ 
 but rather a forced one. 
 
 '' I beg your pardon, they do indeed; 
 Mr. Eaton's are only indicative of pene- 
 tratioUj whereas the stranger's possess not 
 only an equal degree of keenness, but all 
 the brilliancy, the fire of youth, tempered 
 by the most pleasing softness, the " 
 
 " Upon my word, my dear," said her 
 mother a little archly, and looking sted- 
 fastly at her, " 'tis w^ell he is not here, or 
 he might be rendered vain by what you 
 are saying." 
 
 Elizabeth
 
 THK DISCARDED SON. IGl 
 
 Elizabeth laughed^ or rather affected to 
 laughs for these wordsj by making her re- 
 collect herself, occasioned her a degree of 
 confusion which nearly overwhelmed her; 
 and was rendered still more painful, by a 
 fear of its exciting unpleasant suspicions 
 in the mind of her m.other. To her great 
 relief; the appearance of dinner gave a 
 turn to the conversation. 
 
 Mr. Eaton had brought some new pub- 
 lications in the morning, and, soon after 
 the removal of the cloth, the mother and 
 daughter, each taking up a book, seated 
 themselves in different parts of the room. 
 Mrs. Munro soon became completely ab- 
 sorbed by the one she had selected, but the 
 thoughts of Elizabeth wandered, of course 
 she could not fix her attention to the subject 
 she W' as perusing; she accordingly laid aside 
 the book in a few minutes, and, softly quit- 
 ting the room, repaired to the garden ; here, 
 however, she had not long been, when the 
 probability there was of her being shortly 
 joined by Mr. Eaton, who had said he 
 
 would
 
 162 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 would come at an early hour to tea, and 
 with whom she was at present by no means 
 inclined to converse, made her hastily 
 clamber up a steep ascent at the extremity 
 of the garden, and cross over to Firgrove, 
 amidst the embowering shades of which she 
 delighted to ramble. 
 
 A double chain of verdant and gently 
 swelling hills extended through the do- 
 main, thickly wooded and watered by a 
 number of silvery rills, which, collecting 
 towards the extremity of the chain into one 
 mighty stream, fell headlong over a rocky 
 steep, and, gradually expanding, formed a 
 spacious lake at some distance from the 
 fall, round which the willow of the lover, and 
 the myrtle of the poet clustered, and, with 
 several other ornamental trees and shrubs, 
 united in giving richness to its banks. 
 On the opposite shore luxuriant pastures 
 ascended, bespread with flocks and herds; 
 and beyond these the frees again thicken- 
 ing, formed a seemingly boundless deep 
 immensity of shade, here and there admit- 
 ting
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 163 
 
 ting partial views of the Gothic but mag- 
 nificent mansion, and, farther on, of the 
 ivy-mantled spires of the ruined abbey, 
 whence the boding owl, in strains of me- 
 lancholy, still hailed the rising moon. On 
 the summit of the cliff, down which the 
 waters precipitated themselves, was situated 
 a rustic temple, consisting of two apart- 
 ments ; the first commanding a view of 
 the lake, and the richly diversified scenery 
 that stretched beyond it; the other open- 
 ing to the wild heights, that rose beetling 
 in the rear, purple with heath, and in their 
 deep indentures overgrown with hazels, 
 hollies, and a variety of wild shrubs and 
 plants. This rustic building, and the em- 
 bowered walk over the hills, were favourite 
 haunts of Elizabeth; their romantic beau- 
 ties were congenial to her taste; and still 
 more pleasing, if possible, to her was their 
 solitude and silence, since allowing her to 
 indulge, without interruption, those wak- 
 ing dreams of future happiness, so delicious 
 
 to
 
 164 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 to the youthful heart, because unacquainted 
 with the fallaciousness of hope. 
 
 To this building she now bent her steps, 
 but more through the force of habit than 
 any settled intention of entering it; but 
 she did not now, as heretofore, lifiger in 
 her way, to catch the distant prospects, or 
 inhale the scents of the flowers that per^, 
 futncd the gale, and tufted the roots of the 
 old trees that shadowed the path. 
 - To the feelings, however, w^hich occa- 
 sioned this indifference to what was wont 
 to charm her, she did not submit with im- 
 punity; she accused herself of weakness, 
 of caprice, of ingratitude, for ever having 
 experienced or yielded to such, for ever 
 having given way to the discontent, the 
 regrets which, for the few last hoiirs, had 
 pervaded her mind — ''Yes,** she said to 
 herself, " I deserve to be punished for 
 indulging (as she could no longer disguise 
 to herself having done) reflections inju- 
 rious to the generous man to whom I have 
 
 promised
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 1G5 
 
 promised to give my hand, for having suf- 
 fered myself to draw invidious compari- 
 sons between him and a stranger, who may 
 have nothing but personal accomplishments 
 to recommicnd him: had any force, any 
 influence been exerted to induce me to 
 plight the promise I have given, my pre- 
 sent feelings might perhaps in some de- 
 gree be excusable, but, having voluntarily 
 pledged it, nothing short of the conviction 
 of the worth which led me to do so being 
 but imaginary, could at all justify them. 
 Oh, why is human nature so wayward! 
 why, in the midst of the most smiling pros- 
 pects, does the sighing heart still remind us 
 of the imperfection of human happiness! 
 but I will stifle the sighs of mine," she con- 
 tinued, " I will fly from the thoughts that 
 gave them birth/' 
 
 Still, however, she continued to linger 
 in her favourite haunt, though but too 
 conscious its solitude, its silence, rather 
 tended to promote than dispel the feelings 
 
 she
 
 1.66 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 she wished to overcome. The crimson 
 glow of evening began to fade, its sha- 
 dows deepened, and fainter, and less fre- 
 quent grew the carol of the birds, but still 
 she attempted not to retire^ when suddenly 
 she was roused from her pensive reverie by 
 the sound of feet in the inner apartment^ 
 and, starting from the rustic couch on 
 which she had thrown herself, she bent for- 
 ward, and beheld the stranger advancing- 
 from the door opening to the heights. 
 
 The surprise, the confusion she betrayed 
 at the moment, were sufficient to induce a 
 belief of his having alarmed her^ a belief 
 which his looks and address implied his 
 feeling — "^^ I seem destined/' cried he, ea- 
 gerly approaching her, and with a smile of 
 mingled sweetness and animation, " to 
 alarm you — but for the idea of having 
 been now so unfortunate as to do so, how 
 should I rejoice at this moment.'* 
 
 These words did not tend to lessen 
 the emotion of Elizabeth; she trembled, 
 
 blushed
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 167 
 
 blushed still more deeply, said something 
 that was not perfectly intelligible^ and 
 moved involuntarilv towards the door. 
 
 The stranger folio vved — '' Nay/* said he, 
 "I shall indeed begin to imagine myself 
 an object calculated to inspire terror, if 
 my appearance still causes you to hy." 
 
 '' I — I — really. Sir," replied Elizabeth, 
 making a vain effort to speak with com- 
 posure, '' was about quitting this at the 
 instant you appeared." 
 
 '' Well, Madam," but smiling a little 
 reproachfully, as if doubtful of the truth 
 of this assertion, and presenting his hand to 
 assist her down the steps of the temple, '' I 
 will not have the temerity to oppose your 
 departure, however I may regret its being 
 so precipitate." 
 
 " Pray do not let me be the means of 
 taking you hence," said Elizabeth, pausing 
 on perceiving him appear as if he meant 
 to accompany her. 
 
 " I had no settled intention of remaining 
 here any time, I assure you, and shall, there- 
 fore.
 
 168 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 fore, conceive myself not only honoured 
 but obliged, by being permitted to attend 
 
 vou hence." 
 
 ■J 
 
 Elizabeth, but with a fluttering heart, 
 signified, by a bow, her compliance with 
 this request, since to have refused it would 
 have been, she conceived, to incur the im- 
 putation of distrust or prudery, neither of 
 which she liked the thousfhts of beins ac- 
 cused of. 
 
 CHAP.
 
 [THE DISCArvDED SON* 16^ 
 
 CHAP. iV 
 
 ** Why he can smile, and murder while he smiles, 
 And cry content to that which grieves his heart. 
 And wet his checic with artificial tears, 
 And frame his face to all occasions." 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 JL HE animated remarks of her compa- 
 nion convinced Elizabeth he was a stranger 
 to the agitation and embarrassment she felt 
 at the moment. As they slowly proceeded, 
 the tall trees beneath which they walked 
 gently rustling in the breeze^ and from the 
 adjacent shades the droning beetle flitting 
 across their path, he expatiated with rap- 
 ture on the scenes by which they were 
 surrounded, and the ciibct, particularly at 
 VOL. I. I such
 
 170 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 such an hour as the present, they w^re 
 calculated to produce upon the mind, of 
 the tranquillity they communicated to the 
 feelings, and the consequent disposition 
 they excite in the mind to receive tender 
 impressions — '' Convinced of this/' added 
 he, '' I would, had I an inexorable mistress 
 (and he smiled a little archly, and looked 
 more earnestly than he had before done at 
 Elizabeth), endeavour to allure her into 
 such, more especially, as a writer, to whose 
 opinions I subscribe, has declared, ' the 
 lonely mountain, and the silent grove, en- 
 crease the susceptibility of the female bo- 
 som, inspire the mind with rapturous en- 
 thusiasm, and, sooner or later, draw aside 
 and subjugate the heart/' 
 
 He paused ; but the reply Elizabeth 
 perceived he expected, she hesitated to 
 make ; for, though in her heart she allowed 
 the justness of the observation, she did not 
 like to acknowledge so to him ; on his 
 pressing, therefore, for her opinion on the 
 subject, she rather evasively said, that to 
 
 be
 
 TKE DISCARDED SON. 1^71 
 
 be able to form a just one on it, she con- 
 ceived it requisite to have iViixed in others. 
 
 ^' Pardon rne for dillering from you/* 
 returned he; ''but surely one may easily 
 conceive that the noise, the agitating pur- 
 suits, and dissipation of a metropolis, are 
 inimical to those feelings that soften and 
 dispose the heart to love." 
 
 '' Perhaps so,** Elizabeth was about re- 
 plying, when, to her inexpressible dismay. 
 she heard the voice of Mr. Eaton. It in- 
 stantly struck her, that, surprised at her 
 absence, after having announced his inten- 
 tion of paying her an early visit, he had 
 come in quest of her; and ihat to find her 
 with such a companion could scarcely fail 
 of exciting the most injurious suspicions 
 in his breast concerning her. 
 
 Terrified at the idea, she directly hastened 
 from the ])ath she was pursuing, nor paused 
 till she had got to a considerable distance 
 from it; when, in much agitation, she mo- 
 tioned to the stranger, who, with astonish- 
 1 2 ment
 
 172 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 ment in his looks, had followed her flying 
 steps, to leave her. 
 
 ''Good Heavens'/' he exclaimed, turn- 
 ing pale, '' have I then been so unfortunate 
 as to offend you ? — so unfortunate as to in- 
 spire disgust and abhorrence where I wished 
 to excite such very different sentiments?'* 
 
 ^' No, Sir, no," said Elizabeth, endea- 
 vouring, from her anxiety to dispel the 
 strange ideas she conceived he might form 
 of her conduct, to speak in a collected 
 tone, '' but I am now near home, and, there- 
 fore 'r 
 
 " I understand you. Madam," slightly 
 bowing, and in rather a reproachful tone, 
 he cried, on finding she paused; '' you deem 
 me presumptuous, I see — could you look 
 into my heart, you would acquit me of 
 being so." 
 
 '' You err in thinking such a thing,'* 
 said Elizabeth involuntarily. 
 
 *' Indeed!" exclaimed he with rapture, 
 and a cheek suffused with its rich glow, 
 
 '' then
 
 THE DISCAr.DED SON. 173 
 
 '' then why this impatience to banish me 
 your presence?'* 
 
 Elizabeth, with encrcased confusion, bent 
 her eves to the ground, and^ unable to 
 reply to this question, mechanically moved 
 forw^ard. 
 
 The stranger opposed her progress — 
 '*" Nay, be not displeased," cried he, ob- 
 serving her about speaking with an air of 
 anger, '' I mean not to act contrary to your 
 wishes; but, at the same time, cannot pre- 
 vail on myself to neglect making use of so 
 favourable an opportunity as the present 
 for revealing: mv own — for avowins: the 
 admiration, the passion with which you 
 have inspired me. Yes, enchanting girl/' 
 suddenly seizing her hand^ and pressing it 
 to his throbbing heart, while with eyes 
 beam.ing with love he sought her downcast 
 ones, ''you are the magnet that has de- 
 tained me amongst these shades— I saw you 
 by chance, but, sudden and transient as 
 was the view, your charms made an im- 
 pression on m.y heart, which is, I am con- 
 1 3 vinced.
 
 174 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 vinced^ indelible; nor did I endeavour to 
 subdue it when, on enquiry^ I found you 
 were single, at liberty to (here it may be 
 requisite to mention that neither Mr. 
 Eaton's visits nor overtures to Elizabeth 
 were known in the neighbourhood) receive 
 the addresses of a lover/' — Elizabeth started 
 at these words, and, turning deadly pale, 
 with difficulty prevented herself from re- 
 peating this last expression. '' Elad I 
 obeyed the dictates of passion," he conti- 
 nued, in too much ernotion at the moment 
 to notice hers, *' I should immediately 
 have tried to make my Vy^ay to your feet, 
 but, unknown as I was to any one who 
 could properly introduce me to you, I 
 feared, by precipitancy, to incur tlie im- 
 putation of temerity, and therefore resisted 
 those dictates. At the moment we met 
 this evening, I wms revolving the manner in 
 which I could best introduce myself to you, 
 whether by letter, or by watching fcr an op- 
 portunity of speaking to vou — my wishes 
 are, to be allowed to wait on you to-mor- 
 
 ro w.
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 175 
 
 row, and to your friends reveal what my 
 pretensions are to your favour — have I 
 your permission/"' and he looked anxiously 
 in her face, '' to do so?" 
 
 Elizabeth could not immediately reply — 
 never had she been so cruelly agitated, 
 never as at this moment, when she saw that 
 all that happiness which she ha<l pictured 
 to herself must be the result of the uniori 
 of- enamoured hearts and congenial minds 
 might have been hers — "And ah, v;hy, why 
 was I so precipitate in engaging myself!" 
 she inwardly and involuntarily exclaimed; 
 " why not allow myself greater time to in- 
 vestigate the nature of my feelings, and 
 thus ascertain the effect likely to be pro- 
 duced on them, by beholding a being ac- 
 cording in every respect with th(i ideas I 
 had formed of perfection? — But how vain, 
 how improper these regrets! the die is 
 cast, my faith is plighted, and both virtue 
 and reason require that I should make 
 every effort to reconcile myself to the fate 
 that awaits me/* 
 
 1 4 '' Your
 
 176 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 '' Your favciirable sentiments^ Sir/' she 
 at length, but in faltering accents, said^ 
 " are flattering, but ill should I deserve 
 such, if I did not candidly inform you. 
 that -" 
 
 '' Oh, do not doom me to despair!" he 
 passionately interrupted, and again seizing 
 the hand which she had withdrawn^ '^'^ if so 
 unfortunate as to have failed of exciting 
 any thing like a similar prepossabsion in 
 my favour, grant me at least opportuni- 
 ties for trying to recommend myself to 
 you." 
 
 '' Impossible, impossible," she was on 
 the point of saying, when again the 
 voice of Mr. Eaton, evidently descending 
 the hill, reached her ear, and closed her 
 lips: wresting her hand from the stranger, 
 she darted forward, but had not got many 
 yards, when, overtaking her, he caught her 
 by the robe and stopped her. 
 
 " Will vou then, by flving me in this 
 niar.ner, have the cruelty to let me imagine 
 
 myself
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 177 
 
 myself an object of abhorrence to you?" 
 he cried. 
 
 '' If — if you ^vish I should ever speak to 
 you again/* said Elizabeth, confused and 
 struggling to free herself^ '' do not detain, 
 me now; should we meet again, I shall ex- 
 plain why I am so anxious now^ to go." 
 
 '^Should we ever meet again!" he re- 
 peated; '' I shall know no peace till we do^ 
 for you have conjiu'cd up fear^ that tor- 
 ture me." Then relinquishing his hold — 
 '^ I no longer oppose your departure. 
 Madam," he added ; '' but remember, of all 
 states susDense is the most painful; and be 
 not therefore surprised if I seek for an 
 opportunity of having mine quickly ter- 
 minated." 
 
 Elizabeth, without replying, hurried 
 forward, nor again paused till she found 
 herself at hom.e. Meeting the servant in the 
 hall, she asked concerning Mr. Eaton; and^ 
 finding he was not yet come, neither that 
 her mother had made any enquiry about 
 her, she repaired to her chamber, for the 
 1 5 purpose;
 
 178 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 purpose of trying to regain composure^ ere 
 she made her appearance in the parlour. 
 
 Some time elapsed ere she succeeded in 
 her efforts for this; nor did she quit her 
 chamber till summoned to tea. She found 
 Mr. Eaton in the parlour, and conversing 
 in his usual manner with her mother; and 
 from every circumstance felt convinced that 
 he had not been to Firgrove on her ac- 
 count. Though never less inclined to con- 
 versation^ or to receive the attentions of 
 Mr. Eaton, she forced herself to join in 
 one, and receive the other^ with her usual 
 complacency; so painful, however, were 
 the efforts she was compelled to make for 
 the purpose, that she could not help re- 
 joicing when she saw him take up his hat 
 to retire. 
 
 As soon as he was gone, she candidly^, 
 although not unhesitatingly, acquainted 
 her mother with her second interview with 
 the stranger, and all that had occurred in 
 the course of it. 
 
 The communication occasioned ?vlrs. 
 
 Munro
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 179 
 
 Mimro not a little surprise^ and would have 
 caused her an equal degree of pain^ had 
 she at all suspected the feelings with which 
 it was made; this, however, Elizabeth took 
 such care to prevent, that she had not the 
 sliohtest idea of the stranger i;?ivin«: made 
 any impression on her heart. Siie highly 
 approved her conduct towards him, and 
 expressed a hope of her having shortly an 
 opportunity of informing him of her en- 
 gagement, should they find, which, how- 
 ever, from the discoura.oino- manner in' 
 which his declaration had been received 
 by her, she was rather inclined to think 
 they should not, that he still lingered in 
 the neighbourhood. 
 
 Elizabeth's self-reproaches were renewed 
 on retiring to her chamber — '' But I vvili 
 atone for my error," she cried, vv^hile tears 
 fell from her, '' by henceforth flying 
 from all that has a tendency to make me 
 repeat it — yes, from this instant I will se- 
 dulously struggle against every feeling cal- 
 culated to render me unworthy in my own 
 I 6 eyes^
 
 180 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 eyes, or the eyes of those whose esteem I 
 value/' 
 
 Spite, howeveit, of this resolution, the 
 thoughts of poor Elizabeth would stray 
 beyond the limits she prescribed them, and 
 fancy persisted in suggesting to her the 
 happiness which, but for her hasty engage- 
 ment to Mr. Eaton, might have been hers. 
 The pangs which this suggestion occa- 
 sioned were not lessened by any reflection 
 on the possibility there was of the young 
 stranger being other than his appearance 
 proclaimed him; had such a one, however,, 
 occurred, it v/ould not, in all probability, 
 have been attended to, so prepossessmgwere 
 his looks and manners — the former all ani- 
 mation and intelligence, the latter lively 
 and insinuating. 
 
