THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF ILLINOIS 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 (Er&G mar 
 VA 
 

 
I ARY RAYMOND 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER TALES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 

 LONDON! 
 
 SCHULZK AXD CO., POLAXD STREET. 
 
MARY RAYMOND, 
 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER TALES. 
 
 RY 
 
 THE AUTHORESS OF 
 
 "MOTHERS AND DAUGHTERS," 
 
 &e. &c. 
 
 .*■* Cm- 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER, 
 GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1838. 
 

 PREFACE. 
 
 An accidental resemblance between the leading 
 tale of the following collection, and one recently 
 published by the most original and striking au- 
 thor of the day, renders it necessary to state 
 that the present work has been for two years 
 past in the hands of the Publisher, and delayed 
 by unavoidable causes. 
 
 Of the shorter Tales, a few have appeared 
 anonymously in popular Miscellanies : and the 
 indulgence of the reader is solicited for all, as 
 in consequence of the absence from England of 
 the writer, the proofs have not received correc- 
 tion from her hands. 
 
 C. F. Gore. 
 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Mary Raymond ..... 1 
 
 The Abbey , . . ... 183 
 
 Xaviera . . . . . .301 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 Oh ! hushed be every thought that springs 
 From out the bitterness of things, 
 
 Her quiet is secure ! 
 No thorns can pierce those tender feet, 
 Whose life was as the violet's sweet, 
 
 As spotless jasmine pure ! 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Get thee to church on Thursday, 
 Or never after look me in the face. 
 Speak not — reply not — do not answer me, 
 Romeo and Juliet. 
 
 What strange eventful histories often lie 
 condensed within the narrow compass of a 
 couple of lines ! 
 
 In one of the pages of Burke's Baronetage 
 we read of the ancient family of Raymond 
 of Warleigh or Warley Manor in the County 
 of Dorset; and having disrespectfully skipped 
 
 b 2 
 
4 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 over the creation, descent, and intermarriages 
 thereof, arrive at one 
 
 " Sir Charles, 4th Baronet, m. Dorcas 
 2d. daughter of his uncle. Hugh Raymond, 
 Esq. of Kelvedon Grange, (who died April 
 4, 1794) by whom he had 
 
 1. Charles William, fifth and present Bart. 
 
 2. Agnes d. an infant. 
 
 3. Sophia d. an infant. 
 
 4. George, b. 6 Jan. 1784; Lieut, in the 
 31th Regiment, m. June 10, 1805, Mary, 6th 
 da. of the Rev. Richard Percy, (by whom, who 
 d. in childbed, June 10,1806, he left a posthu- 
 mous da. born 6 June 1806) and was unfortu- 
 nately drowned on the 3rd of February follow- 
 ing, while embarking for Portugal. 
 
 5. John Thomas d. an infant. 
 
 6. Eleanor Jane, an infant. 
 
 Married at one-and- twenty to the daughter 
 of a clergyman, the father of many — drowned a 
 few months afterwards in the discharge of his 
 military duties — and immediately followed to 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 5 
 
 the grave by the partner of his early choice ! 
 1 — Such indeed was the fate of the handsome 
 and gallant George Raymond. But the noble 
 tree thus untimely cut off, bequeathed a tender 
 offset to the earth, around whose head the wind 
 was doubtless tempered throughout the trying 
 spring tide of her years by the care of his sur- 
 viving family ; for the " da. b. June 6, 1806," 
 was consigned by her dying mother to the pro- 
 tection of " Sir Charles, 5th and present Bart." 
 received into his house, adopted as his own, 
 and, at the age of eighteen, ushered under 
 his guardianship into the world of London. 
 
 Considerable success attended her first 
 appearance. She was fair, mild, and pre- 
 possessing with just that touch of delicacy 
 which, without degenerating into the sallow 
 languours of ill-health, entitles an expe- 
 rienced chaperon to entreat the eager partner 
 " will not persuade the dear girl to venture on 
 another dance," or perhaps " to be very careful 
 that her cloak is kept close," while daring 
 the draughts of air in the ante-room at the 
 
6 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 opera. Her voice was low, her step un- 
 precipitate, her glance veiled by the shadow of 
 her long dark eyelashes ; there was, in short, 
 something peculiarly feminine in her look and 
 gesture which formed an attractive contrast 
 to the more studied graces, and more robust 
 activity, of the established beauties of the 
 London season. 
 
 Sir Charles and Lady Raymond, the uncle 
 and aunt by whom Mary had been educated 
 and presented, possessed a numerous family of 
 their own ; an elder daughter already married, 
 and three younger ones growing up to woman- 
 hood, besides sons of various dates and vary- 
 ing degrees of longitude. A sense of duty had 
 determined Sir Charles, in the first instance, 
 to become the guardian of his orphan niece ; 
 and a sense of duty continually reminded Lady 
 Raymond that a girl possessed of no more than 
 three thousand pounds must not be brouglit up 
 with expensive habits, or ambitious preten- 
 sions. Mary accordingly ran little chance of 
 being spoiled in Brook Street or at Warley 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 7 
 
 Manor; she was snubbed by the governess, 
 slighted by her cousins, and sneered at by the 
 upper servants ; though pointed out by the 
 Raymonds to strangers as " a very sweet girl, 
 whom we regard as one of our own." 
 
 Pretty and pleasing as she was, it never 
 occurred to Lady Raymond to feel jealous 
 of Mary's attractions on account of her 
 daughters. Mrs. Elwood, the eldest, was 
 a brilliant, full-grown, full-blown beauty, a 
 fine horsewoman, expert at billiards, loud, 
 eager, and disputatious. The younger girls, 
 formed on the same model, were tinged with 
 the same high colouring ; and Lady Raymond 
 was too vain of the admiration they com- 
 manded, to fear the rivalship of the pale, calm, 
 undemonstrative cousin, whose conversation 
 consisted in laconic affirmation, who never 
 advanced an opinion, or hazarded an avowal. 
 She had formally acquainted her husband at the 
 commencement of the season which followed 
 Sophia's union with Captain Elwood, that 
 Mary Raymond, being nearly eighteen, must 
 
8 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 now, poor thing ! * be introduced ; and Sir 
 Charles formally acquainted her ladyship, in re- 
 turn, at the season's close, that he had received 
 most advantageous proposals for the hand of 
 his niece from Mr. Merstham, of Grosvenor 
 
 Place, Secretary to the Board of 
 
 " Only think of Mary's luck ! — Mary Ray- 
 mond is going to be married, her very first sea- 
 son, to a man with four thousand a year !" was 
 her Ladyship's exclamation on meeting her 
 daughter Helena on her way to her niece's 
 room, to communicate the intelligence. 
 For it never occurred to her to doubt poor 
 Mary's acceptance of such an offer; — a girl 
 with three thousand pounds and no ex- 
 pectations, could have no right to reject a 
 suitor capable of providing her with a good 
 jointure and suitable home. Nor apparently 
 did Lady Raymond miscalculate the views of 
 her niece upon the subject ; for Mary, after a 
 private interview with her uncle, in which he 
 expatiated strongly and peremptorily upon the 
 eligibility of the match, begged he would ac- 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 9 
 
 quaint Mr. Merstham that she was willing 
 to become his wife. 
 
 Even the governess by whom, as one of 
 the bevy of Miss Raymonds, Mary had 
 been trained into perfectness of perfection, 
 applauded the faultless propriety with which 
 she went through the trying preliminaries of 
 matrimonial life ; the acceptance of the strange 
 suitor, the introduction to a strange family, 
 the choice of wedding clothes, of wedding 
 carriages,— all the embarrassments, in short, of 
 the interesting affair. From the first porten- 
 tous "yes/* to the last mouthful of bride-cake, 
 not a laugh was raised at her expense ! Her 
 young cousins — Charles and George — protested 
 that Mary's was a dull, stupid wedding, not 
 worth mentioning in comparison with that of 
 Mrs. Elwood : and, after the ceremony, Mr. and 
 Mrs. Merstham set off together in their new 
 travelling chariot for Hastings, as tranquilly 
 and demurely as if they had performed the 
 same journey annually together for the last 
 fifty years ! 
 
 At the end of a month — the month — the 
 
 B 3 
 
10 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 " honey-moon "— - they returned with the same 
 sober air of equanimity ; but luckily not to ex- 
 cite a second time the scorn of the junior mem- 
 bers of the family. The Raymonds had quitted 
 town, and were settled at Warley Manor for 
 eight months to come ; while Merstham, hold- 
 ing an important appointment under govern- 
 ment, was compelled to pass the autumn and 
 winter in or near the metropolis. Mary had 
 hoped indeed that it would prove ?iea? % , and 
 that during the first year of her marriage 
 some charming villa at Roehampton, Beck- 
 enham, or Hendon, bright with hollyhocks 
 and dahlias, and figuring annually in a water- 
 coloured sketch through the windows of the 
 Bond street house agents, would be hired for 
 her recreation. But no sooner had Merstham 
 explained that their own commodious man- 
 sion in Grosvenor Place was far preferable 
 to the half- furnished gimcrack 7°us in urbe 
 likely to fall to their share, that half his time 
 must necessarily pass on the road, that he 
 should arrive in the country to dinner at un- 
 certain hours, tired and unconversable ; and, 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 1) 
 
 above all, that he had promised to obtain 
 leave of absence from his office to enable 
 her to pass the Christmas holidays at Warley 
 Manor, than Mary coincided in his desire 
 to remain in town. 
 
 Others, more accustomed to murmur, might 
 perhaps have hazarded a remark on the dul- 
 ness of London, and the cheerlessness of the 
 season. But Mrs. Merstham received her 
 husband every day with the same contented 
 smile, the same assurance that she had divided 
 her morning very pleasantly between books, 
 work, and music ; and the official man, whose 
 life for the last twenty years had been a life 
 or routine, considering her very fortunate to 
 be able to pass her time in her comfortable 
 drawing-room, forgot to congratulate himself 
 on having so rational a wife. Little did he 
 suspect that " poor Mrs. Merstham " was an 
 object of heartfelt commiseration to the El- 
 woods, who were enjoying a bustling dissi- 
 pated autumn at Weymouth; and to her cousins, 
 Juliana and Helena, who were just beginning 
 to be initiated into the tumultuous joys of all 
 
J 2 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 the archery meetings and country balls within 
 twenty miles of Warley Manor. He saw Mary 
 sit silently beside her work-table, evening after 
 evening, while he leisurely spelt over the Cou- 
 rier and the Standard, — occasionally varying 
 her occupation by threading a needle, or snip- 
 ping a bit of silk ; and was satisfied that all 
 the pleasures of life lay comprehended for 
 his wife within that casket of satin wood, re- 
 fulgent with cut steel and mother-of-pearl. He 
 laid it down as a rule, that in the month of 
 September, society is out of the question ; 
 and that the theatres, even if supportable in 
 their decadence, were incompatible with the 
 lateness of his office hours, which points being 
 duly established, he hazarded no further re- 
 mark on the subject of their imprisonment in 
 London, unless a self- congratulation at finding 
 his home of late so much embellished, and his 
 time passing so cheerfully. 
 
 Merstham havins: attained his nine-and- 
 thirtieth year, — for him the ideal of life had 
 wholly disappeared. He had made his own 
 way in the world ; had fagged through twenty 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 13 
 
 years of office life to his present satisfactory 
 eminence ; and, moderate in abilities but steady 
 in prudence, had conquered the regard of his 
 superiors without incurring that perilous spe- 
 cies of popularity, the partizanship of his col- 
 leagues- Merstham had never in his life been 
 branded with the onerous title of " the best 
 fellow in the world." He was simply con- 
 sidered "a very safe man," or, "very res- 
 pectable man ;" and, when at length the death 
 of his father, a country physician, placing him 
 in possession of five- and- twenty thousand 
 pounds, enabled him to marry, his choice was 
 determined towards Sir Charles Raymond's 
 niece rather by the unassuming discretion of 
 her deportment than the prettiness of her per- 
 son. " The days were gone when beauty 
 bright his heart's chain wove.'' — 
 
 His chief care now was that his mutton 
 should not be over-roasted, nor his banker's ac- 
 counts over drawn, nor his house in Grosvenor 
 Place carelessly swept or untidily garnished. 
 He wished his morrows to be as his yes- 
 terdays ) the quarter days of his landlord and 
 
14 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 tax-gatherer being duly balanced by those of 
 that iron-fisted man, the cashier of his Ma- 
 jesty's treasury : and Mary Raymond was pre- 
 cisely the Eve he had dreamed of for his 
 frozen Eden I 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 15 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Then tell me, is your soul entire ? 
 Does wisdom calmly hold her throne ? 
 Can you still question each desire 
 Bid this remain and that hegone ? 
 No tear half-starting from your eye- 
 No kindling blush you know not why, 
 No stealing sigh nor stifled groan. 
 
 Ahenside. 
 
 "Who would ever have thought, my dear 
 Mary, when I left you humdrumming at 
 Warley eighteen months ago, that I should 
 find you married on my return !" — cried Mrs. 
 Merstham's cousin, Dick Raymond, a gallant 
 mid, just arrived in his Majesty's frigate the 
 
16 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 Spartan, from the India station. " What an 
 unlucky dog I am! — I missed Sophy's wedding 
 with El wood by three weeks, and your's by — 
 let me see, how long have you been spliced ? — 
 your's by — " 
 
 u Three months,'' interrupted Mary, without 
 raising her eyes from her work-box. 
 
 " Three months — very true ! — I got a letter 
 from Juliana at Madeira, telling me all about 
 the match ; and begging me to break the news 
 to Henry Marlay. But that I couldn't do, 
 for we had left him at Ceylon, poor fellow, 
 ill with one of the fevers of the country. 
 However, I sent him w T ord of it by the first 
 lieutenant of the Asia, an old schoolfellow of 
 his and mine, whom I met at Portsmouth 
 just going aboard, by whom I'd no time to 
 write." 
 
 " I do not know why Juliana should con- 
 sider such a communication necessary," ob- 
 served Mrs. Merstham, in her usual quiet 
 voice, while a scarcely perceptible tinge of 
 bloom coloured her cheek. 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 17 
 
 " Don't you ? — yes, but you do though," 
 said Richard, with an arch nod. " You know 
 very well that Harry always intended, and 
 that we all expected — " 
 
 " No matter now !" interrupted Mrs. Mers- 
 tham, with a faint smile ; " after a wedding, 
 Richard, it is forbidden to recur to old times." 
 
 " Not always ! — Sophy and Elwood came 
 over from Weymouth when they saw the 
 arrival of the Spartan in the ship news; and, 
 during the week we spent together at the 
 George, we talked of nothing but Warley, 
 and the times when Elwood used to walk 
 with her, philandering in the shrubberies ; 
 and—" 
 
 " Your sister's situation was a very different 
 one from mine," said Mrs. Merstham \ " and 
 you will do me a favour, my dear cousin," 
 (she glanced apprehensively towards the door 
 as she spoke, for Merstham was finishing 
 his after-dinner nap, and Richard had bolted 
 in the midst of dessert to join his cousin 
 in the drawing-room) " you will do me a very 
 
18 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 great favour, by adverting no more to the 
 past." 
 
 " That you may rely upon — that you may 
 depend upon !" — cried the good-natured lad, 
 in a somewhat louder key than seemed to 
 suit his companion. " You know, Mary, I 
 always loved you as well as any of my sisters 
 — (I hope you got the cornelian necklace I 
 sent you over from Ceylon ?) and I would 
 cut off my right hand, sooner than do any 
 thing to vex you. Besides, *tis all of very little 
 consequence now; for Harry was given over 
 before we sailed. Our doctors mate, (one 
 of the cleverest surgeons, by the bye, in the 
 service,) said that a miracle couldn't save 
 him." 
 
 u I met Lady Mary Marlay's carriage in 
 Whitehall yesterday, with the servants in 
 deep mourning," observed Mrs. Merstham in 
 a low voice. 
 
 " Like enough. We were a month off 
 Madeira, and a fortnight at Rio ; the news 
 of his death would be here six weeks before 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 19 
 
 us. Poor Harry ! — there wasn't a finer fellow 
 
 in—" 
 
 The drawing-room door opened, and, amid 
 the creaking of Merstham's boots, as he 
 traversed the room, Richard fancied he could 
 distinguish the word " hush !" from the tre- 
 mulous lips of the wife. At all events, he 
 could not mistake the unquiet glance directed 
 towards himself, as Merstham exclaimed, 
 
 " Mary, my love ! — don't you give your 
 cousin any tea this evening ¥' 
 
 " I expected Martin would bring coffee." 
 
 " Oh ! but you must not make a stranger 
 of Mr. Raymond. I wish to have the urn 
 as usual. I am old fashioned enough to like 
 the tea made in the room/' said he, stirring 
 the fire with the air of a master, and ad- 
 dressing the young sailor, who, not being ad- 
 dicted to the " cups that cheer but not ine- 
 briate," thought him, as he had done from their 
 first interview, old-fashioned enough for any 
 thing. 
 
 " To be sure my cousin had no fortune 
 
20 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 or next to none," was the sailor's secret musing, 
 as he returned that night to his bed at the 
 Hummums. " Yet, I think my father and 
 mother might have done better for her if 
 they had waited, than by marrying her to 
 that stupid, surly fellow. I suspect they were 
 afraid my brother George was taking a fancy 
 to my cousin. But what then ? — George would 
 have had no chance with Mary against Harry 
 Marlay! — Confound it, what stuff I am talking. 
 If she could give up Harry, to marry this 
 Merstham, she'd surely have done as much 
 for George. Well ! girls are queer fishes ! 
 — But I had a better opinion of Mary." 
 
 Richard called in Grosvenor Place at an 
 early hour the following morning, to receive 
 a packet he had promised to com-ey to 
 Warley. Early as it was, Mrs. Merstham 
 was down, dressed, and presiding over the 
 breakfast table of the official man. 
 
 Her cousin fancied her more altered and 
 paler than the night before ; which did not 
 prevent his announcing, on his arrival at home, 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 21 
 
 — that his cousin seemed very comfortably 
 settled^ — and that Mary was as pretty and 
 good natured as ever. — Nor was any one at 
 Warley sufficiently interested in the subject 
 to inquire further. They were engrossed by 
 Sir Charles's election for the neighbouring 
 borough, and the brilliant prospects of Juliana, 
 who at sweet seventeen was supposed to have 
 captivated the affections of their noble neigh- 
 bour, young Lord Glamorgan, of Glamorgan 
 Castle. 
 
 Meanwhile, even Merstham, albeit the early 
 hour at which he daily quitted home, and 
 the candlelight hour at which he daily re- 
 turned, prevented him from exercising any 
 very careful scrutiny into the complexion of his 
 wife, began to notice that she grew paler and 
 more marble-like than ever. But there was 
 nothing alarming in the increased delicacy of 
 her complexion ; and, finding her as cheerful 
 as before, as willing to sit and work while 
 he read the evening papers, and rise in a 
 cheerless November morning, not with the 
 
22 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 lark but the chimney-sweeper, to pour out 
 his tea and hear him munch his dry toast, 
 he entertained little anxiety respecting her 
 health. Once, indeed, when his colleague, 
 Mr. Thumbelton, the only one admitted as 
 a dropper-in to his table, — a taciturn bachelor 
 of fifty-five with habitual black gaiters and an 
 habitual dry official cough, — observed, that 
 " Mrs. M. did not seem quite so stout as she 
 used to be ?" the husband replied, looking at 
 the sinumbra lamp, through his glass of port as 
 he spoke, " My wife and I are going down 
 to her uncle* s at Warley for Christmas ; and 
 country cheer and Dorchester ale will bring 
 her up again." 
 
 Mary smiled patiently at the allusion. She 
 did not altogether fancy she should be the 
 better for Warley, whether with or without 
 Dorchester ale. Still, as Merstham had applied 
 for leave of absence, and seemed to believe he 
 could support the country air, in a house as 
 well curtained and carpetted as his own, she 
 did not dream of opposing his projects. The 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 23 
 
 post-horses were accordingly ordered, the im- 
 perial packed ; and, after innumerable charges 
 to the butler about locking the street door 
 after dark, and to the housekeeper about 
 getting all the chimnies swept during their 
 absence, the husband of Mary Raymond 
 handed her into the carriage, and away they 
 went through the morning fog into Dorset- 
 shire. 
 
 Now Merstham was a man altogether un- 
 habituated to country-house life. Chained to 
 his office, he fancied his arrival in the country 
 must be a matter as important to other people 
 as his departure from town to himself; and 
 was surprised not to find the whole Raymond 
 family assembled under the portico, or at least 
 in the hall, to welcome him to Warley. Others 
 were arriving on the same day, and he was 
 disappointed at being only one of a large party. 
 His first appearance at the dinner-table elicited 
 no sort of comment ; and, as General and 
 Mrs. Meredyth had quitted London the same 
 morning as Merstham, it was to his old 
 
24 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 friend the General, a distinguished member 
 of the lower house, that Sir Charles Ray- 
 mond applied for political news and the 
 rumours of the clubs. Merstham was not 
 conscious how narrow political discussions 
 appear in the mouth of a mere official man, 
 or how vast and comprehensive, when ex- 
 panding from the statesman-like mind of a 
 man of talent. He saw not that his were 
 the politics of red tape and tin boxes — of 
 Downing Street and Whitehall — of majorities 
 and minorities — and that of the state of the 
 country or the temper of the continent he 
 was as ignorant as a child. 
 
