'L I B RAHY 
 
 OF THE 
 U N IVERSITY 
 OF ILLINOIS 
 
 v. 
 
 \
 
 
 The person charging this material is re- 
 sponsible for its return to the library from 
 which it was withdrawn on or before the 
 Latest Date stamped below. 
 
 Theft, mutilation, and underlining of books 
 are reasons for disciplinary action and may 
 result in dismissal from the University. 
 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN 
 
 
 OCT 9I3 
 
 n 
 
 
 
 SEP 1 8 
 
 1974 
 
 
 
 OCT 1 
 
 oci2.a 
 
 197R 
 
 1978 
 
 1978 
 
 
 
 NOV 2 7 is 
 
 78 
 
 
 
 SEP 23 n 
 
 ■ jT It ' s ~" . ^ — 
 
 83 
 
 
 
 MAY 2 9 
 
 997 
 
 
 
 
 00 
 
 ' 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 L161 — O-1096
 
 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 BY 
 
 HARRIET LEE 
 
 Faucy, like the finger of a clock, 
 
 Runs the great circle, and is still at home. 
 
 Cowpee. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 NEW YORK : 
 MASON BROTHERS 
 
 1857.
 
 ELECTKOTY FED BY FRI.NTKDBY 
 
 TI10MAS B. SMITH, C. A. ALVORD, 
 
 82 & 84 Beekman St. 15 Yandewaler St.
 
 PUBLISHERS' ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 The Canterbury Tales were in fashion among the contem- 
 poraries of Lord Byron in his youth. Fashions come round 
 again, with the lapse of years, as we are reminded daily 
 by the revival of costumes that were in vogue a couple of 
 centuries ao-o. The remarkable fictions contained in the fol- 
 lowing pages we have endeavored to reproduce in a style that 
 will render them attractive, as we deem that the time has ar- 
 rived for them to come in fashion again. On their first ap- 
 pearance they passed through several editions, when editions 
 were more a matter of fact, and less of faith, than they are 
 n.'W-a-davs; and thev have stood the test of criticism, and 
 survived the rise and foil of new favorites, for more than half 
 a century. We reprint them as an appropriate commence- 
 ment of a series of Standard Tales, which we have in prepa- 
 ration as books for the Library.
 

 
 8£3 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The Canterbury Tales, as originally published, were 
 the productions of two sisters, the daughters of Mr. 
 John Lee, an English barrister, whose passion for the 
 stace induced him to become an actor at the Covent Gar- 
 den Theater, and afterwards manager of the theater at 
 Bath. Sophia Lee, the elder daughter, was born in 
 London in the year 1750, and her first appearance in 
 literature was as the author of The Chapter of Acci- 
 dents, a comedy, brought out at the Haymarket Theater, 
 and received with great applause. From the profits of 
 this piece, she established, in connection with her younger 
 sister Harriet, a seminary for young ladies at Bath, 
 which they conducted for many years with great credit 
 and success. 
 
 The first volume of the Canterbury Tales was pub- 
 lished in 1797, and was followed, at intervals of a few 
 years, by four other volumes of striking and popular 
 fictions, under the same title. The great merit of the 
 work, however, belonged to Harriet Lee; and in the 
 later editions, as the tales, with the exception of the first 
 three in our first volume, were wholly distinct, the pro- 
 ductions of the two sisters were separately published. 
 
 The present collection contains all the tales from the 
 pen of Harriet Lee. One of these is famous for the 
 
 -4-6080 3
 
 VI PBEFACE. 
 
 use made of it by Lord Byron in the construction of 
 Werner, the only drama of his lordship's which 1 
 successful on the stage. Fur this success it wa bted, 
 
 many years after its original appearance, to the admirable 
 acting of Mr. Macready. 
 
 In October, 1821, his lordship wrote to his public 
 Mr. Murray — "Don't forget to send me my first ;; 
 of Werner (if Ilobhouse can find it among my paper 
 — send it by post (to Pisa) ; and also cut out Harriet 
 Lee's 'German's Tale,' from the l Canterbury Tales." and 
 send it in a letter also. I began this tragedy in 1815." 
 In the preface to Werner, Byron candidly refers us to 
 the original source of his play, and freely admits that it 
 was taken entirely from this story. Lord Byron saj*s 
 that he had adopted the characters, plan, and even the 
 language of many parts of the story. He adds, that ho 
 first read the tale when he was young, and that it made 
 a deep impression on him, containing the germ of much 
 that he had since written. t: I have generally found." 
 he continues, "that those who had read it agree with me 
 in their estimate of the singular power of mind and con- 
 ception which it develops. I should also add conception 
 rather than execution; for the story might, perhaps, 
 have been developed with greater advantage. Among 
 those whose opinions agreed with mine upon this story. 
 I could mention some very high names : bnt it is r 
 necessary, nor indeed of any use, for every one must 
 judge according to his own feelin I me refer the 
 
 reader to the original story, that he m e to what 
 
 extent I have borrowed from it: and am not unwillii 
 that he Bhould find much g re in ; \ it 
 
 than the drama which is founded upon its content 
 
 A contemporary critic in Blackwood 8 Jhryazine says
 
 PREFACE. Vii 
 
 that there is not one incident in the play, even the most 
 trivial, that is not to be found in the novel from which it 
 is taken ; occurring exactly in the same manner, brought 
 about by exactly the same agents, and producing exactly 
 the same effects on the plot. " And then as to the char- 
 acters/" he continues, "why, not only is every one of 
 them to be found in the novel, but every one is to be 
 found there far more fully and powerfully developed. 
 The fact is, that this undeviating closeness, this hum- 
 ble fidelity of imitation, is a thing so perfectly new in 
 literature, in any thing worthy of the name of litera- 
 ture, that we are sure no one, who has not read the 
 Canterbury Ta 7 es, will be able to form the least con- 
 ception of what it amounts to. Those who have never 
 read Miss Lee will, however, be pleased with this 
 production ; for, in truth, the story is one of the most 
 powerfully conceived, one of the most picturesque, and 
 at the same time instructive stories, that we are, or 
 are ever likely to be, acquainted with. Indeed, thus 
 led as we are to name Harriet Lee for the first time in 
 these pages, we can not allow the opportunity to pass 
 without saying that we have always considered her works 
 as standing upon the very verge of the very first rank 
 of excellence in the species to which they belong ; that is 
 to say, as inferior to no English novels whatever, ex- 
 cepting only those of Fielding, Sterne, Smollett, Rich- 
 ardson, De Foe, Radcliffe, Godwin, Edgeworth. and the 
 Great Known. It would not, perhaps, be going too far 
 to say that the Canterbury Tales exhibit more of that 
 Species of Inve ntion, which, as we have remarked a little 
 above, was never common in English literature, than any 
 of the works even of those first-rate novelists we have 
 named, with the single exception of Fielding himself.
 
 Mil PREFACE. 
 
 For example, take this very tale of Kruitzm 
 Landlady's Sforij : — considering them m - fabL 
 
 we have qo hesitation in Baying that they arc far b 
 fables than any original and invented one that can 
 found in the works of any of our living poets or novelist 
 This is high praise ; but we feel that Ave are doing no 
 more than justice in bestowing it."' 
 
 " After speaking in such terms of Miss L >Ie, 
 
 we shall not, of course, be so daring as to attempt an 
 analysis here. Let it be sufficient to say that we con- 
 sider it as possessing mystery, and yet cleann bo its 
 structure ; strength of characters, and irable co: - 
 trast of characters ; and, above all, the most livel r- 
 est, blended with and subservient to the most affecting of 
 moral lessons.' 7 
 
 The sisters obtained an early independence by their 
 labors in the education of younq: ladies, and lived, during 
 the latter portion of their long lives, in retirement at 
 Bristol, where Sophia died in 1824. Harriet Lee died 
 in Clifton, in 1S51, at the advanced age of ninety-six 
 years.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 f) F 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME 
 
 Page 
 
 Canterbury Tales — Introduction IT 
 
 The Landlady's Tale — Mary Lawsi in 33 
 
 The Friend's Tale — Stanhope 19 
 
 The Wife's Tale—Julia 143 
 
 The Traveler's Tale — Montvobd 248 
 
 The Poet's Tale — Arundel 2G7 
 
 The old Woman's Tale — Lothaieb: A Legend 334
 
 HARRIET LEE'S 
 
 CANTERBURY TALES.
 
 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 I N T KODUCTION. 
 
 Youth of the quick, uncheated sight, 
 Thy walks, Observance, most delight. 
 
 Collins. 
 
 " Did you please to look for a lodging, sir ?" said a 
 respectable woman to an elderly gentleman, whom she 
 had observed loitering for some time in the neighbor- 
 hood of the Esplanade at Weymouth. 
 
 " What there, do you mean ?" replied the stranger drily, 
 and pointing to the sea, on which, indeed, he had been 
 most intensely gazing at the moment she addressed him. 
 
 "I beg pardon, sir," rejoined the first speaker, some- 
 what out of countenance at what she conceived to be a 
 rebuke; "but as the day is so uncommon hot, and you 
 sim -in to be a stranger, it struck me" — 
 
 "That one might be perfectly cool in such a spot as 
 that ? — truly many a brave fellow has been cool enough 
 there." 
 
 " To be sure they have, si ■ : but it is not the custom to 
 bathe at this hour of the dry." 
 
 "Bathe, my good woman ! — bathe! — Why, would any 
 body in their senses think of bathing in such a sea as that ?" 
 
 Confounded at this question, the good woman, as he 
 took the liberty of calling her, first looked earnestly at 
 the sea, and then as earnestly on her new acquaintance:
 
 18 CANTEKBUnY TALES. 
 
 there was nothing io hi conn that appeared like 
 
 banter; nor in truth any thing in either prospect I 
 
 struck her to be at all remark 
 
 ••Uoirt you perceive, he, with evid 
 
 ", '• how tremendously rough the water 1 
 "Rough, dear heart, sir!" — and half snppi tile, 
 
 she again looked towards the sea. The tide came roll- 
 ing in with a full wave, the force of which was increased, 
 as well by the season of the year, as by a most refr- 
 ing breeze : while the sun played over a vast expansi 
 green, dazzling the eye with its luster, and brightening 
 the spray, which dashed high as it approached the 
 shore": the whole scene conveving to those that were 
 accustomed to sea-views the most lively sensation of 
 spirit and gayety. 
 
 " Rough, sir, did you say ?" again exclaimed the 1 
 speaker, with fresh surprise once more surveying the 
 prospect. 
 
 "What a terrible situation! That boat will certainly 
 be lost !" 
 
 " Bless you, sir ! that boat's only a-pleasuring. I know 
 the gentry in it extremely well." 
 
 " Their pleasure will then be very short, for I am con- 
 vinced that we shall have a dreadful storm as soon as 
 the sun crocs in." 
 
 This last proof of nautical judgment settled the opin- 
 ion of the good woman with regard to the person who 
 uttered it ; and having reconnoitred him from head to 
 foot with even, if possible, more accuracy than she had 
 done before her first itation, she made up her mind, 
 
 that he was no other than a L/unnener, and had n< 
 
 D salt-water till then: a conclusion more charitable 
 than she had at first been inclined to draw; inasmuch as 
 it left him the possession of his right senses however 
 small the purposes which they appeared t<> answer.
 
 CANTERBfRY TALES. 19 
 
 i 
 
 One of those light showers that so often sweep across 
 the sky at the rising of the tide, and give to the whole 
 view indescribable variety and beauty, now began to 
 " shed prelusive drops " from a dark cloud, little larger 
 in its apparent dimensions than a pocket-handkerchief; 
 when the stranger, hastily unfurling a prodigious um- 
 brella, which, in defiance of the heat, he had carried un- 
 der Iris arm, good-naturedly called to his companion to 
 take shelter beneath its circumference ; and appealing 
 very forcibly to the truth of his own predictions with 
 regard to the approaching tempest, hinted to her, that 
 the opportunity was a favorable one for looking at the 
 lodgings which she was disposed to recommend to him. 
 
 " Would the family like a house, or only a set of apart- 
 ments, sir ?" said the female speaker, in the most insinu- 
 ating tone, as, to the great annoyance of other walk- 
 ers, they pressed forward under their formidable um- 
 brella. 
 
 " I have no family," replied the gentleman laconically. 
 The countenance of his companion fell : and indeed, sim- 
 ple' as the sentence was, it conveyed a great deal: for, 
 instead of the prospect in which she had indulged her 
 imagination, of letting a large expensive house, " with 
 ail appurtenance and means to boot," the view suddenly 
 contracted to a single gentleman, a parlor-floor, and all 
 the et ceteras of minute economy attendant upon such 
 establishments, where youth and carelessness have no 
 share in making out the account. A long observation 
 upon life, and certain studies peculiar to her employment, 
 though they had not rendered Mrs. Adams a philosopher 
 or a physiognomist, had bestowed a portion of knowledge 
 perhaps upon the whole less fallible than theirs ; for while 
 they, with infinite labor and research, endeavor to de- 
 scribe man such as God originally made him, or as his 
 passions cause him to make himself, she, with more sum-
 
 20 C A NT ER] 
 
 mary decision, judged him simply by his habits; wheth- 
 er they were of person or of mind: in other w 
 saw him such .'is his tailor m he one, and hie employ- 
 
 » other: inferring, that both together made the 
 
 man. Nor was she often deceived: half the world have 
 no genuine characteristics left, and are to be tried by 
 some standard not very different from that em] by 
 
 Mrs. Adams. It was by such kind of calculation that the 
 good lady had concluded her compai > he either the 
 
 butler or steward of some family of fashion, and mi 
 advances accordingly. In this conjecture she now beg 
 to suspect that she had been wrong: he t be rich, 
 
 however : nothing in his exterior announced the contr. 
 and though unprovided with a wife and family either of 
 his own or other people's, the chances were evidently in 
 favor of his finding one, or possibly both, during hi 
 at Weymouth, if he were so dis] a proper 
 
 pearance. With all due attention, therefore, t 
 future comfort, she persisted in showing him th 
 and that house: assured him that many si gentlemen 
 
 chose to be handsomely accommodated, in order that i 
 
 ;ht be able to give entertainments to the ladi and 
 threw in occasional descriptions of balls, and pr ;irls, 
 
 whose mothers did not disapprove of their forming e 
 
 ties when properly countenanced. lie; ned 
 
 meantime with some complacency; inquired much. 
 swered little, and finally almost tired the patience of lus 
 would-be landlady, by an irresolution th. med to b 
 
 no end. "That house was too large: those apartments 
 were too small: the view on <• tonfined; and 
 
 on the other it w. . "looking, 
 
 il does, only on the sea." 
 
 "That's an odd fault to find at a watering-place, Bar," 
 said Mrs. Adams, whose complaisance began insensibly to 
 diminish. "My last lodger was not your mind.
 
 CANTEEBUEY TALES. 21 
 
 Heaven help him, poor gentleman ! to think of the hours 
 that he used to spend in rambling by himself on the sands ! 
 you should contemplate the moon, sir, as he did, when 
 she rises from the very bosom, as I may say, of the bay, 
 aud throws a long stream of light down to your very 
 door, before you call the apartments melancholy." Mrs. 
 Adams had now touched a theme, though it was not that 
 of the moon, which by an odd chance excited the curios- 
 ity of her hearer: she was pleased to observe that he was 
 pleased, and conversation began once more to flourish. 
 
 " I can't say as to his fortune, sir," said Mrs. Adams, in 
 answer to a question on the subject; "but he was a gen- 
 tleman, I am sure : and while he was in my house he 
 paid like a gentleman : but his great delight was the 
 moon. "Mrs. Adams." snys he to me one night, when I 
 went to settle a little cash account with him, and found 
 him sitting without candles in the room, "it is impossible 
 to wish for any other light than from that beautiful 
 planet : do you observe the single bright star that seems 
 to follow her track through the heavens ? Methinks they 
 resemble a mother and her child." On saying this, he did 
 so sigh, sir!" — 
 
 "And pray what became of this gentleman when he 
 left Weymouth ?" said her hearer, impatiently, and indeed 
 somewhat fatigued with the episode of the moon. 
 
 " I can't say that I know whether he has left it, sir," 
 returned Mrs. Adams. "The poor gentleman, I believe, 
 rather fell into misfortunes : and my lodgings did not suit 
 him any longer, as you may suppose : indeed, they can't 
 be expected to suit those that have not wherewithal to 
 pay handsomely : so we parted mighty good friends " — 
 Mrs. Adams made a sudden, but xoyy marked pause ; for 
 she perceived that her hearer had picked, up a slip of 
 writing-paper from the floor, on which lie Mas looking 
 with an air of curiosity that instantly excited hers. The
 
 22 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 paper, however, for lie put it into her bands a few mo- 
 ments afterwards, contained nothing: interesting:. It 
 seemed to be only a lhine gue of boot 
 
 which the writer either poj d, or wished I i: 
 
 bnt the hand-writing conveyed to him who saw it. more 
 than Mrs. Adams conld possibly guess, and i in feet, 
 
 than he expected to learn : for it convinced him that : 
 was in the right track, and that her ci-devant lodger v. 
 no other than the man in search of whom he had travel 
 to Weymouth. This was, in the lai ge of the world, 
 a lucky hit ; for, by a singular chance, it happened that 
 their personal meeting would have been of no avail : the 
 hand-writing being the only particular by which the 
 seeker could with any certainty have recognized the per- 
 son sought : so long was it since they had seen each 
 other. 
 
 The stranger now returned to his inn, and Mrs. Adams 
 to her own apartment and her hit of mutton : convinced, 
 to use her own language, " that she had taken all this 
 trouble for some quizzy old bachelor, who intended to 
 ablish himself in a two pair of stairs room.'' 
 The good lady was not altogether deceived. Mr. At- 
 kinson was certainly a bachelor : his face showed that he 
 
 ■ 
 
 was not young ; and his coat intimated him to be a quiz. 
 But under this face and coat lay a store of good sense, 
 integrity, and kindness of heart, somewhat disfigured by 
 whimsical peculiarities of manner indeed, but ever active, 
 as at that moment, in the cause of misfortune. He had 
 been originally designed for the law, and brought up, 
 though in a very humble line, accordingly. Oiivumstanecs 
 rendered him afterwards the agent, and indeed fac-totum 
 to a family of very considerable opulence; where, after 
 spending his youth in dutiful service, and his mature lite 
 in domestic, though respectful intercourse : after direct!': 
 the juvenile sports of several line lads, the beloved sons
 
 CANTERBURY TALES. 23 
 
 of his benefactor, and sharing in all those hopes which 
 their promising outset announced ; he had had the pain 
 of beholding this bright prospect clouded by storms 
 most unforeseen : 
 
 " The houses, lands, 
 
 And once fair-spreading family dissolved," 
 
 or, after a succession of different events, centred in an 
 heir of whose existence he could not assure himself, ex- 
 cept by such steps as necessity and long-rooted attach- 
 ment now induced him to take. 
 
 The chase proved tedious. For it was not in palaces, 
 nor in assemblies ; neither among the gay nor the happy, 
 that Mr. Atkinson could hope to find this heir of five 
 thousand a year. He was to be looked for in the habita- 
 tions of indigence and obscurity : where inquiry was 
 baffled by the apprehensions of him who alone could 
 satisfy it ; and the person sought was ever flying from 
 the benignant friend that was seeking him. Under these 
 circumstances, all the sufferings of poverty, and all the 
 evils of indiscretion, had alternately been exposed to 
 view : and Mr. Atkinson had seen more of man, erring, 
 inconsistent, prodigal, yet miserable and much-enduring 
 man, within the last two months, than the whole tenor 
 of his life, till that period, had ever displayed to him. 
 Mrs. Adams, however, had not been quite wrong in her 
 conjecture : amongst all the sights that had presented 
 themselves, Atkinson had not seen the sea : nor in truth 
 any larger body of water than that which his benefactor's 
 grounds afforded ; or the small river which ran through 
 his own native town. II had indeed peeped at the 
 Thames, during the time which necessity obliged him to 
 employ in visiting London ; but not the majestic Thame.-; 
 that bears navies on her bosom, or conveys to an over- 
 grown metropolis the luxuries of two opposite hemi-
 
 24 CANTEH BUB Y TALES. 
 
 spheres; nor that more beautiful Thames which flows be- 
 tween the consecrated banks of Twickenham and Ri 
 mond, e\ inatio] I — willing 
 
 to i ity with two superb i 
 
 and to make the most of the little time he v< 
 
 at Billingsgate, during the intervals of admiration 
 excited by that famous market, that he had taken his 
 chief survey of the no less famous river adjoining. Wl 
 wonder then that beholding the vast bosom of the ocean, 
 he shuddered at the temerity of people who venture 
 it in boats that seemed to him only larger than c 
 ! or that those bright waves, whose lightly-sil 
 points convey to some constitutions the -t and 
 
 exhilarating feelings, appeared to his alarmed in: don 
 
 hardly less than mountainous billows ! Taste he had 
 none : reading he had little : of the world he knew no- 
 thing. To do all the good he could in it, partake a tem- 
 perate meal with a temperate friend, keep his heart and 
 his coat equally unsoiled ; tuck his umbrella, under his 
 arm, and shelter his eyes with a beaver of most primitive 
 shape and dimensions, Was with him the summum bonum 
 of life. Such was ZMr. Abraham Atkinson. 
 
 Xow Mr. Abraham Atkinson had a female counterp: 
 on this earthly globe, although he did not yet know it; 
 name Mrs. Dixon : an obscure pe] _e, whose chief 
 iness was, like Mrs. Adams, to let ready-furnished 
 apartment;'. Mrs. Dixon however resembled her compeer 
 in no one thing except that by which she lived. For, 
 whereas the latter was tall, thin, had a sharp ey* . 
 shrewd mind, and a most accommodating ca>t of coun- 
 tenance, in which nothing- of the original character could 
 be discerned but its leading Lure — self-inl ; Mrs. 
 
 on, on the contrary, was fat, good-hm 
 credulous., and so willing to do what was kind by < 
 body, that there was only i in the whole circle
 
 CAXTEKBUEY TALES. 25 
 
 of the neighborhood whom she neglected. But that onu 
 never complained ; never knew what it was to be discon- 
 tented ; buffeted ill-fortune with a magnanimity that 
 would have immortalized her, had it been the gift of in- 
 tellect and not the mere result of a happy temperament ; 
 enjoyed all the little good that fell to her lot, and never 
 repined, though Benjamin's portion went to those who 
 less deserved it. In a word, this neglected individual 
 was Mrs. Dixon herself; but the error which she was not 
 conscious of, she never strove to amend : and thus re- 
 mained stationary till forty, in the self-same town, street, 
 house, and employment, in which she had found herself at 
 five-and-twenty. 
 
 It happened that these counterparts, as is frequently 
 the case with the counterparts of this world, were far 
 from suspecting each other to be snch : and it was the 
 exactness of the resemblance that prevented their feeling 
 it : for both, without a spark of what is decidedly to be 
 called vanity, had a certain habitual blindness to their 
 own exterior, which did not extend one degree further ; 
 so that while Mrs. Dixon secretly congratulated herself 
 that she was not such a prim, upright, particular-looking 
 figure as Mr. Atkinson, the gentleman, on the contrary, 
 thought himself fortunate in having past the meridian 
 of life without attaining the plump insignificance of 
 Mrs. Dixon. As yet, however, these two good creatures 
 were unknown to each other : but their guardian aiu> 
 if guardian angels are ever allowed to persons not hand- 
 some, and past five-and-twenty, or rather the guardian 
 angels of those they were to serve, were at work to bring 
 them together ; and this was facilitated by means of a 
 terrestrial deputy, who certainly had nothing of the 
 angelic either in her form or her mind : it was Mrs. 
 Adams. 
 
 A conversation between this lady and Mr. Atkinson,
 
 2 3 C A N T E B B U BY TALE S. 
 
 not necessary to be detailed at length, as it is probable 
 enough of it has already been >wn, had, before I 
 
 parted, pretty nearly convinc le latter that the gentle- 
 man whom he sought, after quitting her house from not 
 having, as she elegantly phrased it, "wherewithal to pi 
 had certainly taken up his abode in the neighborly 
 with some person less rigid in that particular; and a very 
 little address had brought out Mrs. Dixon's name : it was 
 immediately subsequent to this discovery 
 returned to the Red Lion and a solitary dinner ; where, 
 after drinking his usual small allowance of port, I 
 into a lit of meditation, which terminated, as meditations 
 after dinner rather frequently do, in a gentle nap. On 
 awaking he found the heat of the day considerably a 
 the sea, which most impertinently seemed to lie in his 
 way whichever road he took, v. . ink into profound 
 tranquility, and the soft murmur of an ebbing tide alone 
 rendered it distinguishable to the ear. The sun wi 
 ting behind the town, which already began to cast its 
 shade over the beach and nearer view; while the barren 
 hiils of Portland, with the small vessels sheltered beneath, 
 still lying under the reflection of the distant brightness, 
 presented an amusing spectacle to the e; 
 
 As Mrs. Dixon's window held i i invitation that 
 
 made it no intrusion to knock at her door, the busi] 
 of introduction was accomplished without any difficulty : 
 yet by an ill-luck perhaps to be accounted for in the want 
 of those exterior graces of which nature had not been 
 liberal to either party, these two worthy people did not 
 immediately make the favorable impression on each other 
 which thev were mutuallv entitled t<» do. Mr. Atkin 
 
 I taken it into his head that some portion of ingenuity 
 would be necessary in order t<^ ( I the discovery he 
 wished : his exordium therefore was by n<> means pre] 
 sessing, for the simple reason, that it w; : trust-
 
 CANTERBURY TALES. 27 
 
 ing to nature the chances had been fifty to one in his fa- 
 vor, but he was a mere bungler at finesse ; and the con- 
 sequence of his attempting it was, that Mrs. "Dixon, struck 
 with the quaintness and peculiarity of his manner, began 
 to exercise her own sagacity ; and, by an effect of that 
 secret sympathy of character already described, became 
 in her turn no less ingeniously mysterious than her vis- 
 itor ; so that the chief purport of the visit, which was to 
 learn some tidings of her last lodger, was as little in a 
 way to be accomplished as though they had never met. 
 But if the negotiation did not promise to be very success- 
 ful as to its principal aim, there were some subordinate 
 considerations not totally to be neglected by either party. 
 Mrs. Dixon's apartments had been empty for a consider- 
 able time past : the stranger was evidently not provided 
 with any : his appearance was quiet ; respectable : denot- 
 ing ease, if not amuencc ; and, but for some suspicious 
 circumstances attending his supposed employment, ren- 
 dered him precisely the sort of person she would have ap- 
 proved as an inmate. Atkinson, meantime, was not with- 
 out his prudential observations ; and they were exactly in 
 character with the tone of his mind. In the landlady he 
 saw, indeed, very little to like, but a great deal in the 
 house : its neat window-curtains, pretty-patterned sola, 
 and unsoiled carpet, with a well-washed bed lately fitted 
 up, and a snug chamber that did not look towards the 
 sea, an element to which he had taken a most decided 
 aversion, possessed irresistible attraction. The intima- 
 tions he had previously received, his recent discovery, 
 and a confused suspicion, which, in spite of Mrs. Dixon's 
 equivocal answers, he could not help cherishing, that he 
 should learn from her something more as to the object 
 of his journey, than she at that juncture chose to impart, 
 made her house, of all in "Weymouth, appear most desir- 
 able as a residence ; and, not being among those easy or
 
 28 CANTEEBUBT TALES. 
 
 isolated mortals who find themselves most at home in an 
 inn, ho wi impatient as the tranquility of hi ure 
 
 allowed him to be, to quit that in which he was sta- 
 tioned. 
 
 The agreement was soon made. The tabby cat n 
 licensed to hold her place; hot rolls for breakfast, a o 
 fort able dinner, never later than three o'clock, and a dish 
 of tea when it suited him to take it, were the preliminary 
 articles : after which the two counterparts prepared thi 
 selves on both sides to dismiss from their recoiled 
 whatever had not ] I them on either, and to make 
 
 their little home, what home ought always to be, a scene 
 of tranquil enjoyment. 
 
 "You arc a great reader of the Bible, I see, 31 
 Dixon," said her guest, as he entered her parlor from 
 walk on the following evening, and found her still | 
 over a large book, on which he had left her engaged two 
 hours before. 
 
 "Heaven forbid that I should not be so, sir," said si 
 taking off her spectacles, and laying them on tin 
 "but this, to my shame be it spoken, is not the Bible. 
 You, perhaps, never saw so curious a book as this, sir; 
 for, thick as it seems, it is nothing all through but 
 writing: and, to be sure, the beautifulest hand cue -hall 
 see.-' Atkinson looked over her shoulder as she spoke, 
 and recognized it well. 
 
 "The hand-writing of your lodger," said he, dissem- 
 bling his surprise. 
 
 "My lodger as ; . .'* 
 
 "And where is he now P I may have particular reasons 
 asking." 
 
 '•And T might have particular reasons for not tellii 
 sir, even if I knew: but, wherever he IS, \iv is a BH 
 yo entleman." 
 
 "Is he so very young then P*
 
 C A H T EBBU B Y TALE S. 'J 9 
 
 "Why, not so very young neither: a matter of three 
 or four-and-twenty." 
 
 " Not so much as that," muttered Atkinson to himself. 
 " What person of a man ?" 
 
 " Very handsome, if he was not so pale." 
 
 "He was not pale when I knew him," again mur- 
 mured Atkinson, shaking his head : there are tones and 
 gestures liable to misinterpretation ; Mrs. Dixon, who 
 could only catch those, without being able to understand 
 the accompanying words, did certainly, on this occasion, 
 interpret very erroneously. 
 
 " That person must have a heart of iron," she contin- 
 ued, with no small indignation, "who could think of in- 
 juring such a charming gentleman." 
 
 " But if this gentleman, by some unfortunate prejudice, 
 injures himself, Mrs. Dixon." 
 
 " Why, then let him punish himself! you and I need 
 have nothing more to do with him." 
 
 " Yet you value his book ?" 
 
 " That I do, as I would my life! and read it too, whenever 
 I can steal the opportunity. 'T is the history of my house." 
 
 " That must be a curious history indeed," said Atkin- 
 son, relaxing his features to a smile. 
 
 " So I said, sir," returned Mrs. Dixon, smiling in her 
 turn. " The history of a lodging-house !" says I. — " Aye, 
 Mrs. Dixon," says he, " do you not believe that the his- 
 tory of a lodging-house would afford many an interesting 
 tale ? I could tell you one, perhaps" — and there he 
 stopped, sir. " Let me see," he added, after a pause ; 
 "you have four sets of apartments for instance: the kit- 
 chen, the parlor, the drawing-room, the attic : — I think 
 we may call it five, if we add the poetical floor : and that 
 is privileged time immemorial : any flight of imagination 
 will do for it." I could not guess what floor he meant, 
 sir, but it seems it was the garret. 
 
 2
 
 30 I a N X E B B I J: V T A L J. B, 
 
 "Well," continued lie, "for the attic I think I need 
 not go farther than myself Then for the drawing- 
 
 rooni " 
 
 "Which Mr. Seymour and his family have just quitfr 
 
 you know, sir." 
 
 " Mr. Seymour's family !" repeated he sighing : he n 
 a great sigher, sir; and then there was a long pause be- 
 tween us. " We may pass that floor securely, Mrs. 
 Dixon — I know too much of what relates to that; and a 
 little — a very little imagination will supply the rest. For 
 the parlors I must, of course, refer myself to you." 
 
 "Me, sir! Heaven help us! I have no story belong- 
 ing to me. Pray skip me over, I desire. I am, as it 
 were, a mere nobody — between the highest and the 
 lowest." 
 
 " Right ; the middle rank : too humble for the vices 
 of luxury, too well-taught for those of grossness. That is 
 indeed the rank of which there is little to say on earth, 
 though it has much to expect in Heaven. Now to des- 
 cend to an humbler scene — the kitchen." 
 
 " I think I may venture to defy you there," said T. 
 
 "To convict you of beino; in the wrong, I need only 
 repeat a story which you have yourself related to me, 
 though by snatches indeed, twenty times." 
 
 "Dear sir, all the stories I ever related in my whole 
 life would not make a book." 
 
 "Wrong again there to a certainty," said he, archly: 
 for when he was not so melancholy, sir, lie could be arch : 
 — and on those occasions he had such a taking smile! — 
 "What think you, for instance," continued he, "of the 
 history of your former servant ?" — 
 
 "Not old Mary, to be sure!" 
 
 "She was not always old!" 
 
 "No truly — nor always crazed — nay, lor the matter of 
 that, she is not so old now ! — but, poor thing, she has had
 
 CANTERBURY TALES. 31 
 
 enough to craze her !" — "As you 're alive, sir, while we 
 were speaking the words, who should put her head in at 
 the parlor window, but Mary herself. — You saw her the 
 other day, as you and I walked down street together." 
 Atkinson nodded assent. " A melancholy looking body !" 
 — Atkinson nodded again. "Well, as I was saying, in 
 she puts her head. I declare, she made me start down- 
 right." 
 
 " Good day, Mary," said I, trying to recover myself. 
 
 "They will sail to-morrow," returned she, in her hur- 
 rying way, and without noticing my salutation. 
 " "Who'willsail?" 
 
 "Why, the captain and the admiral. The king will 
 go on board his frigate, and Bob will be there. — The sun 
 will shine so brightly ! — and the princesses have promised 
 to lend me fine clothes, that I may see the sight." 
 
 " Alas, poor Mary !" said the sweet gentleman, as he 
 saw her go smiling away ; " if this is to be mad, why 
 should men like me wish to keep their senses !" — I was 
 quite down-cast to hear him make this sorrowful reflec- 
 tion. So I thought I 'd talk to him a bit about his book ; 
 for, between ourselves, sir, I rather believed he was in 
 earnest to write it. He had no other amusement, and so 
 he would write, write, write, all day. Mostly verses, in- 
 deed ; and I knew that he had touched up some pretty 
 melancholy love-songs, and sonneteerings. 
 
 " Well, sir," says I, " you have traveled on nearly to 
 the end of your journey." 
 
 " You think then that poor Mary will do,'' replied he, 
 half musing, half smiling. 
 
 " Bless me, no ! Who would dream of writing such an 
 old story as that ?" 
 
 " I will." 
 
 " Dear sir, there are a hundred such in the world. Take 
 my word for it, it will pass for a mere Canterbury Tale."
 
 32 C A N T K Ji B f II Y TALE S. 
 
 " With all my heart! I have not the least objection — 
 prosing old stories are j)roverbially called Canterbury 
 talcs, and therefore, mine claim that title. I shall not 
 attempt to decorate the one in question, Mrs. Dixon : it 
 shall remain your own story ; told, as nearly as I can recol- 
 lect, in your own words," — "and to be sure, so it is, nrl 
 and that, no doubt, makes me so fond of reading it. — 
 Only look at the line he has written at top." — Whether 
 Mr. Atkinson took the trouble to read all that followed 
 that line, for a part he certainly did, may be problemat- 
 ical : but he turned immediately to the first leaf of the 
 book, and saw written in large, but familiar characters, 
 
 THE LANDLADY'S TALE.
 
 THE LANDLADY'S TALE. 
 
 MARY LAWSON. 
 
 The Rich disdain her :— Nay the Poor disdain 
 
 Crabbe. 
 
 Mahy Lawsox, sir, however crazed and altered you 
 now see her, w T as, within my memory, one of the best- 
 looking girls in Weymouth. Not but there were differ- 
 ent opinions concerning her. Many of our lodgers used 
 to say, that she would be pretty enough if she would 
 open her eyes : but to my thinking there w T as something 
 soft and sorrowful in them when half closed, as they gen- 
 erally were, that was quite out of the common way. 
 Mary was born in a village upon the banks of the Dee, 
 not very far from the neighborhood of Wrexham. Her 
 father, though he held only a small farm, lived in a very 
 reputable way, and Mary's education was therefore not 
 neglected. She could read and write ; and to be sure it 
 is not saying any great things to add, that she had a bet- 
 ter head than mine ever was for accounts ; and as to her 
 needle, she was a perfect mistress of it. Many a beauti- 
 ful piece of patchwork have we contrived together ! but 
 all that will come in its place. 
 
 At fourteen Mary lost her mother ; nor was that the 
 greatest of her misfortunes : for her father soon married 
 again, and as his second wife was a careless idling sort of 
 body, the charge of a young family, which quickly came 
 on, was left almost entirely to his eldest daughter. " I
 
 34 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 did not at that time love children," said Mary afterwards 
 to me. " I thought them all noisy and troublesome alike ; 
 and often wondered at my mother-in-law, who, although 
 she did no one useful thing for them, cried them up as 
 patterns of perfection. Oh Mrs. Dixon, who could have 
 persuaded me, young and giddy as I then was, that to sit 
 by the cradle of a sick baby, to listen to its little moans, 
 and to give it the bread that I wanted myself, would be 
 a more precious employment to me than all the pleasures 
 of the whole world besides ! But I then thought there 
 were a great many people and things to love in the 
 world ; and perhaps to fine folks there may be : my lot 
 was different ; but my sins began with children, and so 
 did my punishment." 
 
 This was only the poor girl's talk, sir, for I could never 
 gather that she did any harm at that time, only, I sup- 
 pose, was a little heedless, like those of her age. How- 
 ever, her mother-in-law and she did not agree ; and it 
 would have been wonderful if they had, considering the 
 way that things were managed. So the father bethought 
 himself of an expedient that pleased both parties, though 
 Mary acknowledged to me that she was best pleased of 
 the two. An aunt of hers was settled at Bristol in the 
 haberdashery line. Her shop drove no mighty trade ; 
 but she was an infirm single woman, and therefore not 
 unwilling to take her niece in, as an assistant. Mary was 
 accordingly fitted out with two new gowns, great doings, 
 as she said, for those days, and I know not how many 
 different ribbons ; which to be sure was a very idle ex- 
 pense, considering where she was going. However, they 
 were mostly tokens of good-will, presented by the neigh- 
 bors, and she kept them as such till a long, long time 
 after; for she had a tender heart, as was proved to her 
 sorrow. 
 
 Well, sir, those who live in large towns, such as Wry-
 
 THE LANDLADY'S TALL. 35 
 
 mouth, and see a great deal of the world, as you and I 
 have done, can have no guess at Mary's surprise when 
 she arrived at Bristol. For a short time she thought it 
 the finest and happiest place in the whole globe. Her 
 aunt was not unkind to her ; she herself was naturally of 
 a gay and cheerful character, and all the new scenes a- 
 round made her gayer still. But by and by this novelty 
 began to fade a little ; and after being familiar with busy 
 streets, and close-packed houses, she could not help call- 
 ing to mind the green lanes and clear river of her native 
 place. Her greatest delight was to walk on a fine Sunday 
 to a village not far distant called Clifton, and to sit on the 
 brow of the rocks. A large river runs there, sir, I un- 
 derstand; but whether it be the Thames or not, is more 
 than I can tell you. 
 
 These walks, however, proved very unlucky for Mary. 
 A regiment of dragoons was at that time quartered at 
 Bristol, and some of the officers, (which to be sure proves 
 their want of taste,) were fonder of being at Clifton than 
 in that great city. One of these took particular notice 
 of Mary : there are strawberry gardens, it seems, in that 
 neighborhood, sir, where common folks, and sometimes 
 gentry, go to eat fruit. It was at one of these that Cap- 
 tain Mandeville contrived to make a sort of acquaintance 
 with the poor girl. He was at that time about eight-and- 
 twenty ; a very fine-looking man, as I understand, (for 
 heaven knows he was strangely altered when I saw him,) 
 and had all the dashing air that gentlemen of the army 
 aifect. Mary's eyes were treacherous ones, for they 
 played her heart false, and showed her this gay young 
 officer in his best colors. He was not wanting to him- 
 self: it was very easy to find out where she resided, and 
 Captain Mandeville soon became a great customer for 
 ribbons and feathers, which he pretended were bestowed 
 upon his recruits. Never did man enlist so many in so
 
 36 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 short a time ; for by and by there was hardly a yard of 
 riboon left in the shop. In the mean while, vows, pro- 
 mises, letters, and presents, were lavished upon Mary, 
 though in an underhand way you may be sure. Thep 
 girl loved him, and he had discernment enough to per- 
 ceive it ; nevertheless she was innocent and well dispofi 
 — I do not want to excuse her fault, sir, — it was a great 
 one : — the greater, as she herself in bitterness of heart 
 acknowledged, because she had not been brought up in 
 ignorance of her duty. But what is to be said to this 
 man, sir, who saw she was no bold, nor forward creature, 
 ready to throw herself in his way : for she lias affirmed 
 to me, and I will pledge my life she spoke truly, that 
 has many times shut herself up in the back shop, and 
 avoided her accustomed walks, in order to struggle with 
 her own weak heart, and endeavor to forget him. What 
 is to be said to him, I ask? Only what he has b 
 obliged since to say to himself: you will hear it, sir. — All 
 Mary's efforts, however, would not do. The captain had an 
 emissary, his sergeant, I believe it was, no less active than 
 his employer in watching and persecuting her. To be 
 short, sir, it was his day of triumph, .and the poor girl 
 became his victim. 
 
 Melancholy was the change that succeeded. Captain 
 Mandeville must have been a hard man, though Mary's 
 partiality made her think otherwise. His heart, his plea- 
 sures, his fortune, except when he had some great object 
 in view, were all for himself. He had no care for oth< 
 nor, for aught I could learn, had he really any for her, 
 when his first passion had subsided. lie was one of tl 
 rattling sparks, sir, who dash on in life without looking 
 to the right or the left, through a long lane of the maimed 
 and the blind, whom they have made bo ; till, b< ing come 
 to their journey's end, they are obliged to cast their eyes 
 back, and see the sad spectacle of human misery. But
 
 THE LANDLADY'S TALE. 37 
 
 Captain Mandeville was then a young man, full of health 
 and spirits : things have changed with him since that 
 time. 
 
 jAll seemed now at the worst with Mary. She was 
 ruined, neglected, and had reason to suppose herself in a 
 situation that would soon render her disgrace apparent. ; 
 Sometimes, as she told me, she thought with horror of 
 being a mother. At others, the recollection of the in- 
 fantine caresses of her little brothers and sisters, and of the 
 pleasures their parents used to take in them came to her 
 heart ; till, between that, and conscience, which began 
 every way to afflict her, it nearly burst. To expiate the 
 sin of having wished to leave her family, and to be sure 
 that was but a fancied sin, she had almost resolved to 
 make a voluntary sacrifice of herself, and carry back her 
 shame and her penitence to her father's house, quitting 
 for ever all sight of the man who had wronged her ; when 
 another idea more flattering to her passion suddenly came 
 across her mind : for poor Mary's remorse was, I fear, as 
 you will see, sir, only love in disguise. 
 
 Captain Mandeville had a very fine estate and house 
 in Northumberland. It was a family mansion, and his 
 mother, as the sergeant, from whom alone Mary got any 
 information concerning him, had told her, resided in it. 
 The wild project of fixing herself somewhere in the 
 neighborhood of Mandeville Park, occurred to the poor 
 girl. If she lived, she doubted not to get an honest 
 maintenance by labor and ingenuity : but, like most 
 young women in her situation, she was persuaded that 
 she should die ; and it was her determination, in that case, 
 to leave such information, together with her child, for 
 the old lady, as would, she thought, secure its being 
 brought up in a creditable way, if only for the sake of its 
 father. Ah, sir, what sort of a father must that have 
 been whom Mary dared not, oven under such circum- 
 
 2*
 
 3 8 CAKTE B BUB Y T A L 1 B. 
 
 stances, trust with his own! It was at this period of fear 
 and irresolution that the old aunt died. She had long 
 been infirm; yet her death was somewhat Budden. II- r 
 stock in trade was sold according to her own desire, and 
 the little produce fell to the share of her niece. Rich 
 Mary! — Poor Mary! for six: was comparatively both. 
 Never had it been her lot hitherto to possess so many of 
 the goods of this world, never did they appeal- so worth- 
 less in her eyes, nor she in her own. Providence, how- 
 ever, seemed to have furthered the scheme which was 
 agitating her mind, by thus unexpectedly supplying her 
 with means to accomplish it. Yet the great effort still 
 remained to be made : which was to resolve on separating 
 herself for ever from the only man on earth whom she 
 loved ; and to convince him, by so doing, that though 
 she had been frail, she was not vicious, nor would consent 
 to continue the disgraceful correspondence, which, more 
 from habitual libertinism than any particular fondness, he 
 still would have preserved. 
 
 During the hours of grief and apprehension, which 
 Mary had occasionally passed with Mr. Mandeville, she 
 had more than once talked of returning to her father's 
 house : and as I suppose there were times when the 
 Captain was sufficiently inclined to get rid of her, he had 
 suggested an expedient to conceal the disgrace of her 
 situation, by offering her a paper, signifying that she was 
 the widow of a soldier who had served in his regiment. 
 "With this deceitful paper, easily obtained from a careless, 
 licentious young man, who thought nothing of its con- 
 sequences either to himself or others, a breaking heart — 
 a blasted character — and the little portion of money that 
 her aunt had left her — for she scorned to take any thing 
 from her seducer, Mary one night secretly departed from 
 her usual residence, and turning her back for ever upon 
 Bristol, took the road towards Northumberland,
 
 THE LANDLADY'S TALE. 39 
 
 It was a long journey to Newcastle, in the neighbor- 
 hood of which lay Mandeville-Park. When the poor 
 unhappy girl first saw its outward paling, her heart, she 
 often declared to me, died within her, as though she had 
 at the same moment foreseen all the guilt and the sorrow 
 that was to arise from thence. 
 
 At last she came within view of the house : and, " Oh," 
 said she, " how great did he seem, and how little did I !" 
 
 "What, Mary," said I, "were you not yet cured then 
 of judging by appearances ? — Was it because he was gay 
 and handsome, and had magnificent houses, and large 
 parks, that he was in reality better than you ? or how 
 were you sure that in the end he would be happier ?" 
 
 " Most true," she replied ; " but I had sinned against 
 my conscience, and every living being seemed greater 
 and happier than I was at that time." Iso wonder Mary 
 was dazzled, however, sir, for I have been told since that 
 it is a very fine house. The hall had grand marble statues 
 in it : there was a shrubbery of I can't tell you how many 
 acres extent, and grounds without end. A stately lawn 
 was in front, and vast quantities of deer feeding under 
 the trees. Then there was a library, worth I know not 
 how much money, with painted glass windows, and cu- 
 rious busts. What a pity, sir, that these rich gentlemen 
 who set up the heads of so many good and wise folks, 
 can't get a little of their hearts ! For my share I never 
 saw the captain, and heard talk of his fine seats, without 
 calling to mind the parable of Nathan and the lamb. 
 How can it be that those who are able to command so 
 many pleasures, can, for a temporary gratification, deprive 
 another of their onlv comfort ! 
 
 Under pretense of indisposition, though indeed it 
 could hardly be called a pretense, Mary was set down at 
 a decent public house, in the neighborhood of the great 
 estate. And here, what with agitation of mind and
 
 10 CANTERBURY TALKS. 
 
 fatigue of body, she found herself really so ill as to be 
 obliged to go to Led. Sleep, however, she could not. 
 after a restless night, full of melancholy reflection 
 was up with the lark, and once more on foot. I need 
 not tell you, sir, which way she turned her steps. It was 
 a clear, fresh morning. The dew lay on the grass: birds 
 were singing in every tree, and at a little distance was a 
 fine piece of water, with a hanging wood on one side of 
 it, that dipped its branches in the stream. The village 
 where she was born, and all her girlish days came at once 
 to the recollection of poor Mary; so leaning her head on 
 one of the outer green gates, she relieved her over- 
 charged heart with a flood of tears. In this situation she 
 was seen by a young woman, who observing her, I sup- 
 pose, to make a respectable appearance, for she was in 
 mourning for her aunt, and interested, perhaps, by her 
 condition, very good-naturedly invited her to rest herself 
 in a house hard by. This woman was the Park-keeper's 
 wife, and the house to which she invited her was that in 
 which they lived. A pretty place, with a fine honeysuckle 
 curling all over the windows on one side, and clusters of 
 grap?s ripening on the other : but no comfort did the 
 sight of it give to Mary, though it was as neat as a pal- 
 ace. There was a baby in a cradle, and a breakfast set 
 for the husband, who was just returning home : they were 
 young people, sir, and had not been married above a 
 twelvemonth, which no doubt made them so fond of each 
 other : and to be sure the lather did so caress and dandle 
 the child ! Mary's heart was ready to burst. Every 
 thing she saw put her in mind of some happiness that 
 was past, or which she could never hope to enjoy; and 
 she began to cry more bitterly than before. 
 
 Well! with much ado she made out, between whiles, 
 the story of her soldier husband, and supposed widow- 
 hood; blushing and trembling all the time with the con-
 
 THE LANDLADY'S TALE. 41 
 
 seriousness of deceit. But the good folks took it ail for 
 gosj)el. So they comforted her in their way, and pressed 
 her to swallow something that she might keep up her 
 strength and spirits : when lo, just as they were them- 
 selves sitting down to breakfast, a little boy that worked 
 hard by, pops in his head, calling out that Mrs. Mande- 
 ville was coming; and, sure enough, the words were 
 scarcely out of his mouth before an elderly lady came to 
 the door. She had a sharp, shrewish-looking face, though 
 she was not a small woman, and was followed by a young 
 lady, who appeared to be her daughter. The latter had 
 a consumptive air, and was bundled up, as I may say, in 
 a large muslin wrapper. They both walked in, without 
 any ceremony. The young one sat down, like a person 
 who was tired ; but the other kept standing, and asking 
 abundance of questions. To be sure all those present 
 stood too, out of respect ; and Mary among the rest ; 
 though, her legs trembled so it was as much as she could 
 do to make them support her : the old lady glanced at 
 her from time to time, but deuce a bit did she desire her 
 to sit down, ill as she could not but see she was. The 
 young one hardly looked at her at all ; but amused her- 
 self with some very choice flowers which she held in her 
 hand ; only once she said to her little dog, who had been 
 all the time snarling and barking at Mary, " Flo, let the 
 voung woman alone." This drew the attention of the 
 other lady. 
 
 " You have a stranger here, Mrs. Such-a-one," said she, 
 calling the Park-keeper's wife by her name, which what 
 it was I have forgotten. 
 
 "A poor body, madam, that is in great affliction," re- 
 plied the woman, in a kinder and softer tone than that of 
 the person who questioned her. " She has lost her hus- 
 band but lately : he was a soldier in his Honor's regi- 
 ment." — Oh, sir, would you believe it ? one kind, pitiful
 
 42 CANTE B B U B Y TALI . 
 
 look from either the old or the young lady, Mary declared 
 would have made her fall at their feet, and tell them the 
 whole truth at that very moment. She felt so ashamed 
 of lying, so afraid of being discovered, and ><> conscience- 
 struck altogether, that a little, the very least indulgence 
 or sympathy in the looks of those great ladies, would 
 have reclaimed her from all her deceits : and what a 
 world of grief would then have been spared! but they 
 only stared at her, although she was ready to sink into 
 the earth. Yet it was not as if they suspected any thing 
 wrong ; but with a sort of careless, inquisitive air, such 
 as rich people, who have no thought lor the feelings of 
 others, often show to their inferiors. 
 
 "Have you a certificate, young woman?*' said the 
 elderly lady at last, in a drawling tone. Mary took the 
 paper from her bosom, but not a syllable could she say. 
 
 " It is Mr. Mandeville's own hand, I see," said the old 
 lady, giving it to her daughter, after she had read it. 
 The latter only cast her eyes over the writing, and re- 
 turned it without any remark. 
 
 This was all the notice they took at that time. How- 
 ever, when they were going away, which was not till they 
 had tired themselves, and spoiled the good people's break- 
 fast, the elder lady turned to Mary, and said, 
 
 "If you stay any time in this country, young woman, 
 Kuch-a-one," naming the Park-keeper's wife, " will be 
 willing, I dare say, to do you any kind office in her 
 power." 
 
 And here, sir, was an end at once to all the hopes that 
 Mary had entertained from the fortune — the fine educa- 
 tion, and the tender heart of a great lady! "I did flatter 
 myself," said she, "that seeing me look sorrowful and 
 sick, and having nothing to do but to comfort the sick 
 and the sorrowful, she would have taken some little com- 
 passion upon me. I was a young creature then: Bhc had
 
 TH E LANDLADY'S tale. 43 
 
 no reason to tliink that I was a wicked one, and I was in 
 circumstances when a woman ought to feel for a woman : 
 yet, like the Priest and the Levite, she passed over to the 
 other side, and left me to the poor Samaritan : and this 
 was done both by the elder and the younger lady : yet 
 they gave a great deal of money, I am told, to different 
 charities at Newcastle : but they would neither tax their 
 time nor their feelings." 
 
 "To my thinking Mrs. Mandeville looks very sick," 
 said the woman to her husband, when they were gone. 
 
 " Much as usual," replied he ; " she was always so pale 
 since my knowledge." 
 
 " She has Madam Selborne's own complexion," re- 
 turned the other. 
 
 " And who is Madam Selborne ?" said Mary, who had 
 concluded the stranger to be Mr. Mandeville's sister. 
 
 " Why, my lady's own mother — bless you, you did not 
 take the old gentlewoman for his honor's wife, to be 
 sure ; — the young one is Mrs. Mandeville." 
 
 The good folks were sitting at their breakfast, and did 
 not look at Mary as they spoke, for she was standing be- 
 hind them, near the cradle. Lucky it was that things 
 were so disposed ; for she had time to lean her head 
 down, and recover herself from this last stroke ; which, 
 although her presumptuous heart had never whispered to 
 her would be any new affliction, yet seemed to double all 
 that she had before felt. She now perceived the extent 
 of Captain Mandeville's art, and that of his emissary ; 
 both of whom had carefully kept from her the knowledge 
 of his being a married man : a knowledge which they 
 rightly conjectured would have been an additional motive 
 with her to guard her affections against him. For it was 
 plain to be seen, that Mary might be sooner persuaded to 
 wrong herself than any one else. Who can tell, sir, be- 
 sides, what vain thoughts enter into the heart and head
 
 44 < ' A N T E II D U BY T A L B S. 
 
 of a yong woman in love ; or how fur they might, on h< r 
 first acquaintance with the Captain, have assisted to had 
 
 her astray? Many a man knows how to raise hop 
 where he is too artful to give promises ; and belies his 
 own conscience, when he disclaims having done so. The 
 self-command which Mary assumed on hearing this news 
 was for a time of service to her, as far as in conceal- 
 ing the interest she took in it. Her spirits, however, 
 could not hold out long, and she fell into convulsion-fit-, 
 which, though they did not directly destroy the poor 
 baby, as surely caused its death as if it had been killed 
 that moment. 
 
 And now, sir, she was to choose where she would go, 
 to provide for her sad hour. Home she could not : her 
 story and certificate would never have passed current 
 with her father : much less with her mother-in-law : there 
 was not a person nor a place in the whole world that was 
 dear to her ; and so she lingered in the neighborhood of 
 Mandeville Park, uncertain what was to be her future 
 destination, or that of her baby ; and only hoping and be- 
 lieving that the same moment would end both. 
 
 Mrs. Selborne and Mrs. Mandeville were not much be- 
 loved in the country: the old lady was one of those fret- 
 ful, droning, discontented people, that are always busying 
 themselves about little things; and talk a great deal, 
 without saying any thing to the purpose. Not a pale fell 
 by any accident in the park, nor a plant withered in the 
 green-house, but she was sure it was owing to the neglect 
 of some of the servants; and it furnished her with sub- 
 ject of conversation — that is, of complaint — for two or 
 three days; till a new disaster of no greater consequence 
 fell out; and so, without looking about upon all the beau- 
 lies <>f nature, or art, with which she was surrounded, 
 these little cross incidents did so ruffle her temper that 
 nothing was to be heard but reproaches and grievances.
 
 THE LANDLADY'S TALE. 45 
 
 Her daughter was somewhat of the same character with 
 herself; or rather, of no character at all : for as the only 
 subjects she ever thought about were of the like trifling 
 hind, her mother left her nothing to say upon them ; so 
 she passed her life in a sort of dawdling, negligent way, 
 without seeming to care much for any thing ; neither re- 
 ceiving, nor communicating, the least spirit of enjoyment. 
 She had had a great fortune, and a fine education how- 
 ever; but her piano-forte was always out of tune: and as 
 to drawing and reading she had no taste for either. Her 
 learning, in short, had been so much time and money 
 thrown away. All rich people are not I know of thi3 
 description : but I have seen a great many who are : 
 and it is a consideration that may reconcile common 
 folks to their lot. "The world is divided into classes, 
 Mrs. Dixon," said a gentleman to me one day, when we 
 were talking together about poverty and wealth. " There 
 are those in it who have an appetite, and no dinner, and 
 those who have a dinner, and no appetite : your rich folks 
 are in the second class ; and I doubt whether they are 
 better off than the other." I could not quite agree with 
 him as to that point, sir ; nevertheless, it is certainly a 
 great drawback, to sit down, like Mrs. Seaborne and her 
 daughter, to the banquet of ISTature, without having the 
 smallest relish for the feast. 
 
 Mrs. Mandeville was with child, and near her time. On 
 the first occasion she had gone up to London ; but not 
 having done well there, and losing the child, she was per- 
 suaded that the journey did not agree with her. She 
 therefore resolved to go through her second confinement 
 at Mandeville Park : it was for this reason her mother 
 stayed with her. As to the captain, either his business, 
 or his pleasure, detained him elsewhere. 
 
 Xear the limits of this park, poor Mary still loitered'. 
 The very little which Mrs. Selborne had said in her favor,
 
 4G CANTEKKURY TALES. 
 
 was yet something with all the tenants: especially as it 
 had been reported by her first acquaintance, the park- 
 keeper's wife, in the most advantageous manner. She 
 therefore hired two small rooms, in a cottage which was 
 
 inhabited by a good motherly kind of woman ; and, as 
 a little money went a great way in that part of the coun- 
 try, she saw that she had means to make herself welcome 
 
 Rowing upon the water was among the faw amuse- 
 ments which Mrs. Mandeville had a taste for. She used 
 to go out almost every sun-set in a small pleasure-boat, 
 built on purpose for her; and Mary, who during these 
 excursions was sure of not meeting her, a circumstance 
 she always dreaded, lest it should involve her in new and 
 more deliberate falsehoods, used to take the opportunity 
 of walking about the grounds. She was on the brow of 
 the little w T ood one evening, from whence she discerned 
 the boat, with its gay flag and decorations, moving back- 
 wards and forwards on the water : -Mrs. Mandeville and 
 Mrs. Selborne both were in it; and the latter seemed, ] 
 the motion of her hand, to direct the men to approach a 
 small woody ait, where swans were kept. They accord- 
 ingly did so : but the water was very low, from the dry- 
 ness of the season, and the bottom reedy. It was plain 
 that they w r ere soon aground, and were making efforts to 
 free themselves. There was, however, no probability of 
 danger, till one of the men, in pushing off from the shore, 
 suffered himself to incline too much, and in consequent 
 fell overboard. Both ladies started up at once ; and by 
 running hastily to the edge of the boat, overset it. Mary 
 waited not to see the event, but, shrieking with apprehen- 
 sion, ran to the house for assistance. All was soon well 
 with Mrs. Mandeville and her mother: for the water v - 
 so shallow thai the boatmen rescued them almost before 
 thev were thoroughly wet : but the fright and exertion 
 were too much for her who had witnessed the scene; and
 
 THE LANDLADY'S TALE. 47 
 
 while the servants were carefully conveying the two 
 ladies into the house, Mary, whom no one noticed, found 
 herself so ill, that it was with great difficulty she reached 
 her own humble home. 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Dixon," said she to me, " imagine what my 
 sufferings were, when, after a long and painful trial, the 
 first thing I distinctly saw was my own dear baby dead : 
 the first feelings that entered my heart were those of a 
 mother, and of a mother without a child ! to have been 
 lodged in the cold grave, where I imagined Mrs. Mande- 
 ville, would have been happiness to what I endured." T 
 am afraid poor Mary never knew what she did endure. 
 Her child did not come dead into the world, however ; 
 but it went off, almost immediately, in convulsions. She 
 had nevertheless an excellent constitution : and God, sir, 
 could never intend that women should die, just when it is 
 most necessary that they should live. Xot but poor 
 Mary might have been released ; for, alas, she had no in- 
 fant to take care of! however, it pleased Providence to 
 save her ; and, contrary to all probability, she began to 
 recover her strength." She was sitting up one morning, 
 disconsolate and alone, when the woman of the house 
 came in ; a good creature, but a very ignorant one, as you 
 will see, sir. 
 
 "Well," said she, on entering, "God Almighty don't 
 send burdens to common folk alone ! there's the young 
 squire, as the sarvants says, won't live neither. His moth- 
 er won't suckle him ; and the dry-nurse, as come from 
 Durham, can't manage to make him keep life and soul 
 together, with all her fine silver boats and new-fashioned 
 ways. Old Madam Selborne says, that for self-willedness 
 he is his father's own son, for nothing will he swallow . 
 so you may comfort yourself that you are not the only 
 poor soul as loses a child." 
 
 " Oh, that I could save one !" said Mary ; and a thought
 
 48 c ANTE i: B B Y tales. 
 
 glanced across her mind. " Will he live if h< ickled, 
 
 do you say?" added she, impatiently. "Is it Captain 
 Mandeville's child of which yon speak? Lb /<• bom?" — 
 
 and then the recollection of her own words, Lb it Captain 
 Mandi viUe'e child, as though no other than the heir could 
 be his, put her into a second agony of tears. The child 
 had, indeed, been born several days before, but it WBfl in 
 no way to live. It was a sickly little thing. The mother 
 never intended to nurse it herself: and if she had had the 
 will, the doctors said she would not have the power, so 
 the poor babe, as they could not rear him with dry-nursing, 
 which they had all along intended to do, was like not to 
 be reared at all. 
 
 Well, sir, it does not signify going round about the 
 bush : by the recommendation of the park-keeper's v 
 the babe was put to Mary's bosom. With many a bitter 
 heart-ache, and many a tear, did she receive it. The poor 
 little thing began from that day to get strength, and its 
 first smiles, its first looks, were Mary's. His mother saw 
 him not, or very rarely. She and Madame Sclbornc were 
 shut up together, grumbling and scolding at every thing, 
 and every body. The old lady insisted upon it that her 
 daughter could nurse the child; that it was the custom of 
 her day, and that the new-fangled notions were all mere 
 nonsense. The daughter, on the contrary, would neither 
 spoil her shape, nor endanger her health, by any attempt 
 of the kind. " She saw no benefit arise,' 1 she said, " from 
 having been suckled by her mother herself; and that old 
 customs were good for nothing but to contract people's 
 ideas, and make their lives uncomfortable." Whether 
 comfortable or others ise, it was soon seen, when Mr-. Man- 
 dcvilio came abroad, that she was not long for this World. 
 Not but she had had a good time enough: but all her 
 family had been consumptive, except her mother: she her- 
 self had shown symptoms of being bo b ifor i she was con-
 
 THE LANDLADY'S TALE. 4U 
 
 fined, and she brought out of her chamber all the appear- 
 ance of a rapid decline. This she imputed, however, only 
 to delicacy of constitution ; for she was very fond of being- 
 thought delicate : so nobody ventured to tell her the 
 truth. It told itself at last : but too late to be remedied. 
 Captain Mandeville was therefore sent for m all haste : 
 however he made none in coming : and before he arrived, 
 another express was dispatched to inform him that his 
 wife was dead. He stopped short at York, and wrote 
 from thence to Mrs. Selborne, requesting that she would 
 undertake to order every thing that was suitable on the 
 occasion, and informing her that he would be at Mande- 
 ville Park within a certain time. 
 
 This was a dreadful interval for Mary. She could not 
 resolve to stay ; much less could she resolve to depart. 
 The baby's very life seemed to depend upon her care : 
 neither night nor day had she ceased to watch it ; and if 
 there was a moment when she remembered w r ith sorrow 
 that it was not her own, she at the same time called to 
 mind that it was Captain Mandeville's. None but a 
 woman, sir, can tell how closely the infant creeps into 
 your heart that lies at your bosom ; and, if in common 
 cases this is daily proved, what wonder that Mary's fond- 
 ness exceeded all common measure ! It had even no 
 longer a mother to excite her jealousy, or share her at- 
 tentions : and the early loss which it had sustained, 
 seemed to point out a particular providence in the man- 
 ner by which that loss was supplied. In short, sir, love, 
 maternal love, I think we may call it, conquered fear, 
 shame, and every other feeling. Mary therefore at length 
 resolved to stay, and encounter the man, whom, in any 
 other circumstances, she had determined to fly to the 
 world's end to avoid. 
 
 Captain Mandeville arrived within the time appointed, 
 just after evening had closed. Mary heard the clattering
 
 50 ' Y NT K KB IKY TALES. 
 
 of his horse's feet, and soon after his well-known voice 
 mid step. The many — many occasions when she had lis- 
 tened to them with a beating heart, interesting as they 
 
 had been, were all, she thought, nothing to this. He 
 staid some little time below with Mrs. Selborne, and then 
 the feet of both were to be heard on the st:iir-<-ase. 
 
 "Now," exclaimed Mary, with a palpitating heart, 
 "now comes the trial!" — and she turned to the infant 
 that was sleeping sweetly in its cradle — " Oh, if it were 
 my child that he was coming to look at," she softly whis- 
 pered — " but mine sleeps sounder still !" — 
 
 Mr. Mandeville came in : he neither cast his eyes to 
 the right nor the left ; but, with a candle in his hand, 
 walked straight to the cradle, and stooping down to 
 the baby, kissed its little hand. 
 
 "Will he wake, do you think?" said lie to Mrs. Sel- 
 borne, motioning to kiss its cheek. 
 
 "Oh no, no, no," murmured Mary, pursuing in the an- 
 guish of her heart, nothing but her own recollections, k *it 
 will never wake again." Mr. Mandeville started at the 
 voice, indistinctly as it reached him, and turned towards 
 the speaker ; but she was at a remote end of the room, 
 and the single candle which he held did not enable him 
 to discern her features. 
 
 "Who is that person," exclaimed he hastily, to Mrs. 
 Selborne, "and what is she saying?" 
 
 " She says that you will not disturb it : it never wakes, 
 I believe, at this hour." They then talked together in a 
 low voice, of its health, its age, and its mother. 
 
 "You will probably recollect the young woman who 
 nurses him," concluded Mrs. Selborne, after saying some- 
 thing which Mary did not distinctly hear. l * She is the 
 widow of a private who served under you; she owes the 
 place to your recommendation." The abashed and un- 
 fortunate girl leaned against the chimney ; her eyes,
 
 THE LANDLADY'S TALE. 51 
 
 which she raised only for a single moment, swimming in 
 tears. How Mr. Mandeville looked she had no oppor- 
 tunity to observe, but not a word had he presence of 
 mind enough to utter. Mrs. Selborne, meantime, was 
 settling the cradle-clothes, and thought of nothing less 
 than of watching either of them. She at length broke 
 the silence by finding a hundred faults ; after which, with- 
 out waiting to see one remedied, she took the candle, 
 and, followed by Mr. Mandeville, walked down stairs. 
 And thus, without the interchange of a single syllable — 
 nay, even of a look, parted Mary and the man who had 
 so often sworn that he lived only in her eyes. 
 
 Mr. Mandeville stayed but two days longer at the 
 Park, during which time Mary, by substituting in her 
 own place, at certain hours, a girl who was sometimes 
 employed as under nursery-maid, contrived that they 
 should meet no more. She learnt, however, that by 
 means of this girl, Mr. Mandeville had satisfied himself 
 her child was dead : and she had reason to hope that ho 
 had gathered enough information as to what related to 
 her, to be assured that she must on this occasion have 
 purposely shunned him. 
 
 And now, after Mary had been so heavily beaten by 
 the storm, an interval of tranquility seemed to succeed 
 in her life. As Mrs. Selborne's house at Durham was re- 
 pairing and painting, it was settled that she should con- 
 tinue to reside at Mandeville Park till the autumn : after 
 that time, the child, the maid, and all that belonged to 
 the nursery, were to remove with her, and to remain un- 
 der her charge, till the boy was of an age to be put into 
 that of his father. The old lady took care to secure her- 
 self a handsome allowance for all this trouble : though 
 even when that was done, she did nothing but lament 
 and complain that she should be so unfortunate as to 
 have such a tax laid upon her at her time of life ! Her
 
 52 CANTEBBV8T TALES. 
 
 poor dear daughter, with whom she never could agree 
 when alive, was now talked of as a miracle of perfection. 
 The finest boy in the kingdom, she declared, would have 
 been too dearly purchased by her loss: "and U>r that 
 poor little puny thing, I am afraid," she used to add, 
 "that, with all our trouble, he will never live to he a 
 man : which would be a great pity, considering what a 
 fine estate he is heir to." I 
 
 Mary hoped better things. The infant was not robust, 
 but it daily grew stronger, and to her daily more pre- 
 cious. It was her care, her pleasure, her employment : it 
 engrossed her whole soul, and by degrees filled up all 
 those fond affections of her heart, which had no other 
 object they could venture to dwell upon. The very cir- 
 cumstance of its not being a strong child, made it only 
 the dearer; by furnishing a perpetual succession of hopes 
 and fears : both were already in some sort rewarded. It 
 began to distinguish her : would crow when she appeared ; 
 "and stretch its little arms as it would fly," when hers 
 opened to receive it. The range of Mandeville house, 
 with the beautiful grounds, pleasure-garden, and country 
 adjoining, were in themselves sources both of health and 
 delight. She. enjoyed almost undisturbed p< ion of 
 
 the whole. " What more could I gain, had I been bom 
 in a rank to have become its mistress," would she some- 
 times say to herself, " except an ungrateful man !" Tears 
 then would fill her eyes : " but this baby would indeed 
 have been mine. — Well — and could I have loved him 
 better?" The recollection that had she been his mother 
 she need never have feared parting with him, would again 
 agitate her heart, and unsettle her spirits. " But I will 
 never part with him," thought she, " even BS it is, till he 
 be a man grown — and then his very mother must have 
 done so had she lived. Mrs. Selborne, when I am no 
 longer wanted in one capacity, Mill be sure to lot me stay
 
 THE LANDLADY'S TALE. 53 
 
 with her in another ! — I will make myself so useful ! — No- 
 body will hear her humors so well, for nobody will have 
 so strong a temptation to do it. So that it will he a 
 great many years before I lose sight of my little boy, and 
 I warrant I will teach him to love me before that time !" 
 She did teach him to love her, sir : he must have been an 
 unapt scholar, indeed, that had not learned. 
 
 I would not have you believe however that these quiet 
 days were without their alloy. Mrs. Selborne was not a 
 woman to let any body in her circle enjoy themselves too 
 much. Every now and then she was seized with a fidget- 
 ing humor that was the torment of all around, and of 
 Mary in particular. Nothing then went right : nothing 
 pleased her. This fit held just long enough to make her 
 find fault with every thing, but never induced her to take 
 the trouble of setting it to rights ; so that she constantly 
 left off where she began : only with an idle waste of time 
 and spirits to all the parties concerned. This was far 
 from being her only employment, however : she was a 
 very stately dame, and fond of visiting : so that every 
 other day her old-fashioned face was to be dressed, and 
 the chariot and best liveries to be brought out, that she 
 might dine or drink tea with Sir Thomas's family, or 
 Lady Dowager Such-a-one ; for she did not condescend 
 any lower : and it was not seldom that she gave fine din- 
 ners at the Park : the servants said, because it was not at 
 her own expense. Then young Master Mandeville was 
 brought in, to be shown, during the dessert ; and her 
 cares — her anxiety — her fondness, as pompously detailed, 
 as though she had spent her whole time in watching him. 
 But these and other things of the like nature were 
 nothing in Mary's calculation : all went as well with her 
 as after her sorrowful outset could be expected. So well, 
 that she ventured to write home, in order to inquire after 
 her father and friends ; though she did not tell them any 
 
 3
 
 54 BBBUBY IALE& 
 
 thing that related to herself, except tliat she was in the 
 service of a very great family. 
 
 Just in the beginning of autumn, when every thing 
 looked fill] of happiness and beauty, and Mary's h< 
 was daily more light on seing her nursling prosper in the 
 way he did, — dear sir, would you believe it? — One night 
 Mr. Mandeville alighted at his own door! his coming was 
 quite unexpected on all hands. The old lady was at cards 
 with some of her grand neighbors, and not much Letter 
 pleased at the surprise than Mary was ; hut she was not 
 afflicted. It seems that there were some races in the 
 neighborhood which he purposed to visit : so not thinking 
 it necessary to give notice of his intention, while his 
 household was kept up, he came thus, all at once, upon 
 them. lie only showed himself, as I may say, in the 
 drawing room ; and then, observing that his boots made 
 him not fit company for ladies, I suppose those present 
 were none of the youngest, he walked at once to the 
 nursery. Mary had summoned all her courage to meet 
 him ; but as she trembled so that it was difficult for her 
 to hold the child, she called up the young woman I men- 
 tioned before, to her assistance. When he came in, there 
 were two of them, which he did not seem to expect. 
 However he took no particular notice, but kissed and 
 tossed the child about, bidding Mary catch it: and all 
 this with an easy, familiar, careless air, which, together 
 with his rough play to the infant, so overpowered her 
 that she was near fainting. I suppose he drew his own 
 conclusions from her agitation, but he said nothing at the 
 time : only, on going down stairs, he took out live guineas, 
 and gave them to her, as he said, for her care of the 
 child : offering something at the same time to the other 
 girl, who mosl thankfully accepted it. 
 
 Mary's happy days were now at an end. The woman 
 that does wrong must, I fear, remember, ar, I be will
 
 the landlady's tale. 55 
 
 be always exposed to suspicion : Captain Mandeville, it 
 was plain, had no faith in after-virtue, when lie had found 
 it failing in the first instance ; and although a decent re- 
 spect for circumstances, or accidental indifference, had in- 
 duced him to take no notice of her during his first visit to 
 the Park, these motives had ceased to operate, and she 
 even perceived that he suspected her of placing herself 
 voluntarily within his reach. Humbled by this opinion, 
 which she was unable to obviate ; finding all remonstrances 
 vain, and all efforts to avoid him useless ; her life now be- 
 came as miserable as it had before been tranquil. To 
 complete her affliction, Mrs. Selborne soon suspected that 
 some particular pursuit detained her son-in-law at Mande- 
 ville Park ; and she quickly guessed its object. How Mary 
 passed her days in consequence of all this you may judge, 
 sir. Her greatest fear, nevertheless, was that of being 
 dismissed; which she was in hourly expectation would 
 be the case : and her only hope, that Mrs. Selborne, not 
 having authority to do that, or to control Mr. Mandeville, 
 would hasten her departure to her own house. ISTo such 
 fortunate circumstance however happened. Mr. Mande- 
 ville, finding solicitation and allurement vain, grew inso- 
 lent and troublesome : the servants sneered : the park- 
 keeper's wife avoided her : there was no security from 
 persecution either hi the house, or the grounds ; and, in 
 short, of all that had soothed or comforted her poor heart, 
 nothing remained the same, but the baby. 
 
 Mary's mind began, I fear, to undergo a strange revo- 
 lution about this time. She grew desperate, as it were ; 
 and has acknowledged to me, that she sometimes debated 
 with herself whether she should not accept his fine offers ; 
 for, rather than be crossed in his inclination, he did offer 
 her liberally, sir ; at others, she determined to tell the 
 whole story to Mrs. Selborne, and throw herself upon her 
 mercy : but against one temptation there was remorse,
 
 56 CASTTEItBUli Y TALKS. 
 
 and a thousand other painful feelings, resulting from her 
 experience of the selfishness and cruelty of the man: 
 against the other, stood the severe temper and unfeeling 
 character of the woman. Shame too, at the thought of 
 being exposed and degraded in the eyes of the neighbor- 
 hood, for she feared they would judge hardly of her, 
 made her resolve, whatever might be the consequence, to 
 keep her own secret. No third project then remained, 
 but that of quitting the family altogether; and this she so 
 nearly determined upon as to collect all her little saving! 
 so that if driven to extremities, either by the persecution 
 of Mr. Mandeville or Mrs. Selborne, she might be able to 
 leave the house at a moment's warning : but how was she 
 to leave the child ? — The thought of doing so was little 
 less than a death-stroke. 
 
 I am afraid, sir, that when temptation of any kind flails 
 even as to its main object, it often brings with it a great 
 many evils not included in the views, nor present to the 
 mind of the tempter. In the first place it encourages a 
 certain daringness of spirit, not favorable to modest vir- 
 tue; it teaches us to weigh the right and the wrong of 
 things that have been hitherto sacred in our imagination ; 
 and that not fairly either : for it puts the weight into the 
 wrong scale, by showing us how much may bo justified 
 by sophistry, and how much may be palliated by exam- 
 ple. In a word, it carries us out of our own bosoms for 
 a rule of action, and bids us whiten by a comparison with 
 the imperfection of others. I speak, sir, of common un- 
 derstandings and characters, such as have no great head 
 for deep thinking, like Mary and myself. Sonn- transition 
 of this kind must have happened in her; tor the whole 
 frame of her mind seems to me to have changed during 
 this period of perplexity and self-contention. She began 
 to believe all the world wicked or foolish ; and it was not
 
 THE LANDLADY'S TALE. 57 
 
 till after she had lived a good while with me that she was 
 persuaded of the contrary. 
 