 To a figure of commanding height and 
 fine proportion, characterised by an air of 
 dignity and fashion, he united a counte- 
 nance full of sweetness, sensibility, and 
 candour; his smile proclaimed a heart of 
 benevolence; his dark eyes a proud and 
 I noble
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 18 I 
 
 noble spirit, calculated alike to avvx and 
 conciliate; in short, his was 
 
 " A combination, and a form indeed, 
 Where every god did seem to set his seal. 
 To give the world assurance of a man." 
 
 Uninclined to rest, Elizabeth seated her- 
 self at an open window. In another frame 
 of mind, and the Sv-rene w^ithout would have 
 communicated the most delicious feelin^^s 
 to her bosom; as it Vv^as, she could not gaze 
 upon the starry heavens,, or the full- orbed 
 moon rising majestically over the broom- 
 clad heights, and extending its silver 
 beams athwart the landscape, inhale the 
 dewy freshness of the exhaling shrubs and 
 flov/ers, or listen to the soft sighing of the 
 night-breeze amidst the foliage, without a 
 sensation of pleasure — but pleasure, 'tis 
 true, of a melancholy nature; and rendered 
 still more so by the solemn silence of the 
 hour, the monotonous noise of distant 
 waters, and, at intervals, the liollow bark of 
 
 the
 
 IBS' TliE DIvSCAKD-ED SOX. 
 
 the watchful house-dog, the centincl- of 
 the farmer. 
 
 From lier contemplative attitude Eliza- 
 beth was suddenly roused by a thick cloud 
 of smoke rolling pa.:t her window^ and a 
 strong smell of fire: not a little alarmed^ 
 she flew from her chamber towards her mo- 
 ther'Sj w^henee the smoke appeared to issue. 
 In vain, however, she strove to enter it, a 
 hot and suffocating sm.oke filling the ad- 
 joining gallery, which, spite of her efforts 
 to advance, forced her to retreat : siie 
 shrieked aloud, and was running to the 
 servants apartments, when a violent knock- 
 ing at the hajl door induced i^er to fiy thi- 
 ther — with trembling hands she drew back 
 the bolts, and admitted, not, as she ex- 
 pected, some of ihc neighbouring rustics, 
 but the youn<r stranjjer. She involuntarilv 
 Started at beholding him, but, almost in- 
 stantly recovering from i\\Q, emotion his 
 unexpected appearance occasioned, ac- 
 quainted him with i'^i^ danger of her mo- 
 ther^
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 1S3 
 
 ther, and conjured him to try and save her. 
 He needed no reiterated entreaty to induce 
 him to do this; guided by her voice, he 
 hastily ascended the stairs^ and^ rushing 
 through the smoke, quickly reappeared 
 with Mrs. Munro in his arms, enveloped in 
 her nio'ht-gown, and in a state of insensi- 
 bilitv. CommittinG: her to tiie care of her 
 daughter, he hurried oiT to assist the ser- 
 vants (whO;, roused by the outcries of Eli- 
 zabeth, were by this time risen) in extin- 
 guishing the fire, the red glare of which 
 was now visible through the smoke. In a 
 short time, but principally owiiig to his 
 exertions, it was got under^ without doing 
 any farther irjury than consuming a few 
 boards communicating with the flooring of 
 Mrs. Munro s chamber; but from which 
 circumstance it was evident^ that if not 
 taken at the moment it v/as, it would have 
 spread beyond the possibility of being sub- 
 dued. Hovv it could have originated where 
 it did, was a matter of no less astonishment 
 and conjecture than consternation to the 
 
 fiamily.
 
 184 THE DlSCARDExO SOX». 
 
 family, it being perfectly well recollected 
 by all, that not a person bad been through 
 the orallery that nii-ht with a lio^ht but Mrs. 
 Miinr); and beside, that had it been oc- 
 casioned bv a soark from her candle, it 
 must have burst out long before it did, as 
 there was nothins: in the g-allerv in which 
 h could have lain smothered for any time. 
 The mystery^ however, was at length solved^ 
 by a recently extinguished brand being 
 discovered by the stranger close to a win- 
 dow near her chamber door, ^vhich, owing 
 to the heat of the weather, had for some 
 nights past been left open, and through 
 which it was evident it had been flung. 
 
 The conviction imparted by this disco- 
 very, of having some secret enemy, ago- 
 nized ^Irs. Munro, v/ho speedily reco- 
 vered her senses, which the siifTocating at- 
 mosphere of her cham.ber had deprived her 
 of, at the moment she was endeavouring, 
 in consequence of being roused by the 
 shrieks of her daughter, to gain the door, 
 beyond description. 
 
 *^ Against
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 185 
 
 "Against an open foe/' she cried, ''one 
 may be guarded, but against an ambushed 
 one 'tis next to impossible. — Gracious Hea- 
 ven ! I sicken with apprehension at the idea 
 of what may yet be attempted by a person 
 capable of devising so diabolical a scheme ! 
 How dreadful, the absence of Mr. Munro at 
 such a juncture!" 
 
 " Pardon me, my dear Madam/' said the 
 stranger, with much vivacity, '' for saying, 
 that, after the striking proof you have just 
 received of being tiie immediate care of 
 Providence, these fears oug'it not to l:e 
 indulged; allow me also to add, that you 
 vill center an obligation on me^ by em- 
 powering me to make those enquiries re- 
 lative to this aflair, which Mr. Munro would 
 doubtless deem necessary if here." 
 
 This, however, was a request;, which, 
 after his avowal to her daughter, propriety 
 forbade her to comply with; but the gra- 
 titude she owed him, as the preserver of 
 her life, would not allow her to refuse 
 seeing him the next morning, especially 
 
 as
 
 1S6 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 as it was her determination then to give 
 her daughter an opportunity of informing 
 him how she w^as situated, should he con- 
 tinue at all particular in his conduct to 
 her. 
 
 . He received this permission with spark- 
 ling eyes, and a gljtnce at Elizabeth, which 
 convinced her he augured favourably from 
 the circumstance ; she sighed at the idea^well 
 knowing, that in proportion to the san- 
 guineness of hope is the bitterness of dis- 
 r<ppointmcnt. 
 
 As soon as the agitation of Mrs. Munro 
 had somewhat subsided, she enquired to 
 v/hat was owing his having so fortunately 
 discovered their danger ? and, in reply, 
 learnt, entirely to his being tempted to 
 stay out beyond the usual hour by the 
 fineness of the niglit. 
 
 At length he departed, but not without 
 repeating his intention of waiting on them 
 the next day. 
 
 Neither mother nor daughter could think 
 of rest any more that night — the danger 
 
 they
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 187 
 
 the}' had so narrowly escaped^ the horror 
 with which their minds were impressed, by 
 the idea of having a secret enemy, totally 
 precluded sleep; in vain they endeavoured 
 to conjecture who this enemy could be — 
 they could not recollect a being from 
 whom they deserved aught but kindness 
 and goodwill — " L^t the consciousness of 
 this, therefore, mv dear mother, tranquil- 
 lize your ypirits," said Elizabeth, at length 
 making an effort to conquer her own agi- 
 tation, for the purpose of endeavouring to 
 calm her mother's; " those who have no- 
 thing to reproach themselves with, may 
 surely rely v;ith confidence on the protec- 
 tion of Heaven." 
 
 '' No doubt,'* returned her mother; *'it 
 would, however, I confess, be a satisfaction 
 to me, to know exactly the quarter in 
 which we have cause for apprehension." 
 
 *' If yon accepted the services of the 
 stranger, I think it probable you shortly 
 would," said Elizabeth, ^' for he appears to 
 be one of those characters whom neither 
 
 trouble
 
 188 THE DISCARDED SON'. 
 
 trouble nor difficulty can deter n'om perse- 
 veririg in any cause they undertake/' 
 
 *' He does; I ^hal, however, iQ%t sat'sfied 
 with those of Mr. Laton on this occasion, 
 (Mrs. Munro always seemed to make it a 
 point to mention this gentleman whenever 
 the young stranp:er was spoken of)— ^Foor 
 man^ how greatly will he be affected when 
 he hears the danf^rr we wr^re in !" 
 
 *' Yes/' replied Elizabeth ; '' but so must 
 every one possessed of humanity/' 
 
 The next mornin?, just as they were 
 dressing for breakfast, a letter, directed in 
 an unknown hand, was brought from i^r\e 
 post-office to Mrs. Munro. She desired 
 Elizabeth to open it. Accordingly break- 
 ing the seal, she read aloud as follows: 
 
 ''Madam, 
 
 *^'The lines that now meet 
 your eye are the dictates of a heart fervent 
 in its devotion to virtue, zealous in the 
 
 cause
 
 THE BISCAHDED SON. 189 
 
 cause of innocence; let this assurance, 
 therefore;, induce you to pay attention to 
 the warning they convey. One of the most 
 artful, the most unprincipled of men, has 
 found means of introducing himself to 
 your notice — introducing himself for the 
 diabolical purpose of ensnaring the inno- 
 cence of your daughter: as you value the 
 preservation of that innocence, as you 
 v/ish to retain the applauding testimony 
 of your own conscience, let not vour door 
 again be opened to the traitor — let not his 
 pestilential breath again approach the 
 flower, whose sw^eetness he would rifle; 
 his licentious eve again gaze upon the 
 cheek, whose virgin blush he would anni- 
 hilate; his treacherous tongue again pour 
 poison into the ear of- purity. That his 
 nefarious schemes may in every other in- 
 stance, as in this, be disappointed, the do- 
 mestic happiness he now aims to des- 
 troy, continue unimpaired, is the sincere 
 wish of one, who, in avowing himself the 
 friend of innocence and vntiie, avows him- 
 self
 
 150 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 self the friend of Mrs. Munro and her lovely 
 .daughter." 
 
 '^'^Good Heavens ! " exclaimed Mrs. MunrOj 
 eagerly grasping the letter, ''who could 
 have imagined such a thing! Who could 
 have thought him such a villain \" 
 
 '' Who, mother?" tremblingly^ and pale 
 as death, asked Elizabeth. 
 
 '' The stranger — Vvho else could vou 
 suppose?" 
 
 ''Why, I think one cannot be certain 
 that it alludes to him," replied Elizabeth, 
 but in tremulous accents and with down- 
 cast eyes — " one may just as well imagine 
 that it alludes to — to — --" 
 
 " Mr. Eaton, I suppose you would say — 
 oh, my dear girl (in a reproachful tone), 
 how could you admit such an idea?" 
 
 " I should be sorry to do injustice to 
 any one," returned Elizabeth; "but, in 
 realitv, Mr. Eaton is almost as great a 
 
 stranger to us as him we style so. 
 
 ^'But
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 191 
 
 '' But his age, his manners, his conver- 
 sation, above all, the testimonial he has 
 promised to produce from Lord O'Sinister, 
 of being what he has represented himself, 
 convince me he is not the person alluded 
 to in this letter — no, no, 'tis the stranger I 
 am certain; and we need give ourselves 
 no further trouble about the affair of last 
 night, since I have not a doubt of his being 
 the incendiary." 
 
 ''And to what motive can you ascribe 
 such wickedness?" asked Elizabeth. 
 
 '' Entirelv to his wishins: to obtain an 
 opportunity of doing something which 
 should lead us to believe we owed him an 
 obligation, in consequence of his despair- 
 ing, from your manner, of otherwise re- 
 ceivinc: Dermission to visit here: but he 
 
 O 1 
 
 shall find, from this being denied him, that 
 he has no cause to triumph in his villainy — 
 that if not absolutely detected, 'tis at least 
 suspected." 
 
 Elizabeth sighed — she could not deny 
 that circumstances made against him: still, 
 
 however^
 
 192 THE DISCARDED SOX. 
 
 however, the reflection that he might be 
 innocent, and, if so, of the ingratitude he 
 must accuse them of, on finding their door 
 closed against him, without any reason 
 for its being so assigned — the indignation 
 ^vith which, in that case, such conduct must 
 inspire him, made her wish that her mother 
 would not give way entirely to the suppo- 
 sition of his beina: ouilty. 
 
 At length, by dint of supplication, she 
 prevailed on her to let her not seeing him 
 be excused by the plea of indisposition. 
 Scarcely had she gained this point, w^hen 
 she saw him approaching the house; in a 
 few minutes after, the servant entered the 
 chamber with a card, on which were writ- 
 ten the following lines with a pencil: 
 
 '' The disappointment of Cap- 
 tain Delacour, at not obtaining a personal 
 opportunity of paying his respects to Mrs. 
 and Miss Munro, is not a little ao^ravatcd 
 by the cause of it; but, though denied the 
 
 pleasure 
 5
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 1 §3 
 
 pleasure of an immediate interviev; with 
 them, he trusts he shall not be denied the 
 pleasure of immediately employing himself 
 in their service." 
 
 To this address .Mrs. Munro^ after a little 
 hesitation^, returned the following answer: 
 
 ''Mrs. and Miss Munro unite 
 in requesting Capt. Delacour to accept 
 their thanks for his politeness, which, how- 
 ever, they must positively decline putting 
 to any further test." 
 
 ^' Well, if any circumstance occurs to 
 prove him the v^retch he is now suspected 
 of being, never," said Elizabeth with so- 
 lemn earnestness, as she beheld him wnth 
 an air of disappointment quitting the house, 
 *' never, never^" her fancy still dwelling 
 VOL. I. K on
 
 194 THE DISCARDED SOX. 
 
 on the noble expression of his counte- 
 nance, the candour, sweetness, and sen- 
 sibility of which it was indicative, '* will 
 I again place faith in appearances/* 
 
 Her mother acknowledged, that, to have 
 judged of him from his looks, she should 
 have considered him one of the most 
 amiable of human beings; but, notwith- 
 standing their testimony in his favour, 
 avowed her belief of his being one of the 
 most worthless. 
 
 The conversation relative to him was 
 interrupted by the unexpected arrival of 
 Mr. Eaton, who seldom called of a morn- 
 ing. The occurrence of the preceding 
 night Mrs. Munro conceived she could not 
 keep from his knowledge; but with regard 
 to the anonymous letter she resolved to be 
 silent, lest the disclosure of it should be 
 the means of involving him in danger. 
 He hearkened to the particulars she com- 
 municated with an agitated air, and a vary- 
 ing countenance; and scarcely suffered her 
 to conclude, ere he made an effort to 
 
 depart.
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 195 
 
 depart, for the purpose, he said, of enquir- 
 ing into the affair. This intention Mrs. 
 Munro strongly opposed, but without 
 saying why ; and, at length, prevailed on 
 him to relinquish it. By degrees he be- 
 came tranquillized; and, as he recovered 
 his tranquillity, grew extremely inquisitive 
 about the young man (so Mrs. Munro 
 styled Captain Delacour) who had been so 
 instrumental to her preservation. His en- 
 quiries, however, relative to him remained 
 unanswered; and, but whether ov,ing to this 
 circumstance, or to any other secret cause 
 of uneasiness, he suddenly became gloomy 
 and abstracted, and abruptly departed; 
 not, however, without first signifying his 
 intention of returning in the evening, and 
 expressing a hope of then having the 
 letter, he was now in daily expectation of 
 receiving from his friend in London, to 
 produce. 
 
 The mention of this letter, or rather the 
 
 idea of the event she expected it to lead 
 
 to, sickened the heart of Elizabeth. Pale^ 
 
 K 2 melancholy.
 
 196 -THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 melancholy, desponding, she continued 
 leaning against a window after the depar- 
 ture of Mr. Eaton, lost to external objects, 
 till the trampling of horses roused her from 
 her reverie; when, raising her eyes, she 
 beheld Captain Delacour riding across the 
 heath, attended by a groom. It instantly 
 occurred to her that he was quitting the 
 neighbourhood, an idea which occasioned 
 her a pang, that excited self-reproaches 
 sufficiently severe to draw a flood of 
 tears from her. To conceal these from 
 observation, aware that if noticed they 
 would lead to enquiries she could not 
 answer, she fled to the garden; but had not 
 been long there, when the sound of a car- 
 riage stopping at the house made her 
 hasten back through curiosity; and, to her 
 unutterable astonishment, the first object 
 that met her eyes, on entering the hall, 
 was her father. 
 
 We shall enter into no particulars, being 
 totally irrelative to this story, of the man- 
 ner in which Munro was occupied or 
 
 situated
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 197 
 
 situated in Ireland; suffice it to say, that 
 one evening, as he was indulging in a soli- 
 tary ramble, for the purpose of meditating 
 on the dear connexions at home, and anti- 
 cipating the happiness they should all ex- 
 perience when again re-united, a gun was 
 discharged at him through a hedge, near 
 which he was walking, and he instantly fell. 
 He felt he was wounded^ but where, the 
 universal shj^ck his frame had received pre- 
 vented him for a moment from ascertaining. 
 He then perceived it was in his leg, and, sit- 
 ting up, took out his handkerchief to bind 
 round it. While thus employed, a hasty 
 step made him raise his eyes, and he beheld 
 a man, in appearance a ruf^an, running 
 towards him with a gun. On perceiving 
 him, he no longer attributed the 'njury he 
 had met with to accident, as at first he had 
 been inclined to do; and, under the per- 
 suasion of his life being threatened, made 
 an effort, but an unsuccessful one, to rise. 
 Within a few paces of him the ruffian 
 suddenly turned the gun, and with the but 
 K 3 end
 
 198 THH DISCARDED SON. 
 
 end of it aimed a blow at his head — " O vil- 
 lain!" exclaimed Miinro, with a wild and 
 Hashing eye, throwing up his hands as he 
 spoke to ward off the impending blow. 
 It must, however, have fallen, his position 
 being too awkward a one to permit his 
 parrying it effectually, but that, at the very 
 moment it was descending, the gun was 
 knocked out of the murderous hands that 
 held it by the blow of a cudgel, and the 
 villain instantly fied. 
 
 For a minute Munro lost the power of 
 perception; on regaining it, he beheld an 
 elderly man bending over him, in v^'hose 
 features, at a second glance, he recognised 
 those of his mutilated host of Port-Patrick. 
 
 "Good God," he exclaimed, ''what does 
 all this mean?" 
 
 " It means," replied the other, " that 
 you are the care, as indeed we are led to 
 believe the good ever are, of Providence — 
 your life was attempted by a villain, and I 
 arrived just in time to save it. Your ho- 
 nour may remember, that^ as you were 
 
 stepping
 
 THE DISCARDED SON, 199' 
 
 Stepping into the boat^ I told von, the first 
 time I came to this side^, I would make bold 
 to call upon you; I was in my way to do 
 
 thisj when I stumbled upon you here ^but 
 
 come. Captain, let us hasten to the house 
 for assistance; with the aid of my arm, and 
 this stout cudgel, don't you think you can 
 make a shift to walk thither?" 
 
 " To hobble, my friend," replied Munro 
 w^ith a faint smile, as with his assistance he 
 rose from the ground. 
 
 With difticulty they reached it. They 
 found the hall door open, and Munro^ 
 turning into the first room he came to^ 
 rang for a servant. 
 
 His summons vras answered by a man 
 who lived at Temora in capacity of steward, 
 a fellow of surly manners, and most unpre- 
 possessing countenance ; insomuch, that 
 Munro had conceived a strong prejudice 
 against him, now not a little strengthened 
 by the suspicions, which the terror and 
 confusion he betrayed at seeing him ex- 
 cited^ of his having had some hand in 
 K 4 the
 
 200 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 the recent affair; the disclosure of these 
 suspicions prudence^ however, now for- 
 bade; and^ accordingly, till completely out 
 of his power, Munro determined not to 
 give a hint of them. 
 