 After dinner, too, instead of the evening 
 paper and a doze in his easy chair, he 
 found himself condemned to music, ecarte, 
 and conversation, in a party comparatively 
 strange to him. He was piqued and smv 
 prised to find himself of so little consequence ; 
 and to see his quiet Mary — his own parti- 
 cular wife — monopolized by her cousins ; to 
 listen to Mrs. Elwood's description of a gay 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 25 
 
 ball she had given to the regiment of lancers 
 quartered at Weymouth, and give her opinion 
 to Juliana and Helena respecting the cos- 
 tumes they were preparing for their private 
 theatricals. She had now been so many 
 months assimilated with himself and his ha- 
 bits, that he had forgotten the possibility of 
 her assimilating better with those of her age 
 and her own condition. But George Raymond 
 her eldest cousin, Charles the young soldier, 
 and Richard the mid, now crowded round her 
 chair; and it occurred to Merstham, for the 
 first time since his marriage, that there was a 
 vast disproportion between his own still-life, 
 solitary, drawing-rooms, and the populous vi- 
 vacity of Warley. His deductions from the 
 discovery were highly characteristic. "What 
 noise, what confusion I" said he to himself, 
 as he surveyed the gay assembly ; " and what 
 a relief to poor Mrs. Merstham to escape from 
 it all, to the tranquillity of Grosvenor Place ! '* 
 — an opinion confirmed a few hours afterwards 
 by Mary's confession that " she should feel 
 
 VOL. I. C 
 
26 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 right glad to be at home again/' Harrassed 
 
 by painful reminiscences, and alarmed by 
 
 the raillery of her cousins, she had indeed 
 
 reasons of her own for wishing the visit at 
 
 an end. 
 
 Nor did the following morning tend to place 
 
 Mr. Merstham more at ease. He was no 
 
 sportsman ; he neither hunted, coursed nor 
 
 shot ; and was too weak at billiards to venture 
 
 on occupying the table in presence of several 
 
 first-rate ^players. Sir Charles and his sons 
 
 were absent doing the honours of the field 
 
 to their guests; and the bewildered official 
 
 man, whose occupation was. — like OthehVs, 
 
 — gone, — finding it the custom of the manor, 
 
 as in the parish workhouses, for the two sexes 
 
 to live apart during the toils of the morning, 
 
 betook himself to a damp library, to wade 
 
 through Sir Ralph Sadler's state papers till 
 
 luncheon time ; after which, he continued to 
 
 attach himself to Mary's side for the remainder 
 
 of the day, — her cousins shrugging up their 
 
 shoulders at him for a bore, and Mrs. Mere- 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 27 
 
 dyth, one of the less familiar guests, hazarding 
 an avowal of surprise to Lady Raymond, that 
 so pretty a girl as Mary should have thrown 
 herself away on such a man. 
 
 u I suppose," was her ladyship's equivocal 
 reply, " that, like other girls, she wished to 
 secure her independence by a home of her 
 own." 
 
 " I fancy she has found her mistake by this 
 time !" replied Mrs. Meredyth ; whose atten- 
 tion had for some minutes been fixed upon 
 Merstham and his wife, so as to discern from 
 the agitated start and deadly paleness with 
 which Mary attempted to silence some remark 
 made by Helena Raymond, that her love for 
 her husband was not of that perfect kind which 
 " caste th out fear, because fear hath tor- 
 ment." 
 
 Yet the remark was simple enough. As 
 they were approaching a garden-shed in the 
 course of their walk, piled up with summer- 
 benches, Windsor chairs, and other lumber, 
 Miss Raymond merely exclaimed, " Ah ! Mary ! 
 — do you recollect that famous sledge which 
 
 c 2 
 
28 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 poor Harry Marlay made for us, the win- 
 ter before last ? — Do you remember his har- 
 nessing Dick's and Charles's ponies to it, 
 and driving you over to Oakhampton ?" Mrs. 
 Merstham, instead of replying, laid her hand 
 interdictingly on her cousin's arm, and turned 
 towards her a countenance pale with horror 
 and agitation. 
 
 That was the first time, by the way, her 
 husband ever heard the name of Henry 
 Marlay. 
 
MARY RAYMOND. ^9 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Ainsi, pr6te a subir un joug qui vous opprime, 
 Vous n'allez a l'autel que com me une victime. 
 Et moi, tyran d'un coeur qui se refuse au mien 
 M&me en vous poss^dant je ne vous devrai rien. 
 Hdlas ! — Est-ce la de quoi me satisfaire? 
 Faut-il que d£sormais, renoncant h vous plaire, 
 Je ne pr&ende plus qu'k vous tyranniser ? 
 
 Mithridate. 
 
 A large party in a country house is invaria- 
 bly described in novels as a superlatively plea- 
 sant thing ; or, when talked over by two or three 
 of its members when they meet elsewhere 
 
30 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 at some future time, is adverted to as the 
 delightful days we spent together at So and 
 So Park. But pleasure is one of those sus- 
 ceptible and skittish goddesses who will not 
 bear to be looked on, face to face \ and, 
 while the " delightful days" are passing, one 
 usually overhears it whispered from guest to 
 guest, that the present party is very inferior 
 to that of the preceding Christmas; — that it 
 is rather " heavy," or " flat," or " slow;" — 
 that " it would have been quite a different 
 thing if the Lapwings had come ;" or per- 
 haps that " no party in shire can go 
 
 off well, without that amusing creature 
 
 and that unluckily has 
 
 been engaged elsewhere ever since Midsum- 
 mer." 
 
 Still more sotto voce are the murmurings of 
 the elite! — Lady A. has been " put into a 
 room that smokes, and the housekeeper must 
 have been aware that it smoked, from the colour 
 of the muslin curtains which are dingy enough 
 to be taken for family point !" — while Mrs. B. 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 31 
 
 is . grievously offended at finding herself in- 
 vited to meet Lady A. whose brother ran 
 away with her sister. — Politics and country 
 feuds combine to render three or four others 
 uneasy in each other's company ; the matrons 
 vote the party too noisy, — the young people 
 consider it too quiet. — The housekeeper is 
 cross, the upper housemaid gives warning, 
 the butler is muzzy, the footmen saucy ; and, 
 after the expenditure of much time, trouble, 
 and money, the host and hostess have the 
 satisfaction to learn that their party is said 
 to have been " manque," and to feel conscious 
 that it was, after all, a poor imitation of their 
 preceding holidays at the mansion of their 
 neighbour the duke ! 
 
 Warley Manor was, in these respects, no 
 better than others of its stamp : with the 
 exception that, from possessing three or four 
 young Raymonds who were not dandies, it 
 was somewhat less formal ; while Juliana and 
 Helena, new from the hands of the governess, 
 did not at present aspire to be fine ladies- 
 
32 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 The family was large, and the circle cordial. 
 — Nevertheless, in spite of cheerful society, 
 and Dorchester ale, Mrs. Merstham remained 
 pale and thin; in spite of sparkling cham- 
 pagne, reserved and silent. Mrs. Elwood 
 and her cousins having claimed her assistance 
 in getting up a few tableaux, Mary, unaccus- 
 tomed to resist, complied with a bad grace; 
 and, as her husband continued to pass his 
 mornings toiling through Sir Ralph's papers, 
 she was able to give her aid at rehearsal 
 without even defrauding him of the daily 
 afternoon walk in which he exacted her com- 
 pany. 
 
 Nearly a week of the Mersthams' fortnight 
 had expired; and, as it was settled that after 
 the grand theatrical display Lady Raymond 
 was about to give the neighbourhood, the 
 less familiar guests were to quit Warley, Mary 
 trusted that the final part of their sojourn 
 might prove less disagreeable to her husband 
 than its commencement. Already it had be- 
 come a proverbial joke among the young 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 33 
 
 Raymonds, when they fancied her out of hear- 
 ing, to refer on all occasions to " my house in 
 Grosvenor Place/' — " my furniture in Grosve- 
 nor Place," — " my habits in Grosvenor Place," 
 — after the self-important phrase which inces- 
 santly betrayed poor Mersthanr's yearnings 
 after home. 
 
 " That fellow never should have married, — 
 he is cut out for a complete old bachelor!" — 
 cried Captain Elwood to his wife, when, on 
 the day of the theatricals and ball, Merstham's 
 head was seen peeping and prying from the 
 slips, as often as he could venture to con- 
 front the draughts of air invariably met with 
 " on any stage." — " I never saw a man so full 
 of ways, or so steeped in prejudices. Not 
 an idea, beyond the pavement of London ; — 
 a sort of West-end cockney, far less amusing 
 than the genuine cit of Cheapside. My dear 
 Sophy, where could your father and mother 
 pick him up ?" — 
 
 " I scarcely remember. He fell in love with 
 Mary at some dinner party, I fancy : was intro- 
 
 c 3 
 
34 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 duced to the family, proposed for her, and was 
 accepted.'' 
 
 " How could she persuade herself to marry 
 such an automaton V* 
 
 " It was a very good match for my cousin, 
 Besides, Mary is not like other people; — Mary 
 herself is as cold as a stone." 
 
 Ci She has not your animation, my dear ; — - 
 few women have. But reallv her rehearsal in 
 the tableau of Mademoiselle de la Valliere 
 at the foot of the cross at Chaillot, has given 
 me a high notion of her sensibility/' 
 
 " Nonsense ! — mere acting I" 
 
 " But you saw what work Glamorgan made 
 
 of his acting in the part of Louis XIV ? He 
 
 played the lover like a log, and the king 
 
 like a stable boy ! — He, I grant you, has 
 neither grace nor feeling/' 
 
 " You are always crying down Lord Gla- 
 morgan," cried Sophia pettishly ; jealous per- 
 haps of her husband's advocacy of Mrs. 
 Merstham. " But everybody in the neigh- 
 bourhood thinks Juliana a very lucky girl ', 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 35 
 
 and, if he is a little boyish at present, his 
 manners will soon be formed by the society 
 his position in the world enables him to com- 
 mand/" 
 
 " Nothing will ever polish Glamorgan 5 he 
 has an intrinsically vulgar mind '/'—observed 
 Elwood, — " just as Merstham has an irreme- 
 diably narrow one." 
 
 " Don't speak quite so loud, when you 
 have any thing to say against Merstham," — 
 observed George Raymond, who had been a 
 silent but interested auditor of Captain El- 
 wood's tribute to the merits of his cousin. — 
 " I am much mistaken if that mask of stupid 
 selfishness do not conceal a sullen vindictive 
 temper. I have watched him ever since he 
 has been here ; and would rather his sentence 
 were for open war, than hear him so sternly 
 civil to his wife, so studiously courteous to us. 
 I don't like the looks of Mr. Merstham." 
 
 " He has not a good countenance, cer- 
 tainly," said Mrs. Elwood. " But there is 
 nothing so deceptious as countenances ; some 
 
36 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 of the best I ever saw belonged to the least 
 amiable people." 
 
 George Raymond, glancing from the fine 
 open forehead of his brother-in-law to the 
 pouting lip of his sister, perceived in a moment 
 that Sophia was under the influence of a 
 paroxysm of conjugal ill-humour, and talking 
 at her husband. But between two frank 
 warm-hearted young people indulging in oc- 
 casional disagreements from mere wantonness, 
 or the want of better employment, there is 
 no need to make peace. He accordingly left 
 Elwood and his wife to squabble it out, then 
 kiss and be friends, while he devoted his more 
 anxious attention to Mr. and Mrs. Merstham. 
 
 Strangely are the comedy and tragedy of 
 life cast and intermingled! — Dinner came, — 
 and George Raymond, watching the careful zeal 
 with which Merstham measured out the soy, 
 chili-vinegar, and cayenne into his fish-sauce, 
 became convinced that the man's interest 
 was self-concentered; and that his own 
 studious neglect of Mary, lest her husband 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 37 
 
 should have happened to hear that Sir Charles 
 and Lady Raymond had at one time been 
 rendered uneasy by their eldest son's in- 
 creasing attachment to his cousin, was super- 
 fluously conscientious. " He thinks of nothing 
 but himself, his office, and his house in 
 Grosvenor Place !" murmured George to him- 
 self. " Merstham is not moulded in the same 
 volcanic earth which makes Elwood and Sophy 
 keep up a war of words yonder across the 
 dinner-table, because they must either love 
 or hate each other to distraction." He 
 resolved to repay himself for his previous 
 reserve, by a cousinly confabulation with Mary 
 on rejoining the ladies after dinner. But 
 alas ! on entering the drawing-rooms, George 
 recollected that they were prepared for the 
 ball, while the library was converted into a 
 theatre. Mrs. Merstham, his sister, and Lady 
 Raymond had already retired to costume 
 themselves for the evening^s amusements, and, 
 long before their preparations were completed, 
 — long before Glamorgan made his appearance 
 
38 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 behind the scenes to be assured by his three 
 future sisters and one mother-in-law, that his 
 Louis Quatorze dress was the most " superb/' 
 " splendid," " magnificent," " beautiful," 
 " elegant," " picturesque," and " classical," 
 costume that ever taxed the shears of tailors, 
 carriage after carriage entered the court-yard. 
 They waited, in short, only the arrival of the 
 Dowager Lady Glamorgan, the young lord's 
 grandmother, to begin ; and, in compliment to 
 her ladyship, the Chaillot scene in which the 
 young lord filled a principal part, was to be 
 the first tableau represented. None but 
 assistants were admitted on the stage ; even 
 the Raymond family, with the exception of 
 those actually costumed, took their places 
 among the spectators ; and, at the wise sugges- 
 tion of Sir Charles, Merstham stationed himself 
 next the Dowager, his prosy measured articu- 
 lation being peculiarly suited (she being -some- 
 what of the dunniest) to her ladyship's aural 
 capacities. 
 
 It happened, therefore, that cousin George 
 
MARY RAYMOND. %$ 
 
 commanded a full and particular view of the 
 countenance of Mary's husband, when the 
 curtain drew up and the iron cross of the 
 Chaillot grave-yard appeared. At its foot, 
 veiled by her long flowing hair, kneeled the 
 gentle Louise de la Valliere ; her streaming 
 eyes, her white hands clinging to the cross, 
 her panting bosom and half-parted lips, at- 
 testing the tumult of feeling with which she 
 repelled the efforts of the king, — the idol, — the 
 seducer of her affections, — to detach her from 
 that rock of security ! — All eyes were riveted 
 on Mary ; — no one (except Juliana Raymond) 
 noticed the costly brilliancy of the costume 
 of Louis le Grand ; — no one (except Captain 
 Elwood) observed the graceful attitude of the 
 reproving confidant, personated by the jealous 
 Sophia. Exclamations of " How lovely !" — 
 " How fair !"— " How affecting !"— ■" How im- 
 passioned," burst from the lips of every spec- 
 tator present. 
 
 " How impassioned /" — Even the deaf Dow- 
 ager seemed accessible to the forcible and 
 
40 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 touching expression that gleamed through the 
 tears of Louise de la Valliere ! How much 
 more, then, the man by her side, — the husband 
 who felt that these tears, these sighs, this pro- 
 digality of emotion, — should have been evoked 
 by himself — and himself only ! — But was 
 it indeed his Mary, his cold statue-like Mary, 
 whose soul contained within its icy barriers so 
 deep a mine of sensibility ? — 
 
 While for a moment the doubt presented 
 itself, as he sat transfixed, gazing upon the 
 motionless tableau whose only show of life 
 consisted in the sobs that burst uncontrollably 
 from the bosom of one who was too perfect a 
 woman to be a perfect actress, — Merstham 
 himself was suddenly seen to betray emotions 
 equally powerful.— Some sound appeared to 
 reach his ear — some sight to meet his eye, 
 unseen, unheard, by the rest of the assembly. 
 Trembling with an agitation that seemed any 
 thing but that of terror, he riveted his eyes 
 upon his wife ! Nor was Mary insensible to the 
 influence of the same mysterious incident, for 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 41 
 
 a piercing shriek burst at that moment from 
 the lips of Mrs. Merstham ; — and, relinquishing 
 her hold, she fell cold and insensible at the 
 foot of the cross ! 
 
42 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 D, Pedro. Runs not this speech like iron through your 
 
 blood ? 
 Claud. I hare drunk poison whiles he uttered it ! 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 As if in express contrast with the brilliancy 
 and warmth of the illuminated mansion at 
 Warley Manor, the night without was unusu- 
 ally blustering, unusually cheerless. Bitter 
 blasts arose at intervals, accompanied by scuds 
 of rain and sleet, which, melting as they fell, 
 left a clammy chill upon the atmosphere. The 
 ground was slippery, the air oppressive; and 
 those who came from afar to the fete, might 
 have heard the coachmen on the road grumbling 
 over the plight of their horses, and the foot- 
 men over their own. 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 43 
 
 Yet, there was one pilgrim bound thither 
 from a prodigious distance, who saw no cause 
 for murmuring either in the length or cheer- 
 lessness of the way ; one who was come from 
 climes beyond the sea to claim the hand of her 
 over whose heart he believed himself to possess 
 a paramount influence. — Alas ! how grievously 
 to be undeceived ! — Young Henry Marlay, son 
 of a widow whose noble blood demanded the 
 support of more extensive means than were ever 
 likely to fall to her share, — had selected the 
 profession of the navy as likely to relieve his 
 mother at the earliest possible age from the 
 charge of his maintenance. The boy was 
 lucky during the war, when such a thing 
 as luck might be made available; and the 
 whole of his prize money was forced upon 
 Lady Mary's acceptance. But those hard 
 earned gains constituted the whole of Harry's 
 little fortune ; and, when at twenty years old he 
 found himself appointed second lieutenant to 
 the Spartan, a frigate about to sail for the In- 
 dia station, the world was all before him — to 
 begin anew. 
 
44 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 For Henry to have involved himself in even 
 a remote project of matrimony under such 
 circumstances, would have appeared absurd 
 to others, sacrilegious to himself. He felt 
 pledged in honour and duty to devote himself 
 exclusively to his mother ; and when, after fre- 
 quent visits to the family of his friend Richard 
 Raymond, both in London and at Warley 
 Manor, he found himself desperately in love 
 with Mary, he felt that it would be a violation 
 of the trust of Sir Charles and Lady Raymond, 
 to entangle the affections of their niece. He 
 had a right, indeed, to love her, for Mary 
 was almost as poor as himself; but he had 
 no right to involve her in his unpromising 
 destinies. 
 
 But, though he made no declaration of his 
 feelings, Marlay believed them to be under- 
 stood, and the motives of his forbearance ap- 
 preciated. Four years of girl-and-boyish inti- 
 macy enabled him to understand and admire 
 the mildness of Mary's character, and the pru- 
 dence of her self-controul. " If she really 
 loves me, she will remain single for my sake," 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 45 
 
 ran the tenour of the sailor's meditations ; "and 
 prize me the more for not wishing to bind 
 her by promises in the present precarious state 
 of my fortunes/' He had a right to sup- 
 pose that she loved him ; for not only did 
 his friend Richard constantly assure him of her 
 attachment, but George the elder brother who, 
 though prevented by the family circumstances 
 from all hope of making Mary his wife was 
 avowedly attached to her, — could not disguise 
 his jealousy of Henry Marlay. 
 
 To India, meanwhile, Henry was bound, — 
 and to India he went. Three years was the ap- 
 pointed period of exile ; but, the Spartan hav- 
 ing been recalled from her station by govern- 
 ment twelve months previously to the usual 
 term, it unfortunately happened that in the 
 height of his exultation at the prospect of see- 
 ing Mary again, he was attacked by one of the 
 fevers of the country ; and, at the sailing of his 
 ship for England, was detained at Colombo. By 
 him, however, the disappointment was unfelt. 
 Marlay lay extended in the lethargic stupor 
 usually succeeding high delirium, when his 
 
46 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 friend Dick Raymond leant over him for the 
 last time ; and when, at the end of ten days, an 
 unlooked for crisis restored him to himseif, all 
 was desolate, — the Spartan gone, — his mess- 
 mates departed for Europe, — and the deep 
 deep sea still intervening between himself and 
 Mary Raymond ! — 
 
 A transport was expected, however, to sail 
 for England in the course of a few weeks ; and 
 Henry began to reconcile himself to his disap- 
 pointment by the reflection that the life he 
 prized for Mary^s and his mothers sake, had 
 been spared in contradiction to the predictions 
 of his medical attendants ; when letters arrived 
 from England, calculated to increase a thou- 
 sand fold his eagerness to set foot in his 
 native country. The death of his paternal 
 grandmother had suddenly raised him to inde- 
 pendence ! Passing by the rest of her family, 
 she had constituted Henry Marlay her heir; 
 satisfied from his previous conduct, as the will 
 expressly stated, that he would deal honoura- 
 bly and dutifully by his mother. 
 
 Lady Mary now wrote to press the imme- 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 47 
 
 diate return of her son. " With an income 
 of four thousand a year/' said the letter, " you 
 will of course quit your profession, and settle 
 in life." 
 