 "Well, things continued in this way till near the time 
 when Mrs. Selborne and her part of the family were to 
 quit the Park : the day was anxiously expected by Mary. 
 On the last but one preceding it, she had the ill-fortune to 
 encounter Mr. Mandeville as she was returning to the nur- 
 sery from her dinner. He insisted on talking with her ; 
 which she positively refused ; but finding that he prepared 
 to follow her up stairs, she thought it better to listen to 
 him where she was : Mrs. Selborne was abroad. All that 
 Mr. Mandeville could offer, or say, on such an occasion, for 
 it was his purpose to engage her to remain at the I^ark 
 with him, may, as one should think, be easily imagined ; 
 but you would not easily imagine, sir, that, finding all 
 other efforts fail, he should, before they parted, strive to 
 alarm the fears of the poor girl, by indirectly threatening 
 to publish her former misconduct. I can not think so ill of 
 of him, or of any man, as to believe that he was in earnest ; 
 but Mary's agitated heart, and distempered fancy gave 
 credit to the worst. With what little eloquence she was 
 mistress of, she had endeavored, it seems, to represent to 
 him the great disadvantage her loss would prove to his 
 child ; an argument, which, she flattered herself, would 
 certainly prevail when all others failed : but he treated it 
 as a matter of no consequence. " The infant was nearly 
 weaned, and any old woman in the parish might nurse it," 
 he said. Driven to the last extremity, she then positively 
 declared her resolution to quit the country, and find a sit- 
 uation elsewhere. 
 
 " And where will you find a character ?" said Mr. Man- 
 deville, with a sneer : he had little time for more, as the old 
 lady's chariot drove up at that moment to the door. " Re- 
 member, Mary, what I say to you," repeated he, empha- 
 tically, as he opened that of the parlor to let her out : " a
 
 58 CANTEKUUKY TALES. 
 
 hint from me to Mrs. Selborne dismi you with disgrace 
 from the house : — Where, I Bay, will you then find a char- 
 acter f 
 
 It was not necessary to bid her remember the words ; 
 they were engraven in letters of fire as it seemed to Mary, 
 both on her heart and her brain. 
 
 "Where, Mary, will you find a character?" exclaim- 1 
 she, as she ran up into the nursery, and mechanically took 
 the child in her arms : for it was her hour for walking 
 with him round the grounds. "Where will you find a 
 character?" she continued repeating to herself, as she hur- 
 ried on, without exactly knowing whither : tears, ear< 
 and every thing that was afflicting succeeded this tumult 
 of resentment. — I can not give you an exact account of 
 what followed, sir; she could never give me one herself: 
 but certain it is that she continued to walk till she reach 
 Newcastle ; and there, meeting by ill-fortune with a small 
 vessel bound for London, and in the very act of sailing, she 
 got directly on board, and still carrying with her the pre- 
 cious child, was in a few hours many leagues out at sea. — 
 Now comes the fearful part of Mary's life ! now c< >mes the 
 time when she strove to whiten by comparison : to use her 
 little knowledge and experience in justifying a wicked ac- 
 tion, and to say to herself, " why should I alone be upright 
 in a worthless and cruel world !" Mr. Mandeville, sir, could 
 no longer tempt, but his influence had corrupted her, and 
 left her exposed to the temptation within. 
 
 She was a total stranger in the vessel where she had 
 taken a passage : indeed, neither the child nor herself had 
 ever been seen at Newcastle, nor was it probable that any 
 living creature there could identity or give an account of 
 them: the baby was in its night-clothes, tor they dined late 
 at Mandeville Park ; consequently was no way remarkable 
 by the fineness of its dress. She did not believe that Mr. 
 Mandeville, after what had passed, would venture to seek
 
 THE LANDLADY'S TALK. 59 
 
 her that evening in the nursery ; and unless it was noticed 
 that she did not return from her walk, the chances were 
 that no inquiry would be made till the ensuing morning : 
 for such had been her unremitting attention to the child, 
 that it was very customary with her never to leave his 
 apartment for a moment when once she had put him 
 to bed. 
 
 All these, and a thousand thoughts besides passed 
 through her mind; but her whole care was for the baby : 
 the very few minutes, as I may say, that preceded her 
 embarkation had been employed in providing for its com- 
 fort ; and as, for security's sake, she had secreted her 
 little wealth about her, in order to convey it to Durham, 
 or elsewhere, there was no difficulty in securing the very 
 best accommodation. 
 
 What passed at Mandeville Park, when the loss of the 
 the child was discovered, or in what manner or time the 
 discovery was made, I never learned : no doubt every ef- 
 fort was used, by advertisement and inquiry, to regain 
 the infant, but none could reach the ship's crew while 
 they were at sea, and before either could come to their 
 knowledge on land, things had so fallen out that no indi- 
 cations remained to guide the search. It was long be- 
 fore Mary knew any thing farther of Mr. Mandeville, and 
 sorrowful was the day when she did. 
 
 The voyage was very rough, and Mary herself extreme- 
 ly ill : but the child did not appear to suffer in the least : 
 they were driven by stress of weather into a little port 
 not very far from London, where she made it her choice 
 to land : a public carriage, which was stopped by mere 
 accident, conveyed her to town ; and thus, almost with- 
 out premeditation on her side, was every clue lost to 
 those who might have sought for her. What Mary's 
 feelings or thoughts were in the interval that succeeded, 
 it would be difficult precisely to ascertain. She was not
 
 CO CANTEKBUKY TALES. 
 
 without money ; but she had neither friends nor connec- 
 tion. Industry, sir, is nevertheless a trusty auxiliary, 
 and either finds or mak way. By givir cttrity, 
 
 which her stock of money enabled her t<; do, she con- 
 trived to get employment in a small bat creditable shop, 
 not unlike that in which she had fired with her aunt : her 
 readiness and good qualities rendered her valuable wherev- 
 er she had an opportunity of making them known ; as she 
 very quickly did. Her wants were f(j\v : she had neither 
 vanity nor pleasure but in the child ; and lie, little fellow, 
 grew, and did well ; while her excessive fondness for him, 
 made it impossible any one should suspect that she was 
 not its mother. lie was no longer, indeed, at Mandeville 
 Park, the heir of a fine estate, and waited upon by a numer- 
 ous train of servants : but he had still one servant more 
 anxious, more devoted than any he had left there : he had 
 also the best of every thing, however plain : all her lei- 
 sure was employed, as he grew older, in teaching him the 
 little she knew either of writing, reading, or accounts : 
 his health was still tender and uncertain : she watched 
 him with the care of a mother, and the fatigue of a nurse. 
 No thought like self-reproach I believe ever crossed her 
 mind with respect to his father : her heart was quite hard- 
 ened towards Mr. Mandeville; and she was persuaded 
 that Mrs. Selborne would grieve but little for the child 
 when it was once out of her sight. She shut her i 
 deliberately to the past and the future, and determined 
 to think only of the present day. 
 
 Such was her own account of her life in London ; and 
 I never had reason to doubt its truth. There are tl 
 that would have done so: but from the circumstances she 
 stood in, when she gave me the relation, I believe it as 
 firmly as that I now exist. It was a strange life for a 
 young woman, and a pretty woman, for she was still pret- 
 ty : placed, too, in the very heart of a eity so famous for
 
 THE LANDLADY'S TALE. 61 
 
 its vices find profligacy : but I have heard Mary say, and 
 indeed I believe her, that many and many a poor crea- 
 ture earns her bread in London by the sweat of her brow, 
 and during her laborious and daily employment knows no 
 more of its vices or its luxuries than if she were livino; a 
 thousand miles oif it. 
 
 I saw Mary for the first time about eighteen years ago : 
 she was then nine-and-twenty : it was in the beginning of 
 summer, and a very sultry day. I was sitting, during the 
 forenoon, at work, with my parlor windows open, when a 
 young woman, holding a little boy by the hand, walked 
 past the house, and returned. She did this more than 
 once without my taking any particular notice of her, 
 though she, as I afterwards found, took a great deal of 
 me : at last she made a little stop close by the window. 
 
 "Did you want an industrious person to assist you in 
 needle work, madam ?" said she. 
 
 I looked up, supposing I should know her, but her face 
 was quite new to me : so I went to my stitching again, 
 only carelessly answering, " that I never employed 
 strangers." 
 
 " I am sorry for it," said she, and sighed softly ; there 
 is no telling you, how whining her manner was : I could 
 not help looking after her, she saw I did, and returned ; 
 but a little irresolutely. 
 
 " It is true that I am a stranger here, madam," said 
 she, "but if I were known to you, perhaps you would not 
 object to employing me." 
 
 " I can't say that I should," returned I, and to own the 
 truth sir, I should have been very glad of assistance ; for 
 the season was drawing on : I was making up those very 
 window curtains which you now see in the parlor, they 
 were then drawing-room furniture. I had my hands 
 full of business besides ; so I looked more steadily at her, 
 to judge what sort of a person she might be ; and then I 
 
 q# 
 
 •J
 
 62 CANTEEBUKY TAI.J. 
 
 looked at her companion : both were plainly, but very 
 neatly dressed ; he was rather a delicate child, but he 
 had lively, intelligent eyes: his complexion, however, did 
 not announce health. 
 
 " Your little boy," said I, " seems sickly :" tears flowed 
 down her cheeks in a moment. 
 
 "He has had a fever," she replied, "but, thank God, lie 
 is now likely to do well: the doctor tells me that bathing 
 in the sea will recruit his strength, and I have therefore 
 brought him here for that purpose." I know not what 
 there was so taking in her and the child, but for my life, 
 I could not turn them from the door. 
 
 " Well, come into the parlor," said I, " and let us talk 
 together : perhaps you may be able to refer me to some 
 one that knows you." That she could not do : but 
 made me the same proposal which she had found such 
 ful in London, of taking work home with her, and leaving 
 a deposit to its value, till it was returned. This looked 
 honest and open ; so we began to talk of what she could 
 do. Meantime I had a favorite bird in the room, and the 
 little boy and the bird were grown very intimate. — " I 
 will teach you to sing," said the child ; and in truth, I 
 thought he might well say so, for so musical a voice as 
 his was, in speaking, I had never heard. Sing, however, 
 neither bird nor child would, when desired; but I WU 
 mightily pleased with my new acquaintance ; and, to be 
 short, it was settled that she should come the next morn- 
 ing and work with me for a certain number of hours. 
 She required nothing, she said, but her day-board for 
 herself and her child, till I could judge of what she was 
 capable. 
 
 It was now all plain sailing, sir, and she knew it ; for I 
 presently discovered that my industry and usefulness, on 
 which I valued myself were nothing to her ingenuity. 
 She did so cut out and contrive! "And this, Mrs.
 
 THE LANDLADY'S TALE. 
 
 Dixon," said she, "is just the right pattern for such a 
 thing ; and that will do for another." She was like a 
 good fairy : my whole house presently seemed furnished 
 by her skill and industry. I could not douht but a 
 woman who was so clever must be honest, so I fitted out 
 a little decent back room up stairs, and took both her 
 and the boy as inmates. I can't maintain that this was a 
 discreet step, sir, considering how very little I knew of 
 my guest. I heard enough talk of its folly from all my 
 neighbors: but I know not how it is, Ijtave seen people 
 wait so long before they could resolve upon a kind action, 
 to know if it was a wise one too, that they never found 
 the opportunity for doing any such in their whole lives. 
 
 Mary was now, as I may say, my factotum; and 
 nothing was performed cleverly that she had not a con- 
 cern in. We had no regular agreement together : I paid 
 her as well as I could afford to do for her services, and in 
 truth there was no service, however humble, that she was 
 not willing to render me. But, although in this particu- 
 lar she never changed, we had not lived many months to- 
 gether, before I saw something remarkable hi her general 
 disposition. She had an ill opinion of others, and be- 
 lieved every one selfish and hard-hearted. So that her 
 own good conduct seemed rather to spring from some 
 feeling that was natural to her, than any principle or ne- 
 cessity she saw for it. To hear her speak of a fault, or 
 even of a misfortune in a neighbor, you would have 
 thought her to be almost without any sensibility : but let 
 her witness the smallest affliction, her heart would over- 
 flow with kindness, and her eyes with tears. In her gen- 
 eral habits she was zealous, active, and obliging: yet 
 there were times when her whole appearance and man- 
 ners changed. It was then impossible to make any thing 
 of her; for she was absent and negligent: would sigh as 
 if her heart were breaking, and had a nervous, agitated,
 
 64 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 irresolute air, that sometimes alarmed me for her head. 
 These fits, however, returned less frequently after t: 
 first twelvemonth of her residence with me than they 1 
 formerly done : and for several years alter, her active em- 
 ployments, together with my company, who am not, as 
 you see, of a very melancholy character, drove off the 
 evil day. But conscience, as the rector told us from the 
 pulpit two or three Sundays ago, is a sleeping giant : we 
 may lull him into a longer or a shorter slumber: but his 
 starts are frightful, and terrible is the hour "when he 
 awakes. I thought of Mary as he spoke the words. 
 
 Her fondness for the little boy, sir, was downright 
 folly : but I had seen enough of mothers not to be sur- 
 prised at that : he was always dressed above his apparent 
 condition : she could deny him nothing ; and indeed, he 
 was an engaging little creature. When she brought him 
 to Weymouth he was about eight years of age : the sea 
 air agreed with him wonderfully, and he was never sickly 
 from that time ; but grew so sprightly, so arch, so divert- 
 ing, that little Bob was the universal favorite. He was, 
 withal, very proud ; although nobody could ted of what: 
 it could not be of his birth, or his great estate, poor 
 child ! for, alas, he knew nothing of either ! but in spite 
 of his humble situation, Bob was a great hoper, and was 
 always talking of the mighty things he would do when he 
 should grow to be a man : — I beg your pardon, sir^my 
 eyes will fill with tears at the recollection : his mother 
 encouraged this folly in him. 
 
 "Mary,'' said I to her one day, "you will totally ruin 
 that boy." 
 
 "Oh no, no,"" returned she, impatiently. 
 "You will make his mind a great deal too high.*" 
 "I do not make it," said she — "it makes itsel£" 
 "But ought it to make itself ? Consider, he is growing 
 a great lad."
 
 THE LANDLADY'S TALE. 65 
 
 "Don't talk to me, Mrs. Dixon. I can not control his 
 spirit. — If you knew how dearly I bought him" — 
 
 " At what price did you buy him ?" returned I. — She 
 started, and looked at me very earnestly for a moment, 
 but said nothing. I cannot but own that I had my j:>ri- 
 vate thoughts. Mary had told me that the boy's father 
 was a soldier ; and so indeed he was, sir : but she had 
 never been circumstantial as to the time of his death, nor 
 any particulars relative to him. I had my suspicions 
 therefore ; though, God knows, they were far from the 
 whole truth ; and she was so guarded, so discreet in her 
 conduct, and seemed to have so deep a sorrow at heart 
 for the past, that I had not the courage to add to it by 
 what I thought idle inquiries. It would be very hard, 
 said I to myself, if a woman should not be able to recover 
 one false step ! and — I do not know — I may be wrong, 
 but it seemed to me, that the being obliged to acknow- 
 ledge and talk of it, inflicts useless suffering, if the person 
 be indeed penitent ; and if the contrary, perhaps puts 
 perverse arguments and thoughts into the mind, that are 
 better laid aside. For the more frequently a woman 
 blushes, sir, the less painful it becomes to her : this was 
 my way of reasoning. I have but a poor head, however, 
 it must be owned, for these points ; so I do not reckon 
 much upon it, but mostly question my heart : that always 
 tells me how I would have others do unto me, if I were 
 in affliction, and therefore I go no further. 
 
 Weymouth is a gay place however in the season, as 
 you know, sir. I was aware of this ; and, at our early 
 acquaintance, I watched Mary very narrowly. "We have 
 abundance of fine gentlemen walking about, but none did 
 I ever see her so much as look at : and if, by any acci- 
 dent, their eyes were directed to her, and that was an ac- 
 cident that would have happened pretty frequently if she 
 had encouraged it, she was never to be seen a second
 
 66 < a \ 1 I. BBU B V T A L I 
 
 time. I used to observe, at first, indeed, that she was 
 somewhat carious to know what regiments were coming 
 and going: but that seemed natural enough, as her hus- 
 band had been a soldier; and long before I I 1 to 
 
 doubt the story of her having been married, I knew that 
 I could trust Mary. 
 
 Bob was now twelve years old. Xo longer a delicate, 
 small-limbed child, but a fine, well-grown boy; with a 
 manly and open countenance, a forward and proud spirit ; 
 full of frolic, but without any mischief. He had beaten :i 
 neighbor's son, much bigger than himself, who persisted 
 in calling him little Hob ; so he was now Robert ; and it 
 was laughable to see the vehemence with which lie in- 
 sisted upon this claim. All our acquaintance blamed us 
 for keeping such a great boy at home, without any occu- 
 pation, and I began secretly to be a little ashamed of the 
 weakness myself; for, to say truth, sir, I was nearly as 
 weak as Mary on that subject. The child was never idle 
 cither, nor was it in his nature to be so : he made himself 
 useful ten thousand ways. There was nothing so low 
 that he disdained to do for those he loved : he has cleaned 
 knives, and gone on errands. Good God, little did I 
 think who it was that was so employed ! It was not with 
 Mary's approbation, however, that he did this : but she 
 could not prevent him ; he undertook it all as if it were 
 sport: "All for his dear little granny Dixon," as he ui 
 to call me. Think of his making me his grandmother, 
 sir ! — I was then a young woman ; but it was his playful 
 way. The fact was, that he had an inexhaustible stock of 
 health and spirits to spare, and having neither companion 
 nor employment, was fain to spend both as he could. 
 Every one, however, that came to the house noticed and 
 spoiled him. — "Gads my life, Mrs. Dixon," said one of 
 our actor gentlemen, who was drinking tea. with me, 
 while Bob, in tip-top spirits, handed us the tea-kettle,
 
 THE LANDLADY'S TALE. 07 
 
 "this is a fellow of whom the world may say that 'he will 
 ride a bay trotting horse over a four-inched bridge, and 
 
 course his own shadow for a traitor !' "* To be sure, 
 
 sir, Bob was too fond of riding strange horses ; but how 
 the child's foible came to be so generally known was 
 what I never could guess. 
 
 Bob's own mind was quite made up as to his future des- 
 tination. " He would be a soldier," he said, " like his 
 father." " Like his father!" said Mary, and tears came 
 into her eyes. The boy was present, so I could not make 
 any comments uj)on her speech. We taught him, and 
 had him taught by others, all the little learning we could. 
 I must own that he was not very fond of it, yet he was 
 no blockhead neither ; only sprightly and heedless : but 
 in proportion as he grew older his pride made him set 
 more value upon these sort of things, for he could never 
 endure to be wanting in any point that others knew : and 
 though for the heir of Mr. Mandeville he would have 
 made perhaps a more poor figure, he was not ignorant 
 for one in his station. The soldiers took to him mightily. 
 The master, seeing how fond he was of horses, taught him 
 to ride ; which Mary did not object to. They looked up- 
 on him as one of themselves, and acted very kindly by 
 him. But still they were men, and he was only a boy ; 
 so that, without meaning it, they made him forward and 
 presuming. The neighbors and people around told- ill- 
 natured stories of his pride and extravagance ; but they 
 were so exaggerated that we hardly gave them any cre- 
 dit. Time slipped .away, and he was getting on some 
 months past fourteen. Mary's disquietude visibly in- 
 creased. She made him solemnly promise that he would 
 not enlist for a soldier without her consent ; and as he be- 
 lieved that she would not withhold it in due season, he 
 very readily gave his word. We thought him too proud 
 
 * Shakspeare.
 
 68 CAN T EBBUST TALI 
 
 to break it ; and, to do him only justice, too kind-hearted ; 
 for he well knew the grief it would cost 
 
 The interval between this time and his fifteenth birth- 
 day was the most melancholy we had ever passed since 
 Ave lived together. lie was almost beyond our control ; 
 yet we knew no harm of him ; but he kept growing very 
 handsome and very tall : every day, therefore, told us 
 that something must be done with him. A dreadful 
 gloom came over Mary. She was no longer the same 
 creature she had been. No sleep did she get at night : 
 no quiet in the day. All was continual restlessness. Hi r 
 very temper changed ; so that at last we hardly cared to 
 speak with her. Perceiving that she was so very miser- 
 able, I concluded that her fear of his going to sea, if not 
 into the army, was the cause of her disquiet ; and I there- 
 fore proposed to her to try to get him into some respect- 
 able gentleman's service. With all his wildness he was 
 so docile to us, that I did think we could have persuaded 
 him to this. She changed color at my proposal, and looked 
 at me with an expression I never saw in her countenance 
 before. 
 
 " No, Mrs. Dixon," said she very emphatically, when 
 I had done speaking, " that shall never be." 
 
 " And why not ? He had acted as my servant, you 
 know." 
 
 "And well he might : he can not do too much for you. 
 There is no disgrace in the service of the heart : — But 
 Bob shall never take hire !" I did not venture to afflict 
 her further, and we went on as before. About this time 
 a family came to lodge at next door, who brought with 
 them a young woman that was born in Mary's native vil- 
 lage : she had not been long from thence, and could give 
 an account of all that had passed there. Mary learned 
 that her father was alive, though in a very infirm state of 
 health. He had lost several children, but her mother-in-
 
 THE LANDLADY'S TAJ, 11. G9 
 
 law had still a large family remaining. The old man, she 
 understood, had been anxious to see her once more before 
 he died ; but having no direction to her, had not been 
 able to make this wish known. He was certainly not 
 dead however at that time. 
 
 This intelligence seemed at last to make up Mary's 
 mind. The terrible necessity she felt of parting with the 
 boy had been a canker that had been eating into her 
 very heart ; for part with him some way it was evident 
 she must ; since neither his age nor his character would 
 allow him to stay any longer with her ; and to whom 
 could she give him up, but to his own father ? In what 
 manner exactly she meant to effect this I know not. 
 Amid the despair that preyed secretly upon her at the 
 prospect of losing him, after turning her thoughts a thou- 
 sand different ways in search of comfort, she found no 
 gleam of it but in the idea of going back to her own vil- 
 lage. She had been innocent — she had been compara- 
 tively happy there. She believed she should find some- 
 thing to love, and Mary could not live without loving 
 something. I believe she soothed her conscience with 
 the hope of attending her father's age, and watching his 
 death-bed. In short she found it absolutely necessary to 
 hope, if she meant to live ; and this was all she could 
 hope. 
 
 I tell you merely my own conjectures: for her restless- 
 ness ; her total loss of appetite, and the long fits of ab- 
 sence that now grew very remarkable in her, were the 
 only symptoms by which I could guess that she was pri- 
 vately forming some resolution. I had no clue at that 
 time to her inmost thoughts ; but by after events and 
 confidence I could trace them. Her health suffered too 
 much to permit me to ask any questions, for I really could 
 not guess what their effect upon her might prove. At 
 length she fixed her determination : but, like a drowning
 
 10 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 person catching at straws, she could not prevail on her- 
 self to take the greal Btep till she had settled every thing 
 that concerned her besides. And bo, sir, this new delay 
 in entering upon the path of justice and uprightness was 
 the cause of all the melancholy Btory that followed. 
 
 I was not much surprised when she told me that she 
 meant to take a journey home : but when I found that the 
 boy was not to accompany her, I was then sure how 
 things stood between her and her family ; and that he 
 was no laAvful son of hers, however fond >he might be of 
 him. I must own to you that I had my doubts as to the 
 object of her journey altogether. It is natural to suspect 
 deceit where we meet with it in one instance ; and being 
 now convinced in my own mind that the child was base- 
 born, I assured myself that his father was alive ; I conclud- 
 ed that he was some great man, and that Mary, far from 
 turning her steps towards home, was only going to solicit 
 him in favor of his son. I could not misunderstand her 
 intention in other particulars. She was too reluctant to 
 go to leave me any fear on that subject : and whether 
 the child Mere base-born or no, I must own that I thought 
 the father had a right to be consulted as to its future des- 
 tination. 
 
 "Well, Mary," said I, "you leave me a great char 
 and yet you don't tell me your secrets. n 
 
 "They are sad ones," replied she mournfully: "but 
 when I return I will tell you all." 
 
 " I am afraid I can guess one already," said T in a very 
 significant tone. She shook her head, and looked the 
 image of despair. 
 
 "I can not prevail upon myself to reveal it now. I have 
 tried, but my lips will not nunc to do it. When it is 
 told, you shall give me your advice how to proceed, and 
 I faithfully promise to follow it." — I believe Bhe spoke 
 truth, sir: I had seen her lips tremble several times when
 
 THE LANDLADY'S TALE. Tl 
 
 she opened them to speak to me ; and I greatly suspect 
 that half her reason, though she did not know it herself, 
 for resolving to live from me, when once I had heard her 
 story, was, that she felt it impossible to endure the eyes 
 of any one who knew it. 
 
 On the eighth of July, sir, eleven years ago, Mary left 
 me. She looked very pale as she stepped into the stage- 
 coach ; but she reckoned that her absence would not 
 much exceed three weeks; which, considering the long 
 journey she had before her, was the least time possi- 
 ble. Bob, who at his age thought that period a mere 
 nothing, presently recovered his spirits, for he had been 
 much affected at parting, and began to tell me what we 
 should both do during her absence. His account of my 
 occupations would have made any one smile, the picture was 
 so like me ! he did not tell me all his own, you may be sure, 
 but we made out the evening together between mirth and 
 sorrow ; nor did he, throughout it, show any impatience 
 at j^assing so many hours with a talkative woman, old 
 enough to be his mother : for he knew that I should have 
 felt lonesome .had he left me. Two or three days passed 
 thus very pleasantly : the boy was not constantly in the 
 house, but he was continually coming backwards and for- 
 wards, and asking good-naturedly whether he should do 
 this thing for me, and the other. What a charm is there 
 in youth, sir ! I that was not his mother, nor even relat- 
 ed to him, could not help fancying that any father on 
 earth must be vain of such a son ; and most heartily did 
 I wish I had known his, that I might have recommended 
 him to his favor. 
 
 On the evening of the fourth day, as Avell as I can recol- 
 lect, a message came to me from the people at the hotel, 
 to inquire if my house was let. The season was 
 likely to prove very full, and I had at that time more 
 than one treaty on foot, but the families were undecided,
 
 72 CANTERBURY TALKS. 
 
 and nothing had passed by which I conceived myself to "be 
 bound. I found that the person for whom the inquiry 
 
 was made was a single gentleman, and a member of par- 
 liament. It was plain, indeed, that he was a man of con- 
 dition, for lie would have nothing less than the whole 
 house : I mean those apartments excepted which I always 
 kept for my own use. I did not hesitate to conclude an 
 agreement that promised to be very advantageous ; and 
 as the gentleman, being an invalid, was impatient to settle 
 himself, I did my best to make every thing ready for him 
 that very night. My apartments were always aired, and 
 there was therefore nothing to hinder his taking immediate 
 2>ossession. When his servants, however, began to dispose 
 of themselves, I was sadly grieved to find that he had so 
 numerous a train as made it impossible for me conveniently 
 to lodge them. There was Mary's room, with a little closet 
 within it, where Bob slept. I found I should be obliged to 
 take one of these for the groom. The butler told me that 
 he was a civil, well-behaved young man ; and he was 
 smart enough, nay, even genteel to look at : but I did not 
 like to throw Bob thus into the familiar society of serv- 
 ants, and strangers too: there was no remedy however; 
 so the thing was ordered as well as it could be, and the 
 two lads were lodged together. I understood that the 
 groom was a very great favorite with his master; there- 
 fore, much against my inclination, I was obliged to give 
 him the best room of the two. In the evening his master 
 came — Oh, sir, would you believe it ? — it was no other 
 than Mr. Mandeville ! 
 
 Yes — it was Mr. Mandeville himself! but not that Mr. 
 Mandeville who had robbed Alary of her heart, in all the 
 bloom and fire of eight-and-twenty ; free-living, and the 
 years that had passed over his head, had left strong traces 
 on his features. He had a fixed redness in his face, and 
 had lost the slight ness of his person. One might, indeed,
 
 THE LANDLADY'S TALE. 73 
 
 see that he had been handsome, for he had a manly 
 character of countenance; and I could afterwards recollect 
 that his son greatly resembled him in this : but such was 
 then the wide difference in their age and appearance, that 
 nothing of the sort occurred to me. — How, indeed, should 
 it?— 
 
 Mr. Mandeville was well enough pleased with his ac- 
 commodation ; and had he been otherwise, he had very 
 little choice besides in the town : but the satisfaction was 
 by no means mutual. I soon perceived my mistake in 
 believing that I had secured a quiet invalid for my lodger, 
 who proposed nothing to himself but health and comfort : 
 these were the last things thought of by any of the family. 
 Such a scene of confusion as now presented itself, I had 
 rarely ever before witnessed ! eating, drinking, and rattling 
 the dice-box were the sole employments of the day. Mr. 
 Mandeville went little abroad ; but two or three gentle- 
 men, at least, were constantly of his dinner-party ; and it 
 was seldom that all went away sober. These modes of 
 life did not agree with him. He was frequently very ill, 
 and on such occasions I often went to see and attend him. 
 I could not help one day representing to him that he had 
 but little chance of recovering his health, while he contin- 
 ued the very habits that had injured it. He was in good 
 humor, and heard me out with much patience ; only he 
 laughed heartily when I had ended, and said, "you talk 
 like an oracle, Mrs. Dixon, but I fear I am too old to 
 mend." 
 
 " Nay, sir," said I, " age will not hinder your amend- 
 ment. You cannot have been ftfty, I am sure." — Between 
 ourselves, I thought I spoke within compass when I said 
 this : he laughed again. 
 
 " What, is that your standard age ?" said he. " I have 
 six good years then : though I see you think me an older 
 fellow than I am. However, spare your preaching : for I
 
 74 ' CANTS BBVBT TALKS. 
 
 "believe, Mrs. Dixon, that I shall die as I have lived. My 
 faults injure nobody BO much as they do myself." I had 
 not the boldness to contradict him, but this was not true, 
 sir ; nor could Mr. Mandeville seriously believe it to be so. 
 I know not whether it can be safely affirmed of any man, 
 but I am sure that it can not of a rich one; and to convince 
 myself of this, I had only to look at the instance before 
 me. Mr. Mandeville's profusion and vices were imitated 
 by every servant he had; and if they strove a little to 
 conceal this from him, they only added hypocrisy to every 
 other fault : but they did not endeavor to conceal it, sir ; 
 or in a very trifling degree. His own man openly pro- 
 fessed to follow his master's example in all things. The 
 butler was several years older, but he was insolent, unfeel- 
 ing, and extravagant. The other servants did not fall 
 short of these models : but oh, sir ! a worse grief than all 
 remained behind, though I did not immediately know its 
 extent : the groom, whom I had been obliged to place 
 with my poor, innocent boy, was a very ill-disposed lad ; 
 and the bad effects of his society were too soon visible in 
 the latter, though sooner to others than to me. 
 
 The loss of Mary's assistance threw a vast load upon 
 my spirits and time. In truth, where servants were so 
 disorderly and ill-managed, I had hardly a moment to 
 spare from my domestic concerns, or to call my own. 
 Occupied as I was, however, I observed that some alter- 
 ation had taken place in Bob. lie affected to be the man 
 more than I thought became him ; and began to be very 
 nice in his linen and appearance. He had been hitherto 
 a fine rough boy, ten thousand times more manly than 
 the groom that he admired ; yet the latter was a person- 
 able lad too; but there was something of native fire and 
 character about Bob, or I fancied so, that was much above 
 his degree : it could not be fancy neither, for every body 
 that saw him used to say the same thing.
 
 THE LANDLADY'S TALE. 75 
 
 Mr. Mandeville was more partial to his groom than to 
 any one of his servants. He was of light weight, active, 
 clever, knowing in horses, and had rode several matches 
 for his master ; nor did he ever fail to win : so that for me 
 to pretend to findnny fault with Thomas was quite out of 
 the question. Not but Mr. Mandeville was himself suf- 
 ficiently severe with him sometimes, when any thing put 
 him out of temper ; and he was not good-tempered in 
 general : but as to the lad's private conduct or character, 
 "he had no business with that," he said, "he supposed he 
 was just like the rest." People are men, however, as well 
 as servants, sir ; and by this doctrine may do more harm 
 in one capacity, than they ever do good in another. It 
 was with very great vexation, and some alarm, that I 
 heard of the increasing intimacy between Bob and this 
 young man. I could not greatly blame the boy : he had 
 no other companion ; never had had one. He saw the 
 groom caressed and praised by his master ; noticed by all 
 the gentlemen that visited at the house ; encouraged to 
 be saucy ; ruling in the stable, where, unfortunately, 
 Robert would have loved to rule too ; for he was passion- 
 ately fond of riding : and how was a boy of his age to 
 make a distinction between right and wrong, when so 
 many of his superiors made none ? Yet he had no mind 
 to be a groom neither, for, to try him, I asked him the 
 question. " No," he said, and colored, " I will be a sol- 
 dier." For several days after this I observed he was 
 thoughtful, and stayed more at home than before. At 
 last he inquired of me whether Mr. Mandeville was not 
 in the army. I told him that I believed he was, from the 
 number of military gentlemen that visited him. I fancy, 
 poor lad, the project entered his head of recommending 
 himself to his notice, for he took two or three opportuni- 
 ties afterwards of falling in his way. Once, in particular, 
 he was standing at the door when Mr. Mandeville came
 
 76 C1NTEEBUET TALKS. 
 
 down to ride. Thomas, by some accident or other, was 
 not close at hand, and Bob officiously Btarted forward to 
 supply his place. Mr. Mandeville looked at him, ind< 
 but called at the same moment to the groom 1 he 
 
 put his foot in the stirrup, and Bob hastily retired, bin 
 ing up to the very ears at the repulse. This I beli* 
 sir, was the only time that Mr. Mandeville ever cast his 
 eyes-upon his son so as to notice him. Nothing, however, 
 came of it, nor did the boy from that day make any fur- 
 ther effort. 
 
 Three weeks and more had passed, yet Mary did not 
 return. She had promised to write if any thing detained 
 her. I knew not what to make of her silence, and grew 
 uneasy, both on her account, and that of her son. My 
 warnings to him to break off the intimacy he had so 
 lately formed were not attended to, and I had no power 
 to enforce them. Nor could I send either lad out of my 
 house. They were constantly together. They rode 
 matches on the sands, or elsewhere. Their companions 
 betted upon them : they betted themselves ; and I was 
 convinced that Bob lost. I taxed him with it. Nothing 
 spoils the temper, sir, like the consciousness of doing 
 wrong. This boy, this child, as I may call him, formerly 
 so complying and open, was capable of being rude and 
 sullen : quite at a loss what to do, I desired him to write 
 to his mother, and hasten her return. lie obeyed me, 
 though not with a good grace : but she came not, nor did 
 we receive any answer, and I repented that I had not 
 written myself: but I was not a ready pen-woman, and 
 had much occupation. — I thought that I was now quite 
 miserable! — I did not know how much more miserable I 
 was to be. Every possible way did I turn over in my 
 mind to remedy the mischief I had so innocently caused : 
 but the mischief was doing, sir, past all remedy: — it was 
 done, as I may say, even while I was considering.
 
 THE LANDLADY'S TALE. 77 
 
 Of what nature the extravagance might be of these 
 two boys I can not tell, but they had been very extrava- 
 gant. Bob's means were scanty indeed ; the other threw 
 money about like dirt ; but I have much reason to believe 
 that he was as ready to take as to part with it. At last 
 neither of them had any left, and both grievously wanted 
 it. My boy would have stopped short ; but the wicked 
 one with whom he associated, had other ways of pro- 
 ceeding. The old butler was, in private, his constant 
 theme of aversion and ridicule : and more, as he made it 
 appear, in sport than in wickedness, but it was wicked- 
 ness, I am persuaded, he now proposed to secrete several 
 valuable articles that were in this man's possession, on 
 which, he assured Bob, he could raise money, and return 
 them without difficulty in the course of two days ; de- 
 claring, that should it in the interim be discovered they 
 were missing, he would easily face it out for a joke. 
 Robert was, as he confessed, in debt : he had besides 
 contracted a thousand wants, and a thousand wishes, 
 during his intercourse with the worthless crew around 
 him ; and too proud to own to any but his immediate 
 companion that he had no resources, he fell into the snare 
 which folly, vice, and ill-fortune prepared for him. The 
 butler, however, was either more subtle, or more watch- 
 ful, than they had believed him to be. He discovered the 
 fact a verv few hours after it was committed ; nor did he 
 fail to guess at the culprits. Thomas was first secured, 
 and his evidence criminated Bob. — The latter was with 
 me when they came to fetch him. ISTever, to the latest 
 moment of my life, sir, shall I forget that ! There was 
 no need of accusation nor proof; his countenance told all, 
 and both lads were thrown into prison. The groom, how- 
 ever, was too cunning, and, I am afraid, too well practiced 
 in secrets of this kind, not to know all the advantage he 
 had over his companion ; and in order to avail himself of
 
 iH N 'J B BBC B Y 1 a I. J. -. 
 
 it, he Immediately applied to Mr. Mandeville. The- fact 
 
 too well established to allow the butler to re© 
 from his firsl testimony, but hi ently comprehend 
 
 which was to be the victim, provided either most be 
 so, and a lawyer was accordingly employed, wl er- 
 
 tained it. 
 
 If there was any faith to be placed in one, who till I 
 lasi two luckless months never was found guilty of a lie, 
 Bob waa no otherwise concerned, than in being privy to 
 the villainous secret. He neither plotted, weighed, nor 
 executed it: but, with the incomprehensible inconsidera- 
 tion of youth, ran headlong on, without adverting either 
 to its criminality or its danger: but of what avail wa> this 
 
 timony, sir, to any heart but that in my bosom'/ It 
 was close upon the time of the Dorchester the 
 
 two lads Mere conveyed to the jail there, and Mr. Mande- 
 ville's lawyer continued to be employed in the cause. 
 
 At this crisis I at length received a letter from Mary. 
 It was in answer to one I had written her ten days bet! -re. 
 Another from me had followed close upon it : for though 
 I was but a poor scribe, I had taken the trouble \< 
 her a second letter, because I had not been sufficiently 
 pressing about her return in my first : that second, how- 
 ever, was still on the road. What a story had I now to 
 add to it ! Her father, she informed me, waa dead before 
 she arrived. She had found her mother-in-law extremely 
 ill of a fever, which, it was plain, was infectious throughout 
 the neighborhood. It had carried of one little girl of the 
 family, and another was sick: her home, therefore, had 
 q a Borrowful scene from the day that she reached it. 
 "And yet, could you suppose it, Mra. Dixon,' 1 said Mary, 
 "1 have experienced more tranquility of mind, on finding 
 
 myself useful to my friends, and kindly treated bymyold 
 
 ■ . ... 
 
 companions, than I have done for lift ecu years past. I will 
 
 make many hearts happy when 1 return to you, and then
 
 THE LANDLADY'S TALE. 79 
 
 there will be some chance for my own. I should tell you," 
 she added, " that I have had the fever so badly as to be 
 quite unable to use the pen, which must plead my excuse 
 for my silence. I have got out to-day for the first time, 
 though still very weak, and have crept down to one of my 
 old haunts near the river. I remember when I used to sit 
 in its stony bed where the channel was dry, while the low 
 branches that shoot out of the bank sheltered me from the 
 heat, and envy the water that flowed through so many new 
 places. ISTow I have been there on purpose to see the sun 
 set : and you will hardly guess why. — I pleased myself 
 with thinking that Bob and you might be walking on the 
 sands together, and looking at it, at the same moment." — 
 Alas, sir, Bob saw no sun ! he was shut up in a cell, w T here 
 it was plain that neither sun nor air ever visited him, for 
 in a few days all his freshness was quite gone. 
 
 I can not tell you how many times I applied to Mr. Man- 
 deville ; but he was all on the wrong side of the question ; 
 so he shuffled me off, and told me that the lawyers must 
 decide, and I know not what stuff beside. The lawyers 
 did decide, sir, for it could not be the law. The vile groom 
 was, with difficulty enough, acquitted, and the innocent 
 child sentenced to Botany Bay. There is no telling you 
 the falsehoods the groom asserted to save himself: it was a 
 scene of wickedness that no judge less than God Almighty 
 could have set right. I do not say that any body meant 
 to persecute, or that Mr. Mandeville's lawyer did more 
 than he might think fair : but some one was to suffer, and 
 every thing may be seen, where minds are not habitually 
 upright, through the medium of prejudice and opinion. 
 There were besides a thousand lies circulated and believed 
 in the town : lies of idleness, lies of ignorance : — for aught 
 I know, of malice. And poor Bob, who never, I supposed, 
 made an enemy in his life, had every little fault magnified 
 into a vice. — But when it was all over, and they could do
 
 80 C A. >' T E R II U B Y TALES. 
 
 no more, many a one dropped a tear, that h:t<l carelessly 
 accredited a falsehood ; and few were hard-hearted enough 
 not to pity so young an offender. 
 
 I had no hope but in Mr. Mandeville's compassion. I 
 flattered myself that his interest, if he could be prevailed 
 upon to use it, would obtain a pardon at least, and I sent 
 a most pressing entreaty to be admitted to him. 
 
 " You have a face full of care, Mrs. Dixon," said I 
 when he saw me, — " out with it !" 
 
 " Oh, sir !" said I, bursting into tears, " I come upon 
 the old errand — Robert Innis." 
 
 "Do not talk to me of Robert Innis," said he ; u he has 
 cost me money and trouble enough already. T shall, after 
 all, be obliged, on his account, to part with the best lad I 
 ever had." 
 
 " I am afraid you are mistaken, sir," replied I. 
 
 "Xo, no, I tell you," said he, passionately; "there is 
 not his fellow left in the stable. — I would rather," and he 
 swore a £reat oath, " that he had robbed me every day 
 in the year than have lost him. lie was a good lad 
 enough till he knew your 'scape-grace." 
 
 " If you would take the trouble to examine into the 
 rights of the case, sir," returned I 
 
 "A man can not spend his life in examining your rights 
 and your wrongs, Mrs. Dixon." 
 
 "I beg your pardon, sir," said I, "I thought that mem- 
 bers of parliament, and rich gentlemen, did Bpend their 
 
 lives in such examinations." 1 can not affirm that this 
 
 was uttered without some malice, for my heart was over- 
 fraught, and I was quite desperate: but I did not Bnpp 
 that it would ruffle him so greatly as it seemed to do. 
 He was too proud to say all he thought, but he I )6ked at 
 
 me ! 
 
 a 
 
 You take great liberties," Baid he at length: "great 
 liberties indeed, and know nothing of what you are talk-
 
 THE LAND! A I) Y ' B T A L E. 81 
 
 ing about. I desire that I may never hear another sylla- 
 ble upon this business. Justice must take its course. I 
 have no concern in it whatever. Justice," he sternly 
 added, as he went down stairs to his carriage, " must, 
 and will be executed." — Justice vxis executed at that very 
 time, sir, upon the prime offender ; but he knew it not. 
 
 I spent the night in tears, and without going to bed : 
 often wishing the day would never dawn ; for I had prom- 
 ised to go to Dorchester, and inform my poor boy of the 
 event of my application. Would you suppose it ? I found 
 him fast asleep. He had not slept for a long time before. 
 But youth and nature had at last prevailed, and he was 
 in the sweetest, soundest slumber I ever saw. What a 
 thing it was, to wake and hear the tidings I had to tell ! 
 But affliction makes people old before their time. This 
 boy, who had been hitherto so sprightly, and so thought- 
 less, listened to me with all the silence and self-govern- 
 ment of a man. He spoke but very little afterwards in- 
 deed : nor would he trust himself to read Mary's letter 
 Avhile I stood by ; but earnestly requested me to write to 
 her. I almost overset him by desiring that he would do 
 so. But on looking in his face, and not being able to en- 
 dure the sight of what was painted there, I promised to 
 do it myself: and then, at his particular desire, I went 
 away. I did write to Mary, and it was, as you may 
 guess, sir, a letter that I feared would break her heart 
 when she received it. 
 
 What signifies describing all the sorrowful hours that 
 succeeded ! but never — no, never shall I forget the last 
 time I saw the poor lad, which was the night before he 
 was sent from Dorchester to be put, with other convicts, 
 on board the vessel. He was sadly downcast when I came 
 into the cell ; and his once healthy countenance was as 
 pale as ashes, except for the red marks that tears had left 
 upon it ; for he was too proud to shed any before me,
 
 82 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 though his breast swelled and heaved as if it would have 
 burst. To be sure it was a dismal sight ! so promising a 
 
 boy! — and not yet sixteen! Ah, sir, was tin-, as I after- 
 wards thought, the little fellow thai had been fondled and 
 caressed at Mandeville Park, and for whom so much had 
 been expected ! — But is not every infant fondled and ca- 
 ressed ? — The poorest outcast that ever went in irons to 
 finish his miserable life, as Bob did, in a distant country, 
 has been pressed to some maternal heart, more tenderly 
 perhaps than ever he was ! 
 
 "I have been considering, Mrs. Dixon," said the dear 
 fellow, " how it happens that all this evil and wicked] 
 have fallen upon me; and I think I have found out the 
 cause." 
 
 " And what is that, my dear Bob ?" said I, for I was 
 still accustomed to call him so, and he never took it ill of 
 me, though he would not suffer any bodv else to do it : 
 it was the name I used to him when he was a bit of a 
 child on my knee, and I loved it for that n ason. M What 
 is that, my dear Bob ?" said I. 
 
 "Why it comes from my having no father. My moth- 
 er, to be sure, was very good ; but then she was only 
 my mother : and you were very good too ; but I was a 
 boy, and I often thought to myself that boys should not 
 be governed by women : and her hand was as gentle 
 as her heart: so I grew up without any other guide than 
 my own proud thoughts, and easily fell a prey to the 
 wicked sutxcrestions of others. — Now, if I had had a fa- 
 
 I O 7 
 
 ther, Mrs. Dixon, you see I should have been saved from 
 all this ; for if he had been a rich man T should not have 
 fallen into the way of temptation ; and if he had been 
 poor and industrious, I should have early learned not to 
 be ashamed of poverty, and his example might have made 
 me industrious too: for indeed I was not naturally wick- 
 ed ! but God," added he, laying his linger on the Testa-
 
 THE LANDLADY'S TALK. 83 
 
 ment, which the chaplain had left with him, " as this book 
 assures me, will be a Father to the fatherless: and since I 
 have none to apply to in this world, I will put my t: 
 in Him." — I thought my heart must have broken: for, 
 
 with his linger between the leaves of the book, he dropped 
 on his knees, and hid his face over it : and when he raised 
 it again, on hearing my sobs, there was something so 
 sweet in his eyes, that mine were quite blind with tears. 
 Oh, what, have I since thought, had not Mary to answer 
 for! Dreadfully, sir, did she answer for it! Yet, had 
 Bob been Mr. Mandeville's son by her, would not his fate 
 have been the same ! for where, even in that case, would 
 he have found a father ? 
 
 " Be comforted, my good friend," said he, taking hold 
 of my hand, and forcing a smile as he saw my bitter dis- 
 tress ; " I am not going away, you know, for ever : and 
 as to the place — one should not mind that at my age ; one 
 may be honest, even among rogues and thieves. I have 
 a proud heart : my pride made me do a bad action ; I will 
 teach it to make me do good ones. Xo doubt there will 
 be people among those I am going to, that will know how 
 to distinguish between a simile transgression and hardened 
 sin : and when I have gained their good word, which I 
 will be sure to do, and have served out the appointed time, 
 who knows but I may be taken notice of, and return a 
 great, rich man, to you and my mother! — Yet then per- 
 haps" — here his voice suddenly faltered, and his heart 
 seemed to beat so quick that I thought it would have 
 bounded from his bosom, — "perhaps, after all this sad 
 disgrace, you will be ashamed to acknowledge me, — and 
 my mother — oh, she will, I am sure, be gone to that world 
 where neither the shame nor the sorrow of her poor 
 will ever reach her.'"' — This, sir, was the only time, 
 some days past, that he had ventured to speak of his moth- 
 er. — And I saw that all his courage and pride was quite
 
 84 C A H X E B B J: y T a L I B. 
 
 overcome when lie mentioned her Dame ; so we wept for 
 a long time together: — and, at his desir< >lemnly 
 
 blessed him for her, and did all I could to persuade him 
 that she would outlive this sad grievance; though. ■ 
 know.-, I had no faith in my own words : he luv.K however ; 
 and when his grief had taken its course, he began to r< 
 ollect himself, and to resume his natural charact- 
 Though in years little more than a child, he had the spirit 
 of a man in him ; and his mind seemed so full of youth, 
 and hope, and life, that in spite of his sad situation, it boiled 
 over: and he talked to me with so much eagerness of the 
 future: and of all the plans he had laid, and .all tin- n so- 
 lution-; he had formed ! — Poor lad ! he little thought there 
 was no future for him ! 
 
 In short, sir, we parted : I, blind with tears, and half 
 dead with fatigue. From that time I staid constantly 
 in my own little parlor, as though I had been a convict 
 in a cell : for I could not endure to see any of Mr. Man- 
 devillc's servants, nor himself, My whole prayer was t<> 
 get rid of them all: and so I remained the most solitary 
 creature alive: for there was no Bob now to come smiling 
 and rattling in, to amuse my long evenings. I reflected, 
 and conjectured, and considered, as much as though T 
 had the power to bring him back: and it seemed as if I 
 still felt some hope while he had not quitted England : 
 but whether he had done so or not, it was impossible for 
 me to ascertain : I waited, therefore, most anxiously for 
 Mary's return, who, having more sense than myself, I 
 thought might afford us some counsel or information, 
 
 I was sitting very sorrowfully alone one evening, with 
 the newspaper in my hand, waiting for the tea-kettle to 
 boil, and examining, as T constantly did, whether I could 
 find any tidings about the vessel that was to carry away 
 poor Bob, when suddenly, a voire that was more like the 
 shriek of a ghost than any human tongue, called me by
 
 THE LANDLADY'S TALK. 85 
 
 my name. I looked up, and standing in the door-way 
 beheld Mary. It was horrible to see her. She was not 
 merely white, but livid. Her figure, which was light, 
 and generally somewhat bending, was unnaturally stiff 
 and erect, Her eyes were wider open than usual, and 
 seemed quite glassy : in a word, she looked exactly like a 
 corpse placed upright. 
 
 "Lord have mercy on us, Mary," said I, starting and 
 dropping my spectacles, "when did you arrive?" 
 
 "Where is Mr. Mandeville?" said she, in the same 
 hurried and frightful tone as before, without taking her 
 eyes off me, or the smallest notice of my question. 
 
 " Why, what signifies where he is ?" replied I, much 
 alarmed, though I did not exactly know at what. 
 
 "Where is Mr. Mandeville?" again repeated she with 
 great violence, and with a gesture as though she would 
 have seized hold of me. 
 
 "I do not know — I can not tell," cried I, holding back 
 hi prodigious perturbation — "William, where is your 
 master?" I added, to a servant who was passing the 
 door. 
 
 "In the drawing-room, madam, playing with the 
 major." 
 
 " Tell him, Mary Lawson must see him this moment," 
 said she, addressing herself to the man in the same extra- 
 ordinary way. What he thought of her, I know not ; 
 but he seemed startled : so without farther delay he ran 
 up stairs, and opened the drawing-room door. Sure 
 enough, we heard the rattle of the dice, and the two gen- 
 tlemen laughing: Mr. Mandeville in particular; for he 
 had a loud and noisy laugh that one could not mistake: 
 it was his last, however, for many a long day ! — I suppose 
 the man delivered his message exactly, for the laughter 
 ceased as it were, all at once. 
 
 "Mary Lawson /" exclaimed Mr. Mandeville with 
 
 4*
 
 86 CANTEElil i:y tales. 
 
 ffreat vehemence, "and where the devil does she come 
 from V" 
 He had no time to say a word more: for Mary, who 
 
 had run like a wild thing up stairs, in spite of all my 
 efforts to prevent her, heard his voice, and burst into the 
 room. 
 
 "Your child — your own child, Mr. Mandeville, save 
 your child !" was all she could Bay. 
 
 lie shook her off roughly, for she had snatched hold of 
 the sleeve of his coat: but he changed color, and looked 
 very earnestly in her face. 
 
 "I call God to witness," said she, in a faltering, but 
 very distinct voice, " that Robert Innis is your own son. 
 lie is Robert Mandeville." — A pistobbullet could not 
 have taken a more sudden effect than these few words : it 
 was a frightful sight, sir, to see this great, strong man 
 drop dead like a stone at her feet : it was because he was 
 so strong, that the surprise thus acted upon him. 
 
 A surircon was sent for, and Mr. Mandeville was imme- 
 diately bled; his friend, the major, staying by. Tl 
 were then shut up in the room together for some little 
 time, after which, down comes the major into my parlor, 
 with a foce full of importance and care. 
 
 "Mrs. Dixon," says he, "where is the woman that 
 spoke to Mr. Mandeville just now? I most find out I 
 meaning of her address to him." 
 
 "Truly, sir," replied I, "I believe you must find her 
 souses first ; for she seems to be quite bereft of them." 
 
 "I wish she may," returned he. I did not altogether 
 understand him at the time, though I did, upon refection. 
 Mary, in the meanwhile, was lying on the bed in the back- 
 room. She had been in strong tils, and being at last 
 quite exhausted, and half insensible, (she had traveled, 
 sir, without stopping, two nights and two days,) I had 
 placed her there, hoping she might sleep: but she heard
 
 the landlady's tale. 87 
 
 a man's voice, and was in the room in a moment. Her 
 appearance, however, was quite altered from what it had 
 been half an hour before, and she was so feeble, as to be 
 obliged to support herself by whatever was nearest. The 
 major looked at her most intently. Mary had a sweet 
 face when she was a young woman, sir ; it was a sweet 
 face even at that crisis : for I know not how, but she al- 
 ways looked prettiest when she was very-very pale. Her 
 deep-set dark eyes and long black lashes, then gave her 
 an air as if something from another world were looking 
 out upon us. You never saw such lashes as she had. 
 
 The major, I say, surveyed her very earnestly ; and al- 
 though his countenance had been extremely stern when 
 she entered, it relaxed a little. He had no need to ques- 
 tion her, poor soul ! as to what she had before affirmed : 
 for out came the whole of her melancholy tale at once, 
 without further preamble or delay. He seemed much 
 disturbed at it. 
 
 " Woman," said he, resentfully, when she had finished, 
 " you have ruined Mr. Mandeville !" — Mary looked up at 
 him, but not a word did she utter. 
 
 " You have robbed him of what was as dear to him as 
 his life !" — Mary looked again : to my thinking, they were 
 speaking looks ; but not a syllable did she say. I thought 
 the major seemed embarrassed by them, however. 
 
 "This cursed connection," continued he, turning half 
 to me, only, I really believe, to avoid looking at her 
 again, "will cost him both his credit and his happiness." 
 
 "It cost me both," said Mary. 
 
 "Circumstances were very different," replied 1 
 angrily. 
 
 " Very ! — for I had nothing else to lose !"' 
 
 I am sure lie was moved, for he was a good-natur 
 man, sir; but he did not care to show it. — "The boy — 
 the poor unfortunate boy," said he to himself. k * What
 
 88 c a x t i; i: B U B v 'J' a l B 
 
 has become of him!" This w: I idling the tender 
 string with Mary; and oil* she went again, into ft 
 thing between madn< and bysterii -: finding lie 
 
 had obtained all the information that he could, lie 
 charged me to keep the girl close from observation, and 
 returned to his wicked companion. 
 
 And now, sir, if a ship htcd with gold conld have 
 
 redeemed the poor lad, his lather Mould have thought it 
 too little. Letter after letter was dispatched to all the 
 great lords in town, and to all the commi at eve 
 
 2">ort where it was supposed to be barely possible the yt - 
 sel might touch. As to his majesty's free pardon, that 
 was the very first thing secured. Then there was sueh 
 hoping, and such expecting, that here he might be stopped 
 — and there he might be stopped! and such preeautit 
 taken to supply him with money, and necessaries, and 
 protection of every kind, that he might appear like a gen- 
 tleman when he should be landed! — Poor fellow, little did 
 he think how many great folks, such as once would not have 
 deigned to look upon him, were now daily employed in 
 his service! But, alas, time passed away, and wherever 
 the ship put in, it was at no place where any tidings of 
 comfort reached him : he was on his dreary \ oyage, v, hi 
 "Mix. Mandeville, racked between hope and fear, w - 
 counting the days and the hours. To increase his chagrin, 
 the business could not be kept so quiet but that all his 
 own friends, and great numbers besides, talked of it open- 
 ly; and various falsehoods were circulated of the early 
 wickedness and bad disposition < ' the boy; so that it 
 seemed as if that cruel speech of Mr. Mandeville's which 
 drove Mary to desperation, " W here Mill you find a char- 
 acter ?" was now to be verified in the person of his more 
 innocent, but no less friendh ss child. 
 
 All hope of rescuing poor Bob, li'l he should arrive 
 the place of h}s destination, seemed at length oyer: but
 
 THE LANDLADY'S TALE. 89 
 
 orders were forwarded to expedite him from thence by 
 the very first possible opportunity : and during his stay 
 he was to be treated as the governor's own son, and I 
 know not what line things were to be done for him. But, 
 in the interim, that better Father, in whom lie trusted, 
 called him to his last home : for what with mortification, 
 and grief, and hard treatment, as we suppose, the poor 
 lad died just in crossing the line; and the end of all this 
 mighty bustle and preparation, was to hear, that, after a 
 tedious sickness, he was committed to a watery grave. 
 Mr. Mandeville continued to flatter himself that there 
 was some error in this intelligence, till proofs were re- 
 ceived, so authentic, as left him no possibility of doubting. 
 From the very hour that Mary was convinced that the 
 ship had left the channel, her head had never been right. 
 It would have broken any body's heart, sir, to hear her 
 talk continually of her boy, and of going to Newcastle to 
 find him : for in her rambling fits she confounded her own 
 first unhappy voyage, and his last, together; and nothing 
 could persuade her that he was not there. Possessed 
 witli this wild project, she escaped from those who had 
 the care of her, to undertake the journey on foot. Xo 
 Robert, as we well knew, could she find : but, to the 
 great surprise of the household, who were now all stran- 
 gers to her, she re-trod, in this fruitless search, a hundred, 
 and a hundred times the walks, the gardens, and the fields 
 where she had carried him, wdien a baby, in her arms. 
 At last, knowing every avenue to the house, she stole by 
 some means into the nursery, where, after remaining, as 
 it is supposed, nearly two days alone, she was found 
 watching an empty cradle, and dismissed by the servants. 
 My story would have no end were I to recount all the 
 hardships she must have sustained in her fatiguing and 
 perilous journeys. To be short, after wandering, heaven 
 Jtnows whither, she returned to me, so emaciated and al-
 
 90 CAXTEEBUBY TALES. 
 
 tered that I hardly knew her. I comforted her to the 
 best of my power ; when, by Bom >d luck, she e 
 
 denly took op the idea that one of those great L of 
 
 the Admiralty, who had been applied to for the hoy's re- 
 lease, had secreted him from her, and intended to keep 
 him under his own protection. Since that time she has 
 been perfectly harmless and quiet : talking only to I 
 selfortome: and in terms so obscure, that only tl. 
 who know her story can understand her. 
 
 As to Mr. Mandeville, he lives on in a miserable way ; 
 infirm in body, and very sick, I believe, in mind. The 
 tide of public opinion had changed before he left W 
 mouth; and I am told, that, great and rich as he is, he 
 too, in advanced life, feels remotely what it is to want a 
 character, — for respectability at least. General report 
 has now laid all the blame on him. He has been at one 
 time accused of wilfully persecuting his own child ; at 
 another the groom was said to be his, and the stran 
 boy to be the victim. Among so many tales, few people 
 have known which to credit : but all of them tended to 
 the disadvantage of Mr. Mandeville. He has been wound- 
 ed by cold looks and private whispers : nor, while Buffer- 
 ing under the double penalty inflicted by a reproaching 
 world, and a reproaching conscience, has he even the 
 same poor consolation which Mary finds, when she fine' 
 in her rambling fits, that Bob is a great man. and live 
 a palace. Alas, poor Alary ! 
 
 Though justice ever must prevail, 
 
 The tear licit pity Bheds is due: 
 For seldom shall we bear a tale 
 
 So sad, so tender, and bo tru< '
 
 THE FRIEND'S TALE. 
 
 STANHOPE. 
 
 Through these soft shades delighted let me stray, 
 While o'er my head forgotten suns descend ; 
 
 Through these dear valleys bend my casual way, 
 Till setting life a total shade extend. 
 
 Shenstone. 
 
 Sept. 2c7, 17 — . 
 
 " This day Colonel R , his lady and friends, left 
 
 my house, and set off at nine o'clock in the morning for 
 London." 
 
 Thus far says good Mrs. Dixon's memorandum-book : 
 but what does the poetical register add to this scanty al- 
 lowance of facts ? — It tells us, that nearly on the same 
 day of the month in the preceding year, an Englishman 
 of rank in the service, stopped with his bride, the young 
 and charming Countess deT — , at the warm baths of Leak. 
 A three months' tour through some of the most romantic 
 spots of Switzerland, after satiating their minds with the 
 bold, the sublime, and the terrible, had at length brought 
 them down to that point, when the human fire, even 
 though it bear but little resemblance to the divine, be- 
 comes one of the most interesting of all spectacles. The 
 country, into which they had entered during the full glow 
 of summer, already began to assume a new aspect : rich 
 shades of brown, or crimson, mingling with bright and 
 delicate purples, had taken place of the green : and the
 
 92 CA.N I E B U U K V T ALE S. 
 
 soft vicissitude of seasons, imperceptibly extending its in- 
 fluence to the heart, seemed, by a wise ordination, to ren- 
 der society delightful, at the vei-y period when the multi- 
 plying wants of man make it n< ry. 
 
 Never were two beings more calculated to enjoy this 
 social system than the travelers. Recently united by the 
 tenderest of all ties, they viewed the world, as they 
 viewed each other, with a disposition to be pleased ; a 
 disposition which the spot they now visited was peculiarly 
 calculated to cherish : for it was that on which they first 
 
 ■ 
 
 met; and where the casual civilities of acquaintance had 
 ripened into an attachment that decided their fate. L< i 
 however, that tempted them to the union, took care to 
 confine the reward almost wholly to itself: for the chief 
 inheritance of the young countess, whose father had 
 been a German, was an illustrious name, and a genea- 
 logical tree large enough, unhappily, almost to have 
 shaded his whole domains. It might indeed have pas 
 for the Sybil's bough, as far as gilded coronets and cr 
 could make it such: but of that more substantial and 
 common fruit which modern times demand, it was nearly 
 
 barren. English, however, as Madame de T was on 
 
 the mother's side, and brought up at the court of an 
 English princess, her tastes, her affections, her habits, 
 and finally, her husband, all were English: perhaps too 
 absolutely so. For Lieutenant Colonel Raymond, not 
 old, not ugly, not foolish; presumptive heir to a good 
 estate, (the actual possessor of which had wintered at 
 Florence on account of a languishing state of health.) 
 was diffident enough to meditate a thousand extravagant 
 projects to conquer his passion, before he ventured upon 
 the more simple expedient (»t* making it known to the 
 object. Nothing could be more unseasonable than this 
 
 delicacy, nothing more perversely captivating: inai 
 ment of tender enthusiasm it Mas nevertheless forgotten ;
 
 THE friend's tale. 00 
 
 and Madame de T , after hoping and fearing six 
 
 whole ages in the lover's calendar, six months in the 
 vulgar one, had at length the unexpected satisfaction of 
 seeing the man she loved at her feet, and of receiving 
 from him a sweet assurance that he had been so long 
 withheld only by a generous doubt with regard to his 
 pretensions. The young countess could hardly conceal 
 either her joy, or her surprise, at this avowal. It was so 
 strange, so extraordinary a prejudice ! — Where could be 
 the disparity between them? lie was well-born — so was 
 she : he was not rich, neither, alas, was she ! but he had 
 ten thousand natural advantages, while she — deceitful 
 poAver of love, how dost thou render the proud humble, 
 and the vain modest ! level the various fantastic distinc- 
 tions of life ; and rub off, through the influence of the fa- 
 vored individual, all the rough edges of character with 
 which we boldly incommode society at large ! 
 
 The joyful surprise of the countess had hardly subsided, 
 when a surprise of a very contrary nature seized upon all 
 her friends, or those who called themselves such. 
 
 "How! the favorite of her Serene Highness the 
 Princess of (three stars) ! the hciresss to the most illus- 
 trious branch of (four stars), the lovely and admired 
 
 Countess de T , espouse an indigent Englishman, only 
 
 because he had fine eyes and a good set of teeth !" 
 
 " Ah, his teeth are indeed very beautiful," said the 
 countess, with the most tender and naive tone imaginable, 
 " but it was not for that reason ! — it was his understand- 
 ing, — his heart !" — 
 
 " His heart ! — My dear countess, how you talk ! — Has 
 he rank — has he fortune ?" 
 
 " He has rank in the army : he has an estate in re- 
 version." 
 
 "That indeed qualifies the mischief, — but if he should 
 chance to die before it falls to him — "
 
 94 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 "Ah, if he dies," murmured the fair pleader, with a 
 voice subdued by sensibility, "of what consequence will 
 
 it be how I live V" 
 
 By arguments thus incontrovertible, our young orphan, 
 for such she was, at Length silenced all opposition ; and 
 while she hung delighted upon the arm of her husband, 
 
 as they bent together over the brow of a romantic preci- 
 pice, or guided him, in her turn, to some simple picture 
 of domestic felicity in those rustic cots which embellish 
 solitude, her defection was lamented by her lappetted, 
 routed, and titled friends, at the Court of (ten stars), 
 pathetically as if the world had been coming to an end. 
 
 But although woods, mountains, and glaciers are line 
 things, yet society, that labvrinth into which the adven- 
 turous delight, to plunge in search of pleasure, and from 
 which the timid shrink only through the fear of encoun- 
 tering pain, is still the point that every human heart more 
 or less inclines to seek. The love of this, and tl 
 delicate state of health that before brought Madame •' 
 T to Leuk, now induced her to try the salutary in- 
 fluence of its springs, previous to her visiting England. 
 Yet the spot, though embellished with the smiles of love, 
 was not a scene of gayety. The beginning, and conclud- 
 ing seasons of a watering place, often present to the view 
 only ihose whom necessity confines there; a group of 
 melancholy invalids, anxious still to bask in that sunshine 
 which they appear never again likely to behold. 
 
 Madame de T became but too sensible ot^ suffer- 
 ings which she daily witnessed. She had at first chosen 
 a situation as near the springs as she conveniently could : 
 but the attentive fondness of the colonel quiokly remove d 
 her from thence, to one of those beautiful though rustic 
 
 habitations peculiar to Switzerland, where the household, 
 presenting a miniature of the patriarchal days, becomes 
 
 no longer an establishment, but a family : in this sweet
 
 THE FRIEND'S TALE. 95 
 
 retreat she devoted herself to her music, her books, and 
 above all, to her husband. 
 
 " Yet my friend," said she to the latter, " let us not be 
 wholly selfish ! Sorrow and sickness are around. Shall 
 we fly from them because we are happy ? I remember 
 well my first visit here. I accompanied my mother, who 
 was Buffering under that malady of which she afterwards 
 died : but I was very young, and as I saw many persons 
 look much more indisposed than herself, I thought her 
 complaints half imaginary ; and the greater part of her 
 acquaintance declared them to be so. I am ashamed to 
 remember how easily I was induced to rely on this opin- 
 ion. How reluctantly I broke from my gay companions 
 to mingle with the infirm and the dispirited. ' Child,' 
 said she to me one day, when I had been somewhat im- 
 patiently looking out for favorable weather, which I was 
 inclined to persuade myself would remove all her suffer- 
 ings, ' let us not murmur against what Ave can not com- 
 mand : let us make the best use of what we can : health- 
 ful days are the gift of God only ; but, trust me, that to 
 an invalid there is no sunshine like the smile of cheerful- 
 ness; nor any breeze so reviving as the breath of love !■ 
 — Do you think I did not weep ?" 
 
 Colonel Raymond entertained the greatest respect in 
 the world for his wife's mother, although he had never 
 had the honor of seeino; her: he would have extended 
 the regard to her grandmother, had she insisted upon it, 
 but he had no taste for weeping parties. 
 
 " We will have a little music this evening," said he, as 
 he tenderly dried her tears. "The Syndic will bring his 
 violoncello : he is impatient to hear you sing, before he 
 departs from hence : so are Rivaz and his wife : it was 
 only yesterday that they importuned me to remind you 
 of your promise." 
 
 " They have a visitor at present."
 
 96 C a n T E i: B U BT J a i. R8. 
 
 "Yes: an Englishman. lie lias been a military man, 
 I think." 
 
 "lie has been a very handsome one." — Nothing, per- 
 
 haps, could be more true than both these remark- : yet it 
 happened that the colonel was as much out of the secret 
 of the stranger's features, as his wife was of his ] profession. 
 So certain is it that our habits of thinking decide the 
 measure of our observations : the reason why some peo- 
 ple make none, and others such an abundance of frivolous 
 ones. That the stranger was not well, had, however, been 
 obvious to both : it was therefore agreed, that to amuse 
 him he should be added to the party : but he proved un- 
 grateful, and would not be amused; on the contrary, he 
 charged his host with his thanks and apologies. He was 
 evidently wrong; for the party was delightful. Among 
 those who embellished it, Angelique, the fair daughter of 
 Rivaz, was not the least admired. Just turned of one- 
 and-twenty, tall, graceful, with one of the sweetest voices 
 in the world, breaking into natural trills and gra 
 was only when she sang that one discovered she could be 
 beautiful : but who then could be so beautiful ? 
 
 Madame de T — no longer encumbered with a hoop, a 
 stiff coiffure, and all the troublesome formality of a court- 
 dress, was herself very captivating. To the sprightly 
 graces she united that delicate taste, which, by a charm 
 incomprehensible to those who do not possess ii. is com- 
 municating to every thing it approaches. Within her 
 precincts all was fairy-land : without, the eye commanded 
 a bold and romantic scenery, the features of which insen- 
 sibly harmonized towards the fore-ground, into an image 
 of tranquility that made the little spot which she conse- 
 crated seem its center. 
 
 Each sound too, here t'> l&nguishmeat inclin* 1. 
 LullM tl^ eharm'd bosom; and induced ea 
 Aerial music in the warbling wind,
 
 THE FKIEND* STALE. 97 
 
 At distance rising oft, by slow degrees 
 Nearer and nearer drew : till o'er the trees 
 It hung ! 
 
 " Is not that your guest, who stands at this moment on 
 the brow of the hill?" said Colonel Raymond, taking the 
 flute from his lips, and pointing it towards the spot. 
 
 " I think it is : but he is not, properly speaking, our 
 guest, he is our lodger," returned Monsieur Rivaz, with 
 the frankness of an honorable poverty. " We are not 
 rich enough to entertain guests." 
 
 " He must be very unsociable," said the lady of the 
 house, " since he refused to join our party." 
 
 " Parties are his aversion : and, I believe, he does not 
 love to hear music." 
 
 " Then he has no sensibility." 
 
 "I doubt the conclusion," rejoined Rivaz, with a shrug. 
 
 The stranger, who considering that he did not love 
 
 music, seemed oddly fixed to a spot where the distant 
 strains could just reach him, now appeared to suspect 
 that he was observed, and slowly withdrew ; but he with- 
 drew only, as it proved, to show himself again with more 
 propriety : for the colonel and his lady were yet loitering 
 over a late breakfast the next day, when, in acknowledg- 
 ment of the invitation of the preceding one, Mr. Stanhope 
 was announced. Mr. Stanhope was a man of about five- 
 and-thirty ; tall, and gentlemanly : with eyes that an- 
 nounced more of mind than all Lavater's noses and chins 
 ever promised. His dress was an English blue coat, and 
 he wore his left arm in a sling. In his address there was 
 a tincture — a very little tincture — of singularity : a sort of 
 proud indifference, that seemed at once to assert its level. 
 In a word, the influence of a decided character, acting 
 upon an habitual politeness. Madame de T — had not 
 forgotten her old partiality for good eyes and teeth. Now 
 it happened that Mr. Stanhope's smile, though rarely to
 
 08 c a N x B B B u B v I A L B s. 
 
 l)e seen, was by far the most pleasing expression of his 
 countenance. lie did smile, however, rery agreeably on 
 being rallied by her on his aversion to music. 
 
 "The report of Monsieur Rivaz," replied he, U U i 
 
 quite exact : it is only good musiti that I .shun, I have no 
 objection to the mediocre." 
 
 "Surely one objection is rather more unaccounta] 
 than the other." 
 
 " Indeed ! I hope you will always think so, madam," 
 replied Mr. Stanhope. 
 
 " Ah, the chords of that heart have, I fear, been strained 
 into discord," said Madame de T — 1" herself as she 
 looked at him; for his smile vanished as he uttered the 
 last sentence. 
 
 "What say you, Augusta, to Mr. Stanhope's excep- 
 tion ?" cried Colonel Raymond, " may he venture amongst 
 our circle V" 
 
 "By all means: his exception is exactly what some of 
 us ought to desire. We may perhaps convince him that 
 his feelings are in no danger from our harmony.*' 
 
 "I am a bad visitor," returned Mr. Stanhope, wh< - 
 countenance had insensibly resumed its serious oast — 
 "My tastes — my habits, have long been unsocial: — and 
 my stay here will be so uncertain] — In the interim I 
 visit the springs every day for the benefit of my health ; 
 see I know not how many strange faces, and speak to I 
 know not how many strange people : if you knew what a 
 solitary mountaineer I am, when at home, you would cal- 
 culate the trouble it costs me to prepare both my mind 
 and my person lor such an exhibition. I can not resolve 
 to mingle in general society: and how shall a stranger 
 dare venture to propose intruding on your domestic re- 
 tirement ? — T shall not, however, acquire a character for 
 diffidence,' 1 he added, alter a pause, and half smiling.
 
 THE Fit I END'S TALE. 99 
 
 " when I add, that it was nevertheless with this hope that 
 I presumed thus to present myself to you." 
 
 " Choose your own mode of visiting," replied Madame 
 de T — : " our plan is indeed retirement, but not seclu- 
 sion ; and those who can embellish it, will always be wel- 
 come." So gracious a reception seemed to encourage 
 and attract their new acquaintance. His visit was of some 
 length, and he took his leave with reluctance. 
 
 There was that in Mr. Stanhope's conversation and 
 manners which greatly pleased the colonel : there was 
 that in his countenance which as greatly pleased the lady : 
 and, while listening to a discourse between him and her 
 husband, in which she had taken little share, she had re- 
 volved in her imagination every probable circumstance 
 that could give to such a countenance an air of spleen and 
 depression, that did not seem natural to it. In the midst 
 of these contemplations she cast her eyes — it may be by 
 chance, or by the habit of her sex, upon his coat : it was 
 not an ill-cut coat, — but it seemed to have done hard 
 duty, — in truth, it was somewhat threadbare. One secret 
 at least was discovered therefore. — Mr. Stanhope was 
 poor. She now looked at him again, and thought him 
 rather more prepossessing than before. Whatever in his 
 address had struck her to be pride, rose into dignity : neg- 
 ligence Avas graceful self-estimation : in short, having 
 looked away all of her heart which she had to bestow, 
 she was not dilatory in communicating its impulse to her 
 husband. They walked the next day to the spring, and 
 while discussing the subject, encountered him who had 
 given rise to it : but he was in one of his unsocial moods, 
 for he only bowed and passed on : yet, as at a certain dis- 
 tance he turned his head, Madame de T — noticed some- 
 thing anxious and singular in the earnest look which he 
 directed after them: and a curiosity, almost amounting 
 to interest, at once too!: possession both of husband and
 
 100 C A N T E B I! U R Y TALK.-. 
 
 wife, nor was it very soon either gratified or subdued: 
 for Mr. Stanhope, though he neglected not to avail him- 
 self of their invitation, remained perfectly silent on all 
 that respected him individually; Leaving it to his general 
 conversation and habits, to create internal conviction tl. 
 he was at least well-educated, and, most probably, well- 
 born. 
 
 "Our new acquaintance, Stanhope, has, I suspect, been 
 in the army," said the colonel to Rivaz, protracting a 
 morning visit, in order to sound him on the subject of his 
 guest. "You, probably, have known him long, and can 
 tell me something of his resources and connect ions. '■ Ki- 
 vaz knew nothing of either: he Mas a quiet, downright 
 Swiss, who, having served his country in a civil capacity, 
 and lost an only son in the military one, had for many years 
 retired from public affairs, and devoted himself wholly to 
 agriculture: nor had he the smallest curiosity as to the 
 business or concerns of any one with whom he associated. 
 