 In puimiance of this resolution, there- 
 fore, he contented himself with merely 
 desiring him to fetch a bottle of wine, and 
 then go off in quest of a surgeon. Der- 
 mody obeyed, but not without having first 
 made some awkward efforts, such as tended 
 to strengthen Munro's suspicion of his guilt, 
 to appear concerned for what had hap- 
 pened. 
 
 The monlent he was out ofsight — ''Well,** 
 said the honest veteran, or as we shall in 
 future style him, Macleod, *' if ever I saw 
 a^'illain, the fellow who has just left us is 
 one. Captain, for Heaven's sake don't 
 remain another night in this house or 
 neighbourhood, for my mind misgives me 
 your life is not safe in either — the wherry 
 in which I came over will be on its way 
 back in the course of an hour; so, in the 
 
 name
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 201 
 
 . name of God, return with me^ and rely on 
 it, my dame and I will do every thing that 
 is necessary for voii/' 
 
 Munro needed no importunity to in- 
 duce him to comply with this entreaty^ 
 perfectly coinciding with Macleod, in 
 thinking that where he then was he w^as 
 not safe. He had no sooner decided 
 on departing with him, than, as no time 
 was to be lost in making preparations, 
 he directed him where to find his chamber, 
 in order that he might collect his clothes, 
 and pack them up for him. 
 
 Macleod was not long in dispatching this 
 business; he returned with the portman- 
 teau, and was then desired by Munro to 
 unlock an escritoire in an adjoining closet, 
 and bring him out the cash, amounting to 
 two hundred pounds, which he had de* 
 posited there: to apply a key to this, 
 however, Macleod found unnecessary, as 
 it lay open, and completely cleared of 
 its contents, 
 
 k5 ^^WelL'*
 
 202 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 *^Well/' said Munro, on learning the 
 robbery, endeavoiirini^ to force a smile as he 
 spoke, though distressed beyond expression 
 by the loss of a sum so essential to the com- 
 fort of his family, '' it can't be helped, my 
 friend; there is, therefore, no use in com- 
 plaining about it; those who took it 
 doubtless concluded, that, by this time, I 
 should have had no further occasion for 
 cash/^ 
 
 ^"^Ah the villains!*' cried Macleod, ''only 
 for the delay it would occasion, I'd search 
 that ill-looking rascal, Dermody, when 
 he comes back, for I'll be sworn he's con- 
 cerned in this business but. Captain, 
 
 have you no fire-arms?" 
 
 ''Luckily remembered," returned Munro; 
 "in the hall, my friend, you'll find a brace 
 of pistols belonging to me, and loaded, 
 that is, if no trick has been played with 
 them." 
 
 Macleod hastened for them, and, being 
 examined, it was found that, unlike the 
 
 es-critoire.
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 203 
 
 escritoire, they still retained their contents. 
 Dermody presently returned, but unaccom- 
 panied by the surgeon^ saying he could not 
 find him at home. 
 
 '' Well^ it matters not/' said Munro, as^ 
 with the assistance of Macleod's stick, he 
 quitted his seat; '^ I am going where I 
 hope it will not be so difficult to find 
 one.^" 
 
 ^'^ What^ going away from this?'' ex- 
 claimed Dermody, in an accent of surprise^ 
 aud with a look at once scrutinizing, appre- 
 hensive, and ferocious. 
 
 ^' Yes;, it is timie for me to leave a place 
 where my property has been taken, and my 
 life attempted." 
 
 " What^ — how — your property !— Lord> 
 what has made you think so?" 
 
 With involuntary severity, and turning,, 
 as he spoke, his eyes full upon him — eyeS: 
 which, like those of his friend Lord O'Sinis- 
 ter, seemed formed to dive into the re^ 
 cesses of the soul — " You w:ill probably- 
 soon know/' said Munro, 
 
 kG Dermody
 
 204 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 Dermody tried^ but was unable^ to sup- 
 port his gaze. 
 
 *^' Come, come/' cried ?vIacleod impa- 
 tiently, '^^ instead of standing like a fool 
 there, twirling your hat upon your thumb, 
 be so good. Master Dermody, as to throw 
 this here portmanteau over your shoulder, 
 and trot dov,^n with it to the beach.'* 
 
 Dermody turned a look full of rage and 
 scorn upon the old soldier; the refusal, 
 however, -which evidently hovered on his 
 lips, was prevented by Munro, in a calm but 
 resolute tone, reiterating the command. 
 
 After a little hesitation, he sullenly 
 obeyed, and still more sullenly submitted 
 to going before, after having made several 
 unsuccessful efforts to fall into the rear, 
 awed, in all probability, by the stern looks 
 of Munro. and the threatening^ manner in 
 which Macleod held the pistols. 
 
 In pain, both of body and mind, Munro 
 embarked — he was agonized to think, that, 
 through the machinations of some secret 
 foe, he might perhaps be compelled to 
 
 relinquish
 
 THE piSCATiDED SON. Wdr 
 
 relinquish the advantageous situation he 
 had so recently obtained. By degrees^ 
 however, he strove to tranquillize his 
 mind, by endeavouring to hope the best; 
 andj after a little deliberation, fi)iaily re- 
 solved, notvv^ithstandino' Macleod'^s arsfu- 
 ments to the contrary, on remaining silent 
 \\ith re2:ard to the affair that had driven 
 him from Ireland, until he had consulted 
 his noble friend. Lord O'Sinister, respect- 
 ing it. 
 
 The grief, the consternation, and resent- 
 ment, which this truly good man would 
 feel on being acquainted with it, he pic- 
 tured to himself in the liveliest colours — 
 *' Yes/' said he mentally, " he v;ill i'eel as 
 though the injury had been done to him- 
 self, and never rest, I am convinced, till 
 he has made every exertion in his power 
 to discover the perpetrators of it — how 
 then,'' he continued, after a transient pause, 
 *' can I let my spirits flag, knowing, as I 
 4o, that I enjoy the patronage of so worthy 
 and so great a man — one who, of his own 
 5 accord.
 
 ^06 THE DISCARDHD SON. 
 
 accord, sought me out for the purpose of 
 
 befriending me Away tormenting fears 
 
 and forebodings, whilst Lord O'Sinister 
 continues my friend, and continue so I am 
 certain he will, except my own fault, I 
 have no reason to give way to you !" 
 
 As soon as he landed a surgeon was sum- 
 moned, and the ball, which had lodged in 
 bis leg, extracted, but not without diffi- 
 culty and danger, and the unpleasant in- 
 formation, of the wound in ail probability 
 requiring a length of time to heal, owing 
 to so long a period having elapsed ere it 
 was attended to, and the painful exertions 
 made after receiving it. 
 
 Finding he was likely to remain an in- 
 valid for some time, Munro resolved on 
 returning home immediately, notwith- 
 standing Macleod's earnest solicitations for 
 him to remain where he was, and his con- 
 viction of experiencing from him every 
 attention he required; but his heart fondly 
 turned towards home, and, even though 
 inclination had not impelled his return, 
 
 prudence
 
 THE DISCARDED SOK. 507 
 
 prudence would^ the again contracted state 
 of his finances requiring that he should 
 incur no extraordinary expence. 
 
 Accordingly, the day after his arrival at 
 Port-Patrick, he was assisted into a chaise 
 by his worthy host, and, accompanied by 
 his best wishes for his speedy recovery, set 
 out for Heath wood. 
 
 Gladly would he have concealed fron? 
 his wife and daughter the circumstance to 
 ■which his quick return was owing, being 
 perfectly aw^are o^ the horror it v/as calcu- 
 lated to impress them with; but, as to fol- 
 low his wishes in this instance was impos- 
 sible, he endeavoured to prevent the con- 
 sequences he apprehended from its disclo- 
 sure, by cautiously breaking it to them; 
 but, notwithstanding this, ere his narrative 
 was closed, his wife became senseless in hisp 
 arms, and Elizabeth, clinging round his 
 neck, proved, by her fast-falling tears, that 
 k was to these only she was indebted for 
 not being reduced to a similar situation. 
 
 The
 
 SOS THE DISCARDF.D SON. 
 
 The attentions of her husband and daugh- 
 ter soon restored 'Mrs. Munro to animation. 
 On reviving she fondly pressed the former 
 to her hearty and — *' Never^ never will we 
 part again on this side the grave!" burst 
 from her. 
 
 " While we were so safe, so happy/' cried 
 Elizabeth — " oh my father ■" and, dropping 
 on her knees, she wrapped her arms around 
 him and her mother, and kissed and bathed 
 with her tears their united hands. 
 
 The pain ofhis wound, which the motion 
 of the carriage had not a little aggravated^ 
 soon obliged Munro to repair to his cham- 
 ber. In his way to it, the mischief done 
 by the fire caught his attention, and led to 
 enquiries, which brought about, not only 
 an immediate, but candid disclosure of all 
 that had recently happened. 
 
 Distrustful of her own judgment^ and^ 
 besides, so accustomed to repose unlimited 
 confidence in him, that, even if she had 
 thought, which however she by no means 
 
 did.
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 209 
 
 did, that the circumstances she now revealed 
 could have been concealed from his know- 
 ledge, she would still have felt uneasy at 
 their being so, Mrs. Munro suffered no in- 
 terrogatory from him to remain unan- 
 swered. 
 
 Munro was greatly agitated by what he 
 heard, but by no means concurred in opi- 
 nion with her respecting Captain Delacour; 
 he was convinced he %vas the young hero 
 of whose exploits he had lately heard so 
 much, and could not believe it possible 
 that a character like his would plot the 
 destruction of an innocent family — '' His 
 revealing his name is, to me, a proof of 
 his innocence,'* he added; ''since, if guilty, 
 'tis but natural lo suppose he would care- 
 fully have avoided every circumstance 
 likely to lead to his detection/' 
 
 ''Then if you acquit him, on whom does 
 your suspicion light?" asked Mrs. Munro. 
 
 "Not particularly on any one; our lives 
 have been so inofTensive,, the little power 
 we possessed of doing good to others has 
 
 ever
 
 210 THE DISCARDED SON, 
 
 ever been so eagerly made use of, that I 
 am quite at a loss to conjecture how or 
 where we have provoked enmity: when a 
 little recovered, I shall certainly endeavour 
 to discover; in the interim, all that can be. 
 done, is to be as much upon our guard as 
 possible; and still to remember, that He, 
 without whose permission a sparrow can- 
 not fall to the ground, will continue to 
 watch over the safety of the creatures that 
 look up to him for protection.*' 
 
 " You are of opinion then that the ano- 
 nymous letter does not allude to Captain 
 Delacour?'* 
 
 ''I am; but (half smiling), pray where 
 is this Mr. Eaton, of whom I have heard so 
 much? when may I expect the honour of 
 being introduced to him?'* 
 
 "Why, in the course of an hour or two, 
 my love, I make no doubt, as he is a regu- 
 lar attendant at our tea-table; if he knew 
 of your arrival, I dare say his eagerness to 
 pay his respects to you would bring him 
 here sooner than usual.'* She then entered 
 
 hit a
 
 THE DISCARDED SON". 211 
 
 into a discussion of his merits^ and con- 
 cluded by a declaration of the happiness 
 she experienced, at the idea of Elizabeth's 
 marriage with a man so every way calcu- 
 lated to render her happy. 
 
 A deep and involuntary sigh from the 
 bosom of Elizabeth, at these words, caused 
 her father to turn his eyes with quickness 
 on her; and awakened suspicions in his 
 mind, which determined him to be minute 
 in his enquiries, ere he permitted her mar- 
 riage to take place with Mr. Eaton, even 
 though that gentleman should prove him- 
 self worthy of her hand. 
 
 Contrary to the expectations of Mrs. 
 Munro, the tea equipage made its appear- 
 ance without being preceded by Mr. Eaton ; 
 and, to her encreasing surprise, minute 
 after minute, and hour after hour, rolled 
 away without bringing him. Something 
 very particular, she persuaded herself, must 
 have occurred to keep him away, and, in 
 consequence,resolved on sending,at an early 
 
 hour
 
 gl^ THE DISCARDED SO^. 
 
 hour the next morning, to enquire after him. 
 Elizabeth made no comments on the faihire 
 ©f his usual visit, neither did her father, 
 though he was not without his thoughts on 
 the subject, being determined to give no 
 Utterance to the suspicions it awakened, 
 except convinced beyond a doubt they 
 Vfere well founded. 
 
 The messenger dispatched the next 
 morning by Mrs. Munro to the village 
 where Mr. Eaton lodged, returned with 
 information of his having set out for Lon- 
 don the preceding evening, in consequence 
 of an express acquainting him of the death 
 of a near relation, to whose property he 
 was heir, and to take possession of which 
 his presence there was immediately requi- 
 site. 
 
 This story, though plausible, gained no 
 credit with Munro; he was convinced it 
 w^as a fabrication, and, consequently, that 
 an atrocious scheme had been carrying on 
 against his daughter. Yes, he had no 
 
 longer
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 213 
 
 longer the smallest doubt upon his mind 
 that a villain, availing himself of his ab- 
 t,ence, had laid a regular plan to betray 
 her: this idea made him almost bless the 
 hand that had reduced him to the necessity 
 of returning home at this crisis, since in- 
 strumental, in all probability, to saving 
 him from a wound nothing could have 
 healed. For though of the purity of the 
 " angels that circle the throne of God 
 rejoicing," he had not a more exalted 
 opinion than he had of that of his wife 
 and daughter, he well knew they were too 
 ignorant of the arts of the flagitious, 
 to be any match for those of a hardened 
 libertine. He could no longer think of 
 concealing from his wife the opinion he 
 had formed of Mr. Eaton ; she heard it 
 with astonishment, and, notwithstanding 
 the deference she paid to his judgment, 
 with something like incredulity : had 
 Eaton been a young man, she might, nay 
 probably would, have subscribed without 
 hesitation to the justness of it; but his age 
 
 was
 
 214 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 was such an assurance to her of his feelings 
 being divested of that impetuosity, which, 
 in the early season of life^ but too fre- 
 quently occasions a lapse from virtue, that 
 she could not immediately bring herself 
 to believe him guilty. 
 
 '' Trust me, my love/' said Munro, in 
 reply to her observations on the subject, 
 " unbridled passions are not confined en- 
 tirely to the bosom cf youth — if in the 
 morning of life we allow them to triumph, 
 in the evening they will domineer — ^tna 
 is not the only object in the creation that 
 has snow u])on its head, and a devastating 
 fire within its veins: but, even though I 
 should be convinced my conjectures res- 
 pecting Mr. Eaton were erroneous, still, 1 
 confess, I should give our Elizabeth with 
 reluctance to him, persuaded as I am, that 
 without parity of age there cannot be that 
 unity of sentiment so essential to the hap- 
 piness of the married state, at least the 
 happiness of a heart of sensibility like her's; 
 besides, I am certain she already repents 
 
 her
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. SI 5 
 
 "her engagement, and equally so^ that she 
 ^vould never have thought of forming such 
 a one but on our account '* 
 
 This assertion occasioned reflections in 
 the mind of Mrs. Munro which gradually 
 revived a train of circumstances in her 
 recollection, that tended to convince her it 
 was a just one, and consequently made her 
 rejoice at the marriage of her daughter 
 with Mr. Eaton being prevented. 
 
 From the wretchedness which the fond 
 parents were now equally certain the idea 
 of this marriage caused her, they de- 
 layed not relieving their Elizabeth. To 
 paint her transports at the moment, her 
 joy, her gratitude, at being released from 
 her promise to Mr. Eaton, at finding 
 that the sacrifice of her happiness to 
 theirs was what they neither expected, 
 nor would consciously permit, would be 
 impossible. An insupportable weight was 
 immediately removed from her heart, by 
 the removal of the chains which she had 
 imposed upon herself; the melancholy 
 
 which
 
 216 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 which had began to pervade her mindj and 
 make her view every object through a 
 gloomy medium, instantly vanished; again 
 all around wore a smiling aspect, for again 
 
 *< Hope, with eyes so fair, 
 Whisper'd promised pleasure. 
 And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail.** 
 
 CHAP.
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 217 
 
 CHAP. V. 
 
 " What then remains, but, after past annoy, 
 To take the good vicissitude of joy, 
 To thank the gracious gods for what they give. 
 Possess our souls, and, while we Hve, to live?" 
 
 DRYDEN. 
 
 JL HE whispers of Hope v/ere, however, 
 sometimes interrupted by the suggestions 
 of fear: when Elizabeth reflected on the 
 apparently abrupt manner in which Cap- 
 tain Delacour had quitted Heathwood, she 
 was not without apprehensions of its being- 
 owing to pique^ and, consequently, that he 
 would make no effort for the renewal of 
 their acquaintance. 
 
 Among those who came to enquire into 
 the particulars of the affair which occa- 
 
 voL. I. L sioned
 
 213 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 sioned Munro's unexpected return home, 
 was Jenkins, the steward at Firgrove, and 
 to him was entrusted the letter which 
 Munro wrote to Lord O'Sinister relative 
 to it. To this, in due time, an answer was 
 rereived, expressive of the greatest horror 
 and indignation at what had happened, 
 and a determination to take immediate 
 steps for the investigation of it — "And as 
 I have no doubt/' his Lordship continued, 
 ^' of these steps proving successful, I shall 
 hope, and expect to hear, that, as soon as 
 able to travel, you are again on your way 
 to Temora, where, with real gratitude, I 
 have learned your unceasing exertions to 
 forward my wishes." He then, atter dwell- 
 ing on the uneasiness he felt at the thoughts 
 of what the family of Munro must have 
 suffered from the attempt upon his life, 
 mentioned his having entered into a cor- 
 respondence with Osmond, and being 
 greatly pleased with his style and turn 
 of thinking: and concluded, by saying 
 he should feel himself highly obliged, 
 
 by
 
 TKE DISCARDED SON. ^19 
 
 by the ladies paying some little attention 
 to a particufar friend of his, a widow lady 
 of the name of Elford, who, in her way to 
 the Highlands, for which she was on the 
 point of quitting London, purposed rest- 
 ing a day or two at Firgrove. 
 
 From such a friend as Lord O'Sinisrer, it 
 must have been a very disagreeable request 
 indeed, which Munro or his family would 
 have had any hesitation in complying with: 
 accordingly, as soon as apprized of the 
 arrival of Mrs. El ford, they hastened to 
 pay their respects to her, and devoted the 
 two days she passed in the neighbourhood 
 almost entirely to her. Thev found her 
 a pleasing, sensible woman, somewhat ad- 
 vanced in life, but still so lively and insi- 
 nuating in her manners, that to converse 
 with her without feeling prepossessed in 
 her favour, was scarcely possible : in a 
 word, she so ingratiated herself into their 
 good graces, that, on her expressing a wish 
 for the company of Elizabeth during her 
 stay in the Highlands, no objection was 
 L ^ made
 
 2S0 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 made to the proposal, but by Elizabeth 
 herself, and that only on account of the 
 unwillingness she felt to leave her father at 
 this juncture, who still continued lame: 
 both he and her nnother, however^ were too 
 anxious to promote her amusement to per- 
 mit her to decline the invitation, especially 
 when assured her absence at the farthest 
 v;ould not exceed a fortnight. 
 
 At an early hour in the morning she 
 quitted Heathwood with her new friend, 
 and, towards the decline of day, reached 
 the end of their journey, not a little grati- 
 fied by the romantic scenery it gave her 
 an opportunity of viewing. 
 