 " To settle in life/' stood, according to 
 Harry's interpretation, for u you will become 
 the husband of Mary Raymond ;" and, on ar- 
 riving after a five months' voyage in England, 
 still enfeebled by the effects of his fever, still 
 pale almost to ghastliness from disease, his 
 mind was at once elevated and soothed by the 
 hope of conferring competency on his beloved 
 mother, and happiness on Mary. He now al- 
 lowed himself for the first time to contemplate 
 her position in the Raymond family. Satisfied 
 that he could secure her a comfortable home, 
 he permitted himself to see that she had hi- 
 therto occupied at Warley the humiliating 
 place of a poor relation ; that Sophia was en- 
 vious of the preference of her brothers for her 
 gentle cousin ; and Sophia's lady-mother dis- 
 tracted by anxiety lest the heir of the family 
 should forfeit his chance of augmenting its for- 
 tune and connexion, by throwing himself away 
 
48 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 on her indigent niece. He remembered that 
 Mary had often seemed unhappy ; that her eyes 
 were often red, and that her voice was tremu- 
 lous. From all this he was about to relieve her ! 
 from all this humiliation she should be raised 
 to honour, peace, and joy ! — He would make 
 her happier than ever wife was made before ; 
 he would offer all the compensation that de- 
 voted affection could supply, for the cares and 
 privations of her youth !— 
 
 Lady Mary's welcome to her deserving son, 
 meanwhile, was rendered deeply affecting by the 
 terror with which she surveyed the ravages 
 wrought by disease in his appearance. She 
 wept over Henry again and again, while whis- 
 pering that the prosperity awaiting him was the 
 well-earned reward of his filial duty ; and could 
 scarcely reconcile herself to lose his company 
 so soon, when after a single day devoted 
 to business, he quitted town to proceed to 
 Warley. Marlay had already ascertained at Sir 
 Charles's house in town, that the family were 
 entertaining a large party at the Manor ; and 
 had the happiness of learning from some ca- 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 49 
 
 sual acquaintance that they were " all well." — 
 In reply to his careless inquiry, " any of the 
 girls married, or likely to be ?" — the answer, 
 a Yes ; Miss Raymond is married to a Captain 
 Elwood of the dragoons ; and they talk of Lord 
 Glamorgan for the second girl," set his heart 
 completely at ease. — The friend of the family 
 had not, in fact, supposed it possible that such 
 an inquiry could extend to the indigent niece ! 
 Who now so happy as Harry ! — The horses 
 were ordered at daybreak to convey him to 
 Warley. In the haste of a seaman's prodi- 
 gality, he collected a few costly trifles to present 
 as pledges of tenderness to her on whom so 
 shortly all the pleasures of opulence were to be 
 lavished. A few hours, and he should be once 
 more on the spot which had witnessed the ori- 
 gin and progress of his boyish passion ; — that 
 passion which had grown with his growth, and 
 now was all in all ; — a few hours, and he should 
 be again by Mary's side, — that Mary of whom 
 he had dreamed in health, of whom he had 
 raved in sickness ; — whose image had formed his 
 
 VOL. I. D 
 
50 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 protecting talisman amid hardship, danger, 
 pain, disease, despair. 
 
 " I certainly am the happiest fellow in exist- 
 ence !*' he cried aloud on his journey, as even- 
 ing came on and he knew that the next change 
 of horses would convey him to the Manor. 
 " What have I done to deserve such a consum- 
 mation — to be so incomparably fortunate ! 
 — People dare to talk of the cares and disap- 
 pointments of life, and complain of the weari- 
 ness of the world ! But what a world it is ! — 
 How full of brightness and enjoyment for those 
 who know how to improve the means confided 
 to them ; — for persons mutually attached, like 
 Mary and myself, and, like ourselves, endowed 
 with youth, and health, and competence !" — 
 He clasped his hands for very self-gratula- 
 tion, and could scarcely restrain the impulses 
 of frantic joyousness Dursting from his lips. 
 " I must not go mad, if I can help it ! " cried 
 the young sailor, with a proud smile. " Yet 
 faith ! if any man could have an excuse for 
 talking and acting like a madman, it would be 
 myself this blessed night !" — 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 51 
 
 At length, as he approached the Manor, a 
 long train of carriages and the illuminated 
 windows of the house forewarned him that 
 something unusual was going on. " Christ- 
 mas festivities," thought he, " in honour of 
 the large party assembled at Warley/' Still 
 he judged it better to inquire, on reaching the 
 lodge, whether any unusual family occurrence 
 were connected with the gaieties of the night. 
 u Was it, in short, a wedding?" — 
 
 "No, no, Master Harry ," — replied the old 
 woman to whom, half-jocosely, he addressed 
 his question, and who well remembered the 
 favourite guest of her young master, u they do 
 say that Miss 'Lena, or Miss Raymond as is now, 
 be soon to marry the young lord from Gla- 
 morgan Castle. But just now, they be only 
 junketing and play acting up at the Manor." 
 
 Another few minutes, and Harry had enter- 
 ed the well known house, by a door leading 
 to the offices ; — again another few, and the 
 venerable butler, with whom he was a favorite 
 of old, conducted him towards the back of the 
 
 d 2 
 
52 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 stage, where his young friends — the Raymonds 
 — were assembled. 
 
 Unaware that a rumour of his death had 
 reached England, preparation or announce- 
 ment of his arrival seemed unnecessary ; and, 
 unconscious of the impression likely to be 
 conveyed by the contrast between his still 
 pallid face and the deep mourning habit in 
 which he was attired, he stood calmly by the 
 side-scene, till the conclusion of the tableau 
 might enable him to accost the friends he 
 loved so dearly. But prudence or self- 
 restraint soon became out of the question. 
 The object of his early love, purer, fairer, 
 more etherial-looking than ever, was before 
 him ; and the exclamation of u Mary — my 
 own dear, precious Mary \" burst from his 
 lips, defying all power of repression. 
 
 In a moment, that well known voice reached 
 the ears of Mrs. Merstham. Glancing to- 
 wards the strange intruder, she beheld what 
 appeared to be the spectre of him who lay 
 buried in the sands of Ceylon, — uttered a 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 53 
 
 piercing- shriek, — and fell senseless to the floor. 
 All became confusion. The audience, un- 
 certain whether the agitation of Louise de la 
 Valliere did not form part of the scenic dis- 
 play of the night, were left in perplexity by 
 the sudden fall of the curtain ; while the com- 
 munication between the two rooms forming 
 the stage and theatre being cut off, no inquiries 
 could for a time be made. 
 
 A quarter of an hour elapsed before Mr. 
 Merstham, by quitting the house at one door 
 and entering it at another, contrived to make 
 his way to the scene. Having, at length, 
 persuaded them to unlock the library for his 
 admittance, he found his wife lying pale and 
 speechless on the sofa, with Sophy, Helena 
 and Juliana bathing her temples. But nothing 
 was there to excite suspicion. Richard Ray- 
 mond and his brothers had disappeared from 
 the stage ; and Merstham listened with due 
 politeness to Lady Raymond's explanation con- 
 cerning the heat of the room, — and the nervous- 
 ness of a first appearance before so extensive 
 an audience. Had not George Raymond's eye 
 
54 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 by chance been fixed upon Merstham's face at 
 the moment of Harry Marlay's abrupt apos- 
 trophe and Mary's agonized recognition of her 
 lover, so as to become positively certain from 
 its change of expression that all had been heard 
 and understood by the husband, no mortal 
 being would have suspected that he discerned 
 aught in the indisposition of his wife, beyond 
 the causes her family chose to assign for the 
 attack. A few hurried explanations, a few 
 earnest entreaties, had induced Marlay to 
 retire from a spot where his presence had 
 created so much confusion. 
 
 u All is over for me here !" — was his reite- 
 rated exclamation, after having received from 
 the Raymonds the intelligence of Mary's 
 marriage. " All is over ! — Why was my life 
 spared ? — Why did I ever return to England ?" 
 — and, at the suggestion of Sir Charles, the 
 kind-hearted Richard readily consented to 
 accompany his distracted friend to London, 
 whither Marlay insisted on returning. So 
 immediate indeed was their departure, that 
 none but the members of the family had time 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 55 
 
 to become aware of any unusual arrival or 
 occurrence. 
 
 On the morrow, all was as before. Had 
 even the servants of the house been inter- 
 rogated touching the visiters of the preceding 
 night, two only could have replied with cer- 
 tainty — both of whom were cautioned to 
 silence. No change was discernible in the 
 family, unless that Mary's face was sha- 
 dowed by a deeper sadness. But this was 
 unobserved by the Raymonds ; for, in the 
 course of a few days, the official man was re- 
 called to his duties in town. 
 
 
56 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Not poppy, nor mandragora, 
 Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world 
 Will ever med'cine thee to that sweet sleep 
 Which thou ow'dst yesterday ! 
 
 Othello. 
 
 Winter is the moment for careful thoughts. 
 It was no wonder, therefore, that such friends 
 of the Raymond family as were induced to 
 settle in town soon after the holidays, should 
 find Mrs. Merstham less cheerful than former- 
 ly, her air listless, and her home, gloomy. 
 The much-vaunted house in Grosvenor Place 
 was in fact just as uninviting as other London 
 houses, during the season of abridged day- 
 light and prolonged fogs ; nor had Mary's 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 57 
 
 subdued smile sufficient power to illuminate 
 its dull obscurity. 
 
 It was not that any one could have justly 
 accused Mrs. Merstham of being more de- 
 pressed in spirits than before the singular 
 scene and grievous explanations, no reference 
 to which had at present escaped her lips. She 
 entertained a perfect consciousness of all that 
 had passed on the stage at Warley Manor ; — had 
 distinctly seen the altered person of Henry 
 Marlay, and heard both his self- upbraid- 
 ing and upbraiding of herself. She knew 
 that it was no illusion ; — she knew that he 
 who was supposed dead, had returned in the 
 flesh, — rich, independent, faithful, exulting, to 
 claim her as his bride ;— that he had sur- 
 mounted sickness, peril, and poverty; — that 
 her own marriage vows to another formed, in 
 short, the only obstacle to their happiness, — 
 and shuddered with the knowledge ! Her 
 consolation lay in the hope that her cousins 
 would in delicacy forbear all reference to the 
 painful subject, and Henry all attempt at 
 a renewal of their intimacy ; and, above all, in 
 
 d 3 
 
58 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 a belief that her husband was not likely to be 
 rendered uneasy by a suspicion of what had 
 passed. To forward this object, Mary labour- 
 ed to appear as cheerful as she had ever been. 
 The tears in her eyes were crushed, — the 
 anguish in her bosom unacknowledged. 
 
 But in the mind and manners of her husband, 
 a mighty revolution had taken place ! — Instead 
 of his former self-engrossed reserve, Merstham 
 now affected a fondness for society, and in- 
 sisted upon Mary's receiving company and 
 mixing with the world. A forced, aimless, 
 hilarity, — a tone of factitious pleasantry, 
 an inquietude, an irritability, — plainly indi- 
 cated that, instead of deriving enjoyment 
 from his novel mode of life, it was a system he 
 imposed upon himself for some especial pur- 
 pose ; — that there was something he wanted to 
 discover, — some person he wanted to encoun- 
 ter, — some mystery he wanted to develop. — In 
 society, at home, his eye was ever upon Mary, 
 as if to scrutinize her most secret thoughts ; 
 but, no sooner did a third person intervene 
 between them, than he affected a tone of play- 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 59 
 
 ful bantering; in order to disguise the want 
 of tenderness of his address, he assumed an 
 air of unmeaning jocularity. 
 
 Had any one been sufficiently interested in 
 a man like Merstham to note the changes of 
 his demeanour, this alteration might have been 
 sensible to all. As it was, the subordinates in 
 his office observed that, heretofore the most 
 punctual and subservient of men, he was be- 
 coming absent in his manners, forgetful in 
 his habits, and reckless in his tone. His 
 servants discovered that he was " perplexed in 
 the extreme," though " nothing wherefore •" 
 the footman whispered to the butler that 
 things must be going on wrong with master, 
 for he had twice forgot to wind up his watch, 
 and once left half-a-crown in his waistcoat 
 pocket ; and the butler decided in his turn 
 that Mr. Merstham had probably heard ru- 
 mours of a run against his banker, or a reduc- 
 tion of salary in his office. That any moral 
 cause could operate against the peace of mind 
 of such a person, seemed out of the question. 
 
 Unable to bestow our sympathy upon the 
 
60 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 woes of unamiable persons, we accustom our- 
 selves to doubt as well as disregard their 
 existence. We allow the fox to be hunted to 
 its end, and care not whether the snake be 
 scotched or killed outright; — but — 
 
 The poor beetle that we tread upon 
 
 In corporal sufferance feels a pang as great 
 
 As when a giant dies ; 
 
 and an intensely selfish man is not likely to 
 survey the wreck of his personal happiness with 
 less concern than one who is less an egotist. 
 Merstham had, in fact, been as grievously de- 
 ceived, and was as great a sufferer, as a man of ge- 
 nerous nature. — His whole life long had been de- 
 voted to the care of his own welfare ! He had 
 fenced round his domestic comforts by every 
 means that human foresight could devise : — 
 had secured a house that did not smoke, fur- 
 niture of well-seasoned mahogany, a well-built 
 carriage, and well-broken horses and servants. 
 His property was insured, — his funds invested 
 to yield him five per cent when the rest of the 
 world discontented itself with three ; — and, last 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 61 
 
 of all, with infinite searching and painstaking, 
 he had appropriated to himself a wife likely to 
 be as exclusively and submissively his own as 
 
 this silver side-dishes or lib rary- table ; — a wife 
 to nurse him, when gout or rheumatism should 
 arise; — to do honour to his house on occasions 
 of rare hospitality; — and to be the mother of 
 children reflecting trait for trait his lineaments 
 and character, and destined to perpetuate his 
 name and inherit the household treasures on 
 which he prided himself so dearly. 
 
 But what a change had overmastered the 
 spirit of his dream ! 
 
 The grateful, patient, passive wife, — the 
 joint-stool — the porringer — the fretted gar- 
 ment intrinsically his own, — was, after all, a 
 revolted spirit ! — She might seem to submit 
 to his authority; but her heart defied him 
 
 — her feelings had escaped from durance ! 
 
 — Cold and reserved towards himself, her 
 soul was bright with visions that he knew 
 not of. While she smiled and submitted, he 
 was doubtless an object of derision to her. 
 His age, his person, his name, his house, his 
 
62 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 habits, were secretly despised by the insignifi- 
 cant being who, as a piece of suitable domestic 
 furniture, had been appropriated to his use ! 
 
 Poor Merstham ! — Like the Moor to whom 
 " the gentle lady" Desdemona was dispropor- 
 tionately wedded, he felt himself hurled from 
 supreme bliss — from bliss beyond his expecta- 
 tion and degree, — to all the degradation of his 
 present misery. The middle-aged husband of a 
 young and lovely wife ; — the egotist who felt 
 his sleep and appetite destroyed by her treach- 
 ery ; — the thrifty bachelor who, waiting long to 
 wive, and chancing so auspiciously, found him 
 self after all his cunning, only one of the ninety- 
 and-nine whose hands plunged into a bag in 
 search of a silver eel, bring forth a serpent ; — 
 how would his official colleagues exult over 
 him ! How would his country cousins, envious 
 of the superior connexion he had formed, glory 
 in the discovery that he had been made a cat's 
 paw — a dupe — a victim. — A victim, however, 
 he would never blindly be. His vigilance in 
 the guardianship of his honour should be 
 worthy of the object. He would watch over 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 63 
 
 his wife as never even Spanish wife had yet 
 been watched ; — would scrutinize, examine, — 
 perhaps detect, — perhaps, revenge ! — ■ 
 
 At present, the utmost of his cunning had 
 discovered nothing. Mr. Merstham's seem- 
 ingly careless cross-examination of the servants 
 availed not to point out a single individual 
 visiting his house during his absence, who in 
 the slightest degree resembled what he had 
 seen of the mysterious vision of Warley ; nor 
 was there a clue by which to trace a step of 
 Mary's leading to any dishonest purpose. But 
 then he knew her to be a hypocrite ! — Hypo- 
 crisy varies only in the more or the less ; and 
 who could determine to what extent she might 
 still manage to deceive him ? — 
 
 Meanwhile, undreaming of her husband's 
 solicitude, regarding him with respect as the 
 man whose disinterestedness had stooped to 
 her poverty but appreciating him as the in- 
 sensible being she had found him in their early 
 wedlock, Mrs. Merstham sauntered along the 
 brink of a volcanic crater without a suspicion 
 of her peril. The Raymonds were now once 
 
64 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 more in town, a month earlier than usual, to 
 celebrate the nuptials of Juliana with Lord 
 Glamorgan. Her mode of life was brightened. 
 She became a creature of the every-day world ; 
 — dined frequently in Brook Street, and some- 
 times accompanied Lady Raymond and her 
 cousins to places of public amusement. 
 Merstham seemed to place implicit reliance 
 on her prudence ; and, when obliged by busi- 
 ness, or the pretext of business, to absent 
 himself from their parties, was earnest in his 
 entreaties to Mary to go alone. Like the ex- 
 perienced thief-takers, he carefully forbore all 
 evidence of suspicion, in order to allure back 
 the missing accomplice to his ancient haunts 
 and former associations. 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 65 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 'Tis something every day we live, 
 To pity, and perhaps forgive. 
 But, if'infirmities that fall 
 In common to the lot of all, 
 A blemish or a sense impaired 
 Are crimes so little to be spared. 
 Then farewell all that must create 
 The comfort of the wedded state. 
 
 Cowper. 
 
 How merrily goes the world during what is 
 termed the London season ! — How completely 
 do all persons enjoying or administering to its 
 pleasures close their eyes against the existence 
 of aught beyond its narrow limitation ! — En- 
 grossed by the tumultuous hurry of their own 
 
66 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 pursuits, all is bustle, confusion, and officious - 
 ness. The ease and rest of thousands are 
 sacrificed to the sport of hundreds ; sickness 
 becomes presumption, and sorrow an imper- 
 tinence ; the undertaker an intruder, — the 
 preacher of a world to come, a vain and 
 prating visionary ! — 
 
 The house of Sir Charles Raymond was 
 more peculiarly the house of feasting. His se- 
 cond daughter, a blooming girl of seventeen, 
 pure from the dissipations of London, being 
 on the eve of becoming a Countess, with all 
 the accessories of countessly dignity : — dress, 
 diamonds, opera boxes, and courtly distinction. 
 Happy Lady Raymond, to achieve such a con- 
 summation without a single humiliating effort ; 
 thrice happy Juliana, to become wife to the 
 Earl of Glamorgan with even less expenditure 
 of smiles and blushes than had been necessary 
 to render her elder sister the lady of a captain 
 of dragoons ! »— 
 
 Even Sir Charles found much to console him 
 for the necessity of daily dinner parties, and an 
 incessant round of company; for it was his 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 67 
 
 own first session in parliament as well as his 
 daughter's first and last spinster season in 
 town. It is true when he found his house 
 besieged by detachments of man tua-m alters, 
 milliners, jewellers, and all the giddy-paced 
 retainers of vanity, he thought it necessary 
 to affect to be out of humour with the im- 
 pending dignities of his Right Honourable 
 daughter ; while the silly, good-natured Juliana 
 laboured not to smile too broadly or blush too 
 deeply, — divided between her anxiety not to be 
 thought proud by her young friends or childish 
 by the dowager Countess. 
 
 " Ay, ay, — this will be a very different wed- 
 ding from Miss Mary's \" — exclaimed the old 
 housekeeper one morning, as the portentous 
 day approached, to her colleague the old butler; 
 and George Raymond, who chanced to be 
 within hearing, could not forbear ejaculating, 
 " Poor Mary ! — may my father and mother ne- 
 ver be visited in the misery of their own child- 
 ren for their insufficient care of her! Mary 
 may not perhaps have been harshly dealt with 
 among us ; but oh ! how much has she often 
 
G8 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 needed^ how much does she still need, the con- 
 solation of a parentis kindness ! " — 
 
 Such kindness, indeed, Mrs. Merstham was 
 as little likely as ever to meet in Brook 
 Street. Whenever her carriage stopped at the 
 door, there was a general outcry among the 
 cousins of " Ah ! here is Mary !— I am so glad 
 Mary is come 1 ; ' — for all felt pre-assured of a 
 patient ear and gentle sympathy. Day after 
 day, they told her their distresses, and unfolded 
 their grievances ; but none of Mary's did they 
 ever hear. Nay, sometimes when Juliana or 
 Helena proposed to include her in their pic- 
 nics or water parties, Captain Elwood or 
 Charles Raymond would exclaim, " Oh ! pray 
 don't ask her, — we must have that odious hus- 
 band ; and there is not a more disagreeable 
 fellow on the face of the earth than Merstham." 
 
 " Merstham has not a word to say that does 
 not bear reference to his own possessions or 
 sensations," observed Charles Raymond one 
 morning as they were planning a party to Rich- 
 mond. 
 
 " Nor has he even a sensation in which other 
 people can sympathize," added Elwood. 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 69 
 
 u Merstham is a perfect high priest of Lilli- 
 put,"cried Helena, laughing at her borrowed wit. 
 