 " Of Mr. Stanhope's English connections," said he, u I 
 know nothing. He resides at present in that part of 
 Switzerland which borders on the Valais : where the hills 
 of St. Gothard, intersected by another chain, form a wild 
 and savage country, inhabited by some of our poorest 
 mountaineers. There are, I have been told, spots of sin- 
 gular beauty to be found there, by those who have per- 
 sonal strength and agility to explore them. Mr. Stanhope 
 seems hardlv to rank anions: that number: but he has an 
 undaunted spirit, and perseverance in every thing he un- 
 dertakes. He is known to some of the respectable persons 
 in Berne; and when he firsl visited this sp<<t, which was 
 about two years ago, his interesting manners, and a resem- 
 blance which my wile fancied she saw in him, to her son, 
 induced me, on the authority of 0m 1 of those persons, t" 
 admit him as an inmate, lie Mas then suffering very se- 
 verely from a bullet lodged in his arm. the consequence,
 
 105 
 THE FRIEND'S TALE. x 
 
 I fear, of a duel ; and which, as no operation has yet been 
 able wholly to relieve him from, still occasionally enfeebles 
 it. But I have never repented my hospitality. He is in- 
 telligent, brave, and humane. He w T as a brother to my 
 poor boy, when he returned wounded from the army; and 
 on his death, Mr. Stanhope forgot all his austerity and 
 reserve in order to console us." 
 
 "Austerity and reserve! are those, then, features of 
 his character ?" 
 
 " To me they appear the marking ones." 
 
 "I should not have judged so." 
 
 " Then you have seen him in a very favorable point of 
 view. In truth, I rather think you have. For what pur- 
 pose he has relaxed from his usual habits, I know not ; but 
 I was, certainly, surprised to find that he had, the other 
 day, volunteered a visit tc you : it is a circumstance that 
 I have never known occur in the case of any person be- 
 sides : for he uniformly, and decidedly, shuns society." 
 
 " Why then does he come here at this season ?" 
 
 " I know not : something unusual disturbs him ; I re- 
 
 « 
 
 member he said that he hoped to find a friend." 
 
 "And he has sought only me," said the colonel, musing. 
 " There is, indeed, no other Englishman here. But his 
 reliance ought not to be thrown away." 
 
 " I hope that it will not !" 
 
 " I am sure that it shall not, provided I have the power 
 to be useful to him." 
 
 "Dear colonel," said Rivaz, whose eyes and counte- 
 nance brightened as he spoke, you are then the friend he 
 wished to find. I suspected as much : it is so rare a thing 
 for Mr. Stanhope to be interested in any person, or to 
 praise, that when he broke silence the other evening to 
 speak with such high panegyric of you and your charm- 
 ing countess, I own it appeared to me somewhat extraor- 
 
 5
 
 100 
 
 jl 
 
 CANTi.i:i;i'i:v tales. 
 
 w 
 
 dinary : but why then does he profess never hitherto to 
 have known you :"' 
 
 "For the be>t of all reason.-, my good sir, because he 
 never hitherto did. You have misconceived me. Mr. 
 Stanhope's acquaintance and mine is of very late date. I 
 must cement it by serving him." 
 
 u Ah, colonel, you come from a happy country, where 
 every body is rich enough to be able to oblige." 
 
 "I am unfortunately an exception to that general rule 
 then," returned the colonel laughing, M as far, at least, 
 wealth is concerned : but I have influence and credit : let 
 Mr. Stanhope, therefore, convince me, "by his franknes 
 that he deserves I should employ them, and I may really 
 turn out to be the friend he came in search of." 
 
 tt Let me speak to his desert," replied Rivaz with un- 
 usual enthusiasm. "I will pledge my life that there 
 not a better man existing. My wife quite adores him for 
 his goodness to our family: indeed, she often Bays, that 
 if he were not so much of a philosopher in some thing 
 he would be an angel." The philosopher entered the 
 room at that moment : but his appearance had somewhat 
 more of the angel in it than a mortal well-wisher would 
 have desired to see. A faint and hectic glow upon his 
 cheek, languid eyes, and an exhausted air. Mere all symp- 
 toms of suffering. The colonel eyed his features stead- 
 fastly ; by stealth too he eyed his coat : Madam de T 
 
 was right; symptoms of suffering there also! "He has 
 perhaps been soliciting a favor," thought Raymond — 
 "has been refused — disappointed — treated possibly with 
 insolence by some insignificant and purse-proud German; 
 — a man of talents, and an Englishman too! — I can not 
 suffer the occasion to pass I" 
 
 The testimony borne by Rivaz to the merit ot^ Mr. 
 Stanhope had not been precisely of the nature desired by 
 the colonel, as it had no reference to the pas n-
 
 105 
 THE FKIEND'S TALE. 
 
 duct of the former: but it was warm, it was unequivocal; 
 calculated to enlist every generous feeling in the service 
 of the person whom he praised; and it had done so. 
 Colonel Raymond found himself disposed indeed to an un- 
 usual degree of active liberality, for it happened to be one 
 of those bright days in his life when his power to be gen- 
 erous seemed to extend with his will ; the mail of the 
 morning having brought him letters from England of a 
 very agreeable tenor. Buoyed up, therefore, by that hap- 
 piest of all sensations, the hope of making happy, he drew 
 Stanhope into the garden, and, forgetting in his zeal that 
 he had pre-supposed almost every circumstance that could 
 excite it, made him, after very little preface, an indirect 
 and delicate offer either of his services or his purse. 
 
 Nothing could equal the surprise of his companion at 
 this unlooked-for overture, except as it appeared his pleas- 
 ure. The latter, indeed, soon announced itself by the 
 change in his countenance to be so genuine and unalloyed, 
 as quickly to take place of every other feeling. 
 
 " I could almost wish," replied he, " to be indeed in tho 
 circumstances your offer supposes, that you might, by the 
 exercise of your philanthropy, feel a glow like that you 
 have excited. Sensations so pleasurable are not familiar 
 guests here," and he laid his hand on his heart ; " nor can 
 I at this moment tell you all their sources. In truth, how- 
 ever, dear colonel, I have no suffering but of the mind. 
 The appearance that has awakened your concern for my 
 health is now I believe merely caused by the fatigue of 
 those long rambles, I am apt to indulge in, and which per- 
 haps accord better with my inclinations than with my 
 strength. So much for one point ! — with regard to the 
 other, — on what circumstance you can possibly have foun- 
 ded your suspicion of my poverty, I own I am curious to 
 know." 
 
 "The inquiry will not lead us far," said the colonel,
 
 100 
 
 jl CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 v 
 
 laying his hand, with a most speaking glance, on the sleeve 
 of his companion's coat. Mr. Stanhope's gravity ot 
 
 proof against this acknowledgment. 
 
 "Alas, poor Yorick!" said he laughing, "is it even so! 
 I knew that I was negligent, hut I must confess that I did 
 not suspect I had so far forgotten the modes of life as to 
 be remarkable. I find myself, nevertheless, more indel >t ed 
 to a shabby coat than I ever was to a better. So, havi' 
 tried your kindness, I will endeavor, for the future, not to 
 disgrace it." The colonel now felt a little embarrassed, 
 and attempted to apologize. 
 
 "I see that you arc singular in more instances than one," 
 said Stanhope: "you thought better of me when you be- 
 lieved me to be poor, than since you have been undeceived. 
 The world at large decides very differently upon these 
 points. Allow me so far to profit by my knowledge of 
 your character, as to waive, for the future, all the ceremo- 
 nies of new acquaintance. You took the nearest road to 
 my heart when you permitted your own to expand. It 
 is an obligation which I shall never forget : and when I am 
 able to conquer a reserve now imposed upon me by circum- 
 stances, I will acknowledge it more fully." 
 
 The colonel was too generous to press, exactly at that 
 juncture, into a confidence which he doubted not would 
 soon be freely offered. Intimacy was therefore at once 
 established between them, and every day rendered it 
 equally amusing to both parties. Yet two men could hard- 
 ly be found who, while in essential points they resembled, 
 differed so widely hi the minuter ones of opinion. Stan- 
 hope's character of mind, like that of his countenance, in 
 its habitual expression, was reserved and severe. But the 
 sunshine of either was irresistibly prep sing. Colonel 
 Raymond, seen, indeed, in happier circumstances than his 
 friend, was more consistent, generous, and rational. \\\< 
 temper was open and liberal even to the extreme; and
 
 THE FRIEND'S TALE. 105 
 
 his frank and inartificial manners were at once the result 
 of his feelings, and of the habits of his profession. The 
 colonel's connections were of the higher class, but, in his 
 progress through life, he had had occasion to look below, 
 as well as above him; and either from prejudice or judg- 
 ment was decidedly of opinion, that the best qualities of 
 the heart are more likel} r to be vitiated by ignorance than 
 by refinement : in other words, that a certain degree of 
 intellectual improvement is necessary to both sexes, in or- 
 der to render the virtues permanent, and a certain degree 
 of polish to render them valued. 
 
 This doctrine of intellectual improvement and external 
 polish was a terrible heresy, according to the opinions of 
 Mr. Stanhope. In his view of life, nothing was admirable 
 that was not the fruit of unsophisticated nature. "What 
 unsophisticated nature might be, was a question that ne- 
 cessarily obtruded itself, and which they found it impos- 
 sible to settle. They reasoned, they quoted, they wran- 
 gled ; they brought authorities on both sides. To listen 
 to the two disputants, one should alternately have be- 
 lieved, that men, in their natural state, were to creep 
 upon the earth like brutes, or to exalt themselves to the 
 rank of demi-gods. They canvassed the point in all man- 
 ner of ways. They were sometimes pleasant, sometimes 
 serious, and sometimes, as is too often the case with dis- 
 putants upon every subject, secretly more irritable than 
 cither chose to avow. Nor did they fail still to go hand 
 in hand with other disputants in bringing home one con- 
 viction at least to the minds of bve-standers : ' that the 
 most common effect of argument is to confirm each party 
 more strongly than before in his own opinion. All this 
 time, however, confidence did not increase. They liked 
 each other better every day, and understood each other 
 less. Colonel Raymond was found undeniably guilty, ac- 
 cording to the persuasion of his new friend, of tolerating
 
 ] 06 C A N T K B j: r B Y tam: 
 
 frivolity and vice, in a degree that could hardly be par- 
 doned. Mr. Stanhope, on the contrary, surveyed every 
 thing allied to cultivation or elegance with a sugpici 
 eye. Polished society presented to his imagination noth- 
 ing lmt men who deceive or are deceived ; whose hatred 
 or love i< equally selfish ; and who have wandered bo very 
 wide from the natural standard of morals and feeling, 
 not even to know how to value that which is most val- 
 uable in each other. Of women he thought still wo 
 The sex is indeed one of those unlucky topics that gen- 
 erally distances a man's head or his heart: for where 
 the phoenix that calls both into the council when he speaks 
 of it? Mr. Stanhope, at least, was not such; and his 
 philippic would probably have run to some length, had 
 he not been interrupted. 
 
 "By your leave, we will stop at one half of the crea- 
 tion for the present," said the colonel, "and having, un- 
 der the name of argument, nearly exhausted invecti 
 suppose, my good friend, we turn to facts. Your e.v 
 rience, it should seem, has shown you the worst side of the 
 world. — I will reverse the picture ; yet go no further for 
 the example than my own situation. I have told ) 
 that it is not very affluent, and that my hopes of the fu- 
 ture are involved in uncertainty. — I marry a charming 
 woman, who could have no other motive — " 
 
 "Pause there, if you please," interrupted Stanhope, in 
 his turn. "I admit no panegyrics as facts, from a man 
 who has been married only four months.*' 
 
 "Xeither Turk nor Tartar was ever more iron-hearted, 
 I see, to the sex," said Raymond, laughing; "to spare 
 your feelings, however, on the subject, give me leave to 
 
 observe, that my panegyric there was merely thrown in 
 en passant. In the argument o^ disinterested regard, T 
 give you permission, if you demand it, to except both 
 matrimony and love. Mine will still be drawn from my
 
 THE FRIEND'S TALE. 107 
 
 experience ; as, to say truth, I suspect your more sple- 
 netic ones may be traced to the same source. I have the 
 prospect of a fine estate in reversion : the person who 
 holds it is a valetudinarian, and not indeed a marrying 
 man ; but on that subject most men are fickle. I have 
 no present claims on his fortune, never obliged, never 
 served him ; and should he, by any caprice, marry and 
 have an heir, he cuts me off at once, both now, and, if he 
 so pleases, eventually. Yet this very man, on hearing 
 that the connection I had* entered into afforded a very 
 inadequate provision, has, without solicitation, made over 
 to me a considerable property. I received legal informa- 
 tion of this business on the very day when I made certain 
 unnecessary offers to you ; and I will not deny that the 
 occurrence influenced both my feelings and my conduct. 
 What answer have you for this ?" 
 
 " That jT, at least, was very much obliged to him." 
 
 " And am not I also ?" 
 
 " Of that I can not speak, unless I knew his motives of 
 action : yours I am able to decide upon." 
 
 " What other than a liberal and disinterested spirit 
 could possibly actuate him ?" 
 
 "As if one could judge of a man's motives whose 
 character is wholly unknown. Ostentation, caprice, a 
 thousand peculiarities occasion such strokes as this. Per- 
 haps he wanted to purchase a friend." — Colonel Raymond 
 looked offended. " Pardon me," said Stanhope, extend- 
 ing his hand towards him, " it does not necessarily follow 
 that friends are to be purchased, because weak men go 
 to tbe market in search of them." 
 
 The colonel did not refuse his hand, but he was 
 secretly displeased. The more easily so, as he had spoken 
 unreservedly of his own concerns, in order to encourage 
 a confidence that yet did not promise to be mutual. He 
 communicated his feelings to his wife : but the character
 
 108 CANTERBURY TALL 
 
 of Madame de T was formed of still more indulgent 
 
 materials than that of her husband. 
 
 "We must have patience," said she gayly. "Mr. Stan- 
 hope, it is evident, is chagrined and disappointed. He aj>- 
 pears therefore severe, acrimonious, unbending. Th 
 are the marking features of his understanding, and it is 
 by that you have judged him. My calculations of his 
 character are drawn from his heart : which most contrib- 
 utes to decide the fate of the man I leave the sages of the 
 world to determine. For my own part, my opinion is 
 fixed. Our new acquaintance, like an animal shut up in 
 an exhausted receiver, has panted and gasped aim 
 death : but do not despair, for he is not quite gone! let 
 US supply him an atmosphere, and the creature will U 
 I think, too, I know the atmosphere that will revive him. 
 Nature is in her beauty : — we will try her influence to- 
 morrow." 
 
 It was the season of harvest. Angelique, adorned with 
 garlands of wild flowers, thrown over her by the rust 
 and crowned like a youthful Ceres, presided at the rural 
 festival that closed it. She mingled with the dancers, 
 while the elder peasants of the neigborhood, and those 
 more immediately employed by Rivaz, assembled in 
 crowds round the kind-hearted old man, and his respect- 
 able wife. A thousand demonstrations of regard Mere 
 interchanged in the circle, and the air was filled with the 
 soft murmur of happy and social life. Stanhope v 
 deeply sensible of its influence. 
 
 "Ah, this is indeed genuine cordiality and attachment l" 
 
 exclaimed lie, as with Madame de T and her husband 
 
 he stood a distant spectator of the joyous scene. "I too 
 may flatter myself that I have such friends at home !" 
 The colonel could not help smiling; for while this burst 
 of general philanthropy escaped from his lips, his looks 
 were fixed solely upon the lovely girl who presided at the
 
 THE FRIEND'S TALE. 109 
 
 festival : and that with an expression that could not he 
 misunderstood. 
 
 " Do you then keep a seraglio of them ?" said he, very 
 gravely. — " Nay, never start, my dear Stanhope ! your 
 eyes could not be better directed than tow r ards An- 
 gelique." 
 
 " Angelique did not engross my thoughts." 
 
 " I spoke only of your eyes : but pray of which sex 
 are these friends, capable of extorting that title from 
 such a stoic as yourself?" 
 
 M Come with me, and judge whether or no they de- 
 serve it. I must return home within a very few days : an 
 indispensable duty calls me thither. — Duty, did I say ?" — 
 and he paused, — " let me term it inclination : be my com- 
 panion, and I shall quickly convince you that I am no 
 stoic." 
 
 " I am perfectly convinced of that, without stirring a 
 single step from hence, my good friend : but let us strike 
 a balance of pleasure ; you are obliged to return home ; 
 the journey, from your account of it, promises me a view 
 of some parts of the country too wild and dangerous to 
 be explored with a female companion. I will be your 
 fellow-traveler, if you will engage that your stay shall 
 not exceed a limited time : I may afterwards call upon 
 you to be mine." 
 
 The arrangement was made hi a very few days. — 
 Colonel Raymond had not seen the glaciers that lay within 
 their intended track, and, as his residence at Leuk was 
 now drawing to a close, he was willing to complete his 
 view of Switzerland. It was his intention to pass from 
 thence to Florence, in order to visit the relation and ben- 
 efactor to whose liberality of spirit lie stood so much in- 
 debted : after which his professional duties recalled him 
 to England. To England, Mr. Stanhope also declared 
 his intention of going; but whether the intimacy now
 
 110 CAM T i: BBV B V T A L I 
 
 subsisting be1 them, was to be prolonged 1 
 
 the usual date of accidental acquaintance, it remained 
 with circumstances to decide ; or rather, it remained with 
 Mr. Stanhope himself; who could not nably expect 
 
 its duration, if he continued to | ve that mysterious 
 
 silence which left his past conduct and character in total 
 obscurity. In proportion, however, as the day fixed for 
 his departure approached, he grew more thoughtful and 
 serious. It seemed as if the charms of that home of which 
 he boasted were hourly less attractive. He courted the 
 regard of Madame do T — with an assiduity which he had 
 never before shown, and for which she could not account. 
 How indeed was it possible she could calculate the aim 
 he proposed to himself in thus deviating from the habi 
 of his character ! he did not court Angelique ; but there 
 was an eloquence in his silence, even in his reserve, where 
 she was concerned, no less moving or convincing than 
 words would have been. 
 
 " We shall civilize him, I perceive," said Madame de 
 T — , "but it will he a work of time. In the interim, he 
 is throwing his own happiness to a distance, and wound- 
 ing a tender bosom. Angelique, I am persuaded, is af- 
 flicted at his approaching departure. She sheds tears in 
 private. If I believed him capable of reading her heart, 
 and of trifling with it, I should hate him." 
 
 "Of such a trespass he may safely be acquitted. A 
 heart like Angelique'fl is of all others that which he is 
 least likely to understand. Extravagant passions, and 
 corrupt tastes, if not principles, form to him the picture 
 of the human race. He is yet to learn the Boffcer shad 
 of the mind ; and to see how duties, affections, and do- 
 rum, blend together in the habits of what he calls Bopl 
 tioated life; and though they take something from the 
 force of the character, bestow at least an equivalent in 
 preserving its equilibrium. Angelique will never display
 
 THE FRIEND'S TALE. Ill 
 
 the best qualities of hers, much less its tenderness, xm] 
 both are called forth by unlooked-for scenes. Her man- 
 ners are tranquil and unpretending, and her character is 
 only to be found in her heart. I am not convinced that 
 he will have judgment enough to seek it there. But the 
 ancients raised altars to Good Fortune, and your charming 
 friend must, I fear, do the same thing, if she hopes to 
 make him a proselyte to the sincerity of love, or we to 
 that of friendship : but let us first be convinced that lie is 
 worth the trouble of converting." 
 
 On this subject the colonel began secretly to entertain 
 some very strong doubts. The continued reserve of his 
 new friend surprised and offended him. He had himself 
 gone great lengths to invite confidence, and to see it thus 
 obstinately withheld, induced suspicions with regard to 
 the life and connections of Mr. Stanhope, which it was 
 absolutely necessary should be removed, before intimacy 
 could be carried further between them. It had begun in 
 favorable circumstances ; it had been assiduously culti- 
 vated by a man who evidently shunned society at large : 
 from what motives he sought it in this particular instance 
 remained therefore to be discovered. Not mercenary 
 ones, it was plain ; yet on this single testimony rested all 
 that the colonel could ascertain to be truly estimable in 
 his character. It was no little argument in favor of its 
 agreeableness, that, under such disadvantages, he should 
 have conciliated a portion of regard from every individual 
 of the circle in which he lived. But there was a grace in 
 the negligence of his manner, a charm even in the faults 
 of his understanding, which it was impossible wholly to 
 define or resist : somewhat that awakened all the higher 
 tones of mind in those around, and gave an interest to' 
 common events and topics that is very rarely created by 
 them. Colonel Raymond, however, was not to learn that 
 advantages of this kind are often found to be, of all •
 
 112 I \ N T EBB T JR Y TALES. 
 
 ers, most deceitful : — and he would have been inexcusable 
 to himself, had Ik- carried to any unusual length his inter- 
 est for a man whose habits of thinking were so likely to 
 have tainted his heart. In the persuasion of obtaining 
 every necessary information that should justify intimacy, 
 the colonel had not long before mentioned the plan of hi 
 intended journey to Florence ; as well as the partienla 
 of his subsequent route to England ; and indirectly placed 
 it within Mr. Stanhope's choice to accompany him to 
 both, or either place. 
 
 "And wherefore," said the latter, who did not by any 
 means approve of the delay, " should your journey be 
 thus retarded ? will not the friend you are going to see 
 be more surely your friend when at a distance from you? 
 and why should you place yourself in the power of a ben- 
 efactor? Benefactors are dangerous people. Are you cer- 
 tain that he will not in some way shackle you by means 
 of the obligations which you conceive him to have con- 
 ferred ? Be assured that this is a work of supererogation 
 on your part which will answer no good purpose. Men 
 are best situated when they know not each other inti- 
 mately." 
 
 "That is, when they can deceive, without giving us a 
 right to reproach them : for such is the common privilege 
 of superficial acquaintance. A qualifying doctrine for 
 cold hearts ! — was yours of that number when your coun- 
 tenance kindled at a mere intentional kindness on my 
 part ?" 
 
 "I was taken by surprise," replied Stanhope, with em- 
 barrassment. 
 
 "It is necessary then to surprise you into your best 
 feelings: but let ua have done reasoning each other out 
 of them. lean sympathize with disappointment, my dear 
 Stanhope; it is a blight : but beware of a canker ! eternal 
 distrust is neither manly nor honorable," Other company
 
 THE FRIEND'S TALE. 115 
 
 intervened and the conversation concluded. Subseque\. 
 recollection was not calculated, however, to produce re- 
 liance on him who supported it, and it was, therefore, un- 
 der a mingled impression of distrust and curiosity that 
 the colonel had consented to the expedition, which the 
 two gentlemen were on a point of undertaking together : 
 but Stanhope had spoken of claims that called him home. 
 A word often contains a volume : and a single monosyl- 
 lable, dropped by accident, had informed Colonel Ray- 
 mond that a female was concerned in those claims. He 
 did not communicate his surmises to his wife : it was 
 enough that he would soon have the opportunity of as- 
 certaining their truth : and on the particulars which this 
 opportunity should develop, rested all his future deter- 
 minations with respect to Mr. Stanhope. 
 
 Chance sometimes produces more than is effected by 
 our deej)est laid plains. The colonel had occasion to ride 
 to Sion. Pie resolved on this late in the evening, set out 
 at daybreak, and was not many hours absent : yet, by a 
 singular concurrence of circumstances, he became ap- 
 prised in that short space of time of all that related to 
 Stanhope. His disappointments, his pretensions, his prob- 
 able views : every thing, in short, that was necessary to 
 be known in order to decide his own conduct respecting 
 him ; nor had he the smallest scruple left in becoming for 
 the future his most intimate associate and friend. Plans 
 still more liberal and enlarged passed through his imagina- 
 tion, but they yet rested there. The secret of the female 
 companion was the only one he now had to learn, and till 
 that could be developed he judged it most prudent to 
 confine to his own bosom the knowledge he had so lately 
 acquired. He was therefore impatient to depart ; and al- 
 though it was evident that his friend, whatever the claims 
 that called him away, was still disposed to loiter, they set 
 out within four days from that period.
 
 ! 12 
 
 CANTERBURY T A L ] 
 
 er lt was the first time that Madame de T had part 
 
 with her husband from the hour he became such ; and, in 
 truth, she secretly prayed that it might be the lai 
 
 "This, my dear Angelique, is a terrible experin 
 said she, in a half whisper, "but it must be throuj 
 
 with. The hearts of men differ strangely from ours 1 I 
 could live in his eyes, but his I perceive must wander 
 over other objects if I would have them always meet 
 mine with delight." 
 
 " Yet you resolved unreluctantly." 
 
 "Oh, no — not unreluctantly! — a tender woman mu^t 
 ( suffer when she misses the society of her husband — but a 
 wise one, methinks, would desire, that lie should some- 
 ^times miss hers. — Go then," she added, turning to the 
 colonel, and gayly raising her voice, "go and reconnoitre 
 the manner in which our philosopher lives, not wholly un- 
 like that of Robinson Crusoe, if I may judge by his hint-. 
 Gun — fur cap and all ! — follow him, then, honest Friday ! 
 I think your brother savages in that part of the world 
 will not eat you, and we have only to hope that a hard 
 frost will not lock you up, and oblige you to cat them." 
 
 The evening of the first day lodged the travelers at the 
 small village of M.,* within the canton of Berne : where 
 they were received by a respectable ecclesiastic with 
 characteristic hospitality. He was a man of a dignified 
 and interesting appearance, somewhat advanced in life, 
 but intelligent and well-educated: who, after spending 
 several years as tutor in a family whose chateau extended 
 its domains as far :is to his own small habitation, had re- 
 tired to the latter in order to finish his career. Tin- 
 ond day's journey presented a wilder scene. At a certain 
 station they met two peasants previously appointed by 
 Mr. Stanhope, who brought several necessary article - 
 provision, besides garments lined with warm furs ; I
 
 THE FRIEND'S TALE. 115 
 
 gcther with crampons and poles for passing over the 
 smooth ice, or leaping the chasms. 
 
 "If you are an adventurous traveler, w said Stanhope, 
 "these will be useful. We will, in that case, dismiss our 
 horses, and trust only to ourselves. If otherwise, I can 
 lead you by a road, less wild indeed, yet rich in natural 
 beauties ; where, from different points you may safely see 
 much of what the other would present you." It is need- 
 less to say which path the colonel preferred; but it may 
 be charitable to suppose that he did not repent it, even 
 when he saw his companion tottering on the brink of a 
 precipice, or, by personal agility, passing elefts, where the 
 smallest failure would have been certain destruction. 
 While the river (the devious course of which they fre- 
 quently pursued) sometimes rushed in cataracts that half 
 stunned them ; and sweeping away every thing that ap- 
 proached to vegetation, presented a wild chaos of rock 
 and water. At others, overshadowed by forests of pine, 
 it was visible only from the foam that dashed through 
 their dark branches. Alps piled on Alps apparently 
 bounded their course as they proceeded ; till, silently re- 
 posing in the bosom of solitude and winter, immense gla- 
 ciers seemed to form the central station of both. 
 
 The shadows of the third day were lengthening, w T hen, 
 in consequence of a new direction which they had taken, 
 the country insensibly became less savage. Little cot- 
 tages were occasionally sprinkled in the hollows of the 
 mountains ; and the faint tinkle of the sheep-bell an- 
 nounced traces of civilization. Mr. Stanhope quickened 
 his pace as he approached a spot, where, at the oj:>ening 
 of a small and sheltered valley, he cast his eyes eagerly 
 forward. Those of Colonel Raymond followed them, and 
 rested upon a low but spacious building, which, fenced by 
 its situation from the keener blasts of winter, yet, by its 
 well-thatched roof and solid sides, denoted the necessity
 
 110 C A X T I] E P, U B Y T A LI8, 
 
 of providing against them. A loud whittle fromMr. Stan- 
 hope brought out at the same moment a very fine dog, 
 which springing towards him, announced by the m< 
 
 travagant caresses the joy that his mast' turn had 
 
 created. The colonel entered his friend's habitation with 
 
 curiosity and surprise. The light was still strong upon 
 the mountains, but mists were creeping over the val! 
 and the blaze of a large wood-fire, that spread its social 
 light through a well-furnished apartment, inspired that 
 exquisite sense of comfort which is only known in winter. 
 For winter the feelings of both parties determined it to 
 be, in spite of the calendar. Stanhope quitted his go 
 for a moment ; but presently returning, 
 
 "I am too soon," said he, "my household is not yet 
 assembled." While he was speaking, the low note of a 
 shepherd's pipe was heard from the mountains, — "They 
 are approaching," he added ; " come and see my family." 
 
 The colonel instantly followed to the kitchen, where, at 
 the further end, near the fire, sat a young woman peeling 
 hemp. She wore a corset, the short waist and petticoats 
 of her country, and her hair twisted up with a silver bod- 
 kin. On a sort of rug, not fir distant, lay two little 
 sturdy mountaineers; one, to appearance, about four, the 
 other, perhaps, five years of age. Whose ruddy cheeks, 
 and curling locks, were half hid, as, weary with the sports 
 of the day, they lay twined in each other's arms. While 
 across them, not less weary with his joy, the dog stretcl 
 his nose with social familiarity. 
 
 "Are these all yours?" said the colonel, pointing with 
 a smile to the group. 
 
 "Arlettc will tell you," replied Stanhope; — "Arlette 
 understands a little English," The colonel felt reproved : 
 for he had spoken in that tongue on the supposition that 
 she would not comprehend it : but Arlette either did BOfl 
 hear, or did not attend to him; lor with eves earnestly
 
 IUE FRIEND'S TALE. 117 
 
 fixed upon her benefactor, as on a superior being, she 
 seemed sensible of nothing but the delight of seeing him 
 again. The strain of music, which in the interim had 
 grown stronger, now suddenly ceased : and into a spacious 
 and low apartment beyond the kitchen, where long tables 
 were spread, and the hearths heaped up with fuel, poured 
 a promiscuous train of peasants to their evening meal. 
 Stanhope suddenly advanced amongst them : when, as if 
 touched with electricity, the whole group burst at once 
 into a hum of joy and congratulation. The children fa- 
 miliarly advanced to kiss his hand and stroke his coat. A 
 more respectful sense of pleasure was announced in the 
 countenances of the young men ; w T hile still stronger to- 
 kens of it flowed down the furrowed and silvery cheeks 
 of the old. Age seldom weeps for sorrow; it is the 
 stranger joy that calls forth its tears. 
 
 " You have indeed friends, and I perceive that you de- 
 serve to have them," said the colonel, moved by the scene 
 before him. "Why, dear Stanhope, do you quarrel with 
 a world which owes you so much ?" Unwilling to appear 
 an obtrusive observer, he then passed to the inner apart- 
 ment ; where, after considering with deeper interest than 
 he had before felt, the character and conduct of his com- 
 panion, curiosity once more revived on the subject of the 
 female inmate whom he yet was to see. None such had 
 been hitherto visible, except Arlette. Although young, 
 she was not remarkably handsome, and the manners of 
 Stanhope towards her produced internal conviction that 
 she was no way particularly interesting to him. Her 
 husband, a sun-burnt, but well-looking peasant, had also 
 formed one of the group : Arlette could not, therefore, 
 be the hidden fair one that had attached a man of Mr. 
 Stanhope's education and fastidious habits. While ho 
 was yet agitating the point with himself, Stanhope ap- 
 peared.
 
 118 CANT i: B B ( BT T A L B S. 
 
 "Are you converte<] ?" said he, with a smile, as he en- 
 tered. "Do you nol approve of the exchange I have 
 made from more elegant ty to that of these rusti 
 
 whose attachment to m . i once genuine and warm ; 
 wl manners bespeak the uprightness and candor of 
 their lives, and on whom I may safely rely at every period 
 of mine ?" 
 
 "I see much to approve, and much even to admire," 
 replied the colonel, who did not at that juncture feel him- 
 self disposed to enter more deeply into the subject ; "but 
 I am mistaken, or you have not yet shown me all that 
 admirable here/' 
 
 "No ! — but you shall see her immediately." — He then 
 took a light and passed on to another end of the house, 
 where, stopping at an outward apartment, he laid his lin- 
 ger on his lips in token of silence, and invited the colonel 
 softly to advance. The latter impatiently looked into the 
 adjoining room, which was spacious and neat. In a cano- 
 pied recess stood a small bed with white fringe and fur-" 
 niture, and in it lay, fast asleep, a lovely child of about six 
 years of age. One ivory shoulder was almost bare, as the 
 arm that belonged to it had been negligently stretched 
 over the counterpane; the other arm, which was under 
 her head, by communicating an unusual degree of warmth, 
 had called up the richest and most lively carnation into 
 the cheek that reposed on it. 
 
 " This is a fairy Venus indeed!" exclaimed Raymond, 
 with admiration and surprise ; and looking nearer, he saw 
 the miniature features of his friend. — wt What," he added, 
 
 an possibly induce you to keep her here '."*' 
 
 " I can keep her here no longer. Yet for many months 
 has she been mv chief companion, and my onlv felicity. 
 But I dare not expose a frame like hers to the piercing 
 blasts of such a winter as we have to encounter here. 
 Nothing, however, can be more healthful, vigorous, and
 
 THE FBIEXD'S TALK. 119 
 
 sprightly, than she has hitherto been. Here are roses ! — 
 Stooping, he gently kissed her cheek, and as gently cov- 
 ered up the beautiful little shoulder. — " Arlette," he 
 added, as they quitted the room together, " is the best- 
 creature in the world. She is also a mother — and her 
 care has been unremitting: — but her care alone will no 
 longer suffice." 
 
 "Bring the sweet child away with you by all means." 
 
 "Whither? — to whom?" replied Stanhope, with some 
 asperity. 
 
 " To my wife — to Angelique." 
 
 " Madam de T will have other cares to engage 
 
 her — and Angelique " — he faintly colored as he pro- 
 nounced her name. — " Angelique cannot be a mother to 
 her." 
 
 " I am not sure of that, unless you are determined to 
 the contrary." 
 
 "Xo, no: Angelique has no tenderness : she does not 
 know how to love." 
 
 " Oh, you are further gone yourself than I suspected 
 you to be, if you have already arraigned her for that 
 crime. Come, do not be affected, dear Stanhope ! leave 
 that sort of stuff for the world you have fallen out with. 
 You cannot be ignorant that Angelique only waits to 
 know that she is beloved, in order to bestow her heart." 
 
 " Waits to know that she is beloved !" repeated Mr. 
 Stanhope, acrimoniously. " Is it thus that hearts are be- 
 stowed ?" 
 
 " Yes, my good friend, it is thus that the heart of an 
 amiable and well-educated young woman is — nay, entre 
 nous — I think, ought to be bestowed. You have accus- 
 tomed yourself to think otherwise. You have possibly, 
 at your outset in life, encountered some Heloise, who hi 
 broken a thousand obstacles to throw herself into your 
 arms ; and, ten to one, as many more to free herself from
 
 1 20 C ANTE B I) D B I T A L B S. 
 
 them. You have believed that the world has seduced 
 her; and you have not seen that she did not know how, 
 in any instance, to contend with hersel£ If you are re- 
 solved to persist in this dream of the imagination and the 
 senses, I have nothing more to say : but if you are in 
 search of permanent happiness, you will find it a ted 
 
 with gentleness, with modesty, with self-distrust : in a 
 word, with that sort of character which the high-flyers of 
 romance, as well as those of ton, who often mean nearly 
 the same thing under a different name, will perhaps 
 choose to depreciate by the term mediocrity. — Ange- 
 lique's," he carelessly added, "is, I rather believe, of this 
 description. — It may be best therefore to think of her no 
 more." 
 
 "I see nothing that should prevent my continuing to 
 do so, in what you have announced," returned Stanhope, 
 a little peevishly, and without perceiving the good-natured 
 malice that had dictated the last sentence. 
 
 " Guilty, decidedly, my dear friend, by your own con- 
 fession," said the colonel, laughing : "and since that is 
 the case, continue to think of her in any way you like, — 
 it will come to the same thing in the end." 
 
 "I had very different plans when I loft — that is when 
 I returned this second time to Leuk," said Stanhope. "I 
 had banished all ideas of the kind, and had resolved never 
 to marry." 
 
 "Then no man living is so well entitled as myself to tell 
 you that you made a very foolish resolutu>n.' , 
 
 "I might perhaps convince you, sooner than any other 
 man living, to the contrary, were I to try." 
 
 "Then pray forbear the experiment ! my wife will not 
 thank you for it : besides, we have not the knack o*i con- 
 vincing one another; it would therefore be s«> much time 
 lost. Make your determination at once Return to 
 Leuk: take your little girl with you; and if your heart is
 
 THE FRIEND'S TALE. 121 
 
 so inclined, try whether Angelique can be taught how to 
 love. Remember that it is I who advise this, and who 
 am willing to stand by all the ill consequences that may 
 arise from it." 
 
 " I shall remember ;" said Stanhope, musing : " but I 
 am so savage — so unaccommodating — so little likely now 
 to inspire affection. — " 
 
 " You want me to tell you that the girl is distractedly 
 in love with you. I shall affirm no such thing : for, in the 
 first place, I do not believe it." Mr. Stanhope defended 
 himself very gravely from this accusation. His friend 
 laughed at his earnestness, and denied the love altogether 
 on the part of Angelique : but unwilling to check the bias 
 that became every moment more apparent, he took care 
 to throw in many little particulars respecting her, that 
 spoke more in its favor than his assertions made against 
 it : not failing to repeat, however, that the observations 
 he communicated were merely his own, unsupported by 
 those of his wife. But he could hardly forbear smiling, 
 on penetrating into the secret pleasure which Stanhope 
 felt in disbelieving him. The conversation ran into length, 
 till the colonel was finally obliged to break it off. 
 
 "My dear Stanhope," said he, "it is very plain that 
 you are in love, and that I am not ; for I am terribly 
 sleepy. Remember how many miles we have traveled 
 to-day : and what miles ! give me a candle, therefore, and 
 show me my chamber, if you do not mean that I should 
 disgrace myself." Never did Colonel Raymond enjoy 
 better rest than on that night. A sense of self-approbation, 
 which he was well entitled to indulge, united with real 
 fatigue, to lull both body and mind into the most refresh- 
 ing sleep. He opened his eyes upon a bright morning 
 sun, which fell in strong lights and shades over a country 
 of various and exquisite beauty. Stanhope was already 
 abroad, and his friend sallied forth in search of him ; but,
 
 122 C a \ I J. B r, D B I T A L E 
 
 being wholly unacquainted with his haunts, their meeting 
 
 was not very probable : nor was the colonel impatient that 
 it should take place. He had himself some points to con- 
 sider, in order that he might perform to his own satisfac- 
 tion, the part he had undertaken in the little romance 
 of the day. It was one which, however accordant 
 with his character, required caution and address; nor was 
 it, therefore, without previous consideration, although 
 vailed under the appearance of gayety, that he endeavored 
 to contrast the passion which he well knew had marked 
 the early part of Mr. Stanhope's life, with that which there 
 was reason to believe would till up the remainder of it. 
 The particulars of that life the colonel was sufficiently ac- 
 quainted with, though a long and professional absence 
 from England had prevented his observations from being 
 personal : it was, indeed, the common history of thousan 
 of men, born, like Mr. Stanhope, with advantages that 
 enable them to choose their own fate. Deceived by I 
 mistress — betrayed by his friend — duped alternately in 
 his progress through life by violent passions, and refined 
 tastes, he had run a tumultuous career, in which nothhi 
 indeed, had been dishonorable, but all had been vapid and 
 disappointing. He had revenged himself, as men of honor 
 too often do, upon those who have none ; and after 
 wounding his antagonist so dangerously as to be obliged 
 to quit his country, and find temporary obscurity in an- 
 other, he had resolved, in a fit of spleen, to return thither 
 no more. The fact was, that Mr. Stanhope had attained 
 that period of lii'e at which man first begins to discover 
 the limit of his own views and his own powers. A period 
 \:\ivn minds of strong imagination, and sanguine he]' 
 as often quarrel with themselves as with the world: and 
 
 he had quarreled with both, merely because he knew l. 
 how to circumscribe his expectations from either. In 
 quitting it, he carried away with him no consoling reth
 
 THE FRIEND'S TALE. 123 
 
 tions: for the child, whom he cloated upon, lie could not 
 legitimate ; nor did he know where to find a female pro- 
 tector or friend, that should shelter her from dangers, 
 which his own dear-bought knowledge of life taught him 
 to calculate with even exaggerated apprehension. A plan 
 had, indeed, occurred to him with regard to Madame de 
 T — ; which he now was no longer eager to realize. All 
 that related to Angelique, even when his own election was 
 made, it still remained with her to decide upon ; and the 
 distrust he had long cherished, both of himself and of others, 
 caused the interval to be filled with a thousand disquieting 
 and impatient feelings. Having lived in the land of shad- 
 ows, he had. learned to suspect that friendship and love 
 were nothing else ; and he felt, that were he to grasp at 
 them a second time, and find them only such, the disap- 
 pointment would be irremediable. 
 
 Colonel Raymond had, however, by no means calcu- 
 lated the extent of his friend's partiality for Angelique. 
 That was now so completely ascertained, by the conver- 
 sation of the preceding evening, as left little more room 
 for discovery. The engines then were in his hands, that 
 might bring back a valuable heart to society; and the 
 generosity of his own induced him to resolve upon using 
 them. Stanhope, when in solitude, or rather tete-a-tete, 
 with a man whom, spite of prejudice, he began greatly to 
 esteem, was a very different being from that which he 
 appeared to superficial observers, and infinitely more 
 amiable. He was passionately fond of his little girl, and 
 the wish he felt that she should create fondness in the 
 hearts of those to whom he was about to present her, was 
 a sufficient" attestation of the warmth of his own, and of 
 the interest he took in both parties. It seemed- difficult 
 to arrange in what manner she could be made their fel- 
 low-traveler ; but Stanhope was perfectly familiar with 
 every mode of conveyance ; and his little mountaineer, i
 
 124 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 he called her, was active and adventurous. Never could 
 heroine of any age or country boast two more vigilant 
 knights to protect her, and never did heroine reward her 
 
 • protectors by more playful and fascinating gayety. The 
 parting with Arlettc and the little boys was, neverthele 
 
 a sorrowful scene, — nor was the dog forgotten. She 
 kissed them all affectionately by turns, and it would have 
 been difficult to say which of the three had most of her 
 fondness or caresses. To Arlette, and her husband, to- 
 gether witli the parents of the former, Mas consigned the 
 numerous family to whom Stanhope was in the habit of 
 extending his protection. It was not without a kind and 
 sympathetic emotion that he recollected the indefinite 
 time for which he now left them, or weighed how far his 
 new pursuits might estrange him from that mode of life, 
 which he had endeavored to persuade himself alone was 
 
 ♦ rationally desirable. But his child, and yet another ob- 
 ject, almost, he thought, as dear as his child, for he v 
 far from granting, even to his own heart, that Angeliqne 
 could possibly divide it with the latter, called him to 
 other scenes. 
 
 They now passed through a circuitous road, less grati- 
 fying indeed to the imagination than that savage one 
 they had before traveled, but infinitely more delightful 
 to the heart. Innocent and happy Nature seemed to 
 present herself to their view in every valley, and in every 
 cottage: nor did Stanhope fail to comment with enthusi- 
 asm upon it. As they approached that limit which lay 
 within the jurisdiction of Berne, the appearance of thin 
 nevertheless seemed insensibly to change. Thev met 
 several peasants, chiefly women, who had all of them an 
 air of hurry and apprehension, for which the travelers 
 could not immediately account. But, in proportion 
 they advanced, they gathered intelligence, that within 
 different quarters of the canton, various petty tumults
 
 THE FRIEND'S TALE. 125 
 
 had arisen, in consequence, as it was supposed, of the in- 
 trigues of French emissaries : that some hamlets had been 
 burned by the opposite factions that inhabited them ; and 
 several individuals had been obliged to hide themselves 
 from popular fury. Intelligence of this nature could not 
 but excite emotion in bosoms that glowed with the love 
 of liberty, of nature, and of virtue. It was so delightful 
 to every generous mind to believe that there existed a 
 spot on the globe where those blessings remained invio- 
 late, that, had the persuasion been simply a dream of the 
 imagination, it would have been impossible to awake from 
 it without reluctance and resentment! 
 
 Consideration for their young companion rendered 
 both gentlemen impatient to reach a destination that 
 should secure them from alarm. How greatly were they 
 grieved and surprised, to find that they rather seemed to 
 have penetrated into the chief scene of the commotion, 
 when they reached the village of M. which had been their 
 first night's station after leaving Leuk. All was indeed 
 now tranquilized : but the stillness that had succeeded 
 was of that frightful kind, that both in individuals and in 
 societies seems the consequence of crime, and bespeaks the 
 consciousness of it. The inhabitants that remained upon 
 the spot, kept within their doors ; but many had quitted 
 it ; and among the houses that were deserted was that of 
 their former kind host. A respectable woman who lived 
 in the cottage adjoining, answered, however, to their in- 
 terrogatories concerning him: and they gathered from 
 her account, that if he had escaped in safety, a circum- 
 stance which appeared extremely doubtful, he had been 
 obliged to purchase security by abandoning every thing 
 he possessed. His home had been nearly demolished ; his 
 books, which w r ere almost his sole wealth, lay scattered 
 over the desolate apartments, torn, and half burned ; and 
 the furniture had been pillaged or destroyed. 
 
 6
 
 1 2 6 C A N I E BBUET' TALES. 
 
 " He was, no doubt, particularly odious in the neigh- 
 borhood," said Stanhope. 
 
 " No, not he, sir, but he was suspected to be of the 
 same party with the great family there f and she pour 
 to the chateau: " they were not on the spot to guard 
 their own property, and he end* avored to dissuade the 
 peasants from destroying it. — But all would not do, — for 
 they only committed more mischief here." 
 
 "But was he not severe? — aristocratical? unkind to 
 them?" 
 
 " Never that I heard of. I have seen him with my 
 own eyes making potage and soups for them, when times 
 were hard : and he would visit the poorest man in the 
 district that sent to him. — He could not be bountiful, for 
 he was not rich: — but he had such a good heart, sir!*' — 
 and tears filled her eyes. 
 
 " Hateful villains !" exclaimed Stanhope, with an in- 
 dignation which he could not control. 
 
 "No, indeed, sir, they were no villains," returned the 
 woman, with the same warmth on her side ; " they v 
 the most honest people alive, and till this unlucky fray 
 they were the most kind-hearted. But they were igno- 
 rant ; — and when people are very ignorant it is easy for 
 wicked men to persuade them that the wrong is the right. 
 There is no little reliance, I am afraid, to be placed on 
 those who do not understand their duties. — It is all right 
 with such folks till it is all wrong : and then they are as 
 zealous in the bad cause as in the fjood." Colonel Ray- 
 mond looked at his friend, who on his part evidently made 
 his own applications, but no comment. 
 
 As it was impossible to proceed to Leuk the same night, 
 they were obliged to put up with such accomodation as 
 the village afforded ; and on the evening of the ensuing- 
 day they found themselves within view of the colonel's 
 habitation. It had been agreed bet ween 1 1
 
 THE FRIEND'S TALE. 127 
 
 that the little girl and Mr. Stanhope should for a short 
 time become the guests of Madame de T — ; there seemed 
 an impropriety in introducing the child at once, and with- 
 out explanation, into the family of Monsieur llivaz ; and 
 something too marked in separating her from her father, 
 even if that could have been done without afflicting her, 
 which did not seem probable, for she loved him most 
 fondly. 
 
 " You had better not venture into the house, I think," 
 said the colonel, turning with a smile to Stanhope as they 
 approached the garden gate. " Do you not hear music ?" 
 
 "It was once like the memory of joys that were past," 
 returned the other. " I am now disposed to look only to 
 the future." "Whatever might be the disposition of Mr. 
 Stanhope's mind, he certainly nevertheless felt a little em- 
 barrassed, though too proud to show that he did so. He 
 was going to appear in two characters equally new to 
 him, those of a lover and a father : he knew not what 
 persons composed the audience that was to witness this 
 unexpected exhibition ; but he felt as if there was but one 
 pair of eyes in the world that he would willingly at that 
 crisis have encountered. Fortunately the saloon was 
 shaded to a most convenient obscurity ; and though sev- 
 eral people were in it, it was not easy to distinguish them 
 individually. His ear, however, had informed him, when 
 yet afar off, that Angelique was one of the number, for 
 she had been singing ; and, obscure as the light was, he 
 contrived to see her as quickly as though they had met 
 in the brightest sunshine. 
 
 " I bring you back, my dear Augusta," said the colonel, 
 as he tenderly embraced his wife, " two guests — this 
 sweet child, and h'er father." And he held up the former 
 to her arms, giving at the same time her hand to Stan- 
 hope, who, kissing it, uttered some confused, half inar- 
 ticulate sentence on the subject of his child. Whatever
 
 128 CANTEliB U R Y TALI. 
 
 part of the company rejoiced at that moment in the ob- 
 scurity, Madame de T — assuredly was not of the num- 
 ber. Her sprightly and inquiring eyes, which were turned 
 with astonishment upon the trio, seemed to ask a thou- 
 sand questions, and make a thousand observations: but 
 her native delicacy as instantly conquered the impul 
 and she suffered the various salutations and greetings at- 
 tending the occasion, to be entirely over, before she called 
 for lights. Mr. Stanhope in the interim recovered I 
 presence of mind, which the colonel's sudden and unequi- 
 vocal explanation had somewhat disturbed. Angelique 
 too found her voice; and both of them had proceeded so 
 far in conversation as to make civil inquiries concerning 
 each other. The rest of the company, which was com- 
 posed of Rivaz, his wife, and a very handsome young 
 man who was lately come from Berne, talked with inter- 
 est of the various political occurrences that had lately 
 taken pi .ce there, and the probability of its being entered 
 by the troops of France. Madame de T — meantime was 
 employed in caressing and examining the features of the 
 child, who on her part was no less busy in examining' 
 those of the company. Children are always decided on 
 the article of physiognomy ; and Stanhope's little girl 
 seemed to have a very sympathetic taste with that of her 
 father, for she presently made her decision in favor of 
 Angelique, whose soft and persuasive glances won her 
 over from the sprightly graces of the countess. It was in 
 Angelique's arms that she chose to sit ; and twining her 
 own little snowy ones round the neck of the latter, Bhe 
 whispered a thousand confidential and important noth- 
 ings; pressing her hand upon the lips of Mademoiselle 
 Rivaz, or stopping her mouth with kisses, it' she attempt- 
 ed to repeat one of them. 
 
 - " How indulgent you are to a motherless child," said 
 Mr. Stanhope, drawing near to both. Angelique half
 
 THE FRIEND'S TALE. 129 
 
 raised her eyes, and a soft blush came over her cheek, 
 which seemed to announce that the indirect information 
 which the sentence was meant to convey was not wholly 
 uninteresting ; but neither of them spoke farther. Mr. 
 Stanhope only gently released her, after a time, from the 
 child, who he feared was become troublesome ; and tak- 
 ing the latter in his own arms, kept her there for the re- 
 mainder of the evening. 
 
 Yet this evening of long anticipated pleasure did not 
 pass without alloy. The visitor, who during the absence 
 of the two friends had been introduced into the domestic 
 circle, seemed to receive a very particular sort of attention 
 from Rivaz and his wife : nor was Angelique remiss in 
 hers. She listened to him whenever he spoke with a de- 
 gree of complacency, which though it might be meant to 
 convey nothing but friendship, yet gave Mr. Stanhope a 
 new and very disagreeable sensation. The young man, 
 on his part, was full of respect and devotion to the family. 
 He was musical ; could sing well, and was privileged by 
 that talent to exercise a thousand little gallantries. He 
 filled up the measure of his offences by officiously placing 
 himself, like one who was accustomed so to do, next 
 Mademoiselle Rivaz at the supper-table ; and when her 
 father on taking leave, drew his wife's arm under his own, 
 and thus committed his daughter to the care of the stran- 
 ger, Mr. Stanhope fairly wished himself again in his cot- 
 tage and his solitude. 
 
 The party had hardly dispersed, and Stanhope, too 
 much spleened for conversation, withdrawn, when the 
 colonel, whose observations had also been alive, began to 
 interrogate his wife concerning her new acquaintance. 
 
 " I hardly know any thing of him," replied she, " ex- 
 cept his name : but his manners, though a little Swiss, are 
 lively and agreeable. He seemed to drop from the 
 clouds within a day or two nfter your departure. The
 
 130 C A N T B J: B V B Y T A L E S. 
 
 whole family of Rivaz aro extremely confidential with 
 him, and since the time of his arrival have been much less 
 domesticated with me than they were before accustomed 
 to be. If I did not rely on the heart of Angelique I 
 
 should certainly suspect that some treaty is negotiating 
 in which she is concerned." 
 
 " Would it not be possible to questiou her ?" 
 
 " Very possible — but that I have done it already to no 
 purpose. "It is my father's secret," was her answer. 
 
 "Then I will question Rivaz. — He is plain and straight- 
 forward. We shall therefore easily come at the truth. 
 Stanhope is of a character either to control himself en- 
 tirely, or not at all. — If he suspects either indifference or 
 finesse he will fly oif in a tangent, and we may hear of 
 him next from the North Cape. — I can see that he is al- 
 ready anxious — irresolute — distrustful." 
 
 " Bad characteristics !" 
 
 " Unlucky ones, I confess : though common enough 
 with a certain inconsiderate race of men, who have par- 
 chased, at the expense of fortune and time, a power to 
 taint their own happiness. — But our friend has valuable 
 qualities, and I owe it to myself to serve- him. 
 
 The colonel's intended application to Rivaz was judicious 
 enough, but unfortunately made too late ; for the latter 
 had risen with the sun the next morning, and set off for 
 Berne, upon business. His young acqua in ta n ce seem 
 also to have absented himself for the day, and Angelique 
 with her mother remained at home. Stanhope and his 
 little girl passed the greater part of the morning in their 
 society. Contrary to the usual habits of all, he alone v. 
 animated and unembarassed, was even pointed in his at- 
 tentions. The disappearance of the Btranger had revived 
 i his spirits as well as his hopes, and h<> strove by a thousand 
 indirect marks of tenderness, by the softest words and 
 blandishments, to establish, through the medium of the
 
 THE FRIEND'S TALE. 131 
 
 child, a sort of intercourse between himself and Angeliquc. 
 Xo man knew how to do this more gracefully, nor was it 
 the first time that an infant messenger had been the inter- 
 preter of love. 
 
 Madame Rivaz seemed, during this scene, to be restless 
 and out of humor. She spoke frequently to her daughter 
 with a certain abruptness which denoted secret displeasure, 
 and even made allusions, the tendency of which Stanhope 
 could not comprehend. But Angelique, as if awakend to 
 sudden recollection by them, quitted the room more than 
 ocrce, in order, as it appeared, to attend to some domestic 
 occupation. She frequently returned, however, and Stan- 
 hope believed he could discern, that whatever were the 
 duties which called her away, it was her heart that as 
 constantly brought her back. " But that heart is so cold ! 
 — so tame ! — its whispers are so very gentle," said he to 
 himself, "that how can I be sure they will always be 
 heard?" During: the intervals of her absence he was half 
 tempted to be explicit with Madame Rivaz. But the good 
 lady's countenance did not encourage him. He knew 
 her character to be warm, and her partialities or prejudices 
 equally invincible. He had once enjoyed the first in all 
 its extent ; but she was a rigid observer of propriety, and 
 he fancied that she did not survey the child with indul- 
 gence. A consciousness that he was not willing to inves- 
 tigate, taught him at least to distrust her. 
 
 " I have tired you," said he, rising at length to be gone. 
 " My visit has been unreasonably long : but this house seems 
 my natural residence" — and he looked at Madame Rivaz. 
 Xo invitation, however, succeeded the hint. — " It is the 
 only place in which my heart finds its home." Angelique 
 half bowed, for it was to her he particularly directed the 
 second sentence : but no further notice was taken by 
 either. — " We see you this evening," he added, still ad- 
 dressing himself to the latter.
 
 ]32 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 a 
 
 I fear not," returned she, blushing and faltering. — "I 
 have an engagement — I am indispensably obliged to be 
 at home." 
 
 "And may I not, then, be permitted to join the family 
 party for half an hour." 
 
 " Not to-niirht."— 
 
 "To-morrow, then: — to-morrow morning," return''] 
 he, thrown wholly off his reserves by surprise and vexa- 
 tion. 
 
 "I am not my own mistress of a morning," replied An- 
 gelique : and she looked at her mother. 
 
 " My husband is gone to settle some particular basin 
 at Berne," said Madame Kivaz. "When he retnn 
 every thing will perhaps be arranged, and we shall be at 
 leisure to receive our friends." Petrified with astonish- 
 ment at this sort of dismission, so unexpected and so new 
 to him, Stanhope took his leave. — " No, Angelique," said 
 he to himself, as he walked home," it must be to-night that 
 we meet : to-night that our mutual destiny, as far as that 
 of either depends on the other, must be decided ! — Every 
 thing will be arranged! — What detestable words, and 
 uttered with so much sangfroid! — and I am dismissed as 
 an intruder before this arrangement takes place. Some 
 mysterious negotiation is evidently on foot, which Ange- 
 lique's heart does not sanction, whatever may be the dic- 
 tates of duty : if I do not therefore explain myself to-night, 
 to-morrow will perhaps be too late." 
 
 He returned to Madame de T — , absent and thoughtful, 
 but too resolute in his own purpose to desire any counsel 
 from others. The change in his appearance was observed 
 both by the colonel and herself. 
 
 "Our philosopher is become a very lover," said she, u Ia 
 it happiness or disappointment that occasions his reserv 
 I do not understand it enough to determine: bnt let 
 :isk him no questions; confidence will come in dne s - n :
 
 THE FRIEND'S TALE. 133 
 
 he has spent half the day with Angelique, and I shall have 
 it all from her in the evening." Evening came, "but An- 
 gelique came not. "What can possibly have engaged 
 her ?" exclaimed Madame de T — , " after dinner I know 
 she intended to be here." Stanhope uttered some trifling 
 reply, from which she understood that he did not expect 
 her ; the mystery appeared solved at once : — she did ex- 
 pect him then. 
 
 " Heaven grant that Angelique's passion may not prove 
 of this dolorous kind," continued the countess, when he 
 had vanished : " far from improving, it has totally spoiled 
 him. What a splenetic husband shall we have, if the lover 
 is thus gloomy!" — The gloom of this lover was neverthe- 
 less insensibly subsiding. He had, in a great degree, con- 
 quered the alarm and disappointment which for a moment 
 had obscured his fairest hopes ; and the persuasion he 
 secretly cherished that Mademoiselle Rivaz was not indif- 
 ferent to him, induced reveries of a pleasanter nature. It 
 was the sweetest evening in the world when he directed 
 his solitary walk towards the habitation of Rivaz. The 
 moon in full beauty checkered a close path-way, half cov- 
 ered with falling leaves, which were softly moved by a 
 breeze that partook rather of summer than of autumn, 
 while her more resplendent light struck at intervals 
 through the branches, thus relieved from their exuberant 
 foliage ; and the whole landscape, as well as the air, was 
 full of a divine tranquility. The lower windows of the 
 house were thrown open, and the moonlight showed him 
 Angelique's work, together with various trifles belonging 
 to her, on a small table in the room where they were accus- 
 tomed to sit : but neither she nor her mother were there. 
 Hardly doubting that they had walked out, as they fre- 
 quently did, to enjoy the freshness of evening, he directed 
 his steps down a shrubbery which was divided by a paling 
 from the orchard ; the door of communication at the fur- 
 
 6*
 
 134 I A N TSBBV B Y T A L E S. 
 
 thcr end was open, and he h;i<l advanced within two hun- 
 dred paces of it, when a soft and musical ym<-<- -truck his 
 ear from the other side of tin- enclosure. His heart imme- 
 diately acknowledged the sound, and h< quickening 
 
 his steps, when they were arrested by another and far dif- 
 ferent tone. It was eYidently that of a man ; and althoi 
 the words which lie uttered were indistinctly heard, it was 
 .plain that he spoke in answer to her. It was equally 
 plain that he spoke low and familiarly. Stanhope checked 
 his own feelings. — It might be her father. — Even if he 
 were not returned, and the young stranger from Berne her 
 companion, her mother was probably with her. That sup- 
 position was at once proved erroneous, for two per 
 only appeared at the door of communication : they v. 
 arm in arm; and one of them was certainly Angelique, 
 the other was not Rivaz, but a man of better stature and 
 appearance, though his features and figure were too indis- 
 tinctly seen to be ascertained. While Stanhope stood 
 still to contemplate them both, Angelique, on seeing or 
 guessing at him, appeared to be startled. She hastily 
 withdrew her arm, motioned to her companion to retire 
 into the orchard, which was thickly tufted with tr< 
 and locking the door upon him, advanced up the walk, 
 where Stanho2">e remained by this time a statue of surprise 
 and indignation. 
 
 "I fear I have intruded," cried he, hardly knowing 
 what he said. Angelique seemed little less confounded 
 than himself. 
 
 "Did you not meet my mother,'' returned she. as if de- 
 sirous to evade his observation, "I parted with her a very 
 short time ago." 
 
 "You have parted since with another companion. Tell 
 me, Angelique," and he eagerly Beized her hands, "what 
 man was that who quitted you this moment ':"
 
 THE FEIEXD'S TALE. 135 
 
 "Ask — my father," replied she, blushing, and almost in 
 tears at an address at once so abrupt and unequivocal. 
 
 "Your father is not here, — and even if he were, I 
 should be little disposed to question him. It is you; dear 
 Angelique, and your actions only, that must decide my 
 fate. Speak — tell me — if your own heart does not induce 
 confidence, I shall never seek it elsewhere." 
 
 " Be assured that my actions," said Mademoiselle 
 Rivaz, still abashed and trembling, "have the concur- 
 rence of my father, — nay more, are the consequence of 
 his commands. — Why then should you question their 
 propriety ?" 
 
 " I am answered. — The concurrence of your father is 
 then enough for your happiness ; you feel no remorse for 
 destroying mine. You part with me — and for ever — for 
 I can not part twice with any being that I love as I love 
 you, Angelique. — You dismiss me without explanation or 
 indulgence, simply because your conduct is sanctioned by 
 your father."— Angelique, insensible to what she did, de- 
 tained him as he attempted to leave her. 
 
 " What would you yourself say," cried she, " to a wo- 
 man who should violate a serious engagement merely to 
 indulge" — She stopped, overwhelmed with the conscious- 
 ness of her own meaning. 
 
 " That I loved — that I adored her, — that my life and 
 my fortune were at her feet !" — and he threw himself 
 there. 
 
 " Will nothing less than an immediate and unreserved 
 confidence satisfy you?" replied she, with tremor and 
 evident irresolution. 
 
 " Nothing less will, dear Angelique, — nothing les^ 
 can," he replied, with the eagerness of invigorated hope. 
 " I should then owe it to your heart, and only to that : — 
 it is to that only I ever will owe it." 
 
 "Then relinquish the expectation of being satisfied,"
 
 13G CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 said Angelique, after a pause, but -with a voice that 
 showed .she was io tears, u for my heart cannot resolve on 
 the acknowledgment you exact. — It can not sacrifice its 
 duties even to — its feelings:" and disengaging her hands, 
 she ran from him in the greatest confusion, and | 
 with inconceivable rapidity into the house. Agitate* 1, 
 but not satisfied, he followed her. She had retired, how- 
 ever, to her own apartment, and lie threw himself into a 
 chair near the work-table. " She w ill then be bestow 
 upon another," he exclaimed, "and it is plain that she is 
 willing to be so bestowed, rather than sacrifice some in- 
 significant duty to the immediate dictates of her heart. — 
 But Rivaz has more judgment. — Rivaz" — While he 
 spoke, his hand rested on somewhat which lay upon the 
 table ; and he perceived that it was the case of a picture. 
 " No ! — it is her heart that disposes of her," he resentfully 
 added, on opening the miniature ; and discovering a like- 
 ness of the young man he had seen with her the evening 
 before — M and mine is the dupe, as it has been throughout 
 my life, of its own sensibilities; — its own ridiculous and 
 ill-supported confidence in others." 
 
 It was lone: before he thought of returning to the hou 
 of his friend. A thousand confused schemes agitated his 
 impetuous temper in the interim. Solitude, — seclusion — 
 that hill which had " lifted him to the storms" of heaven 
 indeed, but which seemed to have sheltered him from 
 those of the world, again recurred to his recollection. 
 But even seclusion had lost half its charms: cruelty and 
 ingratitude were to be met with in rustic as well as pol- 
 ished life : error crept in, wherever man was to be found ; 
 and the only choice lay between the evils of grossness and 
 refinement. 
 
 "Are you performing the part of Werter?" said Colo- 
 nel Raymond, who, after long search, found him leaning, 
 in a most pastoral attitude, under a spreading chestnut-
 
 THE FRIEND'S TALE. 137 
 
 tree that stood half-way between the two habitations. 
 u What evil spirit possesses yon now ?" 
 
 "The worst of all evil spirits — -jealousy and resentment. 
 Why did you persuade me to prove myself a fool?" 
 
 " First tell me, by which of your foolish actions the 
 proof is established, before I stand condemned as an ac- 
 cessory." — Stanhope, in few words, and not very distinct- 
 ly, related what had passed between himself and An- 
 gelique. 
 
 " This has been a most heroic scene indeed," replied 
 the colonel, "and the probable denouement puts me in 
 mind of some French riddles I have read ; where, after 
 imagination has traveled up to the seventh heaven, and 
 down as low in proportion, in search of the marvelous, 
 le Mot de V Enigme turns out to be a conjuror or a chim- 
 ney-sweeper. My dear Stanhope, do you know that you 
 have made yourself mighty ridiculous? — Go, and ask par- 
 don of Angelique as fast as you can." 
 
 " For what offense ?" 
 
 " That of having quarreled with her because she was 
 not romantic enough to give up a secret confided by her 
 father, and betray the rites of hospitality, in order to in- 
 dulge your freak of owing every thing to her heart. Be 
 content, my good friend, for the future, to owe something 
 to a "woman's reason and her duties; or at least allow her 
 to owe something to them herself; and trust me, you will 
 be a gainer in the end by the exchange. Hearts are 
 fickle, and apt sometimes to turn deserters : but there is 
 a sort of supplementary militia of minor virtues, which 
 the best soldier amongst us will grant may be trained 
 into use." 
 
 " I do not understand any thing you are saying." 
 
 "Then understand it now. This rival, found guilty of 
 being shut up in the house of Rivaz ; — nay, worse, — shut 
 up in his orchard; — with, or without Angelique, — no mat-
 
 1 .38 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 ter which ; is no loss a personage than our ci-devant host, 
 whose habitation was burnt at the village of M. The 
 young Btranger was his pupil, and is his most grateful and 
 devoted protector. It is here that the good eocl ic 
 
 himself who is well known to Kivaz, sought a secret and 
 temporary asylum from popular fury. It is here that 
 the voung man came to seek and advise with him ; and, 
 finally, it is from hence that Iiivaz is now empowered by 
 the Council of Berne to dismiss him safely, acquitted of 
 all alleged misdemeanors, to its future protection. Are 
 you satisfied now? If not, I refer you for a fuller ex- 
 planation to Rivaz, who is just returned home, and fa 
 published the secret cause of his journey : or what think 
 you of applying to the old priest himself? lie will 
 doubtless be much flattered by your jealousy; and the 
 least he can do to remove it, is to propose marrying you 
 to Angelique before she has time to discover more of 
 vour faults." 
 
 ■ 
 
 While the colonel was speaking, a variety of interest- 
 ing recollections passed through the mind of his hear 
 Mademoiselle Rivaz had not indeed given him the testi- 
 mony of love which he solicited ; but even while denying 
 it, she had been betrayed into indirect but tender I 
 knowledgments, that left him no longer any possibiiity 
 of doubting his power over her affections. 
 
 "Yet, by what plea," said lie, c * shall I induce her to 
 listen to me again, till I have had the sanction of that 
 respectable father to whose authority she herself h) 
 ferred me! How insupportably tedious is the delay — It 
 includes, too, explanations without end!" — 
 
 "One of which, perhaps the most tedious, I Mill spare 
 you. My dear Stanhope, (if it is still your pleasure to be 
 so called,) prepare for a surprise. — I am well inform* 
 that I now take by the hand my relation and my h 
 
 • • • 
 
 friend. I know that you quitted Florence some monl
 
 THE FRIEND'S TALE. 139 
 
 ago, and that you saved me the trouble of seeking you 
 either there, or elsewhere, by seeking me here. I have 
 gathered from your own broken sentences sufficient infor- 
 mation concerning your plans to guess that you adopted 
 this last with a view to the future fate and protection of 
 your child; and that unwilling to tax me by avowing 
 yourself in the character of a mere benefactor, you were 
 desirous to try me in that of a friend. You have tried 
 me more deeply than you ever suspected ; and I hope, 
 that by adopting the views most favorable to your happi- 
 ness, I have proved myself both an honorable and a dis- 
 interested one." 
 
 "Do you deal in magic?" said Stanhope, smiling in 
 spite of his chagrin ; "how long since, and by what means 
 did you obtain this information ?" 
 
 "Exactly four days before we set out for your habita- 
 tion in the mountains. I had business at Sion which I 
 thought it more convenient to settle in person than by 
 writing. It happened that the banker with whom I trans- 
 acted it, had been employed by you on your first journey 
 here ; and though cautioned with respect to your tempo- 
 rary change of name, yet imputing it solely to the ac- 
 count of the duel, he entertained not the least doubt that 
 it was in private well-known to your nearest relation, and 
 one who bore the same. I had presence of mind enough 
 to conceal from him, that he had made any discovery, 
 nor does he to this moment suspect his error. Admire 
 my indulgence, for I also left you in full possession of 
 yours, till the aim of our journey was completed. On 
 my own part, as personal acquaintance was all that was 
 wanting between us, in learning your name I had nothing 
 more to learn. What say you now to my counterplot?" 
 Stanhope smiled, and nodded approbation. 
 
 " Yet as it would be rather too much in the tone of 
 romance," continued the colonel, "to make this explana-
 
 140 CANTKKJ5UKV TALI 
 
 tion to strangers, Rivaz may be suffered to suppose, for 
 the present at least, that our knowledge of each other 
 has always been mutual. Come and Bee my wife. 
 
 now acquainted with the secret, which I only guar 
 long enough to satisfy myself that there was no hid 
 fair one in your solitude likely to chill your reception 
 here." The lights of the colonel's habitation, to which 
 they had insensibly advanced, now glimmered thro 
 the trees. "Show yourself," he added, u but tell your 
 own story at your own season ; you will find Rivaz and 
 
 his friends with Madame de T . Angelique too is 
 
 most probably of the party. And although the little girl 
 may not be present, to engross you both so conveniently 
 as she did yesterday evening, you may nevertheless find 
 an opportunity of making your peace." 
 
 Stanhope impatiently entered the saloon, but Made- 
 moiselle Rivaz was not there, and the apology her moth- 
 er made for her deprived him of all hope that she 
 would appear. In one of the guests he, with pleasure, 
 recognized his kind host at M., nor did the young stran- 
 ger, who, with filial respect accompanied the latter, now 
 strike him in the same disadvantageous point of view he 
 had hitherto done. But it was Angelique only that oc- 
 cupied his thoughts; and hardly had he sufficient self- 
 command to stay a few moments, in order to offer those 
 congratulations which the occasion demanded. The 
 colonel was not surprised to observe that he disappeared 
 immediately afterwards; or to learn, on his return to the 
 company, that Angelique, who entertained not the small- 
 est suspicion of seeing him so suddenly again, had once 
 more been found alone : that he had pleaded his cai 
 with no less earnestness, and better Bnccess than before, 
 and obtained a full and kind pardon. 
 
 Stanhope found opportunity, in the com ve- 
 
 iling, to communicate to Monsieur Rivaz, in few words,
 
 TUE FRIEND'S TALE. 141 
 
 the purport of a conversation which he requested might 
 be granted him on the following day. The cheeks 
 of the good man were suffused, and his eyes glistened 
 with pleasure ; he affectionately pressed the hand of his 
 future son-in-law, and, in so doing, left little more to ex- 
 plain between them. 
 
 "But my former kind friend, Madame Rivaz, has 
 looked coldly on me," said Stanhope, returning with in- 
 terest the friendly pressure. — "How am I to conciliate 
 her favor ?" 
 
 " My good, sir, you have never lost it. It is Angelique 
 and I that have been the culprits : on her part, poor girl, 
 very innocently so : for she only obeyed my commands. 
 I found her, however, in tears on my return, so guessed 
 that all had not gone well at home. My wife," he added 
 in a whisper, " is a little of a politician ; and studies the 
 best part of politics — safety. — She conceived mine to be 
 in some danger from the shelter I afforded our friends. 
 Forgive a woman who loves her husband more than she 
 does any thing else in the world." 
 
 Stanhope was never better disposed to pardon that 
 sort of offence ; and either the plea itself, or the conscious- 
 ness that Madame Rivas might be fairly acquitted of hav- 
 ing caused the tears of her daughter, put him into so very 
 good a humor that she must have been hard-hearted in- 
 deed to have resisted his attentions. Nor was her heart 
 composed of any stubborn materials whatever, where he 
 was concerned ; in fact he possessed, in a very uncommon 
 degree, the art of rendering himself agreeable to both 
 sexes; and especially to women, when he chose to ex- 
 ert it. 
 
 A period not remote was fixed for the celebration of 
 the marriage ; but the contract, and the rural fete that 
 accompanied the latter, were announced two days after. 
 These ceremonies were customs of the country, and there-
 
 142 1 M T E B B L'KY TALL . 
 
 fore willingly complied with, though not essential. The 
 peasants of the district were invited to share the convi- 
 viality and joy of the occasion, nor were those of the 
 mountain forgotten in the orderi issued by Stanhope. 
 Angelique, at his request, appeared in the same rustic 
 garb which she had worn at the harvest-home, and never 
 "before looked so charming, for she had never been 
 happy. The whole scene was like one of those delightful 
 visions of Arcadian felicity so rarely found any where but 
 in romance. 
 
 "And now," said Madame de T — addressing herself 
 gayly to the little group around her, but smiling particu- 
 larly on Stanhope, " having each played our separate 
 parts, to our own satisfaction at least, and wound up our 
 little proverbe, with the old-fashioned denouement of a 
 wedding, suppose, my dear friends, that I undertake to 
 deliver the finale of the piece. — Rocheibueault, I am afraid, 
 has said before me, that mankind are neither so good nor 
 so bad as we fancy them to be. Ignorance brutalize 
 and refinement corrupts. Let us hope, however, that 
 wise heads and generous hearts are still to be met with 
 in every class of soeietv : but while wandering in search 
 of both, through the very odd mazes of this very odd 
 world, it will be reasonable to recollect that we have no 
 right to murmur at our disappointment, if we find that 
 we can not gather those flowers which the paths we have 
 chosen never yet afforded."
 
 THE WIFE'S TALE. 
 
 JULIA. 
 
 A creature, " kind and generous," fair and vain, 
 The creature, woman, rises now to reign. 
 
 Parnell. 
 
 "I hate certainly taken a very judicious step this 
 morning," said Mr. Seymour to himself, as he drove 
 through the neighborhood of Hanover Square to his own 
 house. " Every thing that respects my worldly concerns 
 is now exactly settled to my satisfaction ; and, properly 
 6peaking, I may call this period the beginning of my life !" 
 
 So pleasant a train of reasoning could not fail to put 
 
 him in good humor. The conclusion drawn was not per- 
 haps altogether correct; for as Mr. Seymour bordered 
 upon fifty, there might be people in the world ill-natured 
 enough to think that life was somewhat nearer its sunset 
 than its dawn : but who in calculations of this kind ever 
 is correct ? And what person would think of setting a 
 man right that was so happy in his error, and so disposed 
 to make his friends happy ? For Mr. Seymour was phi- 
 lanthropic enough to comprehend, under that title, a nu- 
 merous circle composed of both sexes, to whom he gave 
 the best dinners, the gayest balls, and the prettiest rural 
 fetes of any man in London. 
 
 He was yet engrossed by the agreeable contemplations 
 we have mentioned, when the carriage stopped at the
 
 144 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 door of liis own house. It was a very elegant one, in the 
 neighborhood of Grosvenor Square. Curtains, and sofas 
 
 of the rarest and most fashionable texture, were di 
 with all the taste of modern improvement : a treillage in- 
 closing the finest flowers perfumed the air from the win- 
 dows, at one end ; while verandas shaded the other, and 
 only permitted the vulgar gazers of the street to pee] 
 the rich tassels and fringes that decorated the apartmenl 9 
 within. A dejeune was displayed in the very first style, 
 and of the most magnificent china; while the plants from 
 the conservatory made a little Eden of the spot. Mr. Sey- 
 mour was every where, and the life of the company. lie 
 wore his best Brutus wig, which was curled in the last 
 new taste. His coat was made to a charm. He had a 
 tolerable leg, and it was not neglected. His teeth were 
 hardly so good as they had been, but he had supplied 
 himself with a couple of new ones the week before, which 
 enabled him to laugh with perfect security. He was there- 
 fore disposed to be entertaining to a degree. In fact he 
 was altogether in very good humor with himself, for he 
 had that morning made a purchase that pleased him ex- 
 tremely : — he had bought a wife. 
 