 In a narrow glen, open at one end to the 
 sea, and winding away at the other like a 
 meandering river, amidst rocks, woods, 
 mountains, and falling streams, the pictu- 
 resque interspersion of which brought 
 to mind the rude but richly luxuriant 
 wildness of Claude Lorrain's landscapes, 
 stood the habitation of Mrs. Elford, for the 
 purpose of disposing of which she averred 
 
 this
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 221 
 
 this journey had been undertaken, a lono^, 
 loWj spacious, but somewhat ancient and 
 dilapidated building, on such a spot as 
 Ossian desired to repose in. " O lay me, 
 ye that see the light/' he said, ''near some 
 rock of my hills: let the thick hazels be 
 around, let the rustling oak be near, green 
 be the place of my rest, and \ti the sound 
 of the distant torrent be heard/' Every- 
 thing vv'ithin proclaimed long desertion 
 and decay; a fevv o!d servants composed the 
 household, and melancholy itself could not 
 have desired any thing m.ore solitary or 
 still. 
 
 In another frame of mind, and Elizabeth 
 perhaps m^ight not have liked an abode of 
 this description; but now, owing to the 
 impression which recent occurrences had 
 made upon her, it suited her better than 
 a livelier one would have done. 
 
 The domestics being apprized of the 
 
 coming of their lady, dinner was provided 
 
 against her arrival: scarcely was it over 
 
 when she was summoned to a person on 
 
 L 3 business
 
 2SS THE DISCARDFD SON. 
 
 business in another room; she accordingly 
 repaired thither, leaving Elizabeth to 
 amuse herself as she pleased during her 
 absence. 
 
 The evening was fine, and Elizabeth no 
 sooner found herself alone, than her impa- 
 tience to take a nearer survey of the roman- 
 tic scenery which so delighted her eve, 
 induced her to quit the house, and hei:d her 
 steps towards the sea, from whii h it was 
 distant but a short way. Here the magni- 
 ficent spectacle of the setting sun sinking 
 to appearance amidst the glitterir.g waves, 
 rmd the glowing tints of the beetling cliffs 
 that caught his parting rays, the haunts of 
 innumerable wild- fowl, and richly tufted 
 vfVh marine weeds and plants, and dotted 
 with self-implanted groves of elder, so 
 that not un frequently, by those who 
 skirted the feet of these stupendous preci- 
 pices, the sweet notes of the throstle and 
 the rock lark were hecird mingling with, 
 and at ines predominating over, the 
 harsh and discordant cries of the grey gulls 
 
 and
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 223 
 
 and kittivvakSj alternately fixed her atten- 
 tion, and excited the most rapturous en- 
 thusiasm in her breast, such as the sublime 
 of nature never fails of awaking in minds 
 of sensibility: but, by degrees, this gave 
 place to the feelings inspired by the reflec- 
 tion of being now in the immediate vici- 
 nity of her father's ancient neighbourhood 
 — that residence v^hich he had been so un- 
 justly, and, she feared, for ever banished 
 from ; wondering, if by any chance she came 
 in her grandfather's way, whether he would 
 notice her, and recalling to recollection 
 the manner in which, should such a circum- 
 stance occur, her father had desired her to 
 act — namely, in such a way as should prove 
 her having been brought up to respect the 
 ties which connected them. vShe wandered 
 on, almost unconsciously, till her progress 
 was impeded by a projecting rock, against 
 which the waves broke in white foam, as if 
 enraged at the barrier it opposed to their 
 innovations. 
 
 *' And thus/* said Elizabeth^ as, pausing 
 L 4 and
 
 224 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 and leaning against a jutting point of it, 
 she saw wave succeeding wave and idly dis- 
 persing on the shore, '' does hope succeed 
 hope in the human mind ! scarce has one 
 faded and become extinct, ere another rises, 
 calming the perturbations of disappoint- 
 ment, and keeping aloof despair — friend of 
 the unhappy, soother of the afflicted, but for 
 thee, how dark and dreary were often the 
 path of life! supported by thee what dif- 
 ficulties cannot man endure, what sorrows 
 not sustain 1 Oh, never may my bosom 
 cease to lodge thee I for, as the poet ele- 
 gantly says, 
 
 ** Hope, like the glimmering taper's light. 
 
 Adorns and cheers the way. 
 And still, as darker g;rows the night, 
 
 Emits a brighter ray." 
 
 From her meditative attitude she was 
 roused by a strain of wild, but exquisite 
 melody ; she started, and looked toward 
 thesumir.it of the clip'', whence it seemed 
 to proceed, but without perceiving any 
 
 one —
 
 THE DKCARDED SON. 225 
 
 one — '' Was it then an ideal sound I heard/' 
 cried she to herself, after pausing some 
 minutes in expectation of its beins re- 
 peated^ '' or one peculiar to these solitary- 
 regions, such as incline the unenlightened 
 mind to superstition, and led our rude fore- 
 fathers to believe^ that spirits rode on the 
 Clouds, and sung on the winds of the rock ?*' 
 
 She ceased^ for again soft music floated 
 on the air, and again, like the strain that 
 had preceded it, gradually died away amidst 
 the cavities of the cliif, like the larit faint 
 sighs of expiring nature. 
 
 Elizabeth^ now looking about her more 
 narrowly than she had before done, disco- 
 vered one of these cavities^ and im me- 
 diately opposite to it a corresponding one, 
 divided from it by a narrow path; prompted 
 by curiosity, she ventured within in> andy 
 passing the intervening space^ advanced 
 through the other; but scarcely had she 
 issued from the farther outlet, when, she 
 started back, in confusion and dismay, at 
 beholding a large party of gentlemen at 
 L 5 dinner
 
 2!2G TMK DISCARDED SOS. 
 
 dinner beneath the shelter of a cliff, a ves- 
 sel at anchor near them^ and, on a crag 
 above themj the musicians whose wild 
 melody had drawn her to the spot. Her 
 confusion, at starting thus abruptly upojn 
 them, was not a little encreased by their 
 exclamations at seeing her, and still further 
 augmented, by hearing herself pursued 
 through the cavern — her being alone and 
 unknown to any of. the party, making her 
 dread meeting with some impertinence. 
 But, notwithstanding her speed, she was 
 overtaken, and her flying steps arrested by 
 the seizure of her gown; panting and 
 trembling, she turned to resent this inso- 
 lence, but lost the power of utterance on 
 beholding, instead of a presumptuous stran- 
 ger, Captain Delacour. Her emotions at 
 this unexpected meeting were such, as 
 nearly to overpower her, and render his 
 support necessary. For a minute she un- 
 consciously rested against his shoulder, 
 then, recovering to a sense of her situa- 
 tion, broke with blushes from him, and 
 
 moved
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 227 
 
 moved forward. Delacour did not attempt- 
 to oppose her progress^ on the contrary, 
 he took her hand^ and eagerly hurried her 
 from the beach^ up a winding path amidst 
 the rocks, in consequence of knowing he 
 was not the only person of the party who 
 had followed her; but on reaching a re- 
 tired spot, at some distance from the place 
 where his companions had lost sight of 
 him, he gently resisted her efforts to pro- 
 ceed — '' For a minute let me detain you/* 
 cried he, " to express the happiness this 
 unexpected meetin<^ has pjiven me, and 
 enquire to what fortunate circumstance is 
 owino i\\Q oleasure of findino- you in this 
 neighbourhood?'' 
 
 Elizabeth, in a voice trembling through 
 agitation, a cheek tiushed by emotion, in- 
 formed him. 
 
 ''How delightful!" said he, in reply; 
 '■how amply does this moment compen- 
 sate for the pain I endured at being com- 
 pelled to leave Heathwood in the abrupt 
 manner 1 didV 
 
 l6 "Compelled!"
 
 228 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 *' Compelled ! " Elizabeth repeated the 
 expression to herself; it was not then 
 from pique or choice, but owing to ne- 
 cessity he had quitted it without seeking 
 
 another interview with her delightful 
 
 idea ! her bosom swelled with rapture 
 at it. 
 
 '' The relation to whom I am on a visk 
 here/' continued Delacour/ '• apprized of 
 /ny being on my way, and impatient and 
 uneasy at my stopping at Ileathwood, sent 
 me a summons vv^hich I could not avoid 
 obeying ; m.y ill humour at the circum- 
 stance, however, was in some degree sub- 
 dued, by the attention and pleasure with 
 which she listei ed to my conversation 
 about you and your mother, owing to her 
 having formerly been intimately acquainted 
 with your father. She is prepared to ad- 
 mire, to esteem, to love you," he addedj 
 with encreasing animation, '' and will, I 
 am convinced, eagerly embrace the oppor- 
 tunity now afforded of soliciting your ac- 
 quaintance — to-morrow^ with your per- 
 mission.
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 221? 
 
 mission, I will have the honour of introduc- 
 ing her to you/' 
 
 Elizabeth bowed — she should consider 
 herself highly flattered by a visit from her^ 
 she said. 
 
 " Then, this matter being arranged, 1 
 will no longer deiav your return home," 
 fried Delacour, passiortately kissing her 
 band. 
 
 '' Nay,*' said Elizabeth, half pausing, and 
 perhaps a little coquettish] v, on finding he 
 still continued by her side, "I shall think ycu 
 sacrifice quite too much to complaisance, 
 if you let me be the means of taking you 
 from your party.'' 
 
 *'And do you really,'' cried Delacour, 
 a little reproachfully> and pursuing her 
 half-averted eyes with his, " attribute to 
 complaisance alone my wish to attend you 
 home? No, no," smiling, and in an altered, 
 an exulting tone, he added, rightly inter- 
 preting the soft confusion of her looks, 
 *' I perceive you do not do me such in- 
 justice,"
 
 230 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 '' Well, well/' said Elizabeth, endeavour- 
 ing, under an air of unconcern, to hide the 
 pleasure with which her bosom throbbed 
 at the delightful idea of being regarded with 
 more than indifference by him for whom 
 the secret sigh of her soul was breathed, 
 *' let us speak no more on the subject 
 ' — do you find this neighbourhood plea- 
 sant?" 
 
 '^ Lately but tolerable^ but now (bowing 
 with a gallant air)^ I shall find it de- 
 lightful." 
 
 " Fewer compliments," snid Elizabeth 
 gaily, '' or I shall be tempted to suspect 
 your sincerity." 
 
 ''Then, rather than excite a doubt of it 
 in your mind^ be my tongue mute, and my 
 eyes the only herald of my heart." 
 
 On reaching Mrs. Elford's habitation — 
 "Must I then," said Delacour a:, he knocked 
 at the door, ''bid you farewell so soon?" 
 
 Elizabeth hesitated for a minute, then 
 replied, she made no doubt Mrs. Elford 
 ^vould be happy to see him. 
 
 ** I have
 
 THE DISCAP.DED SON". 23! 
 
 '' I have your permission then/' returned 
 he eagerly, '' to attend you in?" 
 
 Elizabeth bowed, the door opened, and 
 Delacour followed her into a parlour, where 
 they found the tea-equipage prepared, but 
 no Mrs. El ford — a circumstance, perhaps, 
 neither much regretted. 
 
 " Oh, how often," said Delacour, in ac- 
 cents of mingled tenderness and animation, 
 as he seated himself beside her, *^* have I 
 wished me thus— wished to be thus situated— 
 "wished for such an opportunity of unclasp- 
 ing my heart to you — of giving u-terance 
 to its wishes, its hopes, its fears; for where 
 there is love, I now find, from experience, 
 there will be apprehension." 
 
 ''Especially," returned Elizabeth, a little 
 archly, ''where there is diffidence." 
 
 "True," cried Delacour laughing; "and 
 as I have, notwithstanding what you may 
 think to the contrary, more than a mode- 
 rate share of that, except I receive some 
 hope, some flattering assurance that I 
 
 may *' 
 
 The
 
 252 THE I>ISCAF.rvED SON. 
 
 The door opened and prevented his 
 finishing the sentence r both he and Eliza- 
 beth looked anxiously towards it, but, 
 instead of seeing Mrs. Elford, as they ex- 
 pected, a servant entered, to say she found 
 herself so indisposed after her journey, that 
 she was unable to come down, and there- 
 fore requested Elizabeth's company to tea 
 in her dressing-room. 
 
 '^ Ah, I now find/* said Delacour in a low 
 yoice, and with an air of chagrin, as he 
 arose to depart, in consequence of this 
 message, *' 'tis a true obseryation, happi- 
 ness is of a fugitive nature; but for present 
 disappointment I shall endeavour to con- 
 sole myself by anticipation of to-morrow." 
 Then raising her hand to his lips for a 
 moment, he made his parting bow and 
 withdrew. 
 
 Elizabeth lingered at a window, whence 
 she could trace his steps, till he had entirely 
 receded from her view; she then, with a heart 
 throbbing with the most delightful sensa- 
 tions, hastened to the chamber of Mra. 
 
 Elford,
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 233 
 
 Elford, but paused^ through surprise, at the 
 entrance, occasioned by finding her with- 
 out the smallest appearance of indispo- 
 sition. 
 
 '^ Why, ^vhat's the matter, my dear?" 
 asked Mrs Elford laughing; *' you look 
 astonished/' 
 
 " A little so, I confess. Madam/* replied 
 Elizabeth, as &he advanced into the room, 
 *' but, at the same time, agreeably so, I 
 assure you, since, contrary to what I was 
 led to expect, I perceive no symptoms of 
 illness about you/* 
 
 '' Oh, it's not my way, my dear, to yield to 
 complaints: but come, take a seat, and let 
 me know where you met with that hand- 
 some young fellow that attended you 
 home." 
 
 The terms in which this enquiry was 
 made excited a degree of surprise, it might 
 be said of disgust, in the mind of Elizabeth^ 
 that took from her the power of imme- 
 diately answering it. 
 
 Mrs. Elford again laughed^ and enquired 
 
 whether
 
 234 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 whether the surprise she manifested was 
 owin<r to her havinn^ had the randour to 
 confess she thought the gentleman hand- 
 some, or the bad taste to reckon him so? — 
 " If to the former," added she, " when you 
 know me better, you 11 cease to wonder at 
 hearing me say what I think, as it his 
 always been my wny io do so " ^^he then 
 repeated her question, and received a 
 reply to it. This, however, did not satisfy 
 her; Elizabeth having accidentally men- 
 tioned her meeting with Delacour before, 
 she rested not till she had learned when, 
 where, and how, in short, every particular 
 relative to their acquaintance. 
 
 "And so,*' cried she, on obtaining the 
 full gratification of her curiosity, " you 
 have given him permission to v^ait on you 
 to-morrow?'* 
 
 '' Yes, Madam/* answered Elizabeth, but 
 in rather a hesitating manner, owing to 
 the air of dissatisfaction, at least so she 
 fancied, with which these words were 
 uttered; '' but if you have the least objec- 
 tion
 
 THE DISCABDED SON. 23.5 
 
 tion to Ills being introduced to yoii^ or to 
 my seeing him *' 
 
 ''Me? — Lord, child, not the least/' 
 interrupted Mrs. Eiford; ''or, if I had, it 
 would only be in consequence of the 
 dubious light in which I think he appears: 
 but a short time will, I hope, put it beyond 
 a doubt, whether or not the anonymous 
 letter alluded to him.*' 
 
 " That has already bean done. Madam/* 
 said Elizabeth with involuntary warmth. 
 
 "Indeed! well, my dear, I trust he will 
 prove deserving of your good opinion — 
 if, indeed, he has a relation in the neigh- 
 bourhood, and introduces her to you, 
 then, indeed, I shall think him entitled 
 
 to your notice; but " 
 
 '.''Till you are convinced he is,'* inter- 
 rupted Elizabeth, with a quickness which 
 proved, beyond a doubt, her being piqued 
 by the suggestion of any thing to the pre- 
 judice of Delacour, " we will. Madam, if 
 vou please, cease to converse about him.'* 
 
 Mrs. Eiford nodded — "As you please, 
 
 my
 
 256 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 my dear/' said she^ and immediately changed 
 the conversation. 
 
 Ill humour was a guest that could not 
 long retain a place in such a bosom as 
 Elizabeth's; she quickly^ therefore, ceased 
 to fee] angry with Mrs. Elford, bv reflect- 
 ing, that what she had said concerning 
 Delacour could alone be owing to anxiety 
 for her welfare; but, notwithstanding this, 
 could not help wishing to be alone, that 
 she might have an uninterrupted opportu- 
 nity of revolving all that had passed in 
 her recent interview with him. 
 
 His looks, his words, his manner, all 
 tended to confirm her in the delightful 
 idea of being beloved by him, and his im- 
 iTiediately meaning to make an overture for 
 her hand. That her parents would have 
 any hesitation in permitting her unioa 
 with him, she could not imagine, and, of 
 coui-se, saw nothing at this moment but 
 happiness before her. 
 
 At breakfast Mrs. Elford gave .orders for 
 the admission of Captain Delacour; and, 
 
 on
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 937 
 
 on quitting the parlour to receive a 
 person in treaty for her house, desired 
 wlien he came she might be informed. 
 
 Elizabeth, on being left to herself, took 
 up a book, but her ideas wandered too 
 much to permit her to be amused with 
 i*€ading; and she at length laid it aside, to 
 steal into the hall, for the purpose of look- 
 ing at the clock. She found it on the 
 stroke of twelve — " Well, Delacour will 
 soon be here now," thought she, as she 
 softly re-entered the parlour. 
 
 She was mistaken, however — liour after 
 hour passed away without seeing him; 
 and, at length, the announcement of din- 
 ner made her give up all hopes of seeing 
 him that day. With a feeling of mortified 
 pride Elizabeth joined Mrs. Elford, longing, 
 yet almost fearing to hear what she would 
 say relative to his not coming, for that she 
 would comment upon the circumstance 
 she made no doubt. 
 
 During dinner, however, not a word was 
 said on the subject, but this Elizabeth im- 
 puted
 
 238 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 puted to the presence of the servants; Mrs. 
 Eiforcl, however, was equally silent after 
 they withdrew ; and Elizabeth^ impatient and 
 vexcdj was more than once on the point 
 of introducing it herself, but for a fear of 
 incurring the imputation of over-anxiety 
 for his visit. At length, after a silence of 
 a few minutes — '' So, after all, no visitors 
 here to-day/' said Mrs. Elford, in a laugh- 
 ing manner. 
 
 "No," replied Elizabeth, with an eager- 
 ness which evinced her anxiety for Mi's. 
 Elfoi-d's opinion on the subject; ''don't 
 you (hesitating a little) think 'tis rather 
 strange. Madam ?" 
 
 '' We have a long evening before us," 
 returned Mrs. Elford; -'Captain Delacour, 
 therefore, may still be here." '■^'■- ■ 
 
 "True," cried Elizabeth, joyfuliv catch- 
 ing at these words; ''I wonder it did not 
 occur to me that he mioht." 
 
 Mrs. Elford made no reply, and, a new 
 subject being introduced, they continued 
 to chat till after tea, when again she made 
 
 business
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 239 
 
 business the pretext for leaving Elizabeth 
 to herself. 
 
 Vexed, mortified, disappointed, for that 
 Captain Delacour's expected visit would 
 not be paid this day, she was by this time 
 pretty well convinced, and for the failure 
 of which she knew not how to account in 
 any satisfactory manner, Elizabeth no 
 sooner found herself alone, than she 
 strolled from the parlour into a wild kind 
 of garden into which it opened, in order 
 to be out of the way of observation, till she 
 had in some degree subdued her present 
 feelings: the reflections, however, which 
 occupied her mind were not, by any means, 
 calculated to enable her to conquer them. 
 Lost in thought, she wandered on, till 
 startled by a tap on the shoulder, when, 
 turning, she beheld Mrs. Elford. 
 
 " Upon mv word," laughing, and pass- 
 ing her arm under her's, '' the reverie of a 
 philosopher could not have been more 
 profound — may I enquire the subject of 
 your meditations, or at least guess?" 
 