 " Would to Heaven self-conceit were the 
 worst trait in his character !" added her 
 eldest brother, in a low voice. " Merstham 
 has a vile, vindictive disposition. His selfish, 
 sensual habits remind me of the viper of a 
 menagerie, sleeping away its venomous ex- 
 istence wrapt up in cotton I" 
 
 In Mary's presence, however, the young 
 Raymonds were scrupulously attentive to her 
 husband ; just as in her husband's presence 
 they were scrupulously ^attentive to her. On 
 another point, too, the cousins were uniformly 
 considerate ; from the first they forbore all 
 allusion to the holidays at Warley, and all 
 mention of the name of Henry Marlay ; and, 
 even during Merstham's absence at his office, 
 the prudent wife had evidently no desire to 
 find the subject recalled to her attention. 
 
 One day, however, one joyous balm-breath- 
 ing day in June, when the sun seemed to shine 
 as bright for all the world as it might be sup- 
 posed to do for the future Countess of Glamor- 
 
TO MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 gan, a party was formed by the Raymonds to 
 dine at Greenwich, which Richard, whose ship 
 was stationed at Sheerness, was invited to join ; 
 and Merstham, finding the loan of the Admi- 
 ralty barge a security for his carriage-horses, 
 condescended to grace the company. The plan 
 succeeded, — the party assembled ; — and, after a 
 sufficient quantity of white-bait had been swal- 
 lowed, and bad champagne pronounced to be 
 excellent, began to disperse again; some to 
 visit the Woolwich museum, some to play the 
 rural in donkey-races upon Blackheath, some 
 to parade leisurely and prosingly along the 
 shady avenues of Greenwich Park ; — when 
 Richard Raymond, addressing Mrs. Merstham, 
 who had attached herself to her husband's arm, 
 in the last mentioned group, suddenly ex- 
 claimed, " By the way, Mary, whom do you 
 think I was very near bringing here with me 
 to-day ? — neither more nor less than your old 
 friend, Henry Marlay !" 
 
 " I am glad you brought no accession to 
 our party," interrupted Lady Raymond, " over- 
 hearing this indiscreet allusion, and hoping to 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 71 
 
 distract the attention of Merstham. " We 
 were very ill served at the Ship, considering 
 they had two days' notice, and carte-blanch e 
 as to price." And she looked reprovingly at 
 her son. 
 
 " You know he has been on the continent 
 ever since Christmas ?" persisted Dick, who 
 was blest with a sailor's genuine inaccessibility 
 to inuendo. " His health, poor fellow, has 
 never recovered that deuce of a shock it got at 
 Ceylon ! But his mother, who accompanied 
 him to the south of France, was obliged to re- 
 turn to England, and Harry consented to bear 
 Lady Mary company. ( Why talk to me of 
 climate \ what matters it whether I live or 
 die ! ' is his constant exclamation. Indeed, 
 ever since he was at Warley in the winter, 
 Harry has been half out of his mind." 
 
 " How completely that prejudice about 
 change of climate for pulmonary disorders is 
 exploded ! " — cried Lady Raymond, neither 
 much knowing, nor much caring what she said. 
 " It reminds me of poor Dr. Pitcairn, who, 
 when he landed at Lisbon, for change of air, 
 
72 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 observed, " Arid is this the wretched place I 
 have sent so many of my consumptive patients 
 to die in \" — 
 
 The bait took. No water party is without 
 its proser; and the dowager Lady Glamor- 
 gan, a staunch advocate of the homoeopathic 
 system and the theory that no further neces- 
 sity exists for people to die of a decline, 
 — began a verbose discourse on the text of 
 "acclimatization." — But poor Lady Raymond's 
 well intended efforts were superfluous. Al- 
 though Sir Charles managed, during the argu- 
 ment, to draw off the young sailor and rate 
 him roundly for his loquacity, Merstham 
 had learned all he wished to know. Henry 
 Marlay was the hero of the tableau scene. 
 Henry Marlay was the man by whom his 
 wife had been apostrophised as " my Mary ! " 
 Henry Marlay was his enemy, — Henry Marlay 
 was to be his victim ! — He did not, how- 
 ever, let fall Mary's arm as the discovery 
 dawned upon his mind, — on the contrary, 
 his stiffened limbs seemed to hold it fast as 
 by an involuntary contraction; and so little 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 73 
 
 did Mrs. Merstham apprehend that anything 
 in the observations of Richard was likely to 
 convey enlightenment to his mind, that had 
 she overheard the fearful words of execra- 
 tion muttered between her husband's lips, she 
 would not have supposed it possible they could 
 be applied to herself ! 
 
 Meanwhile, as in the case of most par- 
 ties of pleasure, the persons concerned 
 seemed chiefly anxious to get away, and be 
 pleased elsewhere. All were hurrying to some 
 " indispensable engagement ; " some to the 
 House, some to the opera, some to an early 
 party ; and, despising the Thames, the Admi- 
 ralty, and its barge, carriages were found in 
 waiting to convey back the truants by land. 
 Merstham, among others, was not the man 
 to hazard the evening air on the water, 
 now that cholera is supposed to travel per 
 river after sunset, even though his pru- 
 dence compelled him to have out his own 
 horses ; and Mary was on the point of enter- 
 ing the carriage, to return tete-a-tete with 
 him to town, when the voice of her uncle 
 
 VOL. I. E 
 
74 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 was heard inquiring " whether any one would 
 be charitable enough to give a place to his boy 
 Dick? " — Obliging as was her disposition, she 
 dared not invite her cousin to take the third 
 place in their chariot. But Merstham did not 
 neglect so desirable an opportunity j and, at 
 his gracious request, Richard was established 
 between himself and his wife. 
 
 u There would have been scarcely room here 
 for your friend Marlay ?" observed the husband 
 to the young sailor, as the carriage rolled along 
 between the nursery grounds at Camberwell. 
 
 " Not much indeed," was Richard's vague 
 reply. 
 
 " Young men are accustomed to put up with 
 inconvenience on such occasions and bear them 
 cheerfully, when the party of pleasure is really a 
 pleasant one — really as attractive as that of to- 
 day/' persisted Merstham. 
 
 u Of course. I remember once when I was 
 on shore at Madeira — " Richard began ; but 
 Merstham had no interest to bestow upon what 
 might have happened at Madeira. Reminis- 
 cences of sailor-life could give no pain to his 
 
MARY RAYMOND, 75 
 
 wife, or information to himself. He wanted 
 only to get back to Henry Marlay. 
 
 " Has Lady Mary many sons?" he inquired, 
 cutting short the Madeira story. 
 
 " Not that I am aware of. I never spoke to 
 Lady Mary in my life," replied Richard, coolly ; 
 and Mrs. Mersthanr's momentary uneasiness 
 was relieved. She saw that her lively cousin 
 had been put on his guard by his father and 
 mother. 
 
 16 But she has one older than your friend in 
 the navy ? " — 
 
 "Has she?" — demanded Dick, assuming, in 
 his turn, a tone of interrogation ; and, perceiv- 
 ing that the unsilenceable Merstham was about 
 to renew his inquiries, he suddenly thrust his 
 head from the window, exclaiming, " What a 
 pace Glamorgan drives those bays of his ! 
 at what a rate they go ! And Juliana, too, who 
 used to pretend to be frightened when I put 
 her pony into a canter in the garden chair ! 
 Just like women — always in extremes of one 
 kind or other l" 
 
 To renew the Marlay chapter after this was 
 
 e 2 
 
76 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 impossible. Merstham felt himself baffled, and 
 baffled by a brainless boy ; and all he could do 
 was to sink into his corner, silent and sulky, 
 for the remainder of the drive. By the time 
 they reached that part of the Kent road where 
 the brilliancy of the London lamps and the 
 fragrancy of the London breezes become ap- 
 parent, he was wholly absorbed in his marital 
 meditations. 
 
 " No doubt she has schooled this chattering 
 fellow like the rest of them !" thought he. "Whi- 
 ther does not her system of artifice extend ! — 
 and all the time wearing that candid face — ex- 
 pressing herself in that ingenuous tone — sport- 
 ing those noble sentiments ! — What infinite — 
 what infamous hypocrisy ; — what a deceiver to 
 lie at the mercy of!- — She has soured my daily 
 life with mistrust ; I am always wishing some- 
 thing — always apprehending something ! — Yes, 
 existence is a burden to me— to ?»f whose davs 
 have passed so tranquilly, and whose future 
 prospects were once so comfortable !" — And in- 
 sensibly the man began to picture to "himself 
 how, but for the offending Mary, he might have 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 77 
 
 dozed away that very evening in his easy chair 
 in Grosvenor Place, his cup of tea or news- 
 paper in his hand, by way of recreation. What 
 a contrast to his now unquiet mood; — to the 
 ever-gnawing consciousness that he was not a 
 first object of affection to the mother of his 
 expected child ! — 
 
 " Let it once be born, and let me never see 
 her more ! " — he would sometimes exclaim, as 
 with hurried steps he paced his library. At 
 others, he would ejaculate : " But no doubt 
 it would be a relief to her to escape from me ; 
 no doubt she fancies that in the arms of this — 
 this villain — she might yet be happy. But you 
 are mistaken, mistress Mary ! if you think to 
 get out of my clutches, — you are mistaken ! — ■ 
 You shall not deprive me of the pleasure of 
 watching over your repentance, — of spying out 
 your tears. You are mine now, — lady fair — 
 mine, and to remain so to the last hour of your 
 existence 1" — Then, in a lower voice, he would 
 groan out the fearful adjuration of Othello : 
 
 I would have her twenty years a-killing ! 
 
78 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 Now, too, that Richard's indiscretion had 
 proclaimed the actual presence of Marlay in 
 London, Merstham scarcely found courage to 
 quit home. So long as he had been anxious 
 to lay a trap whereby to discover the identity 
 of his rival, he encouraged his wife to go abroad 
 or receive company in Grosvenor Place. But 
 circumstances were altered. If he left her at 
 home but so long as while he fulfilled his pub- 
 lic duties, who could insure what was passing 
 during his absence ; — who could insure him 
 that his servants were not traitors ? Who could 
 insure him when he returned and cast his 
 scrutinizing glances on the patient face of the 
 suffering Mary, that the kiss of wantonness 
 had not polluted its purity? — Who could in- 
 sure him — who could insure him ! — he gasped 
 for breath as he dwelt upon all the contingen- 
 cies to which his happiness and his honour were 
 exposed. — He gasped for breath, — he wruno- 
 his hands, — he cried aloud for very misery ! 
 
 " That the fellow were but lying dead be- 
 fore me !" he once exclaimed, in a paroxysm 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 70 
 
 of despair ; then struck by sudden self-con- 
 viction, he prayed with shuddering fervour 
 that he might not be " led into tempta- 
 tion 'Z'- 
 Under such circumstances, it is not wonder- 
 ful that Merstham began to neglect for the first 
 time the duties of his office. He became care- 
 less in his attendance; made his appearance too 
 late in the morning, quitted the desk too early 
 in the evening, forgot to prepare the reports, 
 to overlook the abstracts, to speak a few words 
 to this party or listen to a few words from that. 
 His worthy colleague in the black gaiters, 
 Mr. Thumbleton, hinted that complaints had 
 reached their superiors in office ; and Merstham, 
 heretofore wont to humble himself under the 
 frowns of authority, listened with a vague 
 smile to his friend's denunciations. At length, 
 reiterated offences called forth a moderate and 
 private rebuke ; and Merstham, by way of ex- 
 tenuation, muttered between his teeth the de- 
 tested name of Henry Marlay ! — 
 
 " The duties of your office appear less pe- 
 remptory than they used to be ?" — Sir Charles 
 
80 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 Raymond unluckily observed to him on the 
 evening of the reprimand ; and Merstham im- 
 mediately took it into his head that his wife 
 had somehow or other obtained intelligence of 
 his humiliation, and communicated it as an 
 excellent jest to her family. 
 
 Towards her meanwhile, his conduct was be- 
 coming daily more inexplicable. In the morn- 
 ing when she woke, he was sometimes standing 
 by her bed side, regarding her with a fixed and 
 terrible gaze ; sometimes, in the day, he would 
 enter her presence abruptly, and, sitting down 
 opposite or beside her, fix his eyes upon her 
 face as if to penetrate her inmost thoughts ; as 
 as if to ascertain whether she had seen Mar- 
 lay, or even whether she was musing over 
 the past ; until the result of his wildness of 
 demeanour became visible in the nervous tre- 
 mours with which poor Mary was seized when- 
 ever her husband made his appearance. She 
 knew not why, but her confidence in him was 
 gone. She could not bear to be alone with 
 him 3 yet in company trembled lest his growing 
 eccentricity should excite attention. Had 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 81 
 
 her parents been living, she would have 
 rushed to their tender bosoms to weep out 
 her tale of trouble. But she had neither 
 father nor brother to defend, nor mother to 
 console her ; and of what avail to complain to 
 the worldly-minded aunt and uncle by whom 
 her youth had been rendered miserable, that 
 she was still more miserable under the roof of 
 him whom they had chosen for her husband? — . 
 
 e 3 
 
82 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 This jealousy- 
 Is for a precious creature. As she is rare 
 Must it be violent. 
 
 Winters Tale. 
 
 Weddings of due distinction are rarely 
 solemnized before the close of the season, 
 lest they should interrupt the well ordered 
 routine of the rail-road of pleasure ; and that 
 of Juliana Raymond made no exception to 
 the rule. Lord Glamorgan's guardians had 
 to give up their trust, 'ere the young peer 
 assumed the trust of others ; the lawyers had 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 83 
 
 to revise and re-revise the acts and deeds by 
 which the happy couple were to be restrained 
 from defrauding each other, in case they should 
 become the chappy, or their future progeny 
 prevented from playing the pelican's chick 
 with their parents. The scorching sun of 
 July was fated therefore to glow upon the 
 wedding day ; and Lady Raymond was denied 
 the pleasure of paying for forced peaches for 
 her dejeune. 
 
 Mrs. Merstham, meanwhile, the patient con- 
 fidant of all the family, redoubled the length 
 and frequency of her visits to Brook Street, 
 eager to escape the troubled aspect of her 
 home, and content to lend her ear to Glamor- 
 gan's complaints of the dilatoriness of his soli- 
 citor, or dulness of his coachmaker ; to Sophia 
 Elwood's murmurs that " papa and mamma 
 cared for nothing now but Juliana ;" and to 
 the predictions of the young men that " they 
 should find Warley deuced dull when Ju was 
 gone/' Helena and the bride were the only 
 two who had nothing to complain of; Juliana's 
 tears being dried by the prospect of her 
 
81 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 countess's coronet, and Helena's by that 
 of succeeding to the honours of Miss Ray- 
 mondship. 
 
 But there was something in the stir and 
 bustle of the house, and more particularly in 
 the maternal and paternal anxieties of Sir 
 Charles and his wife, which grated painfully 
 on the feelings of Mary. 
 
 It was now just a twelvemonth since these 
 people had conducted her to the altar; just 
 a twelvemonth since her bandboxes of wedding 
 finery had been hurried into the house. And 
 who had shed tears for her ? — Who had ex- 
 perienced a moment's misgiving as to the 
 temper or principles of the man to whom her 
 vows of eternal love and submission were to 
 be dedicated ? — Who had cared to inquire 
 into the antecedents of his family, — their tem- 
 per, — their temperament ? — Alas ! Merstham's 
 official eminence had been accepted as the 
 voucher of his respectability ; his house in 
 Grosvenor Place as the certificate of his wor- 
 thiness. A man with an income of four thou- 
 sand a year proposing to a portionless niece, 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 85 
 
 could in fact be neither mad, nor bad, nor 
 even indifferent ! — Mary recollected how Sir 
 Charles, without actually forcing him on 
 her acceptance, had pointed out in the sternest 
 and least ornamental prose that her situa- 
 tion in life was a very precarious one; that, 
 in case of the decease of Lady Raymond and 
 himself, she would be destitute of a home; 
 that her net income amounted to eighty-four 
 pounds per annum; and if he did not add 
 that it was her duty to herself and the family 
 to accept so respectable a protector, he im- 
 plied it as plainly as ever yet injunction was 
 implied by uncle. She recollected that the 
 authoritative Lady Raymond had said to her 
 a few days previously to her marriage, u I hope 
 and trust, Mary, I shall see no tears on Thurs- 
 day. It would be a very bad compliment to 
 Mr. Merstham, and a poor return for all the 
 kindness your uncle has shown you, if you 
 seemed to form with reluctance a connexion 
 we judge so suitable, and so well calculated 
 to secure your happiness." 
 
 And thus, poor girl, even the luxury of tears 
 
86 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 was denied her, — to her, who had so little 
 besides ; while Juliana, rich in the devoted 
 affection of the lover of her choice, surrounded 
 by troops of friends, and sinking under the 
 prosperities of life, might have wept fountains 
 unreproved ! 
 
 Sometimes, indeed, Mary indulged a mo- 
 mentary intention of confiding to one or other 
 of the young Raymonds, to George or Richard, 
 the secret of her woes and terrors. But the 
 sailor was Marlay's friend -, while with respect 
 to George, so inexactly was she assured of 
 the origin of her husband's strange alteration 
 of demeanour, that she was sometimes tempted 
 to fancy him jealous of Mr. Raymond, and 
 resentful of her aunt and uncle's former anxie- 
 ties concerning their son. There was conse- 
 quently none, — not one, — to whom she could 
 open her heart. 
 
 If any thing could have tended to de- 
 monstrate to a man of Merstham's character 
 the folly of his proceedings, it might have 
 been the judgment by which they were 
 shortly overtaken ! A change of ministry had 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 87 
 
 occurred about the period of his marriage, by 
 which his friends in the administration were 
 removed : and, though the office he held, not 
 being of a political nature, was independent 
 of parties, there were no longer any in 
 power to screen the irregularities of his pro- 
 ceedings. A high character of twenty years 
 operated, indeed, for some time in his favour. 
 The remonstrances addressed to him were 
 of a mild and private nature ; but when 
 it plainly appeared that neither forbearance 
 nor menaces had any effect in inducing a re- 
 formation, it was signified to him with more 
 consideration than is always testified in a 
 ministerial ukase, that he had better avail him- 
 self of his length of services to retire upon the 
 superannuation list. Unhappily, the letter in 
 which this unwelcome hint was contained, lay 
 upon his library table on the very night he 
 returned from Brook Street, after witnessing 
 the signing of Lord Glamorgan's marriage 
 settlements. It had been an evening of that 
 general hilarity when people are too merry to 
 
88 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 be wise; and Charles Raymond, who enter- 
 tained an especial dislike against Merstham, 
 ^d been amusing himself by worrying the 
 cold-blooded animal into a fever; had made him 
 the butt of his pleasantries without suspecting 
 that the mask of moderation under which the 
 fury of the quizzee was disguised, could be 
 afterwards thrown aside at home to reveal 
 the distorted features of a maniac. 
 
 " See \" cried he, extending the Treasury 
 letter towards his wife with one hand, and 
 dashing the open paper violently with the 
 other, — " see to what humiliations I am re- 
 duced — see for what I have to thank you !" 
 
 " To thank me ?" gently repeated Mary, 
 now in some degree accustomed to the ebulli- 
 tions of her husband^ s temper. 
 
 " Yes, — you — you — you ! — do I speak 
 plainly — do I make myself understood ? — or 
 is there need for you to mock me by reiterating 
 my words like a parrot V* — vociferated Mers- 
 tham. 
 
 " I shall perhaps understand you better," 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 89 
 
 said Mary, striving not to tremble, " when 
 I have perused the letter." And she extended 
 her hand to receive it. 
 
 " Oh! — you would read it, would you; — 
 you would taste, drop by drop, my cup of 
 bitterness ; — would luxuriate in the insults 
 these fools heap upon me ? — But you shall 
 be disappointed ! — I will not afford you the op- 
 portunity to go giggling to those accursed 
 fools in Brook Street who are the cause 
 of my undoing, over the tale of my being chid- 
 den like a school-boy, and driven forth like a 
 dog!"— 
 
 " I do not understand you !" cried Mary, 
 sitting down, unable longer to support her- 
 self. " Believe me, I have not the slightest 
 idea to what you refer !" — 
 
 " You will soon learn, Madam, you will soon 
 learn ; — I owe you something for the numerous 
 lessons you have taught me !" — exclaimed the 
 infuriated man. He was about to fling the 
 letter into her lap, when some sudden im- 
 pulse of rage induced him to tear it into a 
 thousand pieces with his teeth : then dashing 
 
90 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 the fragments on the floor, to stamp upon 
 them with all the intemperance of frenzy. 
 