 Presiding, under the auspices of her mother, at this 
 dejeune, sat a young creature just turned of seventeen ; 
 lovely as one of the Graces, and almost as little clothed. 
 Her polished throat and beautiful arms, her drapery of 
 white muslin, the ingenuous sweetness of her eyes, and 
 the rich bloom of her cheek, which every moment as it 
 passed tinted with a vermillion still richer, formed in 
 themselves a picture so irresistible as to need no decora* 
 tion. Yet it can not be denied that there was Bomewbat 
 in the general roup <V<i/l, which made her, kk though tar 
 the fairest flower," derive new grace and enchantment 
 from those that bloomed around. What a delicious 
 thing would life be in London, if balls, fetes, and ilntt-
 
 THE WIFE'S TALK. 145 
 
 could make it so ! but people do grow old, and sick at 
 last, even in London : and when confined to a half-de- 
 serted apartment, they are obliged to meditate upon that 
 solitary one which is perhaps shortly to hold them. It 
 must be acknowledged that the contrast does not show 
 the latter to advantage. 
 
 Having found Mr. Seymour at the very summit of hu- 
 man felicity, it may be proper to relate the degrees by 
 which he attained it. Springing remotely from a family 
 of opulence and great consideration, it had been his ill- 
 fortune to find the path of life too smooth before him. At 
 nine years of age he had good nature : at eighteen he had 
 good sense : at one-and-twenty he had a good estate : at 
 thirty he had lost almost all that was good besides ; and 
 at forty he was without any of these recommendations. 
 It was convenient therefore to change his residence for 
 one in another country, and he went to India in a civil 
 capacity: but he carried with him indolent habits, and 
 moderate abilities. His fortune did not, of course, im- 
 prove rapidly ; but after a period of some years had 
 elapsed, circumstances did for him what he did not seem 
 very likely to do for himself; and he had realized a pro- 
 perty, not splendid indeed, but considerable, when intel- 
 ligence that the family estate, which ten times exceeded 
 the patrimony he had spent, was likely to devolve to him 
 by the deaths of several intermediate parties, determined 
 him to sail immediately for England. He accordingly 
 reached it in the beginning of spring. The business of 
 taking possession detained him in town till the summer 
 months ; when, after having enjoyed, in their full- 
 est extent, the pleasures of temporary celebrity, he 
 retired to a villa which he had engaged for the sea- 
 son, on the Devonshire coast, in order to repair a 
 constitution somewhat shattered by his residence a- 
 broad, and to consider in what manner he could
 
 146 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 make his debut ■with most effect in London the succeed- 
 ing winter. 
 
 Within the neighborhood of Mr. Seymour's superb res- 
 idence was a manor-house, which had formerly been 
 superb also: but time had committed such irreparable 
 devastations there, as left the family who tenanted it, lit- 
 tle more real accommodation than they could have found 
 in any thatched cottage of the adjoining village. 1\< 
 and appearance, however, the two particulars which alone 
 recommended it to the favor of its inhabitants, attracted 
 Mr. Seymour's attention ; and a little inquiry informed 
 him that he was no stranger to the person who dwelt 
 there. He might, indeed, without any extraordinary ef- 
 fort of memory, have recollected, that he had been in fact 
 very intimately acquainted with the gentleman in ques- 
 tipn: and that, at a time when the latter was a much 
 greater, and Mr. Seymour a much less man, than either 
 of them now appeared to be. The Honorable Edward 
 Cleveland was the younger branch of a family of rank, 
 and had owed his acceptation in society chiefly to that 
 circumstance. He had passed through all the gradations 
 common to persons who have no original character of 
 mind, and are merely what the world makes them. lie 
 had been successively a beau, and a rake. Having under- 
 gone these transformations, and not exactly knowing 
 what shape to take next, he married jjour sc <!' 88* nnu 
 and sank into a sloven. The happy pair continued to 
 live in the gay world, till they had hardly the means to 
 live at all; and then retired, with two girls whom the 
 mother was obliged to educate as she could, to the petty 
 grandeur of solitude, idleness, and the country. 
 
 In spite of the many dissimilar circumstances of charac- 
 ter or situation, that intervened to keep Mr. Seymour and 
 his neighbor at a distance, there still was one that prom- 
 ised to bring them in contact; both gentlemen were ter-
 
 THE WIFE'S TALE. 147 
 
 ribly in want of amusement, or, as they would have 
 phrased it — occupation. Mr. Cleveland had evidently- 
 had the ill fortune to leave the only one in which he ever 
 truly delighted, behind him in London — his taste for dress : 
 nor did he carry any into the country, that could supply its 
 place. The situation of his pecuniary concerns allowed 
 him not the pleasures of riding or driving ; and how, as 
 he often emphatically, and with some pathos observed, 
 " could a gentleman employ himself without such re- 
 sources !" Ladies, it should seem, have the advantage on 
 these occasions over the male part of the world. Mrs. 
 Cleveland, though, like her husband, born and educated 
 in the circle of fashion, and no way superior to him in 
 abilities, had the good luck, on being first driven into re- 
 tirement, to fall in with two or three active and notable 
 housewives, who gave her some hints with regard to do- 
 mestic economy, without which, indeed, she perceived 
 that her family were in danger of not having a dinner to eat, 
 or a servant to prepare it. It was not, that she had nat- 
 urally any taste for these humble occupations ; but she 
 was of that fortunate sex which can sink to trifles without 
 losing its dignity ; while lordly man, once thrown, as he 
 supposes, out of his place in society, often remains sus- 
 pended, like Mahomet's coffin, a mere log — belonging 
 neither to heaven, nor to earth. Mrs. Cleveland's good 
 qualities were nevertheless, it must be acknowledged, the 
 mere effect of accident and situation : necessity made her 
 occasionally associate with her neighbors, but she always 
 despised them ; and had no other consolation, under the 
 grievance, than that of seeing them gratefully look up to 
 her in all matters of fashion and taste, whenever she con- 
 descended to avail herself of that more vulgar information 
 which they could communicate. Julia, her eldest daugh- 
 ter, was her companion and her favorite: all the soft and 
 timid graces of early youth lived in the eye, and on the
 
 148 cantej: Ji UK Y TALES. 
 
 cheek of this charming girl ; but her form was finished 
 and womanly beyond her years, and was, indeed, such as 
 would have embellished any features. Wai Julia herself 
 aware of this? — Perhaps no girl of sixteen is quite out of 
 the secret, and she certainly had not quarreled with the 
 figure which her glass daily presented to her: but it is 
 less the consciousness of possessing any advantage, than 
 the degree of estimation we attach to it, that render- 
 dangerous; and beauty was neither all-powerful, nor all- 
 sufficient in the eyes of Miss Cleveland. She was yet, in- 
 deed, but little in the habit of considering it ; solicitous 
 to free her mother from cares that were evidently irk- 
 some, she devoted herself almost solely to domestic occu- 
 pations. Her tastes were simple, her enjoyments lively : 
 a happy frame of mind, resulting both from nature and 
 circumstances, accustomed her to find her pleasures in 
 her duties, or to make them there. Her understanding 
 was stronger than it appeared to be ; but it had hitherto 
 been employed only in tranquilizing her heart or her tem- 
 per, if any little grievance ruffled either. The sorrowful 
 day was yet to come, when it was to sharpen the arrow 
 of affliction, and to show her, with more acute and ex- 
 tended perception, the evils of painful pre-eminence. 
 Matilda was not yet eleven years old, but in person as 
 well as mind she strongly resembled her sister. In spite 
 of the difference of their age, the same tastes and em- 
 ployments often engrossed both ; and the first delight 
 their hearts had ever known, was one which they still 
 continued to enjoy in common : that of surprising Mr. 
 and Mrs. Cleveland with some little proof of ingenuity 
 affection, calculated to lighten those hours which even 
 their children had discernment enough to see hung n 
 heavily upon them. 
 
 The arrival of so dashing an equipage as Mr. Seymour's 
 was an event in the neighborhood. Mr. Cleveland had
 
 THE wife's tale. 149 
 
 not seen it, and those who had, knew too little of heraldry 
 to give him any information as to the family honors of 
 the owner. He had seen the horses, however, led out to 
 air ; had reconnoitred their size and their color, had talked 
 with the grooms on all other particulars relative to them ; 
 and after asking a few cursory questions, such as a well- 
 bred man allows himself to put to servants concerning 
 their master, he thought with a sigh of Hyde Park and 
 Bond Street ; and, without recognizing his old acquaint- 
 ance Seymour, under the importance of his new character, 
 turned his steps slowly homewards. 
 
 " What can we reason but from what we know ?" — 
 What is a man to talk of, but the only subject he is ac- 
 quainted with ? — Bond Street and Hyde Park would not 
 quit the imaginations of Mr. Cleveland and his wife through- 
 out the remainder of the evening; and they passed it so 
 agreeably in discussing their mutual recollections, that to 
 their very great astonishment the village clock had struck 
 ten before either of them yawned. Matilda had long been 
 buried in a sweet slumber : but Julia was permitted to be 
 a silent though much amused auditor during this unusual 
 excess on the part of her parents. The conversation was 
 not lost upon her : she in turn became troubled with a 
 little curiosity to see this fine gentleman, and his fine 
 equipage ; nor was it long before she was gratified ; fol- 
 ks owner, weary of solitary grandeur, at length conde- 
 scended to acknowledge his old acquaintance, by stopping 
 at her father's door : and poor Julia, without any pre- 
 meditated mischief on her own part, soon after found 
 herself in Ca3sar's situation, for she came, saw, and over- 
 came : in a word, Mr. Seymour fell, as he believed, des- 
 perately in love. His love, however, though decided, 
 was not unmixed with other considerations and feelings 
 than those of mere passion. It had no little reference to 
 the figure she would make in the world, to the rank of 
 
 7
 
 150 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 her connections, the eclat that would attend himself on 
 having such a wife to show, and the pleasure that must 
 result from exciting the envy and admiration of all his 
 acquaintance. His whole business in retirement had been 
 to consider how he should emerge with due splendor; 
 and fortune on this occasion seemed, he thought, to enlist 
 on his side. 
 
 The fair object of Mr. Seymour's choice was in the in- 
 terim not a little surprised to find herself thus suddenly 
 become such. The gratification which this unlooked-for 
 event seemed to afford her parents, operated upon her 
 grateful and affectionate heart with a force she was per- 
 fectly unconscious of. She listened to the decision, there- 
 fore, in favor of Mr. Seymour, as to a fiat from which she 
 neither wished, nor knew how to appeal ; and when they 
 with one voice declared, that she must be the most un- 
 grateful creature living, were she insensible of his good 
 qualities, she most implicitly took those good qualities 
 upon trust, and felt ashamed to acknowledge even to her 
 own heart that she was deficient in the virtue expected 
 from her. The first stroke was struck ; for her feelings 
 were silenced or deceived, and nothing remained but to 
 kindle her vanity ; nor was the undertaking in either case 
 a difficult task. Matrimony and love had never for a mo- 
 ment engrossed her thoughts. No creature had moved 
 within her circle calculated to excite the latter, and her 
 youth and retired modes of life made it little probable 
 that the former should occur to her imagination. Xor 
 Avere either permitted even now to take their place there. 
 Her parents, and Mr. Seymour himself though little 
 skilled in the intricacies of the human heart, were yet suf- 
 ficently aware of the sensibility that might Becretly fer- 
 ment in hers Mere she permitted to think; and in conse- 
 quence of this persuasion, they, like practiced jugglers, so
 
 THE WIFE'S TALE. 151 
 
 dexterously shuffled the conjuring cards, that diamonds 
 was the only suit presented to her eyes. 
 
 The acquiescence of Julia was all that had been expect- 
 ed by her parents or her lover. Yet the unswerving 
 filial affection with which it was granted, now betrayed 
 poor Mrs. Cleveland, of whom it could not properly be 
 said that her understanding was corrected, but simply 
 that her modes of thinking were changed, into a w r arm 
 panegyric upon the sweetness of temper, the retired 
 habits, and domestic good qualities of her daughter. The 
 subject was Julia, and therefore Mr. Seymour had the 
 complaisance to listen to it. But he continued to amuse 
 himself with his toothpick while she talked, and to ex- 
 amine at intervals the medallion which enriched a beau- 
 tiful case that lay by him. 
 
 " I am mighty easy on all the particulars you speak of, 
 my dear madam," said he, when she had finished. " My 
 establishment, as you may suppose, will be upon a very 
 extensive scale, and I mean to keep the best company. — 
 Provided, therefore, that my wife be attentive and de- 
 voted to me, I shall readily dispense with other domestic 
 good qualities." — Mr. Seymour did not recollect that the 
 virtues are rarely solitary ; and that he who insists only 
 on the one amongst them which conduces to his own con- 
 venience, may thank his fortune rather than his prudence, 
 if he do not miss them altogether. This reflection oc- 
 curred, however, as little to the lady as to the gentleman. 
 She felt shocked at a rusticity in her own ideas of which 
 she had not till then been aware, and impatient to correct 
 the impression it must have made. 
 
 " As to domestic good qualities, my dear sir," she has- 
 tily exclaimed, " nobody knows better than myself how 
 very little value is to be set upon them in a certain sphere 
 of life. But aulres temps, autres mcturs ! — in our late 
 confined way of living you have no idea how these little
 
 152 CANTERBURY TALL-,. 
 
 things contribute to happiness." — Mr. Seymour did not 
 think it necessary to answer, and the conversation fell to 
 the ground, till Mrs. Cleveland, who had not yet rec 
 ered the alarm to her feelings, made a desperate effort to 
 
 renew it, upon a subject to which she believed herself 
 perfectly competent. 
 
 "The gay world," said she smiling, "will be quite a 
 new scene to our Julia!" Mr. Seymour smiled also, and 
 graciously inclined his head. 
 
 " I shall take care to give her my advice upon several 
 essential points before she appears in it." 
 
 " Don't you think you have been rather too long ab- 
 sent from town for that purpose ?" replied Seymour, break- 
 ing from a very deep reverie. Poor Mrs. Cleveland was 
 
 now quite thrown out; she could only stare. kt Mode 
 
 is so variable," continued Mr. Seymour in the same indo- 
 lent tone. " Courage, how r ever ! We shall mid some 
 female friends to consult with; but the outset in ti 
 cases is every thing — every thing, my dear madam ! and 
 we must have her dress well, you know, at all events." 
 With a slight bow, he took his hat and strolled into the 
 garden ; leaving Mrs. Cleveland half angry, half ashamed : 
 and so unjust to her future son-in-law as to suspect him 
 of banter, when in fact all he uttered had been the fruit 
 of decided opinion, and of his most Berious cogitations. 
 
 Mr. Seymour, now satisfied as to the success of his 
 wishes, thought it expedient to set out for London, in or- 
 der to accelerate, by his personal influence, the splendid 
 preparation for which he had already issued orders. II • 
 previously advanced to Mr. Cleveland a sum of money 
 that considerably relieved his domestic embarrassments, 
 
 w 
 
 and, under the sanction of future relationship, presented 
 his lady with a bill that enabled her to make that figure 
 in town which his own pride required. A splendid car- 
 riage, with the Cleveland arms painted upon it, quickly
 
 THE wife's tale. 153 
 
 transported the fair bride elect to the scene of her future 
 triumphs, and in less than six weeks from that time con- 
 veyed her to St. George's Church, Hanover Square ; 
 I where her mother, with much joy and all due solemnity, 
 saw her bestowed for better and for worse upon Mr. Sey- 
 mour's town and country houses, his rent-roll and equi- 
 pages, with all the valuables or encumbrances thereunto 
 belonging the owner includ ed. \ 
 
 Poor Julia in the interim remained bewildered and 
 abashed. She was pleased to be admired, she desired to 
 be beloved ; she entertained a confused notion, indeed, 
 that she should have liked her husband better had he 
 been younger ; but she felt that she did not hate him ; 
 and there were even some points in his character, inde- 
 pendent of his very great merit, of which she never per- 
 mitted herself to doubt, that excited her approbation. 
 Minds of natural delicacy feel, without defining it, the 
 charm of good-breeding. Mr. Seymour could be extreme- 
 ly well bred when he was in good humor ; and Julia 
 had acquired, in the society of her father and mother, 
 whose manners were still those of people of fashion, a 
 taste for that polish which, as it ought to be the result of 
 much urbanity and sweetness of character, the unpracticed 
 heart readily conceives to be its invariable symbol. 
 
 One circumstance, however, sullied the gayety of those 
 scenes which preceded the marriage of Julia. Neither 
 her father nor her sister were in London to share them. 
 She had promised the little Matilda mountains of trinkets, 
 and fairy scenes of pleasure, when the indisposition of Mr. 
 Cleveland, who was subject to an hereditary gout, put a 
 stop to his own journey, and induced him to resolve on 
 keeping his younger daughter at home for his companion 
 and nurse. The parting was most sorrowful between the 
 two sisters. Matilda was taken almost forcibly into the 
 house, and Julia, " like a rose-leaf wet with morning dew," 
 
 *
 
 154 CANTERBURY TALK-. 
 
 stepped slowly after her mother into the carriage. Among 
 those who sincerely regretted the unlooked-for separation 
 the bridegroom himself was certainly not one ; however 
 complaisance might induce him to affirm the contrary. 
 To say truth, the Honorable Edward Cleveland was, in 
 his opinion, a very dull fellow : and though his name made 
 a most desirable figure for a paragraph in the newspaper, 
 his company was the last thing really wished for by his 
 son-in-law ; who even had it already in contemplation to 
 dismiss the Honorable Mrs. Cleveland from his future es- 
 tablishment as soon as with any decency he could do so. 
 An auxiliary he did not expect, however, saved him that 
 trouble, by suddenly giving the gentleman an invitation 
 to another world, and by summoning the lady to attend, 
 not on his soul but his body ; for the soul had departed 
 before she could arrive ; and was indeed, except that it 
 had been in the habit of setting the body upright upon 
 two legs every day, as little to be missed as any soul that 
 ever yet took a visible form in this nether world. 
 
 None, however, are so useless or so frivolous, that na- 
 ture does not enlist some heart in their cause. Shame on 
 such as take no pains to deserve her bounty ! Tears of 
 unfeigned affection were shed by the family over Mr. 
 Cleveland's grave ; and his son-in-law, in place of those 
 which he found he could not shed, decorated it with a 
 handsome marble and inscription. The widow and her 
 youngest daughter now remained alone in the count ry. 
 and in the country he intended they should remain. 
 
 "Oh, pray let us fetch my mother and sister, 1 ' cried 
 Julia. 
 
 " My dearest angel," said Mr. Seymour, willing any 
 way to silence her, "nothing could make me so happy as 
 to oblige you, — but it really would not be decorous for 
 your mother to be Been in town just at this crista." Julia 
 sighed — lamented, but she was too ignorant of life to >le-
 
 THE WIFE'S TALE. 155 
 
 cide upon propriety or impropriety. She wondered, how- 
 ever, that decorum and right feeling should be so contin- 
 ually at variance. It was not indeed the first time that 
 the delicate and timid Julia had wondered at this, though 
 upon less solemn occasions. But her mother and her hus- 
 band had never yet had more than one opinion : theirs 
 had uniformly guided hers, nor did she on this occasion 
 suspect them of differing. 
 
 The death of Mr. Cleveland was nevertheless a terrible 
 blot upon this brilliant era of Mr. Seymour's life. It 
 seemed as though he had in very malice died at perhaps 
 the only period when his son-in-law would have wished 
 him to live a little longer. Seclusion and mourning were 
 of necessity the portion of the lovely bride. Mr. Seymour, 
 however, determined to shorten both as much as lay with- 
 in his power: and here again his never-failing friend, 
 Fashion, stepped in to assist him. 
 
 The grief of a young heart, in proportion as it is acute, 
 is transient. Every possible allurement and temptation 
 were displayed to dissipate Mrs. Seymour's; nor was there 
 a person or thing around that could perpetuate recollec- 
 tion. She sank, therefore, after a time, into quiet sorrow ; 
 and at length began to smile. The days of mourning had 
 been limited by the impatient husband, and he already 
 anticipated that on which he was to display his prize. 
 " There are secrets, however, in all families ;" and before 
 Julia was thrown into general society, Mr. Seymour 
 deemed it advisable to give her some partial information 
 with respect to a subject in which he was deeply inter- 
 ested. 
 
 " Have you any objection to driving on the Kensington 
 road this morning, my dear ?" said he, while putting her 
 into an elegant new curricle. — " I am going," he added, 
 as they passed through the park, " to present a new ac- 
 quaintance to you. 
 
 ??
 
 156 N i BBBTJ B V T A L ; 
 
 "She will prove a pleasant one, I hope," said Julia, 
 
 smiling. 
 
 "The person of whom I speak is not a female.* 5 
 
 "Better still! I hope then that lie will prove pleas 
 
 "Time must determine that point : at present the 
 tleman is only twelve years of age, and — " he hesita* 
 for a moment — "a distant relation of mine." An embar- 
 rassment so marked conveyed some meaning, oven to the 
 unsuspecting Julia; who would have otherwise pass 
 to the mere circumstance before her, without either com- 
 ment or surmise. 
 
 "How distant?" returned she, somewhat archly. 
 
 "My dear Julia," cried Mr. Seymour, "I see your i 
 picions; but I give you my honor that they are ill-found- 
 ed. — The boy is merely" — they stopped at that moment 
 at the gate of a large house, which announced itself to be 
 an academy, and Mr. Seymour, giving the reins to his 
 servant, inquired for Master Villars. Master Yillars pres- 
 ently made his appearance. 
 
 "A very good countenance," said Julia, in a whisper, — 
 " but he does not resemble you." 
 
 " I swear to you, my angel — " 
 
 "Hush! No swearing, I entreat ! It would be a dan- 
 gerous example here; and if, by any terrible chance, I 
 should discover that you were forsworn ! — " 
 
 " I give you leave to treat me, in that case, accordingly." 
 Then taking the boy by the hand, he presented him to 
 her: — telling him at the same moment that that lady was 
 Mrs. Seymour. 
 
 "We shall improve our acquaintance." said she. extend- 
 ing her hand very graciously towards him. "You must 
 be my eldest son." 
 
 "I am a great deal too old," said the boy, though not 
 without embarrassment. 
 
 "Would you rather be my brother Y"
 
 THE WIFE'S TALE. 157 
 
 " Yes : for then I could take care of you." 
 
 " Very valiantly resolved at least, but I rather think 
 my turn will come first in that way." The boy, though 
 he looked abashed, blushed proudly, and Mr. Seymour 
 took up the conversation. 
 
 " This young gentleman seems quite a hero in embryo," 
 said Julia, gayly, as, after a suitable stay, they returned 
 to the curricle. " He did not seem above half pleased at 
 the offer of my protection. I believe that he thought 
 you were jesting when you told him I was your -wife." 
 
 "He knows that I am not much accustomed to jest," 
 replied Mr. Seymour, with a little more asperity of tone 
 than he had ever yet used in speaking to Julia. 
 
 " He looked so incredulous that I am persuaded he took 
 me for a school girl." 
 
 " He was a senseless blockhead, then !" peevishly ex- 
 claimed her husband. 
 
 " His countenance in that case belies him, for I never 
 saw one that pleased me better. — And now," she sweetly 
 added, "tell me frankly, dear Mr. Seymour, how nearly 
 he is related to you ; and believe that every degree of 
 confidence which conduces to your happiness, will always 
 increase mine." Seymour looked in her soft, intelligent 
 eyes as she spoke, and saw she was in earnest. 
 
 " Why, my love, will you persist in thinking that there 
 is any thing more to tell ? Charles Villars is an orphan : 
 consanguinity, when it passes a certain point, is neither 
 very easily understood nor explained : but he is, as I in- 
 formed you, related to me. His patrimony is very small ; 
 and his friendless situation had thrown the care both of 
 that and of his person into the hands of low people, on 
 whom he had no natural claims. I rescued him from 
 them, and mean to give him the education of a gentle- 
 man : after which I shall send him to India." 
 
 " Generous, kind-hearted creature ! Allow me to par- 
 
 7*
 
 158 CANTEEI5 I B Y I A L E S. 
 
 ticipate in your good works. Pray bring Charles Villars 
 often to see us !" 
 
 "By no means : it is not my wish to make him a fine 
 gentleman, but merely to fit him for poshing his way 
 in the world. I will very frankly acknowledge my 
 reason for presenting him to you : I thought it probable 
 you would hear that I occasionally looked in upon such a 
 person, and I was unwilling to expose you to the risk 
 of doubtful and disagreeable reports. Let us now change 
 the subject." Mr. Seymour cleared his countenance when 
 he had finished his harangue, and looking at the com- 
 placent one of his wife, he saw that she believed it im- 
 plicitly. 
 
 A decent period had at length elapsed since the death 
 of Mr. Cleveland ; the days of mourning therefore closed, 
 and the lovely Mrs. Seymour was brought out ! — But, 
 alas, in the empire of ton there are many competitors ! 
 and some, courageous enough to snatch that laurel which 
 is not voluntarily presented to them. This was a species 
 of courage in which Mrs. Seymour was totally deficient, 
 and the success of her debut was therefore not propor- 
 tioned to the degree of expectation attending it. The 
 disappointment was easily accounted for. However grace- 
 ful her person and lovely her features, her address was still 
 timid, and her manners somewhat reserved. She neither 
 talked nor laughed loud. She loved not crowded assem- 
 blies : she sought not adulation ; she shrunk from irallan- 
 try ; her eyes never canvassed the circle for applause ; her 
 husband's opinion continued to influence her actions, and 
 that husband might possibly, had he so pleased, have re- 
 mained ever the happiest of men. But the felicity to 
 which Mr. Seymour had aspired was by no means of this 
 quiet and retired nature ; and his mortification was pro- 
 portioned to his hopes. lie now, for the first time in bis 
 life, began to distrust his own judgment, even in that
 
 THE wife's tale. 159 
 
 point on which he had hitherto been most decided. — 
 Was it possible that he had deceived himself? — Had he 
 married a rustic, and fancied her a Venus ? Where else 
 were the eyes — the ears — the hearts of all his acquaint- 
 ance? Truth was, they were just then pre-engaged: 
 engaged by that strongest of all ties, their own vanity. 
 Admiration, among the votaries of the gay world, is a 
 traffic mutually understood ; and no individual of the 
 leaders of fashion continues to give what is not repaid. 
 The fair stoic, therefore, who received the tribute with- 
 out feeling its value, did not yet rank sufficiently high to 
 secure it long. 
 
 Mrs. Seymour, however, careless and gay, was ex- 
 tremely well satisfied with herself, and with all around. 
 She thought the world a very amusing place, nor was she 
 at all indifferent to the desire of pleasing there ; though 
 too ignorant of the freemasonry of ton, either to know 
 or to care whether she were one of the initiated : a lurk- 
 ing sensibility indeed sometimes fluttered at her bosom, 
 when men particularly gifted, either by nature or educa- 
 tion, distinguished her with their applause ; and not 
 knowing, on those occasions, exactly how to silence the 
 intruder, she had recourse to the remedies prescribed by 
 her mother and her husband. She tried the expensive or- 
 naments, bestowed by the latter, ivpon her beautiful arms 
 and neck, and would not believe it possible that she 
 could fail in attachment to a man so kind and so gene- 
 rous as the donor. She sat soberly down in her dressing- 
 room to enumerate, and that with the utmost care and 
 punctuality, his good qualities and his claims, and she 
 finished the calculation with a firm resolution to love him 
 with all her heart. Poor Julia was little aware of the 
 enemy concealed in that heart. Nature, invincible Na- 
 ture, asserted her rights : and in the course of a few 
 months Mrs. Seymour had the mortification to discover.
 
 1G0 LN1EBBUBT I1L18, 
 
 that though she had cultivate*] very successfully her at- 
 tachment to all the good things belonging to her hus- 
 band, she could not, in spite of her utmost efforts, • 
 tend the fondness to himself. This was a terrible blow ; 
 and she was very seriously angry with her own perv< 
 heart. No struggle however set it right. " Wicked and 
 ungrateful that I am," sighed she to herself; "hurt if I 
 can not love Mr. Seymour as I ought, I will carefully 
 guard the secret, and will love nothing beside This 
 appeared a most excellent expedient : arming her bosom 
 therefore with triple steel, she now deemed herself secure 
 in her own impenetrability, and again sallied boldly into 
 life. But sensibility, like every other gift of nature, may 
 be too greatly repressed, as well as too greatly indulged ; 
 and the cold chills of the heart are always dangerous. 
 They return its most wholesome impulses into the mental 
 constitution, and the vanity that breaks out on the sur- 
 face is often the least evil that follows. 
 
 And how did Mr. Seymour employ himself while these 
 various shades of feeling and folly were passing over the 
 mind of his fair companion ? — Mr. Seymour was by no 
 means without his resources for pleasure. Although dis- 
 appointed at finding that his wife did not dash at once 
 into celebrity, he knew fortune to be a medium for at- 
 taining it, much less fallacious than beauty ; and on that 
 he now rested his pretensions. Did taste introduce 
 new luxury, or vanity invent a new extravagance ? Mr. 
 Seymour piqued himself on being the first to display 
 either. Profusion Avas the regular order of the day in 
 his establishment, and the reputation of its being so his 
 reward. All went now, therefore, according to his wishes, 
 and the world was at his feet. His entertainments were 
 talked of, — his suppers were paragraphed, — carriages were 
 dashed to pieces in the attempt to approach his door ; 
 and crowds amused themselves with describing the ele-
 
 THE WIFE'S TALE. 161 
 
 gance of his assemblies, that had never advanced further 
 than the staircase. Seven years passed away in one un- 
 interrupted triumph of fashion and gayety ; at the expi- 
 ration of which time, Mr. Seymour found himself to have 
 been so eminently successful in all his undertakings, as to 
 have spent every shilling of the fortune he brought with 
 him from India, and to be under the necessity of dipping 
 his landed estate, if he meant to pursue his usual modes 
 of living. To this last measure he had only one objec- 
 tion ; but that was decisive. — It was not in his power. 
 
 When a man blunders upon an unlucky discovery with 
 regard to himself or Ins affairs, he seldom makes only one. 
 Mr. Seymour was soon too well convinced of this truth. 
 He had toiled very hard for the last two years of his life 
 to keep up the character of a young man, and it was 
 amongst his vexations to perceive that the smallest dis- 
 composure of circumstances endangered that happy har- 
 mony of features on which he had partly rested his pre- 
 tensions. Nor was this all : in spite of every exertion of 
 his animal spirits,he frequently found himself asleep with 
 his eyes open at some of the gayest balls, and what was 
 still worse, as being more liable to observation, asleep with 
 them shut, after the finest dinners. In short, age and 
 economy stared him full in the face, and only one specter 
 besides could more have alarmed him. 
 
 During the interval of time that had elapsed since Mr. 
 Seymour's marriage, he had had the misfortune to be 
 twice disappointed of an heir. He could not with justice, 
 nor even, as it happened, with injustice, arraign the dis- 
 cretion of Julia in either case, for he had himself been 
 accessory to the dissipation that caused his loss. Both 
 husband and wife, however, regretted it deeply, and each 
 secretly resolved to be more guarded on any similar oc- 
 casion; but no such occasion appeared likely to occur. 
 Mrs. Cleveland thus deprived of a pretext for coming to
 
 102 CANTERUUPvY TALES. 
 
 town, of which she had twice availed herself to make no 
 inconsiderable stay there, was obliged to remain station- 
 ary with Matilda in the country. The gay visions that 
 had danced before her imagination on the day when she 
 bestowed her daughter on Mr. Seymour, had faded al- 
 most immediately after. During the fortnight she first 
 spent in his house she had had conviction that she never 
 was welcome there ; but Julia, fondly attached to her 
 mother and sister, wrung from him by importunity an 
 occasional exertion of complaisance which he was other- 
 wise very little disposed to show. Matilda had reached 
 fifteen when she last visited London, and from that time 
 she was invited thither no more. The correspondence 
 that continued on the part of Julia, though overflowing 
 with kindness, was often dilatory; and a certain degree 
 of reserve that marked her letters, as to all that related 
 to passing events, was a source of secret disappointment 
 to both of those who received them. Mrs. Cleveland 
 loved the world for its own sake ; — Matilda for her sis- 
 ter's: but that sister had penetration enough to foresee 
 that she too might learn to love it for its own : and suffi- 
 cient experience of its dangers to fear that she should 
 do so. 
 
 Time and circumstances that had performed such won- 
 ders for Mr. Seymour with regard to his fortune, had 
 been no less propitious to his wishes in what respected 
 his wife. Their irresistible influence operating slowly on 
 her character, had changed every thing in it but her 
 lu art. She had been led for seven years through the 
 mazes of folly and fashion ; had danced gayly on the 
 verge of many a precipice, and in the full bloom of four- 
 ami-twenty, was at length become all that he had once 
 desired to see her. Familiar with crowds, accustomed 
 to homage, the model of fashion, and conscious, in all its 
 extent, of the value of beauty: not, indeed, of that
 
 THE WIFE'S TALE. 163 
 
 beauty which is the grace of the virtues and the finish of 
 the sex, but of that which delights to dazzle, to over- 
 whelm, and is cherished as the substitute for every advan- 
 tage besides. 
 
 " Where, Seymour, were you lucky enough to find that 
 lovely creature," was now the perpetual exclamation of 
 half his acquaintance. 
 
 "Where I wish, with all my soul, I had been lucky 
 enough to leave her," was as constantly the internal reply 
 of Mr. Seymour. — "Pshaw! — she was Ned Cleveland's 
 daughter." 
 
 " What a syren it is ! — hear how she sings !" Mrs. Sey- 
 mour, however, could not sing ; at least, not scientifically. 
 But she had now reached that pinnacle from whence her 
 very deficiencies appeared to be perfections. Her know- 
 ledge of music was confined, but her ear was exquisitely 
 true, and she had those low and melting notes in her voice 
 which are always sure to reach the heart ; perfectly in- 
 formed how to add to them, by every grace of expression, 
 and every charm of feature, she delighted in this cose, as in 
 all others, to baffle sober judgment, or critical skill. The 
 women said it was detestable, and out of all taste or time ; 
 the men thought it ecstatic : she secretly smiled at both 
 — but she knew her power, used and abused it. 
 
 " Pray, Mr. Seymour," said she one day, as by accident 
 they found themselves for half-an-hour tete-a-tete, " what is 
 become of Charles Yillars ? — I am sure it is more than a 
 century since you either saw or heard of him. Do you 
 know that I think that you treat that poor boy very ill ?" 
 
 " That boy is a man," replied Mr. Seymour. 
 
 " Oh, frightful ! a man ! — By that rule I should be, then, 
 an old woman. — Let me see ! — one — two — three — four- 
 and-twenty, as I live !" 
 
 "Time, madam," returned the gentleman, not much
 
 164 CANTERBURY TALI 
 
 charmed with the subject, "is what we make it — some 
 people will always be young in their conduct." 
 
 "And some, dear Mr. Seymour, would be always young 
 in their years. — But come, tell me honestly what you have 
 done for your son and heir ?" 
 
 " How should he be my heir, madam ?" 
 
 " Nay, that," said she, smiling at the indirect acknow- 
 ledgement of her first charge, " the casuists must deter- 
 mine : I am sure that I hope he is not. But to a-k the 
 question more decorously, then, what have you done for 
 Charles Yillars?" • 
 
 " Obtained him an appointment. He sails with the fir>t 
 ships for India." 
 
 " Heaven send him good fortune there ! Be sure you 
 tell him he has my maternal benediction, in case I should 
 not see him before he leaves England." 
 
 " Nonsense !" said Mr. Seymour, half subduing his fea- 
 tures to a smile. 
 
 "I shall be afraid that it is such, if vou look so well 
 pleased with it." 
 
 " And pray, madam, when did I ever fall out with good 
 sense P 1 
 
 "Fall out is a harsh phrase — but you must grant, my 
 dear Mr. Seymour, that you do not much love to fall hi 
 with it — at least in the person of your little wife. But 
 come, do not be offended where no offence is meant :" and 
 half rallying, half chiding, she restored him to apparent 
 good humor. This, however, was a sort of badinagi 
 great deal more amusing to her than to him. He had 
 naturally no great stock of liveliness, and years had Dot 
 increased it. His answer was not always ready, and her 
 sprightliness was on these occasions, often resented as an 
 impertinent assertion of superior sense or wit, when it was 
 
 in fact, the mere result of youth, and ga/UU • >'. It 
 
 was not, however, always so innocent of intentional of-
 
 THE wife's tale. 165 
 
 fense ; and there were moments when, like Lady Townly, 
 she could squeeze a little too much acid into the cup of 
 matrimonial felicity: and this was the more provoking, 
 because it showed off, at the same time, a thousand play- 
 ful airs which her beautiful person embellished, and hi 
 which Mr. Seymour could certainly not enter the lists as 
 a competitor. 
 
 The last conversation, and all that related to it, had 
 passed from the memory of Julia, when an accident revived 
 it there. Her coachman was driving furiously home, at a 
 late hour, to dinner, when by turning too short at the cor- 
 ner nearest her own house, he dashed against another car- 
 riage. There was a heavy fog, and it was nearly dark : 
 the shock was alarming, and. the horses, w T hich the man 
 endeavored to rein, beginning to plunge violently, left her 
 in the utmost apprehension of what might ensue, when a 
 gentleman who was passing, and heard a shriek, forced 
 open the carriage door, with great risk to hhnself, and 
 bore her out in his arms. She had just sense enough left 
 to hear that her servants were around her, and on recov- 
 ering, perceived that she was lying upon a sofa in her own 
 house. The usual remedies had been successfully admin- 
 istered ; and after listening to many lamentable exclama- 
 tions and inquiries from her maid, she had at length recol- 
 lection enough to ask if any one knew the gentleman that 
 had assisted her. 
 
 " Oh, yes, madam," replied the abigail, " we all know 
 him well enough : — it was Mr. Yillars ?" 
 
 "Mr. Villars l» said Julia : "What Yillars?" 
 
 "My master's Mr. Yillars, madam. He had not left 
 the house five minutes when the accident happened. Xot 
 finding Mr. Seymour at home, he told the porter he would 
 call again. It was a mercy he passed by at that moment, 
 for few people besides would have ventured to do what 
 he did."
 
 166 CANTERBURY T A L B S. 
 
 M He is not gone away, I hope ?" 
 
 " Not yet, madam. He is waiting below stairs to know 
 whether you are recovered." 
 
 "Desire him by all means to come up, that I may thank 
 him." He presently entered ; but she had no recollection 
 of his person : it was full grown and manly. Some traces, 
 however, remained of the same character of countenance 
 that had pleased her when she saw him before. He had 
 an oval face, dark eyes, and features that harmonized in a 
 manner which still struck her to be peculiarly engaging. 
 
 " Mr. Villars can hardly, I believe, recollect me," said 
 she, inclining graciously towards him, as he entered. 
 
 " Most distinctly madam. It is not, I well know, the 
 first time that you have dona me this honor :" and he took 
 the hand which she offered him. He then inquired, with 
 some appearence of interest, whether she had suffered from 
 the accident; and after a few minutes of very respectful 
 attention, rose to take his leave. Manners so cold and so 
 distant surprised, and a little offended her. 
 
 "May I inquire," said she, " whether you have any par- 
 ticular engagement? — the dinner hour is almost past." 
 
 " It is for that reason I forbear to trespass on you longer 
 — I am returning home." 
 
 "Indeed, I shall allow you no home in London but this 
 house," cried she kindly; "especially after so gallant a 
 rescue as that you have lately performed." 
 
 "Pardon me, madam — I had not Mr. Seymour's invita- 
 tion," — and he looked surprised and embarrassed. 
 
 "Perhaps Mr. Seymour was afraid of his wife," returned 
 she, laughing. "It is a very salutarv fear, and I shall not 
 therefore wholly discourage it. But I beg vou for the 
 future to understand that I order all these things. So pot 
 down your hat — you dine with us. We expect only gen- 
 tlemen, and a servant shall in the evening receive any com- 
 mands which you may think it necessary to send to your
 
 THE wife's tale. 167 
 
 hotel." She then rang the bell, and inquired whether Mr. 
 Seymour was returned ; and receiving an answer in the neg- 
 ative, gave orders that the housekeeper should prepare 
 an apartment for Mr. Yillars. 
 
 Villars found himself at once perplexed and gratified by 
 this attention. He perceived that she supposed him to be 
 just come to London ; yet he had in fact been there near- 
 ly three weeks : but as Mr. Seymour had, on his arrival, 
 given him to understand that a residence with them would 
 not be agreeable to his wife, he had hired apartments at 
 a considerable distance from that part of the town. Whe- 
 ther the apparent cordiality of her invitation proceeded 
 from temporary good humor, or might be relied upon, 
 Mr. Yillars was unable to determine ; but whatever the 
 cause, the effect was too pleasant, and she too engagingly 
 peremptory, to admit of any denial from him. 
 
 Julia had on her side more delicate and decided motives 
 of action than she suffered to appear. She thought herself 
 indebted to her husband for the decorum which he had 
 observed in not obtruding the young man upon her ; 
 since it was plain from the answer of her woman, " my 
 master's Mr. Yillars," as well as from other hints dropt 
 by the former, that every servant in the family guessed 
 the affinity in which he stood to Mr. Seymour. Indepen- 
 dent of a partiality which Julia had early conceived for 
 Yillars, his present friendless situation, half protected, half 
 disclaimed, on the point of being dismissed to another 
 hemisphere, and thrown thus, in the interval, upon his own 
 discretion and powers of entertainment in so gay and busy 
 a scene as London, inspired a very kind interest in his fa- 
 vor. In addition to this she found from her servants that 
 he required some personal attention, as he had wrenched 
 his arm very considerably in the effort of taking her out 
 of the carriage, and the housekeeper had been bathing it 
 before he could make his appearance above stairs.
 
 168 CA.NTEKBUKY TALI 
 
 u 
 
 Your words seemed prophetic, Mr. Yillars," said she, 
 "when you promised to take eare of me." 
 
 "Did I ever promise to do so?" replied he, with 
 
 softness in his eyes and voice. 
 
 "Oh, a thousand years ago; when you and I fi] 
 met." 
 
 " I will hope, then," he added, " that the occasion is 
 yet to come. As I did not know it was you whom I as- 
 sisted, I shall not consider fortune as out of my debt," — 
 Mr. Seymour returned home extremely late, and hastened 
 to her dressing-room: he heard of the arrangement m 
 for her guest with some surprise, and mused a little upon 
 it. 
 
 " You have perhaps done more kindly than wisely," 
 said he, at length : " but Villars shall not incommode yon 
 long." He then withdrew to the dinner-table. Mrs. 
 Seymour, though she had rallied her spirits, continued 
 too much indisposed to appear there ; but as she meant 
 to confine herself at home for the evening, and was not 
 much in the habit of courting solitude, she gave Mr. Vil- 
 lars an intimation that he would be admitted to take his 
 coffee up stairs. 
 
 How dangerous to the peace of the young man were 
 the hours, the days that succeeded ! 3Irs. Seymour, in all 
 the graceful negligence of undress, soft — languid — inter- 
 esting; — shutting out society, and resting only upon 
 those resources which her own playful manners and nat- 
 urally poignant understanding supplied, was ten thousand 
 times "more irresistible than if she had at once blazed 
 upon him in all the splendor of beauty and fashion. lie 
 saw her, indeed, only for about two hours every evening; 
 which was the time that Mr. Seymour usually passed be- 
 tween the interval of dinner, and of cfoinc: abroad. She 
 was not visible before, and she rarely staid above a quar- 
 ter of an hour after. This arrangement, however, was
 
 THE WIFE'S TALE. 169 
 
 not the effect either of circumspection or prudence on her 
 part. She did not entertain the least doubt that Charles 
 Villars perfectly well knew himself to be the son of Mr. 
 Seymour ; for the character of the latter was not such as 
 to induce her, for a moment, to suppose that the invari- 
 able attention which he had hitherto paid to the educa- 
 tion and interest of the young man, could be attributed 
 to generosity only. A sort of constraint that she ob- 
 served in Mr. Seymour's manners and address served 
 strongly to confirm her opinion. He had not, in con- 
 versing with Villars, the easy and natural tone of a per- 
 son who is conscious that he has conferred obligations, 
 and shows exactly, even with ostentation, for such would 
 doubtless have been his method of showing it, the high 
 ground on which he stands. He was like a man who con- 
 strained his own heart, and vailed some powerful impulse 
 there, which by turns induced kindness and distance 
 between them. Mrs. Seymour knew that her husband 
 much desired a legitimate son, and she hardly doubted 
 but that in that expectation, he kept back from Villars 
 the portion of fatherly fondness, which would, perhaps, 
 in any other circumstances have been extravagantly lav- 
 ished upon him. She had also great reason to hope that 
 his wishes for an heir would not be disappointed. 
 
 Upon these three dangerous and intoxicating hours, 
 the only ones now reckoned by Villars throughout the 
 whole four-and-twenty, he nearly lived. Far from sus- 
 pecting how transient this species of happiness was to 
 prove, he was too new to life to be at all aware that Mrs. 
 Seymour passed hers very differently. The elegant soli- 
 tude of her magnificent house, the tranquillity, blended 
 with taste, that distinguished every thing around her, 
 and that graceful self-possession which is in fact only the 
 result of elegant manners, but which seemed to him 
 to mark the repose of the mind, all united to form an
 
 1 VO CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 elysium, new alike to his senses, and to his heart. It was 
 the first time that Villars hud ever known he had a. 
 heart. Removed, at a very early period of life, from 
 every natural or habitual tie, without any companion but 
 such as accident afforded him, or any relation but on 
 who wore to his eyes the shape of a benefactor, his affec- 
 tions had undergone a secret blight. Nor was there one 
 among them, gratitude excepted, that had ever been al- 
 lowed an object or aim. Whatever therefore was the 
 tenor of his natural character, his habitual one was sedate, 
 thoughtful, somewhat melancholv. lie had cultivated a 
 passion for study, because to cultivate any passion was 
 delightful to him; but his very Btudies, although circum- 
 stances rendered him not deficient in the severer branches 
 of knowledge, were of a nature to cherish the secret 
 romance of an ardent character ; and to bestow on every 
 object in which he could take the least interest, all the 
 embellishments of imagination, and all the fire of sensibil- 
 ity. Such was Charles Villars : who now emerged from 
 the house of a retired clergyman — in which he had passed 
 the last four years of his life, and where nature and sim- 
 plicity had been the sole objects around — to the brilliant 
 habitation of Mr. Seymour. 
 
 The earth-shaking thunder that visited Mrs. Sevmour's 
 door every morning by way of civil inquiry after her 
 health, was never heard by Villars. When he saw not 
 her, he desired not to sec any thing; and if business, 
 either respecting his own affairs or those of Mr. Seymour, 
 did not necessarily engage him, he passed his time in long 
 and solitary walks, engrossed by that species of medita- 
 tion which is of all others most dangerous, because it has 
 hardly any thing to do with the realities of life. 
 
 More than a week had passed in this delicious forget- 
 fulness i>{' the world, when Mrs. Seymour's brilliancy and 
 spirits returned. She staid one evening much longer
 
 THE WIFE'S TALE. 171 
 
 than usual in the drawing-room after Mr. Seymour had 
 quitted it ; and as Villars had a good deal of musical 
 knowledge, she tried, accompanied by his flute, a number 
 of passages that she was desirous to learn. They turned 
 over the music books together, — laughed, — talked, — ral- 
 lied, and passed the time so gayly, that Mrs. Seymour, 
 looking at length upon her watch, rang, with some ap- 
 pearance of surprise and haste, for her maid. Mr. Villars 
 very gravely wished her good night. 
 
 " Sober mortal that you are," said she, laughing ; " is it 
 possible that you are thinking of sleep ! Well, — pleasant 
 dreams attend you." Sleep was however very far from 
 Villars at that moment. His mind was full of a thousand 
 delightful emotions, which he did not even attempt to in- 
 vestigate ; and he employed himself in trying twenty 
 times the same musical passages they had run over toge- 
 ther: then closing the books with disappointment after a 
 long reverie, he sat down and attempted to read. Repose, 
 far from seeming likely to befriend him, was every instant 
 further off; and a period of time, much more considerable 
 than he was aware of, had elapsed, wdien, to his astonish- 
 ment, he heard the voice of Mrs. Seymour on the stairs. — 
 She was carelessly running over one of the airs so lately 
 learned, and as the door was thrown open by her maid, 
 she entered the room before either could be aware that 
 they should encounter the other. 
 
 " Heavens, Mr. Villars, " exclaimed she, with great 
 surprise on seeing him, " is it possible that you are still 
 here ! What on earth have you been doing all this time ?" 
 Villars, dazzled by her appearance, had no voice or 
 words to answer. Astonished, enchanted, he looked upon 
 her as on " some gay creature of the element," and such 
 as imagination only could present to any mortal eye. — 
 What her dress was he knew not : it w T as totally unlike 
 all he had hitherto seen her wear, all indeed he had ever
 
 172 CANTEKBL'KY TALES. 
 
 seen : light, elegant, gracefully disposed, and calculated 
 to exhibit her in the perfection of her beauty. 
 
 "Are you asleep with your (.yes open?* 1 said she, at 
 
 length, with a sort of smiling consciousness ; " or has my 
 unexpected appearance locked up all your faculties in 
 astonishment? Come — wake I entreat, and tell me what 
 you think I mean to represent?" And she took her 
 mask from the maid, who stood behind. 
 " An angel !" exclaimed Yillars. 
 
 " Nay, do not be so ill-natured as to take my character 
 out of my hands. It is one which suits me exactly : light, 
 fickle, dangerous, — and tolerably bewitching. What 
 think you of Flattery ?" And she held up a small mir- 
 ror that was suspended by a wreath of roses from her 
 Avaist. 
 
 " Armida, rather ?" said Yillars, gently touching it, to 
 turn it towards her. " The enchantress Armida !" 
 
 "With all my heart! Armida then let it be, and you 
 my Rinaldo. But unfortunately you are neither a lover 
 nor a coxcomb ! — What can I possibly do with such a 
 nondescript ?'' 
 
 "Make me — both," — returned Yillars; but not without 
 some hesitation. 
 
 " Why, that is no bad project ! A little of both would 
 improve you, I think : but that sort of improvement de- 
 volves to other hands, or rather to other eyes than 
 mine: however, if I know any thing of your character, 
 the day will come, — 'the day decreed by fates — ' and 
 when it does come, remember Armida ! — She was skilled 
 I believe in divination." She then gayly bade him, a 
 second time, good night, and accepting his offered hand, 
 threw herself into the carriage that was in waiting. But 
 tbouflth absent, she left him not. Armida — the enchant- 
 ress Armida, swam before his waking eyes, disturbed his 
 slumbers, haunted him with a painful brightness, which
 
 THE WIFE'S TALE. 1*73 
 
 he could not dismiss from his imagination. Mrs. Seymour 
 had thrown wildfire around her, and knew not the mis- 
 chief she was doing. 
 
 On the succeeding days Julia resumed her usual habits 
 of life : he therefore saw her only at the dinner hour ; 
 and she vanished after that, to some unknown, inaccessi- 
 ble earthly paradise, where he at least could neither trace 
 nor follow her. Another — another, and another day still 
 pursued the track of the former, and he learned, too 
 late, that every succeeding one would pass in the same 
 manner : that to see her out of a crowd was a hopeless 
 expectation ; and that though during the dinner hour she 
 often smiled and addressed herself to him, there was not 
 the remotest chance of any nearer communication be- 
 tween them. 
 
 The insupportable impatience, restlessness, and almost 
 frantic regret that now seized upon the mind of Villars, 
 made it impossible that he should doubt longer as to the 
 nature of his feelings. Honor, gratitude, principle, every 
 thing rose in arms within his bosom to oppose the grow- 
 ing passion. " What was Mrs. Seymour to him ? What, 
 perhaps, could she ever be ? His wildest Irishes, his 
 most sanguine hopes, could hardly extend to the bare 
 possibility of calling her his. She might, indeed, by the 
 probable course of human events, be freed from those 
 ties which now bound her to another ; but how could he 
 dare aspire to, much less hope to win her ? Where was 
 his consideration in life ? Where the fortune, or even 
 the merit that should entitle him for an instant to indulge 
 the expectation ? In the interim, was she not the wife 
 of the man on earth who had most obliged him ? Was 
 he not himself therefore bound by every thing sacred to 
 an upright mind, to forbear attempting the alienation 
 even of her affections ? To extort from her one look of 
 sympathy, one thought of tender partiality, would be to 
 
 8
 
 174 C A B T E B B U B Y T ALES. 
 
 violate at once hospitality and honor." Villars was too 
 upright not to spurn the supposition. But the human 
 mind is compounded of wisdom and folly, rectitude and 
 self-deceit. That idea which we reject with terror in one 
 shape we embrace without remorse in another, and the 
 severe, unqualified rule of right alone can steadily guide 
 us. "Can Mrs. Seymour be anything to me?" he re- 
 peated to himself a thousand times a day. "Yes, she 
 may innocently continue to be the Armida of my imagi- 
 nation; the Laura to whom I consecrate my life; the 
 realized representation of a thousand visionary charmers, 
 who have been described with visionary passion, while 
 mine burns secretly and silently at my heart. This is an 
 indulgence that can neither trespass on the most rigid 
 honor, nor the most unsullied chastity." Poor Villars, in 
 fine, at nineteen, a lover and a poet, yielded to the chi- 
 merical idea that he might safely cherish a passion which 
 should eventually injure no one but himself 
 
 Preparations, meantime, were daily making for his de- 
 parture for India. An event to which he looked forward 
 with a sort of calm desperation that seemed to leave it 
 to the moment to decide what his conduct would prove. 
 The preparations were indeed so far advanced that hardly 
 any thing was wanting towards the completion of the 
 business, but to secure the appointment ; and Mr. S \ - 
 mour, in the account he had given of this, when it was 
 mentioned to his wife, had not been altogether correct. 
 Large promises had indeed been made him, and on th 
 he had relied : but with his friends, as with friends in 
 general, there was a wide distance between promise and 
 performance, and so many obstacles had on the present 
 occasion intervened to disappoint and chagrin him, that 
 he began to suspect it would be impossible to secure his 
 object, except by the indirect mode of purchase. It was 
 neither convenient nor agreeable to him, howei
 
 TUE WIFE'S TALE. 175 
 
 that juncture, to part with the money that would be re- 
 quisite on such an occasion, and he, therefore, continued 
 to hope for some favorable chance, long after the period 
 when his knowledge of the world should have taught 
 him that no such chance was likely to arise. What 
 passed within the limits of his own house was in the in- 
 terim the least employment of his thoughts. By that ill- 
 luck which too often attends the votaries of ton, he was 
 become disqualified for enjoying his triumph at the very 
 crisis when he had attained it. He began, therefore, to 
 entertain a most decided enmity to fashion, in whatever 
 shape she presented herself; and the state of his fortune 
 made him secretly revolve a variety of new projects as to 
 his future life, which in due season he intended to com- 
 municate to his wife. Till that period should arrive, he 
 'permitted her, though not without testifying sufficient 
 symptoms of increasing peevishness on his own part, to 
 run blindly on in the usual routine of extravagance and 
 dissipation. 
 
 This dissipation, whatever might be its nature or ex- 
 tent, it now became the most ardent wish of Villars to 
 partake. He found it impossible, as he believed at least, 
 to live out of the sight of Mrs. Seymour, and as impos- 
 sible to attain it except by mingling in her circle. Pride, 
 delicacy, and a nameless fear that the true motive which 
 influenced would be suspected, for a considerable time 
 chained up his tongue. But after long hovering around 
 her with fruitless impatience and persevering attention, 
 he at length found the opportunity of engaging hers ; 
 and with a reluctance that nothing but the temptation 
 before him could have conquered, he ventured to describe 
 the irksomeness of a life that was neither spent in business 
 nor pleasure. A hint was sufficient for Julia ; who in all 
 that did not interfere with her own tastes and pursuits 
 was still delicately and anxiously alive to the power of
 
 170 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 obliging. She invited him at once to her box at the 
 opera, and presented him with a ticket from among sev- 
 eral which she had at command, for one of the most 
 splendid assemblies in London. Mr. Villars was DOW en- 
 listed in the gay world. But the gay world w. retly 
 nothing to him. It was Julia, and Julia only that ]-.'. 
 eyes followed, and his heart incessantly demanded. The 
 romance of his character induced him to treasure up 
 those words as indeed prophetic, which she had recalled 
 to his memory : and that he would guard, he would de- 
 fend her, was the invariable dream of his imagination. 
 
 The evils against which Mrs. Seymour would require 
 to be guarded, were not, however, such as Villars could 
 avert ; and he himself had soon too much opportunity of 
 ascertaining this. The avidity with which he saw her 
 plunge into crowds occasioned his wonder; the conduct 
 she pursued there, excited even a less agreeable sensation. 
 The presuming and the dissolute of either sex, if author- 
 ized by rank and fashion, approached her m discriminate^ 
 and the courage with which, when they trespassed beyond 
 certain bounds, she either repressed or awed them, though 
 necessary to her in discretion, yet took something from 
 the charm of her character. "It would have been so 
 graceful to have shrunk from them altogether," thought 
 Villars. "Why encounter men marked out by public 
 censure, or private enormities? Why associate with 
 women whose least fault is that they neglect every duty 
 becoming their sex, and renounce every grace but th 
 which externally belongs to it? Oh Julia, adorable Jul'; . 
 can you voluntarily do this?" 
 
 The impression which Mrs, Seymour had made on his 
 
 heart and his senses was not, however, to be superseded 
 by succeeding events. As he took no interest in any 
 thing thai passed around him, except as it related to 1m 
 his attentions were soon noticed, and his person distin-
 
 THE WIFE'S TALE. 177 
 
 guishecl, by those whose jealousy was likely to be excited 
 by either. The question of who is he f presently ran 
 through various circles ; and the report of the household 
 soon made the conjecture respecting his affinity to Mr. 
 Seymour be publicly whispered. An intimate of the lat- 
 ter, troubled either with more curiosity, or more observa- 
 tion than the rest, determined to satisfy himself and his 
 acquaintance on the subject. 
 
 " Is the young fellow that lives with you, your son, 
 Seymour?" said he. 
 
 "The world, I hear, is so impertinent as to proclaim 
 him such," replied Seymour, with some hesitation, and 
 an equivocal smile that spoke him not well pleased with 
 the question. The point was now determined; Villars 
 consequently sunk from the wonder of the day into the 
 genteel insignificance of a half-acknowledged, half-dis- 
 claimed appendage to the family : and except that he was 
 thought to make his bows with more or less grace in the 
 different circles, and was more or less fortunate in oppor- 
 tunities of approaching Mrs. Seymour, his hours passed 
 without being apparently marked in any calendar either 
 of the pleasures or interests of life. But in his own 
 bosom was lodged a source of ever-varying feelings, over 
 which chagrin was but too often predominant. It was 
 now among his frequent mortifications to be an auditor, 
 and from propriety a silent one, of those indirect sar- 
 casms which malice or ill-nature delighted to level at Mrs. 
 Seymour. "Without being of force to justify resentment, 
 they continually excited indignation ; nor was it the least 
 of his chagrins that her conduct too often seemed to 
 sanction their utmost severity. 
 
 "You will drive me distracted, if you whisper again 
 with that coxcomb," said he, almost forcing his way to 
 her one evening through a crowded assembly. 
 
 " You are distracted already, I think," replied she, as-
 
 178 CANTERBUEY TALES. 
 
 tonishcd at the abruptness and familiarity of his address. 
 
 " What can you mean '.•"' 
 
 "It is impossible forme at this moment to tell you." 
 "And it is impossible for me to wait another mom< 
 
 before I hear : so pray follow me directly." And with- 
 out the least attention to appearances, she instantly 
 broke through the crowd around, to pa-- a suite of apart- 
 ments. "And now," she added, as they stood by 
 
 the fire in an ante-room, "tell me what it is that has 
 thus disturbed you." Villars remained for some mo- 
 ments in indignant silence, but perceiving that she still 
 waited for him to speak. 
 
 " Is he not," said he, at length, " an intolerable cox- 
 comb ?" 
 
 " And are you to go distracted because I meet with a 
 coxcomb? — My dear Mr. Villars, how^have you contrr? 
 to keep your senses so long ?" 
 
 " But this man is insolent — malignant.* 1 
 
 " Oh ! now I begin to comprehend you ! You have 
 overheard him abuse me ! I saw you stand near him be- 
 tween the doors, and had he been employed in observing 
 you instead of me, it is probable he might not have been 
 very well pleased with some looks you cast upon him. — 
 ■Well I— What did he say ?» 
 
 "More than any one living shall dare repeat in my 
 hearing." 
 
 "Do not be too sure! — lam ^oimr to be that very 
 daring mortal myself: and I believe I can give atoleral 
 guess at the crimes and misdemeanors alleged against 
 me. Y<>u sec I know the character of the gentleman, 
 and I am afraid," sheadded laughing, " 1 shall only prove 
 that heknew the character of the lady, lie asserted, 
 perhaps, that I was vain — insolent — capricious! — that I 
 trespassed against all rule and decorum. — Perhaps that I
 
 THE WIFE'S TALE. 179 
 
 encouraged hopes ! Perhaps — more than encouraged 
 
 them !" — 
 
 " That, at least, he ventured not to say." 
 
 " Then he was very good natured : for all the rest is, I 
 am afraid, simple truth, and it is a rare thing when an 
 angry man confines himself to that. — Nay, my dear 
 Charles, do not look so like a knight of romance ! — I have 
 all these faults — aye, and ten thousand more ! however to 
 console you for the mortification of having heard this 
 coxcomb say, what perhaps fifty coxcombs besides are 
 saying at this moment, I promise you to revenge my 
 own cause. You shall see the very man in question fol- 
 low me like my shadow, and obey implicitly the most 
 absurd of my caprices." 
 
 " Oh, for heaven's sake, forbear so dangerous an exper- 
 iment." 
 
 "Dangerous to whom, pray?" — No answer. "Mr. 
 Yillars," she added, " our acquaintance is, correctly speak- 
 ing, of very late date ; it may be proper at this period of 
 it to hint to you that I do not love advice — and never 
 follow it,"— 
 
 " Haughty — insolent beauty !" thought Villars ; and he 
 continued almost motionless on the spot where she had 
 left him, till her carriage was called. He then advanced 
 hastily, with the hope of presenting his hand, but had the 
 mortification to perceive that she had already given hers 
 to the very man whom, of all others, lie thought she ought 
 to have avoided. Mrs. Seymour was, indeed, very seri- 
 ously offended : perhaps the more readily so, as her hus- 
 band, by a transition neither uncommon nor unnatural, 
 had lately passed from sharing the pleasure of her celebrity 
 to jealousy of her conduct. Domestic dissension was, 
 therefore, in danger of rising high between them ; for the 
 dissipation Mr. Seymour no longer chose to partake, he 
 already began indirectly to control : as he did not, however,
 
 180 CANT B BBC B Y T A L J 
 
 yet think it necessary to n any reason for the change 
 
 in his own modes of life, and as hers were only what they 
 had been for several years past, she resented his interf 
 ence with that tone of independence and indifference 
 which her habits had taught her insensibly to contract. 
 But though she could resent, she could neither forget nor 
 silence his censures ; and her home was therefore in dan- 
 ger of becoming hateful to her; delightful it had never 
 been. The extreme disparity of years between herself 
 and Mr. Seymour had disqualified him, in spite of 1 
 most anxious endeavors to the contrary, either to become 
 an amiable or agreeable companion to her. It had be 
 almost as little in her power to be such to him. 1 1 r- 
 
 sonal charms were, indeed, such as no husband could see 
 with indifference ; but her ideas, during the first years of 
 their marriage, had been girlish and trifling; she had read 
 little, she had seen little : her acuteness of understanding 
 was therefore troublesome to him, for it was not regulated 
 either by judgment or experience ; and her sprightlinef 
 fatiguinsr, for it was often ill-timed, and always ill-suite 1 
 to the measure of his abilitu s. What happiness, though 
 she had proved herself the most domestic of human being-, 
 could be hoped from such an union? Early tutored in 
 folly as she had been, it now threatened to be productive 
 of the utmost misery. 
 
 But although imperfection had thus imperceptibly 
 tainted the mind of Mrs. Seymour, her heart, which had 
 once been the precious home of the virtues, had neith* 
 discarded nor ceased to value them; and it soon con- 
 quered the temporary resentment which influenced her 
 condu When she threw the genera] herd o( nun to a 
 distance, she was assured that she only returned them to 
 another circle of society : but A^illars had no circle — no 
 place there — no i nee, except such as her influence 
 created, and she was yet ignorant that he desired not to
 
 THE WIFE'S TALE. 181 
 
 have any other. Without exactly penetrating into his 
 feelings, she had observation enough to perceive that he 
 was silent, thoughtful, at intervals almost desponding : 
 that though he did not absent himself from society, he 
 addressed no one there ; and she knew enough of the 
 world to foresee, that if he continued to carry such an 
 exterior into it, no one would long take the trouble of 
 addressing him. She suspected his pride to be deeply 
 wounded, and a delicacy in her own nature induced her 
 to regret that she had probably added a mortification to 
 that which his situation might, in numberless instances, 
 expose him to. Her observations, however, were not 
 confined merely to the manners or acceptation of Mr. 
 Villars in society. There was something in the general 
 tenor of his conduct, which struck her to be singular and 
 mysterious. That she could be the object of any feeling 
 in his bosom beyond that of tender gratitude, circum- 
 stanced as they were with respect to each other, had 
 never occurred to her ; nor did it now. She did not fail 
 however to remark, that although he was to be seen in 
 every place, he appeared to have no pleasure, nor object 
 of pursuit in any. Her own eyes, when she was in com- 
 pany, were too much engaged to admit of her making 
 frequent observation upon his ; but she saw enough to be 
 convinced that they were incessantly and watchfully upon 
 her ; and a new idea, in consequence, presented itself to 
 her imagination. Mr. Seymour had for some time past 
 withdrawn from the parties in which she mingled, yet he 
 was distrustful, anxious, peevish, and inquisitive as to the 
 persons she saw there. Could it be possible that, though 
 absent himself, he had had address enough to substitute 
 Villars as a spy upon her actions ? Her opinion of the 
 justice, and even of the generosity which she conceived 
 to be blended in the character of the latter, could not 
 
 shelter him from this surmise. She was assure* 1 that his 
 
 8*
 
 182 CANTERBURY T A L E S. 
 
 ideas upon all points relative to honor and delicacy, wore 
 romantically rigid ; and therefore believed it by no mean! 
 improbable that lie was trying her conduct by some h ; . 
 flown, speculative standard of perfection, which nii_ 
 dispose him to view it with eyes very little dill' rent from 
 those of her husband. His own lips had informed her, 
 almost unequivocally, that she stood arraigned for in 
 cretion and levity; and how easily might he, when thus 
 prepossessed, be induced to believe that he did only what 
 propriety and justice demanded of him, in becoming the 
 guardian of Mr. Seymour's honor, and her reputation. 
 This idea certainly did not please her : but that which 
 succeeded, did. It would be a whimsical project, she 
 thought, to transform the spy into a traitor. It was one 
 exactly suited to the sportiveness of her character, and 
 to the habits of her life. At Mr.Villar's age, a smile, an 
 ingratiating word, a kind and confidential glance, from a 
 woman whose every glance was ambitiously cove' 
 would, she knew, be irresistible corruption: and why 
 should she hesitate to practice so innocent an artifice ? It 
 was not concealment that she desired to obtain from him, 
 for she had no secrets to conceal. It would therefore be 
 mere badinage — ruse contre ruse : and she anticipated a 
 whimsical sort of triumph in bewildering the judgment, 
 and putting to flight the sober prudence, thus insidiously 
 enlisted against her. The plan once adopted, there was 
 not the smallest difficulty to impede the execution of it : 
 for she was really disposed to feel a partiality tor Villars, 
 and had only to indulge freely the natural bent of her 
 own character, in order to let him understand how highly 
 she thought of his. lie was too anxious an observer not 
 to read the very first look that announced him forgiven ; 
 and he felt that he should never repeat an offense, the 
 consequence of which he would have averted at the sacri- 
 fice of his life, Nor was this all he felt. By degrees an
 
 THE WIFE'S TALE. 183 
 
 uncertain and tumultuous pleasure began to agitate his 
 heart, the nature of which he dared not attempt to as- 
 certain. It could not be hope : he ventured not to desire 
 that it should prove such. But it was irresistible, it was 
 enchanting ; it breathed into him a new life ; it animated 
 his character, it enlivened his faculties, made every place 
 delightful, and inspired him with complaisance and indul- 
 gence for every person. Mr. Villars, in fine, now trod 
 on ice : he had lost the vanguard of the virtues, when he 
 parted with prudence ; and they are either a most so- 
 ciable, or a most cowardly band, for they generally steal 
 off, one by one, when the foremost is dismissed from the 
 service. 
 
 "While Julia and Villars thus sported over the fairy 
 ground of allurement and indiscretion, Mr. Seymour had 
 been engrossed by a variety of contemplations. A more 
 exact review of the state of his affairs had shown him 
 that he had been dangerously dilatory on some points of 
 importance ; and such was the constitution of his mind, 
 that on those very points he was likely still to remain so. 
 Turning his eyes, therefore, as men commonly do, from 
 that which he was not disposed to do fairly, nor cour- 
 ageous enough to decide upon otherwise, he gave him- 
 self up to cogitations of a different kind. His Arcadian 
 schemes were now perfect. Domestic ease, rural retire- 
 ment, total seclusion from a world of which he persuaded 
 himself he was most philosophically weary ; in a word, 
 otiuni cum dignitate, was, to use his own definition of it, 
 the plan of his future life. Impertinent people might 
 have doubted its correctness ; but it had been from the 
 first his intention to take neither opinion nor advice ; and 
 he certainly showed more forbearance than is generally 
 found in persons who have made that resolution, for he 
 never asked any. 
 
 It was not, however, without a secret reluctance some-
 
 184 < \ .v i j: bbqbi talj 
 
 what disgraceful to philosophy, that Mr. Seym our could 
 final! \ resolve to give up that place in the world which 
 he had so dearly purchased, and so eagerly coveted. But 
 our love of society is founded much less upon what we 
 expect to find in it, than on that which we believe Ave 
 shall cany there. Mr. Seymour could not carry the eclat 
 he delighted in, and therefore he assured himself that he 
 loved it no longer. It was precisely at this crisis of newly 
 acquired stoicism, that all he had ever posst ssed was in 
 danger of being demolished by the expectation of an 
 event which he had long most earnestly desired : he 
 found that he was likely to have an heir. Pleasure how- 
 ever was not the only sensation by which his philosophy 
 was now endangered : emotions of a very different nature 
 had their share in his bosom. The homage paid to his 
 wife had been a source of pain to him from the moment 
 he had ceased to desire that she should receive it ; and a 
 restless suspicion, neither dignified enough for avowal, 
 nor sufficiently timid to be totally disguised, had har- 
 assed him for some months past. His mind was too 
 gross to admit only a refined and limited jealousy, such 
 as might have been excited by giddiness or indiscretion : 
 and without adverting to the real character of his wife, 
 or scrutinizing her conduct, suspicion- the most unjust 
 and derogatory to her now passed across his imagination. 
 Yet the impression, though painful, was too little justified 
 by circumstances to be other than temporary. Slander 
 had not indeed spared Mrs. Seymour, Avho, on her part, 
 had ventured to defy it with a carelessness that almost 
 amounted to levity: but that very eareh a was, in 
 
 the eyes of dispassionate observers, an argument in her 
 favor. The various titles which were circulated on the 
 contrary side of the question were all of them vague and 
 incongruous, nor had they unifbrmedly pointed to any in- 
 dividual of the circle she associated with. But the tri-
 
 THE wife's tale. 185 
 
 umphs of vanity are seldom to be indulged with impunity : 
 hers too frequently imposed mortifications upon others, 
 not to incur the penalty attending them ; and among the 
 credulous or the malicious, there were many who sus- 
 pected her to be capable of error, though they ventured 
 not to sully her fame with any decided calumny. In the 
 former class Mr. Sevmour himself was included. But the 
 evil suggestions that clung in consequence round his 
 heart, and blighted what had once been his most highly- 
 cherished hopes, were such as he could only indulge in 
 silence. The crisis was, nevertheless, he believed, at hand, 
 which must either confirm or remove his apprehensions. 
 If Julia, without extreme reluctance, consented to leave 
 London, and be domesticated with him, the conclusion 
 would be obvious and fair that she had no illicit attach- 
 ments in it ; if otherwise, observation, detection, and di- 
 vorce presented themselves to his imagination in regular 
 progress. Mr. Seymour, cold-blooded and worldly-minded, 
 considered this mode of proceeding as due to himself; 
 and contemplated without remorse the prospect of re- 
 turning to obscurity, or marking with disgrace, a crea- 
 ture whose propensity to excellence he first had blighted, 
 and whom he had purchased of herself, before she knew 
 her own value : a value he, like too many other husbands, 
 had hitherto uniformly alloyed, by associating her with 
 those whose follies degraded, and whose vices might cor- 
 rupt her. 
 
 The better angel of Julia — or rather that which is the 
 most angelic of all guards, a sweetness of character which 
 might, under suitable circumstances, have rendered her 
 happy, still interposed to prevent her rendering herself 
 miserable. Lovely and admired as she was, the world 
 could not fail to offer her attractions which needed not 
 those of guilt to make her reluctant to quit it. Nor 
 Would it have been difficult for a mind of common gene-
 
 186 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 rosity to have calculated and allowed for them. The fear 
 of censure had, on this occasion, no share in deciding her 
 
 conduct. She did not suspect the volcano that was ready 
 to burst under her feet ; nor dream for a moment that 
 Mr. Seymour, however jealous of the gayety of her man- 
 ners, could seriously distrust her fidelity. Many a pang 
 of vanity, and many a sigh of heart-wit h( Tin <_r indifference 
 for her husband, agitated her bosom, therefore, as he ex- 
 plained the embarrassed state of his fortune, and the de- 
 termination with which he meant to pursue his pis 
 The tone of Mr. Seymour's explanation was peremptory : 
 for he knew his wife to be, on many occasions, of a char- 
 acter and manner so decided, that he had prepared him- 
 self to encounter her resistance, and was disposed both 
 to calculate and prejudge its motives : nor was he aware 
 of the different standard by which her conduct was at 
 this crisis to be tried. It was in fact neither the influence 
 of temper nor habits that now acted on Mrs. Seymour, 
 but one more delicate, and infinitely more estimable. She 
 had indulged, with secret and tender complacency, the 
 hope of being a mother : of possessing a creature for 
 whom she could live, and whom she would passionately 
 love. The demands of her heart seemed likely to be 
 gratified, and though she certainly did not wholly conquer 
 those of her vanity, neither did they wholly conquer her. 
 A few years later would, in the natural course of thin 
 have found her a little more selfish and a little more vain ; 
 for the bowl that runs on a declivity, will constant ;v 
 have its motion accelerated; but at the period then be- 
 fore her, it was possible to arrest its pro<_r?vv< by the very 
 circumstances in which nature had placed her. and its 
 progress was arresled. With that grace and sweetness, 
 therefore, which was among her early characteristics, she 
 acceded without remonstrance to the determination an- 
 nounced by her husband.
 
 THE wife's tale. 187 
 
 This was a flight above Mr. Seymour's belief or com- 
 prehension. What? Julia — the vain — the giddy — the 
 admired — the dissipated — consent at once to quit the cir- 
 cle in which she delighted! — Part, without hesitation, 
 from all the pleasures of luxury, and all the triumphs of 
 conquest, to seclude herself in the country, simply because 
 it was his desire that she should do so ! — For Mrs. Sey- 
 mour, with a delicacy that always attended her conduct 
 when a favorite foible did not allure her to error, forbore 
 to point out in its extent the tender motive that most 
 forcibly operated to effect her compliance. A black doubt, 
 impossible to solve, struck at once upon the mind of her 
 husband : too black and too remote to allow him to hint 
 it ; but it decided his conduct, while it was sedulously 
 vailed, both by his looks and his words. Gratified, as he 
 professed himself to be, by her ready acquiescence in all 
 that concerned the future, he therefore expatiated upon 
 it with an enthusiasm that was too artificial not to be by 
 turns both dispiriting and ludicrous. Was it possible for 
 Julia to forget that this husband, with whom " her heart, 
 her fortune, and her being, were to blend," amid all the 
 delights of elegant retirement, and social leisure, was not 
 in the least calculated to embellish either ? Did no com- 
 parisons arise, no regrets embitter the sacrifices which sit- 
 uation imposed? Mrs. Seymour was a woman, not an 
 angel; and she felt that while discharging the first of all 
 duties, they are most wretched and unwise, who have not 
 previously assured themselves that the heart will act as 
 an assistant. Mr. Seymour plainly perceived that in j3ro- 
 portion as he continued to talk, his wife grew absent and 
 melancholv. 
 
 " Let us now call another cause," said he. " And first, 
 for that which of all our arrangements first demands our 
 attention. It is time to think of dismissing Charles Vil- 
 lars."
 
 188 CANTEKBl'EY TA L B S. 
 
 "Indeed !" returned Julia. 
 