 5 Elizabeth
 
 240 THE DISCARDED SON'. 
 
 Elizabeth blushed and drooped her head, 
 but too conscious that Mrs. Elford more 
 than suspected the state of her heart. 
 
 '' Come, come/' added Mrs. Elford, ''he 
 is not worth another thought." 
 
 '"He!" repeated Elizabeth with em- 
 phasis. 
 
 " Why, I hope/* smiling a little archly 
 in her face, " you will not pretend to 
 deny that you were thinking of Captain 
 Delacour.^'* 
 
 "Well, Madam/' scarcely conscious of 
 what she uttered, said Elizabeth. 
 
 " Well, Madam," Cried Mrs. Elford, mi- 
 micking her agitated tone; '' why nothing 
 more, ray dear, than that I think it very 
 natural for the thoughts of a young girl, like 
 you, to be occupied by a handsome young 
 man like him^ but certainly no longer than 
 while he treats her with proper respect and 
 attention, in both of which he l^as been 
 totally deficient to you." 
 
 '' You think so?" turning pale^ and in a 
 
 hesitating voice. 
 
 I do
 
 THE DISCARDED SON, 241 
 
 ^' I do indeed, and hope you do the same, 
 or you will be liable to meet again with 
 rudeness from him: as he led you to ex- 
 pect a visit, he certainly, to have acted 
 consistently with politeness, and the res- 
 pect due to you, should hare given you 
 early intimation of his being unable to pay 
 it, that on his account you might not re- 
 main at home — but I suppose, from the 
 ease with which he obtained permission 
 to come here, he thinks he can soon make 
 his peace with you." 
 
 '' Do you then think. Madam,*' said Eli- 
 zabeth, in the greatest agitation, at once 
 alarmed and shocked by this speech, ^' that 
 I should have refused him that permis- 
 sion?" 
 
 '' Why, to be sure, when I consider the 
 obligations you think yourself under to 
 him, I cannot wonder at the readiness with 
 which you granted it — however, since you 
 have asked the question, I candidly con- 
 fess, I think it would have been better if 
 you had not done so, for men seldom value 
 
 VOL. I. M what
 
 g42 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 what they easily obtain. Ah^, they are sad 
 creatures indeed; ardent only when they 
 see difficulties^ but careless whfen they per- 
 ceive none: but let me not rail against 
 them, for a perverseness which seems in- 
 herent in human nature^ which, in all and 
 every stage of life, is, in a greater or less 
 degree, perceptible — the child quickly 
 throws aside the toy it has easily obtained 
 — the prize that may readily be won is 
 reckoned scarce worth contending for — 
 and seldoni does the bloodless victory gain 
 the wreath of fame for the conqueror — 'tis 
 not the glittering of the diamond, nor the 
 delicacy of the pearl, that renders them so 
 valuable, 'tis the difficulty and danger 
 with which they are procured — the female 
 who would be prized must not unsought be 
 v/on — she who knows not how to make 
 herself scarce, will never be followed with 
 that ardour so pleasing to the vanity, so 
 flattering to the sensibility of her sex. 
 There is an innocent coquetry, in which 
 every woman should be an adept, that of 
 
 knowing
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 243 
 
 knowing how to recede^ so as to create 
 anxiety, and appear so as to rouse atten- 
 tion; in shorty the woman who is politic 
 will often disappoint her own wishes, for 
 the purpose of stimulating those of others, 
 since what we continually see we fre- 
 quently cease to regard — But come (smil- 
 ing, and tapping the varying cheek of Eli- 
 zabeth), I see you are vexed, so let us 
 change the subject; should Captain Dela- 
 cour come, and make a proper apology for 
 his conduct, let him be forgiven ; but, ex- 
 cept he does " 
 
 '"'^ We'll speak no more of him,*' inter- 
 rupted Elizabeth with w^armth; ^' for to 
 converse about a person merely to censure 
 them, cannot, in my opinion, afford any 
 gratification." 
 
 Mrs. Elford assented to the justness of 
 this remark by a smile, and immediately 
 after proposed their quitting the garden 
 for the sea^side: to this proposal Elizabeth 
 making no objection, they were proceed- 
 ing thither, when a servant appeared, to 
 M 2 say
 
 244 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 say a person had called-, ^vho wanted to see 
 his mifetress for a few minutes. 
 
 ''Well, this need not, however, prevent 
 your pursuing your walk/' cried she, ad- 
 dressing her companion, as she withdrew 
 her arm from her; "for I shall hasten after 
 you, and it would be a pity, after confining 
 yourself the whole of the morning, if you 
 did not avail yourself of so fine an even- 
 ing to take one/* 
 
 In a frame of mind that rendered con- 
 versation at the moment painful to her, 
 Elizabeth gladly consented to do as Mrs. 
 Elford wished. On being left to hei*self, 
 she sauntered on, vainly trying to find an 
 excuse in her own mind for the conduct of 
 Captain Delacour; for, though something 
 might have occurred to prevent his paying 
 his expected visit, she could not conceive 
 that any thing could have occurred to 
 prevent his sending to apologize for the 
 failure of it. That his not coming, how- 
 ever, was owing to any slighting opinion 
 h^ had conceived of her, she could not 
 
 bring
 
 THE DISCARDED SOX. 245 
 
 bring herself to imagine, since, solicited 
 as she had been to receive his visits, she saw 
 not how she could have refused him: but 
 the pleasure of self-acquittal could not 
 immediately overcome the pangs of of- 
 fended pride and wounded sensibility — the 
 feelings excited by his behaviour were 
 aggravated by the mortifying conjectures 
 to which she saw it had given rise in the 
 mind of Mrs. Elford. 
 
 Absorbed in thought, she heeded not the 
 length of time which had elapsed since 
 her quitting home, nor the gloom that was 
 beginning to involve surrounding ob- 
 jects, till startled by appioaching steps, 
 when, raising her head, she beheld two 
 men of mean appearance following her 
 steps beneath the shadow of the clifTs; 
 concluding, however, that they were na- 
 tives of the place, proceeding homeward 
 after the labours of the day, the circum- 
 stance excited no alarm, till, on her turn- 
 ing to retrace her way to Mrs. Elford s, she 
 saw them also turn; fear instantly lent her 
 M 3 wings.
 
 246 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 "wings^ biit^ notwithstanding her speed, she 
 was quickly overtaken by themj and^ spite 
 of her shrieks and struggles, borne with 
 rapidity from the beach. Her senses for- 
 sook her at the moment, and, on regain- 
 ing them, she found herself seated on 
 horseback before one of the ruffians; for 
 a few minutes she felt wild and confused, 
 as if awaking from a frightful dream ; 
 then, coming entirely to herself, she 
 looked around to see where she was, and 
 found herself in a narrow dingle, hemmed 
 in by rocks of immense height, and, as well 
 as the ghastly light diffused around by the 
 '' wan pale moon already risen in the 
 east" would permit her to discern, savage 
 aspect. 
 
 '' Whither are you taking me ?" at length 
 burst from her. " O tell me what is the 
 meaning of this outrage?" 
 
 '' All in good time you'll know," was the 
 reply. 
 
 '' Now, now% I implore you," cried Eli- 
 zabeth — '-' but perhaps," with a sudden 
 
 change
 
 THE DISGA.i'.DED SON. §47 
 
 change of voice^ '^you've mistaken me for 
 some other person. Yes^ yes^ it must be 
 so/* she added, with a kind of joyful 
 quickness. 
 
 ^' Are you sure it is?'* said the rufRan. 
 
 " Tell me my name then/* returned Eli- 
 zabeth, '' and that will put the matter out 
 ofdoubt.'^ 
 
 '^ 1 fancy I shan't be far from the mark, 
 if I say *tis Munro.** 
 
 The shock Elizabeth felt at finding she was 
 wrong in her conjecture, for a few minutes 
 deprived her of the power of utterance; 
 on regaining it, she exerted all her elo- 
 quence, to try and prevail on the ruffian 
 to release her. 
 
 Her supplications, however, might as well 
 have been addressed to an ear of marble, 
 brutal laughter being all they excited. 
 
 Still, however, Elizabeth continued to 
 weep, and to implore, at all events, if he 
 would not release her, to let her know by 
 whom he had been employed to carry her 
 off? 
 
 M 4 '' Did
 
 248 THE DISCARPED SON, 
 
 '' Did you ever he^r of a person of the ^ 
 name of Delacour?" at last asked he. 
 
 '' Delacour !'' faintly repeated Elizabeth. 
 *^' Captain Delacour^, do you mean? Gra- 
 cious Heaven, is it possible ! — can he be 
 concerned in such a business as this?" 
 
 ^^ Both true and possible/' replied the 
 luffian; *^'so, now that I have satisfied youi* 
 curiosity, I hope you'll be quiet/' 
 
 The anguish of Elizabeth, at finding De- 
 lacour a villain, was unspeakable; all the 
 bright, the flattering hopes which she had 
 for some time been indulging in, instantly 
 vanished, leaving her mind a prey to 
 the pangs of disappointment and regret. 
 As soon as she had a little recovered the 
 shock occasioned by the discovery of his 
 baseness, she again assailed the ruffian with 
 tears and entreaties, but to as little pur- 
 pose as she had before done; and, at last, 
 in absolute despair of succeeding with him, 
 ceased her importunities. 
 
 After proceeding some way in silence, 
 she fancied she heard horses advancing up 
 
 the
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 249 
 
 the dingle; she listened attentively, and 
 soon found her ear had not deceived her; 
 but the shriek which hovered on her lips 
 she suppressed;, lest, after all, the persons 
 approaching might not be inclined to afford 
 her the assistance she required : ^vhen, 
 however, a few minutes after, she beheld a 
 gentleman and his servant within a few 
 yards of her, she could no longer com- 
 mand herself; a scuffle immediately ensued, 
 which ended in the complete discomfiture 
 and flight of the villain. In a fev/ minutes 
 the faculties w^hich hope, as well as appre- 
 hension, had contributed to suspend, being 
 restored, Elizabeth was about thanking her 
 deliverer, when his voice struck her as one 
 she was well acquainted with. . Instantly 
 starting from the jutting point of rock on 
 which she had been seated, she causht his 
 arm, and, scarcely conscious of what she 
 was about, dragged him from beneath the 
 shadow of the impending cliff, to an open 
 spot, sufficiently light to allow her to di^- 
 m3 tin^L.ioh
 
 5.50 THE DISCARDED SOK. 
 
 tingiiish his features, and beheld^ as she 
 expected. Air. Eaton. 
 
 "Oh, now, now,*' she exclaimed, almost 
 •vv'ith a shriek of transport, and joyfully 
 clasping her hands together, '' now, now, 
 I am sure I am safe !'* 
 
 "Safe!'^ he repeated in the most exult- 
 ing accents, and eagerly seizing her hand; 
 ^' yes, my life, my soul, my Elizabeth! I 
 saw,'' added he, " that you did not imme- 
 diately recollect me, and I feared disco- 
 vering myself abruptly, lest joy at finding 
 a fiiend at such a crisis should overcome 
 you; but you still tremble and appear 
 terrified. ' 
 
 '' Terrified r' repeated Elizabeth — then, 
 suddenly checking herself, unwilling on 
 many accounts to betray her knowledge of 
 X\\e person who had carried her off, and 
 anxious, besides, not to encrease the dis- 
 tress which, by this time, she was convinced 
 Mrs. Elford must be in on her account, 
 by delaying her return home, she entreated 
 Mr. Eaton to add to the obligations he had 
 
 already
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 251 
 
 already conferred on her^ by immediately 
 seeing her there; and was proceeding to 
 point out the way^ when he interrupted 
 her, to say he was not only well acquainted 
 with her present abode^ but the lady she 
 was with. 
 
 Leaning on his arm, and followed by his 
 servant leading the horses, they proceeded, 
 without further delay, to the habitation of 
 Mrs. Elford. At the entrance they were 
 met by Mrs. Elford herself, and her ser- 
 vants, all apparently in a state of the 
 greatest consternation — but a consternation 
 which seemed to give place to joy on be- 
 holding Elizabeth. The instant she appeared, 
 they eagerly pressed round her, Mrs. Elford 
 enquiring vvhere she had been so long, and 
 adding, that her terror^ at not finding her 
 ®n the beach, whither she had followed her, 
 surpassed description. 
 
 In faltering accents Elizabeth assured 
 
 her she was not to blame for the alarm she 
 
 had experienced on her account. And 
 
 thcn3 in hopes of preventing further en- 
 
 M 6 quirics.
 
 252 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 quirieSj at least for the present^ on the 
 subject, directed her attention to Mr. 
 Eaton^ who, standing rather in the shade, 
 and at some distance from Elizabeth, ap- 
 peared not to have been noticed by her — 
 no sooner, however, ^s'as he, than he was 
 addressed as an old and favourite friend, 
 and invited in the warmest manner into 
 the house — an invitation he accepted with 
 evident pleasure. 
 
 But, on entering the parlour, she again 
 began to question Elizabeth, relative to the 
 cause of her long absence, and the terror 
 vshe appeared under. 
 
 Elizabeth was compelled, by agitation, 
 to refer her to Eaton for the gratification 
 of her curiosity. He told her as much as 
 he seemed to kn6w of the affair, not 
 without expressing a wish to be further 
 enlightened on the subject; and in the 
 course of his relation, mentioning his pre- 
 vious knowledge of Elizabeth and her 
 mother, and hinting his present journev to 
 the Highlands owing to the foi mer. 
 
 On
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 253 
 
 On his ceasing to speak — '' Can you 
 conjecture^ my dear girl/' cried Mrs. Elford, 
 addressing Elizabeth^ '' who the perpe- 
 trator of this outraG^e is?'' 
 
 Elizabeth, determined, if possible, for 
 reasons she deemed sufficiently cogent, not 
 to reveal the baseness of Delacour, averted^ 
 her looks from Mrs. Elford at this question; 
 and, on its being repeated — " My dear 
 Madam,'' she evasively replied, '' let us 
 sny no more on the subject, I implore 
 you." 
 
 Mrs. Elford regarded her for a few mf- 
 ivutes in silence, then in a low voice — '' I 
 will oblige you, my dear," she said; '' fur- 
 ther questions, indeed, I deem unneces- 
 sary, so thoroughly am I convinced, by 
 your manner, that I am not mistaken in 
 the suspicions I have formed; but much as 
 1 think Captain Delacour deserving ot pu- 
 nishment, I shall not, in conformity to 
 your wishes, expose him to it." 
 
 Elizabeth, by a look, testified her grati- 
 tude for this complaisance, not, however, 
 
 without
 
 254 THE DISCARDED SOTT. 
 
 without a dread of the silence she wished' 
 observed on the subject being imputed ta 
 sentiments for Delacour, which he had 
 proved himself utterly undeserving of; 
 but;, should this be the case, she -tried to 
 hope^ and thus in some degree lessened 
 the pain the apprehension gave her^, that her 
 subsequent conduct would convince Mrs. 
 Elfordj that^ in still supposing she felt 
 such sentiments for him^ she wronged her. 
 
 Refreshments were brousrht in^, of which 
 Mr. Eaton partook^ but Elizabeth was 
 too agitated to follow his example; and^ 
 sthortly after, under the plea of indis- 
 position, entreated permission to retire, 
 apprehensive, if she continued much longer 
 in his company, of his introducing a sub- 
 ject she could no longer bear to think of 
 listening to. 
 
 " If Mr. Eaton can consent to vour leav- 
 ing us so soon, my dear," cried Mrs. El ford, 
 with a look v;hich convinced Elizabeth she 
 had surmised the nature of his sentiments 
 for her, raid deemed them deserving of 
 
 encouragement.
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 555 
 
 encouragement, ^' I can have no objec- 
 tion/' 
 
 " I hope 'tis unnecessary to say/' re- 
 joined he, '' that I cannot think of losing- 
 Miss Munro's company without the greatest 
 reluctance, but neither can I think of gra* 
 tifying myself at her expence ; for my 
 ready acquiescence, however, to her wishes^ 
 (rising from his chair and gently taking her 
 hand, and pressing it between his), I trust 
 I shall be rewarded, by being allowed io pay 
 my devoirs to her at an early hour to- 
 morrow/' 
 
 "Assuredly," returned Mrs. Elford, an- 
 swering for her; " I shall hope to see you 
 at breakfast, by w^hich time I hope Miss. 
 Munro will be sufficiently recovered ta 
 give you the reception you merit/* 
 
 "Ah, rather say. Madam, inclined to 
 give me the one I wish for!"" 
 
 Still more confused and agitated by these 
 words, Elizabeth forced away her hand, 
 and, slightly bowing, retreated to hef 
 chamber: its solitude^ however, restored her 
 
 to
 
 258 THE DISCARDED SON; 
 
 to nothing like tranquillity; she could not 
 reflect on the conduct of Delacour^vithout 
 agony, nor on the evident determination 
 of Eaton to renew his addresses %vithout 
 dismay, since unable^ at present, to ascer- 
 tain whether or not" this determination 
 was sanctioned by her parents — if not, 
 she trusted the reserve she resolved on 
 assuming towards him would present! v in- 
 duce him to relinquish it. Tired Nature's 
 F/vveet restorer, balmy Sleep, remained a 
 stranger to her eyelids during-the night; but> 
 though the perturbation of her mind made 
 her quit her bed at an early hour, she did 
 not leave her chamber till summoned to 
 breakfast, so unwilling was she to hold 
 any. further converse with Mr. Eaton. 
 
 She found him in the parlour as ex- 
 pected; he met her at the entrance with 
 an air of transport, and, taking her evi- 
 dently reluctant hand, led her to a seat. 
 
 For a few^ minutes, however, no verv 
 particular conversation took place; at 
 length, after a short pause, he suddenly 
 
 turned
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. Qo7 
 
 turned towards her, and, with a look of 
 tender reproach, said^ he could not help 
 acknowledging he w^as hurt, yes, to the 
 very soul, at the indifference manifested 
 by her, in not having once enquired where 
 or how he had been since his leaving 
 Heathwood. 
 
 Elizabeth blushed^ and began stirring 
 her tea, in order to have a pretext for 
 avoiding his eyes, since, though she did 
 not by any means chuse him to suppose 
 she ever meant to favour his addresses, 
 neither did she like him to imagine her 
 rude or ungrateful. At last, but hesitat- 
 ingly — '' I don't like to be inquisitive/* 
 said she. 
 
 " Inquisitive ! Ah, Elizabeth,*' in accentsi 
 of mingled reproach and tenderness, *'in 
 some situations, not to be inquisitive is to 
 Avound and offend, from the indifference it 
 betrays. But I will not torture myselT by 
 imputing to indifference the carelessness 
 you manifest about me — no, to pique will 
 I ascribe it, a pique which, all things con- 
 sidered.
 
 258 THE DISCARDED S07C. 
 
 sidere4 I cannot wonder at. I did nof, 
 however^ leave Heathwood^ as you were 
 led to suppose^ without assigning a suffi- 
 cient reason for not calling on you pre- 
 vious to my departure^ as I am satisfied 
 you would have allowed^ had the explana- 
 tory letter I wrote you on the subject 
 reached your hands; but, instead of th;it 
 being the case^ the stupid blockhead to 
 whose care it was committed, mislaid it^ 
 and thus caused me to incur what none 
 ever less merited (as I have proved to your 
 parents), resentment and suspicion." 
 
 Elizabeth started at these words, and 
 lifted her hitherto downcast eyes to his. 
 