 Not daring to anticipate what outrage might 
 follow, Mary rose to quit the room. " Yes ! 
 — go !" cried he. " Sneak away, — crawl into 
 shelter, — you are right to dread my violence, 
 for God alone knows whither it may lead me ! 
 But no matter! — there is shame enough in 
 store for both of us, — ruin enough for both of 
 us ; and 'tis some comfort to know that you 
 and your brat will be beggars for my sake. 
 — Ay ! I shall set my mark upon you both. 
 — All men will know you for my own !" — 
 
 And a sort of rattling laugh rang in the ears 
 of Mary as she closed the library door, and 
 managed to escape into her own room. That 
 room she knew her husband would not ap- 
 proach. That room he had religiously avoided 
 from the moment of his return from Warley. 
 In that room she was still secure ; — still free 
 to lie down and weep — perhaps to lie down and 
 die!— 
 
 The day following happened to be the one 
 appointed for Juliana's gorgeous wedding ; and 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 91 
 
 Mrs. Merstham, whose night was passed in 
 tears and bitter self-communing, found it im- 
 possible to raise her heavy head from her 
 pillow in time to attend the ceremony. To her 
 amazement, however, she learnt from Mrs. 
 Stanley her maid, that Merstham was up, 
 dressed, and inquiring for her at an early 
 hour. 
 
 u Is he pretty well this morning ?" — she 
 demanded, — not daring more explicitly to avow 
 her alarms. 
 
 u Quite well ma'am, only very much con- 
 cerned to find you do not feel equal to go to 
 the wedding, 5 ' replied Stanley. i( Just listen 
 ma'am, and you will hear master whistling on 
 the stairs/' 
 
 And Mary did listen, and did hear. The 
 mood of the monster was changed. He had 
 worked off his ire by despatching to the Trea- 
 sury a dignified letter containing the un- 
 qualified resignation of his office. He fancied 
 he had given blow for blow, and was content ; 
 not understanding that such blows are precisely 
 those which the meek ones of his Majesty's 
 
92 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 Treasury turn their right cheek as well as the 
 left to be smitten withal : and that his letter 
 was likely to produce no other effect than 
 the nomination of his successor. The effort 
 sufficed, however, to smooth down his ruffled 
 plumes, ere he joined the party at the Ray- 
 mond's ; and when, having sent a message 
 to his wife begging to know whether she would 
 accompany him, Mrs. Merstham made an at- 
 tempt to rise and made it in \ r ain, he deter- 
 mined to go alone. 
 
 Aware that the news of his retreat from 
 office must shortly become public, Merstham 
 chose to be the first to announce it ; assuming 
 at the same time so elated a tone, as to make it 
 seem a matter of considerable exultation. He 
 appeared at the wedding as one of its gayest 
 guests ; and several good easy members of the 
 community, (including the Dowager Lady 
 Glamorgan), were heard to observe — " A 
 warm-hearted pleasant man that Mr. Mers- 
 tham ! He is much more lively than half the 
 young men of the day, and yet, they say, such 
 an excellent man of business P* — While others, 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 93 
 
 who were neither good nor easy, added in a 
 whisper, " I fear his little quiet still-life wife 
 is not quite so amiable as she might be — I 
 suspect she is a little envious. Ever since this 
 fine match of her cousin's has been going on, 
 Mrs. Merstham has appeared quite distressed. 
 She cannot forgive Juliana for having risen in 
 the world above herself." 
 
 Meanwhile, though Merstham's spirits might 
 be elevated by the strong efforts, and strong 
 madeira with which he strove to raise them 
 during the wedding breakfast, the time came 
 for him to return to the vexations of home, 
 and his countenance fell ! Nearly two thou- 
 sand per annum had been subtracted from his 
 income at one fell swoop : and, with the re- 
 maining two, how would it be possible to keep 
 up his house in Grosvenor Place in all its 
 beloved array of menials, of equipage, of luxu- 
 rious comfort? — Already a portion of his capital 
 was involved in hazardous speculations, in order 
 to yield the per centage satisfying his avarice ; 
 "i\.nd now," thought he, as he mused upon 
 
94 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 the troubled waste of do-nothingness and 
 gain-nothingness before him, — the waste his 
 own madness had created — "now, all I have 
 must be perilled ! — I can be but ruined ! 
 'Twill be only adding a crowning drop to the 
 cup of evil !" — And he laughed aloud as he 
 crossed the deserted park — from Grosvenor to 
 Piccadilly gate, in reflecting that she would 
 be involved in his fall ; that she who had mar- 
 ried him only to batten on his prosperity, 
 would shortly be degraded, she and her child, 
 by the stigma of his poverty ! 
 
 That day, that wedding-day^ to which she 
 had looked forward as to a moment of pro- 
 mised sunshine, Mary remained wholly con- 
 fined to her room. Merstham, who declined 
 joining the brilliant dinner party in Brook 
 Street upon the plea of his wife's indis- 
 position, enjoyed a solitary meal in lonely state ; 
 when, just as he was about to rise from table, a 
 letter was placed in his hands from the first 
 Lord of the Treasury to whom his resignation 
 of the morning had been addressed, begging 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 95 
 
 him with ceremonious civility, to re-consider 
 the business ; and appointing the following day 
 to receive his definitive reply. 
 
 " Did one of the Treasury messengers bring 
 this, or Lord Ballitore's private servant ?" he 
 inquired with some surprise. 
 
 " Lord Ballitore's private servant Sir, or 
 a Treasury porter }" — repeated the astonished 
 butler. u I received it from my mistress's 
 maid." 
 
 " From whom?" — reiterated Merstham in his 
 turn." 
 
 " From Mrs. Stanley, Sir, from Mrs. Mers- 
 tham's own maid. 
 
 €i But who gave it to Mrs. Stanley ? — How 
 came they to carry up one of my letters to 
 Mrs. Merstham's room ?" — 
 
 " Indeed, Sir, I don't know ; I was not 
 aware that any letter had been sent here for 
 you. A large packet came here this afternoon 
 for my misses s." 
 
 " Of letters V 
 
 " I can't justly say, Sir. It was a square 
 packet." 
 
Or, MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 " Who took it in ?"— 
 
 " The under-footman, Sir. They gave it 
 down the area steps, and John happened to be 
 in the way." 
 
 " Where is John? Send John here directly !" 
 
 And lo ! John, eagerly interrogated, con- 
 firmed the statement that about five o'clock 
 he had received a packet addressed to Mrs. 
 Merstham, which he had forthwith delivered 
 to her maid. 
 
 " Was it brought by a strange servant ?" — 
 
 " Yes, Sir/' 
 
 c: What livery? — Do you know Lord Bal- 
 litore's when you see it ?" — 
 
 " Yes, Sir; blue and silver, with yellow 
 plush inexpressibles ; my Lord's people sit next 
 us in church. I can answer for it that it was 
 not Lord Ballitore's." 
 
 u But you do not know whose ? — 
 
 " The young man was in mourning ; and, 
 now I comes to think of it, Sir, Anne the 
 kitchen-maid said he was fellow servant of a 
 cousin of hers, what lives along with- a young 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 97 
 
 gentleman, a navy-officer, which is nephew to 
 one of the ministers. " 
 
 " Enough, you may go down again," cried 
 Merstham, who had now obtained the infor- 
 mation he desired. And the next moment 
 he was standing hy the bedside of his 
 wife. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
9S MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Lod. May be the letters moved him ; 
 For, as I think they do command him home 
 Deputing Cassio in his government. 
 Des. By my troth, I'm glad on't ! 
 Oth. Indeed ? 
 
 Des. My Lord ! 
 Oth. I am glad to see you mad I 
 
 Des. How, sweet Othello ? 
 Oth. (Striking her) Devil ! 
 
 Des I have not deserved this I 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 It was an easy matter for Mrs. Merstham 
 to assure her husband in the most solemn 
 terms, that she had never directly or indirectly 
 attempted to engage in his behalf the interest 
 of Lord Ballitore; but, when Merstham in- 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 99 
 
 terrupted her asseverations by demanding from 
 whom she had received the packet of letters 
 delivered to her that evening by her maid, — 
 Mary was painfully silenced. It was not that 
 the despatch in question contained any thing she 
 was afraid of disclosing; but it now appeared 
 beyond a doubt that Marlay was the object 
 of her husband's frantic jealousy; and, on that 
 head, she did not feel blameless. She sum- 
 moned courage, however, to reply with tolerable 
 composure, " The packet to which you allude, 
 was sent me by a friend of my cousin Richard, 
 with whom I was intimately acquainted at 
 Warley, previously to my marriage. Mr. Marlay, 
 whose mother is sister to Lord Ballitore, 
 happened to be sitting with his uncle when 
 the letter containing your resignation was 
 brought in." 
 
 u And his affection for your cousin Richard, 
 induced him to play the suitor in my behalf?" 
 — sneered the husband. 
 
 " No !" replied Mrs. Merstham with firm- 
 ness. u Mr. Marlay's regard for myself prompted 
 him to beg Lord Ballitore would give you 
 
 f 2 
 
100 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 time to re- consider a measure that appeared 
 precipitate. " 
 
 *' And how dared he presume to be so 
 officious ?" cried Merstham. " Who gave him 
 leave to pry into my affairs or give his opinion 
 on my proceedings ? — Shall I tell you who 
 gave him leave ? — Shall I explain to you, what 
 prompted his insolent zeal Y 9 — And, grasping 
 her arm with his hand, he shook it with 
 violence. 
 
 " Rather let me explain to you," replied 
 Mary, her heart revolting against such un- 
 merited harshness ; — and, having taken a letter 
 from her pillow, she placed it in her husband's 
 hands. 
 
 " Beneath her very pillow ; — warm, warm 
 from contact with her very cheek !" — ejaculated 
 Merstham, snatching it from her trembling 
 hold. And having approached the candles 
 burning on the table, he proceeded to de- 
 cypher the following lines : 
 
 " Dear Mrs. Merstham, 
 " I trust that old acquaintanceship will plead 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 101 
 
 my excuse for the liberty I take in forwarding 
 the enclosed through your hands. I was with 
 my uncle, Lord Ballitore, at the Home Office 
 this morning, when he received a commu- 
 nication nearly concerning your interests ; a 
 circumstance that induced me to interfere in 
 a mode which the accompanying note will 
 explain ; and which I trust may not prove 
 offensive to yourself, or any of the parties 
 concerned. 
 
 I am, dear Mrs. Merstham, 
 
 Truly yours, 
 
 H. Marlay," 
 
 Bury Street, 
 August 7. 
 
 u A well-concocted epistle, I must admit ! 
 — cried Merstham, throwing it contemptuously 
 on the table. "Not a word to which the 
 most susceptible husband could object ; — not 
 a syllable but is calculated to bear the scru- 
 tiny of judge and jury. It does you credit, 
 Madam ; for I have not so high an opinion 
 of a cock-pit education, as to imagine this 
 
]02 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 fellow capable of stringing his generalities 
 together without prompting. I no longer 
 wonder you were so ready to make an ex- 
 hibition of your correspondence." 
 
 " I was, and am ready to do any thing for 
 your satisfaction," replied Mary. " But you 
 do injustice to Mr. Marlay if you suppose 
 he needs any assistance of mine to enable 
 him to act like a man of spirit and honour." 
 
 " How! — you advocate his cause, then,openly 
 and without reserve ?" — cried Merstham, re- 
 garding his wife's generous defence of Marlay 
 as a sarcasm levelled at himself. 
 
 " Not further than common justice de- 
 mands/' she replied. 
 
 iC Trouble not yourself unnecessarily with 
 the administration of justice !" — said Merstham, 
 again approaching the bed, and addressing her 
 in a low concentrated voice— "the time will 
 come, Mary, when you may chance to receive 
 more of justice, — more of retribution, — than 
 you are altogether prepared to meet. Yes ! 
 mark me, — the time will come !" — 
 
 Without waiting a reply, the infuriated man 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 103 
 
 quitted the room ; and, on the morrow, Lord 
 Ballitore received from Mr. Merstham a second 
 letter, less gracious if possible than the first, 
 containing a reiteration of his demand to retire 
 from the service of his Majesty's government. 
 On the morrow, too, Mary received, in her turn, 
 from the petty tyrant an intimation that they 
 were immediately to leave town on a tour 
 of pleasure ; and the tone of voice in which 
 he uttered, " Do you hear me, Mary ? — Does 
 it not rejoice your very heart to think of 
 spending weeks and months to come tdte-a- 
 t4te with your husband? 5 ' — thrilled through her 
 delicate frame, like a forewarning of vengeance. 
 The case was now becoming too serious to 
 be trifled with. Mrs. Merstham's inference 
 that Marlay, having once been tempted to 
 address her, might perhaps on some future 
 occasion stir up against her by terms less 
 guarded the wrathful indignation of her hus- 
 band, determined her to apply for advice and 
 assistance to Sir Charles Raymond, previously 
 to the departure of the family from town. 
 She repaired, therefore, alone to Brook Street, 
 
104 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 at a moment when she was sure of finding her 
 uncle ; but no sooner did the prudent man 
 perceive his niece enter his private room, 
 — wearing on her countenance the expres- 
 sion of a deep-seated sorrow attempered by 
 strong resolution, — than he attempted to evade 
 the interview. He pretended an appointment, 
 and spoke of the necessity he was under of 
 quitting her in five minutes ; apprehensive that, 
 driven to desperate measures, she w T as about 
 to consult him respecting a separation from 
 Mersthamj for there is nothing in which 
 wordly-minded people are more careful to 
 avoid interfering, than the differences between 
 man and wife. — But Mary's earnestness w r as 
 not to be put aside. Her feelings were power- 
 fully excited; — her courage was screwed to the 
 " sticking place." 
 
 " Uncle ! " — said she, approaching Sir 
 Charles's writing-table, and looking steadily in 
 his face, " you must not refuse to hear me. I 
 need scarcely remind you that my father died 
 before I w T as born, or that when my poor mo- 
 ther lay upon her death-bed, knowing it 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 105 
 
 to be her death-bed, she found strength to 
 place in your arms your only brother's only 
 child, — reminding you that it was about to be 
 left destitute in an unfriendly world ! — You 
 told her that, if fated to become an orphan, it 
 need not therefore be destitute ; that it should 
 have a place in your home, — a place in your 
 heart, —that it should be in after-life as one 
 
 of your own children." 
 
 " i" did /" — exclaimed Sir Charles in a dis- 
 turbed tone of voice, perceiving that she paused 
 for a reply. 
 
 " And thus re-assured, with her hand grate- 
 fully clasping your arm, my poor mother 
 departed in peace ! — Her last faint words 
 thanked you, uncle, — her last faint looks were 
 fixed on her child !" — 
 
 Again Mary paused ; but this time, Sir 
 Raymond was too much agitated to reply. 
 
 " Promises uttered to the dying," pursued 
 Mrs. Merstham, " are said to be doubly sa- 
 cred 5 I will not ask you how you have fulfilled 
 yours. I have sometimes asked that question 
 
 f3 
 
IOG MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 of myself when shedding my tears in solitude, 
 and shrank from the reply that presented 
 itself; for I felt that I had no right to pass sen- 
 tence upon those having authority over me. 
 Let us, therefore, advert no further to the 
 past ; it is for the future I claim your aid, 
 for the present, your council. In the name 
 of my father and mother, uncle, T beseech 
 you to help me ! — Do not put me away 
 with cold looks or careless answers. — My 
 affliction is a very deep one ; yea, almost too 
 heavy for meto bear !" 
 
 Much affected by the mild fervour of this 
 address, Sir Charles folded his niece to his 
 bosom ; and, having placed her in a seat beside 
 him, prepared to listen to her communication. 
 As she gradually disclosed the origin and 
 aggravation of Mersthanr's intemperate de- 
 portment, the Baroness involuntary ejacula- 
 tions varied from, u Jealous, poor fellow, a 
 mere fit of jealousy ;" to " mad, decidedly 
 mad; scarcely fit to be trusted at large !' 5 — 
 " You are certain, my dear Mary," he added, 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 107 
 
 at the conclusion of her narrative, " that you 
 have given your husband no other causes of 
 offence than those you have related ?" 
 
 iC Quite certain. I can tax myself with no 
 fault against Mr. Merstham." 
 
 " Yet he has treated you with unmanly 
 violence; his conduct inspires you with 
 perpetual terror. — Painful as is exposure, in 
 such a case you cannot live with this man. 
 You must part from him, Mary. You must 
 come home to us again. And be assured, 
 my dear, that if you abide by my decision, 
 no means in my power shall be spared, to 
 render your life happy, and secure your future 
 comfort/' 
 
 Mrs. Merstham's mind mechanically reverted 
 to the solemn pledge to a similar effect, ten- 
 dered to her dying mother. But it was not 
 her, uncle's breach of promise which influenced 
 her present determination. 
 
 " I have no intention to part from Mr. 
 Merstham," she replied. " Duty requires me 
 to abide with the husband of my choice. I 
 married him for richer for poorer, for better 
 
OS MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 for worse ; and if he is now poorer and less 
 rational, I must not, therefore, abandon him. 
 All I desire is that, should he be moved to 
 any extremity against me, you will bear wit- 
 ness to the world I concealed nothing of the 
 difficulties of my situation from those who 
 have a right to demand an account of my 
 conduct. I beseech you, also, my dear uncle, 
 to communicate in person to Mr. Marlay, all I 
 have related ; warning him of the great injury 
 he may do me by a show of the ordinary cour- 
 tesies of life, — still more, by a display of friendly 
 regard. I have never seen him, — I will never 
 willingly see him again ; but, should chance 
 throw him in my way during the continuance 
 of my husband's present state of irritation, 
 I feel convinced the meeting would be fatal 
 to one or both of us/' 
 
 " I will see Marlay myself this very day," 
 said Sir Charles, " and explain to him all you 
 desire; impressing upon him in the strongest 
 terms the urgency of discretion. Meanwhile, 
 my dear girl, comfort yourself with the know- 
 ledge that let what will occur, you .have a 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 109 
 
 champion in your uncle's person, and a shelter 
 under his roof." 
 
 Whether comforted or not by the assurance, 
 Mrs. Merstham, at least, expressed herself 
 grateful. The following day was appointed for 
 her departure for the Isle of Wight, where 
 her husband possessed a small estate which 
 he was desirous of visiting previously to re- 
 newing the lease of a farmer, many years 
 its occupant ; and Mary was to remain at 
 Ryde while Merstham executed his business 
 at Culverfield. It afforded her no small satis- 
 faction that, before leaving town, she had 
 found an opportunity for explanation with 
 the only person, saving her husband, whom 
 she recognized as entitled to sit in judgment 
 upon her conduct. Her uncle could not but 
 seize an early occasion for the discharge of 
 his important commission; and thus solemnly 
 warned, Henry Marlay would doubtless have 
 the good taste to abstain from all further inter- 
 ference in her affairs. 
 
HO MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 I will be found most cunning in my patience, 
 But — (dost thou hear?) most bloody. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Very different were the emotions expe- 
 rienced by the husband and wife, as their car- 
 riage quitted the metropolis, to convey them 
 to the coast ! Mary, for a twelvemonth past 
 a reluctant denizen of London, felt soothed 
 and revived by the aspect of the country, 
 and her escape from the tumultuous little- 
 nesses of the great city ; while Merstham, 
 who, having determined to let for a term of 
 years the house in Grosvenor Place once the 
 tabernacle of his pride, delayed the mea- 
 
MARY RAYMOND. Ill 
 
 sure only that his wife's confinement might 
 take place there in October, already felt as 
 if turning his back for ever upon the temple of 
 his household gods ! — 
 
 His family happened to be Southampton 
 people ; and once in every year for many past, 
 it had been his custom to pay a short visit 
 to his father ; when it afforded him no trifling 
 gratification to parade before the friends of 
 his early years, the progress of his ever-growing 
 importance. His office, which was only one 
 among many in London, was of stupendous 
 consequence in the eyes of a Southampton 
 tea-table. But now for the first time, he was 
 careful to take the Portsmouth rather than 
 the Southampton road to the Isle of Wight. 
 For worlds he would not have paraded the 
 spectacle of his humiliation before his former 
 associates; and the contrast between his past 
 and present mode of quitting town, served to 
 rouse anew the evil spirit haunting his per- 
 turbed bosom ! 
 
 Mrs. Merstham, accustomed to watch his 
 varying moods of mind, noted the gloomy 
 
112 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 agitation of his demeanour during their jour- 
 ney ; but indulged a hope that when fixed in 
 their cheerful villa at Ryde, where he had 
 promised to pass a week previously to leaving 
 her for Culverfield, the tranquillity of the spot, 
 change of air, scene and society, and above 
 all the absence of the Raymond family, (the 
 objects of his especial aversion) might in some 
 degree tend to his restoration. Nor were her 
 expectations disappointed. The aspect of 
 Ryde with its intermingling gardens, its aris- 
 tocratic villas, its busy pier, its endless array 
 of pleasure-boats, its glassy sea, seemed for a 
 moment to inspire him with pleasant thoughts. 
 The villa engaged for them was gay, airy and 
 commanding a lively sea view; and the new 
 tenant forgot for a while that he was Mr. 
 Merstham of Grosvenor Place, — a discarded 
 placeman, and the dupe of that ancient family, 
 the Raymonds of Warley Manor, — while in- 
 haling the unwonted freshness of the breeze, 
 or basking upon his shrubby lawn. 
 