 "Can you doubt it V" said .Air. Seymour, with quicknc 
 
 "I own I see no good motive — nor even pretext for 
 dointr. In what manner, therefore, can it be effected?* 1 
 
 "I, on the contrary, see both. And as to the man: 
 — it is surely not more difficult to render a house disag 
 able than agreeable, when the hostess i - •■•!. 
 
 Many reasons, however, may render my dismissing him a 
 hardship, though prudence, under our present expectations 
 and circumstances, may demand that he should go." Ju- 
 lia's eyes filled with tears. 
 
 "Can I hope to be a mother,' 1 said she, endeavoring to 
 disperse them, as conscious that her sensibility was a tacit 
 reproach to Mr. Seymour, "and not feel for the situation 
 of a young man to whose views that event is likely to 
 prove so fatal ?" 
 
 "What is it vou mean?" 
 
 "That I am deeply concerned to be the cause of ill-for- 
 tune to Mr. Villars. Why then will you render me such ? 
 — Be assured that I am neither selfish nor ungenerous 
 enough to wish that you should do so. On the contrary, 
 you can not oblige me more than by making Borne provision, 
 or at least finding some situation for him, suitable to his 
 manners and talents, though not altogether to his birth.' 1 
 
 " It will be difficult to provide, madam, for one of whom 
 you have made a fine gentleman." 
 
 "Nature, dear Mr. Seymour, had spared either of us 
 that trouble. I need not observe to vou that she has 1 
 very liberal to Charles. — Tbu surely will not quarrel with 
 her for the kindness. And what is it that I have been 
 able to do for him? merely to give him a temporary 
 acceptation in society, which, I am sorry t«> say. my i 
 lect would deprive him of to-morrow. If this has been an 
 error, it has been a kind, I will venture to add, not an
 
 TUE WIFE'S tale. 189 
 
 ungenerous one. But should it appear such to you, allow 
 me at least to assist in repairing it." 
 
 "In what way, madam?" 
 
 " Oh twenty ways," said she, gayly. " Are you to leam 
 the influence of a woman's smile or frown ? only point 
 out to me any professional line in which interest may serve 
 Mr. Villars, and be assured that I love him too well to spare 
 any solicitation in his favor." 
 
 "You love him, madam!" 
 
 " Can that possibly offend you ?" 
 
 " By no means. It is so natural that you should love 
 and befriend a son of mine !" and he fixed his eyes inquis- 
 itively upon her. 
 
 " I should be willing to befriend the son of any man, 
 were he unfortunate ; and yours in particular, whatever 
 may be the prejudice that induces you to suppose the con- 
 trary. You are offended I perceive, though why I do not 
 so easily comprehend. Pursue your own plans, therefore. 
 Explain your own intentions to Mr. Villars. The art of 
 rendering my house disagreeable to him is one which as- 
 suredly I do not mean to study. — Poor Charles !" — and 
 giving way to the impulse of her heart, she sighed deeply. 
 
 " He is in your eyes then extremely ill-treated, and very 
 unfortunate, madam." 
 
 " Is any being more unfortunate, sir, than one who is 
 exposed to be humbled, though not deserving of reproach ? 
 Who daily feels all the weight of obligation, without its 
 being lightened by the tie of reciprocal kindness ? — Mr. 
 Seymour," she added, after a break, on feeling her eyes 
 fill a second time with tears, " we both seem disposed to 
 be more irritable than the occasion can reasonably justify. 
 You, 'I conclude, are decided: — so am I. — I gave Mr. 
 Villars a voluntary asylum in this house, and my conduct 
 had your sanction. Many motives of worldly prudence, 
 and even if you please of decorum, were I much in the
 
 190 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 habit of considering cither, might have prompted me to 
 shut my door against him; but having once opened it. I 
 am bound by ties that can not be violated : nor shall any 
 circumstance on earth ever induce me to affront or neglect 
 him." 
 
 "Take care of what you affirm, madam," replied Mr. 
 Seymour, with a wrath which he seemed unable Longer to 
 control. " Many circumstances may induce you to curse 
 — not only the hour that introduced him here, but that 
 which brought him into the world." He snatched np his 
 hat, and before it was possible that she should answer, hud 
 quitted the room. Julia remained alone, lost in a tit of 
 profound meditation. A vague and affecting similitude 
 that had struck her while speaking between the feelings 
 which she ascribed as incidental to the situation of Villa 1 
 and those which her own often unavoidably gave rise to, 
 saddened and depressed her. Xor was this the whole 
 subject of her reflections. Accustomed as she had been 
 of late to paroxysms of ill humor in Mr. Seymour, she did 
 not indeed attach all the importance to his words which 
 they seemed to imply, but that something was vailed 
 concerning the relationship between him and Charles 
 Villars that pressed closely either on his honor or his con- 
 science, hardly, she thought, admitted of doubt : and a 
 remote, but very alarming one, had obtruded into her 
 own mind, that urged her to a more particular investiga- 
 tion of the subject. 
 
 Bestowed as Julia had been at a very early age upon 
 Mr. Seymour, she, of course, could know nothing of his 
 previous connections or conduct. He had resided many 
 years in India: her parents were as little informed as her- 
 self of the events that had taken place there, nor was it 
 possible for either to guess at the nature of the tie that 
 might bind him to the mother of Villars. Observation 
 had made it very clear to her that he rather feared than
 
 THE WIFE'S TALE. 191 
 
 loved the latter ; yet in her eyes no being on earth was 
 better calculated to be beloved. During the first period 
 of his residence with them, Mr. Seymour's mind seemed 
 often to stand rebuked in his presence, and to be sensible 
 that it took a flight lower than that of the voum? man. 
 This, however, was easily accounted for. Yillars, when 
 animated, was warm, energetic — sometimes eloquent : 
 well-informed on most subjects, and capable of throwing 
 over them that kind of light which a mind of vigor easily 
 communicates when improved by education. Mr. Sey- 
 mour possessed none of these advantages. He was in- 
 deed very far from ignorant, but his understanding was 
 contracted and rendered trilling by a constant attention 
 to the trifles of the world. His politics, his pleasures, his 
 religion, the little portion of it he professed, took merely 
 the tone of the day, and were affectedly discusssed in the 
 jargon peculiar to it. He had sunk all individuality of 
 character, if indeed he ever posssessed any, precisely af- 
 ter the same maimer both in his mind and his person ; and 
 always said, looked, and wore, what ten thousand besides 
 were saying, looking, and wearing at the same moment : 
 a sort of polygraphic copy of a man, that might be seen 
 in some corner of almost every collection in London. 
 Constant association with Yillars evidently contributed to 
 wear off the impression with respect to the latter under 
 which he had at first labored : nor had this transition of 
 sentiment any thing in it either new or peculiar. The 
 comparing power that so forcibly points out the distinc- 
 tion which penetrating minds are capable of discerning 
 between themselves and those that are highly gifted, is 
 always a leveler with common understandings; whose 
 blunted perceptions distinguish merely the coarser lines 
 of the human character, in which each individual necessa- 
 rily resembles the other : and long acquaintance therefore 
 only enables such persons to make the ingenious discovery,
 
 192 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 that they are very much more like wise men than th 
 had supposed themselves to be. 
 
 .Air. Seymour was exactly in this predicament. The 
 advantages which Villars pOfi over him either of 
 
 nature or education, insensibly lost their value and con- 
 sequence in his eyes in proportion as he measured them 
 with those lie displayed in his own person. From being 
 silent and observing he had insensibly passed therefore 
 to contradiction and occasional arrogance : but he never 
 permitted either to exceed a certain limit ; and the tem- 
 perance or forbearance of Villars, qualities very un- 
 congenial to his natural character, proved him perfectly 
 sensible of the respect due to that of the other, without 
 ever allowing him to forget what he owed to his own. 
 
 Ingenuous, gentle, and upright, as the mind of Julia 
 originally was, the surmises that had so lately presented 
 themselves could hardly find a permanent footing in it. 
 Her marriage she was well assured was valid, solemn ; 
 public even to notoriety ; nor did it seem possible that 
 Mr. Seymour could so have disgraced himself in the ey 
 of the world, as to have produced her thus openly in it, 
 while conscious of any similar engagement detrimental 
 either to her or her children. She thought better of 1 
 heart, and certainly better of his head, than long to enter- 
 tain the suspicion. Yet her natural gayety was harassed 
 and disturbed to a degree that made her impatient t 
 enter upon some explanation with Villars himself: though 
 such was the delicate nature of the Bubject that she 
 hardly knew how to introduce, or to treat it. But she 
 determined not to remain in uncertainty, whichever 
 might be the party she should apply to for the purpose of 
 removing it. Mr. Villars came in, not long after. 
 
 Julia, in order to break from uneasy contemplations, 
 had been writing to her mother. A Bweet interest in the 
 subject on which she chiefly wrote, had harmonized her
 
 THE WIFE'S TALE. 193 
 
 feelings, and restored the easy and natural tone of her 
 mind. She did not see him enter, however, without ex- 
 periencing a painful degree of nutter, and though she con- 
 tinued to write, a fine glow that denoted internal agitation 
 diffused itself insensibly over her cheek. Villars did not 
 interrupt her, but leaned musing against the window. 
 
 " You are certainly in love, Charles," said she, careless- 
 ly, and without looking at him. " You have sighed twen- 
 ty times, I believe, in ten minutes." Villars hastily re- 
 moved his eyes, which had been riveted upon her. 
 
 " Out of love, much rather," said he, — " with life at least." 
 
 " Xay, never quarrel with a beautiful picture because 
 you have not yet discovered its best light. — The world is 
 a very pleasant place." 
 
 " You have, then, found it so ?" said he, advancing to 
 lean over the back of the sofa on which she was sitting. 
 
 " I do n't above half like your question. It is almost 
 too serious, and touches a string which has just suffered 
 a terrible jar. I will, nevertheless, speak to it fairly. — 
 Why — yes, then ; I think I have found the world hitherto 
 pleasant. Only pleasant, however, and it is in danger of 
 becoming woefully otherwise. — Do you know that we are 
 going to make a most prodigious reformation in our do- 
 mestic arrangements ? Mr. Seymour and I are to keep 
 sheep together for the rest of our lives. — In sober sadness, 
 and most sad, I fear, as well as sober will the experiment 
 prove, I am to retire with him into the country." 
 
 " Oh, what exquisite felicity!" exclaimed Villars, thrown 
 wholly off his guard. 
 
 "Enchanting! — with a Corydon of sixty! My dear 
 Villars, you have really some very extraordinary ideas ! 
 but I am not quite convinced that Mr. Seymour and I 
 shall fill up to perfection this outline of pastoral felicity." 
 
 " And what, then, induces you to resolve upon it." 
 
 " Obedience !" — and she held up the hand on wdiich
 
 194 CAXTEEBUEY TALES. 
 
 was her wedding ring: by an impulse that seemed irre- 
 sistible, Villars snatched and kissed it. 
 
 " You are more grateful, I see, than your father," said 
 she, laughing. 
 
 " My father !" repeated he. Julia blushed at her own 
 inadvertency, yet raised her eyes with quickness to observe 
 its ciFect on his features. To her utter astonishment, she 
 perceived that it took none; and an immediate conviction 
 flashed across her mind, that whatever was the secret 
 attached to his birth, Villars himself was whollv ignorant 
 of it. A strange confusion of ideas now at once assailed her. 
 
 "Sit down," said she, after a momentary pause, and 
 pointing to a chair at some distance. " We must have a 
 little conversation together." Villars complied, but he 
 did not take the chair. The evident embarrassment of 
 her manner, an embarrassment for which it was impossible 
 he should properly account, together with that soft and 
 variable blush which perplexing circumstances had called 
 into her cheek, created in him so strong an emotion of 
 pleasure and surprise as hardly left him power either to 
 control or dissemble his feelings. All considerations that 
 did not immediately relate to them vanished from his 
 imagination — all existing objects but herself from his eyes. 
 Yet it was with the utmost difficulty that he understood 
 what she said ; the inadvertent expression she had used 
 passed wholly from his memory. It was her 1 oks, her 
 silence, that occupied him. The dangerous, intoxicatii 
 hope which he had so often sworn never to indulge, de- 
 spite of himself, engrossed his whole soul, and spoke in 
 every glance. Could he dare to suppose it possible that 
 it was his agitation which thus communicated itself to 
 her ? 
 
 Julia was, m fact, disconcerted to a degree which the 
 occasion seemed hardly to justify: but that Villars should 
 not know, nor conjecture himself to be the son oi^ Mr.
 
 THE wife's tale. 195 
 
 Seymour, presented so new and extraordinary a train of 
 ideas to her mind, his conduct considered, as rendered it 
 impossible for her to be immediately mistress of herself. 
 She now felt, for the first time, that silence was embar- 
 rassing, and struggled to speak. 
 
 " Mr. Villars," said she — and broke off abruptly. Then, 
 resuming her usual familiar tone. " My dear Charles," 
 she added, " you and I are soon to part. Mr. Seymour 
 has plans for you." 
 
 "No, madam," said Villars, starting from her with 
 sudden recollection at the name of Mr. Seymour, yet as 
 abruptly returning, " Mr. Seymour's plans are such as I 
 cannot accede to. — I have already been a dependent once 
 too often in my life. But if my ingratitude be a crime, I 
 am at this moment expiating it most painfully ;" and he 
 again withdrew to the further end of the room. 
 
 " I do not understand you." 
 
 " You are probably not informed then of the proposal 
 made to me this morning by Mr. Seymour. It is such as 
 I can not accept. I will be no man's pensioner, by what- 
 ever name besides the situation may be qualified. He has 
 a project of sending me to India under patronage — pro- 
 tection he calls it ! — where, — in I know not what charac- 
 ter, — I am to render myself useful to I know not what 
 persons. Let him add to the obligations he has already 
 conferred that of giving me a commission : — to the East 
 Indies — to the West — to any climate — any country — in 
 any rank ! — but let him give me the existence of a man, 
 not of a slave, or allow me to find for myself that place 
 in society to which my good or ill-fortune may lead 
 me." 
 
 Vehemently and incoherently as - Villars spoke, the 
 tenor of his words at once explained to Julia all the 
 meaning of the reproach which her husband had uttered, 
 that she had made him a fine gentleman. What the sit-
 
 196 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 nation might be that Mr. Seymour had proffered she 
 could not exactly understand; but it W« evidently one 
 which ho considered as degrading; and which .Mr. S 
 mour himself must have believed to be very far below 
 the hopes and expectations he had contributed to ra 
 or he would not have forborne to mention it to her. 
 Julia bad now recovered her presence of mind. That 
 earnest and impassioned attention on the part of Villars, 
 which had, she hardly knew why, embarrassed and per- 
 plexed her, had been withdrawn by subsequent agitation 
 of a different nature. He had quitted her side ; he 
 seemed lost in painful contemplations at a remote end of 
 the apartment, and she had leisure to revolve the partic- 
 ulars on which she chiefly desired to converse with him. 
 
 "Surely, Mr. Villars, you are agitated very unnecessa- 
 rily." And again she blushed, at the recollection that 
 twice, in five minutes, she had called him Mr. Villars. 
 " Whatever may be the obligations that Mr. Seymour has 
 conferred on you, they ought neither to appear grievous 
 nor humiliating : you can hardly doubt but that they are 
 sanctioned either by friendship — or — nature." 
 
 a What friendship could possibly exist between a boy 
 of five years old and Mr. Seymour?" 
 
 "Hereditary kindness, perhaps. — Friendship for your 
 parents." — 
 
 " One of them I never knew: — nor did he." 
 
 " But the other — you remember your mother.'" — 
 
 " Not so. I remember my father, indeed, very dis- 
 tinctly." 
 
 Again Julia looked up With astonishment. Villars was 
 silent; lie seemed thoughtful, restless, and willing to 
 get rid of every recollection but of some secret and pain- 
 ful one that engrossed him. Now and then he raised his 
 eyes to hers, but withdrew them again as quickly, with 
 an air of apprehension and self-di -trust.
 
 THE WIFE'S TALE. 197 
 
 " Come — tell me your history," said she, forcing a 
 smile ; " we have lived together like the hero and heroine 
 of a romance, without knowing each other. You have 
 no faithful squire to relieve you from the office, so pray 
 undertake it yourself." 
 
 " There is so little to tell !" — and he looked as if talk- 
 ing were irksome to him. — "The loss of my mother," he 
 at length added, perceiving that she persevered in ex- 
 pecting him to speak, " I do not recollect. That of my 
 father is still present to my memory : I had been from 
 my birth the object of his fondest affection, and all the 
 heart I then had was his." He sighed, and made another 
 pause. " I can hardly, even to this hour, recollect the 
 farewell he took of me — I believe he was delirious at the 
 time — without an emotion that would disgrace me in any 
 eyes but yours." 
 
 " Did he not then recommend you to the guardianship 
 of Mr. Seymour?" 
 
 " They had little or no communication with each other, 
 I believe.- Mr. Seymour had been in Ireland some 
 months when my father married, nor did he return from 
 thence till after I was born : — he scarce knew, therefore, 
 that such a being as myself existed ; — indeed, I doubt 
 whether he knew it at all till he was on the point of sail- 
 ing for India." 
 
 " Are ydu thought to resemble your father ?" 
 
 ** Judge!" and he drew a miniature from his bosom. 
 There needed not further evidence than the features af- 
 forded. — In truth the perfect security entertained by Vil- 
 lars himself, in whom her questions seemed to awaken no 
 other idea than that she meant to indulge a kind interest 
 in his concerns, had already removed the force of her sus- 
 picions. 
 
 " One fact, at least, then, is ascertained," exclaimed she, 
 mentally: and her heart felt .relieved from a strange 
 
 9
 
 198 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 weight of conjecture with respect to her own situation: 
 in proportion as her apprehensions on that subject dimin- 
 ished, her esteem for her husband necessarily iner< 
 
 " You teach me," said she, " to think more highly of 
 Mr. Seymour's conduct than I have ever yet done.*' 
 
 " In all that respects Mr. Seymour's conduct towards me, 
 this last proposal excepted, you can not think too highly 
 of him. Whatever were my father's professional ahilit i 
 he died at an age when he had but little to bequeath his 
 son. I had no near relation : Mr. Seymour, with the most 
 disinterested regard, rescued me, in childhood, from the 
 hands of ignorance and vulgarity, and conferred the great- 
 est of all obligations, that of cultivating my understand- 
 ing, and of undertaking to point out my path in life. 
 Kindness of maimers is often the capricious offspring of 
 temper and circumstances ; and can not perhaps be wholly 
 commanded, cither on the side of the obliger or the 
 obliged; but the considerate prudence that bestows real 
 benefits is a virtue of the heart, and makes claims which 
 none but a worthless one will forget. — In whatever climate 
 or country, therefore, I may hereafter be stationed. I shall 
 carry with me such recollections" — He could not add a 
 syllable further. 
 
 "Dear Charles!" — and, touched with that candor in 
 his character which, amidst so many contending emotions 
 seemed irresistibly to assert itself, she extended her hand 
 kindly towards him: he forbore to take it. 
 
 "We are absolutely making a tragedy ofourconver 
 tion," added she, smiling, as she dried her eyes. w * N 
 ought I, as in duty bound, to tell you my history: but I 
 believe it is as well left untold. Time and chance, Yillars, 
 do strange things in this world: good, however, as well 
 as bad: — your good is probably to come, Yet allow d 
 to justify this last project of Mr. Seymour's in your 
 by assuring you, that he is really at this jnnetu oie-
 
 THE WIFE'S TALE. 199 
 
 ly harassed and perplexed by the situation of his own 
 affairs. How we have contrived to spend so much money, 
 I can not say, but he tells me that we have no more to 
 spend. I, you know," she added ironically, " never cost 
 him any thing! — The situation, therefore, he has offered 
 you, is perhaps rather the best within his power than 
 within his will to secure. I will talk to him, however, fur- 
 ther concerning it, and if it is really one which you ought 
 not to fill, rely upon me for some more agreeable project." 
 
 The conversation then turned on lighter subjects, but 
 Villars was still absent and distant. Julia's spirits, on the 
 contrary, rose with most elastic gayety. She was pleased 
 with her husband : she was deeply interested for Villars. 
 The world, viewed through the medium of her own dis- 
 position of mind, seemed all bright and delightful to her. 
 She thought of nothing but of conferring obligation, of 
 making happy, and of leading every one within her circle 
 through a sportive labyrinth of pleasure and vivacity. 
 Even her Arcadian scheme amused her; and had Mr. 
 Seymour been present, she would have been very likely 
 to have tried the experiment made upon Marmontel's 
 philosopher, and tied a ribbon, couleur de rose, around 
 his neck. 
 
 Mr. Seymour, however, was far differently engaged. 
 On leaving her, he had retired to an apartment on the 
 ground-floor, which he called his study. A variety of 
 gloomy suspicions perplexed and irritated him. The 
 manner in which Villars had rejected his proposal of the 
 morning, convinced him that he had been too dilatory in 
 pursuing his measures with a man who, by mingling in 
 the world had now insensibly accpvired a knowledge of 
 his own powers and ability of acting. It had been, from 
 the first, Mr. Seymour's intention to remove Villars to 
 some distance from him ; but the circumstance that obtrud- 
 ed the latter into the house had been Avholly unforeseen.
 
 200 C A N T E B Ji D B V 'J a I. l. 
 
 and Iin own irresolution had allowed him to remain tic 
 Day had followed day, and month, month, without off 
 
 ing any situation for the young man, but such as it v. 
 necessary to purchase: and this, .Mr. Seymour, who con- 
 ceived it to he a measure always within his power to 
 adopt, and whose liberality was of that kiml that - 
 extends to personal inconvenience, had delayed doii 
 even at the hazard of some ill consequences to himself 
 The suspicions, meantime, that occupied his mind with 
 gard to his wife, directed to the gay, the elegant, the 
 fashionable men of the day, the only men who, according 
 to his modes of thinking, were likely to prove dangerous, 
 had never rested for a moment upon Villars. But he had 
 persuaded himself that Julia would not accede to his plan 
 of retirement, and her negative was t<> decide the truth of 
 his surmises. Considering her as a creature of habit and 
 temper only, it Mas indeed little likely that she should 
 comply : for in her habits and temper she frequently be- 
 trayed haughtiness, levity, and a proud confidence in h 
 self, that would not patiently endure control. Mr. Sey- 
 mour had not judgment enough to perceive that under 
 these defects she possessed a comprehensive understanding, 
 as well as a generous heart ; and that he had only to sat 
 fy the one, and touch the other, in order to obtain the 
 assent he demanded from her. Of this he made no cal- 
 culation, and the sacrifice to his will therefore astonished 
 him. Her subsequent tender expressions with regard 
 Villars, whose dismission it was his intention that she 
 should appear to cause, fell like a thunderbolt npon J 
 mind, with the united force 1 of jealousy and conviction, 
 and seemed at once !<• explain the enigma which he had 
 before been unable to solve. He understood why the 
 gay world was thus suddenly become b different to hi 
 he perceived, according to his own judgment, a deep 
 scene of past and future disgrace attached to him: and
 
 THE WIFE'S tale. 201 
 
 he a thousand times execrated the many entanglements 
 which he too well saw he had created for himself and 
 which left him, on this occasion, no better resource than 
 dissimulation. 
 
 While buried in ruminations of this nature, he heard a 
 knock at the street-door, which he knew to be that of 
 Villars, who had dined abroad, or rather had, in fact, not 
 dined at all; but had chosen, after the conversation of the 
 morning, to avoid Mr. Seymour's table, in order that he 
 might not betray the deep chagrin, as well as the hopeless 
 suffering that preyed upon his mind. Seymour heard him 
 run up stairs, after inquiring who was in the drawing-room, 
 with an alacrity that roused his own irritable passions to 
 a degree that he could hardly control. It was because 
 he could hardly control them that he did not follow. It 
 had been his intention to spend the evening abroad, but 
 he now found it impossible to resolve on quitting his own 
 house ; and he therefore remained stationary, in a state of 
 mind that grew every moment more gloomy. Several 
 hours elapsed, yet neither Julia nor Villars quitted the 
 drawing-room, or seemed to think of any thing but each 
 other. The servants, however, passed and repassed as 
 usual, without any appearance of mystery ; and on the fre- 
 quent opening of the door, Mr. Seymour, at a late hour, 
 caught the sound of the flute. 
 
 Had Julia's discretion taught her to stop at the point 
 of kindness, obligation, and good humor in which she 
 found herself after the explanation with Villars, all, as far 
 as respected her conduct, had been well : but she was now 
 unaccustomed to limit her influence by any steady and de- 
 cided rule. To animate, to charm, to dazzle, was become 
 habitual to her : she was nothing in her own eyes when 
 she was not every thing: without foreseeing either the 
 danger to herself, or the more obvious one to the heart of 
 Villars, she gave way therefore to the impulse of the mo-
 
 202 CANTERBURY TALI 
 
 ment. Sprightly, elegant, • bewitching, she i nWy de- 
 parted from the character of the e and tender friend, 
 the innocent-minded, yet di d wife, and became i 
 more the Armida, the captivating sorceress, that had al- 
 most overwhelmed his better reason. The mind of Vil- 
 lain, hitherto guarded by honor, and saddened by recent 
 recollections, nevertheless took, imperceptibly, the color 
 of hers. How correct ought the conduct of woman to he, 
 Avhen the character of man becomes thus pliant under its 
 influence! A few moments before, she had made him 
 candid, generous, and capable of commanding himself! — 
 In a very short period from that time he was in danger 
 of becoming an ingrate and a villain ; while, without its be- 
 ing possible that she should be ignorant of the state of his 
 heart, she seemed to take a gay and thoughtless pleasure 
 in asserting absolute sway there. After trifling till she 
 could trifle no longer, she had, at length, recourse to 
 music. The airs they had formerly tried, those they yet 
 intended to decide upon, all were turned over: nothing 
 was pursued, nothing engrossed them but each other: and 
 Julia, at length, to her infinite surprise, discovered that it 
 was past one in the morning. She now inquired wl. 
 Mr. Seymour was come home, and found that lie hi 
 not been abroad. 
 
 "lie is sulky with both of us," said she, turning to 
 Villars, with the most indiscreet gayety : " but I shall 
 talk him into crooddiumor in the morning." — So has said 
 many a thoughtless wife, who never talked her husband 
 into crood humor again. 
 
 The next day Mrs. Seymour was to give an assembly, 
 which w:i^ preceded by a splendid dinner. The domestic 
 circle saw therefore little of each other. Mr. Villas f 
 indeed almost the whole evening near her, but he had no 
 opportunity of engrossing her attention: and, although 
 she frequently spoke to him, their conversation was
 
 THE WIFE'S TALE. 2GJJ 
 
 broken and trifling. Looks of familiarity, however, of 
 which neither were conscious, passed between them, with 
 respect to the persons and things around. Mr. Seymour 
 lost none of these : and they sealed his opinion. 
 
 Villars did not appear at her breakiiist-table next morn- 
 ing, as it had been hitherto . his custom to do ; and, on 
 inquiry, she learned that he had. breakfasted by appoint- 
 ment with her husband, at an earlier hour than that at 
 which she was visible, and had since gone abroad. Mr. 
 Seymour came up stairs not long after. His air was ex- 
 tremely placid, and his salutation, if not very kind, at 
 least very civil. 
 
 " You have carried off Villars this morning,'' said she 
 — " I hope to a good purpose. What have you resolved 
 to do for him ?" 
 
 " Oblige him his own way, since he will not be obliged 
 in mine : — promised him a commission." 
 
 " You are quite adorable ! — Where is the regiment to 
 be stationed ?" 
 
 "At St. Domingo." 
 
 " Gracious God ! Mr. Seymour, you would not pre- 
 meditatedly send him to his grave ? Do you not know 
 that two-thirds, at least, of the last detachment are buried 
 there ?" 
 
 " I may be permitted to doubt the fact. — Granting it 
 to be true, there is more room in the world for the sur- 
 vivors." — Julia raised her eyes to Heaven in speechless 
 indignation. 
 
 "I understand the eloquence of your looks, madam. 
 But Mr. Villars may, I presume, be allowed to decide for 
 himself, and he makes no objection. He is heroic enough 
 to profess not to value life." 
 
 " Did he say so ?" said Julia, with emotion. Mr. Sey- 
 mour made no answer. 
 
 "What rank is he to hold?" continued she, after a
 
 l 204 C A H I KHUL B V T A L E B. 
 
 pause. — Seymour named it. .She mused, without reply- 
 ing, for a few moments, and then directed the com e. 
 tion to other subjects; affecting to run gayly over 
 twenty different ones, many of which she knew to be un- 
 pleasant, and some, very provoking to Mr. Seymour. 
 Her carriage being then ready, she got into it, and d] 
 out for the morning. The dinner was late, and only the 
 family party sat down to table. Mr. Seymour was com- 
 placent, though not talkative. Villars looked ill and 
 harassed. Julia alone was apparently herself, gay and 
 entertaining. When the servants were withdrawn, she 
 looked earnestly at Yillars with a conscious half smile. 
 
 " Charles," said she, " I am going to put your discre- 
 tion to a very nice test. You must decide between man 
 and wife. Mr. Seymour offers you a commission at St. 
 Domingo, where you may, most heroically, die of the 
 yellow fever. I have one secured for you in England, 
 where you may live in inglorious safety — speak for your- 
 self." 
 
 " I am not entitled to do so, madam," replied Villa 
 without hesitation, but with an emotion which he could 
 not conquer. — " Mr. Seymour must speak for me." 
 
 " You are not, I conclude, in the habit of rejecting 
 a lady's favors, sir," said Mr. Seymour, but his counte- 
 nance changed greatly as he spoke. Villars did not. how- 
 ever, look at him. He pressed his hand, with an air of 
 suffering, upon his forehead, and leaned for a moment 
 upon the table, as if taking counsel of his own heart, 
 rather than like a person who either heard or noticed 
 what was passing before him. 
 
 "The air of St. Domingo may perhaps do best tor m< ." 
 said lu\ at length; and, with a Blight salutation to both, 
 he arose and quitted the room. Julia felt indignant : Bhe 
 also felt a little embarrassed. Without previously weigh- 
 ing the impropriety or danger of the situation in which
 
 THE WIFE'S TALE. 205 
 
 she placed Villars, she had depended upon his unqualified 
 acceptance of any offer from her, and she had fixed her 
 own determination to encounter the consequent resent- 
 ment or ill humor of Mr. Seymour ; Loth of which, how- 
 ever, as the commission was to cost him nothing she con- 
 eluded would be temporary. Her courage, nevertheless, 
 a little failed on finding herself thus suddenly alone with 
 him. His looks denoted bitter wrath ; to her great sur- 
 prise, however, he uttered not a word, but coolly took 
 out his pocket-book, and began to make various memo- 
 randums there with a pencil. 
 
 " Are you writing verses ?" said she, striving to speak 
 with unconcern. 
 
 " JSTot exactly that. I am making a calculation.'' 
 
 "You choose your time and place well," she rejriied, 
 with a tone of raillery. 
 
 " Impossible to choose them better. "When a man gets 
 in with one friend, it is time he should release himself 
 from his obligations to another. — Charles Villars is, I see, 
 about two hundred pounds in my debt." 
 
 "Which he can pay at a word," said she, smiling. 
 
 " Which he will certainly pay, before he accepts the 
 situation you offer him, madam." 
 
 " What is it you mean ?" 
 
 " That it will be prudent in you to find some excuse 
 for disappointing the gentleman of his commission, or 
 that his first station will be in the house of a sheriff's 
 officer." 
 
 " It is not possible that you should be in earnest ?" 
 
 " Most solemnly so." 
 
 "And may I not tell him that the disapprobation — " 
 
 "Xo, madam. You have your secrets, it appears — I 
 have mine. — It is your part now to send him to St. Do- 
 
 mingo." 
 
 9*
 
 200 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 "That I will never do," said she, "be the hazard what 
 it may." 
 
 "Not though it were that of your own reputation, a 
 your child's legitimacy?" 
 
 "I don't understand you !" — and "a thousand innoc- 
 shames " passed over her countenance in a moment. 
 
 "You look as if you did not, madam," replied he, bit- 
 terly. 
 
 "Mr. Seymour," she exclaimed, bursting into a passion 
 of tears, " tell me at once what it is you mean, what it is 
 you suspect ?" 
 
 "I do not suspect, madam; mine is conviction: but I 
 warn you that I will no longer be a passive witness of my 
 own disgrace." 
 
 "Surely nothing less than madness can induce you to 
 accuse me of an improper partiality for a man whom, till 
 within these two days, I believed to be your son ?" 
 
 " You have doubtless discovered the contrary onlj 
 within the last two days." 
 
 " Heaven is my witness that I never even suspected it 
 sooner !" 
 
 " Now, at least, then, you know it, madam ; acquit 
 yourself therefore in the opinion of the world, and, 
 far as may be, in that of your husband. Let it be by 
 your desire that he goes to St. Domingo." 
 
 " No, sir ! — I have said it — I will abide all perils rather. 
 — If acquiescence, indeed, will content you — dreadful, af- 
 flicting as it will be to me under these provocations to 
 acquiesce — " 
 
 "It will not content me, madam. I have now consid- 
 ered the matter, and find that it will be most discreel — 
 most suitable — and, as Tbelu ve, most conclusive, that you 
 should do again what you have undone, — Your persuasion, 
 not my commands, must determine him." 
 
 "Then he will never be determined. w
 
 THE WIPE'S TALE. 207 
 
 " You know the danger !" — 
 
 " I despise it," replied she, haughtily. — " You may be 
 unjust enough, if you please, to attempt to disgrace your 
 wife, and to shut up Mr. Yillars in a prison ; but I dare 
 affirm that you will never induce either the one or the 
 other to depart from what conscience and honor may 
 dictate. — Have you no sense of either, sir, when you ven- 
 ture to propose this cruel plan?" 
 
 "Madam!" — said Mr. Sevmour, and again his coun- 
 tenance changed greatly. 
 
 " And now, sir, for the alternative I shall offer. Either 
 resolve to do justice to me, and act candidly by Yillars — 
 either receive my solemn asseverations of innocence, and 
 restore to me that place in your esteem which my con- 
 duct has never forfeited, or expect me to seek another 
 protector than yourself, and another place of refuge than 
 your house ! — Decide, sir !" 
 
 "I have decided, madam, and adhere to my first de- 
 termination." 
 
 Unable to control the excess of her emotion, and too 
 proud to permit that he should witness it, she cast upon 
 him a look of the most unqualified scorn, and rushed 
 hastily out of the parlor into the drawing-room, where 
 the first person she encountered was Yillars, who had 
 been walking: about there from the moment he left them. 
 On hearing a footstep, he had approached the door in or- 
 der to make his own escape, and they were close to each 
 other before either suspected it. Yillars uttered an ex- 
 clamation at sight of her, and extended his arms, for she 
 tottered like a person who was fainting. 
 
 " Oh, Charles !" she exclaimed, and threw herself into 
 them. 
 
 " What has happened ? — What is it has alarmed you ?" 
 cried he eagerly.
 
 208 I j: j: BUB v talks. 
 
 "Not! ling," said slio, "nothing! — but I am going to 
 quit the liou.se this moment/' 
 
 "For what purpose P Whither would you go?" 
 "Any when — so I may get rid of my husband, and of 
 
 myself!" — and without the least recollection or self-gov- 
 ernment, she wept upon his shoulder. 
 
 "Oh, let me tlien be your protector — let me be your 
 guide," cried Yillars, wholly softened and overcome. u Is 
 there a grief you can suffer that I would not hazard my 
 life to avert ? — From the moment we first met I have 
 lived only in you, and for you!" — and with the most im- 
 passioned urgency he repeated his solicitation. 
 
 The occasion now presented itself that was to decide 
 the character of Mrs. Seymour's mind. Irritated on 
 one side — softened on the other, with an inflamed spirit 
 and a disappointed heart, perceiving, not merely in the 
 language, but in the countenance of Yillars. and in his 
 broken tones, a passion strong enough to make him snap 
 all those ties which seemed hitherto more precious to him 
 than life itself, a wavering sensibility created by circum- 
 stances for an instant inclined the balance to the wr< 
 side. In talking: to Mr. Seymour of a refuse and a pro- 
 tection distinct from his, she had referred only to that 
 home and that mother from whom he took her. — But an- 
 other home, another protection, now presented them- 
 selves to her imagination in colors but too well calculated 
 1 < > seduce it. 
 
 "Leave me, Mr. Yillars," said she, feebly repulsing 
 him. — " I entreat — nay, I command you to leave me." — 
 Then, breaking away by a vigorous effort, "Charles," ^he 
 added, turning to him with a self-recollection that nave a 
 sweet serenity to her countenance, "I am neither un- 
 grateful nor insensible. — For a moment T, like you. have 
 forgotten what was due to prudence — to Mr. Seymour, and 
 to myself— but the error has been only momentary,
 
 THE wife's tale. 209 
 
 Neither you nor I are of a character to live self-condemned, 
 and therefore we must part." — The sound of a footstep on 
 the stairs obliged them to separate immediately. It was 
 only that of a servant. Villars quitted the house, and 
 Julia retired to her own apartment. 
 
 Again Mr. Villars wandered silent, and half distracted, 
 solitary amidst multitudes, through numberless streets, 
 revolving his past and his future conduct. He stood in- 
 deed self-condemned : but he could hardly be said to feel 
 remorse, since conscious that a similar temptation would 
 again produce a similar error. While engaged in this 
 painful retrospection, he at length perceived that time 
 had insensibly passed away: and the recollection that, 
 whatever were his feelings, it was impossible for him to 
 break thus abruptly from every habit of social life, in- 
 duced him reluctantly to turn his steps towards home. 
 Having entered the house, he had neither resolution to 
 inquire of the servants what part of the family was in the 
 drawing-room, nor to satisfy himself on the subject in 
 person, but passed into a parlor that was near the hall. He 
 felt relieved, however, on perceiving that Mr. Seymour 
 had quitted the adjoining one, which was the eating-room, 
 and that consequently he should escape a meeting which 
 he found it impossible to encounter with any self-pos- 
 session. 
 
 Here, a just, though painful examination of his conduct, 
 and of his obligations to Mr. Seymour, began at length to 
 subdue the fever of the passions. Madly, blindly devoted 
 as he was to Julia, it was impossible for him to disguise 
 from himself that her behavior had been indiscreet, and 
 that his own had been dishonorable. He did not hope to 
 retrieve the past, at least as far as respected the latter, if 
 he permitted himself to see her again ; — and not to see 
 her — all of life or man within him seemed to shrink from 
 the effort. Yet, pass a few days only, and the whole
 
 210 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 might be decided. lie was persuaded that lie should find 
 no difficulty in accelerating X mom >r 
 
 securing his departure from England: the metropolis he 
 might perhaps almost immediately quit ; and by plunging 
 into the necessary occupations of a military . 1 if 
 
 the regiment did not immediately embark, he might, at 
 least, so fill up the intervening time till it did, as to ke 
 in view the great object to which, after Mrs. lour, 
 
 his thoughts were incessantly directed. Death i-< the con- 
 stant wish, and desired refuge of hearts unpraeticed in 
 sorrow, and yet ignorant how dearly they are to purchase, 
 by a prolonged and well-sustained warfare, the privilege 
 of dying as they ought. 
 
 Honor and reason haying; at length succeeded in rest or- 
 ing some degree of equanimity to the mind of 3Ir. Vil- 
 lars, considerations, less important, but deeply interests 
 to his pride, now took their place in it. lie knew that he 
 inherited a very small patrimony, the management of 
 which had been resigned into the hands of Mr. Seymour 
 by the persons to whom the charge of his health and 
 safety, after the loss of his father, had, by accident rathe* 
 than choice, devolved. His father had died young, and 
 somewhat suddenly, in a provincial town, where his pi 
 fessional views had stationed him, and very remote from 
 the county in which he had passed his early life. He had 
 had no opportunity to arrange his worldly coir or to 
 
 do more than commit both them, and his infant son. 
 the care of the worthiest people within his circle. 1 
 had discharged the trust kindly, though ignorantly : but 
 they willingly gave it up to a relation so opulent and 
 generous as they conceived Mr. Seymour to be. Villars 
 greatly feared that the latter must have expended more 
 than the income of his own very small fortune in the edu- 
 cation which he had allotted him. Tn this, howevi 
 was mistaken. 31r. Seymour, although he loved ostenta-
 
 THE WIFE'S TALE. 211 
 
 tion, yet knew perfectly well the value of money, and, 
 except in the article of preparation for India, had .spent 
 very little more upon Yiliars than the latter was well en- 
 titled to claim. His arrangements had nevertheless been 
 fortunate as well as economical ; for he had placed him 
 in situations where it was possible for him to do much by 
 his own exertion in the acquirement of knowledge ; and 
 the young man, having no other pursuit or use for life, 
 had amply availed himself of his opportunities. 
 
 Whether Mr. Yillars's calculations however were, or 
 were not just, with respect to Mr. Seymour's expendi- 
 ture, he well knew that the little principal of his fortune 
 had hitherto remained untouched : and, small as it might 
 prove, his pride, as well as the situation of his feelings in 
 other respects, induced him earnestly to desire that it 
 might be applied to any present occasion, in order to ob- 
 viate the necessity of plunging deeper in painful obliga- 
 tion. Yet how, without affixing upon himself the impu- 
 tation of ingratitude, was he to demand any thing from 
 the justice of a man to whose kindness he was so deeply 
 indebted? He was lost in ruminations of this nature, 
 when a servant opened the door, and told him that a per- 
 son was in the hall, who, not finding Mr. Seymour at 
 home, wished much to see him. 
 
 " He inquired," added the man, " for Master Villa/rs, 
 sir, but I suppose he can only mean you." He had hardly 
 finished his sentence, in the delivery of which he had 
 some difficulty to command his risible muscles, when the 
 inquirer, who had followed close upon him, made his ap- 
 pearance. Yiliars did not remember ever to have seen 
 him before, neither, indeed, would the stranger easily have 
 remembered that he had ever seen Yiliars. Nor was he 
 a little surprised at finding the young gentleman, whom 
 he had inquired for as a boy, was a well-grown man ; ap- 
 parently older than his real years, and very capable, by
 
 212 CAHTEBBUBT TALB6. 
 
 his appearance, of imposis pect upon a much more 
 
 important personage than his visitor seemed to 
 
 Many ejaculations, apologies, ami testimonies of un- 
 polished but sincere kindness, followed the ceremony of 
 the stranger's entrance; from the general purport of win 
 address Villars learned that lie was a tenant of Mr. Sey- 
 moor's, who haying traveled, for the first time in his 1! 
 two hundred miles up to London, upon a law businc 
 thought it necessary to pay his respects to his landlord 
 before he quitted town. Why should he deem it i 
 sary to pay his respects to him also, Villars did not 
 easily understand, nor was he in the humor to inquii 
 But thai good-natured loquacity which is more frequently 
 found in country manners than in those of the town — be- 
 cause, as the distinctions of rank are there mo: ided, 
 and less liable to be confounded, it of course finds greater 
 indulgence — did not allow him to remain long in ignorance, 
 cither upon that, or indeed any other point to which I 
 visitor conceived himself competent to speak. lie had 
 now got the better of the impression of awe or surprk 
 that attended his introduction, and bejan to be very di 
 fuse upon the satisfaction he felt on hearing, after his ar- 
 rival in town, a confused report of the resilience of Vil- 
 lars with Mr. Seymour. — .V circumstance which, from 
 some odd prepossession or other, lie seemed to consider 
 as an amazing advancement. From this subject he trav- 
 eled back to the scenes and period of Villi infancy, 
 with a wild, motley sort of interest, which, while it proi 
 him to be perfectly familiar with all he described, was 
 compounded at once of the kind and the lucGcrous, 
 
 Villars, who felt that a heart might be worthy and a 
 head not ban-en, though the individual to whom they 1 
 longed wore a coarse appearance, made a great* rt 
 
 over himself in his favor than he would, at that juncture 
 have done tor a much more important person ; and strove
 
 THE WIFE'S TALE. 213 
 
 to be civil and attentive. But the struggle was painful ; 
 and he saw, with chagrin, that a silence on his part, which 
 he could with difficulty prevail upon himself, at inter- 
 vals, to break, was in danger of looking extremely like 
 pride to his visitor. The latter, at length, took up his 
 hat and stick, and seemed every moment on the point of 
 departing. He had not yet, however, exhausted his stock 
 of eloquence or curiosity, and the attention he bestowed 
 upon the room in which they sat, seemed as if he was 
 not a little inclined to take a survey of the rest of the 
 mansion. 
 
 " A fine house, sir, — the squire lives away, I see," said 
 he, stopping once more to look around him, after having, 
 to the great relief of his companion, advanced a few steps 
 towards the door. 
 
 " Mr. Seymour has both power and will to do so," re- 
 plied Villars. 
 
 " A happy man, sir !" 
 
 "He has his cares, like other people, no doubt!" again 
 rejoined Villars, though somewhat impatiently. 
 
 "They must be of his own making then, I guess. 
 What — perhaps he wants an heir !" — Villars motioned 
 with his head, in token of assent. 
 
 " Well, the want don't break your heart, I suppose. 
 But, pray, may I ask," added he, very significantly, 
 " whether he keeps you in his house for that reason ?" 
 
 " What can you possibly mean by the question ?" re- 
 turned Villars, with the greatest surprise. 
 
 " Only that he is very generous if he does." 
 
 " I don't understand you ; you seem either drunk or 
 impertinent, sir." 
 
 " No offence, — no offence," exclaimed the other, still 
 drawing a few steps nearer to the door. "I meant no 
 harm, and I see none. You need not be so close, sure ! 
 Most people will be of my mind, whether you are or no,
 
 214 CANTEISBUET TALES. 
 
 that the man who keeps Ms next heir in the house, like a 
 gentleman, does the handsome thing by him." 
 
 "I am not heir to Mr. Seymour," replied \ iiia 
 covering his temper. 
 
 "Well! May be not! — May be you're afore — may be 
 after him. — I don't wish to talk of any secrets.- — You o 
 be doing the prudent thing, for aught I know to tin 
 travy. Law, to be sure, is but a ticklish busim 
 if the old gentleman means to give you your rights after 
 his death, why, as he 's pretty far advanced I suppose, the 
 less said about it in the mean time the better." 
 
 " You are under some mistake : I am but distantly re- 
 lated to 3Ir. Seymour," said Villars, stepping forward, 
 without further ceremony, to open the parlor door. 
 
 "Bless you, I am not talking of your relationship to 
 him, but to the estate. I know well enough how near 
 you are to each other. Your grandfather and his were 
 both akin to our old squire as was : only his was s: 
 cousin, I take it, and yours was first : that's all the dif- 
 ference between you." And again he nodded signifi- 
 cantly. 
 
 "Are you sure of what you say?" said Yillars, with 
 extreme surprise. 
 
 " Why, not, as I may say, sartin sure in law; but I 
 have heard so ever since you were a little strip of a boy. 
 when the old family were in the manor-house, and your 
 father and mother lived in our neighborhood. To think 
 what a power of children there was then to inherit the 
 estate, and how they all died off! Nobody made any 
 count of you, nor our present squire here, at that tin* 
 then your father went to settle in distant parts, I believe, 
 and so we lost si-j.-ht of vou." 
 
 "Can yea recollect any person that is likely to give me 
 certain information on this subject. 
 
 "Why, there's one Atkinson as used to manage affairs
 
 u 
 
 TUE wife's tale. 215 
 
 a pretty while ago. He and the steward did not seem to 
 hit it much upon the occasion of the old squire's death : so 
 now he lives a matter of sixty miles oif us. Perhaps he'll 
 tell all he knows when he 's axed : perhaps more. 'T was 
 but t' other day that I passed his house, as I was coming 
 up to town : so I thought it but neighborly to look in 
 upon him; and he was a-saying — says he — "I wonder 
 what in the world is become of young Master Villars !" 
 
 "What is this person's employment? Is he a lawyer?" 
 
 "A bit of one." 
 Surely I recollect him." 
 
 Ten to one but you may : you knew him well enough 
 before you went out of our neighborhood." 
 
 "He comes confusedly across my memory like one 
 seen in a dream :" said Villars to himself. " It must have 
 been as long ago as in my mother's life-time that I knew 
 him ! — An excellent fellow ! — he has carried me on his 
 back a thousand times ! — Can you give me his address ?" 
 
 " Can I give you what ?" 
 
 " Give me a direction to this Atkinson ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes, I can give you that easy enough ! but have 
 a care, sir, what you go about ! — Possession, they say, is 
 eleven points of the law ; and so, seeing that you have got 
 no natural friends to stand up for you, and your pockets 
 I suppose are not very well lined, I don't know that you 
 can do better than continue to curry favor here." 
 
 " I thank you both for your caution and your visit," said 
 Villars. " Only give me Atkinson's direction, and trust 
 to my own prudence for the rest." — The man complied, 
 and took his leave with much rustic civility ; assuring him 
 that he should not forget to give young Mr. Villars' kind 
 service to all friends in the country. 
 
 Villars was now less capable than before of deciding 
 upon his own future conduct, or of seeing Julia : indeed, 
 of seeing any one. If the intelligence which his visitor
 
 216 CANTEBBUET T A I. 
 
 • 
 
 had communicated were true, there could bo no doubt 
 Lut his own right of relationship superseded Mr. Sey- 
 mour's: oven if incorrect, it was of force to create stra 
 suspicion that lie was himself the reversionary heir, if n< 
 immediate claimant to the estate. In the disturbed sit- 
 uation of his mind no eligible measure presented itself, 
 but that of again quitting the house, with a resolution not 
 to return to it till such an hour as should preclude his 
 meeting with Mr. Seymour. He cast his eyes anxiously 
 up to the window's of Julia's dressing room as he passed: 
 sighed, loitered irresolutely, and, after a fruitless delay, 
 at length slowly wandered on. Could he have known 
 that that apartment, nay, even the house, no longer con- 
 tained her, how great would have been his alarm and 
 astonishment ! — Yet so it was. 
 
 Mrs. Seymour, while contending with the stronger f« 
 ings of her mind, had not conquered the subordinate one- ; 
 nor had she discretion enough to recollect the necessity of 
 conquering them. A chaste and delicate sense of what 
 was due to her sex, and to the fundamental laws of religi- >n 
 and morality, was so much a part of her character 84 
 to have been wholly expelled from it even by the trying 
 circumstances in which she had placed herself : but habit 
 had taught her a haughty indifference to appearances, and 
 inspired a confidence in her own attractions that inclined 
 her to believe she might do any thing with impunity that 
 did not shock or oftend her immediate sense of right. The 
 resolution which she had announced to Mr. Seymour she 
 therefore resolved to abide by. Her maid had a marri 
 sister, who kept a ready-furnished house in Lower B 
 Street. Both the house, and the person who owned it, 
 were of the -first order of such as are to be hired : and M 
 Seymour, on retiringto her own apartment, began instant- 
 ly to make arrangements for removing thither. The 
 house was not engaged, and by her order her maid caused
 
 THE wife's tale. 217 
 
 ft to be prepared for her. She also put together such 
 trifles as were immediately necessary for her lady's accom- 
 modation, and for a residence of a few days. Julia, fol- 
 lowed by her, then stepped into the carriage ; and leaving 
 a note upon her dressing table, with directions that it 
 should be given to Mr. Seymour whenever he inquired 
 for her, was set down at the door of her new habitation 
 within two hours from the period at which she had parted 
 with her husband in the eating-parlor. In this habita- 
 tion she purposed to remain till the time that her mother 
 and sister should arrive in town ; and if the interference 
 of the former did not bring Mr. Seymour to such acknowl- 
 edgments with regard to the injustice of his own sus- 
 picions, and consequent behavior, as might satisfy both 
 herself and her friends, she resolved to return to him no 
 more. 
 
 Such, Julia persuaded herself, was her determined plan, 
 and such her expectation. Yet, the first was perhaps 
 fluctuating, the second certainly so. However plausible 
 the arguments which a temporary resentment now dic- 
 tated, she yet did not entertain any reasonable or perma- 
 nent belief that Mr. Seymour would permit her thus to 
 deprive him of what she well knew had been for many 
 years the ornament of his house, and consequently the 
 chief pride of his life, in herself. She had, indeed, little 
 reliance on his love : it was, unfortunately, because love 
 had not been a bond of union between them, that all the 
 present misery had arisen, and all the chance of the future 
 had been incurred. Mr. Seymour, when he made his 
 election in life, had not chosen a companion, a friend, in a 
 word, a wife : one whom he could believe it possible 
 should ever be disinterestedly attached to him : but a 
 mere expensive bauble to decorate his house with, and 
 outshine his acquaintance. ITe could make no such 
 second purchase : and although Julia seldom considered
 
 218 CAXTEKRIT.Y TAI.J. 
 
 her own fate, or his conduct, in this very bitter point of 
 view, for bitterness was not a marking feature of her 
 character, yet the irritated state of her feelings would not 
 allow her now to overlook it. After having, ai she su]>- 
 
 posed she should do, reduced Mr. Seymour to reason and 
 temperance ofeonduct, it was her firm intention to make 
 the best of their mutual lot : if it could not he happy, 
 
 if possible, to avoid rendering it miserable; and to con- 
 sole herself, by the sweets of maternal love, for all she 
 had missed in life besides. 
 
 Decided and sanguine with regard to these various 
 suppositions, she sat down to write to her mother and 
 sister. The tenor of her letters to both, as far as respect- 
 ed herself, was uniformly the same, and the subjects on 
 which she wrote too copious, as well as too inter 
 not to engage her for a considerable time. Her letters 
 were at length finished, and she had no longer any occu- 
 pation but that of examining more coolly than before the 
 occurrences of the day. Neither the examination, nor 
 the sensations which from the influence of trilling circum- 
 stances took place in her mind, were favorable to tran- 
 quillity. When, for the first time, she looked leisurely 
 around, and found herself solitary — comparatively unpro- 
 tected, in a house not familiar to her, and, however con- 
 venient, yet very, very far inferior to that she v. cus- 
 tomed to inhabit ; with no train of servants — no chance 
 of visitors or domestic circle to break the uniformity and 
 silence of a long evening; when coach rolled after eoaeh 
 passed her door, and knock followed knock at the d< 
 of those around, yet Mr. Seymour appeared not, nor even 
 it to inquire concerning her, the tide bf vanity and 
 f-elation, which but a few hours before had ■■ I bo 
 high, began rapidly to subside. In vain did she summon 
 her reason to resist the \\rr<\' of local impressions: the 
 solitude of the heart Mas not to be so soothed. She list-
 
 THE WIFE'S TALE. 219 
 
 ened — she wept — she considered — in fine, she repented : 
 but it was three o'clock in the morning, and her repent- 
 ance availed not. She threw herself on the bed, much 
 indisposed ; and striving to recall the fleeting resentments 
 which had induced her conduct, as well as the hopes that 
 encouraged her to pursue it, she looked with longing 
 eyes for daylight, and at length, soon after it dawned, 
 closed them in temporary but uneasy slumber. 
 
 Mr. Seymour, on parting with his wife, had quitted his 
 house in a state of mind no less indignant than that 
 in which he had left her. Secretly conscious of the 
 dangerous predicament in which he stood with Villars, 
 and harassed, for some time past, by the apprehension of 
 such a discovery as during his own absence had in fact 
 really occurred with respect to the claims of the latter to 
 the estate, it had been his earnest wish to make her the 
 instrument of driving the young man into the obscurity 
 from which she had so unexpectedly rescued him : nor 
 could he sufficiently regret that irresolution on his own 
 part, had prevented him, in the first instance, from inter- 
 posing his authority to exclude him the house. 
 
 Mr. Seymour's situation was now, indeed, altogether 
 critical. The embarrassed state of his affairs had induced 
 him, before he went to India, to calculate every contin- 
 gency that might affect his future fortune. It therefore did 
 not escape him that Villars, however remote the prospect 
 then appeared, might one day materially interfere with 
 it. By constituting himself guardian, both to the person 
 and property of the latter, he hoped to disqualify him for 
 any struggle in his own favor, should unforeseen chances 
 discover his claims ; claims at that time so little likely to 
 be realized, as to have had no place in the expectations of 
 his father, and to be utterly unknown to the humble pro- 
 tectors of his infancy. Events had verified Mr. Sey- 
 mour's calculations: but his caution dictated to him still
 
 220 C A H i E B Ji V B Y T A L K S. 
 
 to continue the friend and apparent benefactor of the 
 young man; that, attached by those ties, the la: 
 might never be tempted to seek for either elsewh 
 Nor was Mr. Seymour's heart so wholly tainted a- 
 meditate crushing Villars to absolute penury ; for few 
 men are completely villains at once : the speck becomi 
 gangrene only in proportion as we administer to the • 
 temper. It was really his wish to provide for him in 
 some station abroad, and he had brought him to London 
 with that intention : nor, when there, did he treat him 
 either unkindly or ungenerously, though to be liberal Mas 
 not in his nature. The first blow that defeated 3Ir. S 
 mour'e plana was the accident that introduced Villars to 
 his house. It brought his own professions of kind? 
 towards him to a trial equally unexpected and dangerous; 
 and when the unlooked for proposal of rendering him an 
 inmate there occurred, consciousness at once made him 
 apprehend that the act of putting his negative upon 
 simple and natural a testimony of regard, could hardly 
 fail to excite disgust, or awaken suspicion. He had there- 
 fore no alternative but to resolve on sending him quickly 
 from England. Time, however, insensibly elapsed in un- 
 foreseen delays. The danger with which we are familiar 
 loses its power over the imagination ; and it operated 
 less and less upon his, in proportion as he perceived that 
 the error into which Julia, as well as the whole of his 
 family had fallen, with regard to the birth of the young 
 man, was in the highest degree favorable to his own pri- 
 vate views, by arresting all curiosity as to their object. 
 It had therefore been his choice indirectly to countenance 
 the opinion that Villars was his son, although he was too 
 cautious to affirm what the inadvertent testimony of the 
 latter might at once have confuted. He now saw, with 
 the most bitter mortification, that he had, as he believed, 
 been caught in his own snare. That while he had been
 
 THE WIFE'S TALE. 221 
 
 looking abroad for evil, it had taken deep root within his 
 very doors ; and that by a malice of fortune, that made 
 him at once ridiculous and miserable, the estate which it 
 had cost him both his conscience and his honor to appro-,, 
 priate, was in danger of being transmitted, under cover 
 of his name, to the child of the very man from whom it 
 had been fraudulently alienated. 
 
 Reflections of this kind engrossed Mr. Seymour's mind 
 during his absence from home. He returned thither be- 
 tween ten and eleven o'clock, and had address enough to 
 inform himself, without appearing to do so, from the 
 porter, that his wife was abroad. Retiring to his. study, 
 he there affected to be occupied in writing, and made no 
 further inquiry concerning her. The project which, in a 
 a moment of resentment she had announced as an alter- 
 native between them, had made no serious impression on 
 his mind ; and he did not entertain the smallest doubt 
 but that her habitual gayety and volatility of character 
 had easily induced her to fulfill some common engagement. 
 When one o'clock approached he could, however, no 
 longer resist the impulse of his curiosity, and in a careless 
 manner, he required where, and at what hour, Mrs. Sey- 
 mour had ordered her carriage. The note she had left for 
 him was then put into his hands. It was not because the 
 servants were out of the secret of what had passed, that it 
 had been hitherto kept back ; but they were by no means 
 clear whether their master suspected it or no ; nor were 
 they impatient to inform him. Her own woman being 
 absent, they therefore abided by the letter of their lady's 
 orders, and not, as she supposed they would do, by the 
 spirit ; which would naturally have induced them to give 
 him the note as soon as he came in. Mr. Seymour, on 
 reading it, poured out a denunciation of the most alarm- 
 ing kind against his wife, and, indeed, against his whole 
 household ; nor had he, in the intemperance of the rao 
 
 10
 
 222 C A X I E 11 B L* Ii V T A L 1. 
 
 ment, recollection enough to avoid including Yillars in 
 his wrath. This nevertheless awakened not any suspicion 
 in those around, except that the young man. involved in 
 some domestic quarrel, had naturally sided with the wife, 
 who, without relationship, was kind to him, in pi ace 
 
 to the husband who, under contrary circumstances, was 
 often much otherwise. Mr. Seymour concluded his b 
 of jjassion by ordering his doors to be closed for the nig 
 and neither Mrs. Seymour nor Yillars to be admitted, 
 should either appear. Mrs. Seymour, indeed, her own 
 note informed him, had chosen her residence in a house 
 which he had seen, though he had never entered it ; and 
 Yillars, lie hardly doubted, was either oj)enly or indirect- 
 ly her companion. 
 
 Mr. Yillars's time was, however, far differently occu- 
 pied. That more temperate frame of mind, to which re- 
 jection and circumstances had partly restored him, was 
 perhaps confirmed less by the effect of either, than by a 
 sort of sullen desperation with which he had prepared 
 himself to acquit all he owed to Mr. Seymour, by leaving 
 his native country, and the only object that he believed 
 would be dear to him in any. The singular discovery 
 which had recently presented itself, threw indeed a new 
 light over his situation, but it did not remove an aln 
 insupportable weight from his heart : neither, after cool 
 consideration, had he much reliance upon intelligence so 
 vague ; and founded only on the report of persons whose 
 recollections were in all probability extremely incorrect. 
 The story, nevertheless, bore some semblance of truth; 
 and, if true, accounted for various instances of forbearance 
 and generosity in Mr. Seymour's conduct, that were not 
 very consonant with his ereneral character. Yillars had 
 therefore retired to a neighboring coffee-house, from 
 whence he wrote to .Atkinson. The clock struck one, 
 when, in pursuance of his wish of not being seen, he
 
 THE W IPE' STALE. 223 
 
 knocked at Mr. Seymour's door. The servants admitted 
 him instantly, notwithstanding their master's prohibition ; 
 which, in fact, they considered, and represented, in no 
 no other light than as the consequences of a temporary 
 displeasure. That Villars could be an object of jealousy 
 to Mr. Seymour, was, of all circumstances, least likely to 
 occur either to them or to him. For as the suspicions 
 conceived by the latter had, without passing through any 
 gradation, at once reached their climax, they had not 
 previously occasioned those inequalities in his conduct 
 which might have led common observers to penetrate its 
 motives. During the last three days he had been indeed 
 unusually retired, irritable, and morose ; but he had not 
 rendered himself remarkable by departing from the hab- 
 its of external civility; and Villars, least of any person, 
 could surmise that he had a share in exciting the spleen 
 or resentment of a man who, while his own affairs were 
 confessedly deranged, yet occupied himself in his service. 
 It was indeed among the severest reproaches inflicted on 
 Villars by his own mind, to believe that Mr. Seymour re- 
 lied implicitly upon him with respect to his wife : but of 
 Mr. Sevmour he now thought no longer. The intelligence 
 he received from the servants concerning Julia awakened 
 again all those heart-tearing emotions which he had late- 
 ly, by so much effort, subdued. Uncertain what he ought 
 to hope from a measure thus dangerous and precipitate 
 on her part, he returned to the coffee-house which he had 
 so lately quitted ; where, without wasting a thought on 
 any other subject, he passed the remainder of the night 
 in a conflict of the passions that admitted not of any re- 
 pose. 
 
 Weak as Villars was, however, in the presence of Mrs. 
 Seymour, the more honorable part of his character was 
 neither wholly extinguished nor dormant. The romantic 
 wish which he had so long indulged, he now perceived
 
 224 CI H I B B B Q B v T A L I 
 
 the folly and impossibility of gratifying. To have shel- 
 tered her in his arms, in his heart ; to have guarded her 
 happiness or her reputation at the hazard of his life, wo 
 have been a felicity most precious to him: but to become 
 a deliberate seducer, to alienate her from the husband 
 whose rights in that character, and possibly in very other, 
 he was particularly bound to respect, and to degrade her 
 from the rank in society she had long ben ac 
 to embellish, was a sort of systematic and desperate vil- 
 lainy of which he was not capable. The man who is weak 
 is however always in danger of becoming a villain, and 
 Mr. Villars, by exposing himself to the influence of a pas- 
 sion calculated to enfeeble his understanding and corrupt 
 his heart, now nearly touched that point which the high 
 tone of romantic refinement had once induced him to be- 
 lieve it impossible he should ever approach. 
 
 As early as decency would permit, the next morning he 
 presented himself at Mrs. Seymour's door. But hi> m 
 urgent solicitations obtained him no admittance there. 
 Julia had now learned to view her conduct with respect to 
 him in a far different light from that in which it had liith- 
 erto appeared. She, too, had had leisure to weigh all he 
 owed, both to Mr. Seymour and to his own honor: nor 
 was it the least of her afflictions to have trifled with that, 
 as well as with his peace of mind ; nay, possibly, in some 
 decree endangered his safety: that she had ruined hi- 
 tune, believing, as she firmly did, that it depended upon 
 Mr. Seymour, she could hardly doubt. Yet, though cru- 
 elly alive to all these reflections, such was the natun 
 her own situation that she could neither soothe nor confide 
 in him — neither see him, nor write a single line of expla- 
 nation. An imperious prudence, that could no longer be 
 defied, absolutely forbade all intercourse between them, 
 or even explanation on the subject of the domestio dis- 
 union, till tin- arrival of her mother; and on her maternal
 
 THE WIFE'S TALE. 225 
 
 interference she now rested, as on a certain resource' 
 should no intervening circumstance render it unnecessary. 
 Yet that intervening circumstances would render it so she 
 hardly doubted. A short repose, and that renovation <>r 
 spirits which morning produces, had again invigorated 
 her hopes and her resentment. Many long hours were now 
 before her. Mr. Seymour would, she assured herself, 
 have had leisure to weigh the injustice of his suspicions, 
 nor could it be possible, she believed, that he should per- 
 mit the day to pass without some effort on his part, either 
 of kindness or resentment. It is not often that minds 
 themselves suffering under irritation are aware how little 
 leisure the same sensation leaves in the mind of others, 
 either for action or for thought. The long day did pass : 
 Mr. Seymour neither came nor sent ; and his wife exj^eri- 
 enced the heart-sickening pain of hope deferred. 
 
 The day that proved so tedious to her was spent by 
 the two persons who chiefly engaged her recollection in a 
 manner wholly new and unexpected by either. Repug- 
 nant as it was to the feelings of Mr. Yillars again to enter 
 a house of which she was no longer the inhabitant, he 
 knew no adequate cause to assign for abruptly dismissing 
 himself from that of Mr. Sevmour. The occurrence of the 
 night before demanded to be allowed for, in a husband 
 whose agitated state of mind might reasonably palliate a 
 temporary unkindness: and if not wholly excusable, it 
 was, at least, far from being of force to cancel the recol- 
 lection of past hospitality. Yet to Yillars, Mr. Seymour, 
 however little external circumstances might have varied, 
 was no longer the same person he had hitherto appeared. 
 He was a husband whose rights he had attempted to in- 
 vade, a benefactor whose protection he had repaid with 
 ingratitude, an associate, under whose very roof he was 
 to dissemble ; and to carry on a secret intercourse that 
 tended eventually to deprive him both of honor and of
 
 226 CAXTEKJJUEY T A L i: E . 
 
 fortune. Such were liis claims and his character, in one 
 point of view. In the other, he was a treacherous and 
 insidious enemy, who, while he pretended to confer obli- 
 gation, had been basely violating every tie of equity and 
 feeling. Whether he was to be considered, therefore, 
 the injured or the injurer, the friend <>v the oppressor, it 
 was equally adverse to the feelings of Villars to hold much 
 further intercourse with him. Meet, however, they must. 
 Since to insinuate motives for withdrawing:, not anthoriz 
 by any reasonable evidence, would have been an unjusti- 
 fiable and irreparable insult: to withdraw without assign- 
 ing any motive was scarce possible : yet to preserve in thus 
 meeting that middle line of conduct which gratitude, deli- 
 cacy, and prudence united to prescribe, was, perhaps, of 
 all measures, most difficult to a young man of the charac- 
 ter and principles of the one in- question. 
 
 Nothing could be less expected by Mr. Seymour than 
 the appearance of the person on earth whom he belies 
 he had most reason to hate and to fear. A conjecture BO 
 degrading to Yillars passed across his mind at sight of him, 
 as the latter would ill have endured had it been ] ossible 
 for him to have surmised it, and which none but a world- 
 ly one could have entertained. In fact, Mr. Seymour 
 hardly doubted but that he came prepared with some 
 vindication or plausible talc 1 , invented by Julia and him- 
 self, to induce a reconciliation that might extricate both 
 from the difficulties into which her indiscretion had sud- 
 denly plunged them. Neither the countenance of Villa: 
 nor his character, announced any thing, however, to sup- 
 port, such a suggestion. The former was now collected 
 and sedate; the latter, he well knew, was not of a tem- 
 perament easily to resolveupon, much less execute o- 
 temptible a species of duplicity; and another surmise then 
 occurred. Tt was possible that he had himself extended his 
 suspicions too far. Mrs, Seymour and Yillars might be
 
 THE WIFE'S tale. 227 
 
 innocent : and though the mind of Mr. Seymour was not 
 acutely sensible either to the feelings of tenderness or 
 pride, an emotion of pleasure to which he had for some 
 days been a stranger, certainly found place in it at this 
 supposition. The circumstances on which he and his wife 
 had finally differed, now recurred more dispassionately to 
 his imagination. He recollected that YJllars, from what- 
 ever motive, either of honor or caution, had not absolute- 
 ly rejected the commission which he had proffered him ; 
 though with a sort of equivocal conduct, as it then ap- 
 peared, he had waived all further discussion of the subject, 
 by abruptly leaving the room. Upon his behavior, there- 
 fore, on the present occasion, and more particularly upon 
 his acceptance or rejection of the appointment at St. Do- 
 mingo, seemed to rest the evidence that was to ascertain 
 his views. Mr. Seymour had many reasons for temporiz- 
 ing with the young man, and none, except those of un- 
 governable jealousy, for driving him to extremities. It 
 was nevertheless impossible for him so to command his 
 countenance as not to betray symptoms of secret distrust 
 and displeasure ; but he strove to throw something like 
 cordiality into his manner after the coldness of a first 
 salutation was past ; and without reverting to any circum- 
 stance of his domestic history, affected to talk of the regi- 
 ment in which he meant to place Yillars, and to make, in 
 a negligent manner, such a report of it, as should oblige 
 the other to announce his determination. But Yillars 
 was no longer to be duped. He saw mystery and distrust 
 in Mr. Seymour, though he wholly mistook the object at 
 which they pointed ; and he began to suspect that the 
 concealment which he had imposed upon himself was al- 
 ready defeated by some previous discovery. Even if that 
 were not that the case, he could not but think it a mark- 
 ing confirmation of some sinister design, that, of all coun- 
 tries, St Domingo should be chosen for his station, and, of
 
 228 I A N i E B B I i: v I A J. BS. 
 
 all junctures, Mr. Seymour should have fixed upon one 
 when his own mind must n< irily be distracted with a 
 variety of cares, to interest himself thus warmly in the 
 hopes or the fortune of another. Occupied as both parti 
 were by reflections thus mutually disadvantageous, the 
 conversation could not fail to be cold and languishing be- 
 tween them: Yet neither had the smallest suspicion of the 
 real subject of distrust by which the other was engrossed 
 Villars, after a conflict of prudence and candor, suffered 
 the former to prevail, and contented himself with declar- 
 ing that he must decline the appointment tendered him 
 by 3Ir. Seymour, as it was not his wish at that juncture 
 to quit England. 
 
 "It is enough, sir," replied Seymour, rising indignantly, 
 after having anticipated a decision that thus confirmed 
 his worst fears. " Spare yourself," he added, " the mean- 
 ness of further duplicity. I am perfectly acquainted with 
 the source of your irresolution, and know how to draw 
 my conclusions from the event." 
 
 "Draw your conclusions at least, sir, from what passes 
 in your own bosom," said Villars with some surprise, and 
 no little resentment at the tone in which he was addressed. 
 " That, indeed, may lead you to suspect the cause of my 
 irresolution — or perhaps," he added after a pause, no 
 longer doubting that Mr. Seymour was apprised of the 
 visitor who had been admitted the night before, though 
 not exactly of the purport of the conversation — " per- 
 haps your servants have given you more ample infor- 
 mation." 
 
 "I have taken effectual measures to be informed of ev- 
 ery thing that has passed under my roof, sir, however 
 clandestinely carried on." 
 
 "Spare them then in future; and receive your intelli- 
 gence from him who best can etfve it. The worldly pru- 
 dence that enjoins my silenee I am little practiced in. but
 
 THE WIPE'S TALE. 229 
 
 the dictates of honor are the same in all bosoms. I will, 
 therefore, be explicit. — The information I last night re- 
 ceived, sir, lias induced me to write to Atkinson. — This 
 is at present the whole of our clandestine correspon- 
 dence." 
 
 " Write to Atkinson /" said Mr. Sevmour, chantrinc- 
 color, and faltering at a reply so widely remote from any 
 correspondence to which he had alluded. " And what 
 can Atkinson possibly have to say in the business be- 
 tween us ?" 
 
 " That I am to learn. Mr. Seymour, you and I, as far 
 as discretion is concerned, are far from meeting on equal 
 terms. But as we may seldom meet again, I have no in- 
 tention to conceal, in the present explanation, any part 
 of my conduct or sentiments. I wrote to Atkinson, be- 
 cause I believed no man could so well inform me who was 
 the legal claimant to an estate, as one who so long had 
 the management of it." 
 
 And now Mr. Seymour changed color, indeed ! that 
 Villars should be apprised of his own rights in life, should 
 calmly, deliberately have taken measures to ascertain 
 them, should decline leaving England avowedly for no 
 other motive but to investigate their truth, were events 
 at once so new and unexpected as to subdue all caution, 
 and defy all dissimulation. Nor, indeed, was Villars him- 
 self much less surprised, to perceive that he had, in fact, 
 now first unfolded that mystery to Mr. Seymour, which a 
 jealous pride, and a pre-occupied imagination, had induced 
 him to suppose that the latter reproached him for con- 
 cealin Yet concealment of some sort had certainly 
 been alluded t<>. Villars, collecting his thoughts, was no 
 longer at a loss to guess its nature ; and he felt that Mr. 
 Seymour's reproaches were not the only ones he had to 
 contend with. Rising, therefore, with an expression of 
 
 10*
 
 230 01ITSBBUBT tales. 
 
 countenance, more respectful and sel£governed than re- 
 sentful, 
 
 "If, by a private application to Atkinson, I hare 
 
 shocked either your feelings or your pride, but," said he, 
 "recollect the peculiar cirenmstancefl in which I art 
 and believe my assertion, when I solemnly declare that 
 
 my respect for both, rather than any personal consid< 
 tion, induced a concealment of my measures. You can 
 not but know that it is due to myself to ascertain the 
 question of my own rights in life. — Be assured, on the 
 word of a man of honor, that yours — whatever their na- 
 ture — or extent — " and a conscious glow covered his 
 cheeks as he spoke, " shall never be either contested or 
 violated by me." 
 
 " You dare, then, to suspect me of fraudulent possess- 
 ion ?" exclaimed Seymour in great wrath ; totally forget- 
 ting, in this coarse expression of jealousy for his fortune, 
 that which he had before entertained of his wife ; and as 
 utterly insensible to the humiliation which Yillars had 
 imposed upon himself in his indirect concession. 
 
 " It is difficult to determine What a man dare do ! — 
 I have no answer, sir, for a question so put," replied 
 Yillars. 
 
 " Presuming and ungrateful ! I suppose you know- 
 that you are in my power, sir ?"' 
 
 "A bad argument to dissuade me from getting out of 
 it. — Mr. Seymour, one of us will owe the other a great 
 reparation. It may be my part to offer it. You ha 
 possibly been a generous friend — be a generous enemy, 
 therefore, and spare me, for the present, an altercation 
 extremely trying to my feelings. Allow me to thank 
 you lor your hospitality, for your protection, for all the 
 numberless benefits by which I have hitherto concer 
 myself bound to you, and to profess, that whatever may 
 be the event of my present inquiry, I neither d uor
 
 THE wife's tale. 231 
 
 will receive, any future ones. Whether my acknowledg- 
 ments for the past are a debt or a reproach, time will de- 
 cide ; in the interim I leave the question to be settled 
 within your own bosom : — I must apply to some less par- 
 tial casuist :" he bowed and took his leave. 
 
 Dinner was announced to Mr. Seymour soon after the 
 departure of Villars, but his conference with the latter 
 had entirely spoiled his appetite, and it was removed al- 
 most untouched ; an accident that rarely happened. In 
 truth, the whole circle of St. James's hardly perhaps af- 
 forded a personage more truly disconsolate than he at 
 that moment discovered himself to be. His former suspi- 
 cions had. returned with additional force and acutenes<, 
 in proportion as he began to believe that the plot against 
 him lay deeper than he had hitherto supposed. He was 
 convinced that he had lost his wife ; he entertained very 
 well-founded apprehensions of losing his estate ; and he 
 already, in imagination, saw his town-house, with all its 
 elegant embellishments, under the hammer of the auc- 
 tioneer. After a very disagreeable contemplation of some 
 hours upon these various particulars, he ordered his house- 
 keeper to send him a basin of water-gruel, and retired to 
 his apartment ; where, while laying aside his Brutus wig, 
 in order to tuck on his night-cap, he did not indeed make 
 precisely the same reflection with the disappointed and 
 celebrated hero whose name is thus disgraced, " that vir- 
 tue was a shadow ;" but he so fir resembled him, as to 
 suspect that the great object of his own life would turn 
 out to be nothing better: in other words, that fashionable 
 celebrity would prove at sixty a very inadequate substi- 
 tute for a good name, a good conscience, — or even for a 
 moderately good wile. 
 