 ^' Yes," pursued he, ^' I have been to 
 Heathwood again, and have not only seea 
 your father and mother, but so thoroughly 
 justified myself in their opinion, as to ob- 
 tain their permission to follow you hither. 
 When we met last night (so fortunately 
 I flatter myself for both), I was hastening 
 to throw myself at your feet, but forbore 
 hinting my intentions, in consequence of 
 3 the
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 259 
 
 the agitation you were then in. wSee/*^ 
 drawing out a pocket-book, and taking a 
 letter from it^ '' my authority for coming 
 here — did you ever/' holding up the letter 
 to her with a gay or rather playful air, 
 '*' see any hand this reminds you of?" 
 
 Elizabeth, with encreasing agitation, 
 cast her eyes on the superscription — 
 '' Yes/' she replied, '^ 'tis like my fa- 
 ther's.*' 
 
 '' You are not mistaken; 'tis written by 
 him and addressed to you/' kissing and 
 presenting it to her as he spoke. 
 
 Elizabeth, trembling from her anticipa- 
 tion of its contents, broke the seal, and 
 read as follows: 
 
 To Miss Muiiro. 
 
 '^ I DESIRED you, my dearest 
 girl, to consider youi-self released from 
 your engagement to Mr. Eaton, but I did. 
 so merely because I thought he did not 
 
 merit
 
 ^60 THE DISCARDED SOK. 
 
 merit your keeping it; the circumstance^" 
 which led me to think so have been ex- 
 plained so entirely to my satisfaction, that 
 my opinion of him is totally changed^ and, 
 of course, my wishes for your union with 
 him renewed: in honour you are bound' 
 to him, and equally so, I hope, by in- 
 clination; for I know no man to whom! 
 more sincerely desire to see you married'; 
 not, however, let me assure you, because ! 
 know his fortune to be large, and his con- 
 nexions illustrious, but chiefly because I 
 know his heart to be good and his disposi- 
 tion amiable — of the nobleness of it, his 
 proposing for you gives undeniable proof, 
 this not being the age in which disiu^ 
 terested love holds sway. 
 
 '^ I cannot, my dear child, do justice to 
 your mother's feelings, and' mine, at the 
 contemplation of your smiling prospects; 
 and equally so, I am convinced, should I 
 find myself unable to paint our anguish, 
 were these prospects not realized, per- 
 suaded, as we are, that there is but little- 
 probability.
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 961 
 
 probability of so advantageous an oppor- 
 tunity of settling in life again ocairring as 
 Mr. Eaton now affords you, and besides, of 
 the derogatory light in which refusing him 
 v/ould make you appear, since, assuredly, 
 either to some unworthy attachment or 
 unjustifiable caprice your doing so would 
 be imputed: my wishes are, and hitherto 
 they have been considered as commands 
 by my dear girl, that you should not only 
 immediately permit the renewal, of his ad- 
 dresses, but give him your hand without 
 deky, urgent business, he informs me, re- 
 quiring his speedy presence in London. 
 
 '■'As I think the knowledge of your 
 being the wife of so respectable a man 
 might occasion a pleasing revolution at 
 Glengary, I could wish your nuptials 
 celebrated where you now are, although 
 their being so would prevent your mother 
 and me from having the pleasure of wit- 
 nessing them, since we could not think 
 of visiting a house so immediately in the 
 vicinity of one we have, at present, so 
 
 many
 
 262 THE DISCARDED SOX. 
 
 many powerful reasons for disliking to be 
 near. Emboldened by the goodness and con- 
 descending manners of Mrs. Elford, I have 
 written to her on the subject^ and, should 
 she have no objection, to the ceremony 
 taking place at her house, I trust you will 
 make none, especially as, the day after, Mr. 
 Eaton has promised to return with you to 
 Heathv/ood, when it will be decided whe- 
 ther you shall nov; accompany him to Lon- 
 don, or defer your visit to that region of 
 luxury and pleasure till the winter — I know 
 you'll be happy to hear, that, whenever 
 you go, your mother and I are to bear you 
 company. 
 
 '' Mr. Eaton is impatient to be gone — I 
 have therefore only time to add, that your 
 mother unites with me in fervent wishes for 
 your happiness in the new state you are, we 
 trust, about entering into — but that you 
 will fail of experiencing this with such a 
 man as Mr. Eaton, cannot be doubted 
 either by her or your 
 
 ^'^ Affectionate father, 
 
 *' Robert Munro." 
 
 Hcathwood*
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 263 
 
 Elizabeth kept her eyes fixed on this 
 letter long after she had perused it^ con- 
 vinced, the moment she raised them, she 
 should be called upon to ratify hopes re- 
 volting to her feelings — hopes, however, 
 which, notwithstanding this, a little deli- 
 beration made her resolve on not disap- 
 pointing; for she saw plainly that the heart 
 of her father was set upon her union with 
 Mr. Eaton; and, as he had hitherto guided, 
 so still she resolved he should guide her^, 
 since his judgment she believed unerring, 
 and his advice she knew dictated by solici- 
 tude for her welfare. 
 
 She strove to argue herself into a belief 
 that her compliance with his wishes in the 
 present instance would soon cease to oc- 
 casion her pain, that the un worthiness of 
 the object who had first caused an altera- 
 tion in her sentiments for Mr. Eaton would 
 « 
 
 soon permit her to think of him again as 
 
 she
 
 264' THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 she had originally done; in a word, that she 
 could not see him studying to contribute 
 to her ^happiness, and that of her family, 
 without experiencing for him feelings cal- 
 culated to reconcile her to the destiny that 
 made her his. 
 
 Spite of these arguments, however, she 
 felt most reluctant to unite her fate with his, 
 insomuch, that, but for the dread she en- 
 tertained of her refusing him being im- 
 puted to an attachment she now blushed to 
 think of, she would in all probability have 
 done so. 
 
 Impatient at her silence, as well as evi- 
 dently alarmed by it, Eaton, at length, 
 in agitated tones enquired, whether or not 
 her father had proved a successful pleader 
 for him ? 
 
 Elizabeth, as she folded up the letter^ 
 attempted to say yes; but this, her first 
 effort to speak contrary to her feelings, 
 proved abortive — what she tried to say 
 was inarticulate. 
 
 '' Elizabeth,'' exclaimed her impassioned 
 
 loveo
 
 TEE DISCARDED SON. 265 
 
 iover^ with a flushing cheek and kindling 
 eye, '^'' you alarm me by your manner! 
 Have I in vain endeavoured to obtain for 
 myself an interest in your heart? does 
 your father advocate my cause in vain?" 
 
 '■''No, no/' faintly replied the agitated 
 Elizabeth, half shunning half meeting the 
 glance of his keenly-enquiring eye. 
 
 "Then you are mine! you are mine!" 
 in the most exulting accents. '^'^You con- 
 sent to bless me with this treasure !'* snatch- 
 ing her cold trembling hand, and alter- 
 nately pressing it to his lips and heart. 
 
 Elizabeth bov/ed. 
 
 *' Oh, transport!'* he continued, and, 
 throwing his arms round her, he strained her 
 to his breast, and with his lips would have 
 touched her cheek, but that Elizabeth, trem- 
 bling and disgusted, shrunk from his grasp. 
 
 "Cruel!" cried he, as she disengaged 
 herself from his arms, with a countenance 
 expressive of her feelings at the moment. 
 She was, indeed, highly offended by the 
 violence of his transports; since, in the 
 
 VOL. I. N first
 
 266 . THE DISCARDED SON". 
 
 first place, she conceived them unbecom- 
 irif^ his years, and, in the next, indecorous 
 before a third person. In a few minutes, 
 however, she recollected herself sufficiently 
 to be able to reflect on the necessity there 
 was for wearing a complacent air towards 
 him in future, lest^ otherwise, she should 
 lead him to imagine, in consenting to be- 
 come his, she acted contrary to her inclina- 
 tion, and thus, perhaps, lay the foundation 
 of much future misery to herself and con- 
 nexions; she tried, therefore, to force a 
 smile, and prevent herself from shrinking 
 at his touch; but painful was the effort it 
 cost her to do this — her ^vhose counte- 
 nance, till the present moment, had never 
 been illumined by a smile that did not im- 
 mediately emanate from her heart. 
 
 ''Well, my sweet girl," said Mrs. Elford, 
 in the kindest accent imaginable, ^*^ permit 
 me now to congratulate you on your 
 happy prospects, and to entreat that you 
 will acquiesce in your father's wishes, for 
 having your nuptials solemnized here — 
 
 he
 
 TKE DISCARDED SON. 26? 
 
 he has, I presume, mentioned to you his 
 letter to me on this subject?" 
 
 Again Elizabeth bowed — she could not 
 reply in any other way at the moment. 
 
 " He has also, I make no doubt," said 
 Eaton, in an impatient tone, '''explained 
 the necessity there is for our marriage im- 
 mediately taking place?'* 
 
 ''Yes," faltered out Elizabeth. • 
 
 '' Then this evening, my love, my angel," 
 looking with mingled earnestness and 
 anxiety at her. 
 
 She started. 
 
 '' Well, well, to-morrow then let it be," 
 he added, in consequence of perceiving the 
 horror the proposition gave her. '' You 
 see, my adorable girl," again taking her 
 nearly inanimate hand, and pressing his 
 lips to it, '' you have not . a very bad 
 chance of happiness with a man who can 
 so readily yield his wishes to yours." 
 
 Elizabeth hesitated for a few minutes; 
 
 she thought of trying to prevail on him to 
 
 postpone their marriage till his return 
 
 N 2 from
 
 268 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 from tondon ; but the suspicion of her in- 
 difference, which it suddenly occurred t©^ 
 her such a measure might, nay probably 
 would, be the means of exciting in his 
 mind, induced her to relinquish the idea^ 
 and, though most reluctantly, consent to 
 be his on the morrow. 
 
 CHAP,
 
 THE DISCABDED SON. 269 
 
 CHAP. VI. 
 
 '♦Some say, no evil thing that walks by night. 
 In fog, or fire, by lake, or moorish fen. 
 Blue meagre hag, or stubborn unlaid ghost. 
 That breaks his magic chains at curfew time. 
 No goblin, or swart fairy of the mine, 
 Hath hurtful power o'er true virginity. 
 Do you believe me yet ? or shall I call 
 Antiquity, from the old schools of Greece, 
 To testify the arms of chastity ?" 
 
 Milton. 
 
 lUT, but," added Elizabeth, in the same 
 faltering voice in which she had expressed 
 her acquiescence to his wishes, ''I — I should 
 
 like to have '* 
 
 ''What, my angel?" finding she paused, 
 
 eagerly demanded the enamoured Eaton, 
 
 as he hung over her. " Speak your wishes 
 
 N 3 freely ;
 
 f70 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 freely; for if wealth can enable you to 
 gratify them^ they shall be gratified." 
 
 '' To have an effort made to overrule 
 my father and mother's objections to being 
 present at the ceremony/' languidly re- 
 turned Elizabeth. 
 
 '' Then I will go myself directly to 
 Heathwood^ and see what I can do to pre- 
 vail on them to come hither." 
 
 Elizabeth bowed her thanks; and^ pas- 
 sionately kissing her fair hand;, Eaton with- 
 dreW;, to set out^ as he said, on his journey 
 to Heathwood. 
 
 Disturbed^ distressed, dispirited;, Eliza- 
 beth would have retired to her chamber 
 the moment he was gone, but that she ap- 
 prehended she should offend Mrs. Elford 
 by doing so. Of the absence of Eaton this 
 lady took advantage, to expatiate on his 
 pleasing manners, the many amiable qua- 
 lities he appeared possessed of, and the 
 consequeiit happiness Elizabeth must ex- 
 perience with a man so every way worthy of 
 her, and possessed besides of a fortune ade- 
 quate
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. S7l 
 
 quate to obtaining every enjoyment, every 
 luxury this life could afford; in short, she 
 said every thing likely to dispel the cloud 
 which, it did not require her penetration 
 to perceive, hung upon the beauteous 
 brow of Elizabeth, and plainly evinced her 
 heart taking no pleasure in the prospect 
 before her^ all dazzling and glittering as 
 it was. 
 
 Never, indeed, had she known what real 
 wretchedness was till the present moment, 
 when she found herself on the point of 
 being united to a man for whom she no 
 longer felt a sentiment of regard. So 
 a^^onizinor was the idea of this union to 
 her, that, more than once, she was tempted 
 to decide on retracting her consent to it, 
 but was still prevented, by the considera- 
 tion of the disappointment such a measure 
 would be productive of to her father, and 
 the derogatory light in which it must make 
 her character appear: but her thoughts 
 were not entirely occupied by herself— what 
 Delacour felt at the failure of his scheme 
 N 4 relative
 
 S72 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 relative to her, engrossed them not a 
 little. 
 
 About sunset Mr. Eaton returned, but 
 unaccompanied by her parents. They could 
 not bear^ he said, to come into the neigh- 
 bourhood of Glengary — '' I trust, how- 
 ever," he said, '' you will not suffer your- 
 self to be much vexed by their refusal, 
 particularly when you reflect, that in a day 
 or two you'll join them again at Heath- 
 wood." 
 
 Elizabeth, however, could not help feel- 
 ing extremely disappointed at their not 
 coming, as she fancied she should have 
 derived both support and consolation from 
 their presence. 
 
 Like the mail, it being our intention to 
 proceed as expeditiously as possible, well 
 knowing that tedious books, like tedious 
 journeys, are fatiguing in the extreme, 
 we shall never follow any of our characters 
 into the closet, for the purpose of detailing 
 their soliloquies, apostrophes, or private 
 cogitations^ except when we see an abso- 
 lute
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 273 
 
 lute necessity for doing so^ in order to 
 elucidate soip.e particular circumstance; 
 we shall now, therefore, in pursuance of 
 the above intention, content ourselves with 
 merely saying, that Elizabeth, on the morn- 
 ing destined to give her to Mr. Eaton, ap- 
 peared with a countenance melancholy but 
 calm, an eye downcast, but unmoistened 
 by a tear. 
 
 Mrs. Elford had made it a point that the 
 ceremony should be performed in a conse- 
 crated place; accordingly, an old ruined 
 chapel, a few furlongs from the house, and 
 sunk in a deep hollow, amidst rude rocky 
 mountains, vvas the one fixed on for the 
 purpose. 
 
 The moment breakfast was over, the im- 
 patient lover arose, for the purpose of con- 
 ductino' his bride thither. She involun- 
 tarily recoiled as he approached to take 
 her hand, but, almost instantly rerollect- 
 ing herself, suiTcred him to do so, without 
 anv further manifestation of reluctance. 
 Thev were attended bv Mrs. Elford, the 
 K b clergyman,
 
 g74 THE DISCARDED SON, 
 
 clergyman, and another gentleman to act 
 thepart of nuptial father. 
 
 The wild and mournful solitude of the 
 chapel, the desolation every where con- 
 spicuous in it, aggravated the feelings, and 
 rendered still more chilling the sensations 
 with which Elizabeth entered it: the roof 
 in many places had fallen in, and the con- 
 sequent damps had nourished all around 
 that kind of vegetation which announces 
 ruin and desertion — the wild vine gadded 
 over the tombs^ grass grew thick in the 
 intei'stices of the flags^ and here and there 
 the ivy, creeping through the broken beams^ 
 twined itself about the mouldering pillars; 
 the v/indows, half demolished, half filled up 
 with stones and rubbish, permitted but a 
 partial light to gain admittance, a sickly 
 ^le^m of sunshine, which, like the smile of 
 despair, served rather to chill than cheer. 
 
 The eyes of Elizabeth involuntarily wan- 
 dered about, and almost as involuntarily 
 she paused, for the purpose o^ contem- 
 plating more attentively some of the 
 3 melancholy
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 275 
 
 melancholy objects upon which they 
 fell. 
 
 The impatient Eaton did not allow her 
 long to continue thus employed—'^ My 
 love/' cried he^ a little impetuously^ as well 
 as a little reproachfully^ ''you seem to have 
 forgotten the purpose for which we come 
 hither/' attempting^ as he spoke, to draw 
 her on to the altar, or rather place on 
 which the altar had stood, for there was 
 now no remains of one; but where there 
 had been, there was an elevation of a few 
 steps. 
 
 The feelings of Elizabeth at this mo- 
 ment became incontrollable — she felt as if 
 she was about signing a bond which would 
 tear her from all she held dear on earth — 
 in the agony of her soul, she unconsciously 
 wrested her hand from Eaton, and sunk, 
 trembling and aghast, against the shoulder 
 of Mrs. Elford. 
 
 '' She's fainting!'* cried he, in accents of 
 alarm — '' have you nothing to give her to 
 smell to?" 
 
 N 6 Mrs.
 
 ^76 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 Mrs. Elford produced a bottle of eau-dc- 
 luce. Eaton attempted to apply it himself 
 to Elizabeth^ but she took it into her own 
 hand ; and^ after bending her pale face 
 over it a few minutes — '' I am l>etter/' 
 said she, but sighing, as if there was an 
 intolerable weight upon her heart. 
 
 '' Yes, yes, so you are, my angel, and 
 you'll be still better by-and-bye — the 
 damp and desolation of this place has 
 affected your spirits, so we'll get through 
 our business in it as fast as possible, and 
 be off/' 
 
 Again he took her hand ; and motioning 
 to the clergyman, the ceremony was about 
 commencing, when the grating of a small 
 door, leading, by means of a long passage, 
 to the cemetery belonging to the chapel, 
 drew the attention of all towards it; no one, 
 however, appeared; and, concluding it was 
 the wind that had moved it, the clergyman 
 was on the point of proceeding, when again 
 the door grated with more violence than it 
 had before done on its rusty hinges, and the 
 
 next
 
 THE DISCARDED SOl^. 277 
 
 next instant a man, enveloped in a dark 
 grey coat, with a large hat flapped over his 
 face, so as to prevent any part of it from 
 being seen, made his appearance; and with 
 a slow pace, but an air of firmness, stalked 
 forw^ard till he came exactly opposite Mr. 
 Eaton, when he made a full stop. 
 
 "" Very strange all this!'' cried the latter 
 In visible emotion; and, after regarding 
 ihe unexpected intruder for a minute in 
 silence, and with deep attention, 'the na- 
 tural ruby of his cheek too somevv'hat 
 faded' — '^Say, Sir," in a tone of fierceness, 
 '*" what is the meaning of this conduct? — 
 Speak ! — Who are you ?" 
 
 •' Behold I" replied the other, in a voice 
 of thunder, and taking off his hat — 
 ''Behold!" and, drawing nearer to him, 
 he fastened on him eyes gleaming with 
 scorn, indignation, and fury, 
 
 "Ha! — you here!" exclaimed Eatcn^ 
 recoiling at the same time as if he had 
 seen a serpent — '' Perdition ! what brought 
 you hither?" 
 
 "' Away,
 
 278 THE DISCARDED SOX. 
 
 ^' Awa}% vile wretch !" returned the other, 
 indignantly waving his hand — '' Away ! — 
 the spear of Ithuriel is advancing against 
 thee — thy native deformity can no longer 
 remain concealed. Away ! thy lingering 
 here avails thee not; thy intended victim is 
 completely rescued from thee.*' 
 
 Eaton^ though evidently overwhelmed 
 with confusion, attempted to say some- 
 thing; instead, however, of listening to 
 him, the stranger turned towards the door 
 by which he had himself entered, as if for 
 the purpose of calling for assistance. 
 Upon this, Eaton, with a horrible impre- 
 cation, precipitately quitted the chapel, 
 followed by Mrs. Elford and his two other 
 friends. 
 
 The astonishment of Elizabeth, during 
 this scene, may easier be conceived than 
 described — it was such as rendered her 
 motionless. 
 