 Had Mary been wise, she would have left him 
 to the influence of nature, and of those enjoy- 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 113 
 
 ments which, affecting the senses only, excite 
 no consciousness of moral individuality. Mers- 
 tham might have lost sight of himself and her, 
 had she not, dreading the effects of solitude 
 upon his mind, attached herself pertinaciously 
 to his side in all his haunts and wander- 
 ings. She hoped to make him feel that 
 there was still a happy future in store for 
 him ; that, relieved from the cares of office, 
 his wife and child, his home and competence, 
 held forth prospects such as many would 
 envy ; little conjecturing that the fixed idea 
 in his mind was, "This woman has been 
 the disturber of my peace, — the ruin of my 
 fortunes, and will cling to me like a cleaving 
 curse for evermore. — " 
 
 "Do you set off for Culverfield early to- 
 morrow ?" she inquired the evening before 
 his projected departure for the farm, as they 
 returned together from a sailing excursion in 
 the vessel belonging to the villa. 
 
 " I have not made up my mind. Are you 
 particularly anxious to know ?" he replied, re- 
 garding her with an air of suspicion. 
 
114 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 " By no means," rejoined Mary, " I was 
 merely considering that if you did not go till 
 the cool of the evening — " 
 
 " I shall go at ten in the morning." 
 
 " In that case, I will give up my scheme 
 of accompanying you part of the way, and 
 take my drive as usual after dinner. Stanley 
 can go with me. I am not disposed to drive 
 out alone," said Mrs. Merstham, aware of her 
 husband's tenacity on that point. 
 
 And in the evening, after Merstham' s 
 departure for Culverfield, much as Mary felt 
 inclined to enjoy a solitary hour, she set 
 forth, accompanied by her maid, to take an 
 airing on St. Helen's Road, and was soon 
 absorbed in her reflections, as the ba- 
 rouche rolled rapidly along the over-arched 
 road leading towards Fairy Hill. There was 
 a favourite spot upon the shore between 
 the village of Seaview and the headlands 
 of St. Helen's, to which, some summers before, 
 when passing the autumn at Ryde with Lady 
 Raymond and her cousins, Mary had twice 
 resorted with parties of pleasure. Mrs. Mers- 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 115 
 
 tham had in truth felt anxious, from the 
 moment of her arrival in the island, to re-visit 
 the place, and revive those by-gone associa- 
 tions ; — for, sad as her youth had been, far 
 darker were her present prospects ; and, having 
 determined to profit by her husband's absence 
 for the purpose, she now quitted the carriage 
 accompanied by her servants, and made her 
 way with ease to the little promontory over- 
 grown with lofty trees, commanding a de- 
 licious extent of sand as white and hard as 
 marble. 
 
 Her first care was to renew her acquaintance 
 with a fisherman and his wife, whose cottage 
 had been formerly the place of rendez-vous; 
 and who now eagerly invited her to rest and 
 refresh herself under their roof. The aspect 
 of a large family of healthy, hardy, half-clothed 
 children, made her regret to find herself un- 
 provided with the means of testifying her 
 goodwill in return for their cup of milk 
 and slice of brown bread ; and having made 
 inquiries into their necessities previously to 
 quitting the cottage, she promised to drive 
 that way and visit them again the follow- 
 
116 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 ing evening. Mary knew better than to 
 wait the return of Merstham for the fulfilment 
 of an act of benevolence ! 
 
 Amid all her wretchedness, it was some com- 
 fort to be the origin of happiness to others ; 
 and a gratifying occupation was afforded the 
 following morning, in making up a collection 
 of such necessaries as seemed most wanting 
 in the hovel of her humble friends. After 
 an early dinner, she again set forth upon 
 her expedition. But the Londonized lady's 
 maid, who had "voted it a bore" the pre- 
 ceding night to make her way through sand 
 and brushwood to hunt out a cabin smelling 
 of sea-weed and dried whitings, pretended 
 household business of importance, as an ex- 
 cuse for staying at home ; a pretext readily 
 accepted by Mrs. Merstham, who by no means 
 regretted to shake off the company of so fine a 
 lady when bound upon so homely an errand. 
 The evening was serenely beautiful ; — the sun 
 was making " a golden set," and Mary pro- 
 mised herself unmixed pleasure in her ex- 
 pedition. She had no time to lose ; having 
 been delayed by the retarded execution of 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 117 
 
 one of her commissions, she feared it would 
 be dusk before she attained her place of des- 
 tination. By the time she reached the high- 
 grown avenues leading to Fairy Hill, the 
 evening was in fact closing. But, on approach- 
 ing the cottage, she found the little family 
 eagerly looking out for their benefactress ; and 
 rejoiced that she had not been tempted to 
 postpone her visit to another day. 
 
 Unwilling to expose the misery of these 
 poor people to the supercilious inquisition 
 of her servants, Mrs. Merstham ordered 
 the footman to await her with the carriage 
 at the point of the road nearest the cabin ; 
 while she devoted a few charitable minutes 
 to listen to the mother's recapitulation of the 
 winter sufferings of her little tribe ; more 
 especially of terrors rendered agonizing during 
 the professional absence of her husband, in 
 one of the St. Helen's pilot-boats. Though 
 eager to depart, and conscious she had done 
 unwisely in coming or staying so late, Mary 
 could not make up her mind to wound the 
 feelings of the woman by cutting short her 
 
118 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 narrative of toils and troubles; till at length 
 the growing darkness admonished her that 
 it was indispensable to depart. The whole 
 horde immediately put forward to escort her, 
 boys, girls, mother, — the little dogs and all ; — 
 and Mrs. Merstham did not regret to find 
 herself so extensively accompanied when, as 
 they waded along the rushy wilderness to- 
 wards the spot where the carriage was waiting, 
 she discerned through the twilight the figure of 
 a man — and, as far as she could discern, a gen- 
 tleman, — advancing along the path to meet her. 
 That Merstham had unexpectedly re- 
 turned, and obtained such information from 
 Mrs. Stanley as enabled him to follow and 
 trace her out, was her first impression ; 
 and already she trembled in anticipating the 
 reproof which she knew awaited her, — con- 
 vinced that Merstham would find cause for 
 suspicion and disapproval in such a visit, to 
 such a place, at such an hour, and in such 
 circumstances. She would have given much 
 to avoid the encounter, — much that she had 
 never attempted the drive to St. Helen's. 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 119 
 
 Far greater, however, was her consternation 
 when the figure having attained her side, she 
 found her arm gently taken, and discovered 
 that the person by whom she was thus un- 
 ceremoniously accosted, was no other than 
 Henry Marlay ! — Unable to repress the ex- 
 clamations of surprise, regret, and reproach 
 that arose from the depths of her heart, Mary 
 was too much agitated to feel embarrassed by 
 the reiterated thanks of the fisherman's wife 
 to her u good gentleman," or to perceive that, 
 mistaking the stranger for the husband of their 
 patroness, the whole family judged their fur- 
 ther attendance superfluous. Already both 
 mother and children had wished her good night 
 and scudded back to their den ; when, on 
 reaching the barouche, Mary perceived that 
 her servant was no longer in attendance. 
 
 66 Your man is gone forward with my horse 
 to Ryde/' said Marlay, opening the door and 
 letting down the step for her. "You must, 
 therefore, accept my company in his stead. 
 Do you fear to trust yourself with me, Mary ? 
 No matter ! — I must have half an hour's con- 
 
120 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 versation with you. — / must ! — It is useless to 
 oppose me !" 
 
 And, conscious of the inadequacy of her 
 resistance under such circumstances, Mary 
 entered the carriage and suffered Henry to 
 place himself by her side, ere she gave vent 
 to the trouble and resentment with which her 
 heart was overcharged. 
 
 " You little guess how far you may injure 
 me by such a proceeding I" was her first 
 incoherent ejaculation. "What cruel rash- 
 ness, after the entreaties I addressed to you 
 through my uncle V s 
 
 " Entreaties to me, and through Sir Charles 
 Raymond V 9 exclaimed Marlay. 
 
 "Who pledged himself in your name, that 
 you would attempt no futrher communica- 
 tion with me or mine !" 
 
 " I made no such engagement, — none such 
 was ever demanded of me," he replied. "It 
 was but a few days ago, I accidently learnt 
 from your cousin George, that my interference 
 with Lord Ballitore had produced unsatis- 
 factory results; and that you were afraid, — 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 121 
 
 (yes, Mary, he used the word afraid}) — of 
 the consequences likely to arise from a re- 
 currence of my well-intended omciousness. 
 Pressed by my earnest interrogations, Raymond 
 admitted that you were unhappy,- — most un- 
 happy ; and disclosed, fact by fact, the miseries 
 of your condition ! — Judge, Mary, what were 
 my feelings at the discovery." 
 
 " What imprudence ! v — «cried Mrs. Mers- 
 tham, " and my uncle, to whom I confided 
 all as to a father \" 
 
 u To know you unhappy — to know your 
 ease, your peace, nay, your very life in peril — 
 and in peril for my sake, — was more than I 
 could bear !" continued Marlay ; " and, from 
 the moment of my interview with Raymond, I 
 have thought, felt, and acted, dearest Mary, 
 but with reference to you. Existence was 
 already a burthen to me, even when I supposed 
 that it was to myself alone it was given 
 to suffer the miseries arising from your 
 marriage. But, when I found that you, too, 
 were unhappy — that your prospects were 
 
 VOL. I. G 
 
122 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 blighted, — your days accursed — then, Mary, 
 then, I—' 5 
 
 " Spare me — spare me P' interrupted Mers- 
 tham's wife, covering her face with her hands. 
 " These are not words to which I can permit 
 myself to listen. The thoughtlessness of my 
 uncle affords no excuse to us for entering into 
 these forbidden details." 
 
 u You must listen to me, Mary/' persisted 
 Marlay ; " if not to me — the only being on 
 earth truly devoted to the care of your happi- 
 ness — to whom can you confide the secret of 
 your sufferings ? — Yes! — you must listen to 
 me ! — Our time is very precious. — It was but 
 yesterday I was apprized that the fellow's 
 absence at Culverfield afforded the chance of an 
 interview without danger to yourself. With- 
 out a moment's delay, I hastened to Ryde; 
 where, from one of your servants, I obtained 
 such particulars of your movements as enabled 
 me to meet you here." 
 
 " From one of my servants ? — from Stanley ! 
 What treachery !" — cried Mrs. Merstham. 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 123 
 
 horror-struck at the probability of discovery 
 on the part of her husband. 
 
 " Pardon her and pardon me P* resumed 
 Marlay. " Refrain from resentment against 
 your friends, dearest Mary, while you have so 
 powerful an enemy to cope with ; — a man 
 with whom your very life is at stake, — a 
 ruffian, — a madman !" 
 
 " That last word should plead his excuse," 
 said Mrs. Merstham. " His reason, I fear, is 
 affected. Madness can alone account for his 
 exaggerated sentiments and illusions ; and 
 what right have I to resent an infirmity in- 
 flicted by the dispensation of Providence ?" — 
 
 " You have a right, in self-defence, to evade 
 its fearful consequences," observed Marlay. 
 " To live under the roof of a lunatic is surely 
 an excess of heroism ? — Mary ! you must 
 quit this man." 
 
 Involuntarily Mrs. Merstham receded from 
 her companion ; but she uttered no immediate 
 reply. 
 
 " Your safety, dearest Mary, is just now of 
 
 G 2 
 
124 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 double moment. One of Merstham's paro- 
 xysms might call up emotions that would 
 destroy you. For your own sake, therefore, 
 and the sake of your child, you must leave 
 him." 
 
 " You think so !" — cried Mrs. Merstham, 
 with almost ironical bitterness. " The best 
 advice you can give me, is to dishonour my 
 good name for ever, in order to escape from 
 vague alarms, arising perhaps from my own 
 pusillanimity ? — I thank you \" 
 
 (i Mary, this is no moment for taunts, — no 
 moment for misapprehension !" said Marlay, 
 forcibly taking and detaining her hand. " 'Tis 
 the last time I may speak to you for years, — 
 the last time I may ever speak to you 
 again P' 
 
 " Let not our interview serve then to per- 
 petuate humiliating reminiscences," faltered 
 Mary, irresistibly touched. " I would fain 
 continue to remember you, Mr. Marlay, with 
 esteem and regard I" 
 
 " Such esteem, such regard, as admitted of 
 your giving your hand to another !" — was 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 125 
 
 Marlay's involuntary ejaculation. " But 'tis 
 no time to revert to past grievances. So great 
 are the afflictions with which your marriage 
 has beset you, and so imminent is the risk of 
 passing but another day under the roof of your 
 husband, that the whole world will admit you 
 to be justified in seeking safety elsewhere/' 
 
 u With you, perhaps ?" — interrupted Mary, 
 with renewed bitterness. 
 
 " Nothing would be more easy," continued 
 Marlay, without noticing her interruption, 
 u than to find on the continent a refuge from 
 Mr. Merstham's groundless fury. Delay but 
 till his return, and you may fall a sacrifice to 
 your weakness ; but exercise your strength of 
 mind, prove yourself superior to the idle inter- 
 pretations that may be placed upon your con- 
 duct, and safety and tranquillity still await you ! 
 'Tis now ten years, Mary, since I first beheld 
 your face ; — 'tis now ten years since I swore 
 to receive from you the ruling influences of my 
 life ! — From that hour to this, my word has not 
 been forfeited. — Do not mistrust it now ; — re- 
 
126 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 sign yourself to my guidance, — rely upon my 
 attachment, — consent to be happy \" 
 
 " To be happy as your mistress !" — cried 
 Mrs. Merstham with indignation. u Have you 
 then so little understood, — do you so un- 
 worthily appreciate me ? v — 
 
 " Do you so unworthily appreciate me, as to 
 judge me capable of such a proposition ?" — 
 retorted Henry Marlay, with equal warmth. 
 " Do you imagine that I set so poor a value 
 on you, so poor a value on myself, as to be 
 ambitious of such an humiliation? — No, — 
 Mary, — think better of me ! — All is indeed 
 arranged for your escape ; but arranged as it 
 would have been had my own sister fallen into 
 the gripe of a madman. My mother, the 
 kindest and best of mothers, — a woman whose 
 high reputation places her above suspicion 
 — landed this morning with me at Cowes, 
 where Lord Ballitore's yacht is still lying, to 
 transport you both to France, to Guernsey, 
 to the Mediterranean — to any spot on earth 
 you may select for your abode. Lady Mary 
 will be your protectress, your companion, your 
 
MARY RAYMOND, 12'/ 
 
 friend; even as she would have been to the 
 chosen wife of her son, had you deigned to wait 
 my return from the East. But, as regards my- 
 self, Mary, I see your face no more ! From the 
 moment you quit your husband's roof, I swear 
 to you by all that is dear and sacred to both of 
 us, — I will never attempt to approach your pre- 
 sence, — I will even solicit from my uncle some 
 government employment in London, that I 
 may remain ostensible to the eye of the 
 world and secure you from imputation. My 
 mother and I are rich> Mary, and have none 
 but ourselves to care for; your safety is our 
 present, our first, our only object." 
 
 Mrs. Merstham, hitherto silent from shame 
 and deep emotion, could now scarcely trust 
 herself to express the struggle of her feelings. 
 To be less than grateful for such considerate 
 kindness, was impossible ; to profit by the 
 disinterested devotion of such a lover, seemed 
 equally out of the question. It would have 
 been comparatively easy to poor Mary to 
 accept the bounties of a stranger. 
 
 " Think me not ungracious," said she, 
 
128 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 when at length she found words to express 
 herself. " Believe me I feel to its utmost 
 extent the nobleness of your conduct ; — but, 
 this must not be, Harry. Circumstances have 
 thrown an eternal blight over my des- 
 tinies ; let not the sentence of desolation 
 extend to yours. Years have passed, you say, 
 since your affections first became mine ; and, 
 had you then uttered but a single word expres- 
 sive of the attachment you now so warmly 
 avow, you and I had been spared the bitter- 
 ness of many a despairing hour ! — But what 
 right had I to suppose you loved me ? — No ! — 
 I dared not even hope it ; or the utmost of my 
 uncle's severities would never have induced me 
 to give my hand to another \" 
 
 " Nothing ought to have induced you to give 
 your hand to such a fellow as Merstham, ,, 
 interrupted Marlay ; " no persuasions — no au- 
 thority!" 
 
 " Reflect on my position !" pleaded Mary. 
 " Reflect on the misery of knowing myself to 
 be unloved — dependent — disregarded— no pa- 
 rents to watch over my welfare, — no friends to 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 129 
 
 uphold me. In my own defence, I was forced 
 to become a calculator, at an age when others 
 of my sex enjoy their youthful pleasures with- 
 out a care ! I was compelled to the narrow 
 virtue of prudence — of forecast. I had no 
 family — no friends ; — I alone was concerned 
 in the care of my own happiness : — forgive me 
 if I was selfish." 
 
 " Willingly, were your happiness really 
 effected by even the most sordid calculations. 
 But you have made yourself miserable, Mary." 
 
 " I have — but let me not make myself in- 
 famous !" 
 
 " Is there infamy, then, in securing your 
 life and that of your child }" 
 
 " There is infamy in abandoning one whom 
 the consciousness of my aversion has driven to 
 despair, and despair to ruin V 
 
 " You think it kinder towards Merstham to 
 stay with him till, in some fit of frenzy, he 
 becomes your murderer or his own ?"< — 
 
 " Hush !" — cried Mary — " Hush ! — he will 
 never proceed to acts of violence, unless ani- 
 mated by indiscretion on your part; I have 
 
 G 3 
 
130 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 hopes of him, Henry. Now that he is away 
 from London and the Raymonds, I have 
 hopes of him." 
 
 " And I — none /" replied her companion. 
 
 " You prove it by the rashness of your pre- 
 sent proceeding," remonstrated Mrs. Mers- 
 tham. " Should Merstham discover through 
 the servants — whom I, for my own part, am 
 too proud to warn against disclosure, — that we 
 have met — " 
 
 " Fear nothing ! — I have insured the discre 
 tion of the servants.' 5 
 
 u And compromised me by bribing their 
 silence l^But supposing my husband had an- 
 ticipated his departure from Culverfield ? — 
 supposing he were already at Ryde ?" — 
 
 " Why suppose ? — rather give attention to 
 my proposals, to my entreaties 1" 
 
 " We do not overtake your horse ; — the ser- 
 vants must surely have gone on to the town ?" 
 said Mary, who was now becoming more and 
 more uneasy ; " and in a few minutes we shall 
 be there !" 
 
 " Why should we ever reach it ?" whispered 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 131 
 
 Marlay. " Accept my offers, profit by my 
 counsels ; and, instead of returning home, go 
 on at once to Cowes. I will hasten to procure 
 post horses and the attendance of your maid ; 
 and then — " 
 
 The carriage was at that moment proceeding 
 leisurely up hill, and Mrs. Merstham^ fancying 
 that some person from the road had ascended 
 into the vacant servant's seat behind, now 
 hinted her apprehension to Marlay ; who, 
 from the increased darkness of the night, 
 could but imperfectly examine the truth of her 
 surmise. Pre-occupied by his projects, and 
 caring little whether some idler had taken ad- 
 vantage of the footman's absence, he assured 
 his companion that she was mistaken. 
 
 " No ! — I could not be mistaken," replied 
 Mary, half-rising from her seat to ascertain 
 the fact. 
 
 " Indeed, indeed, you are. Sit down — 
 compose yourself! Listen to me, dearest, 
 dearest Mrs. Merstham : listen to him who, 
 through life or death, swears— " 
 
 He was interrupted ! — A singular sound 
 
132 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 startled him into silence, — a click — as of the 
 cocking of a pistol; — and lo ! a ball whistled 
 through the air between him and his companion, 
 followed by the detonation of fire-arms close 
 beside the carriage. The horses, which at that 
 moment attained the summit of the hill leading 
 into Ryde, instantly became ungovernable, 
 and started at full speed ; while Marlay's first 
 impulse was to throw his arms round Mrs. 
 Merstham to secure her from the impending 
 danger. Uncertain whether she had been in- 
 jured by the attempt of the assassin, he called 
 aloud to her to answer him, — to assure him 
 that she was unwounded. But Mary lay like 
 a leaden weight upon his bosom, either dead 
 or in a deep swoon; and Marlay, nothing 
 doubting that the first obstacle encountered by 
 the carriage "would overturn it with violence, 
 could only press her closely to his breast, and 
 pray that if the shock were fatal to one, it 
 might be falal to both. 
 
 Fortunately, the servant who was in waiting 
 at the turnpike at the entrance of the town, 
 perceived from a distance the carriage coming 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 133 
 
 at a furious rate towards him, and succeeded in 
 stopping the horses; and while, during the 
 pause that ensued, the coachman communi- 
 cated to his companion that they had been 
 shot at by a robber, Marlay continued to call 
 aloud upon them for assistance to bear their 
 still inanimate lady into the nearest habita- 
 tion. 
 
 " Better go home at once, sir, if my missus 
 is any ways hurt," was John's suggestion. 
 " We shall be at home in five minutes !" and 
 he was about to remount Marlay's horse, and 
 precede them to the house. 
 
 Every moment was of vital importance ; yet 
 how necessary was it for Marlay to pause for 
 reflection ! — A horrible presentiment assured 
 him that they had been assailed by no com- 
 mon robber, and that the attempt at assassina- 
 tion was the work of Merstham. Such an 
 outrage could not be the feat of an ordinary 
 highwayman. Aim had been taken from be- 
 hind the carriage, and Marlay bade the servants 
 examine whether any one was still concealed 
 there. But the assassin had disappeared. 
 