 Nor were the reflections of Villars very satisfactory. 
 He had not been able, throughout his conference with 
 Mr. Seymour, to feel the proud consciousness of an on-
 
 232 ■ TSBBU B v I a i. B8. 
 
 sullied mind, nor to utter, with an unfettered tongue, the 
 expressions of manly indignation, since . le that lie 
 
 had himself resisted temptation very little Letter than 
 Seymour had clone : nor, when he considered their differ- 
 ent periods of life, did he stand much higher in his own 
 good opinion, because to him the temptation had been of 
 a different nature. The mental degradation this recollec- 
 tion brought with it was of all evils that which Yillars 
 was least prepared to encounter, and calculated to fed 
 with most poignancy. The experience of a very few 
 months had, indeed, as is often the case, rendered him 
 both wise and miserable. It had proved, what all the 
 moralists he had read never so feelingly convinced him 
 of, that man is indeed a creature great in theory, but 1" 
 ble and defective in practice : and that he who qualill 
 with any passion which it is vicious to indulge, will event- 
 ually be disposed to run the hazard of every ill con- 
 quence that may result from it. 
 
 Mr. Seymour, the next day, persuaded himself that he 
 was desperately ill. lie shut his doors, sent for his apoth- 
 ecary, and passed the interval between the morning 
 and evening visit of this gentleman, in considering what 
 counsel he should advise with, of most ingenuity and least 
 conscience, successfully to litigate a bad cause. 
 
 But while Mr. Seymour was thus indulging the mala- 
 dies of his distempered imagination, rather than frame, 
 his lovely, though indiscreet wife, Avas suffering real and 
 severe indisposition. From the hour that she left her 
 husband's house, she had hardly tasted food, in spite i 
 every effort she made to attempt doing so. Sleep had 
 utterly deserted her. Unable longer to support the in- 
 action to which she had condemned her own heart, ^n\ 
 the evening on the third day she wrote to him. Had her 
 
 letter been received at an earlier period, it might possibly 
 have produced the effects she expected from it : but Mr.
 
 THE WIFE'S t a l e. 233 
 
 Seymour was now thinking of his own griefs, and his own 
 sufferings. The terms in which she mentioned Villars, 
 whose fate and fortune she conceived to he in hia hands, 
 however cautiously guarded, kindled again all his irritable 
 feelings. Another wound also lay festering at his heart, 
 of which his wife was not aware : it was the look she had 
 cast upon him when they parted. In domestic dissension 
 any thing may be forgiven rather than scorn : other to- 
 kens of resentment are but common arrows; that is a 
 poisoned shaft, and hardly ever ceases to rankle where 
 once it has penetrated. Mr. Seymour could not pardon 
 it. He contented himself therefore with signifying, by a 
 short note, in answer to hers, that he willingly deferred 
 all further discussion of differences till the arrival of Mrs. 
 Cleveland : but he could not command his temper so far 
 as to forbear adding, that the man in whose fate she 
 showed so generous an interest, was occupied by plans 
 tending to impoverish her husband, and make a beggar 
 of her child, if beggary on his own part did not prevent 
 him. 
 
 Mrs. Cleveland arrived within four-and-twenty hours af- 
 ter the receipt of this note, and found her daughter very 
 alarmingly ill. She had had a succession of fainting fits, and 
 was reduced to a state of weakness that left her exposed 
 to the utmost danger, should the premature event take 
 place, which was hourly expected. It w T as too late to re- 
 move her to her own house, had Mr. Seymour acceded to 
 the overture for so doing ; he neither granted nor re- 
 fused it, however, but maintained a sullen silence. 
 
 The cruel, the distracting intelligence of Julia's danger 
 at length reached the ear of Villars. He had in the in- 
 terim received a very satisfactory letter from Atkinson. 
 The collateral degree of consanguinity on which the 
 claims both of Mr. Seymour and himself were founded, 
 did not indeed appear so close in the person of either as
 
 234 CANTERBURY TALK . 
 
 his informant had reported it to b his own title 
 
 9 ciiicd to have evidently the advantage over that of his 
 competitor: be had therefore laid the question bef 
 
 counsel, who returned an unequivocal opinion in his favor. 
 But what were claims, what was fortune to him, in the 
 state of his mind at that crisis ! The whole world would 
 have seemed valueless if put in competition with the h< 
 of securing health or safety to Mrs. Seymour. He found 
 it impossible to live from her door; nor did Mrs. Cl< 
 land refuse to see him. Matilda was also present. lie 
 started at Bight of the latter: it was her lovelv sister, in 
 the bloom of eighteen, that seemed to stand before him: 
 but it was not Julia herself, and he quickly forgot her: 
 Mrs. Cleveland, whose interest and curiosity were both 
 strongly excited by the particular circumstances in which 
 he stood to her family, wrung from him by interrogation, 
 a confused account of what had passed between Mr. S 
 mour and himself. On her part she confirmed his w 
 fears with regard to her daughter : and he left the house 
 in a state of distraction, to which the event that succ- 
 ed his return to his lod<nn2;s could hardly add. lie found 
 there a person to whom he was indebted for various ex- 
 pensive though necessary articles, which had been fur- 
 nished for his intended vovacre to India. lie had no 
 means to discharge the demand, nor power or patience to 
 write to Mr. Seymour on the Bubject, and was therefore 
 obliged to dismiss the demander as he could. .V second 
 visitor, upon a business of the same nature, easily led him 
 to comprehend that Mr. Seymour was in fact the man 
 who thus indirectly threatened his personal liberty. Heart- 
 rending chagrin constrained him therefore to address ■ 
 few lines to the former, desiring an account of his small 
 patrimonial fortune: but of this note Mr. Seymour, with 
 most ungentlemanly insolence, took no notice. Villars 
 knew himself to be under age, but his appearance did
 
 the wife's tale. 235 
 
 not denote this ; it therefore remained to be proved ; and 
 what should, in the interim, secure him from the insults 
 of a rich and powerful oppressor, who had plunged too 
 deeply in injustice not to persevere? A prison — a grave 
 would have been alike indifferent to Villars, but that Ju- 
 lia yet lived ; and while she lived, to wander round the 
 walls that inclosed her, seemed necessary to his own ex- 
 istence. 
 
 Mrs. Seymour at length brought into the world a love- 
 ly boy ; two months, however, before the time : but her 
 strength was wholly exhausted, and little hope remained 
 that it could ever be restored. Mr. Sevmour himself was 
 now roused to some tokens of sensibility : he did not in- 
 deed see either mother or child ; the mother it was not 
 thought prudent should see him : but he spared no de- 
 monstrations of respect to Mrs. Cleveland or Matilda ; and 
 the indiscreet and immoderate affliction of the former, 
 whose weak character time had not corrected, soon be- 
 trayed to Mrs. Sevmour that dans;er which her medical at- 
 tendants had carefully concealed. 
 
 Amid the great circle of human events death had not 
 presented itself to the imagination of Julia : none, indeed, 
 according to their natural course, appeared less probable. 
 She was in the very flower of life ; had been, only a single 
 fortnight before, in the perfection of health ; nor could 
 danger, in fact, have approached her but through the 
 medium of indiscretion or accident. She had herself 
 struck the blow, and she began to perceive that it would 
 prove mortal. She perceived it with all the anguish of a 
 young and unsubdued mind. Life was inexpressibly dear 
 to her: her sense of pleasure was not withered ; her heart 
 was yet alive to a thousand tender and delightful hopes. 
 It was indeed acquainted with suffering ; but it had not 
 passed through those melancholy gradations of disappoint-
 
 236 C a nt i; B B B B v I a i. j. . 
 
 ment and languor which palsy the feelings, and make all 
 around joyless and vapid. 
 
 After drawing from tin anations and tears of 1 
 
 feeble-minded mother, such conclusions as left her no 
 doubt a\ itli regard to the danger of her own 
 earnestly requested Mrs. Cleveland and Matilda to with- 
 draw; and amid the silence of a sick chamber, alone with 
 God and her conscience, she now communed with both. 
 The world no longer wore the same aspect to her that it 
 had hitherto done. She saw it as a sphere of honorable 
 and useful action, where every individual touched some 
 point of moral obligation, of which that of example 
 pressed most closely upon the great or the affluent. Hen 
 had the negative merit of having never encouraged vice: 
 but it had lent to frivolity, levity, and dissipation, ■_ 
 that might well have supported a better cause. Nor did 
 her behavior as a wife any longer appear to her wholly 
 irreproachable: for she felt, that in ascribing to her own 
 character and influence in society, a superiority over 
 those of Mr. Seymour, the least duty she imposed upon 
 her heart, was that of rising as much above him in con- 
 duct, as in self-opinion. — She had failed in the trial, and 
 it would probably be never more repeated. Vet she ven- 
 tured to present to Heaven a mind sullied, indeed, but 
 untainted: one that had withstood the temptation to 
 much evil, and had been disposed to much -good.— Heaven 
 accepted the offering ; for a soft and religious hope tran- 
 quilized her feelings, and restored an equanimity which 
 enabled her to consider with calmness what yet remained 
 to do in life. 
 
 She was worse the next day, and on thai which sue- 
 ceeded, her ease was pronounced to be desperate. Hav- 
 ing extorted from those around a tacit acknowledgment 
 of this truth, she requested that such medicines might be 
 administered, as would supply her with temporary
 
 TUE wife's tale. 23V 
 
 strength and spirits, and her mother, by her desire, sent 
 for Mr. Villars. She also signified it to be her wish, as 
 the last act of her life, to see Mr. Seymour. 
 
 Villars, on arriving, was received by Mrs. Cleveland in 
 the ante-room : nor had he, for a considerable time, either 
 power or self-command enough to proceed further. The 
 door of communication stood open, and the feeble light 
 of a close-shaded lain]) showed him the inner apartment. 
 Mrs. Seymour lay on the bed, the curtains of which were 
 
 v 
 
 only half drawn, and the folds of her long wrapper slight- 
 ly marked her still graceful and elegant person. 
 
 "Is it you, dear Villars?" said she, hearing the low 
 murmur of an anguish wdiich it w r as impossible he should 
 suppress. — "Draw near, and let me speak to you." — The 
 unfortunate young man dropped in agonizing sorrow on 
 his knee, while receiving the hand which she feebly lifted 
 to him. 
 
 "Control Yourself" said she: — "Subdue this unsfov- 
 erned sensibility, and hear me with calmness — if you ever 
 mean to hear me more. — I am approaching a sad crisis, 
 and you are among the very few in this world to whom I 
 still wish to address myself: — but your excessive emotion 
 overpowers — it enfeebles me !" — and she made a long- 
 pause. — " Yet, however painful the effort, I must speak, 
 both to console you, and to acquit myself. — Do not 
 believe, my dear Charles, that in this last, painful meet- 
 ing, you are bidding an eternal adieu to a fond and 
 devoted heart ; — such as yours seeks and deserves. Fluc- 
 tuating sensibility — ill-judged levity on my part, and an 
 unkindness perhaps still more ill-judged on the part of 
 another, have, I well know, contributed to cherish this 
 dangerous illusion. But nature, dear Villars, had placed 
 disparity between us: a premature knowledge of life 
 made me even older than my years : and from the mo- 
 ment when the vehemence of your attachment obliged
 
 238 c ANTE II J; U K Y TALES. 
 
 me to ascertain the nature of my own, I solemnly declare 
 myself to have fell for yon only that fond and tender in- 
 terest which a mother might have cherished for a bel< v. d 
 
 son. — That it was — nay is, most tender, I will not deny. 
 It taught me to grieve for your misfortunes, to palliate 
 your faults, to suffer in your Bufferings, but never to d 
 sire the exclusive possession of your heart. — It trill teach 
 me," and she feebly pressed his hand, " if in another 
 world I am sensible to any thing in that I leave behind 
 me, still to share every honorable pursuit in which you 
 may hereafter be engaged. We must part — and assured- 
 ly never here to meet again. But I give you one solemn 
 — dying injunction;" — and again she made a long pauf 
 both for breath and voice. — " Remember that you have 
 injured Mr. Seymour. Had your influence kept pace 
 with your wishes, yon would, indeed, most essentia' 
 have injured him. Let that recollection make an eternal 
 claim on your forbearance. — At this solemn moment, 
 when his errors no longer palliate mine, I too can pardi D 
 — can feel for him. It may now, alas, be his turn to suf- 
 fer ! — One thing — and only one more. — I leave behind 
 me," — and she melted into tears — "a helpless and inno- 
 cent child. — I am told that by some strange chance of 
 circumstances, you, of all created beings, are the very 
 one by whose claims it may be impoverished." 
 
 "Never!" exclaimed Villars, starting up tor a mo- 
 ment: then eagerly resuming his first posture, "Angel 
 of light !" he added, "listen to me, while I solemnly im- 
 precate every curse of misery or want on my own head, 
 should any earthly motive ever induce me to litigate the 
 inheritance of a child of yours!" — Mrs. Seymour's lips 
 and eyelids suddenly shivered, and her hand became 
 colder. — Villars was obliged to leave the room. 
 
 He retired to an apartment below, in a state of mind 
 that unfitted him to judge either of time or place, lie
 
 THE wife's tale. 239 
 
 had been long there, when Matilda at length entered. 
 She came by the desire of her sister, who had not been 
 able to prevail on Mrs. Cleveland to leave her, in order 
 to inquire after, to console, and to request him to depart. 
 But he was past all consolation, even that of the sweet 
 creature who offered it in its best, indeed, its only form 
 — sympathy : he at length controlled himself so far, how- 
 ever, as to quit her with some small appearance of self- 
 possession. In the hall he was accosted by Mrs. Sey- 
 mour's maid ; she had a cloak on, and he with difficulty 
 understood that as it was nearly dark, she desired pro- 
 tection. Without being able to ask, or answer a single 
 question, he suffered her to take his arm. She walked 
 with him, by a way of her own choosing, to the door of 
 his lodgings, and even followed him to that of his apart- 
 ment. Villars, on turning round to shut it, looked at her 
 in silence. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir," said she ; " you think me 
 very odd — perhaps, very bold — but, indeed, I am ordered 
 not to leave vou without warning vou to take care of 
 yourself." Villars shook his head impatiently, and mo- 
 tioned with his hand that she should withdraw. 
 
 " I must not go — indeed, I must not, sir, till I have 
 given notice — that — that we suspect there are some very 
 bad men looking out for you. — So Mrs. Cleveland and 
 Miss Matilda, sir, — they were afraid — afraid — " 
 
 " Of what ?" 
 
 "The men were waiting, sir, somewhere near our 
 street. So Miss Matilda was very unhappy, indeed ; but 
 she said that perhaps if two people went out together, 
 and especially if one of them was a woman, they would 
 not guess the other to be you." 
 
 "Who are the men?" said Villars, at length finding 
 power to articulate. 
 
 " I can't say I know their names, sir — but our William
 
 240 C A x T B BBUBT T A I. B 8. 
 
 was the first to find them out, and he tells us that h< 
 sure they are bailiifs, — and Miss Matilda did so cry at 
 hearing it! he Bays that it would be my poor la 
 
 death-stroke at once, it* she could but suspecl that my 
 master was capable of such a wicked ad ion." 
 
 "It is complete!" said Yillars: and for a moment 1 
 walked up and down the room. — " Your ladies are very 
 kind — and you are very kind. Say that I will en<l<-;< 
 to set some value on my safety, since they interest them- 
 selves in it. — Oh Julia," he internally exclaimed, "how 
 immeasurably great will be the virtue of forbearance '." 
 
 On the following morning he received a note from 
 Mrs. Cleveland. It contained a positive injunction to 
 him not again to present himself at Mrs. Seymour's door, 
 as it was utterly impossible that any person should be ad- 
 mitted there. Her husband was on that day to be with 
 her. 
 
 To Mr. Seymour, a death-bed was at all times a fearful 
 and appalling thought. But the death-bed of Julia — of 
 that creature who, within a period so short that it seemed 
 but as yesterday, had been bestowed upon him in all the 
 luster of beauty and health — to approach that bed was a 
 suffering that nearly expiated his offences, and tho<e of 
 the weak mother who had united so to mismatch her. — 
 The parting between them was solemn and impressive. 
 He made no answer to the representations which she con- 
 ceived herself bound by conscience to offer in favor of 
 Yillars, but he received and admitted a religions attesta- 
 tion of her unshaken fidelity to him, and he consented to 
 take home the child. 
 
 On the following day Yillars received another not* 
 from Mrs. Cleveland — and it w;h sealed with black wax.
 
 THE WIFE'S TALE. 241 
 
 To the period of time that immediately succeeded, Mr. 
 Villars was very little sensible. Julia gone ! — eternally 
 gone ! — that fair vision vanished ! — she whose image so 
 long had gilded his anxious days ! — his restless nights ! — 
 first and only object of his life, while life itself was yet 
 new to him ! — hardly could his imagination credit the 
 idea ! — much less dismiss from it, the feeble light — the 
 melancholy chamber, and all the dreadful ceremony of 
 the last agonizing farewell. 
 
 " Oh that her voice, though low as then it seemed, 
 Could reach me now !" 
 
 groaned Villars a thousand times a day. 
 
 He was at length roused from anguish to a transient 
 sense of gratitude by the unremitting attentions and 
 kindness of Mrs. Cleveland and Matilda. His health had 
 suffered very materially under the conflicts of his mind, 
 and as they were on the point of setting out for Devon- 
 shire, they earnestly, and perseveringly, insisted on his 
 promising to visit them there. Whatever might be the 
 dictates of discretion, those of tenderness for her lost 
 daughter, and even of gratitude to Villars superseded 
 them in Mrs. Cleveland's mind, and both had a powerful 
 auxiliary in the person of Matilda : for she, as well as her 
 mother, saw, or fancied they saw, a more than common 
 degree of generosity in the total renunciation of his 
 claims. The future line of conduct that Mr. Seymour in- 
 tended to pursue remained doubtful ; but it appeared 
 that he had, for the time at least, withdrawn his persecu- 
 tion. Villars, therefore, set out on foot, a friendless wan- 
 derer to go he knew not whither ; leaving a power with 
 his solicitor to rescue the little which he now deemed his
 
 2 12 CAXTEEBL'PwY TALES. 
 
 sole possession in life, from the grasp of Mr. Seymour. 
 But he left also a positive injunction to reject all compro- 
 mise, all resignation of his own rights, and all overtui 
 whatever from the latter, that tended to establish inter- 
 course between them. It was for the child of Julia, and 
 only for her child, that he consented to be friendless and 
 impoverished. 
 
 While art exhausts herself in vain and fruitless e 
 nature has sometimes influence enough to staunch the 
 wounds of the heart. Those breezes that invigorate the 
 frame penetrate with balmy influence to the soul. Noth- 
 ing could, perhaps, be more soothing in the actual state 
 of Mr. Villars's mind, than to wander alone through the 
 solitudes of a beautiful countrv, to catch nature in her 
 wild, yet fairest forms; to hold converse with the dead, 
 " and entertain their spirits in his desolate bosom." 
 
 After passing many weeks in this manner, he at length 
 approached the retired residence of Mrs. Cleveland. 
 Here, the tangled wood-walks and wild copses, that must 
 once have been the haunt of her lovely daughter, became 
 doubly interesting to him. After much irresolution, and 
 many a conflict, he at length presented himself at Mrs. 
 Cleveland's door. Matilda was the first to recognize— 
 first to hear his voice, and to welcome him. Even her 
 mother received him as one who had a claim to her hos- 
 pitality ; and the obscure, houseless traveler sinned in 
 their society to have found that sweet home which fortune 
 had hitherto denied him. No mention was made of Mr. 
 Seymour; but the babe, so dearly purchased on onesid 
 s » dearly endowed on the other, was well. 
 
 Mr. Villars passed several days, that were never to be 
 forgotten by him, in this retreat. He then quitted it. and 
 striking directly towards the sea, pursued all the irregu- 
 larities of the coast for many miles; still indulging him- 
 self by keeping in view that element whose restless mo-
 
 THE wife's tale. 243 
 
 tion seemed most congenial to his frame of mind. Sum- 
 mer was far advanced when he reached Weymouth. 
 Here, a feverish indisposition that had been gaining 
 ground fast upon him when in London, and which con- 
 tinual change of air had subdued, returned with fresh 
 force, and obliged him to remain stationary. He had 
 been there more than three weeks when, in the course of 
 a solitary ramble, he cast his eyes upon a face which he 
 immediately recognized : it was that of Mrs. Seymour's 
 maid. She held in her arms a fair and delicate child, 
 whose black sash announced its irreparable loss. Yillars 
 felt himself now bound to remain at Weymouth by a tie 
 far stronger than any malady but that of the heart could 
 impose. The woman knew him well : she permitted him 
 sometimes to caress the lovely baby, and from her he 
 learnt that Mr. Sevmour was himself on the coast for the 
 
 */ 
 
 benefit of his health, which had suffered considerably 
 since the death of his wife. The shock that had occa- 
 sioned to his nerves had, indeed, never been wholly re- 
 covered by him. He was of an age when the sufferings 
 of the imagination easily pass into the frame, and was, in- 
 deed, seriously, though not apparently very ill. Yillars 
 caught a glance of him one day upon the beach, but re- 
 treated from the view as from that of a basilisk. 
 
 Mr. Seymour did not hope to receive much benefit 
 from his residence at Weymouth ; but his own house had 
 been a desert to him, since the gay world, and she who 
 was once the gayest of the gay, were no longer to be 
 seen there. He stayed, therefore, rather because he did 
 not like to go, than for any other reason. The close of 
 the season carried him at length away. Yillars saw him 
 drive from the town, and nearly on the same day re- 
 ceived letters from the solicitor to whom he had intrusted 
 liis concerns, to inform him that Mr. Seymour, under the 
 pretext of his not being of age, evaded giving up his
 
 244 CANTER1U i:v TALES. 
 
 patrimony into his own hands, except upon certain condi- 
 tions which he had good reason to expect would not be 
 Complied with. The letter also contained a caution to 
 him to attend to hia personal security, as there was rea- 
 son to believe that Mr. Seymour, alarmed by the demand 
 lately made, which he conceived to be the forerunner of 
 other measures, would, as a desperate effort, employ ev- 
 ery engine, however unjust, to reduce him to tern 
 
 The event of this application seemed conclusive. A' il- 
 ia is, too indigent to plunge deeper in law, was wholly 
 without redress, nay, almost without present resource. 
 The apartments which he inhabited were too expensive, 
 and made him too obvious to notice, to suit either his 
 finances or his apprehensions, and he removed — 
 
 " IVhere did he remove to?" said Atkinson, frantic 
 with impatience at seeing the break : for as the initials 
 by which the story had been marked, had not to him dis- 
 guised the names of the different parties, he had, at sight 
 of his own, eagerly turned to the last page of the book, 
 for the very intelligence that there failed him. 
 
 "Where did vJio remove?" said Mrs. Dixon. 
 
 "Mr. Villars, — my young master, Mr. Villar-." 
 
 "Why, sure you are dreaming! The name of Villars 
 is not in the book." 
 
 "But it is in my heart. Where is he, Mrs. Dixon *'" 
 
 "Who do vou come from?" — 
 
 " From Mr. Seymour." 
 
 "Then I shall tell you nothing at all of the matter. I 
 have read more of the book than Mr. Villars believes, 
 Mr. Sevmour is a wicked man, and I don't desire to hear 
 another word about him." 
 
 "But he is a dying man, and he can't die in peace till 
 he does justice. — T tell vou that mv business is a bless 
 one : it is to restore Mr. Villars his estate."
 
 THE wife's tale. 245 
 
 " And why did you not say at first that you came upon 
 a good errand ?" 
 
 " What could possibly make you think that I should 
 come on any other ?" 
 
 " Bless my soul, sir, I took you for a lawyer." 
 
 " Why then, Mrs. Dixon, learn to correct your preju- 
 dices ; and to think that a lawyer may do a kind action 
 sometimes, as well as another man. — I tell you that Mr. 
 Villars is heir to five thousand a year." 
 
 " Then I tell you, in return, that the heir to five thou- 
 sand a year is at this moment shut up in my back attic, — 
 and has been so, these six weeks. — Are you sure of what 
 you say?" 
 
 "I will swear it," said Atkinson, taking up the book. 
 
 " It is not a Bible, but it will do !" replied Mrs. Dixon. 
 — " We must not hurry poor dear Mr. Villars though, for 
 he is not well." So, because she would not hurry him, she 
 ran breathless up the stairs, and after two gentle, but very 
 hasty raps, threw open the door. Villars was reading. 
 The appearance of health had indeed faded from his manly 
 cheeks, but both his countenance and person were highly 
 prepossessing. 
 
 " Here is Mr. Atkinson, sir," cried Mrs. Dixon, speaking 
 fast and thick. "Your friend, Mr. Atkinson." They 
 looked earnestly at each other, but recognition was impos- 
 sible. Atkinson, however, quickly made himself known ; 
 and informed Villars that Mr. Seymour, whose case was 
 considered as hopeless, had employed every measure to 
 discover his residence. Measures which were constant- 
 ly defeated, from being imputed to very opposite motives 
 to those which now influenced him. The child had re- 
 joined its mother. It had ever been a delicate infant, and 
 its death had been a mortal stroke to Mr. Seymour, both 
 as to his feeling and temporal views. Since, besides being 
 passionately fond of it, the debilitated state of his nerves 
 
 11
 
 246 < a N I B B b u B y I a i. j; s. 
 
 induced him to consider the loss as a visitation. He now 
 earnestly desired to Bee Yillars, and had invested Atkin- 
 son with powers to make over the title di eds of the estate 
 to him, on the instant of his own decease. 
 
 Mr. Seymour lay sick at his house in town ; but Villa 
 found himself utterly unable to subdue his feelingf Ear 
 as to enter that house, even though the refusal were to 1 
 attended with the worst consequences to himself. All 
 there was Julia's, — in his eyes, Julia's only. Though it 
 was now six months since the world had lost her, to him 
 she still lived ; and the spot in which she had presided, 
 which she had embellished, it was impossible for him 
 again to behold. Another Julia indeed, in form and out- 
 ward semblance, perhaps also in character, one deeply 
 endeared to his heart, and to whom he was secretly m< 
 dear, was to be found there ; but it Mas not the enchant- 
 ress whom he had so passionately loved ; nor could lie re- 
 solve, in those circumstances, to see even Matilda again. 
 She, with her mother, had come up at the request of Mr. 
 Seymour, to console and watch over the latter. 
 
 The contending feelings of Mr. Villars's mind, caused 
 him to be an invalid himself immediately on his arrival, 
 and during that period Mr. Seymour, by finishing his 
 career in this world, left his competitor a brilliant fortune, 
 of which, through the good offices of Atkinson, he took 
 unmolested and immediate possession. 
 
 Time, occupation, and circumstances, at length succeed- 
 ed in consoling Mr. Yillars. But not till he had atoned 
 for the weakness and romantic indiscretion of his early con- 
 duct by long and bitter regret. He Mas then permitted 
 to indulge the overflowings of a heart still too tender and 
 retired for the common intercourse of society, in the tran- 
 quil happiness of domestic life, and to cherish, inn fond 
 and lasting attachment to Mrs. Yillars, his love both G 
 Julia (f/idJlatihla.
 
 THE wife's tale. 247 
 
 And what became of the counterparts, Atkinson and 
 Mrs. Dixon ? Why, they had at length been fortunate 
 enough to discover each other : a good fortune that does 
 not attend all the counterparts of this world. In conse- 
 quence of which they agreed to make their little estab- 
 lishment in the friendly neigborhood of Mr. Villars, and 
 to have for the future only one fireside in common.
 
 THE TRAVELER'S TALE. 
 
 MOXTFORD. 
 
 That strain again !— It had a dying fall : 
 Oh ! it came o'er my ear like the sweet south 
 That breathes upon a bank of violets, 
 Stealing and giving odor. 
 
 Shakspkabe. 
 
 Henry de Montford was eighteen ; of an illustrious 
 birth, an ample fortune, and endowed with all the gr:. 
 of nature. Born to sueh advantages, what more eould 
 he have to seek? Reason savs, "Nothincr." But Mont- 
 ford was an Englishman ; and the English talk too much 
 of reason to act by it. It is an idol to whom thev burn 
 incense, without intending to make it a household god. 
 Montford, then, was an Englishman in the truest sense of 
 the word; frank, brave, but restless and impatient. Nov- 
 elty was his passion, and the first wish of hlfl BOul was to 
 travel. His father vainly attempted to combat this incli- 
 nation in an only son, with whom he had no desire to 
 part. Romance-writers may exhaust their eloquence up- 
 on the flinty hearts of parents; but real life tells us that 
 they are much more apt to he governed by their children, 
 than to govern them: and so it proved in the family of 
 Montford.
 
 THE TRAVELER'S TALE. 249 
 
 " Henry," said the venerable old man, as he embraced 
 his son on the eve of his departure for the continent, " I 
 will not enjoin you to remember the race from which you 
 spring, or the name which you bear. They are pledges 
 of honor which I trust you will never forget. But, let 
 prudence accompany your virtues, or they will be useless 
 to others, and dangerous to yourself. You will pass 
 through France ; you will visit Italy. You will behold 
 the theatre of arts and arms ; but superstition has twined 
 her ivy amidst their laurels, and they daily wither be- 
 neath its pernicious influence. Yet, offend not the preju- 
 dices of any country ; nor make that faith which is to be 
 the foundation of your happiness in another world, the 
 source of hatred or discord in this. Let the sacred re- 
 mains of the past speak to your heart; and while they so 
 often derive their value from memory alone, let them 
 feelingly convince you that the real dignity of man is 
 within himself. Adieu, my child ! Receive my benedic- 
 tion : more I need not add : the wishes of a parent are 
 prayers." 
 
 Montford embraced his father in silence, and a few 
 days conveyed him to Paris. But Paris, however gay, 
 did not detain him long ; and as Venice was at that sea- 
 son the theater of pleasure, he soon after set off, in com- 
 pany with many of his countrymen, to be present at the 
 Carnival. The Carnival, it should seem, might have pre- 
 sented variety enough to gratify the most impetuous 
 mind. But even that did not satisfy our traveler: he 
 rambled round Italy, traversed the south of France, and 
 determined to visit Spain : Spain, the region of romance ! 
 where Love has transferred his vail to the fair eyes of his 
 votaries ; where restraint doubles enjoyment, and danger 
 enhances the merit of passion ! 
 
 Full of similar ideas, Montford crossed the Pyrenees. 
 " Aye, this," said he, as he surveyed the hanging woods
 
 250 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 and rustic hermitages of Montserrat, "this i^ indeed to 
 gratify at once the eye and the imagination: this it to 
 trace Nature through all her forms ; from the wild brow 
 of the precipice, where she alone presides, up to the last 
 and most complicated of her works, Man /" He wii in- 
 terrupted in his meditations by a glimpse of the hovel in 
 which he was to pass the night. It was, in on< 
 perfect paradise ; for bird, beast, and man, seemed all 
 free commoners there. " It must be owned," said Mont- 
 ford, as he stretched himself upon the straw in one corner 
 — " it must be owned that they seem to want nothing in 
 this country but common sense." And had thine, dear 
 Montford ! not been absorbed in romance, thou wouldst 
 have known that little want must ensure every other. 
 
 The sun rose gayly, and our traveler with it ; roused, 
 indeed, by the friendly neighing of his horse, which ap- 
 proached rather nearer the couch of his master than he 
 had been accustomed to do. The suddenness of his ex- 
 cursion had caused Montford to be but ill provided with 
 letters of recommendation : but, amidst them, he found 
 one addressed to Don Anthonio di Vega, at Lerida : and, 
 as romance does but ill supply the place of comfort, he 
 was not sorry to see the gates of that city. 
 
 The family of Don Anthonio, however, bore as little 
 resemblance to the Mann colorings of fancy, as those of 
 his poorer countrymen. Anthonio himself was turned of 
 fifty; silent, partly through pride, and partly from a cer- 
 tain stagnation of ideas not peculiar to Spain. His wife, 
 Mho was but little more loquacious than himself, had the 
 air of a withered duenna; and both were bigotfl to the 
 religion they professed. In such a mansion, Montford 
 vainly looked around for the Muses and the (Traces: of 
 the former, no trace remained but an old guitar with 
 three strings, which hung against the Mall; and the lattt r 
 seemed totally to have forsworn the threshold, lie
 
 THE TRAVELER'S TALE. 251 
 
 found, however, a civil reception, and, seeing himself un- 
 der the necessity of passing at least a short time with his 
 new friends, agreed to accompany them next day to a 
 villa some miles from the city. Of the charms of this re- 
 tirement much was said. But, alas ! the garden of Eden 
 would have had no temptations for Montford with such 
 an Adam and Eve ; and he withdrew to his chamber 
 without one grain of romance to preserve him from being 
 heartily sick of his host, himself, and his travels. 
 
 The succeeding day was sultry : Montford found this 
 famous retirement insupportable. Anthonio slej)t half 
 the day, and strummed on his guitar in order to pass 
 away the rest ; while his wife paid her devotions to every 
 saint in the calendar, and by silent shrugs marked her 
 horror of a heretic. In one instance only was our trav- 
 eler gratified : his hosts readily admitted his apologies for 
 so short a stay, and, willing to be rid of a troublesome 
 guest, furnished him with letters that he might depart 
 early the next morning. 
 
 " And thus are the vivid colorings of fancy daily effaced 
 by the tame certainties of life," sighed Montford, as he 
 wistfully surveyed the apartment in which he was to 
 sleep. Pie sighed again, and again looked round. There 
 was somewhat not wholly uncongenial in the scene. 
 Through lattices which were thrown open, a garden pre- 
 sented itself which, though neither artfully disposed in 
 walks nor parterres, was rich in the wild graces of nature. 
 The orange caught a paler yellow from the beams of the 
 moon, and blended its sweets with those of a thousand 
 odoriferous shrubs. The eyes of Montford were yet 
 riveted upon the scene, when the soft note of a flute stole 
 over his ear. It was a single strain; but so wild! so 
 sweet ! . so distant ! and yet so full ! — He started, listened 
 for some moments, and insensibly sunk again into one of 
 those luxurious reveries, where sensibility seems to have
 
 -.32 ca.\ti;i:huky tali 
 
 dispossessed reflection, arid we rather feel than think. 
 The note, however, was not repeated : and, rousing from 
 his torpor, he determined to taste the charms of the 
 evening at large. The window was only a few paces 
 from the ground ; and Montford was in a moment in the 
 garden. 
 
 After a ramble of considerable length, he was stopped 
 by a broken Avail, which appeared to have been the re- 
 mains of a ruin, and now served as part of the boundary 
 of Don Anthonio's estate. The glimpse he caught over it 
 presented him a view of fairy land. On one side a thick 
 grove of limes strewed the ground with blossoms, and 
 gave an almost overwhelming fragrance to the gale that 
 shook them : on the other, the stream of a distant cascade 
 stole through the turf, betrayed by its own brightness, 
 till it was collected in a marble basin, and encircled by 
 orange and citron trees. Nature breathed tranquillity ; 
 and Montford saw no crime in enjoying her gifts. He 
 leaped the wall ; but stumbled over something on the op- 
 posite side, which a fosse, half filled with rubbish a 
 high grass, had concealed : a sudden and terrible thrill ran 
 through his frame when he perceived it to be the body of 
 a man, yet warm, and newly bleeding. " Great God !" 
 exclaimed he, casting his eyes upon a flute that lay 1 ry, M it 
 
 was from those lips, then n lie stopped ; smote his 
 
 breast ; and, looking towards heaven, seemed to no 
 a momentary pause in existence: it was recalled, fa 
 ever, by a nearer fear : for the moon, which shed her r 
 obliquely from a cloud, discovered two forms that ap- 
 proached the spot on which he stood ; and it was with 
 some difficulty he gained the grove of limes ere they dr 
 near enough to have observed him. That grove, which 
 but a few moments before had appeared the abode of 
 security and love, was now to his agitated nerves peopled
 
 THE TRAVELER'S TALE. 253 
 
 with murderers; and hardly would its thickest foliage 
 shelter him from the officious beams of the moon. 
 
 Of the two men who approached, the foremost bore in 
 his arms somewhat wrapt in white, which he laid at a dis- 
 tance ; and by the motion of a pick-axe and spade, Mont- 
 ford conjectured that he was sinking a grave, of which he 
 had already dug part. In the labor both joined ; but it 
 was easy to discern that they were not equally accustom- 
 ed to it. In the one, a strong man seemed nerved by an 
 unfeeling heart, while the random stroke of the other, his 
 long pauses, and passionate gesture, betrayed the deej^est 
 agitation. Their toil was at length suspended ; and the 
 former drew near the spot where lay the murdered cava- 
 lier. The soul of Montford burned within him : he start- 
 ed forward, and looked around, as if he supposed some 
 supernatural being would arm his hand with a weapon ; 
 but happily his step was unheard ; and ere he could ap- 
 proach, he saw the villain bear off the corpse, and, assist- 
 ed by his companion, lay it in the earth. "Unfortunate 
 pair !" groaned Montford, as they interred the body wrapt 
 in white, which he now clearly discerned to be that of a 
 woman — " Unfortunate pair ! Love was perhaps your 
 only crime : may it in a better world prove your reward !" 
 
 That sacred dust which first covers the frail forms it is 
 so soon to blend with, already concealed the victims, when 
 the agitation of one of the men seemed to rise almost to 
 agony. He stretched himself upon the grave ; he wept 
 violently ; and, raising liis hands towards heaven, appear- 
 ed at once to solicit pardon for his own soul, and mercy 
 for that of the deceased. His companion at length almost 
 forcibly raised him ; and covering the spot with turf and 
 leaves, they both withdrew through a small garden-door, 
 which they carefully locked after them. 
 
 But what became of Montford? — Silent! solitary! ap- 
 palled ! he scarce knew whether the scene he had been 
 
 11*
 
 254 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 witness to was a reality or a vision. "And, sad reali- 
 ty !" at length sighed he, as he rushed out of the thicket. 
 
 Again he paused upon the spot where the unfotf 
 
 nate cavalier so lately lay ; and was about to climb the 
 wall, when he perceived somewhat glitter amid the grim. 
 It was the picture of a woman, which, by the ribbon at- 
 tached to it, had doubtless been worn round the neck. 
 He took it up ; j)laced it as a relic in his bosom ; and in a 
 
 few moments reached his chamber his chamber, n< 
 
 a dungeon ; for rest had fled ; and his soul longed to make 
 its appeal to all Spain against treachery and murder. He 
 deliberated whether he should not immediately awaken 
 his host and family : but cooler reflection suggested a dif- 
 ferent conduct. He recollected that he was himself a 
 foreigner and a heretic : a sinerle witness too of the trans- 
 action he would punish ! hardly able to point out the pi 
 cise spot he had quitted, and totally incapable of namii 
 the persons he had seen there ! The face of the most 
 hardened he had indeed discerned ; he even believed he 
 should know it again : but could he be certain of not 
 wron<nn<? the innocent ? Against whom therefore could 
 he level his accusation ? and what friends should he lind 
 to support him in it ? How, if it should be retorted ? 
 Truth would oblige him to confess that he had quitted his 
 chamber by stealth, and in the night ; — his shoes were 
 bloody; and he had imprudently possessed himself of a 
 picture set round with valuable diamonds, flight not 
 these arguments be speciously enforced against him in any 
 country; and above all then in Spain, where the hand of 
 justice, ever slow, is often arrested by superstition and 
 interest? Reason had decided the question; but the 
 heart of Montford remained yet undetermined, when he 
 was alarmed by his servant, who brought him a packet of 
 letters, that had followed him express, with the informa- 
 tion that his father lay at the point of death. This news
 
 THE TRAVELER'S TALE. 255 
 
 was decisive ; and Mont ford, though too late to see his 
 parent, was in England. 
 
 To an impetuous and ardent youth now succeeded the 
 calmness of maturity : time ripened his understanding; 
 reason cooled his passions; and habit brought both down 
 to the level of other men. He married, and became a fa- 
 ther. Romance subsided. He was happy in the society 
 of an amiable wife : he rode hobby-horses with his son ; 
 took pleasure in cultivating his estate : and only, while 
 pausing over his hay-fields, or rambling through his park, 
 sometimes breathed a sigh at the recollection of one sad 
 spot in Catalonia. 
 
 But the happiness of a parent approaches so near to his 
 cares, that they meet even at the point which should 
 separate them ! The young De Montford was every thing 
 his friends could demand : one erroneous wish alon:^ 
 obtruded upon his heart ; and who could blame that wish, 
 for was it not the foible of his father ? In short, it was his 
 passion to see the world. To have made the grand tour 
 was then first in fashion : like all other fashionable things, 
 it was therefore thought indispensable in a gentleman ; and 
 the young Henry saw no reason why he should be esti- 
 mated lower than his companions. His father sighed : he 
 sighed — but lie remembered his own father, and complied. 
 
 " You would smile," said Henry in his first letter, dated 
 Paris, " to see how grave I am in this gay city. I am ral- 
 lied perpetually on my sobriety. The women think me a 
 mere phlegmatic Englishman, whom it is vain to hope to 
 conquer : the men swear you are still at my side. And 
 so you are : the precepts, the image of my father, are ever 
 present to my memory, and dear to my heart — a heart 
 that will not deserve to beat when they are otherwise." 
 
 Another letter quickly followed this. — "I will not tell 
 you," said Henry, " that I am quite so sober as when T 
 wrote last : however, I do assure you I am yet a very dull
 
 250 I 'A.VTEBBUEY T A L I s. 
 
 fellow in the eyes of my companions ; which ifl as much as 
 to say that I am a M-vy rational one. In a week the court 
 goes to Barbge, that the queen may drink the watei 
 
 and perhaps, when so near, I may be tempted to make a 
 trip across the Pyrenees. v — Acrossthi PyrerUesl There 
 was a dreadful recollection conveyed in those words that 
 unhinged the soul of Montford. 
 
 The letter was received on the anniversary of his wed- 
 ding-day: a large party had been invited to a rural fete 
 on the occasion, and it was necessary to command him- 
 self. Wine and good company are powerful antidotes 
 against gloom : Montford found them so. His guests 
 were departing after much festivity, and he stood at the 
 door to make his last bows to the Spanish ambassador, 
 when chance directed his eyes to the face of one of the 
 servants in waiting. If chance directed, amazement 
 seemed to root them there, when they rested upon the 
 hardened features of the Catalonian murderer. A cold, a 
 death-like chill ran through the frame of Montford, and 
 seemed to extend even to his very soul. The fatal garden, 
 the yet-uncovered sod, the despair of one ruffian, and the 
 ferocious insensibility of the other — all — all — revived. 
 Time seemed annihilated ; and the whole dreadful scene 
 presented itself at once to his imagination. lie retired to 
 bed: he even slept; but rest was denied him. A still 
 more lively picture of the past presented itself to his 
 memory; and while he was attentively viewing the inter- 
 ment, he thought he felt an unseen hand plunge a dags 
 in his heart. Its painful throbs when he waked convinced 
 him that his dream arose from indisposition ; and having 
 replied to his wife, whom his agitation had disturbed, he 
 once more tried to Bleep; but it was only to wake again 
 with the same horrible impression. A third effort H 
 equally unsuccessful ; and the importunate inquiries of 
 Mrs. Montford at length drew from him the cause of his
 
 THE TRAVELER'S TALE. 257 
 
 disorder, though recounted only as a dream. It was a 
 dream, however, that shook his nerves ; and, by unhing- 
 ing his frame, brought on a slow fever, of which he vain- 
 ly endeavored to conceal the origin. A favorite woman 
 of Mrs. Montford's soon spread it in his own family: nor 
 was it long ere it reached the ears of Perez ; the very vil- 
 lain from whom, of all others, it was most necessary it 
 should be concealed ; and Perez instantly disappeared. 
 
 If the strange conformity of a dream thus struck the 
 ruffian with dismay, what did not Montford feel on hear- 
 ing that ruffian had abruptly vanished ! The dagger 
 seemed already to have pierced his heart through the 
 bosom of his son ; and after vainly struggling with his 
 weakness, he wrote to the latter, to desire his immediate 
 return to England. But a strange and mysterious silence 
 seemed now to have seized upon Henry. His father, find- 
 ing two dispatches unanswered, gave way to his presenti- 
 ments; and, settling his affairs, immediately set off for 
 Paris. 
 
 The court was at Barege, and almost every English- 
 man had followed it. To Barege he fled instantly ; but 
 Henry had already crossed the mountains. Over those 
 memorable mountains the impatient father now pursued 
 his son ; unconscious that he was himself secretly pursued 
 by the villain whom his sudden journey to the continent 
 had united with his dream to alarm ; and who, imputing 
 it to other views than the silent ones of paternal regard, 
 only waited a favorable opportunity to complete the 
 bloody scene that dream had pointed out. 
 
 Montford tracked his son with indefatigable assiduity, 
 and once more reached the gates of Lerida. It was late 
 ere he arrived ; but his ears w r ere blessed with the intel- 
 ligence that Henry, though not at home, was well ; and 
 after paying a late visit of inquiry to Don Anthonio, in 
 whose cobweb domains time seemed to have stood still,
 
 m 
 
 258 CANTE R BURY TALI 
 
 he was returning to his hotel, when, passing through a 
 
 ruinous porehwav on the outskirts of the eity, lie was at- 
 tacked by two ruffians. The presentiments of Montford 
 
 returned ; hut neither his prudence nor his cour 
 deserted him, for he was armed; and a young cavalier, 
 who suddenly came in to his assistance, seconded him with 
 so much spirit, that one of the villains was presently 
 stretched upon the spot, while the other saved him 
 only by flight. 
 
 " Generous stranger," said Montford, " how can I re- 
 pay—" 
 
 " Merciful Heaven !" interrupted the youth, starting 
 back : "Am I in a dream, or is it my father speaks *.'" 
 
 "Dear, dear Henry! it is thy father!" returned Mont- 
 ford, falling upon his neck as he recognized the welcome 
 voice, " thy fond, thy anxious father ! Nay, shrink not, 
 my son, from the heart that pants to meet thine. It is 
 neither resentment nor distrust, it is neither caution nor 
 severity, that has made me pursue thy footsteps : it is the 
 fond, the overflowing anxiety of a soul that feels itself 
 most a parent in its weakness." 
 
 Again Montford embraced his son ; first conscious of 
 the extent of his fears by the affecting sadness of his j<>y. 
 
 Henry, though grateful and devoted to his father, v. 
 yet agitated by too many various feelings not to betray 
 some degree of embarrassment at a meeting for which he 
 was wholly unprepared: nor was he sorry that the fea- 
 tures of the assassin who lav dead before them for a time 
 suspended further attention to himself. Montford sunk 
 into a dee]> reverie on perceiving it to be Perez; and, 
 while employed by his own reflections, became inattentive 
 to the profound silence oi^ his son ; nor was it till they 
 had nearly reached the middle of the city that either was 
 sensible of the tumult that reigned there. " 1 am afraid 
 there is a fire," said Mont lord in a tone of inquiry, as he
 
 THE TRAVELER'S TALE. 259 
 
 raised his eyes upon the anxious faces before him. "Aye, 
 a piteous one in the great street yonder, sir," returned a 
 porter that stood near. " Some young spark has been 
 serenading his mistress, and they have carelessly left a 
 light burning that has spread through the house. As to 
 Don Velasquez, he is safe enough, for I saw him in the 
 crowd — but the poor young woman and the duenna — " 
 
 " Velasquez !" cried Henry, starting forward with fran- 
 tic eagerness, and, forgetful of every tie but that of love, 
 he pressed to where the conflagration now raged. Through 
 the windows of a large house the flames Avere pouring 
 out with a violence that precluded the possibility of help ; 
 and the roof suddenly giving way, the whole scene, from 
 a clear and vivid blaze, sunk into a confused heap of ruins, 
 covered with impenetrable smoke, and only now and then 
 emitting smouldering flames. 
 
 The works of man, even in their wildest waste, man 
 may find language to describe ; but when the havoc at- 
 tacks humanity, crushes its faculties, and spreads internal 
 devastation, his history, like himself, becomes a blank. 
 Such was for a fortnight that of the young Henry de 
 Montford. 
 
 Relieved from a raging fever, he slowly recovered his 
 reason and his strength. — " These are precious tears, my 
 father," said he, feebly raising the hand that received 
 them ; " they fall upon the heart of your son, and prepare 
 it once more for the impressions of duty, of humanity, 
 of nature ! Take then its little history before it is for 
 ever buried there ! — Diana de Zaviere — " 
 
 " Let us not speak of her, my son," said Montford : " I 
 know the rest too well." 
 
 "That she perished you indeed know too well," inter- 
 rupted Henry, in the low and firm tone of incurable an- 
 guish; "bat you are yet to learn it was the hand of a 
 lover that lighted that pile which was to annihilate his
 
 260 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 happiness; that it was from the bosom of fond and im- 
 prudent passion the unfortunate Diana sunk to a prema- 
 ture grave. You tremble — yon start! — Oh, my father, 
 you have wept for the miseries of your eon ; well may 
 you shudder at his guilt!" Montford shuddered indeed : 
 hardly had he breath to inquire further; but tin- weight 
 on his heart was removed, when he found, from the sub- 
 sequent diseourse of Henry, that the fatal meeting be- 
 tween himself and Diana, though tender, had been inno- 
 cent ; that they had been guilty of no other crime than 
 meditating a flight from the relation on whom she < 
 pended, and had left the light burning merely from ap- 
 prehension on being suddenly surprised; that, in tine. 
 neither of them could with justice be charged singly with 
 an imprudence in which they had equally shared, though 
 the inflamed imagination of a lover might naturally appro- 
 priate the dreadful consequence. 
 
 Another fortnight had nearly re-established the health 
 of Henry, when they prepared for their return to Eng- 
 land. The weather was warm ; and, after journeying 
 slowly, they reached on the evening of the second day a 
 very indifferent Posada ; where, to the great disappoint- 
 ment of Montford, the best accommodations were already 
 secured by a party of travelers, then retiring to rest. ( me 
 small bed was found for Henry, whose anxiety Montford 
 silenced by pretending to have obtained another below; 
 where, in fact, an exhausted mind soon supplied upon 
 straw that repose which down had sometimes denied him. 
 It was far otherwise with Henry. To long and restl 
 thoughts succeeded feverish dreams ; in one of which he 
 arose, dressed himself, quitted his room, and, unconscious 
 of what he did, traversed a gallery. His step was soft, 
 solemn, and slow. Fancy presented to him the tomb 
 of Diana ; and he supposed himself Leaning over it in the 
 last depth of despondency, whilst, in reality, his lifeless
 
 THE TRAVELER'S TALE. 261 
 
 eye was fixed on the form of a beautiful young woman, 
 who, while her maid slept by her side, was reading a let- 
 ter from her lover so intently, that the emotion excited 
 by it alone made her discern the phantom at her feet. A 
 shriek truly feminine, however, announced her perception ; 
 a shriek that not only awakened the senses of Henry, but 
 indeed of every individual in the house : and soon intro- 
 duced to her chamber a group of figures not unworthy 
 the pen of Cervantes. The fair, the terrified Diana, for 
 it was she herself, presented a far different portrait. " The 
 flowing gold of her loose tresses " hung over a neck but 
 half vailed by her night-dress ; and Nature, which for a 
 moment had extended the alabaster hue to her lip and 
 cheek, seemed to take pleasure in restoring a brighter 
 crimson to both. 
 
 " Ah ! dear Montford !" said she, withdrawing herself 
 from him. 
 
 " Lamented, adored Diana !" cried he, clasping her 
 once more to his bosom, " let thy warm, thy living beauty 
 convince me that I do not dream. — Heavens ! can it be 
 possible? — Lost alike to the joys of love and reason, am 
 I indeed restored to both ? — or does a happy delirium 
 supply the place of one at least ?" 
 
 " I am afraid we must not talk of reason," exclaimed 
 Diana, in a timid tone. " Perhaps, Henry," added she, 
 dropping her voice, and raising her swimming eyes to the 
 motley group around her, though fixing them only on 
 one, "perhaps not either of love!" 
 
 " And who shall forbid it ?" said the elder Montford, 
 advancing, while, pressing her hand to his lips, he joined 
 it to that of his son. " Who, sweet Diana, shall forbid a 
 union Heaven seems thus to authorize ? Not the father 
 of thy Henry ; not Don Velasquez, if I judge by his 
 looks." 
 
 "They are deceitful, stranger," interrupted Velasquez,
 
 202 CANTEEIiURY TALES. 
 
 fixing a stern eye upon Montford, with which a sad and 
 mellow voice but ill accorded. "The looks of Velaeques 
 speak a sensation to which his heart is & stranger : they 
 
 perhaps tell thee that he has joy in the joys of other- : 
 but I once more repeat, they are deceitful. I will not, 
 however, oppose my voice to that of Heaven. If love, 
 therefore, Diana, can make thy happiness — be happy." 
 He said more : but he had exhausted his eloquence in 
 those few words ; and however excellent the remainder 
 of his speech, it is probable that not a syllable of it was 
 heard by the lovers. 
 
 The gentleman retired, and a general explanation soon 
 informed Montford that the silence of his son had origi- 
 nated in his consciousness of a passion too serious to admit 
 of concealment, and too sudden to hope for approbation ; 
 that its fair object was intended by Velasquez for a con- 
 vent ; and that, finally, on that dreadful night when the im- 
 prudence of the lovers reduced the house to ashes, Diana 
 had been privately rescued and conveyed to a country-seat, 
 whence she was then going to reside in a nunnery at some 
 distance. From the phlegmatic Velasquez, however, 
 nothing of this transpired. Satisfied with having prom- 
 ised Diana a dowry, and made some professions of civility 
 to the party, who agreed to return with him to the villa 
 he had quitted, he neither entered into their pleasures nor 
 their hopes ; a gloomy companion, and an ungracious host 
 "This relation of yours, my sweet Diana, 91 said Mont- 
 ford, as they were walking, a happy trio, in the garden of 
 Don Velasquez, " is a relation merely in blood. I am not 
 surprised that he finds the vivacity of Henry insupport- 
 able; and it suited well with the somber character of his 
 mind to think of immuring thee in a convent. I am mis- 
 taken, however," added he with a smile, u i£ the cheerful 
 spirit of Diana would not have found another Henry in
 
 THE TRAVELER'S TALE. 263 
 
 the world, rather than have yielded to the gloomy seclu- 
 
 sion." 
 
 " Of that world I know so little," said Diana, with a 
 gentle and timid air, " that hardly can I vindicate myself 
 from the supposition. I am cheerful, I acknowledge ; but 
 who, so surrounded, could be otherwise ? Cast thine eyes, 
 dear Henry, on the beautiful scene before us, and tell me 
 if it does not lend new pulses to thy heart !" — Montford 
 raised his as she spoke, and beheld indeed a kind of fairy- 
 land. 
 
 On one side a thick grove of limes strewed the ground 
 with blossoms, and gave an almost overwhelming fragrance 
 to the gale that shook them : on the other, the stream of a 
 distant cascade stole through the turf, betrayed by its 
 own brightness, till it was collected in a marble basin, and 
 encircled by orange and citron trees. 
 
 Reader, does thy heart recognize the spot ? That of 
 Montford communicated a convulsion to his frame that 
 almost shook the seat of reason. 
 
 " And this," said Diana, pensively resting her arm upon 
 an urn of white marble, " this is raised by Don Velasquez 
 to the memory of his sister!" 
 
 Montford looked wildly round. " Spirits of the injured 
 and unfortunate," cried he, clasping his hands together 
 with energy, " I swear to avenge you !" 
 
 The astonished lovers gazed at him for a moment in si- 
 lence. " You are not well, my father," said Henry, as he 
 traced the flushes upon his cheek. 
 
 "Let us quit the spot, my Henry!" said the tender 
 parent, vainly struggling with uncontrollable emotion ; " it 
 recalls a grief, a recollection — nineteen years ago — " 
 
 "Alas!" said Diana, "was^Aatf period then marked by 
 sorrow ? that period which first brought into being the 
 happy daughter of your heart ; born, I hope, to soothe
 
 204 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 your past griefs, and to assist, oh ray father! in shielding 
 you from future one 
 
 "Merciful Heaven!" again exclaimed Montford, stop- 
 ping to fix a scrutinizing glance on the features of Diana, 
 and comparing them with a portrait which he took from 
 his pocket-book ; then, as if oppressed by a torrent of 
 ideas, he broke abruptly from the lovers, and sought Ve- 
 lasquez. 
 
 It was the hour of meditation, and Velasquez was in- 
 dulging it in a remote gallery; the gloom of which w 
 deepened by the increasing shade of evening. His step 
 was irregular ; and his eye, now fixed on vacancy, now 
 half closed, as if turned inward to scrutinize his heart, 
 seemed to lose all actual through the strength of imaginary 
 perception. Montford advanced. 
 
 " I come," said he, " from the grave of your sister :" 
 adding, in a lower but more impressive tone, " She sends 
 me to her murderer." Velasquez groaned, shuddered, 
 and fell at his feet. 
 
 The long and dreadful pause in existence that succeed- 
 ed, precluded all hope or thought of present explanation ; 
 nor was it till some hours after that the news of returning 
 strength led Montford to his chamber, lie was stopped 
 at the door of it by a friar, who resolutely opposed his 
 entrance. 
 
 "Father," said Montford, with a firm and angry tone, 
 " you know not the evil you do. The God we both adore 
 is conscious of the purity of my intentions, and sent me 
 hither for the wisest and most merciful of purposes." 
 
 " The claims of our holy church, son," said the friar. — 
 "I am not ignorant of those claims," interrupted the im- 
 patient Mont lord, v * and shall respect thern when not ex- 
 tended too far I" 
 
 "Respect them now, then I" returned the priest, in a 
 still more determined tone. "The mind and body of Don
 
 THE TRAVELER'S TALE. 265 
 
 Velasquez are unfitted for converse, and he means to re- 
 lieve both by the holy duties of confession." Montford 
 paused : then, grasping the hand of the father, emphatically 
 conjured him "to settle the long account between his 
 penitent and heaven !" Struck with his manner, the priest 
 fixed on him a penetrating glance, where pride struggled 
 with curiosity, and coldly withdrew. 
 
 Montford now strove to collect himself, and hastened 
 to calm the perturbation of the lovers, who, bewildered at 
 the sight of a confusion for wdiich it was not possible they 
 should account, seemed on the j)oint of losing " that sweet 
 peace which goodness bosoms ever," in vague apprehen- 
 sions of some unknown and horrible evil. 
 
 He was summoned from them to a conference with the 
 holy father, whose altered countenance, and studied blan- 
 dishments of manner, bespoke him conscious of the fatal 
 secret. 
 
 "How is your penitent, father?" cried Montford, ab- 
 ruptly, on entering. 
 
 "Easier in body than in soul!" returned the priest. 
 "He is tormented with strange and visionary fears, to 
 which you have given birth. He wishes to know what 
 crime you dare suspect him of; or by what proofs — " 
 
 " Father," internpted Montford, perceiving the priest 
 meant artfully to extort from him how much he knew, 
 " let us not trifle on a dreadful subject ! Sacred be the 
 secrets of confession ; I demand them not of you : it is 
 with Velasquez I would talk. Nineteen years ago it 
 was my fate to witness, in the grove of limes — " 
 
 " Speak softly!" said the artful priest, lowering his voice. 
 "Velasquez is beyond your reach. Already embosomed 
 in our holy society, he means to atone for his offences by 
 making one of it. Wherefore, then, blacken him with a 
 guilt he will so soon have expiated ?" 
 
 " So soon /" interrupted the impatient Montford.
 
 266 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 " Yet, to prove the sincerity of his penitence," continued 
 the father, "lie permits me to tell you, that, nine) 
 years ago, in a fit of ill-directed jealousy, he Blabbed the 
 husband of his sister, whom he had Long BUSpected to be 
 
 the lover of his wife, and whose connection with hifl family 
 was then unknown to him : the previous discovery of his 
 bloody project robbed him of that sister, almost at the 
 moment of its execution, by pangs of child-birth."' 
 
 "And Diana — " interrupted Montford. 
 
 " Diana alone remains," added the priest, " to attest the 
 luckless union." 
 
 " Sweet and innocent orphan !" again exclaimed Mont- 
 ford, "born to receive with thy first breath the vanished 
 spirits of thy parents, my heart adopts thee as its own ! — 
 In those shades where superstition arms piety with horrors 
 suitable to guilt, like that of Velasquez, may his be expi- 
 ated! — The soft tears of youth and sensibility shall enrich 
 the graves of his victims ; and while they commemorate 
 misfortune, shall nourish virtue."
 
 THE POET'S TALE. 
 
 ARUNDEL. 
 
 There is a kind of character in thy life, 
 Which to th' observer doth thy history 
 Fully unfold. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 In the gay and dissolute reign of Charles the Second, 
 when wit was almost as general as licentiousness, and a 
 happy vivacity and good person the surest recommenda- 
 tions, Henry Arundel was distinguished from a crowd of 
 fashionable libertines by a superiority of elegance, taste, 
 and extravagance : in a word, for all those seducing al- 
 lurements which lend a charm to vice in every age, and 
 for which that was particularly remarkable. 
 
 Arundel, though not wholly deserving of the lavish ad- 
 miration he every where extorted, had advantages few 
 men could boast. His figure was graceful ; and, what is 
 often thought still better, it was fashionable: his eyes, 
 naturally fine, had the art of saying the prettiest things 
 in the world to every pretty woman : his manners wore 
 ingratiating: he sung well, danced well, and dressed well, 
 Could any thing farther be added to his character? Yet 
 with all these advantages — strange does it seem to say —
 
 268 CANTERBURY TAI. B . 
 
 Arundel was at heart a discontented man. Highly . 
 acquaintance thought of him, there was an individu 
 within his circle whose opinion rose much beyond their 
 it was himself: and he secretly repined, that so Large a 
 portion of merit, talents, and grace, had never yet raised 
 him to a rank above that he was born to. 
 
 Mr. Arundel was indeed of a good family; though, to 
 his unceasing regret, he had early in life debased himself 
 by marrying a lady whose connections did not add luster 
 to it. She was the daughter of an officer of more loyalty 
 than rank, who had served his country in the cause of 
 Charles the First, and had followed the fortunes of his 
 son. 
 
 Cromwell was then Protector : dancing and dressing 
 were not in fashion ; and Mr. Arundel consequently re- 
 sided with his lady on his patrimonial estate in Cornwall. 
 Some years passed before they had any children, when 
 he was surprised with an heir, and rather more surprised 
 on finding himself soon afterwards a widower. 
 
 Never truly alive either to conjugal or parental affec- 
 tion, he expressed little regret for the loss of an amiable 
 wife, nor any great emotion at sight of her offspring. De- 
 cent care, however, was taken of the child ; and. as all 
 England became insensibly engrossed by politics, his fa- 
 ther thought oftener of them than of the little Henry. 
 
 The restoration of Charles the Second gave a luster 
 and gayety to the metropolis of which it had long been 
 deprived. Henry Arundel had only to show himself then 
 to be admired : his person won the ladies — his ftddn 
 the monarch ; and, from a neglected country gentleman, 
 he soon found himself the idol of a gay and elegant court. 
 Rapidly as the change was effected, it yet could not fail 
 to bring with it some knowledge of the world. He began 
 to think himself born to till the most elevated rank their; 
 and regretted too late having entailed a tax both on his
 
 THE POET'S TALE. 269 
 
 estate and his pleasures, and perhaps prepared a rival at 
 a time of life when he was likely to find himself but little 
 disposed to endure one. 
 
 Mr. Arundel, it may be easily judged, was not a man 
 of principle : he therefore formed rather a resolution than 
 a plan ; and, without exactly analyzing his own motives, 
 sent his son, at two years of age, into France, under the 
 care of a person who had once been his mistress, and 
 whose declining health induced her to try a more settled 
 climate than her own. The woman had her instructions. 
 The birth of young Henry was carefully concealed ; and 
 her death, which happened three years after, left the child 
 in the hands of strangers, at a small English school in 
 Normandy, where an annual stipend freed his father from 
 all present anxiety. From the relations of his deceased 
 wdfe he had nothing to fear ; most of them were dead ; 
 the rest were wanderers over the continent, distressed by 
 the ingratitude of a monarch whom they had abandoned 
 every thing to serve. 
 
 Time now rolled rapidly away in vanity and pleasure : 
 but time, though it had not yet robbed Mr. Arundel of 
 his graces, had produced an insensible alteration in them : 
 that of novelty was vanishing fast. He began only to 
 please where he was accustomed to captivate ; and had even 
 some vague surmises, that he might soon cease to do ei- 
 ther ; when Fortune resolved, by one favorable stroke, 
 to atone for all her past inattention. 
 
 The young heiress of the illustrious house of Lindsey 
 was at that period first presented at court. She was beau- 
 tiful, rich, and had just seen enough of the world to value 
 all the graces it bestows. Arundel caught her eye, while 
 his was directed elsewhere : the superior elegance of his 
 person fixed her attention ; and, when he was introduced, 
 a softer sentiment sunk into her heart. He was still enough 
 the fashion to make his name the theme of conversa- 
 
 12
 
 270 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 tion, as she dropped it amongst her acquaintance ; nor 
 was it long before he discovered that she had don< 
 often. The denottement it is not difficult to guess: lie- 
 presently found that he might win the lady, and Uft 
 fore instantly resolved that he would : but the blind g 
 dess who so often embitters her own gifts was now pre- 
 paring one for him, which, of all others, he least suspec 
 he should ever deem a misfortune, since it appeared in 
 the shape of a patent of nobility. To the nobility in his 
 own person, indeed, he bore not the slightest objection ; 
 but the clause by which it was limited to his heirs un- 
 luckily brought to his recollection a poor little boy in 
 France, who was just beginning to wonder to whom he 
 belonged, whenever he found time to do so from the more 
 important employments of studying bad Latin, and play- 
 ing school-pranks with his companions : yet this poor lit- 
 tle boy had most certainly been brought honorably into 
 the world some years before. Arundel well knew the 
 house of Lindsey to be too proud to stoop to an alliance 
 where such an obstacle intervened : he therefore very 
 prudently determined they never should know it. The 
 marriage articles were signed without any Bach impedi- 
 ment being announced ; and ]\Iiss Lindsey became a wife 
 and a mother, in the full conviction that both families 
 were indebted to her for an heir. 
 
 And what became of little Henry ? — Why, little Henry 
 had now shot up beyond his years: not strictly handsome, 
 yet winning; not formed, yet ingratiating; light tra 
 of sensibility and judgment wandered over the glare of 
 youth, like clouds upon sunshine, and gave his character 
 a graceful variety. The impossibility of detaining him 
 where he was, and the fear of detection when lie reached 
 a more mature age, had obliged his father to change his 
 mode of education ; and he had consigned him to a tutor,
 
 THE poet's tale. 271 
 
 who, though apprized of the secret, was bound by many 
 ties to conceal it. 
 
 Mr. Mortimer — for such was the name which the above- 
 mentioned gentleman chose on this occasion to assume — 
 had once been the companion of Mr. Arundel, before he 
 was dignified with the title of Lord Lindsey ; and had 
 passed in his society some of those hours, the recollection 
 of which should seem to unite man to man, if the expe- 
 rience of every day did not prove the distinction between 
 joviality and friendship. To say truth, Mr. Mortimer's 
 character, till corrected by adversity, neither seemed to 
 demand nor deserve superior regard; and was one of 
 those which, for want of a decisive trait, the world has 
 agreed to distinguish by the epithet of easy. Prodigal 
 without being rich, and dissolute without being vicious, 
 he found himself at fifty a wanderer from his family, 
 friendless, and impoverished ; and was contented to ac- 
 cept an annuity from Lord Lindsey, under such restric- 
 tions as every day convinced him were both cruel and 
 mean. 
 
 " Let the boy want nothing that a moderate income 
 can supply!" — Such were the words of his lordship's 
 letter to Mortimer : " Let him travel — if, as you say, he 
 fancies it, and can do it, without additional expense : but, 
 above all, seize the first opportunity of an attachment to 
 marry him, and settle his establishment in some province 
 which he may never think of quitting. 
 
 •' You know my situation. — Lady Lindsey is in a dying 
 state : — the physicians even threaten me with a voyage 
 to Lisbon. My son requires all the indulgencies suitable 
 to the importance of his rank ; and, indeed, my employ- 
 ments at court do not allow me to retrench. From these 
 circumstances you will conclude how little I am able to 
 supply any extraordinary expense. As to my own state 
 of health, it is much as usual. The gout and rheumatism,
 
 272 CANTERBURY TAI.I. 
 
 indeed, make pretty frequent attacks upon me ; and 1 
 hare some returns of the giddiness in my head. Th 
 excepted, T find myself as young, and as well disposed to 
 enjoy the pleasures of life, as at iivc-and-twenty." 
 
 Sueli was the language of five-and-fifty ! — Such teas — 
 may I not say, such is it every day ? 
 
 But though Lord Lindscy perceived not the alteration 
 in himself, the world was not so complaisant. I lis friends 
 found out that he was weak ; his enemies, that he was 
 unprincipled: the old thought him too young; and the 
 young discovered daily that he was too old. In two 
 points only were they all agreed : that he was an impe- 
 rious husband, and a foolishly fond father. 
 
 "What is that takes your attention so much '.'"' said 
 Mortimer to his pupil, as they jogged on towards Brus- 
 sels in a dusty chaise de 2^oste, amply filled with the two 
 gentlemen, and a raw-boned Swiss, who served both as 
 valet : "Is it the magnificent suite that has just passed OS, 
 or the powdered coxcombs in it ?" 
 
 " It is an English carriage," replied Henry, still follow- 
 ing it with his eyes through the cloud of dust in which 
 its rapid movement had involved their more humble ve- 
 hicle. 
 
 " So much the worse," returned the other. " Would 
 not a man swear, from its structure, that it Mas the tem- 
 ple of luxury? One might really suppose that the joints 
 
 of our modern men of fashion " a violent jolt that 
 
 brought his head in rather too close a contact with that 
 of the Swiss interrupted his speech, which was as sud- 
 denly drowned by the postillions, who, clacking their 
 whips, gave notice of the post-house. 
 
 The carriage that had passed them stood at the door 
 as they drew up. It Mas an English post-chariot, ele- 
 gantly built, followed by two grooms, so perfectly </ /\ 1 n- 
 yhtise as to attract universal attention; one o[ % whom led
 
 THE POET'S TALE. 273 
 
 a capital horse, which, by its appearance, seemed designed 
 for his master. 
 
 " Lewis, open the door, and bring np Comete" said a 
 young man, touching the spring of the blind, and discov- 
 ering both himself and his companion at full to the curious 
 eyes of our travelers — " I'll ride the next post !" 
 
 "Not on that horse!" interrupted an elderly gentle- 
 man in black, at his elbow, in a tone which, as it seemed 
 preliminary to much longer expostulation, made his com- 
 panion spring with some abruptness from the carriage. 
 
 A form light, graceful, elegant ; a countenance lighted 
 up with all the bloom and fire of nineteen, at once fixed 
 the eyes of Henry and his tutor. It was not mere beauty, 
 it was vigor — it was intelligence — it was character, that 
 seemed to live in the motion, and speak in the features, 
 of the young stranger. 
 
 "I am afraid, gentlemen," said he, advancing, "that 
 we are robbing you of horses !" casting his eyes upon 
 those his avant-courier had indeed secured ; and, by the 
 same motion, directing the attention of Mortimer to a 
 melancholy truth, which the post-master, after condes- 
 cending to mention once to the Swiss, had left them to 
 digest at leisure. Clamor, fretting, and altercation, suc- 
 ceeded on all parts, except on those of Henry and the 
 young stranger, w T ho seemed on terms of perfect familiar- 
 ity before their graver tutors had exchanged ten words. 
 
 " The matter is very easily arranged," said the young 
 man : " Do you, sir," turning to Mortimer, " take my 
 place in the carriage : my servant's horse (which was a 
 beautiful creature) shall be at this gentleman's service. I 
 will ride my own ; and our fellows have only to wait an 
 hour or two, and follow in your carriage as soon as a 
 fresh reinforcement arrives." 
 
 To this proposal a sort of doubtful pause succeeded, 
 which was broken by the gentleman in black, who, in a
 
 274 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 peevish tone, exclaimed, " I have told you, sir, you ought 
 never to ride that horse again !" 
 
 " Nay, prithee, Walbrook," returned the other gayly, 
 "no more musty debates! — Had he really broken my 
 neck in his last frolic, as you seemed to apprehend he 
 would do, the world might not perhaps have been much 
 the loser. My steed, gentlemen," added he, addressing 
 himself on the other side, " is so much of my own ta 
 as to have an instinctive aversion to every thing old or 
 ugly ; and having yesterday the misfortune to be sur- 
 prised by a shriveled Dutch hag, sitting under a hedge, 
 he took the liberty of dismounting his master. — But, ol- 
 lo?is, mes amis ! — I like him not the worse for it. — Give 
 me a horse that will follow a. pretty woman half the world 
 over, and I'll compound for a few vagaries at sight of an 
 ugly one." Without waiting a reply, he sprung into the 
 saddle, cast a look of invitation, which was instantly com- 
 plied with, on Arundel, and, touching his hat to the 
 seniors, both gentlemen were out of sight in a moment. 
 Walbrook groaned inwardly ; Mortimer shrugged ; the 
 postillions again clacked their whips, and the carriage 
 rattled once more over the pari'. 
 
 " Is the old gentleman behind us your father, or your 
 tutor?" said the younger stranger, suddenly checking his 
 horse, when he perceived that they had left their com- 
 panions at some distance. 
 
 "Both, perhaps /" cried truth in the bosom of Arundel, 
 though his tongue instinctively pronounced, M Neither. — 
 He is my friend !" 
 
 "A most reverend one!" said the other archly. 
 
 "A kind one," returned Arundel, "and a wise one! — 
 He gives me the best advice possible." 
 
 " So will I — gratis, too ! and there perhaps I have the 
 advantage of him !"
 
 THE POET'S TALE. 2*75 
 
 " You must seek it first, I believe," retorted Henry, 
 smiling. 
 
 " Not far — I have it in folio — on my chaise ! — I love 
 an old friend as well as you do, when I can carry him in 
 my imperial ; and to make the matter easier, my friend is 
 my father." 
 
 " And who may this father be ?" thought Arundel — 
 yet he had not the courage to ask. The note of interro- 
 gation so common with travelers was not yet familiar to 
 him : yet had he lived with Frenchmen, and, par hasard, 
 had been asked almost every possible question with that 
 polite impertinence a Frenchman so thoroughly under- 
 stands. 
 
 But, while glowing youth and exhilarated spirits thus 
 cemented the liking of the two juvenile travelers, their 
 sober tutors were far from participating their sentiments. 
 Life, like the magnet, has two points; the one does not 
 more forcibly attract, than the other can repel ; and our 
 party quarree were stationed at these opposite ex- 
 tremities. 
 
 Yet were not either Mr. Walbrook or Mr. Mortimer 
 without curiosity. From the former, however, a name 
 had escaped which plunged his companion in a profound 
 reverie ; nor was it, till a flask of burgundy gave fresh 
 circulation to his sjoirits, that he appeared to recover 
 himself. 
 
 " Mr. Lindsey, your glass !" said TValbrook, who was 
 also beginning to relinquish his supercilious taciturnity. 
 
 Mortimer started again at the name ; again looked at 
 the young man who bore it; and again, a vague and 
 painful sentiment of remorse, enforced by the conviction 
 that his surmises were right, shot across his heart. — The 
 countenance of the stranger, his arms, his liveries, his age, 
 all united to prove that he could be no other than the 
 brother of Arundel — his younger brother, yet permitted
 
 276 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 to invade Lis rights — to annihilate, as it should seem, his 
 very existence. Again Mortimer sighed, and again re- 
 lapsed into useless reflection. For there is a weaki 
 in certain minds which renders them alternately the j 
 of pleasure and remorse, without power to perpetuate the 
 one, or profit by the other; as the wildest trees will put 
 forth blossoms, though they require culture and attention 
 to produce fruits. 
 
 " A bumper, gentlemen !" said TTalbrook. " I mean 
 to give you a toast — my worthy friend and patron, Lord 
 Lindsey !" 
 
 " My father !" said the young stranger, as he negli- 
 gently lifted the glass to his lips. The secret monitor in 
 the bosom of Mortimer smote him again — " Father /" re- 
 peated he, as he cast his eyes upon Henry: "yet, is the 
 discovery new to me? Xo! but the word is: and of 
 what consequence is a word ?" — Thus arrogantly argued 
 reason, while modest feeling shrunk abashed — Feeling, 
 that indefinable union of the material and immaterial 
 nature; that spontaneous sense of right, which would so 
 often guide, when reason would mislead us ; and which, 
 though rejected and rebuked, still calls a blush into the 
 cheek, if the idea sophistically familiarized to our own 
 bosoms, is inadvertently obtruded by the lips of another. 
 