 " Sweet girl,'' cried the stranger, his 
 angry voice and countenance changing 
 into mildness the moment he found they 
 
 were
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 279 
 
 vere alone; " sweet girl/* drawing near 
 her^ and, with an air at once tender and 
 respectful, taking her hand, '' you look 
 not only surprised, but dismayed — but be 
 not alarmed, you are no longer in danger. 
 Yes/' observing the wild look she gave 
 him at these words, "I repeat, in danger; 
 for, but a minute ago, you stood on the 
 very brink of a precipice. But I will not 
 torture your feelings by affecting mystery; 
 to be explicit then, know, that the man, or 
 rather fiend, for that title best becomes 
 him, since there is nothing he has not done 
 to degrade the character and native dig- 
 nity of man, he, I say, to V)?hom,you were 
 on the point of giving your hand, is 
 already the husband of another — of one 
 too of the most amiable as well as injured 
 of Vvomen — a father also, and of a daugh- 
 ter as lovely and innocent as yourself.'' 
 
 Elizabeth clasped her hands, and looked 
 up — "Accept, oh gracious Heaven,'' she 
 exclaimed, " accept my thanks, my adora- 
 tioH; for thy interposition in my favour!" 
 
 '' Yet
 
 28^ THE DISCARDED SDK. 
 
 ''Yet this monster's name is coupled 
 with praise/* resunnecl the stranger, '' rrav, 
 by your parents — they regard him as the 
 best of men — they put their fate into his 
 hands. But you will cease to wonder at 
 this, when I tell yoii that he is '' 
 
 *' Who?'* demanded Elizabeth, panting^ 
 and unconsciously grasping his arm. 
 
 '' Lord O'Sinister/* 
 
 In manifest horror Elizabeth recoiled a 
 few paces from him, faintly repeating the 
 name he had uttered. 
 
 Had the earth gaped beneath her feet — 
 had the foundations of the world been 
 shaken — had the clouds darted forth fire — 
 had, in shcrt, all that this great globe con*- 
 tains seemed ready. to perish and dissolve 
 at the moment, she could scarcely have 
 appeared more shocked than she did, at 
 hearing that i^aQ intend-ed betrayer of her 
 honour was the patron of her fainilv. 
 The tears, which her chilled heart would 
 not before \Gt her shed, now gushed in 
 torrents from her. 
 
 '^\h
 
 THE mSCARDED SON. 281 
 
 '' x\h then, they are ruined ! my family 
 are ruined!*' she exclaimed, wringing her 
 hands^ her father's pecuniary obligations 
 to the wretch recurring to her recollection. 
 
 ^' Noj no/' interrupted the stranger; "I 
 am perfectly aware of your reason for 
 thinking sO;, but I not only hope^ but am 
 inclined to believe, that Lord O'Sinister 
 will let m.atters remain as they are." 
 
 '' And by what name/' asked Elizabeth, 
 ^'am I to mention you in my orisons — 
 you who certainly have been Heaven's in- 
 strument to save me from destruction.^" 
 
 '' My name is Beerscroft: I am the bro- 
 ther of Lady O'Sinister. Her knowledge 
 of her Lord's disposition — a knowledge 
 which, long ago, would have occasioned 
 her to separate herself from him, but on 
 account of her daughter, whom she knew 
 she must then give up, induces her to 
 keep a vigilant eye upon him; not, how- 
 ever, out of any mean jealousy, but prin- 
 cipally for the purpose of obtaining op- 
 portunities of frustrating his villainous 
 
 schemes.
 
 289 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 schemes. By means too tedious to re- 
 late now, and besides unnecessary for you 
 to hear, she received intimation of his de- 
 signs on you. The moment she did, she 
 fiew to me, as indeed in every emergency 
 she has been wont to do, to entreat me to 
 lose no time in hastening to interpose 
 between you and destruction: I needed 
 not the repetition of this entreaty to in- 
 duce my doing so, exclusive of the interest 
 which every man of feeling must take in 
 the fate of youth and innocence. I was 
 rendered anxious about yours, by the esti- 
 mation in which I hold the character of 
 your father, with the chief events of whose 
 life I am acquainted, and, of consequence, 
 the injustice with which he has been treated. 
 I directly repaired from London to Heath- 
 wood, where, closely disguised, I hovered 
 about my unworthy relative, and marked 
 the steps he took respecting you. Instead, 
 however, of openly apprizing you of these, 
 I had recourse to an anonymous letter for 
 the puq^se, wishing as much as possible, 
 
 on
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 283 
 
 on account of my sister and niece, to 
 screen him from public disgrace, but^, at 
 the same time, determined^, if I found this 
 had not the desired effect, to enter into a 
 full explanation respecting him. Ere I 
 had time, however, to ascertain whether it 
 would or notj the unexpected return of 
 your father drove him away; but still, 
 aware of the schemes he was capable of 
 forming, I continued to keep a watchful 
 eye upon him, and, at length, but not till 
 after she had got you into her power, suc- 
 ceeded in discovering that he had employed 
 a woman of the vilest description, to in- 
 veigle you from the protection of your 
 parents. I would instantly have wrested 
 you from her, but that I thought his shame 
 and disappointment would be heightened 
 by not doing so till the last moment. After 
 the open exposure of his baseness to you, 
 I cannot think he will have the effrontery to 
 annoy you again in any direct manner; 
 and, as to any secret machinations, you 
 will, doubtless, be upon your guard." 
 
 " Words
 
 S8f THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 '■^ Words are inadequate to express the' 
 obligations I owe yoU;, for the interest you- 
 have taken in my fate/* returned Elizabeth. 
 
 " Had I taken a less animated one, I 
 should have had little pretensions either to 
 honour or humanity/^ 
 
 '*^ What will you say to me/' rejoined 
 Elizabeth, " if I ask you to add to these, 
 by conveying me to my parents?*' 
 
 '' That I should conceive myself com- 
 plimented by your request, but that, 
 at present, you must not think of re- 
 turning to them; as you could not do so 
 immediately, and in company with me, 
 without exciting enquiries that could not 
 be evaded, and which would, in all pro- 
 bability, lead to the most unpleasant, it 
 might be fata], consequences, as your 
 father is not a man to be injured or in- 
 sulted with impunity/' 
 
 '' What is to be done then?" demanded 
 Elizabeth, not a little agitated. 
 
 "Don't be uneasy; I have procured you 
 a safe and pleasant asylum with a lady in 
 
 the
 
 THE DISCARDED SON, 9S5 
 
 the neighbourhood^ who was formerly well 
 xicqiiainted with your father^ and has never 
 ceased to esteem him; and is besides on the 
 most intimate terms with Lady O'Sinister. 
 I confided to her the whole of Lord O'Si- 
 nister's conduct respecting you, and pre- 
 pared her to receive you. A carriage is 
 now waiting at an inn, a little way off, to 
 x:onduct you to her; and a servant has 
 been already sent to Mrs. Elford, to demand 
 your things. You must inform your pa- 
 rents that she met you by accident, and, 
 discovering your near relationship to her 
 old friend, your father, rested not until she 
 had prevailed on that lady to let you spend 
 some time with her." 
 
 '' How kind, how considerate have you 
 been throughout this whole affair," said 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 '' Thank Heaven it has terminated as it 
 has," he replied. 
 
 He now led her from the chapel; a few 
 minutes brought them to a small and soli- 
 tary
 
 !286 THE DlSCAPvDF.D SvOX. 
 
 tary inn, at which a chaise and pair^ with 
 tw^o servants^ stood waiting to receive 
 them. They immediately entered it, and^ 
 as it drove on, Mr. Beerscroft informed his 
 fair companion, that Mrs. Dunbar, the lady 
 to whom she was going, was a widow, pos- 
 sessed of a large estate in the neighbour- 
 hood of Glengary, without children, but 
 surrounded by connexions; and added, he 
 made no doubt, from her amiable manners,, 
 and the hospitable and cheerful style in 
 ■which she lived, Elizabeth v;ould find her- 
 self extremely happy with her. 
 
 Elizabeth, somewhat calmed by his as- 
 suring her he had no apprehension of Lord 
 O'Sinister's proceeding to any extremity 
 against her father, and her heart lightened 
 of an intolerable load, by the idea she no 
 ]on2:er hesitated to vield t6, of Delacour's 
 having been falsely accused to her — for that 
 her being carried off was by the contrivance 
 of Lord O'Sinistcr, in order to furnish him 
 with an opportunity of doing something 
 
 which
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 9S7 
 
 which should make her think him deserv- 
 ing of her regard^ his subsequent conduct 
 permitted hen not to doubt — was able to 
 listen with attention, and something like 
 pleasure^ to his conversation. 
 
 After a ride of two hours, she found herself 
 farther advanced than she had ever before 
 been amidst the wild scenery of the High- 
 lands — a scenery vdiich gradually .gave a 
 turn to her thoughts, and inspired her 
 with the liveliest sensations of awe, pleasure, 
 and astonishment, by more than ansv^^eriiig 
 the ideas she had formed of the sublimity 
 of nature. The carriage, after proceeding 
 some way through a rugged road, hollowed 
 between tremendous precipices, and open 
 to the sen, began to ascend one of the 
 highest of these, presenting in many 
 places frightful chasms, and headlong tor- 
 rents, to the view : at length, after a tedious 
 and, at least so Elizabeth thought, danger- 
 ous ascent, it reached in safety the plain 
 on which the habitation of lAv^. Dunbar 
 stoud^ a vast and once impregnable for- 
 tress.
 
 ^88 THE DISCARDED SOX. 
 
 tress, but, at this period, exhibiting the 
 moss of years upon its towers, over which 
 the blast of ocean howled with no idle 
 threat of injury. A lofty rampart, but 
 overrun with weeds, and in many places 
 broken and gapped, still encircled it; and, 
 at its rear, arose a still steeper height than 
 that it crowned, covered with a deep mass 
 of shade, principally consisting of oaks, 
 throusb the intertwisted branches of which 
 a torrent was seen flashing and foaming 
 with impetuous fury down a naked rock, 
 which reared high its head amongst those 
 gigantic sons of the creation. From the 
 plain the eye sought in vain for 
 
 ** The shelter'd cot, or cultivated farm ;" 
 
 long mountainous tracts covered with 
 heath, gloomy forests of pine and fir, and 
 deep sterile vallies, shrouded by gloomy 
 precipices, and watered by green-tinctured 
 streamSj alone met the view, forming alto- 
 gether, however, a grand and varied pros- 
 pect, such as could not be contemplated 
 by a mind of any taste without emotion. 
 
 As
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 28 D 
 
 As the carr]a<2:e drove throii2:h a lonir 
 succession of gloomy gateways to aa ip.ner 
 coiirtj Elizabeth was almost tempted to 
 imai>ine she was about enteiins: one of 
 those buildings she had read of in romances, 
 where several unfortunate ladies and knights 
 are made prisoners irrevocably, till rekasei 
 from captivity by the Knight ol the Burn- 
 ing Pestle^ or some other of equal hardi- 
 hood. Nor was she less disposed to do 
 so, when, on alighting, she found, herself ia 
 a spacious hall, hung with armour, and 
 restino- its vaulted and richlv fretted roof 
 on arches of stone, through which a double 
 row of narrow painted windows were seen, 
 principally composed of stained glass, and 
 divided by a gallery. 
 
 From the hall Elizabeth and her compa- 
 nion were conducted up stairs, and through 
 several galleries hung with tapestry and 
 pictures, to the dressing-room of Mrs. 
 Dunbar, where she awaited their arrival. 
 
 Kothino: could be more «;racious tlurn 
 was her reception of Elizabeth; she wel- 
 
 voL. I. o corned
 
 5^90 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 comecl her to her mansion^ as the daughter 
 of a person for whom she had the sincerest 
 regard, and assured her nothing but her 
 long absence from her native land (Mr. 
 Dunbar, owing to ill health, having passed 
 the principal part of his time abroad), had 
 prevented her making minute enquiries 
 after her father, the acquaintance and friend 
 of her juvenile days. 
 
 Although beyond the prime of life, her 
 person was still attractive, and the expres- 
 sion of her countenance, and affability and 
 courteousness of her manners, such as im- 
 mediately confirmed the prepossession 
 which Elizabeth, from the report of Mr. 
 Beerscroft, had conceived in her favour. 
 
 She spoke of Lord O'Sinister's conduct 
 in terms of the highest indignation, and bit- 
 terly lamented so amiable a woman as his 
 lady being united to a man capable of such 
 atrocity: notwithstanding the indignation, 
 however, that it inspired her with, she con* 
 curred with Mr. Beerscroft in opinion, that 
 it could not be too carefully concealed. 
 
 After
 
 THE DISCARDED SOK. 291 
 
 After a general conversation of about 
 an hour, Mr. Beerscroft rose to take his 
 leave, having many particular reasons for 
 wishing it not to be publicly known that 
 he was at present in Scotland : after paying 
 his parting compliuients to Mrs. Dunbar, 
 he turned to Elizabeth, and, taking her 
 hand — '' I shall returrf," said he, '' to Lon- 
 don, winged with pleasure at the thoughts 
 of having had the happiness of serving so 
 much innocence and sweetness — above all, 
 the daughter of a worthy man. May the 
 next intelligence I receive of you be, that 
 you are the happy bride of some deserving 
 character, and thus still more securer- 
 guarded against the machinations of vil- 
 lainy.'* Then respectfully kissing her hand^ 
 he relinquished it, and departed, followed 
 by her thanks and benedictions. 
 
 As soon as he was gone, Mrs. Dunbar 
 enquired minutely into the whole of his 
 unworthy brother-in-law's conduct to Eli- 
 zabeth and her family. Tier astonishment, 
 on hearing it detailed, fully equalled her 
 o 2 indignation —
 
 292 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 indignation — '' What a propensity to vice 
 must he have/' cried she, " who can in- 
 volve himself in so much trouble on its 
 account! — did he take half the pains to be 
 virtuous that he does to be the reverse, 
 "What a noble character would he be!'' 
 
 She then, in her turn, gratified the cu- 
 riosity of Elizabeth \vith some particulars 
 respecting Lady O'Sinister and her brother. 
 They were the only offspring, she informed 
 her, of a very opulent merchant in the city 
 of London, who, contrary to the usual 
 custom, divided his ample property between 
 them, a circumstance which induced Lord 
 O'Sinister, who had alw^ays an eye to his 
 own interest, to pay his addresses to the 
 young lady. Mr. Beerscroft was brought 
 up to his father's business, which he found 
 in too flourishing a state, at the old gen- 
 tleman's decease, to think of withdrawing 
 from: averse, however, to trouble, and in- 
 clined, besides, to pleasure, he soon re- 
 solved on relieving himself from all the 
 fatiguing part of it, by taking an active 
 
 partner.
 
 THE DISCAEDED SON. 293 
 
 partner. Naturally of an iinsiispj'cioiis 
 temper^ and of an age, besides, Vvlien he 
 formed this resolution^ in which the mind 
 is apt to be precipitate in its decisions, he 
 was not long in making choice of one, a 
 man of manners so plausible, that he soon 
 obtained a complete ascendancy over him; 
 and, by degrees, succeeded in leading him 
 into deep and, so at least to a cool and 
 sober judgment they would have appeared,, 
 extravagant speculations, for the carrying 
 on of which, he pretended large sums were 
 requisite, a pretence that obtained for him 
 the V7ealth he coveted, and of which he 
 had no sooner made himself master, than 
 he decamped, leaving the too credulous 
 Beerscroft stripped of fortune, and ruined 
 in credit, in consequence of the incorrect 
 manner the business had been carried on, 
 from the time he ceased to take an active 
 part in it himself. He fled for consolation 
 to his brother-in-law — but consolation 
 was almost the last thing he had a chance 
 of receiving from him — his sister was sent 
 o3 out
 
 S94 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 out of the way, in order to prevent her 
 lending him any assistance; and the noble 
 Peer did nothing but upbraid and execrate 
 the folly, which permitted the embezzle- 
 ment of a fortune he had secretly hoped 
 some unexpected casualty might yet have 
 put him in possession of. 
 
 In the hour of calamity, rebuke, however 
 it may be merited, should be avoided, since 
 ^tis an hour in which the heart cannot 
 endure it with calmness, particularly if it 
 comes from those whom we fondly imagined 
 would have sympathized in our sufferings. 
 
 Beerseroft quitted the mansion of his. 
 titled relative Avith greater precipitation 
 than he had hurried to it, despair in his 
 heart, distraction in his eye, when his good 
 genius threw him in the way of an old 
 friend, who, like the good Samaritan, car- 
 ried him to his home, bound up the wounds 
 of his almost broken heart, nor suffered 
 him to leave his hospitable roof till he had 
 obtained him a lucrative situation under 
 government. 
 
 The
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 295 
 
 The deep impression made on him by 
 Lord O'Sinister's conduct to him in the 
 height of his distress, would have induced 
 him to forego all further communication 
 with his Lordship, but on account of his 
 sister, whom he most tenderly loved, as 
 she did him. His society soon became 
 her chief pleasure, every succeeding day 
 tending still more fully to convince her, 
 that happiness was not to be enjoyed v/ith 
 such a man as 
 
 '• Fate had made her lord." 
 
 His total want of those virtues he had so 
 well assumed the semblance of when pay- 
 ing his addresses to her — the indignity and 
 cruel malevolence with which he was con- 
 stantly in the habit of treating her — his 
 abominable hypocrisy — his vile licentious- 
 ness, of which scarce a day passed in which 
 some new account did not reach her ears 
 to wound her heart — his ignoble conduct 
 to her beloved brother — all, by degrees, 
 so completely alienated her affection for 
 o i him.
 
 296 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 him^ that, bat for her daughter, whom, in 
 the event of a separation between them, 
 she knev^ she should not be allowed to 
 retain with her, she would have proposed 
 one. 
 
 Aware of the atrocities her lord was 
 capable of committing, she thought herself 
 not only justified, but performing an in- 
 dispensible duty, in keeping a watch upon 
 him^ for the purpose of being enabled in 
 some degree to counteract his schemes. 
 In the measures she had recourse to for 
 defeating them, her brother was not only 
 her confident but chief agent; and to their 
 exertions many a father was indebted for 
 not bewailing the hour he had become 
 one, many a lovely innocent for not pe- 
 rishing like a loathsome weed in the streets 
 of the metropolis. 
 
 In addition to these particulars, Mrs. 
 Dunbar further in-formed her attentive au- 
 ditor, that generosity was known but by 
 name to his Lordship; tliat he did nothing 
 without a secret view to his own interest 
 
 02-
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 297 
 
 or gratification ; yet that, unacquainted as" 
 he was in reality with virtue, none could 
 better assume the appearance of it, when- 
 ever he found it requisite to do so for the 
 furtherance of his schemes; in short, that he 
 was*^a complete man of the world, as the 
 term is generally understood — a violator of 
 every moral obligation, an insidious friend, 
 an implacable enemy, a hardened liber- 
 tine, holding in absolute detestation his 
 amiable lady, her patient merit, and unde- 
 viating rectitude, notwithstanding her tho- 
 rough knowledge of his baseness, being a 
 kind of reproach to him he could not bear, 
 nor more regarding his lovely daughter, 
 but on account of the still more illustrious 
 and extensive connexions she might be the 
 means of enabling him to form. But what 
 had brought him to Firgrove, a seat she 
 knew he disliked, from its remoteness from 
 the capital, where he could indulge his 
 vicious propensities without fear of abso- 
 Jiite exposure, for, in order to be better 
 enabled to deceive, he wished to conceal 
 c b his
 
 998 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 his real character from the worlds Mrs. 
 Dunbar could not pretend to say. 
 