134 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 " Heaven direct me ! " — ejaculated Marlay ; 
 when the servants again suggested that they 
 should convey Mrs. Merstham home. " Per- 
 haps even this momentary delay may have been 
 fatal to her ! " And, having commanded the 
 coachman to drive to the hotel, and despatched 
 the other servant in search of medical aid, 
 he resolved at least to ascertain the worst 
 ere he presented himself at Merstham's door. 
 
 It was in a strange apartment, therefore, that 
 the unfortunate Mary opened her eyes, when 
 gradually restored to consciousness ; and her 
 first exclamation of u Where am I ?— let me 
 be carried home — I must be taken home ! ' 
 sufficed to prove to her anxious auditors that 
 she had sustained no vital injury. At the ex- 
 piration of five minutes, Henry Marlay, having 
 received from the females in attendance an 
 assurance that the lady was suffering only from 
 the effects of terror, and recommended her to 
 their utmost assiduities, proceeded with all 
 speed towards the residence of Merstham. 
 
 His previous apprehensions were instantly 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 135 
 
 justified. Mrs. Stanley, apprized by the return 
 of the footman to summon her to the hotel of 
 all that had occurred, and now on the point of 
 setting forth, admitted that her master had re- 
 turned from his farm, had peremptorily obtained 
 intelligence of the route taken by his wife, had 
 quitted the house on foot, and was still absent. 
 
 " You must exert your influence, Mrs. Stan- 
 ley, to prevent your lady returning to this fatal 
 house," said Marlay, in a despairing voice, 
 as he received this intelligence, while accom- 
 panying the woman back to the hotel. " Her 
 life has unquestionably been attempted by this 
 madman ; should anything hereafter occur, we 
 shall be responsible to our consciences for the 
 event." 
 
 But, on their arrival at the hotel, their united 
 eloquence proved ineffectual. Mrs. Merstham,, 
 to whom the events of the last two hours were 
 alike a matter of confusion, insisted on being 
 immediately removed. Ill as she was, and with 
 a momentarily increasing indisposition, she felt 
 that her own home was the proper place for 
 
136 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 her ; and, having claimed the escort of Dr. 
 
 R , the medical attendant summoned to 
 
 her aid, bade a hasty adieu to Marlay, which 
 served as a public interdiction to him to ac- 
 company her further. 
 
 With a heavy heart, he saw her enter the 
 carriage 5 — he felt that he should behold her 
 face no more ! 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 137 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Pry thee despatch ! 
 
 The lamb entreats the butcher. Where's thy knife ? 
 
 Thou art too slow when I desire it, too. 
 
 Cymbeline. 
 
 Five days after these direful events, as Lady 
 Raymond was sitting in the darkened chamber 
 of Mrs. Merstham> who was now pronounced 
 to be nearly out of danger after the premature 
 confinement produced by her terrors of mind 
 and body, she was beckoned away by Sir 
 Charles. 
 
 " What on earth shall we do ?" — said he, as 
 his wife followed him into the adjoining dress- 
 ing room. " Merstham is arrived/' 
 
138 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 "Arrived, — actually in the house? — the 
 servants have admitted him ? " — 
 
 " Admitted him into his own house ? — of 
 course they have/' 
 
 " And what do you mean to do, then, about 
 having him secured ?" 
 
 " On what grounds ? — Merstham is as much 
 in his senses as I am. I never saw a man more 
 rational. And, as to Marlay's absurd idea about 
 his having fired a pistol into his wife's carriage, 
 poor Marlay, you know, is such an enthusiast, 
 and so apt to imbibe wrong-headed notions." 
 
 " But how does Merstham account for his 
 own proceedings — for his long absence ?" 
 
 " Naturally enough ; nothing can be more 
 natural. Finding on his arrival at Culverfield 
 that his lease-business required prompt refer- 
 ence to his London solicitors, he resolved to 
 set off immediately for town ; came home to 
 make his preparations, found Mary absent, so 
 that he had no opportunity of wishing her 
 good bye ; and, being anxious to save the Lon- 
 don mail, crossed over at once to Portsmouth. 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 139 
 
 He has been all this time at an hotel in town, the 
 house in Grosvenor Place being in so comfortless 
 a condition ; and expecting from day to day to 
 get his business settled, did not think it neces- 
 sary to write and apprize Mary, to whom he 
 says he forwarded a note from Portsmouth on 
 the night of his journey, which seems to have 
 miscarried," 
 
 " Mr. Merstham knew nothing, then, of what 
 has been passing here during his absence ? " — 
 
 u Not a syllable ; — the announcement in 
 last night's newspapers of the birth of a still- 
 born child, was the first intelligence of poor 
 Mary's illness that reached him. Of course he 
 set off directly, travelled all night, looks dread- 
 fully overcome, by the way, and now he is all 
 anxiety to be admitted to his wife. " 
 
 " Quite impossible at present ! — the mere 
 shock of knowing him to be in the house might 
 prove fatal to her." 
 
 " Do you think so ? — Why the idea that it 
 was Merstham, who fired at her does not ap- 
 pear to have presented itself to her. It was 
 only a vagary of poor Marlay." 
 
140 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 " Did Merstham mention Marlay's name ? " 
 
 " Not once." 
 
 " You did not tell him, then, that it was by 
 Marlay we were informed of what had passed, 
 and summoned to attend on Mrs. Merstham ?" 
 
 " Of course not. He fancies Mary desired 
 we might be sent for, and repeatedly thanked 
 me for our ready compliance with her re- 
 quest." 
 
 66 Well, if you really perceive nothing flighty 
 about him, and think he has clearly exonerated 
 himself from all suspicion about that horrid 
 assassination affair — " 
 
 " Hush, my dear ; be cautious I beg of you ! 
 It is so very serious a charge to make against a 
 man I" 
 
 " Well, you know how positively Marlay 
 asserted that — n 
 
 " Yes, — I know, I know ! — But Marlay is a 
 hot-headed, prejudiced young man, who will 
 say anything. I see not the slightest grounds 
 for inculpating poor Merstham." 
 
 " In that case, as I said before, -I rejoice 
 that he is come home. His arrival relieves us 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 141 
 
 from all responsability ; and in a day or two 
 Mary will be well enough to admit of our going 
 back to Warley, which I shall be heartily glad 
 of. It was very inconvenient to me to quit 
 Warley just now. You know I am expecting 
 the Glamorgans and the Dowager next week ; 
 and Helena writes me word that — " 
 
 " But what shall I say to Merstham ? — He 
 is waiting to come up." 
 
 " Let me go and speak to him in the draw- 
 ing-room. He really cannot see Mary till she 
 has been properly prepared for the interview." 
 
 " I was afraid of referring him to you in the 
 first instance/' observed Sir Charles ; " I was 
 afraid you might refuse to see him after all you 
 had been hearing from Henry Marlay." 
 
 " But if you say that he is not mad, and 
 that you are convinced he had no hand in the 
 attack on his wife, what right have we to vilify 
 his character ? If every man who is jealous 
 and morose, and does not live on good terms 
 with his wife, were to pass for an assassin, I 
 am sure — " 
 
142 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 a 
 
 Once more, let me entreat you, my dear, 
 to be prudent. I am positively afraid of an 
 interview between you and Merstham, unless 
 you engage to be cautious. We are placed, 
 you see, under very delicate circumstances; and 
 a single rash word might produce the most 
 disagreeable consequences." 
 
 " Of course; — what do you intend to do, 
 therefore, about Marlay ?" — 
 
 " Don't mention his name so loud. There 
 can be no possible use in talking about him. 
 I shall be off to the hotel as soon as you are 
 closeted with Merstham, and advise Lady 
 Mary to carry away her son from the Isle of 
 Wight, as soon as possible." 
 
 " But if Henry Marlay does not choose 
 to—" 
 
 " Hush, hush ! — Merstham is perhaps on 
 the stairs ! — For Mary^s sake, pray be more 
 considerate ! " — 
 
 And considerate as her nature would allow, 
 Lady Raymond displayed herself in her first 
 interview with her nephew-in-law ; accepting 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 143 
 
 with due courtesy his reiterated thanks for her 
 more than kinswomanly attendance upon his 
 wife ; and evincing the most complete faith in 
 his history of his own movements and their 
 motives. Nay, she was sincere in the convic- 
 tion that, after all, Merstham's nature was more 
 amiable than that of Mary ; — for, while the mo- 
 ther expressed little regret at the still-birth of 
 her infant, regarding it probably as rescued 
 from a life of martyrdom, Merstham alluded 
 to his. recent loss in a tone of the most 
 poignant sorrow ; bewailing the child as though 
 his whole hopes of happiness had been fixed 
 upon its well-doing. The painful necessity 
 still presented itself of apprizing Mrs. Mers- 
 tham of her husband's arrival, and introducing 
 him to her presence. 
 
 But the task proved easier than was antici- 
 pated ; where hope is dead, fear ceases to exist. 
 Mary, aware that her prospects of happiness 
 were closed for ever, cared little what thunder- 
 clouds might more or less darken her horizon. 
 She was no longer at peace with herself. 
 
144 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 So long as she had succeeded in excluding 
 Henry Marlay from her presence, so long as 
 her ears had been un assailed by avowals of 
 his guilty love, she felt that she had a right to 
 assert her own dignity, and defy the suspicions 
 of Merstham. But now, — now that she had 
 tacitly admitted her attachment for another^ — 
 the consciousness of innocence was gone ! She 
 could no longer sit in the centre, and enjoy 
 clear day ; — she was under a cloud in her own 
 estimation, however brightly the favour of the 
 world might shed its sunshine on her head. 
 She felt that she must not resist ; that her pri- 
 vilege of resentment was gone ! — Henceforth, 
 it became her to suffer and be silent !— 
 
 When, therefore, after a prodigious waste of 
 circumlocution, Lady Raymond unfolded Mr. 
 Merstham' s request to be admitted to an inter- 
 view, instead of bursting into the tears and hys- 
 terics apprehended by her aunt, poor Mary 
 simply replied, " If he wishes to see me, I am 
 ready to receive him whenever you please ; ,a 
 and as the Raymonds " pleased " that every- 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 145 
 
 thing should be accelerated as far as possible, 
 in order to afford a pretext for their return to 
 Warley, Merstham was without loss of time 
 ushered to the bedside of the invalid. To 
 avoid all danger of painful reminiscences, Lady- 
 Raymond thought proper to remain in the room 
 during the first visit ; promoting as much con- 
 versation as was permitted to Mary, by ques- 
 tioning Merstham concerning the estate at 
 Culverfield, its value, extent, and cultivation. 
 To listen to the queries of her scientific cate- 
 chism a stranger might have supposed Lady 
 Raymond to be a caballing candidate for one of 
 the gold medals of the Agricultural Society ! — 
 Profiting by the hint thus afforded, Mers- 
 tham made it his cue to be cheerful, chatty, 
 and conciliatory ; and there was every appear- 
 ance that after all that had passed, — after all 
 that might have passed, — an armistice, if not a 
 permanent peace, was likely to be established 
 between the belligerents. Sir Charles was 
 very shortly assured by his wife that all un- 
 pleasant feelings had ceased to exist between 
 Mary and her Pacha. 
 
 VOL. I. H 
 
146 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 " You must have greatly misunderstood all 
 Mrs. Merstham said to you in London, which 
 you or George so imprudently repeated to 
 young Marlay," said she ; " while Marlay 
 himself must be out of his mind to fancy 
 such atrocious things of poor Merstham. 
 I never saw a kinder-hearted man, or one 
 more attached to his wife ; and, as to Mary's 
 being afraid of him, Marlay might just as 
 well assert that you were likely to be the 
 death of me 9 because a little sparring occasion- 
 ally takes place between us." 
 
 " I rejoice to hear you say so," observed 
 Sir Charles. " I believe the best thing we 
 can do is to leave them to make it up and make 
 it out together. Nothing does so much harm- 
 between married people as the interference of 
 friends ; for we are all apt to fancy our- 
 selves ill-used when we find people ready 
 to adopt the notion of our being victims. 
 Supposing, my dear, you were to make arrange- 
 ments with Mrs. Merstham for leaving her 
 early next week ? It is all but indispensable 
 for me to be back again at Warley by Tuesday 
 next." 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 147 
 
 And, in this instance, as before, Mary was 
 quiescent. She agreed with Lady Raymond 
 that she was now sufficiently re-established 
 to be left to Mrs. Stanley's care ; and all 
 was settled for the departure of her aunt 
 and uncle. Merstham promised to give them 
 frequent bulletins of his wife, and bring her 
 to visit them in the course of the winter ; and 
 on the day he quitted the Isle of Wight, Sir 
 Charles drove over to Cowes ; and, after a 
 long interview with Lady Mary Marlay, suc- 
 ceeded in persuading her that Henry was giving 
 way to injurious self-delusions, and even- 
 tually engaged her to induce her son to quit 
 the country, amuse himself by a cruise in Lord 
 Ballitore's yacht, and for the future refrain 
 from all interference with the Mersthams. 
 
 " Farewell, uncle ! — Think of me sometimes 
 by your happy fireside ; — kindly, when you can, 
 — indulgently always," faltered Mary, when 
 Sir Charles, in taking leave of her, announced 
 the victory he had obtained. " May you be 
 happy when — " 
 
 h2 
 
148 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 " And you, my dear Mary ! " he replied, 
 imprinting a kiss upon her forehead. 
 
 " No," answered Mrs. Merstham, with a 
 melancholy waive of the head, " it was not to 
 be happy I was born ! — But my probation is 
 nearly at an end ! n 
 
MARY RAYMOND 149 
 
 CHAPTER XT. 
 
 Hope nothing, if 1 thus may speak, 
 To thee a woman, and thence weak. 
 Weep, if that aid thee, but depend 
 Upon no aid of outward friend ; 
 Espouse thy doom at once, and cleave 
 To fortitude without reprieve. 
 
 The White Doe of Rylston. 
 
 All was mirth and gaiety at Warley Manor 
 on the Raymonds' return ; and Lady Raymond 
 was almost startled by the contrast afforded by 
 her own joyous, fearless, populous, sunshiny 
 mansion, to Mary's sick chamber with its ner- 
 
150 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 vous anxieties, muffled footsteps, and careful 
 whispering. She flattered herself she was a 
 pattern for aunts, to have devoted a whole 
 fortnight of her cheerful autumn to so unsatis- 
 factory an attendance. 
 
 Her children, meanwhile, rejoiced heartily in 
 the tidings of Mary^s recovery. Most of her 
 cousins liked her as well as they liked anything 
 but themselves ; moreover, a death in the fa- 
 mily accompanied with bombazine, broad hems, 
 and the tedious decorum of deep mourning 
 must interfere most unwelcomely with their 
 pleasures. The shooting season would have 
 been worth nothing at Warley, had the 
 decease of Mrs. Merstham made war against 
 its September battues. 
 
 It was now the turn of the happy Helena to 
 have a Lord Glamorgan sighing at her feet, 
 and Lady Raymond had the glorious prospect 
 of getting rid of another daughter ; while all 
 the envious mammas of the neighbourhood 
 were of opinion that there must be magic in 
 the air of Warley, since the girls there . made 
 good matches as fast as they came out \ — nay, 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 131 
 
 since even the cousin, who was little better than 
 a poor relation and after all no great beauty, 
 had been able to choose between Lord Balli- 
 tore's nephew and a man like Mr. Merstham 
 of Grosvenor Place, with an estate in the Isle 
 of Wight, a capital government appointment, 
 and capital house in town. The latter case, 
 however, was not without its qualifying " ifs " 
 and " buts." 
 
 " Yes ! it was all very well if the Raymonds 
 approved such marriages,'' said a few of the ill- 
 natured many. "But Mr. Merstham, who by the 
 way was old enough to be Miss Mary's papa, 
 had already lost his appointment, and might 
 now find it difficult to keep up his house and 
 establishment !" While a certain Miss Toad- 
 bolt (old Lady Glamorgan's soul in torment) 
 who happened to be a Southamptonian, and 
 had been affronted by being required to sleep 
 in an attic during her second visit to Warley 
 after the young Lord was secured in the family, 
 circulated a whisper in the neighbourhood that 
 
 it was not every body who would have liked 
 
 a 
 
152 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 to connect themselves with the Mersthams of 
 Southampton ; the old doctor having two bro- 
 thers who had made away with themselves, 
 besides a daughter in confinement. There 
 was madness in every branch , of the fa- 
 mily." 
 
 These defamatory whispers, however, though 
 deep, were not loud. Warley was one of the 
 pleasantest staying-houses in that part of the 
 country. George Raymond was a parti, and 
 his brothers very agreeable young men ; and, 
 above all, Sir Charles was supposed to have 
 the best pheasant-shooting of the county of 
 Dorset. All the world, therefore, welcomed 
 back Lady Raymond from the Isle of Wight, 
 as if the light of her countenance was indis- 
 pensable to the welfare of the neighbourhood ; 
 and all the world was as much delighted to 
 learn " that poor Mrs. Merstham was doing as 
 well as could be expected/' as Henry Marlay 
 himself might have been, had that vague con- 
 ventional phrase conveyed any thing like con- 
 viction to his mind. 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 153 
 
 Nor was the sympathy of the Dorsetshire 
 community decreased when the Raymonds re- 
 sumed their two formal dinners per week, and 
 sent out cards for an entertainment in honour 
 of George's approaching birthday. On the 
 20th of September, five whole parishes were 
 to eat, drink, and make merry for his sake. 
 There was a rumour of grand preparations 
 at Warley; and every friendly neighbouring 
 family was eager to do honour to the occasion — 
 when lo ! on the 18th, a report gained ground 
 that the ball was suddenly put off; and, on 
 the following day, servants in the Raymond 
 livery were seen traversing the five parishes 
 in all directions, with notes of excuse an- 
 nouncing that, "in consequence of a death 
 in the family, Sir Charles and Lady R. were 
 deprived of the honour of receiving their 
 friends, to-morrow evening, the 20th instant." 
 
 What could be more provoking ! — so much 
 white satin and blonde lace to be thrown 
 away ; and the expectation of an agreeable 
 ball, so grievously disappointed ! " Who could 
 have died so inconveniently ? — What relation 
 
 h 3 
 
154 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 could the Raymond family have lost ? — Or, 
 was it all a pretext to evade the ball r — Under 
 any circumstances, it was most inconsiderate 
 of them to have issued invitations while a 
 member of the family was seriously ill. On 
 such occasions_, some attention is due to the 
 convenience of others/' 
 
 All these murmurs were hushed, however, 
 when it became known that the young and 
 lovely Mary was the victim, — that the envied 
 Mrs. Merstham, was actually no more ; — and 
 that Sir Charles and his eldest son were off 
 in a chaise and four to attend the funeral. 
 " Poor Mrs. Merstham ! — Not yet twenty I 
 How young to die, — and after how small a 
 portion of the enjoyments of life 1" — was now 
 the general cry. 
 
 " Mary Raymond had always been so far the 
 most amiable of the family : so affable, so 
 obliging, so unassuming,— so different from the 
 self-sufficient Mrs. Elwood and hoyden Juliana. 
 The Manor had not been the same place after 
 Mary's marriage. Since Mrs. Merstham quitted 
 Warley, visitors had never found themselves 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 155 
 
 attended to with the same real and polite 
 kindness. Yet, regardful as she was of the 
 comfort of other people, there had always been 
 something melancholy, — something depressed 
 about her; — something indicative of those 
 mysterious presentiments which seem to over- 
 cloud the minds of persons foredoomed to 
 early death. — Poor, poor Mary Raymond ! — To 
 die at twenty, — perhaps of disappointment, — • 
 perhaps of a broken-heart. She deserved 
 happier fate !" 
 
 If such the regrets of the mere neighbours 
 of Warley Manor, what must have been the 
 reflexions of George Raymond and his father, 
 as they hastened towards the house of mourn- 
 ing ! — The letter apprizing them of the sudden 
 death of Mrs. Merstham had been despatched 
 by her maid Stanley, — the bereaved husband 
 being in too deep affliction to write ; and 
 stated that the event was wholly unexpected, 
 — that her mistress, who was almost con- 
 valescent, had been carried off by a spasmodic 
 attack, — and that her master had scarcely 
 spoken since the event. 
 
156 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 " We shall learn more of all this, on reaching 
 Ryde," was the remark of Sir Charles when, 
 in the course of their journey, his son ven- 
 tured to allude to the vague nature of the 
 communication, and the suspicions already en- 
 tertained by Marlay. " Ignorant as we are 
 of every particular, it would be most unjust 
 to prejudge the case." 
 
 " Nevertheless," replied George, who was 
 sincerely affected by the loss of the gentle 
 object of his earliest preference, "if any doubt 
 should attach itself to the mode of Mary's 
 death, — if the medical men should express — " 
 
 " Make yourself easy," gravely interrupted 
 his father. u Every inquiry shall be made, — 
 every circumstance sifted, — every respect paid 
 to the memory of my brother's daughter." 
 