 But these are metaphysics! — metaphysics in Flanders ! 
 We shall talk logic next among the Iroquois in North 
 America. Let us change the scene then, and place our 
 travelers, now sworn and bosom friends, three whole 
 weeks bark, in France — Frana ! lovely country! let me 
 stop to weep over theel — to ask, where are the nol 
 whose valor once graced — the peasantry, whose mirth en- 
 livened theel — the monarch, over whose early and un- 
 merited grave the generous and enlightened of every 
 nation shed tears of pity ! — And you, B&vage band of ruf- 
 fians, who, to the hideous idol ye miscalled Liberty, daily
 
 TIIE POET'S tale 277 
 
 offered up a sacrifice of human blood, and tears more 
 painful than blood, deem not that your names shall be 
 mentioned — your memories be transmitted to posterity — 
 but, as the scum of that mighjty mass, which, " billowed 
 high with human agitation," must, at last, purify itself! 
 
 As yet, however, France was a country. It had arts ; 
 it had manufactures ; it had even a police — a bad one, in- 
 deed, but a police that at least allowed the inhabitants to 
 carry their heads upon their shoulders, without the risk 
 of their being transferred from thence to a pike — that oc- 
 casionally plundered them of their money, but made it no 
 crime that they had some to be plundered of — that often 
 stripped the beautiful plant of genius of its leaves, but 
 never buried it beneath that coarse and rugged soil which 
 blasts its very root. 
 
 " Will nobody teach these fellows that they are miser- 
 able ?" said Lindsey, smiling, as they passed through the 
 beautiful grounds of the Due de T , where the pea- 
 sants, collected under the trees, were capering to the in- 
 defatigable violin of an old man, who performed the dou- 
 ble character of fiddler and dancing-master, by incessantly 
 bawling out every change in the cotillon, with an exer- 
 tion of lungs that seemed to console him for the quiescent 
 state of his heels: "Will nobody, I say, persuade these 
 people they are miserable ?" 
 
 " It is more than probable," said Arundel, " that they 
 will soon need but little persuasion to think so. They 
 want every thing towards happiness but good humor and 
 good spirits." 
 
 "And those, some generous misanthrope or other — 
 some speculative reasoner, who seeks in his head for what 
 he ought to ask of his heart, will one day deprive them 
 of. Dear Arundel, I am inclined to think we are often 
 strangely deceived as to modes of felicity, and while cal- 
 
 12*
 
 278 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 culating too nicely that we are to make for ourselves, we 
 often overlook that heaven has made for us." 
 
 " You would infer, then, that it is more conducive to 
 hapjnness to create an innocent pleasure, than to satisfy 
 a want ? In this, at least, our lively neighbors excel us. 
 The intenseness with which an Englishman applies him- 
 self to the latter idea, damps his animal spirits, and often 
 brings on the strange necessity of reasoning himself into 
 gayety." 
 
 "While the Frenchman, au contraire, will be taught to 
 reason himself out of it !" 
 
 " But liberty ! — " cried Arundel with enthusiasm — 
 
 " Is a goddess, I grant ; so a truce to her panegyric ; 
 and prithee, dear Henry, lift thine eyes to one of the 
 prettiest mortal rustics that ever yet greeted them." 
 
 A blooming girl of about sixteen, who suddenly ap- 
 peared from a winding path that crossed the road, was 
 indeed an interesting object. Yet, interesting is not the 
 word ; for, in truth, according to the modern acceptation 
 of it, she was the reverse. But, if among my readers, 
 there happens to be a young man about the age of 3Ir. 
 Lindsey, let him find a better. The little pcn/Btmne was 
 not tall : so much on the embonpoint as to approach the 
 clumsy ; and tanned to a downright brunette : yet would 
 a painter, perhaps, have chosen her for his subject. The 
 roses on her cheek, deepened to unusual richness, gave to 
 that very tan, which would have disfigured a colder com- 
 plexion, the vivid glow poured over the landscape of a 
 Claude. Large curls of auburn hair broke upon a brow 
 of exquisite beauty, while the full-orbed eye beneath them 
 sparkled in a bright fluid that seemed created by youth, 
 by hope, and health. A short jacket, in the fashion of 
 her country, a straw hat, and a basket filled with clusters 
 of grapes, finished the picture. To those, who recollect 
 that a figure like this stood the earnest gaze of two
 
 THE POET'S TALE. 279 
 
 young men, it may not be amiss to add, that an honest 
 Lubin attended her, who, though tired from the vintage, 
 and laden with its spoil, still went the longest way about, 
 to follow the footsteps of pretty Annette. 
 
 " Monsieur peut bien passer," said our damsel, retreat- 
 ing with a rustic courtesy, from the grand chemin, where 
 Lindsey, perceiving her about to cross it, had checked his 
 horse. 
 
 ""Will money or charity," said he, aloud, in French, 
 " obtain us some of those beautiful grapes ?" 
 
 The ears of the pretty rustic were as quick as her eyes 
 — honest Lubin, too, had the use of his ; both were solicit- 
 ous to do the honors of their country ; and our travelers, 
 after the prodigious fatigue of riding three leagues, found 
 it necessary to rest under the shade, while the servants 
 walked then* horses to the neighboring post. But this 
 was a manoeuvre which, though apparently satisfactory to 
 three of the company, was but little agreeable to the 
 fourth : and the eyes of the young peasant incessantly 
 reproached his mistress for those glances which the person, 
 the manners — and, above all, the flattery of Lindsey, 
 united to draw from her. 
 
 They soon discovered that Annette could sing. The 
 vanity of her lover, even in despite of his jealousy, be- 
 trayed her. She had just led the rustic chorus ; nor was 
 it difficult to prevail on her to repeat the air with which 
 she had charmed the vintagers. Our travelers thought 
 themselves in Arcadia. 
 
 " Ecoutez, Messieurs," said Annette, interrupting their 
 praises with a careless gayety, "je m'cn vais vous chanter 
 un autre." And with a naivete that thought not of en- 
 treaty, she sung a wild and simple air, where, as usual, 
 V amour was the chief subject, and of which some tender 
 looks she involuntarily bestowed on Lubin proved him to 
 be the object.
 
 280 CANTER 15 I" BT TALE S. 
 
 Lindsey's good humor underwent a sudden chani 
 "The girl is not so pretty as she appeared:" said be to 
 Arundel, as they walked through the town — " Who 
 abouts did she say she lived ?" 
 
 The contradiction of ideas implied in these words, ex- 
 torted from his friend an incredulous smile : in which, 
 however, there was no mixture of pleasure or approbation. 
 To say truth, he felt neither. The behavior of Lindsev, 
 within the last hour, had been evidently marked with 
 levity and self-love ; levity that respected not innocence, 
 and self-love that knew not how to brook either indiffer- 
 ence or repulse. But, if he had already been surprised, 
 he found himself much more so, when, the same evening, 
 in talking over their future route, Mr. Lindsey, without 
 appearing in the least to consider his companions, spoke 
 of remaining some days where he was, and then pursuing 
 a circuit which had no reference to that before laid down. 
 
 The secret insolence that unconsciously betrayed itself 
 in thus supposing his pleasure a sufficient argument for 
 deranging the party was felt equally by each, though dif- 
 ferently received. Mr. Walbrook made a sententious 
 speech ; by which, it was plain, he meant nothing but to 
 show his rhetoric and his complaisance. Mr. Mortimer ut- 
 tered a cold compliment : and Arundel replied but by a 
 bow. They soon after retired. 
 
 " Henry," said Mortimer to his young friend, as soon 
 as they found themselves alone, "what makes you so 
 triste ?" 
 
 " Only thoughtful, sir." 
 
 " Come, come, be sincere ! You are not pleased with 
 Lindsey , M 
 
 "I have, at least, no right to bo otherwise." 
 
 "Pardon me, my dear hoy — the man who has a reason 
 has always a right. Shall I tell you frankly my opinion 
 of him?"
 
 the poet's tale. 281 
 
 " Certainly, sir," said Arundel. Yet his tongue and his 
 countenance were a little at variance. To say truth, 
 though himself offended with Lindsey, he shrunk from a 
 judgment which he felt, would be severe. 
 
 " Of all the young men I have ever seen," continued 
 Mortimer, with more asperity than the occasion seemed 
 to justify, " Mr. Lindsey is least calculated to create es- 
 teem. His heart is hardened, and his mind enervated by 
 indulgence. From his cradle he has heard nothing but 
 adulation, and seen nothing but servility. He is indeed 
 affable, because he is flattered ; generous, because he is 
 rich ; sprightly, because he is young : take away his youth, 
 his affluence, or his dependents, and you will find him 
 splenetic, narrow-minded, and arrogant." 
 
 "Heaven and earth!" cried Arundel, "what a pic- 
 ture ! From whence do you draw your conclusions, sir ? 
 and whither do they tend ? 
 
 The heart of Mortimer was full. The original of the 
 portrait stood before his mental eye ; and Lindsey was, in 
 truth, but the mirror in which he saw his father. 
 
 " Be satisfied," said he, after a pause, " that my pencil 
 is dipped in the colors of life : and should there even be 
 deformity in the likeness, let it at least teach you, before 
 you sanctify either your own caprices or those of others with 
 the name of friendship, to calculate how far the qualities 
 that have attracted you are incidental or natural." 
 
 Arundel sighed ; and willing, perhaps, to give a new 
 turn to the conversation, unconsciously exclaimed, "It" 
 such is indeed the character of Lindsey, how much is that 
 father to be pitied, who, with blind fondness, thus nour- 
 ishes all that is corrupt in his offspring, and blights all 
 that is worthy ! while mine," continued he, struck with 
 the emotion of Mr. Mortimer, which he attributed to a 
 sudden impulse of paternal regard, "mine — " though pos- 
 sibly blushing for his son "
 
 282 CANTEEBUKY TALES. 
 
 " Dear child of my affections V cried Mortimer, embrac- 
 ing him, " spare me this tender topic ! Oh, Arundel, if I 
 
 dared tell thee If it was permitted me to reveal 
 
 But, heaven is my witness," added he with ener- 
 gy, " that there shall come an hour in which I will do thee 
 
 justice ! — When the grave shall have canceled 1 
 
 mean when death ! Let us waive further con- 
 versation." 
 
 Arundel, confounded with all that had passed, obeyed 
 in silence. Yet, as far as respected the character of 
 Lindsey, his heart was still rebellious. Though not of an 
 age, however, to abide by the suggestions of experienc 
 he was perfectly alive to those of pride : nor was it till he 
 came to shake hands with his young friend the next day 
 that he repented the engagement he had made with Mor- 
 timer to continue their journey tete-a-tete. Lindsey was 
 once more himself — wild, animated, enchanting. 
 
 " I have picked up a curiosity this morning," said he : 
 " an old German philosopher, who has been explaining to 
 me a new system of the earth. He was on the wing for 
 Paris, with a portmanteau of recommendatory letters, and 
 a wagon-load of musty manuscripts, besides minerals and 
 fossils innumerable, with which he expects to get a for- 
 tune. I have persuaded him to make one of my suite. 
 I shall get something out of him — and can indemnity my- 
 self at last," continued he, laughing, " for any extraordi- 
 nary expense, by showing ' him in London as a specimen 
 of the antediluvian race of mortals; for a more grotesque 
 animal on two legs I never saw." 
 
 The chaise de poste, which made its appearance at the 
 door, put a sudden stop to this rattle. 
 
 " Who have we here ?" said lindsey, 
 
 " Those whom you will not have long," returned Arun- 
 del, forcing a smile. 
 
 " Why, what carries you off?"
 
 THE POET'S TALE. 283 
 
 " "What keeps you here ?" 
 
 " The same answer, I presume, will do for both," re- 
 turned Lindsey, with apparent dissatisfaction, however: 
 
 " Our own inclination." They shook hands, and 
 
 separated. 
 
 "Mr. Mortimer was in the right," thought Arundel, as 
 he threw himself into the chaise. " This young man has 
 no idea of an independent being. He is offended because, 
 like the German philosopher, we are not contented to be- 
 come a part of his suite." 
 
 The days that intervened between this separation and 
 their arrival at Lyons were to Mr. Mortimer more pleas- 
 ant than any that had presented themselves for some 
 weeks. The character of his pupil, as it opened before 
 him, became more and more interesting : It had a sweet- 
 ness, a simplicity, an affecting candor, particularly cal- 
 culated to win the regard of one whose intercourse with 
 the w T orld had produced him so few instances of it. The 
 tender deference with which the young man looked up to 
 him, by nattering his self-love, contributed to strengthen 
 his attachment. Arundel's affections were warmlv alive ; 
 and circumstances allowed them so few objects, that their 
 energy, when indulged, was unusually powerful. Duty, 
 as well as sensibility, directed them to Mr. Mortimer ; for 
 he had never been able to persuade himself that the only 
 being who appeared to take an interest in his fate could 
 be other than his father. To acknowledge his foibles, as 
 well as his virtues, it should be added that he sometimes 
 indulged romantic ideas of visionary grandeur ; nattering 
 himself that political concerns might have involved his 
 family in casual obscurity, from whence they were again 
 to rise to an hereditary affluence and rank. To him, 
 therefore, day after day passed smoothly on ; while every 
 setting sun left the mental, as well as natural horizon,
 
 2 84 CANTEKBUEY TALES. 
 
 embellished with a thousand brilliant vapors, the rising 
 
 ones renewed. 
 
 After voluntarily prolonging the journey souk- v. 
 Mr. Mortimer saw himself established in a hotel at Ly< 
 and taking from his valise a small packet of letters, in- 
 formed his companion that he intended to reside in the 
 neighborhood some time. 
 
 "The beautiful banks of the Rhone," said he, "present 
 an endless scope for admiration and inquiry. Your edu- 
 cation is scarce sufficiently finished to make you view the 
 charms of Italy with a scientific eye ; and though I do 
 not intend," added he, laughing, M to let you pick up an 
 itinerant philosopher who may instruct you in a new 
 theory of the earth, it may not be amiss to be better in- 
 formed of its productions, both natural and moral. We 
 will, therefore, ramble between this country and Switzer- 
 land, till our judgments are enlightened, and our imagi- 
 nations elevated enough, to enjoy the stupendous beauties 
 that await us on the other side the Alps. These letters 
 it will be necessary to deliver ; and of one packet I shall 
 make you sole bearer. It is addressed to a lady who re- 
 sides in a convent hard by, where she will soon, I believe, 
 take the vail. Her family are extremely unfortunate, and 
 have requested me to offer her advice and assistance. I 
 am, however, ill qualified for the office, which yet she 
 may expect me to undertake. I would wish her, there- 
 fore, to suppose I have chosen a different route, that I 
 may avoid bringing on myself claims which I can not 
 fulfill." 
 
 Arundel, for whom the sound of a convent and a lady 
 had already some charms, most readily undertook the 
 commission: though, having been but little in the habit 
 of acting for himself, he felt some doubts as to the grace 
 with which he could execute it. In this, however, he 
 was unjust to nature, which had hardly been more liberal
 
 THE POET'S TALE. 285 
 
 to him internally than externally. His countenance had 
 not, indeed, that beautiful glow of youth and gayety so 
 striking hi his brother's. His person, though consider- 
 ably taller, was less formed, his manners generally re- 
 served, and often even a little embarrassed: but these 
 were the blemishes of habit and situation. , Arundel's 
 countenance, to much regular beauty united an intelli- 
 gence that spoke to the heart, and, where he was familiar, 
 a vivacity that captivated the eye. The graces his form 
 had not attained it eminently promised ; and in his voice 
 and manner there was a shade, a coloring of mind, that was 
 almost peculiar to him. He had, besides, an air of sensi- 
 bility to the merit of others, and a forgetfulness of him- 
 self, that was singularly charming to those who had either 
 undiscovered talents or lively affections. But, alas ! the 
 greater part of the world possess not these, or bury them 
 in society ; and, therefore, by the world at large he was 
 little understood. 
 
 The lady he demanded at the convent he was readily 
 admitted to ; and he found her young, beautiful, and inter- 
 esting : for how can a lady seen through a grate be oth- 
 erwise ? She was avowedly unfortunate — his knight- 
 errantry was called upon — was reduced possibly by cruel 
 necessity to take the vail — at least so spoke, as he fan- 
 cied, a pair of very fine eyes : and to disbelieve a pair of 
 fine eyes was hardly within the stretch of Arundel's phi- 
 losophy. — In short, why should we make a man a hero 
 where nature generally makes him a fool ? In ten min- 
 utes he was as much in love as a young man can be who 
 has never conversed before with a truly beautiful woman ; 
 and in ten minutes more as much in despair as a lover 
 generally is who finds himself on the point of losing his 
 mistress : for, lo ! on breaking the seal of the envelope, 
 our fair incognita discovered that the letters were not in- 
 tended for her, but for a sister novice, whose sanctified
 
 286 CANTEEBUEY TALES. 
 
 appellation, somewhat resembling her own, had given 
 rise to the mistake. Both parties now expressed a de- 
 gree of confusion, which was increased by conscious re- 
 gret, on perceiving that an acquaintance so suddenly 
 made must almost as suddenly cease. The fair Louisa at 
 length broke silence, by an assurance " that sister Thei 
 was too good-natured to see any thing in this error but a 
 little heedlessness on the part of both, from which no 
 harm could possibly arise. "I will have the honor," said 
 she, gracefully courtesying, " to let her know, that Mon- 
 sieur attends at the grate to make his apologies." 
 
 " Have the charity first," cried Arundel, with unusual 
 emotion, " to invent them for me." 
 
 "Mon Dieu!" said Louisa, smiling, "what need of in- 
 vention ? We have only to tell the simple truth." 
 
 "But the words — the manner ," again interrupted 
 
 Arundel, eager to detain her. 
 
 " Will occur of themselves. Or, if they should not," 
 added she, casting down her eyes, and blushing, yet with 
 a smile of pretty consciousness, " Theresa will inspire you 
 — Theresa is so beautiful !" 
 
 With what design this was said, or whether with any 
 design at all, can not easily be decided ; but whatever was 
 the motive, the effect of the speech was a look from 
 Arundel that made the eyes of Louisa again seek the 
 ground, and restored that embarrassing silence from 
 which both parties had been so lately relieved. 
 
 " If," said our young Englishman, hesitating, and at 
 length forcing himself to speak, " if Mademoiselle would 
 do me the honor of, in person, presenting me to la sanir 
 Therese, I should then, perhaps, be better able; — I mean 
 only that I should know better — " 
 
 "Ah, par exemple," cried Louisa, recovering her viva- 
 city, "la chose du monde la plus facile ! Elle est de mes 
 bonnes amies la petite Therese! Atteudez, Monsieur!
 
 THE poet's tale. 287 
 
 Je m'en vais vous l'amener :" and, so saying, with a girh 
 ish gayety that brought a brighter rose into her cheek, 
 she tripped away: and with her went the senses, the 
 heart of Arundel. Her sparkling eyes, her long, fine 
 hair which hung negligently down her back, the playful 
 grace of her figure, and a certain character of counte- 
 nance that blended the bewitching modesty of her own 
 country with the sprightliness of that in which she was 
 educated, might, indeed, have touched a heart much less 
 new to beauty than that of our young traveler. 
 
 The boasted charms of Theresa he was not permitted 
 to judge of, as she wore the white vail of the novice, 
 which fell over a complexion too pale to appear to advan- 
 tage under it. The letters, received and read with evi- 
 dent agitation, engrossed her for some time — an interval 
 which was spent by Arundel in the most animated and 
 assiduous attentions to Louisa ; and when, on having fin- 
 ished the perusal, Theresa threw up the vail to thank 
 him, his eyes wandered over her features with so appa- 
 rent an absence of mind, that the shade, through negli- 
 gence or pique, was again permitted to fall, and she was 
 contented no further to obtrude herself on his attention 
 than by those compliments politeness would not allow her 
 to dispense with. 
 
 " A-propos !" said Mortimer, after supper, as they 
 talked over the occurrences of the day ; " you saw the 
 girl at the convent ! — Is she pretty ?» 
 
 " Yes — very — " returned his young friend, with embar- 
 rassment. 
 
 "What did you talk of?" 
 
 " Oh — a great many — a thousand things !" 
 
 " Indeed !" returned Mortimer, laughing. " Methinks 
 your acquaintance came on very fast, then ? Pray indulge 
 my curiosity with one of your thousand."
 
 288 OAHTBBBUBY tales. 
 
 "I — I have really forgotten them," again stammer 
 ArandeL 
 
 "Since they were so very uninteresting," said Morti- 
 mer, drily, "I hope, at least, your method of treating 
 them did more honor to your eloquence than the sp 
 men you give me. However, if your memory does not 
 continue thus treacherous, have the goodness to go again 
 to the convent, within four days at farthest ; and, among 
 your thousand topics, pray inquire if Theresa has any let- 
 ters for England. I shall have such an opportunity of 
 sending them as she may wish for in vain." 
 
 Arundel blushed, and bowed assent. For the first time 
 in his life he had been but half sincere ; yet why he 
 hardly knew. A troublesome glow that rushed from his 
 heart to his cheek, an unmanly hesitation that 
 upon his tongue, and a confused apprehension of the in- 
 terference of Mr. Mortimer, first involuntarily led him to 
 conceal what he afterwards knew not how to avow." 
 
 Time now passed not with Arundel as it had done. 
 He loved, with the ardor of a man who had never loved 
 till then, and who supposed the sentiment to be as much 
 above that entertained by others, as he felt it to be to 
 any he had himself before experienced. 
 
 Was Louisa susceptible? — Why, time must discover. 
 She had, at least, eyes for beauty, ears for admiration, 
 and a happiness of invention that furnished her with per- 
 petual excuses for being in the way of both. Theresa, 
 nndesired by either party, yet, often the ostensible object 
 of the visit, formed, generally, the third at the grate. 
 To Theresa, therefore, the hopes, the fears, and nil the 
 energy of Arundel's character, became intimately known. 
 Of hers he knew little. Ill health and ill fortune de- 
 pressed, timidity concealed it. Indulgence, complacency, 
 and Badness, were all the traits by which he ever rec 
 nized her.
 
 THE POET'S TALE. 289 
 
 It was now, however, that our young traveler began to 
 speculate seriously upon life ; and the first ideas that oc- 
 curred were relative to his own situation there. Had he 
 any claims in society? AVas he the object of beneficence 
 to Mr. Mortimer, or that of natural tenderness ? What 
 were his prospects ? and where was to be his future es- 
 tablishment ? Painful questions, which the youthful 
 heart never asks itself, till it has breathed that sickening 
 sigh which is drawn from it, by the heavy atmosphere of 
 the world! 
 
 Shrinking from an inquiry of which he now, for the 
 first time, dreaded the consequences, Arundel passed 
 whole days, whenever he could do it without observation, 
 in solitary rambles. He drew exquisitely; and, as his 
 liberality and sweetness of character soon made him 
 known in every cottage of the neighborhood, he took 
 pleasure in introducing, amid his sketches, the little 
 cherub faces that curiosity or playfulness attracted round 
 him. 
 
 It was on a lovely summer evening, when the rays of 
 the retiring sun still glowed on the river, and threw it 
 forward, a bright mirror amid the landscape, 
 
 " While woods, and winds, and "waves disposed 
 A lover to complain," 
 
 that he was slowly returning to the city, when his atten- 
 tion was engaged for a moment by a carriage. It was 
 only a moment ; for, hardly was that passed, ere one of 
 the two travelers it contained was in his arms. 
 
 " Dear Arundel !" 
 
 "Dear Lindsey!" — exclaimed they at once incoherent- 
 ly ; " are we so lucky, as once more to meet ?" 
 
 u Aye ; and we will be so wise as not easily to part 
 again," cried the ever impetuous Lindsey. " In the inte- 
 rim, dear friend, prithee make a speech to my old men-
 
 290 CANTERBUKY TALES. 
 
 tor, who sits there," continued he, pointing to the vehi- 
 cle, " as sullen as Bajazet in his cage. In truth, we have 
 quarreled worse than Turks, since I saw you. However, 
 having once carried my point of dragging him after you, 
 I leave all the subordinate articles of our amnesty to be 
 regulated as he pleases." 
 
 Arundel, who conceived no motive for disgust or ill- 
 humor in Mr. Walbrook towards himself, immediately 
 complied with the request of his friend ; but met with so 
 ungracious a reception, as little disposed him to any fur- 
 ther exertions of complaisance. 
 
 "And now, that we are once more met," said he to 
 Lindsey, as they followed the carriage on foot into the 
 city, " pray tell me why we parted ?" 
 
 " Why, thou traitor to thy country," replied the other, 
 laughing, " canst thou find an English law that obligi 
 man to impeach himself? However, if it must be so, in 
 two words, we parted because I was capricious and arro- 
 gant." 
 
 " And we meet again " 
 
 " Nay, there, dear Arundel, I can give a better account 
 of myself: because I have met none like you, since we 
 parted : — because, though my head was wrong, my heart 
 was right : — in short, for fifty other reasons, unnecessary 
 to detail." 
 
 " And how long is it since you left B '?" 
 
 " Three days." 
 
 " Three days ! Impossible. Why, it is a week's 
 
 journey." 
 
 " For a philosopher, I grant you. But I was in pur- 
 suit of a friend ; which all your philosophers agree they 
 have had nothing to do with. So, as the day was not 
 long enough, I took the liberty of borrowing the 
 night " 
 
 "And of obliging Mr. Walbrook to borrow it too!
 
 THE poet's tale. 291 
 
 Upon my word, I can not wonder that he had no super- 
 fluous conrplaisance to bestow, after you had taxed it so 
 highly." 
 
 The conversation now grew more interesting ; and in 
 the course of twenty minutes, the two young men had 
 discussed almost every topic that could touch the heart 
 of either. Their short separation had made them mutu- 
 ally feel the want of a companion, and an intimate. They 
 met, therefore, with that impassioned interest such a con- 
 viction inspires, and with the lively flow of animal spirits 
 every sentiment of pleasure creates in a youthful mind. 
 
 "You must show me this Louisa to-morrow," said 
 Lindsey, in a low voice, as they parted ; " I would fain 
 see the woman who can turn your head." There was an 
 emphasis in the speech that Arundel might have ob- 
 served ; but observation, except on the eyes of his mis- 
 tress, had not of late been his forte, and the inference 
 passed unnoticed. 
 
 " Louisa tells me," — said he, starting one evening from 
 a long reverie — 
 
 " And who, pray, is Louisa ?" said Mortimer, starting 
 in turn. 
 
 The question was sudden, was mcd-apropos / and nei- 
 ther willing, nor, to say truth, quite able to answer it, he 
 stammered out with much perplexity, that she was " the 
 friend of Theresa." 
 
 "The friend of Theresa!" again re-echoed Mortimer 
 with a tone of surprise and incredulity ; " and pray what 
 friend has she? — that is, where did she find — I mean, in 
 short, how came you acquainted with any friend of The- 
 resa's ?" 
 
 The manners of Arundel, we have before said, were re- 
 served, but his character was impassioned to a fault ; and 
 to dive beyond the surface, was to call forth all its vigor. 
 With the spirit of a man, therefore, and the eloquence of
 
 292 CAHTBBBUBY TALES. ^ 
 
 a lover, he now, at full length, recited the story of bis 
 heart. That of his auditor was visibly moved with the 
 narrative. " Imprudent hoy," said he, sighing, when it 
 was concluded, " I have then vainly endeavored to save 
 you from the contagion of vice i — You are, doubtless, ig- 
 norant," he added, with a tone of unusual asperity, "that 
 the father of this girl, whose name I now well recollect, is 
 a needy adventurer — a profligate, disgraced in his own 
 country, and disgracing it in others — a being, so low — " 
 
 " No, sir," interrupted Arundel, in a stifled tone of sen- 
 sibility and pride, " I am not ignorant of the disgraceful 
 connection — I have even thought of it with grief ; and, 
 when I can persuade myself that virtue and vice are hered- 
 itary, I shall doubtless think of it with sham . Till then 
 allow me to say, that however an early and unguarded 
 attachment may impeach the head, those who check it 
 are not always aware of the dangers to which they ex- 
 pose the heart ; nor do they consider that, by teaching us 
 thus early to weigh prudence against nature, they pos- 
 sibly substitute the cold and frivolous errors of self-love 
 for the more generous ones of passion." Blushing, as he 
 spoke, with the consciousness of offended and offending 
 feeling, he hastily withdrew. Yet the temperate silence 
 of Mortimer was not lost upon him. " What am I to 
 think of it ?" said he, as he attempted to rest. "He is 
 indignant at my petulance, or he relies upon my prudence : 
 cither way there is but one resolution to take, and, pain- 
 ful as that may prove, it shall be adopted." 
 
 Youth always sleeps well upon a resolution. The n 
 lution, it is true, often evaporates with the slumber, and 
 leaves nothing for the morning but the self-applause of 
 having formed it. Arundel's, however, outlived the night ; 
 and it was at breakfast the next day that he communica- 
 ted to Mr. Mortimer his intention of pursuing their prom- 
 ised tour into Switzerland, and of conquering, if possible,
 
 THE POET'S TALE. 293 
 
 by temporary absence, a passion lie was prohibited from 
 cherishing. 
 
 Was Arundel sincere ? — Xo matter: at least he intend- 
 ed to be so. But the heart of a lover sometimes harbors 
 a finesse that deceives even himself : nor is it impossible 
 that a rigid examination of his own would have convinced 
 our young philosopher that he had more lurking gratifi- 
 cation in the idea of proving his passion unconquerable, 
 than any real intention of conquering it. To Switzerland 
 they went. But were the bold, the romantic, the inter- 
 esting scenes that country afforded, calculated to chill 
 the sensibility to which every object was congenial ? In 
 vain did Mortimer read lectures upon botany : the letters 
 of Louisa were to his pupil a more interesting study than 
 all the Alpine curiosities which a young and ingenious 
 Italian had spent years in collecting. 
 
 " These insensibles," cried Arundel, as he rambled from 
 them amidst immense mountains, whose white bosoms 
 were tinged with the beams of the setting sun, and diver- 
 sified with hanging cottages — " these insensibles pretend 
 to admire the fibers of a leaf, yet to those more tender 
 and living ones within our breasts they are stoics. Great 
 and Supreme Creator !" would he add, lifting his eyes to- 
 wards heaven, " hast thou drawn this bright canopy over 
 our heads ? hast thou enriched the earth on which we 
 tread with numberless and ever-varying beauties? hast 
 thou ordained them through the medium of the senses to 
 steal upon the heart, and waken there a tremulous sensi- 
 bility that reason is to crush ? — Ah no ! — choice, passion, 
 character, are thy gifts ! — While Nature and her God are 
 before him, man feels the influence of both : plunged 
 in the vortex of cities, he becomes an artificial being, vul- 
 nerable no longer through any sense but interest or 
 vanity!" 
 
 Whilst his heart glowed with similar sentiments, did 
 
 13
 
 201- JBB13 B v I a i % 
 
 he often return t< rtimer: but, alas! the 
 
 ily iii his rt ; 1: nplexion had lost it. Marlini, 
 
 the young [talian, noticed the change ; and, as lie valu 
 himself 1 some knowledge of medicine (which vras the 
 more generous of him, a.s lie was never valued tor it 
 anybody besides), he would have pi Lbed: but the 
 complaisance of Arundel extended only to listening; and 
 Mortimer well knew that the complaint might defy a 
 college of physicians, he was not very earnest in 
 their ance. 
 
 The heart of the young man, however, i to 
 
 struggle with a grief more oppressive than that of 1<>\ . 
 Louisa, who, during the first month of his absence, ha 
 punctually attended to her promise of writing, now some- 
 times neglected, and at others coldly fulfilled it: and 
 Mortimer, who closely watched the effect of his pupil's 
 feelings, at length thought he saw the lues moment 
 
 arrive, when it was necessary to yield to a passion that 
 could no longer, without danger, he controlled. 
 
 "Henry," said he, "you have blasted my hopes; hut I 
 will not destroy yours : the power T ]>■ of regulating 
 
 your fate I now confide to yourself. Return t<> Lyon 
 offer to Louisa a moderate fortune, and a heart dear to 
 me as that within my own bosom: let her estimate ti. 
 gift as it deserves, and both may yet be happ; 
 
 Arundel, scarcely able to believe his & while th 
 
 conveyed to him a language so delightful, falls as it should 
 seem motionless ai the feet of his benefactor : — Not at 
 all, however: — he rises in a moment — he Hies to the pofl 
 house — he is no longer a consumptive and enfeebled 
 young man, who has neither eyes nor ears for any thin 
 that passes: on the contrary, he appears to think that he 
 has borrowed the of .-ill ar«»und him, by the ardor 
 
 and frequency with which he reiterates his orders. In 
 
 fine, they are once more at Lyons; ; i 1, forgetful of Lind-
 
 TIIE POET'S TALE. 295 
 
 sey, or liis suite, whoni they had left there — forgetful of 
 Mortimer, who was fatigued — or of Martini, who was a 
 stranger — he flies to the grate where he had so often be- 
 held Louisa, and, with all the eagerness of passion, ac- 
 quaints her that proposals were on the point of being 
 made to her father. What was the excess of his disap- 
 pointment, when, after listening to him in silence, Louisa 
 threw herself back in the chair and burst into a flood of 
 tears! The countenance of Arundel, glowinc: but a mo- 
 ment before with hope and pleasure, changed instantly 
 to deadly palenes 
 
 " Louisa ! dearest Louisa !" cried he, throwing himself 
 en his knees before her, " to what can I impute this emo- 
 tion ? You alarm, you shock me ! Can it be possible 
 that I am unfortunate enouo-h to have lost mv interest in 
 your heart ?" 
 
 " I will not deceive you, Mr. Arundel," said Louisa, 
 Bobbing, and covered with blushes ; " you deserve my 
 
 candor — and — I will frankly acknowledge " She 
 
 hesitated ; but the imperfect sentence was conviction : — 
 Arundel started from his knees, shocked at the abrupt- 
 3, and overwhelmed with the disappointment, of such 
 an event. 
 
 " I thank you, madam," said he, after a pause, and in a 
 voice hardly articulate ; "I think I have deserved your 
 
 candor ; though to bear it " Again he stopped 
 
 — turned from her, to her ; and gazing for a moment on 
 the loveliness of a countenance which even tears did not 
 disfigure, reproachfully added, " Oh Louisa !" 
 
 "Do not believe," said she, stretching out her hand to 
 meet his, as it grasped the grate against which he leaned — 
 " do not believe that an unworthy object has supplanted 
 you in my regard : — I am sure, when I have explained all, 
 you will excuse, will pity me !" 
 
 Arundel looked earnestly at her : — She had not then
 
 2 96 i a M 1 1: RBU B v T a L j: s. 
 
 lost the passion, but changed the object ! — A new sent* 
 men! glanced faintly across his mind — it felt, for a m 
 incut, like contempt ; bnt L< -u <1 the intruder, and 
 
 changed its nature into jealousy. " [fto have adored yon 
 with a passion too powerful both for my happiness and 
 health," replied he, with a heavy sigh, "could hav< 
 cured me your regard, I should not now have the grief to 
 know I have lost it. May lie on whom it is b Btowed 
 have more successful claims! — But y<>u are pale ! — T! 
 happy, this envied being pos - not the power of mak- 
 ing happy ! or, is the felicity you would have 1 em- 
 bittered by regret for that you were about to deprive me 
 of?" 
 
 " Yes, doubtless," said Louisa, with an air of melancholy 
 and confusion, " we have both felt for you." 
 
 "Both!" repeated Arundel, trembling with a new and 
 
 vague apprehension, "How how am I to understand 
 
 you ?" 
 
 "Alas! I dare not explain myself." 
 "Louisa, I adjure you, by every thin vi. to tell me 
 
 the name of him for whom I am thus cruelly renounced !" 
 Louisa blushed, wept, and Mas silent. 
 "Is it," continued he, hesitating, and shaking with un- 
 controllable emotion—" Is it not—Zrindsi y f™ The counte- 
 nance of Louisa made reply unnecessary ; while that of 
 Arundel, true to his heart, sparkled with indignation. 
 The generous diffidence of his nature, however, presently 
 
 prevailed. She avowedly loved another; — tenderly 
 
 fondly loved him: and that other Mas, in the eyes even 
 of his rival, the most winning of human beings : — endued 
 with beauty, youth, wit, and accomplishments enough, 
 
 unintentionally to win the coldest heart : and Louisa! — 
 
 ah! could he wonder that she was irresistil 
 
 By short and imperfect explanations he learnt that Mr. 
 Lindsey had, from the moment he wag Be :i by her, 1
 
 THE POET'S TALE. 297 
 
 an impression on her memory which absence did not 
 efface : during that of Arundel, he had visited her once or 
 twice through mere complaisance : that an interest insen- 
 sibly sprung up between them : that his attendance be- 
 came more frequent ; that love, in fine, lent his language to 
 their eyes, and placed his interpreter in their hearts. 
 
 " It is enough !" said Arundel, starting from a train of 
 thought this avowal occasioned. " I can not he your hap- 
 piness, dearest Louisa — but I will at least endeavor to 
 establish it." With these words he flew to her father, 
 who had just received a letter from Mortimer; explaining 
 to him the change in Louisa's sentiments, and as hastily 
 went in search of Lindsey. A generous and delicate mis- 
 trust of himself made him precipitate measures from which 
 he feared he might recede : for Arundel was yet to learn 
 all the value and nobleness of his own heart. 
 
 Lindsey received him with open arms ; and his friend 
 even thought he perceived the transports of successful 
 pnssion embellish his complexion, and lend animation to 
 his eyes. What then was his astonishment to see this 
 envied lover plunged by his narration into a deep and cold 
 reverie ! 
 
 "It is certain," said he, at length breaking silence, 
 " that I love Louisa : she has there simply stated a truth, 
 which for your sake I would willingly have suppressed : 
 but as to marrying her, that is wholly out of the question at 
 present ; nor am I indeed sure I shall ever find it a ques- 
 tion at all." A torrent of new and indignant emotions 
 again swelled the heart of Arundel ; nor was it till his 
 friend had given him the most unequivocal proofs under 
 her hand that Louisa's passion had kept pace with, if not 
 preceded the acknowledgment of his own, that harmony 
 was restored between them. 
 
 Obliged slowly to resign the illusive image of perfection 
 he so long had cherished, Arundel still thought some-
 
 298 C1JTTIBBUST T1L1 
 
 what doe both to that and himself. By argum< there- 
 fore, and remonstrances, he wrno >m his friend a 
 solemn promise to see Louisa no more, till al 
 trying the tween his tenderness and liis pride, 
 
 might render his intentions Lubiou 
 
 " Louisa," said Arundel, " is indiscreet; but si ir- 
 
 tuous: the pain of seeing her otherwise would I 
 than I could patiently endure. Self-int< . ther< 
 bids me step forth the guardian of herinnoc It*// 
 
 love her enough to make a sacrifice, I will prove to you 
 that I love her enough to rejoice in it. But b< that 
 
 you do not demand any from her." 
 
 Lindsey laughed at his refinements; and, after much ex- 
 postulation, agreed to prove his sincerity by taking a 
 temporary leave of Lyons on the same day ; a compliance 
 in which he had, indeed, no great merit, as he had already 
 more than half promised a party of his countrymen to join 
 them in a ramble to Xismes. 
 
 Sad, solitary, hopeless — Arundel now bent his steps to- 
 wards home. The business of the day was accomplished. 
 Of the day! — ah! rather that of his life; for what r 
 mained of it seemed nothing but vacuity and gloom: and 
 he looked round in vain for some further sacrifice on 
 which to spend the feverish enthusiasm of an overheat 
 mind. Mortimer with concern perceived it glow up 
 his cheek, and give an alarming expression to his ey 
 Lindsey, gay, insolent, and happy — Lindsey, triumphant 
 alike in fortune and in love over his more deserving 
 ther, became an object of absolute detestation to the 
 guardian of Arundel. The secret so long conceah d n< 
 trembled on his hps; his young friend even perceived it 
 did, and solicited, with tender vehemence, to know what 
 further hone to li."' remained for him. The deceitful argu- 
 ment, that he should always find time enough to <!<> the 
 justice tints required, again silenced Mortimer. That
 
 THE poet's tale. 299 
 
 fearful and invisible power, which so often hovers over 
 mortality, and with icy breath annihilates its proj :n- 
 
 felt, unthought of, nevertheless, even then approached 
 him! The important truth, the deliberating moment, 
 were yet within his reach ; but the truth was once more 
 suppressed, and the moment passed away which no time 
 was ever to restore ! 
 
 "I will consider fully of this, my dear boy," said he, as 
 he mounted his horse to take an airing ; " endeavor to 
 repose yourself for an hour during my absence, and my 
 return shall produce a suitable explanation." 
 
 Mr. Mortimer was brought home, three hours after, 
 cold, stiffs and bloody. A pistol bullet passing through 
 his temple, had perforated his brain; and in this condition 
 he was found by some peasants, not a hundred yards 
 from the high road. His horse was grazing by his side. 
 His purse, which contained only a trifling sum, remained; 
 but his" pocket-book, where notes of value were probably 
 inclosed, was not to be found. 
 
 The shock was too mighty; and Arundel's constitu- 
 tion, already attacked, for the time sunk under it. Mar- 
 Iini, the young Italian, attended him with exemplary 
 kindness and humanity, through a burning fever; but, 
 ere he recovered to reason, the wishes, the intentions, 
 and the errors of Mortimer had long since been buried. 
 with him in the grave. Hardly i d from thence 
 
 himself, Arundel impatiently hastened to weep over that 
 of hia bene 'actor, and, if possible, to discover the perpe- 
 trators of his murder. Of them, however, no trae 
 
 •aid be found. He was an easy mark for robbery, as it 
 was his custom to t entle rides in the environ e 
 
 city at that hour, when the retiring sun made the exer- 
 cise most pleasant ; and if he was not accompanied by his 
 
 ang friend, the • were always solitary. Ex- 
 
 hausted by vain and painful surmises on this cruel event,
 
 300 caxtli: B UBI ULJ 
 
 the latter at length began to examine the ] and 
 
 property his protector bad left behind him. Jim in- 
 explicable mystery seemed now to overshadow the fittc 
 
 of Arundel. A few personals of value, together with let- 
 ters of credit upon a house at Genoa, were ail that I 
 mained to trace his past life, or to guide his futin . 
 Perplexed, bewildered, he paused in silence over the 
 gloomy prospect; when some slips of paper, that were 
 wedged within the hinge of a casket, from whence the 
 rest appeared to have been hastily torn, attracted his at- 
 tention. Cautiously disengaging one of them, he foul 
 three lines which ran thus: "To acknowledge, theref 
 another son, nay even an heir, would' be a step too inju- 
 rious to my interest and honor to be thought of; I am 
 determined never to do it; and Arundel must I n- 
 
 tent — " 
 
 "Oh heaven and earth!" exclaimed the injured and 
 unfortunate son of Lord Lindsey, as he perused ; 
 cruel words, from a hand which he could not doubt to he 
 his father's ; " Musi be content ! Content without ati . 
 without a hope! without one trace of those to whom he 
 owes his existence, but in the unnatural sentence which 
 cuts him off from them for ever !" 
 
 It was some moments before he could recover I im- 
 posure enough to examine the remaining paper. X:i . 
 he was almost tempted, by an emotion of indignant sen- 
 sibility, to commit to the flames, unread, what, in the 
 perusal, was perhaps destined to inflict a Becond and 
 more insupportable pang. The hand was evidently a .' 
 male one; and the purport of the wriiing awakened a 
 feeling more lively, if possible, than thai excited before; 
 
 "Yet why should I blush to acknowledge what I d 
 not blush to feel? Mr. Arundel unites the graces that 
 win affection, to the virtues that justify it ; and born, b 
 sincerely hope he is, for a more brilliant lot than that — "
 
 THE POET'S TALE. 301 
 
 The tormenting paper here finished ; but so did not his 
 perusal of it. Three times was it read ; minutely was it 
 scrutinized. Even that, by which he had been a few mo- 
 ments before so cruelly chagrined, seemed to vanish from 
 his memory: whilst a soft conscious flush of vanity and 
 gratitude stole imperceptibly over a cheek lately pallid 
 with sickness and sorrow. The world again resumed its 
 charms ; it contained at least, one being interested in his 
 fate ; one, who " did not blush to feel" — who would not 
 blush "to acknowledge his virtues." 3STor was it,' till 
 memory had dwelt with delight on many individuals of 
 a gay and beautiful circle, with which his residence in 
 Lyons had accustomed him to mingle, that he recollected 
 the mystery in which that being would probably remain 
 ever enveloped. 
 
 To the transient gleam of pleasure, which for a mo- 
 ment had brightened his horizon, now succeeded long 
 and cheerless months. Fruitless journeys to every place 
 where Mr. Mortimer had ever appeared to cherish inti- 
 macy, or demand credit ; though, by variety of scenes, 
 and succession of hopes, they re-established his health, 
 yet contributed to diminish his little fortune, without fix- 
 ing his views. Of Louisa he had taken a tender farewell 
 previous to his leaving Lyons ; and to Lindsey he knew 
 not how to address himself, during an excursion, the plan 
 of which was not settled, even by those who undertook 
 it. 
 
 Busied, in tracing the channels through which Mr. 
 Mortimer had transacted his pecuniary concerns, Arundel 
 had just learned, by a journey to Paris, the name of the 
 English banker with whom his credit originated, when lie 
 was agreeably surprised by a letter from Marlini. It was 
 dated only ten days from that on which lie had himself 
 left Lyons; had followed him in his wanderings, and 
 reached him at last, by mere accident. The good-natured 
 
 13*
 
 302 C A XT E BBC B V I a L 
 
 Italian, who t< in the I i of 
 
 Arundel, had i Lve him nol f any occur- 
 
 red which that mighl be i "I fulfill my 
 
 promise," said he, "by informing yon th 
 Liu . Lyons last wash olyafew 
 
 days, and was Buddenly called to England, by the intelli- 
 gence that Ids father would mosl dead before 
 lie could reach it — an ev< nt for which, by the bye, he 
 somewhat reproaches his own extrav. se and inatten- 
 tion. "Will it grieve you to learn that the fair Lo 
 his companion, and that their union at lei >m- 
 pleted a felicity, which I am sure you sincerely wish 
 them Loth V 
 
 "The generous patronage he has so warmly 
 me of in England I am preparing to accept : therefore, 
 when you hear of me again, it will probably be at the 
 Hotel de Lindsey. Come, dear Mr. Arundel, and share 
 in the pleasures of this munificent and kind friend, wh 
 am sure, by his conduct to myself, desires nothing so 
 much as to serve you; and who particularly enjoined me 
 to say, that he is only prevented addressing you, by the 
 haste with which he is obliged to depart." 
 
 Arundel closed the letter with a sigh. He had long 
 ceased to esteem Louisa: even the impression she I 
 made upon his senses was considerably diminished by the 
 efforts of reason and absence; yet he heard not with 
 difference that she was the wife of another; nor did 
 temptation of living in the Ho . and un< 
 
 "the munificent patronage of its lord," accord qui 
 well with his feelings, as with those of the complaisant 
 Italian. Yet, to England, circumstances obliged him to 
 go; and in England, though his natb il, he wa 
 
 wanderer and an ow. The character of Lindsey, "in 
 
 that rare semblance thai he loved it first ;" their 
 and congenial habits — their early and unstudied c
 
 THE POET'S TALE. 303 
 
 fidence — in a word, a thousand tender recollections rose 
 to mind, and impelled a heart, naturally susceptible, to 
 cherish the only tie it ever yet had formed. 
 
 "I will try him, at least," said Arundel, as he laid his 
 hand upon the knocker of a magnificent house in St. 
 James's. " We understand each other, and a moment 
 will decide between us." A moment did decide : he \ 
 welcomed by Lindsey, not indeed without embarrass- 
 ment ; but it was the embarrassment of a man who 
 doubts his own reception, rather than that which he is to 
 bestow; welcomed with lavish kindness, with generous 
 cordiality, with every testimony of friendship that sensi- 
 bility could offer, and graceful manners could embellish. 
 Arundel would have avoided seeing Lady Lindsey, and 
 for that reason endeavored, to excuse himself from resid- 
 ing under the same roof with her. But this was not to 
 be thought of. The young lord, too happy both in love 
 and fortune not to be a little vain, saw, in the society of 
 Arundel, nothing but a new and, as he deemed it, ad- 
 missible gratification to his self-love ; and resolutely, 
 therefore, insisted on not parting with him. 
 
 " Women, my dear friend," said he, " are among the 
 baubles of life ; we may each wish to appropriate, but we 
 will never wrangle about them. Come, come, you are a 
 philosopher, and Louisa is at last only a beautiful co- 
 quette. Nothing will so surely disunite }~ou as knowing 
 mere of each other." So saying, lie dragged his unsuc- 
 cessful rival to her dressing-room. From the toil* 
 Arundel attended her to dinner, where he was led in tri- 
 umph through a circle of parasites and fops. 
 
 "You see that creature with his fine, languishing, bla< 
 eyes !" said Louisa to a young nobleman who sat at her 
 right hand. 
 
 "And his rusty black coat!" replied Lis lordship, cast- 
 ing a glance of nonchalance upon Arundel.
 
 30-4 < a N tj-; B BU Ji v TALI 
 
 "Nay, that La downright Blander," said Louisa laugh- 
 ing. "Not rusty yet; though it may, perhaps, 
 eran service. He is an old adorer of mine — so piny 
 civil to him." 
 
 "With all my heart; provided yo?« are not so; but 
 you had better make rare of my complaisance — a for- 
 tunate lover is never quarrelsome, you know!" L 
 laughed again. If my reader happens to white 
 
 teeth, and one of the prettiest mouths in the world, she 
 will find out the jest: if not, it will probably defy 
 penetration, and may as well remain uns. tught. 
 
 Lindsey had judged truly: in less than a week Arun- 
 del was completely cured of his partiality for Louisa — a 
 Louisa far different from the winning creature she had 
 first appeared at the convent. When he beheld her, cold 
 of heart, and light of conduct, living only to <li<>ipation 
 and flattery, scarcely mingling with any of her own sex, 
 and admitting to her familiar society the most dissolute 
 part of his, often did he call to mind the caution Morti- 
 mer had once given him, of weighing, 1 he formed 
 his attachments, whether the qualities by which they were 
 excited are incidental or natural. Nor, though more 
 slowly developed, did the character of Lindsey rise in his 
 estimation. Warm in his professions, and elegant in his 
 manners, he still attracted affection; hut it was not ] 
 sible to overlook the profligacy of a life, every hour of 
 which was marked by being abused; and his friend per- 
 ceived with a sigh, how insensibly, when not effaced 
 principle, the faint outline of youthful indiscretion bo- 
 comes filled up in our progress through life with the bold 
 coloring of a ire. 
 
 Amid the motley group who attended the levee 
 Lord Lindsey, Arundel was particularly attracted by an 
 
 officer, whose countenance, though still in its bloom, bore 
 
 the traces of disappointment. He was lately returned
 
 THE POET'S TALE. 
 
 from a long station in the West Indies; inclining to thin, 
 but of a noble and graceful carriage ; the climate had 
 somewhat impaired his complexion, and the secret cha- 
 grin that seemed to rob his eyes of their fire lent them a 
 seriousness calculated to excite interest. Those of Arun- 
 del had at first studiously sought their acquaintance ; yet, 
 strange to tell, had sought it in yam. Like an apparition, 
 Captain Villicrs hovered amid the brilliant circle, atten- 
 tive, calm, and impenetrably cold to all but Lord Lindsey. 
 As Arundel doubted not, however, that he courted promo- 
 tion, and guessed by the crape round his arm that he had 
 sustained some family loss, he adopted the cause, though 
 not permitted to judge of it, with an ardor that was 
 natural to his character. But he was not long in discov- 
 ering, that Lindsey's love of patronage extended only to 
 promises ; and that far from soliciting successfully for 
 others, he might perhaps do it vainly for himself. Eager 
 to emancipate his situation from that dependence to which 
 it was every day approaching, he made the attempt, and 
 was cruelly confirmed in his conjectures. Still never did 
 refusal wear so fair a form : " My fortune and my house, 
 dear Arundel, are yours," said his friend ; " when the one 
 is impoverished, or the other disagreeable to you, we will 
 think of new plans." 
 
 Arundel was thus plunged again, despite of himself, 
 into gay and dissolute society: he was young and charm- 
 ing ; was it wonderful that he should be charmed ? Ah ! 
 is there any illusion so complete as that our own talents 
 and graces scatter round us ? Every day more captivat- 
 ing in person, more polished in maimers, more enervating 
 in heart, he imperceptibly drew nearer that precipice of 
 error, from which no kind hand, either of nature or 
 friendship, was extended to save him. — Yet still had he 
 both sensibility and pride — still did he spend many a soli- 
 tary hour in forming plans by which the next might be
 
 30G \ s x BBBtJ j: v 'J' a LB . 
 
 more active — i over the memory of Mortis 
 
 and in fruitless p >f the cruel, tl 
 
 •ehind him. L 
 thoughtful eye pierce through crowds for that urn 
 ural father, who had thus announced his intention of 
 never acknowledging him; often di<l his b< 
 dispel the illusion which beauty diffused over 1 
 and anxiously inquire, where — where was 1 1 .tie being 
 to whom his graces and his virtues were estedly 
 
 dear? — for the paper which contained this avowal, from 
 the moment that Louisa had lost her place in his affections, 
 he cherished a romantic tender- the o1 .on 
 
 his arrival in England, communicated to Lindsey, who so 
 far got the better of his usual inattention and heed] 
 ness as to accompany him in person to the bank< 
 whence Mr. Mortimer had obtained credit at Paris. F; 
 him, however, nothing could be learnt, but that five hun- 
 dred pounds had been annually lodged there in that gen- 
 tleman's name, the larger part of which had in the I 
 year been drawn out, without since being replaced. Of 
 this latter sum a very small portion now remained to 
 Arundel; and his indignant heart, roused at the i 
 pecuniary obligation, began to affect his temper: the 
 most cruel of all maladies, self-reproach, seized upon it. 
 To Lindsey he scorned any other i .lion than thai 
 
 assisting him to struggle for himself — an obligation which 
 of all others Lindsey was least likely to confer: nor 
 isted there a h ides from whom lie could hope it. 
 
 With a grieved and rankling heart, that vailed it 
 smiles, was he going to the apartment of Latter, when 
 he met Captain Villiers coming from it. B I to 
 
 have departed from their natural character: for Aran 
 whose thoughts were pre ied, and who was 1 
 
 somewhat disgusted by the coldness with which 
 forts at civility had been received, scarce noticed Villi.
 
 THE POET 1 B T A L E. 307 
 
 who, on his part, brushed by with a haughty rapidity 
 that nearly amounted to rudene 
 
 " Did you meet that scoundrel on the stairs ?" said 
 Lindsey, abruptly, as his friend entered the room. 
 
 " If you mean Yilliers, he passed me this moment." 
 
 " 'Twas well he did not affront you," said Lindsey ; 
 "lie was sufficiently disposed to have done it." 
 
 Arundel paused for a moment, uncertain whether to 
 think he had done so or no, and then resentfully added — 
 " It teas well, as you say, that he did not ; for I was never 
 less disposed to bear it." 
 
 "I would have you beware of him, however," said 
 Lindsey; "for as Zcan not fight him," glancing fretfully 
 at his arm, which a strain obliged him to wear in a sling, 
 "it is ten to one but he makes you do it." 
 
 "Me!" repeated Arundel, with a tone of astonishment. 
 
 "Yes, you! since, if I may judge by his language, he 
 does you the honor of ranking you amongst my parasites 
 and dependents. — I shall find a future opportunity of talk- 
 ing with the gentleman." 
 
 " The present will do for me," said Arundel, warmly, 
 and involuntarily advancing to the door — " But what was 
 the matter in dispute?" 
 
 " 'Faith ! I hardly know— Ask him." 
 
 "I am more than half tempted to do so: and, in that 
 case, I may probably convince him that I can take up the 
 cause of a friend, without being either his dependent or 
 parasite." 
 
 "Dear Arundel," said Lindsey, warmly seizing his hand, 
 "how generous, how kind is this idea! — I can not how- 
 ever admit it: the quarrel is particularly mine." 
 
 "If both have been insulted," said Arundel, "either is 
 entitled to demand an explanation." 
 
 Li paused on the remark; and his friend, who 
 
 thought he perceived his assent to it in his silence, felt his
 
 ,°»08 
 
 spirit and his pride both concerned in not receding. The 
 discourse that followed corroborating this opinion, he pre- 
 sently dispatched a note to Captain Villiers, request!] 
 moments 1 conversation at any place he should nai 
 This done, he left the apartment of Lord Linda 
 with his applause, and gratified by his kindn. 
 
 But though the temper of Arundel was thus, inflam 
 all fell not as it should have done in his heart. P< 
 courage was in him a constitutional gift ; and it was that, 
 perhaps, which left him more at leisure to ask- why he I 
 thus drawn on himself the probability of a duel: but as on 
 this head his own memory did not supply him with any 
 very satisfactory answer, he determined to refer to that 
 of Captain Yilliers. 
 
 When two young men meet to know whether they are 
 to fight, it will be fortunate if sufficient provocation d 
 not arise to render the inquiry needless. Neither of those 
 in question had any animosity, though no longer any 
 personal prepossession to each other; — but truth must he 
 acknowledged: the high-spirited Yilliers did indeed look 
 upon Arundel as one of the venal many who- rd and 
 
 sword were equally at the command of Lord Lindsey. 
 Plunged in family chagrins, and embittered by disappoint- 
 ment, he had attended but little to nice discriminations of 
 character, and came prepared to consider the interview 
 only as a paltry pretense for appropriating the quarrel: 
 it was consequently short. Arundel, proud, youthful, 
 and brave, felt, all his passions raised by the cold indignity 
 with which he saw himself treated : the marked contempt 
 with which Yilliers mentioned the name of Lord Lind 
 interested his friendship: and when to that oIl Louisa, as 
 it accidentally occurred, he returned a look and expr 
 of most ineffable disdain, Arundel, whose heart still re- 
 tained some embers of tin 1 fire which once had made that 
 name so sacred, was no longer master of himself It v
 
 THE POET'S TALE. 309 
 
 the cause of gallantry, of honor, of friendship : and, fear- 
 ful, perhaps, lest reflection should discover to him that it 
 was not the cause of reason, he the more readily embraced 
 Mr. Villiers's proposal of meeting him, behind Montagu 
 House, at live the next morning. 
 
 The hours that intervened were spent in a fruitless 
 search after Lord Lindsey, who had early left the party 
 with which he dined, and was not to be heard of. Disap- 
 pointed in the pursuit, and immersed in a torrent of no 
 very pleasant reflections, Arundel stood surrounded by a 
 gay and brilliant circle, apparently listening to a concert, 
 of which he heard nothing, when his eye casually rested 
 upon one of the band, whose face instantly brought to 
 mind the recollection of Marlini. — But Martini still in 
 England — Marlini the botanist turned fiddler, and that in 
 an inferior rank — it was a thing impossible ! — Advancing 
 closer, and leaning against the wainscot, he amused him- 
 self, till the conclusion of the sonata, with examining the 
 features of his friend, till, satisfied of their identity, he 
 approached the orchestra, and addressed him by name. 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Arundel !" said Marlini — "how glad am I to 
 see you, and how glad to find that you have not forgotten 
 me !" Arundel most cordially returned the salutation, and 
 expressed his surprise both at the place and the employ- 
 ment in which he found his friend engaged. "I have 
 frequently," said he, " inquired of Lord Lindsey Avhere I 
 might find you : he assured me that you were disgusted 
 with England, and had, he believed, returned to Italy ; 
 that you had almost renounced botany ; and, I now rec- 
 ollect, he often told me somewhat of your having shown 
 an extraordinary genius for music." 
 
 " So he was kind enough to tell me," replied Marlini, 
 smiling with some scorn ; " and you see to what extraor- 
 dinary preferment my genius has led me. As to England, 
 I have certainly no disgust to it, though I have some
 
 310 H IS ii B D B V T a L B 
 
 cause to wish it did not Bend its fools abroad to bring 
 foreign fools home. — Another time, Mr. Arundel, I will 
 tell you mor 
 
 Arundel, who really felt i d in the t ad 
 
 across whose mind it g! I that him 
 
 might never come, pressed liim to continue the conver- 
 sation. 
 
 "Nay, I have not much to tell, ; Martini, layii 
 down his fiddle. "You know the repeated invitatioi 
 which induced me to come to London ; where I found 
 cavaMere Lindsey converted into la sua .and 
 
 surrounded by a crowd of fools, all gaping like myself £ 
 patronage. To do him justice, however, he n 
 very ch illy, and recommended me to the care of hi^ Swi 
 valet, through whose interest I got a lodging in the Sevn 
 Dials — not without a general invitation to dine at the 
 Hotel de Lindsey whenever it was agreeable to me. I 
 
 I did not then know that the latter clause was in fact a 
 perfect exclusion. I made my way, however, to his lord- 
 ship's tahlc, though not without bribing his port itfa 
 twice the money for which I might have dii 
 dinary, and had the honor of taking my place at th< b 
 
 m of it, between an old German and a young English 
 divine. The company was numerous, and some of them 
 talked, as if they were men of science: I was tl 
 not without hopes thai his lordship would tab op] or- 
 tunity of recommending myself and my stud' 
 notice. But in this I was di tinted: the; 
 drank hard, and at length unwillingly broke up, id- 
 journ to the drawing-room, wl -ady Lindsey had pi - 
 
 pared a cona t. I flattered myself that in gem >n- 
 
 v a 1 might at leasl be able wn 
 
 plant •rcatly pleased by the civiliti ' an old 
 
 gentleman, who e was denoted by a 
 
 and who talked to ] : ven had al-
 
 TUE poet's tale. 311 
 
 ready invited me to his palace ; and I had discovered him. 
 to he the Duke of B . I was beginning to congratu- 
 late myself on my good fortune; — but, alas ! how cruelly 
 was I disappointed, when, in the midst of an interesting j 
 conversation upon botany, he reminded me with great 
 eagerness that the concert was going to begin, and rec- 
 ommended me to take up my violin. I assured him I 
 was no performer, and even totally unskilled in music : he 
 heard me at first with incredulity, till, perceiving that, 
 far from being the phenomenon he doubtless had imagined, 
 I actually took no part in what was going forward, he 
 abruptly shifted his place, and became ever after so near 
 sighted that it was impossible for me to attract his notice. 
 Why should I tire you, Mr. Arundel, with repeti- 
 tions of the same thing ? Day after day did I attend the 
 levee of Lord Lindsey, and vainly did I solicit the patron- 
 age he had promised. Perhaps he meant not to impover- 
 ish or betray me ; but, woe to the man in whom vanity 
 
 and self-love do the offices of the blackest treachery! 
 
 impoverished I certainly became. The story of the duke, 
 which in our first familiarity I had related, appeared to 
 him then an exceeding good jest ; but what was my sur- 
 prise, when after being worn out in that form, it sudden- 
 ly took another, and he very seriously proposed to me to 
 turn musician ! Vainly did I represent the years I had 
 spent in my favorite study, the expensive collection of 
 plants I had brought over with me, in the hope of being 
 presented to some of those societies in London whose ap- 
 plause ensures celebrity and wealth. My remonstrances 
 were not listened to. I was poor, and could not enforce 
 them. 11 was settled, in his circle, that a fiddler I was ; 
 and a fiddler I at length became! — lucky in getting half 
 a guinea a night by scraping in a manner which the taste 
 natural to my country renders offensive to my own ears,
 
 ,'}1 2 C A N T E B B U BY T A L B S. 
 
 and contented to be any thing rather than the table com- 
 panion and the attendant upon a lord!" 
 
 Arundel, to whom parte of this narratiye had commu- 
 nicated stings of which lie who related it was wholly un- 
 conscious, was preparing to reply, when Martini, being 
 called nj)on to take his part in a full piece, had only time 
 to give his address; and the other, not unwillingly, re- 
 signed his place to some ladies who pressed near him. 
 
 One, two, three o'clock came, and Lord Iindsey re- 
 turned not. Arundel, who had spent the night in walk- 
 ing his chamber, at length saw day appear ; and with a 
 mixture of irresolution, self-disdain, and resentment, 
 rushed, with the friend who was to accompany him, to 
 the place of meeting. Villiers, with his second, was there 
 almost at the same moment. The calmness and intre- 
 pidity of his countenance; the shame, too, of seeming 
 shrink from the occasion, sealed up those lips on which 
 native candor and sensibility had half prepared an apol- 
 ogy. They drew; both were admirable Bwordsmen; 
 but Arundel, who eminently excelled in every manly ex- 
 ercise, soon gained a manifest advantage; and, being 
 pressed on too boldly by his antagonist, most unwiilii 
 
 sheathed his sw r ord in his breast. Villiers dropped his 
 
 — staggered — and fell. 
 
 Had the universe, and all it contained, been vanish' 
 from before his eyes, hardly could Arundel have felt a 
 greater shock. Pride, passion, prejudice — all that 
 tained, all that had misled him, tied instantaneously; and 
 Villiers, whose languid looks were directed to those who 
 supported him, saw, not without sensibility, the eh:: 
 of that cheek which the approach of personal danger had 
 not for a moment blanched. 
 
 "You have used a brave as well as skillful sword, 
 
 Mr. Arundel, '' said he, " in a bad c:iuse ; and have, I 1 
 completed many family calamities. T pardon you, fa
 
 TUE POET'S TALE. 313 
 
 ever. — The challenge was mine, gentlemen," added he, 
 turning to the seconds, " and I now have only to entreat 
 
 " The words, which had faltered on his lips, faded 
 
 imperceptibly, and he fainted. 
 
 Neither the sense of danger, nor the remonstrances of 
 their mutual friends, could for a moment incline Arundel 
 to resign the care of a man whose murderer he now be- 
 gan to deem himself; and he resolutely followed them 
 into the carriage which was to convey Mr. Villiers to an 
 hotel not far distant. The danger was there declared by 
 the surgeons to be less imminent than it appeared. The 
 sword had fortunately missed the vitals ; and though, by 
 penetrating deeply, it had caused a vast effusion of blood, 
 the wound bore no present appearance of being mortal. 
 Arundel became more composed at intelligence so unex- 
 pected, and was at length prevailed upon to retire. 
 
 The events of the morning were now to be recounted 
 to Lindsey ; and to Lindsey, spite of his faults, the agi- 
 tated spirit of his friend still turned with habitual confi- 
 dence. But he was yet to learn that the man who relies 
 on the gratitude of the dissolute must have claims more 
 imposing than desert. 
 
 Lindsey, who was just returned from a- gaming-table, 
 feverish with accumulated losses, and stupefied for want 
 of rest, listened with coldness to the narration — and, 
 smiling at the end of it, sarcastically thanked him for his 
 knight-errantry. " Louisa, too," added he, " will, I doubt 
 not, be duly grateful for her share of the obligation ; and 
 a gratitude so well-founded I certainly can have no right 
 
 to interfere in." Arundel, to whom this sjjeech was 
 
 wholly incomprehensible, replied not. 
 
 " Or, perhaps," added Lindsey, " she has been so al- 
 ready ! — But prithee, dear Arundel, let me counsel you 
 as a friend not to make a practice of drawing your sword 
 in that cause !" There was a half jealous and half dis-
 
 31 i CANT. I " I: V T A I. . 
 
 dainful sneer in his manner, ut once calculated inn 
 
 and to irrital 
 
 "I shall most assuredly never draw it again in your 
 lordship's cause," Baid Arundel, Indignantly; "but for 
 ly Lindsey " 
 
 "Lady Lindsey ! Mr. Arundel! Yon certainly d 
 suppose thai she is really my wife?" 
 
 A thunderbolt at the feet of Arundel would h.i 
 tonished him less than this speech. It was then for two 
 beings equally licentious and ungrateful that he had ha- 
 zarded all dear to nature or to principle ! Louisa — Lin l 
 sey — despicable names! Yet 
 
 " For them the gracious Duncan had he murder 
 Put rancours in the vessel of his peace — 
 Only for them !" 
 
 "The generous blood of Villiers is on my sword !" i 
 claimed he, rushing from a roof which he had yet to learn 
 was his paternal one : " I will not wrong him bo far as 
 blend it with the unworthy tide that flows through the 
 heart of Lord Lindsey!" 
 
 His feet spontaneously moved to the hotel to which 
 Captain Villiers had been carried; but the recollection 
 that repose and perfect quiet had been deemed essential 
 to his safety, forbade him to enter it. Lost in a tide of 
 heart-wringing recollections, he wandered, he knew not 
 whither, through half the streets of the metropolis, till 
 the busy crowds with which they were filled retired at 
 the approach of evening. Stragglers among the dissolute 
 or the idle still faced the nipping autumnal wind, which 
 began to rise; and a small crowd of these, collected in a 
 narrow street round a ballad-singer, impeded the p: 
 of Arundel. The momentary embarrassment awakened 
 
 his Benses, :>ud a sound that struck from thenee upon his 
 memory induced him t<> Mart forward. It WCU to be a 
 day of painful retrospection. The female who sang had
 
 THE POET'S TALE. 315 
 
 the appearance of a Savoyardc : a little common organ 
 hung at her side — her complexion was tanned — her figure 
 was emaciated — her eyes were hollow — straggling locks 
 of auburn hair added rather a misery than a charm to her 
 appearance ; — yet the foreign accent, the beautiful brow, 
 — above all, the well-remembered air she sang, at once 
 carried conviction to the heart of Arundel. — It was — it 
 could be no other than Annette! Annette betrayed! 
 — Annette, the victim of Lindsey ! exposed in the first 
 instance to disgrace, and in the last to poverty ! frail, yet 
 not licentious ! miserable, yet not vindictive ! drew from 
 the charity of strangers that humble pittance which in- 
 dustry and innocence had rendered once so honorable ! 
 
 Let us draw r a vail over the picture, and follow 
 
 Arundel. 
 
 In solitude, silence, and adversity, he now indeed had 
 learned to think — to estimate the difference between real 
 and imaginary blessings — and to perceive that neglect, 
 indiscretion, and self-love, scatter, even from the bosom 
 of luxury, the fruitful seeds of vice and devastation. 
 
 After various painful self-denials, he thought he might 
 at length venture to request admission to Yilliers, of 
 whose wound he received the most favorable reports ; 
 nor was it among the least of his late mortifications to 
 learn that, on the noon of that day, Yilliers had, by his 
 own orders, been conveyed into a chair ; and, after pay- 
 ing every expense, quitted the hotel without leaving be- 
 hind him the smallest indication of the place of his 
 retreat. 
 
 Arundel was now overwhelmed with chagrin and dis- 
 appointment. On the idea of offering an honorable and 
 ample concession his heart had rested with romantic en- 
 thusiasm. Perhaps, he had secretly flattered himself he 
 might find a friend in that generous antagonist, with
 
 C A M I E B B i B Y X A LES. 
 
 whom hifl feelings had at first sight claimed an acquaint- 
 ance. 
 
 Prostrated in his past views, and hopeless of the future. 
 his spirits would have been wholly depri a ed, but for n 
 singular event. 
 
 A note, from the banker with whom Mr. Mortimer fa 
 transacted business, informed him that two hand] 
 pounds had been recently lodged in the house, payable 
 either to that gentleman's order, or Mr. Arundel's. 
 
 Soft hope again stole away the heart of the latter. He 
 was not, then, forgotten! — Some being was still interest- 
 ed in his fate ! Some protecting spirit, like that of Mor- 
 timer, still hovered over him ! — Ah ! could it be a female 
 one? 
 
 Relieved from pecuniary embarrassments, it was hifl 
 first employment to discover the habitation of Captain 
 Yilliers. The poor rarely have a secret that is well kept; 
 and in a very few days it was traced to be the seeond 
 floor of a house in a small street near Piccadilly. Bound- 
 ed as Arundel's means were, yet, to share them with the 
 man he had injured, and whose circumstances, it was 
 plain, could ill support extraordinary expense, became 
 now the first object of his life. To have shared them, in- 
 deed, with those he had himSi //'injured might have 1 
 only justice; but, to say truth, the improvident Arundel 
 was hardly less disposed to show his liberality to Marlini 
 and Annette. 
 
 Captain Yiliiers was now in a state to quit his cham- 
 ber; and Arundel, who well knew how to calculate the 
 M idies of pride, easily concluded that he had do other 
 mode of ensuring their meeting, but by a surprise. For- 
 bearing, therefore, his usual anonymous inquiry, he one 
 evening repaired to the house, where, being told by a 
 
 servant that Mr. Yiliiers w:is in his apartment, he abrupt- 
 ly walked up stairs, and, without further ceremony than
 
 THE POET'S TALE. 317 
 
 a gentle rap, opened the door. No candles were yet 
 placed in the room ; but the twilight, aided by the bright 
 blaze of the fire, enabled him clearly to discern Yilliers, 
 who reposed on a sofa on one side of it, while on the 
 other sat a tall and fair young lady in mourning, who 
 appeared to have been reading to him. 
 
 Generous minds are not long in understanding each 
 other. Villiers was prepared, by some frank and noble 
 traits that he had discovered in the character of his 
 visitor, to give him credit for qualities the other was now 
 well disposed to show. To remove prepossession, was to 
 ensure regard : Arundel was born to be beloved ; and 
 Captain Yilliers, though less fascinating, had a candor 
 and martial enthusiasm of mind, which circumstances only 
 had concealed. The conversation soon became unfettered 
 and interesting. 
 
 " On the father of the present Lord Lindsey," said 
 Villiers, " mine had claims of friendship his lordship was 
 not insensible to : they induced him to bestow on me, 
 very early in life, a commission, which, though it brought 
 with it many years of painful service, in a climate injuri- 
 ous to my health, ought to be remembered with kindness. 
 Attentive to me, even during his last illness, he by a let- 
 ter addressed to the son whose ingratitude and negligence 
 avowedly shortened his days, repeated his earnest desire 
 that I might be promoted in my profession, and relieved 
 from various pecuniary embarrassments, in which the in- 
 discretions of my father had involved his family. I was, 
 at first, treated with kindness and distinction by the 
 young Lord Lindsey : reiterated promises taught me to 
 hope every thing : but I hoped, only to be disappointed. 
 I knew enough of the world, however, to have sustained 
 that like a man ; — but, when to neglect he dared to add 
 injury — when he presumed to violate — in short — why 
 
 should I dissemble? — when he would have trafficked upon 
 
 14
 
 318 CA1TTXKBUST TALES. 
 
 the honor for the brother's promotion, it was then 
 
 I felt like a soldier." 
 
 Arundel, whose cheek glowed with indignation and 
 self-reproach, started hastily from hi> seat; which VilHei 
 with a smile of kindness, motioned to him to resume. — "I V 
 an intercepted letter, I became apprised of a Becret which 
 my sister's fears for my safety had induced her to con- 
 ceal. With what determination I afterwards saw Lord 
 Lindsey, I hardly know myself; but it is certain that 
 respect for the memory of his father, and his own inabilil 
 to fight, alone prevented my pursuing those violent 
 measures I was but too well prepared for, when the ill 
 fortune of both induced you to request an interview 
 me. I saw you with prejudiced eyes: had I seen you 
 with any other, our swords had never been drawn. Yet. 
 let me do you the justice of acknowledging, that, even in 
 the short conversation which preceded our appointment, 
 I perceived I had an adversary to encounter, of whose 
 dignity of character I was little aware; and, though till- 
 able to reduce either my resentment or my pride to a 
 tardy explanation, I met you with a reluctance that per- 
 haps contributed, with your own skill, to give you the 
 advantage you obtained.'* 
 
 Arundel, at once grieved and flattered, cemented tl 
 growing friendship by a confidence, not indeed minutely 
 detailed, for the health of Yilliers allowed not of loi 
 conversation, but unbounded as far as related to Lord 
 Lindsey, and departed with an invitation to repeat ] . 
 visit next day. 
 
 The visit was repeated again — and again — and again. 
 Miss Yiliiers was almost constantly with her brother, and 
 as constantly pursued the method she had first adopted, 
 of retiring at the entrance of his Mend. Arundel could 
 not avoid feeling some pique at the beautiful statue he 
 had so little power of animating : not that he all
 
 THE POET'S TALE. 319 
 
 beauty to be any advantage — oh no ! " Louisa had cured 
 him ! Louisa had rendered him for ever indifferent to so 
 illusive an attraction ;" and he repeated this so often that 
 he really believed it. It was the mind — the visible ex- 
 pression of it in the countenance of Henrietta with which 
 he was now charmed. It was the sweet seriousness of 
 her eyes — so like her brother's, only hightened by the 
 finest lonGf lashes in the world that made an irresistible 
 impression on his memory. Yet never to speak, never to 
 permit him the common claims of an acquaintance — eter- 
 nally to courtesy and withdraw — it was so strange, so 
 cruel, so singular an instance of coquetry, that really all 
 the philosophy he was master of could not stand it. 
 
 Chance, however, did for him what it was plain Miss 
 Villiers would not do. He had spent the morning with 
 her brother as usual, tete-a-tete, and taken his leave, when, 
 on walking the length of the street, somewhat occurred 
 that he had neglected to mention ; hastily returning, 
 therefore, he threw open the door of the apartment, 
 where Henrietta was then sitting alone. A conscious — a 
 half reproachful smile brightened the features of Arun- 
 del, as he respectfully advanced and addressed her. Miss 
 Villiers, on the contrary, turned pale, blushed, and, drop- 
 ping her eyes, faintly replied to his questions ; but the 
 voice was not to be mistaken — a voice so touching, so in- 
 imitably soft — Heaven and earth ! what was his astonish- 
 ment when it was immediately recognized to be that of 
 Theresa ! Theresa — the tender friend so long and so un- 
 gratefully forgotten. 
 