 We, however, being better informed on 
 the subject, are able to state, that his visit 
 to it was on account of a married ladv of 
 distinction in the neighbourhood, with 
 whom he had formed an acquaintance the 
 preceding winter in London, and whose 
 husband, a gallant officer, was then risking 
 his life abroad in the service of his king 
 and country. The place in which their 
 assignations were generally kept, was the 
 ruined Abbey; and^ in order to prevent 
 the least danger of intrusion, his Lordship 
 employed Mr. Jenkins, his valet, confidante 
 and prime agent in every villainy, to m.ake 
 use of some contrivance for keeping the 
 rustics av>'ay from it. To the ingenuity, 
 therefore, of this gentleman, was owing the 
 noises and appearances that so alarmed 
 and astonished the simple inhabitants of 
 Heath v/ood. 
 
 An easy conquest was never a valued 
 one by Lord O'Sinister; his passion^ there- 
 fore.
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 299 
 
 fore, for this lady quickly subsided, and, 
 about the same period, he accidentally, but 
 without being seen himself, beheld the fair 
 Elizabeth — 
 
 ** Her form fresher than the morning rose 
 
 When the dew wets its leaves ; unstain'd and pure 
 
 As is the lily, or the mountain snow." 
 
 That very instant love, but not, like Pale- 
 mon's, chaste desire, sprung in his heart; 
 and he resolved not to rest, until he had 
 discovered who she was, and made an effort 
 to introduce himself to her. As usual, he 
 had recourse to Jenkins, to obtain him 
 the information he desired; and, by his 
 means, soon learnt her name and situation 
 in life. This, however, did not satisfy him; 
 ere he commenced his plans against her, 
 he conceived it requisite to know the 
 principles of her parents, and how they 
 were circumstanced. Accordingly, a pre- 
 text was formed for bringing Stubbs to- 
 him, whom the indefatigable Jenkins soon, 
 succeeded in learning was able to give 
 6 him
 
 300 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 him all the particulars he required. Con- 
 vinced, from the account the honest rustic 
 gave of Munro, that to hope to overcome 
 his principles, or elude the vigilance with 
 which he watched over his daughter, would 
 be ridiculous, he conceived the project of 
 getting him out of the way, by oflering 
 him the adjutancy of his regiment; and 
 also (under the supposition of his resem- 
 bling his father in point of disposition) of 
 keeping the son from Heathwood, by pro- 
 mising to become his patron in future. 
 
 On succeeding in tiiis, he lost no time 
 >n introducing himself to the innocent 
 Elizabeth and her mother, under the ficti- 
 tious name of Eaton — fearing to do so by 
 his own, lest premature suspicion should 
 be excited. Accustomed to deceive and 
 triumph, he flattered himself he should find 
 her an easy victim: to his extreme disap- 
 pointment and mortification, however, he 
 soon perceived that there was not the 
 smallest chance of succeeding with her by 
 the common arts of seduction — by any 
 
 otheiv
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 301 
 
 other^ iivOt withstanding her youths, inno- 
 cence, inexperience, and consequent un- 
 suspicion of the deceitfiilness of mankind, 
 but by apparently honourable means, or 
 actual violence — to which last measure he 
 was unwilling to have recourse^ lest it 
 should deprive him of all chance of ob- 
 taining her heart, for the possession of 
 which he now began to be almost as 
 anxious as he was for the possession of her 
 person. At length he decided on making 
 her a m.atrimonial overture, and, if she 
 rejected it, on carrying her oft^ — than which 
 nothing could be easier, as he had several 
 emissaries constantly in pay, capable of 
 executing any villainy he set them on. 
 
 The rapture he derived, from. Elizabeth's 
 acceptance of his addresses, was not a little 
 damped bv her father's positively inter- 
 dicting their nuptials, till he had received 
 unquestionable proofs of his respectability. 
 The chagrin, however, this interdiction 
 caused him, the scheme he formed for de- 
 ceiving him on the subject, quickly enabled 
 
 him
 
 SOS THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 him to get ovcr^ but for carrying which 
 into effect he was prevented by a hint 
 from Mrs. Munro, that she would on no 
 account consent to the marriage of her 
 daughter, till her father could be present 
 at it; and, in its place, formed the horrible 
 project of incapacitating Munro, by per- 
 sonal injury, from retaining the situation 
 he had given hiin, (a project which had 
 nearly been attended with fatal conse- 
 quences, the ruffian whom he employed' 
 on this occasion being of a still more 
 atrocious disposition than himself), and 
 reducing him to such a state of poverty, 
 by the destruction of his habitation, as 
 would prevent him, he trusted, from throw- 
 ing new obstacles in the way of his Welshes. 
 The yjartial failure of it threw him into a 
 ^age that exceeded description ; in the first 
 paroxysm of which, he again thought of 
 carrying off Elizabeth, but again relin- 
 quished the idea, from the dread he enter- 
 tained, of converting the favourable sen- 
 timents he had reason to believe she then- 
 
 entertained
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 3QS- 
 
 entertained for him into horror and dis- 
 gust, by such a step: the one he had at 
 length recourse to, for getting her intOf 
 his power, succeeded according to his 
 wishes. The dread he experienced of his 
 conduct towards her being resented by 
 her father or brother, gave way to the 
 conviction of their being both in his 
 power — the former in consequence of the 
 bond he had given him^ and which, by a 
 legerdemain trick of Mr, Jenkins, was 
 made payable on demand, and the other, 
 from knowing he had no chance of pre- 
 ferment but through his means. 
 
 Mrs. El ford, his \ile confederate, in 
 order to prevent any thing like suspicion 
 entering the mind of Elizabeth, took ad- 
 vantage of what she told her respecting 
 Delacour, to instruct the ruffians, who car- 
 ried her off, to say that he v/as the person 
 who employed them. 
 
 In short, from the whole of Lord O'Si- 
 nister's conduct, it was evident, that, as a 
 much admired writer has observed, '' when 
 
 villain V
 
 304 THE DISCARDFD SON. 
 
 villainy gets the ascendancy, it seldom 
 leaves the wretch, till it has thoroughly 
 polluted him." 
 
 Elizabeth, having heard all the particu- 
 , lars she desired to know respecting the 
 family of Lord O'Sinister^ next enquired 
 after that of Glengary. Mrs. Dunbar, in 
 reply, informed her, she 9.0 seldom visited 
 there, she could give her but little inform- 
 ation concerning them, but that she would 
 introduce a person to her, the Irish house- 
 keeper belonging to it, who frequently 
 visited her's, for the purpose of having her 
 curiosity fully gratified. After a little further 
 conversation, she conducted her to the 
 chamber prepared for her, a spacious 
 and pleasant apartment, with a dressing- 
 room adjoining, in which Elizabeth found 
 the things she had brought with her from 
 Heathwood already deposited. Mrs. Dun- 
 bar soon after left her to prepare for 
 dinner; not, however, without first offer- 
 ing to send her woman to assist her in 
 dressing — an offer which Elizabeth, ac- 
 customed
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 305 
 
 customed on all occasions to be her own 
 handmaid, and wishing, besides, to be leit 
 for a little time to herself, in order to 
 collect her scattered thoughts, and endea- 
 vour to regain the composure the events 
 of the few last hours had disturbed, 
 declined. 
 
 When she reflected on these events, she 
 could scarcely believe herself awake, so 
 strange did they appear; gradually, how- 
 ever, the horror with vvhich they inspired 
 her gave way to the delightful considera- 
 tion, of being again at liberty to indulge 
 the predominant feelings of her heart: 
 she dwelt, with a degree of pleasure that 
 recalled to her cheek the colour which 
 terror and anxiety had banished from it, 
 on the probability there was of her shortly 
 meeting Delacour again — she no longer, 
 in consequence of his being restored to 
 her good opinion, by her detection of the 
 artifices of Mrs. Elford, thought with re- 
 sentment of the failure of his promised visit 
 — no longer entertained a doubt of his 
 
 bein<^
 
 306 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 being able to account for in a satisfactory 
 manner^ whenever she should see him — in 
 a word, she again felt happy — again gave 
 way to hope and expectation: the idea, 
 also, of being at length introduced into 
 the kind of society she had so long wished 
 to mix in, (Mrs. Dunbar having given her 
 to understand that she had now not only 
 a number of friends on a visit to her, but 
 large parties every day to dinner), added 
 not a little to her spirits. As soon as she 
 was dressed, she repaired to her chamber; 
 but, instead of finding her there, learned 
 from her woman that she was already gone 
 to the drawing-room to receive her com- 
 pany. 
 
 Elizabeth felt a little panic-struck at the 
 thoughts of entering the room by herself; 
 as she found her doing so, however, was 
 not to be avoided, she endeavoured to 
 calm her i^erturbation, in order to prevent 
 any thing like embarrassment being seen 
 in her manner. 
 
 The moment she made her appearance, 
 
 Mrs.
 
 THE DISCARDED SOK. 307 
 
 Mrs. Dunbar stepped forward to receive 
 her; and, taking her by the hand, intro- 
 duced her, in a general way^, to the party, 
 which consisted of a Mrs. Ruthven, her 
 niece, a young and lately married lady; her 
 husband, a gay and fashionable young man; 
 Miss Rae, her particular friend; Lady Loch- 
 ness, a lively woman of the world ; Mr. 
 Hume, a pert conceited coxcomb; Mr, 
 Grant, a rather blunt and satirical character^ 
 and several other ladies and gentlemen. 
 
 The ceremony of introduction over, Eli- 
 zabeth would quickly have recovered her 
 usual ease, but for the whispering conver- 
 sation, and rude staring of Mi's. Ruthven 
 and her confident. Miss Rae, by whom Mrs. 
 Dunbar had, from motives of goodnature^ 
 placed her. To neither, indeed, v/as the 
 sight of such loveliness as she possessed by 
 any means agreeable, as both had an insa- 
 tiable rage for admiration, and certain views 
 besides, at this juncture, which they much 
 feared her superior attractions would be 
 the means of disappointing. 
 
 Mrs.
 
 308 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 Mrs. Ruthven was by no means hand- 
 some, nor even pleasing in her appearance: 
 her satiricaljand often peevish countenance, 
 was a true index of her mind. Granddaugh- 
 ter and heiress to a Scotch baronet of large 
 fortune^ her temper, never very amiable, 
 was so completely injured by the excessive 
 indulgence she met from him, and the high 
 sense she was early taught to entertain of 
 her own consequence, that, as she grew up, 
 she became proud, impatient of the slight- 
 est controul, capricious, and vindictive. 
 Her grandfather, and the father of her hus- 
 band, a man also of large fortune, were 
 long and intimately acquainted, and, at an 
 early period, a union between her and 
 young Ruthven was proposed by them ; 
 to which, the young gentleman being gay, 
 gallant, and handsome, she made no objec- 
 tion. Her grandfather lived biU to see this 
 completed ; he died under the pleasing 
 idea of her happiness being secured by 
 it. The very reverse, however, of this 
 v/as the case — Riithven's sole induce- 
 ment
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 309 
 
 ment for accepting her hand, being to 
 obtain a settlement from his father: nor 
 did he long endeavour to conceal his in- 
 difference from her. The discovery of this, 
 by the mortification it inflicted on her va- 
 nity, irritated her almost to madness, and, 
 by degrees, so completely alienated her 
 affections from him, as to make her bitterly 
 repent having united herself to him — a re- 
 pentance which was latterly still further 
 heightened, bv a predilection she conceived 
 for another object, with whom, her opinion 
 of her charms being of a very exalted 
 nature, she entertained no doubt she could 
 have readily formed an alliance had she 
 been at libertv. 
 
 Miss Rae, her bosom friend, vras the 
 daughter of a needy parasite of her grand- 
 father's, who, anxious to get her off his 
 hands, had found means of introducing her 
 into the family, where, by dint of flattery 
 and artifice^ she contrived to maintain her 
 ground, and acquire a complete Ascendancy 
 over Mrs. Ruthven. Her person was shewy, 
 
 and
 
 310 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 and so far attracted Mr. Ruthven, as to in- 
 duce him to pay her attentions that caused 
 her to believe she had made a conquest of 
 him — an idea by no means disagreeable to 
 her, notwithstanding his being the husband 
 of the woman she professed to regard, and 
 to whose kindness she was indebted for al- 
 most every advantage she possessed, and 
 every gratification she enjoyed; in short, 
 Mr. Ruthven would have found no diffi- 
 culty in succeeding with her in the way he 
 wished, but that, just as she was on the 
 point of entering into a capitulation with 
 him, she discovered the criminal passion 
 of his wife; and, under the hope of its 
 leading her into some step that might 
 yet liberate him, resolved on an immediate 
 change in her conduct — imagining, hov/- 
 ever, that an alteration in it might occa- 
 sion an alteration in his intentions relative 
 to her. She was utterly mistaken, no miser 
 being ever more covetous of wealth than 
 he was. Flattering herself, however, that 
 he would lead her to the hymeneal altar, if 
 
 released
 
 THE DISCARDED SON. 311 
 
 released from his present matrimonial fet- 
 ters, she did every thing in her power to 
 instigate his wife to give him an opportu- 
 nity of breaking them, by secretly reviling 
 him to her, and magnifying the perfections 
 of the man she loved. 
 
 Of either the real principles, or present 
 views of her niece, or her confidant, Mrs. 
 Dunbar was alike ignorant and unsuspi- 
 cious. It must, indeed, have been some very 
 glaring proof of baseness, which could have 
 made her doubt the virtue of the former, so 
 partial was she to her, from the consideration 
 of her being the child of an only and beloved 
 sister. Mrs. Ruthven was not capable of 
 returning her affecti(>n: she affected to do 
 so, however, from selfish motives, the prin- 
 cipal part of Mrs. Dunbar's fortune being 
 at her own disposal; but, notwithstanding 
 this, would probably not, to pay her a visit, 
 have quitted London (whither she went 
 immediately after her marriage), but that 
 she knew the bein^ whom, of all others, 
 she wished to see was at this time her guest. 
 
 Relative
 
 3 ! 2 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 Relative to Elizabeth, Mrs. Dunbar said 
 nothins: more to her visitors than that she 
 \vas the oranddauo-hter of Mr. Miinro of 
 Glengary — that, by chance, she had disco- 
 vered her being in the neighbourhood — 
 out of regard to her father, had invited her 
 to spend some time with her — and that 
 both her person and manners were attrac- 
 tive. This latter part of her information 
 was by no means agreeable to Mrs. Ruthven 
 or Miss Rae, as both, notwithstanding their 
 vanity, wxre apprehensive of the eflect 
 which a newer face than theirs might have 
 upon the respective objects of their regard. 
 But the uneasiness which they felt before- 
 hand was trifling, compared to what they 
 experienced on seeing Elizabeth, so infi- 
 nitely did she surpass the expectations 
 which Mrs. Dunbar had raised conccrnins: 
 her. That she did this, however, they: 
 w^ould have died almost, ere they would 
 have acknowledged even to one another; 
 on the contrary, their envy and malice 
 prompted them to say every thing that was 
 5 depreciating
 
 THE DISCAKDED SON. 3l3 
 
 depreciating of her^ as well as to treat her 
 in a manner calculated to make her think 
 little of herself. 
 
 '' Pretty ! " said Mrs. Ruthven, after rudely 
 staring at her some minutes, in a half whis- 
 per to Miss Rae, and with a scornful look; 
 '' *tis astonishing to me how my aunt can 
 reckon her so/* 
 
 " Oh, she is so goodnatured/' returned 
 Miss Rae, with an insidious smile, and care- 
 lessly playing with her fan; "but you 
 know, my dear, women are not allowed to 
 be good judges of the beauty of one ano- 
 ther; we should ask the gentlemen their 
 opinion — what say you, Hume?" address- 
 ing herself to him, as he stood leaning 
 over the back of the sofa she and her friend 
 occupied. 
 
 "Say, w^hy, that when a man's thoughts 
 are entirely occupied by the charms of one 
 lady, 'tis utterly impossible for him to de- 
 cide upon those of another/' and, with a 
 half suppressed sigh, he cast a languishing 
 glance at Mrs. Ruthven, whose rage for 
 
 VOL. I. p admiration
 
 314 THE DISCARDED SON. 
 
 admiration he had sufficient penetration to 
 perceive^, and to whom^ it being a maxim 
 with him to pay court wherever fortune 
 smiled, he paid the most extravagant 
 homage. 
 
 "Or by himself^ you might have added/' 
 cried Mr. Grants, who, as he was passing 
 near where he stood, overheard him. 
 
 " Nay, as to that matter, I flatter myself 
 no one can pretend to say I entertain too 
 exalted an opinion of myself.'' 
 
 ''^Yet, if any one else entertained half 
 as good a one of you, I should then allow 
 you really had reason for vanity. '* 
 
 *' And pray," somewhat nettled, ^' how 
 do you know that that may not be the 
 case?" 
 
 " Oh, perhaps so, for some people have 
 strange tastes, and little judgment.'* 
 
 ''What a savage 1" exclaimed the irritated 
 Hume to the two ladies, as Grant walked 
 away. *' I wonder Mrs. Dunbar can en- 
 courage his visits." 
 
 *' Perhaps,'* said Miss Rae sneering'ly, 
 4 the
 
 THE DISCARDED SOK. 315 
 
 the slighting xnanner in which Hume had 
 treated her^ in consequence of looking 
 upon her rather in the light of an humble 
 companion to Mrs. Ruthven. having pro- 
 voked her malice against him^ '' the truths 
 he tells her are not quite so disagreeable 
 as those he tells yoif/' 
 
 EKD OF VOL. I. 
 
 Uiie, Bailing, and Co. Lcadenhall-stf^ct.
 
 WORKS 
 
 IPrintctJ at tlje ^inertias lPrc00» 
 
 JVith the Reviewers^ Opinion,, 
 
 VIVONIO ; 
 
 OR, 
 THE HOUR OF RETRIBUTION. 
 BY A YOUNG LADY. 
 4 vols. 16s. sewed, 
 «' Vlvcnio is a novel of fome :rierit in Its kind. The ftyle is 
 mnch belier than what is ufuaily met with, and the occur- 
 rences more interetling. Here, at leaft we can say, that na- 
 ture is not outraged, and that the book mny be perultd with 
 pl.eafure." Literary Journal, Majj i8o6* 
 
 THE IMPENETRABLE SECRET, 
 
 A NOVEL, 
 
 BY FRANCIS LATHOM. 
 2 vols» 9s. sewed. 
 
 " The story is constructed on so artful a plan, that none 
 of the agents are left for an inst-ant unemploye.l; the events 
 are ps ocetdlng in every quarter at once ; and the interest 
 is divided indeed, but never weakened.— From the opening 
 of the story to the discovery of the secret, our curiosity in- 
 creases ; though we cannot attribute to curiosity alone a sen- 
 sation which seems as closely allied to sympathy, as to asto- 
 nishment. The explanatory statements that follow the chief 
 developement are all satisfactory and probable." 
 
 Critical Re'vieiUy Dec. 1805. 
 
 ** We seldom remember to have met with a tale possessing 
 so mi;ch to catch the fet lings, and improve the he:irt. The 
 adventitious aids of declamatory dialogue and second-hand 
 sentiments, he carefully avoids." British Critic, Dec. 1805, 
 
 «' Among the very few of cur modern novels that possess 
 any thing to make amends for the labour of perusal, we aie 
 hsppy to class the production before us. A powerful interest 
 is excited from the beginning. Curiosity is kept alive to the 
 conclusion of the book. The events are lomantic, but 
 natural/' Monthly Mirror y Dec. 1805.