 If Arundel was transported, far different were the feel- 
 ings of Miss Villiers. — Conscious, abashed, devoid of all 
 power of feigning — hardly recollecting what she ought to 
 know, or what she ought to tell; it was amidst blushes, 
 hesitation, and tremor on her part, that he learnt she was 
 the daughter of Mortimer ! — The daughter of Mortimer !
 
 320 CANTERBURY TALE S. 
 
 Ah! he learnt not that only ; there was a suspicion, there 
 
 was a truth remained behind, at which, though his heart 
 beat with exultation and hope, he ventured not even re- 
 motely to hint. Fet who else should write to Mortii. 
 that she did not blush to acknowledge an interest I 
 him? — who else should tell his guardian and his friend 
 "that he united the graces which win affection to the vir- 
 tues that justify it ?" "Who but Henrietta had opportu- 
 nity, whilst he was in pursuit of another object, to dwell 
 unobserved upon his character — to trace all its energies — 
 to feel all its disappointments — and unconsciously to chi 
 ish a treacherous sentiment under the name of a gene- 
 rous one. 
 
 Captain Villiers, who was only in the adjoining apart- 
 ment, entered at this moment, and saw with surpri 
 Arundel holding the hand of his sister, and ■peaking with 
 an eagerness that marked the deepest interest in what he 
 uttered. 
 
 "Dear Villiers!" said the latter, recovering himself to 
 spare her embarrassment, "would you believe that I 
 have found in your sister an old and tenderly-beloved 
 friend ?" 
 
 "So it appears," said Villiers, smiling: "but how 
 came you to take advantage of my absence to make thi 
 discovery ?" 
 
 " Mr. Arundel, 11 said Henrietta, striving to command 
 herself, " had forgotten his friend, and 1 was not willing 
 to obtrude her upon his memory.' 1 
 
 Every truth but one was now avowed on all sid< 
 and Villiers was not so dull of comprehension as to over- 
 look that. 
 
 "The vail — the cruel vail!' 1 cried Arundel, reproach- 
 fully, as they recounted their interviews in the convent — 
 
 " — Was once, at least, withdrawn," added Henrietta,
 
 THE POET'S tale. 321 
 
 blushing ; " but the features it shaded were not worthy of 
 retaining your eye." 
 
 Arundel, who too well recollected the circumstances of 
 their first meeting, could only answer by a look — a look 
 that at once conveyed his own self-reproach. Yet time, 
 that had matured his understanding, had also matured 
 the beauty of Henrietta ; whose features, though ever 
 regular, were far from possessing, while in the convent, 
 that lovely finish her whole person had since attained. 
 
 The elder Mr. Villiers, obliged by his necessities to re- 
 nounce his name, had, under that of Mortimer, afforded 
 the parental protection to Arundel which nature had de- 
 signed for his own children. Of these children one had 
 been committed to the care of Lord Lindsey, who, by 
 embarking him early in a military line, deprived him of 
 the opportunity to make troublesome inquiries. For his 
 daughter, unprotected and dowerless, Mr. Yilliers's reli- 
 gion enabled him to allot a life of seclusion in the convent 
 where she had been educated ; nor was it till Lord Lind- 
 sey himself started the proposal of marrying Arundel 
 abroad, that he thought of a scheme by which all their 
 news might be conciliated. With this scheme, however, 
 Henrietta alone had ever been made acquainted ; and 
 though Arundel and her brother could not fail, in the 
 course of the explanation, to surmise it, she earnestly 
 guarded the idea from obtruding. 
 
 To Captain Villiers, indeed, all this was new : his fa- 
 ther's caution had kept from his knowledge the change 
 of his name — the companion of his travels — in a word, 
 every thing but what related to the embarrassment of 
 their aifairs, or the welfare of his sister. Unconscious, 
 therefore, that such a being as Arundel existed, till he 
 met him in the house of the young Lord Lindsey, it was 
 on the event of the duel that his name first transpired to 
 Henrietta. Why her previous acquaintance with it had
 
 322 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 been so cautiously omitted in all conversations with her 
 brother, relative to her father's visit at Lyons, neither 
 gentleman presumed to ask, probably for the best of all 
 reasons — that both of them could guess. 
 
 The moment of final discovery now seemed dawning 
 upon Arundel — but it was only a gleam. Of his birth 
 Captain Villiers knew nothing; and Henrietta, to whom 
 her father never confided more of Ills plans than was ne- 
 cessary for their accomplishment, only faintly recollected 
 to have heard him once say that he was the son of a Mr. 
 Arundel of Cornwall. 
 
 "It is strange that my father should leave no papers 
 by which to guess at this mystery,'' said Villiers. The 
 anxious eyes of his sister half sought those of Arundel, 
 and her cheek was flushed with apprehension for his 
 answer. 
 
 "Very strange!" replied the latter, with a duplicity 
 love first had taught him — " It was, I know, his custom 
 to burn his letters after reading them : the few lines that 
 alone fell into my hands we will take an early opportunity 
 of examining; together." 
 
 Re-assured by the carelessness of his answer, Henrietta 
 recovered herself. Her secret safe — her lover and her 
 brother thus perfectly united — could the world present a 
 more lively pleasure than that which glowed round her 
 heart? The fire-side of Villiers was now embellished 
 with the smiles of happiness, and a long, a lengthening 
 evening succeeded, during which Arundel drank deep 
 draughts of a passion he attempted not to resist; and 
 which beauty, merit, cultivated understanding, and pol- 
 ished manners, united to justify. 
 
 As he was strolling through the city the next morning 
 with Villiers, a man, who seemed guarding the door of a 
 
 narmw and dirty entry, attempted to put a printed paper 
 in his hand. It would have been rejected, had not the
 
 THE POET'S TALE. 32 
 
 o 
 
 unexpected enforcement of " You had better take it, Mr. 
 Arundel," induced him to stop. He looked earnestly at 
 the figure by whom it was presented, and, under an im- 
 mense bush of wig, a threadbare coat, and a scarlet waist- 
 coat laced with gold, discovered Ins quondam acquaint- 
 ance, the German j)hilosophcr. 
 
 " You can't oblige an old friend with less than a shil- 
 ling, Mr. Arundel," said the German, " so pray have the 
 goodness to walk in." Arundel complied ; but he must 
 have been a philosopher himself to forbear smiling when 
 he perceived his friend's collection of minerals and fossils 
 converted into what he called a " very pretty raree-show;" 
 by which, with the assistance of a few common philoso- 
 phical experiments, medical advice offered gratis, and a 
 small pretence at judicial astrology, the German assured 
 him he gained a tolerable livelihood. 
 
 " jSTot," said he, " but I had better have studied a sys- 
 tem of the world than that of the earth; and then I should 
 have been aware of some of its revolutions, which all my 
 knowledge of the stars failed to inform me of." 
 
 Arundel, who knew his acquaintance's head to be filled 
 with as much real learning as might have supplied half a 
 university, could not but smile at the singular stoicism 
 displayed in his conduct ; and though he felt not that 
 tender interest with which the quick sensibility and em- 
 bittered spirit of the Italian had inspired him, yet was his 
 smile insensibly chastened by a sigh, when he contrastcl 
 the character of the German and his fate. 
 
 "The romantic days of chivalry, and the despotic ones 
 of feudal authority, are both vanished," said he, as he 
 commented with his friend on the events they had lately 
 witnessed. "Man, at that period, was contented to bar- 
 ter independence for protection, and found in the cher- 
 ishing power of rank somewhat that consoled him for its 
 superiority. The grosser ligaments that then bound the
 
 324 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 great to the little have insensibly refined into the nicer 
 
 ones of benevolence, distinction, or patronage. How care- 
 ful ought the great to be that they map not these by self- 
 ishness, pride, or caprice ! — How, instead of weakening, 
 ought they, prudentially speaking, to strengthen ties by 
 which the human species is allured to that subordination 
 to which no mortal effort can ever, perhaps, (M/uh them !" 
 
 " You think deeply," returned his friend. 
 
 "Xo, dear Villiers, I only feel deeply — feel for the vir- 
 tues I have seen betrayed — the talents I have seen blight- 
 ed — the sensibilities," he added, half smothering a sigh, 
 "I have known rejected; and by a man to whom it would 
 have cost so little to have cultivated all." 
 
 The sight of Miss Villiers at once dissipated spleen and 
 philosophy. A thousand more interesting topics occurred ; 
 and the subject of his birth engaged the attention both of 
 Arundel and his friends. The paper which he believed to 
 have been written by his father was vainly examined by 
 each. 
 
 "The clue my sister has given us," said Captain Vil- 
 liers, "seems, after all, the only possible one t«> lead to a 
 discovery. You must go into Cornwall, and the sooner 
 the better; for we are none of us rich enough to spend 
 either money or time in unnecessary delays. Suppose you 
 set off to-morrow ?" 
 
 " To-morrow is surely too soon I" 1 answered Arundel, 
 intuitively fixing his eyes on Miss Villiers. 
 
 "I think not," said her brother, smiling; "rather re- 
 member, dear Arundel, 
 
 " To-morro-u- is too late: 
 The wise lived yesterday !" 
 
 "Ah!" cried Arundel, warmly : "it was indeed only 
 yesterday that I began to live! However, I will go I 
 morrow, if you think it advisable. -V family of eon- - 
 quence enough to mention an heir can not be unknown
 
 THE POET'S tale. 325 
 
 in the country ; and I may at least find ground for 
 conjecture, whether I am able to make the wished-for 
 discovery or not." 
 
 " I have good presentiments," said Villiers, as he quit- 
 ted the room to attend a troublesome visitor in the next 
 — " though, certainly, that nothing should even accident- 
 ally remain but those lines is very extraordinary !" 
 
 Henrietta and her lover were left tete-a-tete ; she felt 
 embarrassed ; and with the ill fortune that generally fol- 
 lows the attempt at dispelling an awkward silence, hastily 
 repeated her brother's words, that it was very extraordi- 
 nary ! Arundel, unable to resist the temptation, advanced 
 towards her. 
 
 " Will Miss Villiers," said he, " do me the honor of be- 
 coming my confidante ?" 
 
 " Most undoubtedly," faltered she, blushing. 
 
 "And may I — dare I venture to tell her that there was 
 yet another paper — ?" 
 
 " Is is not better — would it not be right, I mean — why 
 not rather tell my brother?" again incoherently cried 
 Henrietta, blushing more deeply than before. 
 
 " Because," interrupted Arundel, " if my surmises are 
 true, the writing is too sacred to be profaned by any eye 
 but my own ; because on their decision probably depends 
 the happiness or misery of my life ; and because," added 
 he, taking it from his bosom, " with Miss Villiers alone it 
 remains to tell me which." 
 
 She cast a timid eye upon the paper, and, too conscious 
 of the hand, as well as the probable purport of it, would 
 have sunk from her chair had not the supporting arms of 
 Arundel prevented her. He was at her feet when Captain 
 Villiers returned; nor could the latter forbear asking, 
 with a smile, whether these tender demonstrations of re- 
 gard were meant for the old friend or the new one? 
 
 Arundel, who had not been able to resolve on the jour- 
 
 14*
 
 32G c'\ n 1 i: B B ( B v T A L B 
 
 ney of the morrow without previous explanation to both, 
 now hesitated not to disclose his whole heart. Villi* 
 heard him with undisguised pleasure; and, though not 
 apprise* 1, by any part of the conversation, ''I" his 
 
 partiality, thought he ran no risk of violently offending 
 her by sanctioning the hopes of her lover. 
 
 Pleasure, however, is a fleeting good! So thought 
 Arundel, as he looked the next day through the dingy 
 panes of glass in an inn window about thirty miles from 
 London. His gayety was not greatly increased by the 
 probability of having nothing better to do than to look 
 through them for two hours longer. Luxury had not yet 
 provided for travelers as in more modern times ; and the 
 only post-horse the stables afforded, Arundel, from a prin- 
 ciple of humanity and good-nature, had resigned to a 
 gentleman whom the landlord had described to be in a 
 state of agitation that bespoke his journey a matter of the 
 utmost importance. He was somewhat tempted, however, 
 to repent of his good-nature, when, passing through 
 the entry, he cast his eyes on this gentleman^ and discov- 
 ered him to be the valet of Lord Lindsey — a man who 
 had long reigned over his master with most unbounded 
 influence, and whose insolent maimers rendered him the 
 detestation of all within his circle. 
 
 " Ah, Mr. Arundel !" said Verney, starting at the sight 
 of him, " is it you, then, to whom I am so greatly 
 obliged V You were ever good and generous, and I am 
 almost tempted " 
 
 "To profit by the example, I hope," said Arundel, 
 coldly smiling, and passing on. The man seemed struck 
 with the speech. 
 
 "Mr. Arundel, for the l<>ve of heaven, stop !" exclaimed 
 he, eagerly seizing his hand : " favor me with a moment's 
 conversation. It may be of more importance to you than 
 you are aware of." Arunde] hesitated; yet, somewhat
 
 THE POET'S TALE. 327 
 
 impressed with his maimer, went with him into an ad- 
 joining apartment. Yerney shut the door. 
 
 " You have been, sir, for a long time now, the compan- 
 ion and intimate of my lord : you have been the con- 
 fidant of many of his secrets ; yet I believe — nay, I am 
 very sure, that you did not know him to be your brother.'' 
 
 " My brother !" said Arundel, starting back with 
 amazement. — " Lord Lindsey my brother !" 
 
 " As surely, sir, as that he was the seducer of Miss 
 Louisa, and the murderer of Mr. Mortimer !" 
 
 " Have a care, Yerney, of what you say !" cried Arun- 
 del, aghast with horror. 
 
 " I can stand to it upon oath, sir, when and where you 
 please ; — but my time is precious, and I must tell my 
 story in few words. It was just after you set out for Swit- 
 zerland, Mr. Arundel, that I came into confidence with my 
 lord ; I used often to carry messages and notes between 
 him and Ma'amselle Louise ; who, to say the truth, I be- 
 lieve courted him as much as he did her. However that 
 was, he fell into a very great passion when he found that 
 she had told you of their correspondence, and swore he 
 would never see her more. Nay, he actually made you 
 the same promise, or something like it, as you may 
 remember, and left Lyons accordingly. His heart, how- 
 ever, failed him before he had gone many miles ; for they 
 were to have met that night — as I should have told you 
 they often did — when Miss Louise could make a pretense 
 for getting out of the convent to visit her acquaintance. 
 Xothing then would serve my lord but returning ; and a 
 melancholy return it was for poor Mr. Mortimer, whom we 
 overtook as we passed through the short cut that leads to 
 the high road. t My lord at first would have avoided him ; 
 but perceiviDg he was already known, determined to ride 
 boldly on. They soon came up with one another, and in- 
 terchanged salutations ; not very civil. Some conversa-
 
 328 C1ITBBBUB7 TAi.i. 
 
 tion ensued ; and, though I was at a distance, I could under- 
 stand that Mr. Mortimer upbraided my lord with treachery 
 and falsehood. Falsehood was the word. Yon may guess 
 how this was taken ; both of them fell into such a passion, 
 that I verily believe they knew not what they s;iid or did : 
 and as curiosity drew me nearer, I distinctly heard Mr. 
 Mortimer tell my lord that he had no occasion to value 
 himself upon his birth ; that he was only a younger broth- 
 er ; and that you were both son and heir to Lord Lind- 
 sey, as he could sufficiently prove by letters placed pur- 
 posely in his pocket-book to show you on his return. All 
 my lord's passion before was nothing at all to this. As 
 ill luck would have it, we had jtistols in the holsters, for it 
 was then dusk, and we were to go out of the city again 
 that night. — To be short, I held their horses while they 
 both fired, and I saw Mr. Mortimer drop. By my lord*! 
 command I myself took the pocket-book from him, for he, 
 poor man ! was quite gone ; and away we rode as if the 
 devil were behind us, and so to be sure he was. My lord 
 was very moody, and, as I thought, very penitent ; and 
 often said he did not intend the old gentleman's death ; 
 but that it was an even chance, and therefore done in an 
 honorable way. However, as honorable as it was, he 
 made no scruple of keeping the pocket-book, in which, 
 sure enough, there were some chosen letters from the old 
 lord that sufficiently confirmed the truth of Mr. Morti- 
 mer's story. Not that I got sight of them at first ; so far 
 from it, that he would have persuaded me they contained 
 nothing of consequence. However, I knew my oppor- 
 tunities, and, when I had once seen the papers, we used 
 to talk them over very often ; and he even told me that 
 ho should never have fallen into such a rage at first hear* 
 imr of the st<>rv, but that his father, when angry with 
 him once, let fall an odd saying, that dwelt upon his 
 mind. All this, Mr, Arundel, I will say, and swear tool
 
 THE POET'S TALE. '.329 
 
 — As to the rest, to be sure it grieved me to see you 
 forced by ill treatment to quit your own father's house, and 
 throw yourself upon the wide world ; while, on the other 
 
 hand, my lord " Here Verney began to stammer; 
 
 and Arundel, to whose overburdened and agitated mind a 
 pause seemed necessary, threw open the sash, and, lean- 
 ing against the window-frame, endeavored to recover a 
 composure of which the dreadful train of facts he had 
 listened to seemed wholly to have deprived him. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Arundel, I must go," said Verney, abrupt- 
 ly starting up, as if himself awakened to some new recol- 
 lections. 
 
 " Whither ?" returned the othen. 
 
 "That I can't immediately tell — Not back to my lord, 
 you may be sure. This confounded gambling has so ruined 
 his temper, that a man had better live in Bedlam than 
 with him. However, if you will tell me where a line may 
 find you, depend ivpon receiving one before long ; and if I 
 can do you justice, justice you shall have." 
 
 To part in so light a manner with a testimony of such 
 importance, and of which he might be so easily deprived, 
 either by corruption or accident, appeared to Aruudel the 
 extreme of folly ; and he urged every motive, either of 
 justice or interest, that might induce Yerney to return 
 with him to town. The man seemed irresolute, yet more 
 inclined to pursue his own route than that pointed out to 
 him. The horse at length was brought to the door. 
 
 " Mr. Arundel," said Yerney, as the former still op- 
 posed his departure, " what I have said may well show you 
 how much I am disposed to do you a service. I will go 
 greater lengths, however; but you must first swear, that, 
 after the proof I am going to give you of my confidenoe, 
 you will neither attempt to follow, nor detain me a single 
 moment." Arundel hesitated ; but, as no alternative pre- 
 sented itself, at length complied with the requisition.
 
 330 I L N J B BB I Ii V T ALL 
 
 "There, sir!" Baid Verney, taking Borne papers from his 
 portmanteau, u there are the very Letters found in Mr. 
 
 Mortimer's pocket-book. Ask do questions, but remem- 
 ber your promise." So Baying, he snatched up the port- 
 manteau, ran hastily out of the room, and left Arundel in 
 an astonishment from which he was first roused by the 
 clattering of the horse's hoofs. 
 
 The man was quickly out of sight ; but in his hand 
 Arundel indeed held the strange, the affecting testimo- 
 nials of his birth — so long concealed, so wonderfully 
 brought to light. That Verney had robbed his lord 
 could not be doubted ; so often doth " even-handed justi 
 
 "Return th' ingredients of the poisoned chalice 
 To onr own lips." 
 
 Had the speed with which Arundel returned to town 
 allowed more time for reflection, how new, how brilliant, 
 was the prospect that now opened before him ! To con- 
 ceal his birth was once easy ; but to trace it could no 
 lono-er be difficult. Miss Villiers, raised to fortune and 
 rank by his means — Miss Villiers, the ornament of his 
 family, and the restorer of her own, swam before his 
 imagination, and diffused an enchanting sense of pleasure 
 throughout his heart, — a pleasure softened into grateful 
 sensibility, when he recollected that he was paying to the 
 daughter of Mortimer those dues his affection vainly 
 lavished on the ashes of the father. 
 
 To Captain Villiers his return was as desirable as 
 unexpected. A chance inquiry had already discovered 
 to him that Arundel was the original name oi the 
 Lindsey family ; and a comparison of circumstances had 
 inspired him with a suspicion of that truth now bo won- 
 derfully confirmed. Yet Arundel the /<</>(/ son, the / '• 
 of a noble name, surpassed even his most sanguine expec- 
 tations; and in a tumult of various emotions, both friends 
 repaired to the house of Lord Lindsey, whose concern in
 
 THE poet's tale. 331 
 
 the death of Mortimer, however, Arundel carefully sup- 
 pressed. They were told he was indisposed, and could 
 see no one : but to a subterfuge, apparently the result 
 either of cunning or pride, neither gave credit ; and the 
 following billet was, by their mutual desire, sent up to 
 him : 
 
 "When informed that it is but a few hours since I 
 parted with Verney, you will not be surprised that I re- 
 turn to a roof which ingratitude had induced me to abjure. 
 Xor can you, if yet sensible either of prudence or honor, 
 refuse to see and acknowledge a brother in 
 
 Henry Arundel." 
 
 " My lord wishes to speak to Mr. Arundel," said the 
 servant, returning ; " but Captain Yilliers, he begs, will 
 excuse him." 
 
 The verbal message, the ostentatious approach, the cer- 
 emonious introduction, had already, in the bosom of 
 Arundel, repelled the generous tide of nature. Oh, God ! 
 how did the impetuous current return upon his heart, 
 when, stretched on a couch at one end of a magnificent 
 dressing-room, he cast his eyes on the specter of that 
 gay and beautiful Lindsey, whom he had parted with but 
 six weeks before, blooming in health, and vigorous in 
 youth ! — A sigh — almost a groan — of exquisite anguish 
 burst from the heart of Arundel, as, seizing the hand of 
 his brother, he bent his face over it in womanish emotion. 
 The short and sudden cough — the agonizing pain that 
 seemed to seize upon Lord Lindsey, as instantly recalled 
 his reason. 
 
 "My brother — my friend !" cried he, incoherently, "re- 
 cover — compose yourself. — I come not to upbraid. — Oh, 
 why," added he, more vehemently, "did I come at all? 
 Why did I mistrust your message ? Why did I thus sud-
 
 332 I A N I E B B B V TALE S. 
 
 denly force myself upon you?" Lord Lin choked by 
 
 agitation, could n<>t speak ; and Arundel, unable to witnc 
 sufferings he could not assuage, flew into the ante-chamb 
 
 while the attendants administered relief. From one of 
 them he learned what had, in part, effected this devasta- 
 tion. Lord Lindsey, a month before, had attended a rural 
 fete given by the Duchess of Portsmouth, where, after a 
 night of dancing and violent excess, he had fallen asleep, 
 undiscovered for many hours, upon the wet grass. The 
 servant had no time for further information. Recalled by 
 the sound of his brother's voice, Arundel eagerly returned 
 to the apartment. The former tenderly pressed his hand, 
 and, by slow and painful efforts, was now able to speak. 
 But the long-lavished hours of prosperity and health, that 
 make atonement virtue, were lost to Lindsey; and though, 
 in speaking, he failed not to render Arundel a noble just i< . 
 yet from it his own bosom extracted not that balm which 
 might, in happier days, have proved so healing. 
 
 It was not, however, without an exquisite sense of suf- 
 fering, that his generous brother discovered Verney to be 
 a principal instrument in the catastrophe which the ap- 
 pearance of Lindsey announced to be so near; a Buffering 
 considerably augmented when he found that it was to a 
 latent spark of tenderness and remorse in the latter he 
 had owed the two hundred pounds lodged for his use at 
 the banker's. 
 
 Hardly had Lord Lindsey got rid of some of those 
 alarming symptoms which were produced by the violent 
 and dangerous cold he had taken, when Verney, who was 
 dressing him one morning, carried his insolent familiarity 
 so much beyond its usual bounds, as to exasperate a tem- 
 per already feverish and fretful. In a transport of rage 
 Lord Lindsey struck him. The brutal precedent Mas not 
 lost i Verney returned the blow. A violent struggle en- 
 sued between them ; and before Lindsey had either time
 
 THE poet's tale. 333 
 
 or recollection to ring the bell, he was thrown against a 
 cabinet that stood near, with a force that left him breath- 
 less: while Verney, early seduced to villainy, now profited 
 by the lesson, and escaped with such valuables and papers 
 as he deemed most likely to secure him either impunity 
 or revenge. 
 
 Lindsey revived : but severe irritation and internal in- 
 jury had done the work of time ; and he revived only to 
 know that he was dying. 
 
 Yet within the sweet circle of love and virtue there is 
 an atmosphere that renders death less painful! Arundel, 
 Villiers, his sister, all united their cares in alleviating his 
 suflerinors : and the acuteness of disease subsided into in- 
 sensible decay. 
 
 " I give you, Miss Villiers," said Lindsey, on the day 
 that united her with Ms brother, " an invaluable heart. I 
 shall soon leave you," added he, faintly smiling, " those 
 worldly advantages to which that alone gives true no- 
 bility." 
 
 Ah, what could nobility add to the happiness of 
 Arundel and Henrietta! Love, friendship, competence! 
 "Flowers of paradise, as yet unfaded," are in themselves, 
 to tender and well regulated minds, " all they can guess 
 of Heaven."
 
 THE OLD WOMAN'S TALE. 
 
 LOTHAIRE: A LEGEND. 
 
 The laurels wither on your brou ; 
 Then boast no more your mighty deeds 
 
 For on Death's purple altar now, 
 Lo, where the victor victim bleeds ! 
 All heads must come 
 To the cold tomb : 
 Only the actions of the just 
 Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust. 
 
 Shirley. 
 
 -'* * * * j T ( ] row towards evening ore the prior or his 
 guest returned from visiting the ruin ; masses of which, 
 irregularly fallen, and overgrown with moss and weeds, 
 had rendered their progress tedious and uncertain. "To 
 shorten our way, we will, if you please, pass through 
 that part of the abbey which still stands," said the prior, 
 as, drawing a hunch of keys from his pocket, he opened 
 the Gothic and heavy door. Bareheaded, and with a 
 silent sense of devotion, the baron entered : he was struck 
 with the venerable grandeur of the scene; and while his 
 footsteps rang through the massy pillars and decaying 
 arches, he looked upon the Ci-git* — the little history of 
 man, profusely scattered around, with a Bentiment that 
 partook at once of sadness and sublimity. 
 
 * Here li<
 
 THE OLD WOMAN'S TALE. 335 
 
 " The building, even as it now stands," said the prior, 
 "does not ill accord with the ideas you may have formed 
 of it during our walk. The spot which fronts us was 
 once the high altar : observe how magnificently it has 
 been decorated. Tradition tells us of numberless mira- 
 cles performed here ! The saints have, indeed, fallen from 
 their niches ; and, like their worshipers, are possibly min- 
 gled with the dust : but the rich Gothic fretwork is ev- 
 ery where visible. Examine the steps, too i for, though 
 worn, as you perceive, with acts of devotion, the curious 
 in marble will speak of them with rapture. What com- 
 plicated ideas here obtrude themselves upon the mind ! 
 It is but a few moments since our feet, my dear baron, 
 passed over the graves of the noble, the valiant, and the 
 beautiful. How many human sighs have they breathed 
 on the very spot where we now stand ! how many human 
 tears have they dropped ! Of all they solicited in this 
 world, we have seen the end ! — Pardon an old man's free- 
 dom, when he bids you lift your thoughts to a better !" 
 
 The baron looked in silence on his venerable friend. 
 He had faith ; but the habits of his mind were not those 
 of devotion ; and the sentiment that impressed over- 
 awed him. 
 
 "A soldier," continued the prior, "should not, me- 
 thinks, quit the abbey without visiting the tomb of a 
 soldier. It is not yet so dark but w r e may take a cursory 
 view of it. Come a little to the left ; and be not afraid 
 of passing through the low arch, which, I observe, how- 
 ever, wears a more dangerous appearance than when I 
 saw it last. This recess was formerly a chapel dedicated 
 to the blessed Virgin, and once contained a tomb of black 
 marble, of which we have a very singular tradition lodi 
 in the records of the convent. The chapel, though fre- 
 quently rebuilt, is now again in ruins. Of the tomb all 
 vestiges have long since vanished ; but, as the site is
 
 336 CANT EH BURY TALES. 
 
 ascertained, it doubtless stood opposite that you now 
 look at." 
 
 " And to whom was that inscribed?" said the baron. 
 
 u It is rather the memorial of a family than an indi- 
 vidual," replied the prior. "The illustrious house, that, 
 from the thirteenth to the sixteenth century, bore the 
 titles and honors of St. Aubert, owed much of its distinc- 
 tion to a young man, whose valor and fidelity are L 
 commemorated." 
 
 As he spoke, the baron, who at the first glance had 
 seen nothing to attract his attention but mutilated figures, 
 drew near, and began to examine more curiously. 
 
 "Lothaire," continued the prior, "was the trusty and 
 well-beloved page of Louis IX. The dangers that pious 
 monarch encountered, before he was taken prisoner by 
 the Infidels at Damietta, you will see rudely delineated in 
 the relievo that time has yet spared. The twilight is 
 rather unfavorable, but I believe you will have no great 
 difficulty in distinguishing knights, horses, and all the in- 
 signia of a battle. Here you plainly perceive the red- 
 cross shield — and here the lilies of France triumphant 
 over the prostrate crescent. It should seem that our na- 
 tional characteristic has been the same in all ages," added 
 he, smiling ; " for the sculptor has taken more pleasure in 
 describing the monarch- s first victorious sallies than his 
 subsequent defeat ; that was probably represented on the 
 other side, though now wholly defaced. "Were I to 
 choose my time and place for recounting to you the 
 legend annexed to the name of Lothaire, it should be by 
 this very light, and on this very spot. But the brave are 
 generally superstitious, and I should be sorry to cast a 
 shade over the valor of a soldier: or to speak serioi 
 my good friend, I begin already to feel the cold and 
 damp air incident to the building. Let us, therefore, put 
 up a short prayer to the Virgin for the souls of the de-
 
 THE OLD WOMAN'S TALE. 337 
 
 ceased, and get home." The convent-bell, for evening 
 service, chimed as he spoke. The baron started, and 
 thoughtfully followed his friend along the aisles of the 
 abbev. 
 
 A blazing fire, some light wines, and a plentiful, though 
 simple, repast, soon restored their natural warmth to the 
 limbs of the good prior. His conversation, which, while 
 it breathed sincere piety, partook of the cheerfulness that 
 is generally its companion, would doubtless have enter- 
 tained the baron, had not the mind of the latter been 
 otherwise engrossed. His friend, at length, perceived 
 he was unusually silent, and began to rally him on the 
 subject. 
 
 " Blame yourself, Monsieur le prieur^ said the baron, 
 smiling. " In the world we meet with so little that is not 
 in the beaten track, that our very ideas seem mechanical. 
 In getting out of it, with folks like you, we blunder ivpon 
 a new train of thought now and then ; and nothing makes 
 a man worse company than being in love with his own 
 contemplations. 
 
 " And whither may yours now be wandering ?" 
 
 " A long pilgrimage, I assure you ! Beyond the limits 
 of Christendom ! — In plain terms, I have had nothing be- 
 fore my eyes but knights and bloody banners since we 
 left the abbey. Tell me somewhat more of the family of 
 St. Aubert." 
 
 "That it flourished till the sixteenth century, I have 
 already told you," said the prior. " Its last representa- 
 tive, on whose tomb you commemorated the actions of 
 his predecessors, was, like them, a soldier ; and, doubt- 
 less, a brave one ! He perished young, at the battle of 
 Pavia ; and it was in consequence of his donation, for he 
 was childless, that the abbey was founded. It was raised 
 on the very spot on which the family chateau had long 
 stood. Time had rendered the chateau itself little better
 
 338 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 than a ruin; but the gratitude of the church took that 
 
 method of consecrating it to posterity. The chapel of 
 the Virgin adjoined to the house : it then became a part 
 of the abbey, and was long an object of peculiar tren< 
 
 tion, as well for the Legend annexed to it as for containing 
 
 the monument of the founder. The legend itself I « 
 show you," said he, opening his small, but neat, library : 
 "it is curious for its antiquity; though I will not pledge 
 my faith for it in any other light. The baron, who saw- 
 several rolls of vellum, or parchment, covered with black 
 characters, that appeared to him wholly unintelligible, 
 looked at it with an air of surprise and disap] (ointment 
 that made the other smile. 
 
 " You, my good friend, should have lived in the age of 
 the troubadours and jongleurs," said the prior, "by the 
 curiosity you seem to feel for our preux chevaliers. How- 
 ever, if it was not so near the hour of rest, I could easily 
 gratify it. What I am now displaying is as unintelligible 
 to me as to you; and, though it has been carefully | 
 served, is worm-eaten and imperfect, as you will perceive 
 in the very first pages. The language has been modern- 
 ized, however, in every succeeding century, down to the 
 present. One of our order has constantly undertaken the 
 office, which I am myself now performing. You have 
 here," continued he, opening another drawer, "both my 
 copy and that of my predecessor. Mine is yet imperfect ; 
 but to-morrow you may read either at your leisure, and 
 compare them, if you will, with the original." 
 
 " I had rather read one of them to-night," interrupted 
 the baron. 
 
 tw It will be time ill spent !" 
 
 "It will be curiosity gratified." 
 
 The good prior was not without a certain share of su- 
 perstition. He looked at the old-fashioned dial that stood
 
 THE OLD WOMAN'S TALE. 339 
 
 over the chimney, and perceived the hand already pointed 
 towards midnight. 
 
 " You may repent !" said he, mysteriously, and after a 
 pause. 
 
 " At my peril," returned the other, possessing himself 
 of the papers, and drawing his chair nearer the fire. The 
 prior again remonstrated — the baron was obstinate : and 
 like most obstinate people gained his point. On finding 
 himself alone, he threw fresh wood on the fire, snuffed his 
 candles, and, having made his little establishment, pre- 
 pared, amidst the profound stillness of the convent, to 
 examine the manuscripts. Here, however, imagination 
 was soon bewildered, and memory confused. The scroll 
 that fell under his hand had not yet been modernized by 
 his friend ; and, if not wholly unintelligible, yet quickly 
 defied his patience in a regular perusal. In the second he 
 was not more lucky : but though the baron was no scholar, 
 he was a man both of valor and birth. The arms of France, 
 curiously blazoned according to the fashion of the times, 
 attracted his eyes in the first scroll ; and, from examining 
 those, with other rich and singular devices that adorned 
 it, he insensibly learned that it was a testimonial of 
 knighthood, bestowed by the king, while prisoner within 
 the walls of Cairo, upon one of his followers. 
 
 The second was more interesting : it contained a minute 
 detail of all the ceremonies of a single combat, in which 
 honor and fortune were the stake, and death the sole ad- 
 mitted umpire. It was sanctioned by the queen dowager 
 Blanche, regent of the kingdom, and held by her in per- 
 son, in the name of " the most puissant, and sovereign 
 lord, Louis IX." 
 
 To the victor, or the vanquished, the baron was indif- 
 ferent ; but his imagination insensibly grew heated, 
 
 "As lengths of far-fhm'd ages roll'd away 
 In unsubstantial images of air ;"
 
 ,'j-iO CiKTlBBUBT TALi.-. 
 
 and while reading the long catalogue of illustrious names, 
 he seemed indeed to behold 
 
 " The melancholy ghosts of dead renown, 
 
 With penitential aspect, as they passed, 
 
 All point at earth, and smile at human pride." 
 
 A superstitious veneration crept over hia frame ; and, 
 breaking abruptly from papers he could but half under- 
 stand, he entered at once upon those of his friend. 
 
 THE PRIOR'S MANUSCRIPT. 
 
 The king, whose great heart swelled within him 
 
 as his page continued to speak, was some moments ere he 
 could reply. 
 
 " Brave Lothaire !" said he at length, u hast thou well 
 weighed the perils of the enterprise thou wouldst under- 
 take? Nay, more — examine closely thy own bosom, and 
 tell me whether thou hast also weighed the uncertainty 
 of the event. To the soldier who falls in battle for his 
 prince a wreath of glory is indeed allotted; but to the 
 solitary and devoted heart, that bleeds in secret for his 
 friend, where shall be the recompense?" 
 
 "It will be found in that heart," eagerly replied Lo- 
 thaire. "Oh that mine were at this moment laid bare 
 before its sovereign, that he might know how deeply he 
 penetrated it, when he bestowed the sacred name of 
 friend !" 
 
 "Generous youth!" said Louis, with emotion, "the 
 prince is but too fortunate who can substitute that term 
 for the less valuable one of subject. But let us waive a 
 discourse thai presses so painfully upon my feelings. In 
 me thou no longer beholdest the monarch of a generous 
 and a loyal nation; but a captive, betrayed by his llatter- 
 ers, and oppressed by his enemies: one on whom the
 
 THE OLD WOMAN'S TALE. 341 
 
 wrath of heaven has been poured, doubtless for his own 
 crimes, or those of his ancestors. Explain to me, how- 
 ever, more at full, the means by which thou wouldst return 
 to France ; and, should a miraculous interposition con- 
 duct thee thither, and surely little less than a miraculous 
 interposition can do it, fear not but our mother will sup- 
 ply such forces and such treasures as may at once facili- 
 tate our ransom, and extend the arm of justice over those 
 recreants whom we suspect so basely to have betrayed 
 the cause of Christendom. 
 
 Lothaire, wiio in various sallies had acquired a superior 
 knowledge of the country through which he must neces- 
 sarily pass, now imparted his scheme at full length to the 
 king, and again earnestly supplicated him to rely on the 
 zeal and ingenuity of the commander of the galley. 
 
 Louis still hesitated. That pious prince, daring and in- 
 trepid in his own person, yet knew how to fear for his 
 friends : but as destruction pressed closely, not only on 
 himself, but on that part of the flower of his army whose 
 lives the avarice of the infidels induced them yet to spare, 
 the monarch subdued the feelings of the man, and he 
 consented that his young favorite should risk the under- 
 taking. 
 
 The evening of the ensuing day was fixed upon for the 
 execution of the plan. — " Yet ere thou goest," said the 
 king, " let us complete those ceremonies that alone can 
 entitle thee to enter the lists against our proudest vassals ; 
 and may He, whose cross we bear, prosper thy arms in 
 the service of thy country and thy king !" That night, 
 like the preceding ones, w T as spent in vigils and in prayer : 
 and, after the solemn observance of such rites as the time 
 and place admitted, Lothaire received from the sword of 
 the brave Louis the honors and the claims of knighthood. 
 Testimonials of this, together with the secret mandate 
 and instructions of the king, and a small quantity of gold, 
 
 15
 
 342 CANTERBUET TALES. 
 
 he carefully concealed in his garments. The darkness of 
 the season favored his flight ; and committing himself to 
 the fidelity of the Arab, paddling by night down the 
 Nile, and concealed among its reeds by day, after hazards 
 and hardships innumerable, he at length found himself on 
 board the Christian galley. 
 
 The commander instantly crowded sail, and favorable 
 winds seemed for some time to promise them a speedy 
 navigation : but the face of the heavens suddenly changed, 
 the weather grew lowering and tempestuous, black and ac- 
 cumulating vapors obscured the sun, and the sea assumed 
 its most threatening aspect. A heavy gale succeeded ; 
 and, as they drove before it, the sharp promontories and 
 rocky shores of Greece menaced the vessel hourly with 
 destruction. After having escaped this danger, another 
 still more formidable seemed to present itself; for the 
 sailors, most of them French, and desirous to return to 
 their native country, dreaded, above all other evils, that 
 of being thrown upon the coast of Africa, where certain 
 captivity or death awaited them. — Eager to run the ship 
 into any port of Sicily or Italy, they with rapture found 
 themselves in sight of the latter; and the low and barren 
 shore was pronounced by some of the most experienced 
 to be part of the coast of Calabria. Vainly did the master 
 remonstrate on the danger of approaching it : his author- 
 ity was drowned in their clamor ; and while their shouts 
 yet rent the air, the vessel struck upon a rock, and the 
 water was seen to rush in with irresistible rapidity. Those 
 who before had hoped now abandoned every care but 
 that of life ; and Lothaire, who perceived that the boat 
 they had hoisted out must quickly sink with the numbers 
 that crowded into her, hastily threw off his garments, 
 and, binding them in a small parcel round his head, 
 plunged fearlessly into the waves. 
 
 Vigorous in health and youth, t<> him the water had
 
 THE OLD WOMAN'S TALE. 343 
 
 long been an element almost as familiar and as natural as 
 air: the storm had considerably abated, though the sea 
 yet ran high. Often repelled, bruised, and disappointed 
 in his efforts, he, nevertheless, made good his landing : 
 and, breathing a sigh of commiseration for his compan- 
 ions, whom he perceived driven down the coast, and 
 nearly out of sight, he directed his eyes from them to 
 the trackless and wild solitude that surrounded him. It 
 was, indeed, a cheerless horizon, in which no traces of 
 human habitation, food, or succor, were to be discerned : 
 yet nature loudly demanded all; and he continued to 
 walk in search of them, till the storm, whose fury had 
 been for some hours suspended, once more began to 
 brood. The sultry atmosphere grew heavy and lurid 
 around, forked lightning broke over the sea, and low 
 reverberations of deep and distant thunder were heard 
 from the hills. A rocky hollow, in the bosom of one of 
 them, offered him temjDorary shelter ; hastily he entered 
 it, and, as his feet were blistered, and his strength ex- 
 hausted, gladly accepted that repose which a bank of 
 earth at the extremity seemed to promise — throwing 
 from him, without examination, some hard substance that 
 incommoded him as he fell. 
 
 The tumultuous winds, that long convulsed the bosom 
 of nature, at length slowly died away; and profound 
 slumber began to seal up the eyes of Lothaire, when a 
 wild and fearful apparition, a something between reality 
 and vision, seemed to pass like supernatural influence 
 across his senses, and at once awakened them. Starting, 
 he found his pulse beat high, his lips dry and clammy, 
 and his whole frame suffused with a cold dew, that 
 denoted its internal convulsion. Instinctively grasping 
 his dagger, he half raised himself, and looked round the 
 cavern : the light, though imperfect, was yet sufficient to 
 convince him that nothing human was within, but him-
 
 344 C A. N T E It B U P. Y TALES. 
 
 self. ITg listened — no sound, no motion was to be dis- 
 tinguished, save the low and monotonous roaring of the 
 waves, as they broke upon the distant bea 
 
 Lothaire was unaceustoined to fear. With disdain he 
 now repelled the involuntary sensation, and earnestly 
 directed his attention to recall the imperfect ideas that 
 had escaped him, ere he well awoke. But the mysterious 
 visitation was past ; and, as all desire to sleep had van- 
 ished with it, he arose, and advanced towards the mouth 
 of the cave, where the returning sun now shot a bright 
 and slanting ray. On approaching it, he perceived his 
 garments to be spotted in many places with a dusky n 
 which, as it easily shook off, he concluded to be the soil 
 of the country, that had been attracted only by the 
 damp : a nearer examination, however, discovered to him 
 that it was tufts of human hair, adhering: together with a 
 substance, which, though it pulverized at his touch, he 
 had no difficulty to assure himself had been blood. 
 
 Impelled by curiosity, he drew his poniard, and re-en- 
 tered the cave; searching every corner of it, to discover 
 whether, by an outlet yet unobserved, some human being 
 had not obtruded upon his repose. His search, however, 
 was fruitless. In returning, he mused for a moment over 
 the bank of earth — it did not appear to have been lately 
 thrown up; but it struck him to be exactly the length of 
 a human figure; and he wondered he had not before ob- 
 served that he must have slept upon a grave. A waking 
 dream of horrors, not unlike that which had disturbed 
 his sleep, seemed to shiver his senses ; and, in turning 
 from the spot, something like reality assailed them, as he 
 struck his foot against the same hard Substance that he 
 had before thrown from him, and, on picking it up, per- 
 ceived it was the handle of a battle-axe, from which time 
 or violence had loosened the steel. — Abruptly he quitted 
 the cavern, and its gloomy environs; directing hi> cou
 
 THE OLD WOMAN'S TALE. 345 
 
 as night drew on, by the stars ; and listening in every 
 gale for the sound of some distant bell, that might guide 
 him to a monastery, his only hope of relief amidst the 
 solitude with which he was surrounded. As the east red- 
 dened before him, he perceived it stained with rising 
 smoke. Eagerly he directed his steps towards the spot ; 
 but, though he exerted all the speed fatigue would allow, 
 it was yet some time ere he reached it. He found traces 
 of a fire that had been kindled on the turf, probably to 
 prepare a rustic repast; but the persons who had par- 
 taken of it were gone ; and the heart of Lothaire sunk 
 beneath the prospect of an evil, from which, he had rea- 
 son to fear, no exertion of courage or fortitude could 
 rescue him. Pensively he continued to gaze, when his 
 eye suddenly rested on a small bag, left on the ground 
 through negligence or haste, and which had the appear- 
 ance of containing the provisions of a hunter. He opened 
 it, and was not deceived : the scanty store it held afford- 
 ed, indeed, no gratification to luxury ; but a pious and 
 abstemious spirit taught him to discern in the gift, the 
 hand of a Supreme Giver, who thus indeed protected the 
 absent monarch in the person of his knight. 
 
 With invigorated spirits he now continued his journey. 
 The road, as he advanced, grew more wild, and some- 
 times almost impervious ; so that it was difficult to know 
 what direction he pursued. Forcing his way, however, 
 through every obstacle, he nattered himself that he had 
 proceeded many leagues to the north ; when, on the sun- 
 set of the second day, he suddenly emerged from a glen 
 into the bosom of a rocky valley ; and, looking round, 
 perceived with astonishment that he had only taken a 
 wearisome circuit, which had brought him once more 
 within sight of the detestable cavern. He stopped with 
 an emotion of anger and regret, when his eyes were
 
 34G C ANTE B BURY TALES. 
 
 struck for the first time with the appearance of a human 
 being in this vast solitude. 
 
 On a low stone, not many yards distant from t 
 mouth of the cave, sat a monk. His hood fell over his 
 head, which inclined pensively downwards; his arms 
 rested on his knees, and his clasped hands denoted either 
 sorrow or devotion. A hold point of rock projec 
 above him; and the wild and tangled branches that hi 
 from it cast a somber shade over the spot. 
 
 Lothaire advanced. At the sound of his footsteps the 
 monk gently raised his head, and civilly, though solemnly, 
 returned his greeting. His accent denoted him French ; 
 and from the little that escaj)ed him, Lothaire lean 
 that he was, like himself, a wanderer, traveling homewards, 
 in order to lay his bones in their native earth. 
 
 They continued to journey on together. The religicux 
 seemed perfectly acquainted with the country, and often, 
 by leading his companion through narrow and obscure 
 passes, spared him the fatigue he must otherwise have en- 
 countered. The suspicions which his appearance, and the 
 reserve of his manners, first excited in Lothaire, insensibly 
 died away as he perceived neither treachery nor ambush. 
 To open violence, as man to man, he could not but be in- 
 different, as he was himself armed with a powerful and 
 massy poniard, as well as with a short dagger, which he 
 wore concealed in his bosom. The monk, on the contrary, 
 appeared to have no weapon ; yet his close-drawn garments 
 gave a mysterious air to his person and deportment. But 
 though distrust sul isided, yet were there some strange pe- 
 culiarities observable in the conduct of the latter, that in- 
 voluntarily tinctured the mind of his companion with sus- 
 picious and black ideas. No excess of fasting, no extremity 
 of fatigue, ever induced him to partake of the food, how- 
 ever simple, bestowed by the charity of the good Chris- 
 tians they encountered; but, plunging daily into some
 
 THE OLD WOMAN'S TALE. 347 
 
 thicket, ho found his whole sustenance in water and ber- 
 ries; the rudest crag, always two or three hundred paces 
 distant, served him to repose upon ; and Lothaire often 
 dwelt with secret and inexplicable horror on the extent of 
 crimes that could demand a penance so severe. It was at 
 those moments that the recollection of the cavern in Cala- 
 bria obtruded itself upon him ; till, by much thinking, the 
 ideas became intimately connected, and he rarely fixed 
 his eyes on his fellow-traveler, without feeling a succession 
 of gloomy and indefinable images float before his fancy. 
 
 They now once more beheld the broad bosom of the 
 ocean ; and approaching a small port, still within the Ne- 
 apolitan territories, where lay a few trading vessels, one 
 of which bore the French flag, Lothaire, with a portion of 
 the gold he had treasured in his garments, easily obtained 
 a passage for himself and his companion. 
 
 The gay and pleasant shores of Provence, as they saluted 
 his eyes, conveyed an enlivening sensation to his heart. 
 Already in imagination he beheld the magnanimous and 
 still beautiful Blanche of Castille, grasping with steady 
 hand the reins of enrpire during the absence of her sou. 
 He revolved carefully in his mind all the instructions of 
 the king, and the names of those knights or barons whom 
 he had a discretional power to challenge as disloyal. He 
 recollected, with exultation, the honor so lately conferred 
 upon him, at an age yet immature ; and when he consid- 
 ered himself as the champion of the cross, and the avenger 
 of his prince, his young heart beat proudly with valor and 
 with hope. 
 
 The turrets of a magnificent castle, visible at the distance 
 of some leagues, now attracted his eyes ; and the gallant 
 name of St. Aubert assured him of hospitality within its 
 walls. The sun was yet blazing in the meridian ; but 
 Lothaire, forgetful of his scorching influence, continued 
 for some hours to press forward.
 
 348 I A N I B B li U B Y T A L E S. 
 
 " We will rest here," said the monk, as they skin 
 the side of a thick wood. " For thee, who art \ with 
 
 the mission of thy God and king, repose will be QC 
 Well tlms far, brave Lothaire, hast thou performed t' 
 task. Be constant, and be valiant!" 
 
 Lothaire, whose mind was pre-occupied, and whoso spi- 
 rits were already enlivened, without attending minutely 
 to the knowledge of him, conveyed by the words of his 
 companion, readily assented to his proposal; and, throw- 
 ing himself on the turf, indulged a pleasing reverie, which, 
 lulling his senses, at length sealed up his eye-. 
 
 His slumbers were long and balmy ; and when he awok< -. 
 he was surprised to find that day was wholly closed. He 
 started up, and looked around. The moon in full splendor 
 silvered the wood on one side, while, on the other, the 
 towers of the castle, gayly and superbly illuminated, blazed 
 their friendly invitation to the forlorn and househ -< 
 stranger. 
 
 Lothaire cast his eyes about in search of his fellow- 
 traveler, who, in yet unbroken slumber, lay stretched at 
 the foot of a large oak. In the moment of advancing to 
 wake him, he was suddenly urged, by a secret and irresist- 
 ible curiosity, to lift the mantle and the cowl, in order to 
 view the features and person of one whom, during their 
 long intercourse, he had never yet distinctly seen — nor 
 ever distinctly was to see — the garments covered only a 
 human skeleton. He started back — suspended for some 
 instants between incredulity and horror ; then with curious 
 eye surveyed the dry and moldermg frame, till he Mas 
 fully convinced all vital moisture had long since been ex- 
 haled ; and while deeply considering the intents of Provi- 
 dence in this miraculous intervention, it suddenly occurred 
 to him that the monk, at their first meeting, had an- 
 nounced an intention to lay his bones in the bosom of his 
 native land.
 
 THE OLD W OMAN'S TALE. 349 
 
 With grateful and pious awe Lothaire proceeded to 
 fulfill this ceremony ; in which the strong poniard he was 
 provided witli assisted him. In the act of interment he 
 had occasion particularly to notice the skull, which he 
 discerned to have been cleft in many places by some violent 
 weapon ; and where it had entered deepest, it had carried 
 witli it tufts of hair, resembling in color that which had 
 formerly adhered to his garments in the cave. 
 
 The gay spirits of Lothaire had now received a' sudden 
 revulsion; and, as he pensively advanced towards the 
 castle, he continued to meditate upon the strange con- 
 currence of events by which he had been hitherto pur- 
 sued. 
 
 The gates readily opened to receive him. To Lothaire 
 the lord of St. Aubert was personally unknown ; but he 
 found him a man yet unbroken by years, of a gay and 
 graceful demeanor, and who, to the valor which had early 
 distinguished him amidst the crusaders, added the court- 
 esy of a true and loyal knight. A slender repast was 
 immediately served ; after which they conversed familiarly 
 together; and the mind of Lothaire, which at first had 
 been thoughtful and abstracted, insensibly opened itself 
 to the pleasures of society. 
 
 It was already late when a sprightly strain of music 
 resounded through the castle. St. Aubert, starting up, 
 motioned to his guest to follow it ; and the attendants at 
 the same moment threw open the doors of a magnificent 
 saloon, of which the sparkling and brilliant appearance 
 fixed the eyes of the young knight, while the superb ban- 
 quet he saw prepared in the apartment beyond it filled 
 him with an astonishment he attempted not to conceal, 
 
 " You are deceived," said St. Aubert, with a smile, 
 " if you suppose our evening was to conclude with the 
 sober cheer of which you have already partaken ! It is not 
 
 15*
 
 350 c A x t j: i: B 1 i: v X a L e s. 
 
 thus I am accustomed to treat my guests: neither, to say 
 truth, am I inclined bo poorly to treat myself" 
 
 Lothaire quickly perceived his host to be sincere; and 
 that, whatever pleasure lie might find in exercising the 
 
 rights of hospitality, the enjoyments of the table in his u\vn 
 person were no inconsiderable addition to it. 
 
 But thongh art and expense had been lavished to pro- 
 duce gayety, they seemed unhappily to fail of their effect. 
 As the hours wore on, the spirits of St. Anbert visibly 
 
 flavored : the most animating strains of music were 1> 
 upon his ear, and the richest viands upon his taste His 
 conversation, though broken into snatches of artificial mer- 
 riment, was yet cold and disjointed : and Lothaire, who 
 be^an to conclude that he entertained a secret weariness, 
 which complaisance did not permit him to show, at length 
 proposed retiring. 
 
 Two attendants conducted him through a suite of superb 
 apartments ; but he started on perceiving the magnificence 
 of that intended for his repose. 
 
 "Thy lord," said he, turning to one of the domestics, 
 " has mistaken the rank of the guest whom he thus honors. 
 Accommodation so splendid I know not that I should 
 desire were I a prince — as a soldier I must be permitted 
 to decline it." 
 
 "The apartment you see before you," said the man, 
 respectfully, u is indeed the best in the castle, and was 
 once occupied solely by its owners: but it is now inva- 
 riably allotted by my lord to every guest : he is himself 
 contented with a more humble one." 
 
 Lothaire, whose pure and temperate habits made him 
 look on luxury with disgust, again remonstrated; but. as 
 the domestic seemed earnest in his answers, he waived 
 further debit ! ; and taking from him a small lamp, which 
 he placed up<»n a marble table, lie closed the door. 
 
 Night was far advanced, and the fatigued traveler h id
 
 THE OLD WO MAN'S TALE. 351 
 
 no difficulty to believe that he should sleep. Hastily he 
 threw himself into bed, and had already slept some hours, 
 when he suddenly started with the same horrible impress- 
 ion that had visited him in the cavern of Calabria. A phan- 
 tom, of which he could ascertain no form, no line, no dis- 
 tinct idea, seemed again to shiver his senses and unnerve 
 his frame : vainlv he strove to recollect it ; — vainly he 
 cast his eyes around the wide and solitary chamber, feebly 
 illuminated by the lamp : they presented him nothing but 
 vacuity and gloom, and with disdain he perceived an 
 unusual pulsation continue to beat through his veins. 
 
 With the first beams of the sun he arose, and de- 
 scended. His host, with a smiling countenance, already 
 attended his coming : and as they walked together on the 
 ramparts of the castle, the dreams of weakness and super- 
 stition fled before the gallant themes that engrossed them ; 
 while the soft breath of morning, the bright sparkling of 
 the dew, and the song of the birds, combined to call forth 
 every energy of mind and constitution. 
 
 The character of the lord of St. Aubert, sprightly, 
 bold, and ardent, embellished by the acquirements of so- 
 ciety, and enlivened by its enjoyments, contrasted with 
 the unassuming and simple dignity of Lothaire, produced 
 an effect that was altogether new and gratifying to both. 
 Familiar with courts, as well as camps, St. Aubert spoke 
 with energy and information upon either. Lothaire lis- 
 tened with interest ; nor was it till the moments of con- 
 fidence and enthusiasm were past, that he perceived 1. 
 had inadvertently entrusted to his host some of those s - 
 crets the prudence of his prince had recommended to the 
 sanctuarv of his own bosom. Aware of indiscretion, 
 though fearless of any ill effect from it, save that of being 
 urged to further communication, he now prepared for hi 
 departure : but St. Aubert, who seemed to have found in 
 his young guest that charm which original and simple
 
 352 C ANTEKIil'RY TALES. 
 
 manners ever diffuse, so strenuously urged his stay, that 
 lie found himself, for the iirst time, entangled by court - 
 
 sics he was yet too young in life boldly to reject ; and, if 
 to reject them had been in his will, yet was it not in 1 
 power to repel the arguments by which they were en- 
 forced. But though it was indeed true that hardships 
 and fatigue had made some alteration in his person, he 
 felt a secret confusion on recollecting, that the rose of 
 health had faded less from the actual Bufferings he had 
 encountered, than from the pressure of a silent and super- 
 stitious weight within. 
 
 " The repose to which you invite me," said he, thought- 
 fully, and after a pause, " I might, perhaps, be tempted to 
 indulge in — could I find it." The baron stopped, and 
 looked earnestly at him. 
 
 " Your surprise is just," continued Lothaire, with the 
 same unaffected candor. " You will perhaps mingle with 
 it somewhat of that contempt which arises in my own 
 bosom, when I add, that the soldier of his king, though 
 fearless in the field, is yet a coward in his dreams." He 
 then related the extraordinary impression his fancy had 
 received from the vision of the preceding night, and his 
 fruitless efforts to ascertain either its nature or its end. 
 
 St. Aubert, whose curiositv had been awakened by the 
 opening of his discourse, listened to its conclusion with a 
 smiling and incredulous air. 
 
 "An accidental malady of constitution \ n said he. as it 
 finished. — "Fancies like these, brave Lothaire, engen- 
 dered by much thinking and fatigue, good cheer and eas 
 a!<»ne can remedy." 
 
 "On the effects of fatigue," said Lothaire, '• I will not 
 pronounce: but, trust me, this supernatural visitation (for 
 such T can not but term it) has no connection with previous 
 thought ; audi will frankly own the internal conviction of 
 my soul denies it to be chance. Once, and once only, in
 
 THE OLD WOMAN'S TALE. 353 
 
 a cavern of Calabria " He stopped ; for St. Aubert, 
 
 who, while earnestly listening, bad walked too near the 
 edge of the rampart, was seized with dizziness ; and, but 
 for the timely assistance of his companion, would sudden- 
 ly have plunged over the low parapet, perhaps into eter- 
 nity. Lothaire abruptly seized him by the arm, and j:>er- 
 ceiving, by the paleness of his countenance, that he was 
 extremely ill, signed to a sentinel, who instantly quitted 
 his post to give assistance to his lord. The temporary 
 malady was soon subdued. The pleasures of the table 
 once more invited ; and Lothaire was not proof against 
 solicitation, enforced by raillery, that piqued at once his 
 courage and his pride. The recital he was about to make 
 remained unfinished, and the rest of the day was passed 
 in a festivity that was yet only preparatory to that of 
 the evening, when the gayly illuminated rooms, the 
 superb banquet, and the sprightly band, were again called 
 in as auxiliaries to ];>leasure. Lothaire, however, no long- 
 er beheld them as such. In the countenance of St. Au- 
 bert he thought he discerned something watchful and 
 sinister. "While reposing in the bosom of luxury he treat- 
 ed the ministers of his amusement with the fierceness and 
 petulance of a man who is ill at peace with himself. The 
 domestics, on their part, had an air of servility and con- 
 straint. The eyes of one of them, like those of a picture, 
 were constantly upon Lothaire ; and the latter became 
 convinced, from all he observed, that it is possible to bask 
 in the full blaze of prosperity without receiving warmth 
 from the ray. 
 
 While plunged, he hardly knew why, in a train of 
 somber and unpleasant recollections, the hours wore fast 
 away, and he retired, as before, to his spacious and prince- 
 ly chamber ; where, banishing every idea that should im- 
 pede his rest, he threw himself into bed again to start 
 
 from it with horror and aversion. Instinctively, as before
 
 354 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 in the cavern, he grasped his poniard with a recollection 
 of some confused sound, that jarred upon hi . and 
 seemed to die away with his awakening faculties. The 
 
 night had been rough and stormy ; and. as the lamp 
 swayed with the blast, its wavering and uncertain blaze 
 gave temporary light and animation to the figures wrought 
 on the tapestry. He fixed his eves earnestly upon them in 
 
 one particular spot, and smiled on finding he could almost 
 
 persuade himself they moved. While continuing to pause 
 and meditate, he heard the tinkling of a bell, as it was 
 borne strongly to him upon the wind ; and, rising, per- 
 ceived that, though the morning was gloomy and over- 
 cast, it was already the gray dawn. The bell he discerned 
 to be that of the chapel belonging to the castle, which 
 rans: for the first mass: and in the bosom of that Re. 
 deemer in whose cause he served, Lothaire resolved to 
 seek the firmness no mortal effort seemed able to bestow. 
 
 Rising, he explored his way to a chapel dedicated to 
 the Virgin. It was yet obscurely lighted by the growing 
 beams of the morning, while the few old domestics whom 
 devotion had collected were shivering in its raw and au- 
 tumnal air. Lothaire threw himself at -the foot of the 
 altar, and silently invoked the Deity, either to illuminate 
 his mind with some great and useful truth, or to banish 
 from it the visions by which it was distempered. 
 
 He arose refreshed, invigorated, purified. Such i^ the 
 sacred force of prayer! — The light was now clearer; and 
 curiosity directed his eyes round the chapel, which w 
 magnificently decorated. They rested, with singular ex- 
 ultation, upon the spoils torn from the infidels by the 
 valor of the house of St. Aubert : and, while the image of 
 his king, and suffering fellow-soldiers, pressed upon his 
 memory, he did not immediately notice the monument 
 those banners seemed to consecrate. It was of black 
 marble.
 
 > 
 
 THE OLD WOMAN'S TALE. 355 
 
 The art of the sculptor had displayed itself in emblemat- 
 ical and warlike ornaments. The helm, the corselet, and 
 the spear, curiously carved and intermingled, appeared 
 grouped behind the half-recumbent shield, of which 
 Lothaire drew near to examine the device : 
 
 " Valiant and constant /" 
 He started as though one had spoken to him from 
 the grave ; and, involuntarily casting his eyes towards 
 heaven, the beams of the morning, at the same moment, 
 broke full upon them through a rich window of stained 
 glass above the tomb, where heraldry, yet in its infancy, 
 was blended with the figures of saints and martyrs. — 
 " Valiant and constant !" exclaimed he aloud, as the oft- 
 repeated words appeared inscribed amidst the armorial 
 bearings in various hues, and in various directions. 
 
 " It was the chosen device of my late lord," said a sil- 
 ver-haired domestic, who stood near. 
 
 " He perished in the field ?" cried Lothaire, with a tone 
 of eager inquiry. 
 
 " Alas, no ! he was not so fortunate. He died of a 
 fever." 
 
 " Within the castle-walls ?" 
 
 " Beyond sea — in Italy. But, blessed be God ! he 
 wanted not succor. His kinsman, our present lord, and 
 Bertram, both were with him." 
 
 Lothaire grew pale ; but the garrulous old man per- 
 ceived it not. He continued to recount various marvel- 
 ous tales with which his memory was stored, concerning 
 the wars in Palestine, till the luckless hour when the two 
 noble kinsmen, the lord of St. Aubert, and Sir Hugh de 
 Mercie, thrown by shipwreck on a barbarous coast, had 
 traversed the greatest part of Italy, concealing their 
 arms under the habits ofreligieux. "There," added the 
 old man, " hangs the trophy of our present lord : he 
 offered it to our patron saint immediately on his return."
 
 350 CANTERBURY T A L B S. 
 
 "The armor is perfect," said Lothaire, considering it — 
 
 "save that I see no weapon." 
 
 "My Lord had none," said a voice on the other si 
 "No, surely, Bertram," added the first speaker, "or, 
 
 doubtless, lie would have offered it with the rest." 
 
 "Thy lord, while journeying, would, metliinks, have 
 found little security in his armor," continued Lothair 
 still continuing to muse, " without some instrument of 
 defence." 
 
 " He had a battle-axe," said the same voice ; " but it 
 was lost as we crossed the wilds of Calabria." 
 
 Lothaire now started in despite of caution, and fixed 
 his attention on the speaker. His eye told him it was the 
 same man whose gaze before oppressed him. His other 
 senses carried conviction to his heart that it was Bertram, 
 and a murderer. In throwing himself before the altar of 
 the Supreme Being, he had at length, then, touched the 
 point of truth, since hardly could the immediate voice of 
 Heaven have announced more forcibly the guilt of St. 
 Anbert. Recollection, too, now told him, that the man 
 to whom, under the security of that favored and gallant 
 name, he had entrusted the secrets of his sovereign, by 
 the appellation of Sir Hugh de Mercie, stood foremost in 
 the list of suspected treason and disloyalty. 
 
 Slowly, and wrapped in thought, he returned to the 
 castle. As he passed, the noise of workmen busied in 
 repairs roused his attention. His eve silently rested on 
 the scene — the hight of the walls, the well-provided 
 state of the ramparts, and the labor he saw evidently be- 
 stowed to render both perfect, wherever time or accident 
 had introduced decay, discovered at once, to his now 
 enlightened judgment, a powerful vassal, more ready to 
 dispute than to obey the mandate of his sovereign. 
 
 To dissemble was a science new to Lothaire : he strove,
 
 TIIE OLD WOMAN'S TALE. 357 
 
 however, to smooth his brow, and calmly announced to 
 his host the necessity of his immediate departure. 
 
 The courtesy of St. Aubert, not yet exhausted, how- 
 ever, furnished him with various and plausible reasons 
 by which to urge a further stay. The country around, 
 often pillaged by freebooters, who, during the absence of 
 their monarch, acknowledged no law but violence, was 
 now, he assured his guest, particularly dangerous. 
 
 " Let us, then, devote this night," added he, " to mirth. 
 " Fear no ill dreams ! I will promise you a sweet and 
 sound repose, and a guard, ere the morrow, that shall 
 safely guide you to your journey's end." 
 
 Lothaire became now sensible that he was taken in the 
 toils ; and that to depart against the consent of his host 
 was as difficult as to obtain it. Too late did he regret 
 having so indiscreetly confided to the latter the import- 
 ant trust he was himself invested with ; and too evidently 
 perceive he risked both that and life if he betrayed the 
 smallest suspicion. 
 
 Secretly resolving to quit the castle at the hour of 
 morning prayer, as the only one in which his steps were 
 unobserved, he consented to pass a third night within its 
 hateful walls. 
 
 Night came — but brought with it no inclination to 
 sleep. Disposed to find food for observation in every 
 thing that presented itself, his eyes wandered, as he 
 passed the gallery that led to his apartment, over the 
 various portraits with which it was enriched. He stopped 
 opposite a full length of the lord of St. Aubert ; but it 
 was that next it which chiefly engaged his attention. He 
 suspected it to be his kinsman, and found, on inquiry, 
 that he was not mistaken. After long pausing on the 
 features, he retired to his chamber, where, considering 
 the bed, he found in himself an invincible repugnance to 
 encounter again those feverish chimeras that had dis-
 
 358 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 turbed him. Thoughtfully he continued to walk about 
 the room, though it waa already late, till the most pro- 
 found silence reigned throughout the castle. The very 
 winds, which the night before had been so stormy, were 
 sunk to stillness. All nature appeared to repose in the 
 lap of midnight. Lulled by her influence, he had thrown 
 himself into a chair, and the first dews of a beginnii 
 slumber were stealing over his senses. 
 
 " Ijothaire /" said a piercing voice, not far distant. — 
 Sleep fled before the sound. He raised his < : and, 
 exactly opposite to him, not many yards removed, once 
 more beheld the figure of the buried monk. 
 
 " Speak once again !" said the intrepid Lothaire, start- 
 ing forward. 
 
 The phantom spoke not, however, but seemed slowly 
 to retreat toward the extremity of the chamber, while, 
 by a gentle motion of its head, the cowl fell backwards, 
 and Lothaire perceived a countenance similar to that he 
 had seen in the picture, save that it was very pale, and 
 " its bright hair dabbled in blood :"* a groan at the same 
 moment burst from the corner of the apartment ; and 
 Bertram, rushing from behind the tapestry, white with 
 horror, and his eyes starting from their sockets, was at 
 the feet of Lothaire. 
 
 "What brought thee hither; and of what art thou 
 afraid ?" said the latter, grasping him firmly with one 
 hand, while his dagger was suspended over him with the 
 other, and his looks earnestly, though incredulously, di- 
 rected to the spot where the phantom had vanished. 
 
 "Do not you sec him, then?" said Bertram, without 
 venturing to look up. 
 
 "See whom?" repeated Lothaire. 
 
 "St. Aubert — mv lord — mv murdered lord I" ncrain in- 
 coherently cried Bertram. "These were his apartments! 
 
 * Sbakspeuiv.
 
 THE OLD WOMAN'S TALE. 359 
 
 — Oh God ! I shall never forget the sight ! — It was at the 
 very moment when I was stepping forth to point my 
 dagger at your throat — Doubtless you saw it before — -for 
 you started in the same "manner last night /" 
 
 "Thou wert present, then, in the cave of Calabria?" 
 said Lothaire, recollecting himself. 
 
 " Too surely I was," returned Bertram ; " and so were 
 God and his angels, or you would never have known it. 
 All the reparation, however, I can make, I will. Your 
 life is not safe here an hour, nor can you quit the castle 
 without my aid. My lord knows that you bear about 
 you papers of importance, which, after dispatching you, I 
 was to have rifled from your bosom. He is aware that 
 you will impeach him. He even suspects you of knowing 
 all — though hoic, he is at a loss to guess. You have 
 here," he added, offering a small but exquisitely tem- 
 pered poniard, " my only weapon. Blessed be heaven, it 
 is not in your heart ! But, as you would shun destruc- 
 tion, flv, ere it is davlisjht !" 
 
 Lothaire felt that the moment was critical. Taking, 
 therefore, from his bosom a crucifix of peculiar sanctity 
 he had brought with him out of Egypt, he extorted from 
 Bertram a hasty oath of fidelity; after which, trusting to 
 Heaven and his own native valor, he prepared to follow 
 him. 
 
 His guide proved faithful ; and, after winding through 
 many obscure and subterraneous passages, they at length 
 emerged to star-light and the open country. 
 
 Retracing, with rapid step, the path he had trodden 
 when advancing to the castle, he was soon several miles 
 from it. Already he beheld the wood where he had 
 reposed with his supernatural conductor ; and the east, 
 already flaming with the approach of the sun, looked red 
 through the broad branches of the oak, at the foot of 
 which he had interred the skeleton. Riveting his eyes
 
 360 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 upon it, and immersed in thought, Lothaire became in- 
 sensible to every other recollection, when Bertram, who, 
 as day advanced, had continued to look with increasing 
 
 anxiety behind, suddenly exclaimed "that they were 
 pursued." Lothaire paused to listen. Footsteps and 
 voices struck at once upon Ins ear ; and ere he had leisure 
 to consider whence they might proceed, he found that he 
 was deserted; for his companion, treacherous or coward- 
 ly, plunged into the wood, and was in a moment lost 
 amidst its shades. 
 
 But Lothaire was not alone. Faith, innocence, and 
 valor, at once asserted all their energies within him ; and, 
 grasping his poniard, he stood firm to abide the event. 
 
 The domestics of St. Aubert, who were now in full 
 sight, paused as they beheld the countenance and attitude 
 of the young man. But their zeal was presently enliven- 
 ed, when their lord himself, advancing, reproached them 
 for their tardy obedience, and commanded them to lay 
 hands upon Lothaire. 
 
 " Ere you obey the mandate of a despot," said the lat- 
 ter, motioning them from him, " beware, my friends, of 
 the event ! You perceive, I wear a dagger that may 
 prove dangerous ; but, I have yet a surer and more in- 
 violable guard than that. Which of you," he added, 
 stripping away his upper garment, and displaying the 
 badge of knighthood upon his shoulder, "which of you 
 will dare to injure the champion of the cross?"* 
 
 " Bather say, the traitor who violates the rites of hos- 
 pitality," said St. Aubert, fiercely; "he who, conscious 
 of guilt, meanly Hies from the roof that has sheltered 
 him." 
 
 "That I fled from thy roof to avoid assassinati 
 most true," said Lothaire, calmly. "Happy would it 
 have been, if all on whom thou hast smiled with deceitful 
 
 * It was thus worn by the knightfi o ru sudors.
 
 THE OLD WOMAN'S TALE. 361 
 
 regard, had been equally cautious. My flight, however, 
 I presume thou wilt not term a crime — and of what other 
 am I accused ?" 
 
 . " It is sufficient that I know thy guilt," replied St. Au- 
 bert, " and my vassals know my pleasure. If," added he, 
 turning to the latter, whose countenances he perceived 
 did not yield a ready assent to this decision — " if, on ex- 
 amining, ye find not that he bears concealed in his gar- 
 ments papers with which my confidence too readily 
 entrusted him, and that touch the honor and fortunes of 
 my house, I consent that he shall depart unmolested." 
 
 Lothaire at once perceived the snare into which his 
 own indiscretion had betrayed him ; and that St. Aubert, 
 who well knew how to calculate the ignorance of his vas- 
 sals, would, by a master-stroke, possess himself of the 
 most confidential mandates of the king ; while the mere 
 sight of them, confirming his assertion, would enable him 
 to impose on the credulous vulgar, any fiction by which 
 he might be empowered to sacrifice the bearer. The per- 
 plexity that struck upon his mind became instantly visible 
 in his countenance. The momentary change was mis- 
 taken for that of guilt ; and those who before had favored 
 him, now prepared to strike the weapon from his hand. 
 
 " Let him be secured," said St. Aubert, who exultingly 
 watched the moment of success ; " and take from him 
 papers, whose import ought only to be known to myself." 
 
 Lothaire, with the most determined presence of mind, 
 again stepped back. 
 
 " That which it most imports thee to know," said he, 
 mysteriously, " I have buried at the foot of yonder oak. 
 — See you not, my friends," he added, pointing towards 
 it, " that the earth has been newly turned ? — Dig boldly, 
 and I will abide by the event." 
 
 They waited no second mandate ; but, impressed with 
 the idea of some important discovery, each strove who
 
 362 CANTERBURY TALES. 
 
 should be foremost to show his alacrity. St. Aubert, 
 mean time, who, though he expected not any fruit from 
 their labor, had no ostensible motive for forbidding it, 
 gazed on the spot with a sullen expression of disdain and 
 incredulity ; when suddenly, the whole group fell back, 
 and the criminal himself, thunderstruck with what he be- 
 held, sunk pale and speechless into the arms of those 
 nearest. 
 
 " Lord of St. Aubert," said Lothaire, in a voice of thun- 
 der, " beneath that sacred garment thou seest the bones 
 of thy kinsman and thy friend ! Approach ! Lay thine 
 hand upon them, if thou darest, and swear, by every hope 
 of salvation, that thou wert not his murderer!" 
 
 St. Aubert shrunk back — and as he fearfully raised his 
 eyes to scan the impression of the scene on the by-stand- 
 ers, they encountered those of Bertram, whom his fellow- 
 servants had met with, and secured. — The haggard, pale, 
 and downcast look of the latter at once assured him all 
 was avowed. 
 
 In the tumult of his soul he advanced a few steps to- 
 wards the skeleton ; but when he would have touched it, 
 nature prevailed, and he shrunk back. 
 
 " By what other test, than the hideous one thou hast 
 proposed," said he, shuddering, u shall I assert my inno- 
 cence ?" 
 
 Lothaire was young in arms, and burnt to signalize 
 himself. 
 
 " Swear to me," said he, after a pause, " upon the faith 
 of a soldier and a knight, to abide my charge before our 
 queen, in single combat. Let thy vassals be witness t<> 
 the oath ; and be they free to renounce or do thee wrong 
 by night or day, in castle or in field, if thou neglect or 
 violate thy plighted faith." 
 
 " I sir, art" said St. Aubert, reluctantly, and not with- 
 out indignation.
 
 THE OLD WOMAN'S TALE. 363 
 
 " Enough !" said Lothaire ; " to God and my own right 
 arm I trust the rest !" 
 
 The baron who had with difficulty kept awake so long 
 over the extravagant story he had been reading, and who 
 by his previous examinations of the other scroll was al- 
 ready apprised of the event of a combat which transferred 
 to Lothaire the titles and honors of the vanquished St. 
 Aubert, now found his curiosity yield to the lateness of 
 the hour — He paused — leaned back in his easy chair, took 
 a pinch of snuff, and determined to indulge himself with 
 
 ruminating for a few moments. They were very few : 
 
 for his eyes insensibly closed ; he relaxed his hold — the 
 manuscript dropped from his hand — and he fell into a 
 profound sleep, from which he was at length roused — not 
 by a ghost — but by a plump friar of the convent. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.