 And insensibly Sir Charles relapsed into 
 the train of meditation into which he had 
 fallen concerning the mournful destinies of his 
 niece and her unfortunate parents ! — Again, 
 his high-spirited brother, the kind, cordial, 
 playmate of his youth, seemed to stand before 
 him, full of energy, full of heart, — instinct 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 157 
 
 with strength and vigour that promised 
 length of days. — Again, Sir Charles, pictured 
 to himself the new-made grave, beside which, 
 a few short months after marriage, he sup- 
 ported the bride of George Raymond, when 
 his body, cast upon the shore by the billows 
 in which he perished, was assigned to con- 
 secrated earth. — Again, Sir Charles fancied 
 himself hanging over the deathbed of that 
 young and beautiful widow, whose feeble arms 
 were upraised for the last time, to place within 
 his own, the orphan of his brother ! The 
 plaintive cry of that sickly infant again seemed 
 to reach his ear and touch his heart, in a 
 manner which no infant's cry had exercised 
 before or since over his feelings. No ! not 
 one of his own children had ever appealed 
 in its helplessness so strongly to his heart, as 
 the poor little Mary Raymond, for whom his 
 protection was implored by the faltering voice 
 of a dying mother ! — 
 
 He recalled the girl to mind, in all her 
 after-years of dutiful dependence. How often, 
 when he was ill and peevish, and his own 
 
158 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 children fled from his sick chamber, she had 
 tarried beside him to read, to write, to con- 
 verse, or be silent as he commanded ! He 
 could not remember a single instance of un- 
 graciousness or disobedience in his niece. He 
 had warned her against accepting the assi- 
 duities of George ; and, from that moment, she 
 had avoided all intercourse with her cousin; 
 he had forbidden her to encourage the atten- 
 tions of his son Richard's necessitous friend, 
 and she had refrained from further intimacy 
 with Marlay; — nay, he had only to hint to 
 her that she would relieve him and his family 
 from a heavy burthen by becoming the wife 
 of Merstham, and she had thrown herself 
 away unmurmuring. Had he not reason to 
 admire the duteousness of such a ward; — 
 had he not reason to sorrow over her untimely 
 end? — 
 
 But was this all ? — Was there no self-re- 
 proach mingled with his sorrow? — Had he 
 nothing neglected, — nothing wronged her ? 
 Could he still justify the choice of Merstham 
 for her husband : or even the inconsiderate 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 159 
 
 carelessness with which he had fulfilled her 
 commission in the communication made to 
 Marlay ? — Might not, — (he scarcely dared to 
 think of it !) might not his rashness on that 
 occasion have proved the remote cause of her 
 death ? — 
 
 It was night when the travellers reached 
 Portsmouth, — a soft moonlight night $ and the 
 tide serving for the passage. Sir Charles com- 
 plied with the suggestions of his son that 
 they should cross to the island without 
 delay. At any other period, both father and 
 son must have been struck by the beauty 
 and tranquillity of the sea-scene as they 
 quitted the harbour, where every object was 
 visible as at noonday. But both were now 
 too painfully absorbed to dwell upon the aspect 
 of external nature. As they drew near the 
 place where they had last beheld her, Mary 
 was with them almost visibly ! — They seemed 
 to hear her voice, to see her gentle face, her 
 gentle gestures, — how sweetly in accordance 
 with the pure and heavenly stillness of the 
 atmosphere around ! — Yes ! The moonlit sea, 
 
160 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 the moonlit sky, appeared arrayed in their 
 utmost loveliness, to rejoice with the released 
 spirit which had suffered so much and so 
 patiently in its bondage of clay ! — 
 
 As they steered towards the shore of Ryde, 
 and the fragrance of its gardens became per- 
 ceptible, George Raymond involuntarily shud- 
 dered at the consciousness that he was drawing 
 near the spot where the body of her they 
 lamented was lying. On the wide sea, Mary 
 seemed re-united to them in softness, beauty, 
 and happiness; while Merstham's house must 
 necessarily associate them anew with notions 
 of suffering and sorrow, and all the vulgar 
 meannesses of an inferior nature. He w T ould 
 have given much not to enter those detested 
 doors ; —but it was a sacrifice due to pro- 
 priety and the memory of the departed. 
 
 Yet heaven knows there was nothing gloomy 
 in the aspect of the place. The moonlight 
 was sleeping upon its white walls as calmly, 
 and the flowers on the little lawn sent up 
 their incense as zealously, as if all were hap- 
 piness within ! 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 161 
 
 " I will acquaint my master that you are 
 come, Sir/' said the servant who opened the 
 door to the untimely visitors, — in that por- 
 tentous whisper which seems to indicate the 
 presence of the dead. 
 
 " No, do not disturb him at present," replied 
 Sir Charles, in the same subdued tone. " Pray 
 how is Mr. Merstham ?" 
 
 " My master keeps his own room, Sir \ we 
 do not see him. But he is quite quiet and 
 composed, I fancy/' replied the man. 
 
 " Can I speak with Stanley ?" 
 
 u Certainly, Sir. Perhaps you will step into 
 the drawing room ? There is no person in 
 the drawing-room." 
 
 " No," interrupted George Raymond, at- 
 tempting to overcome his emotions, " show 
 us up at once into the room." 
 
 " Into the room with the corpse, Sir ?" 
 inquired the man in the coarse dialect of those 
 of his degree. " Hadn't you better " 
 
 " Do as you are bid," again interrupted 
 George. " You know us, I believe ? — Sir 
 Charles Raymond and his son." 
 
162 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 " Oh ! yes, Sir — I know you perfectly, 
 Sir, I beg ten thousand pardons, — only I 
 thought, — Sir, if you please, 1 will call Mrs. 
 Stanley." 
 
 And Stanley having made her appearance, 
 in a few minutes they followed the poor heart- 
 broken waiting maid into Mary's chamber ; — 
 with its solemn tapers burning — and its solemn 
 stillness prevailing — cold and heavy as the 
 stillness of the sepulchre ! 
 
 "I am very, very glad you are come Sir 
 Charles," whispered Stanley, as they ap- 
 proached the condemned door. " I was sure 
 you would wish to see my poor dear lady 
 for the last time." 
 
 A cold chill crept through the frame of 
 George as they crossed the threshold. So 
 completely was his mind absorbed by the 
 idea that Mary had come unfairly by her 
 end, that he dreaded to look upon her face : 
 dreaded to see her countenance distorted, or 
 to trace the marks of violence upon her per- 
 son. He hung back, — he averted his face, — 
 he dared not approach the coffin, at the foot 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 163 
 
 of which his father had reverently bent his 
 knee. 
 
 "Do not be afraid, Mr. Raymond," sobbed 
 the attendant ; " she looks as placid and 
 sweet, poor lady, as she used when she was 
 living !" — 
 
 And thus encouraged, George cast his eyes 
 upon the cold, inanimate face which " was as 
 it were the face of an angel;" and his sor- 
 row was soothed by the aspect of its un- 
 earthly, — pure, — triumphant smile, and that 
 superhuman tranquillity of repose which the 
 storms and tumults of the world avail no 
 further to disturb. 
 
 " She looks all for one as if she were asleep," 
 ejaculated the servants, in the conventional 
 phrase of such occasions. But George felt 
 deeply otherwise. The close clinging plaited 
 shroud, — the narrow coffin, — the stiffened 
 form, — the extended hands which he dared 
 not raise to his lips, were not the array 
 of sleep. — These were the characters of death. 
 Death — death alone — assumes that cold and 
 ghastly formality I 
 
164 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 " Were you with my niece when she died ?" 
 — inquired Sir Charles Raymond as he wiped 
 away the tears that had been falling in silence 
 from his eyes. 
 
 "No, Sir, no one was with her but Mr. 
 Merstham. My mistress was seized in the 
 night, Sir, with a sort of convulsion ; and, 
 before help could be procured, she breathed 
 her last. It was towards morning, I was 
 called up by the butler who slept just above 
 my lady's room, and was woke up, by a loud 
 scream — a loud, loud cry — but whether it were 
 my poor lady's, or from the lips of my master 
 when he found her dead, I can't take upon 
 me to say. So we knocked at the door, and 
 getting no answer, found our way in, Sir ; 
 and there sat Mr. Merstham in a chair beside 
 the bed, like a man out of his senses ; with 
 my mistress lying quite dead and almost cold. 
 For a moment, indeed, we hoped it might 
 be only a fainting fit, and so I sent off one 
 of the men for Doctor R." 
 
 " And Mr. Merstham offered no . opposi- 
 tion ?" — interrupted George.*' 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 165 
 
 " Lord bless you, Sir, he took not the least 
 notice of what was going on. And the medical 
 gentlemen came, and tried to bleed her, but no 
 blood flowed ; and they said she must have 
 died in a fit, — probably from the rupture of a 
 blood vessel in her heart, or head. They wanted 
 Mr. Merstham to quit the room, but master 
 would not stir. There he sat like a statue, 
 while I laid out the body, and even when 
 the undertaker came. Every body said it was 
 not proper for him to be there at such a time ; 
 but how were we to force him away ? — So 
 he remained fixed in the room, Sir, till about 
 two hours ago ; when, after we had moved 
 my poor lady into her coffin and settled with 
 the men that it was to be" closed at morning, 
 he crept away into his own apartment. It 
 is to be hoped, poor man, that he has laid 
 down to rest." 
 
 " You observed no particular appearances 
 about the body ?" inquired Sir Charles, in a 
 hesitating manner, as if overpowered by the 
 delicate tendencies of such a question. 
 
166 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 " Appearances, Sir Charles V 
 
 a 
 
 My father means — " added Mr. Raymond, 
 then paused as if unable to express himself 
 further. 
 
 "There were no spots — no bruises — no — " 
 
 " Spots ? — oh ! dear no, Sir, my poor lady 
 
 was always fair and white as a lily. For an 
 
 hour or two after death, indeed, there was 
 
 a sort of purplish hue in the face, which Dr. R. 
 
 said is always so in cases of sudden death." 
 
 " There ought to have been, — there ought 
 still to be an inquest held," said Raymond, 
 sternly and steadily. 
 
 "A coroner's inquest held upon my poor 
 lady, just as if she had made away with her- 
 self ? — Oh ! Sir, oh ! —Mr. Raymond ! — surely 
 you won't think of it !" cried Stanley, really 
 shocked. 
 
 "/ see no grounds for proposing such a 
 measure," observed Sir Charles. " Medical 
 attendance was called in, — proper precautions 
 were taken. There has been no attempt at 
 secresy, — no indecent haste." 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 167 
 
 " But after our preceding motives for sus- 
 picion }" 
 
 " Look at the heavenly stillness of that 
 countenance/' observed the elder kinsman, 
 *•' and you will not for a moment persist that 
 it is the countenance of a person having suf- 
 fered a violent death. A sleeping child does 
 not wear a calmer expression." 
 
 And George, unversed in similar appear- 
 ances, found nothing to reply to his father's 
 arguments. 
 
 "Before we visit Merstham in the morn- 
 ing," resumed Sir Charles, following the 
 wai ting- woman into an adjoining room, " we 
 will confer more at large with the medical 
 men who were called in. Should they assign 
 natural causes for poor Mary's death, (who, 
 when we left her was certainly much exhausted 
 in constitution by her recent shock,) we should 
 be unjustifiable in casting a stigma upon Mers- 
 tham's character, of which he is perhaps as 
 undeserving as you or myself." 
 
 " Good heavens, Sir !" — cried Stanley, " Mr. 
 
168 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 Raymond surely don't fancy that my poor 
 lady was " 
 
 " Hush, hush ! — calm yourself my good 
 woman V* — interrupted Sir Charles. 
 
 " Oh ! dear, dear Sir ! — the very idea puts 
 me beside myself. — To think that Mr. Mers- 
 tham, who was struck down by the sad event, 
 for all the world as if a blow had fallen on 
 him, — who has neither eaten nor drank since, 
 — who is so altered, too" — 
 
 " Let me beg of you to be silent," reiterated 
 Sir Charles ; a no charge is made against your 
 master, or any one else ; and " 
 
 "I'm sure, Sir, 'tis not for any love of 
 Mr. Merstham I speak," persisted the wo- 
 man, too much excited to be readily pacified; 
 fcC for a more disagreeable, meaner gentleman, 
 no person ever served. But justice opens 
 my mouth. I am free to own, indeed, to his 
 being passionate enough at times, and apt 
 to fly out against my poor lady without any 
 provocation that I could see. But his pas- 
 sion never went further than a threatening 
 look or a few angry words ; and " 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 169 
 
 " You have observed threatening looks, 
 then ?" — cried George Raymond. 
 
 " Not more than are apt to pass between 
 any married gentleman and lady of hasty 
 tempers," said Stanley. "I was a whole 
 twelvemonth with poor Mrs. Merstham, Sir, 
 and could swear upon an affidavit that I never 
 heard her make a complaint, as I must have 
 done had she been badly treated. But as 
 to supposing any one capable of putting her 
 
 out of the way " 
 
 " Not another word on the subject, I beg ; 
 you are completely under a mistake V said 
 Sir Charles Raymond, in a peremptory voice, 
 as he prepared to quit the room. "My son 
 and myself sleep to-night at the hotel. In 
 the morning, you will be so good as to ac- 
 quaint Mr. Merstham of our arrival and 
 inquire at what hour he wishes to see us." 
 And, as if to escape all further discussion 
 of the frightful subject, he abruptly led the 
 way out of the house. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
170 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Oh J ill starr'd wench, 
 Pale as thy smock ! — When we shall meet at compt 
 This look of thine will hurl my soul from Heav'n 
 And fiends will snatch at it !- Cold, cold, my girl, 
 Even like thy chastity ! 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Aware of the timid and vacillating nature 
 of his father's disposition, George Raymond 
 prepared himself before their arrival at Ryde 
 to see Sir Charles palter with conviction, 
 become the slave of circumstances, evade all 
 active examination into the mysteries con- 
 nected with Mary's sudden death, and perhaps 
 eventually range himself on the side of 
 Merstham. It afforded him therefore less 
 surprise than mortification when he perceived 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 171 
 
 that the vague testimony borne by the medical 
 men to the causes of her decease, on the morn- 
 ing after their arrival, was received and 
 adopted with avidity. 
 
 The surgeon called in at the moment of her 
 death seemed chiefly intent on assuring her 
 family that every thing had been tried for her 
 
 restoration, and tried in vain ; and Dr R. 
 
 the physician previously in attendance, ad- 
 mitted that Mrs. Merstham was in so delicate 
 a state of health and so excited a state of 
 nerves, that any great crisis was likely to have 
 proved fatal ; both choosing to encumber their 
 surmises respecting the immediate cause of her 
 demise with such a weight of technical terms 
 and professional wisdom, that the unillumi- 
 nated auditors were soon lost in perplexity. 
 Sir Charles protested, however, that nothing 
 could be more clear than the statements laid 
 before him, nothing more satisfactory ; and, 
 while George Raymond continued to question, 
 cross-question, hint and infer, the thousand 
 horrid doubts agitating his mind, — the morning 
 gradually wore away. 
 
 I 2 
 
1/2 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 At length, with as much delicacy as such 
 a proposition would admit, Mr. Raymond 
 explicitly requested that an examination of the 
 body might take place : when the professional 
 expositors, (by no means anxious for a measure 
 which might tend to expose the fallacy of their 
 learned opinions), set forth in glaring colours 
 that the step not having been taken in the 
 first instance by the husband, but at the 
 eleventh hour and at the desire of Mrs. Mers- 
 tham's family, would tend to cast imputa- 
 tions upon themselves and the unfortunate wi- 
 dower such as no pre-existing circumstances 
 appeared to authorize. This judgment was 
 fully confirmed by Sir Charles ; who ex- 
 pressed himself perfectly satisfied by the 
 statements laid before him that his niece had 
 fallen a victim to convulsions, incident to her 
 exhausted state of health and the irritation of 
 her nervous system. 
 
 At the entreaty of his son, he consented, 
 however, that the medical men should accom- 
 pany them to Merstham's house and tender 
 theproposal for examination, as for their own 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 173 
 
 satisfaction, and all four immediately set forth 
 together ; when George Raymond, overcome 
 by the emotions excited by the discussion in 
 which they had been engaged, could scarcely 
 forgive his father for the ease with which he 
 entered into desultory conversation with the 
 strangers, on their way to such a house on such 
 an errand, 
 
 The unfortunate Merstham was seated in 
 his own apartment, when, by previous arrange- 
 ment, they were introduced together ; nor did 
 he raise his eyes on their entrance, or give 
 the slightest token of consciousness of their 
 presence. He appeared stupified by grief, 
 or overworn with watching; and on his hard 
 sullen face was a beard of four days' growth, 
 to increase the natural severity of its expres- 
 sion. After a few inquiries after his health, 
 and general condolences to which he deigned 
 
 no reply, Sir Charles left to Dr. R an 
 
 opportunity for his proposal ; having peremp- 
 torily exacted of his son that he would refrain 
 from all interference in whatever discussions 
 might ensue. 
 
174 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 Endowed with considerable suavity of ad- 
 dress, the Doctor displayed great tact in the 
 sophistries of phrase polite, in which he con- 
 trived to envelope all that was calculated to 
 give umbrage to the husband, in the measure 
 he was required to propose. 
 
 Mr. Raymond's eyes remained steadily fixed 
 on the countenance of Merstham, while Dr. 
 
 R attempted to make his meaning as little 
 
 plain as possible ; but the louring brow of the 
 mourner gave no sign that he either heard or 
 understood j and again when the work of elo- 
 quence was re-commenced with similar pains 
 and labour, and similar lack of effect, — he 
 answered not a word ! A glance of intelligence 
 now passed between the bland physician and 
 Sir Charles Raymond, implying u the poor 
 man is overpowered by despair, and incapable 
 of attending to us ; let us leave him to him- 
 self;" when George Raymond, forgetful of 
 his promise or unable to control his feelings, 
 suddenly quitted his chair and confronting 
 Merstham, sternly exclaimed, " We are come, 
 Sir, to request your sanction to a professional 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 175 
 
 examination, with a view to elucidate the 
 causes of my cousin the late Mrs. Merstham's 
 untimely decease." 
 
 " You have it, gentlemen," replied Mers- 
 tham, without raising his eyes from the 
 ground. 
 
 a Not if the measure be in any degree pain- 
 ful to you, my dear Sir," — added Sir Charles. — 
 " God forbid that poor Mary's family should 
 do any thing to aggravate your sufferings." 
 
 " God forbid !" repeated Merstham with 
 the same mechanical insensibility. 
 
 " But having been favoured with your per- 
 mission," persisted George, " it only remains 
 to " 
 
 " Mr. Merstham has of course as much 
 interest as yourself in ascertaining the causes 
 of his and our bereavement," interrupted Sir 
 Charles. " It will be better, therefore, for him- 
 self to point out the persons he wishes to be 
 called in, and " 
 
 " I have already said, fulfil your own plea- 
 sure, gentlemen ! — I can do no more V — said 
 Merstham, in a hollow voice. " Call in whom 
 
176 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 you will, — the whole town of Ryde, if you 
 find gratification in such exposures. — 1 have no 
 further option in the subject/' 
 
 " There will be no exposure, my dear Sir," 
 interposed the mild physician. " Rely upon me, 
 that all shall proceed in the most regular and 
 ordinary method : taking upon myself to render 
 you a report of the information we may deduce 
 from the exercise of our most painful duty/ 5 
 
 But Merstham lent a careless eye and ear to 
 these professional assiduities. Again, he had 
 relapsed into sullen silence; nor was it till 
 
 Dr. R . re-commenced one of his florid 
 
 harangues that he abruptly observed, " Com- 
 plete your arrangements elsewhere; I have 
 nothing more to hear or to reply." And 
 straightway commenced a sort of rocking 
 movement upon his chair, as if to soothe 
 down his impatience of their officious impor- 
 tunities ; — a hint upon which all parties felt 
 compelled to quit the room. 
 
 But what was the irritation of Raymond to 
 learn from Mrs. Stanley immediately after 
 leaving Merstham's presence, that during their 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 177 
 
 delays and discussion, the coffin had been 
 soldered up for ever ! — 
 
 " Nothing can be easier than to have 
 it opened !" — was his first indignant exclama- 
 tion. " 'Tis a thing that has frequently been 
 done in similar cases. " 
 
 " Only under circumstances of great suspi- 
 cion/* observed the surgeon. 
 
 " Nothing but urgent necessity can ever 
 warrant the disturbance of the dead/' added 
 
 Dr. R . " To unsolder a coffin is a work 
 
 of difficulty, and the attempt would give rise 
 to a thousand painful rumours/' 
 
 " I, for my own part, will sanction nothing 
 of the kind," said Sir Charles, in a more 
 positive tone. " There is no ple'a, no pretext, 
 for it ! The ready acquiescence of Merstham 
 in our wishes, is a proof of his innocence : and 
 since, most unfortunately, the examination did 
 not occur in the first instance, let us not be 
 instrumental in molesting the remains of my 
 poor niece for the gratification of our own 
 susceptibility. I shall immediately acquaint 
 Mr. Merstham with my determination; then 
 
 i 3 
 
178 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 leave the house till to-morrow, when I un- 
 derstand from Stanley the funeral is to take 
 place." 
 
 And having cast a hurried glance upon the 
 coffin now hidden beneath its pall and sur- 
 mounted by the customary lid of nodding 
 plumes. Sir Charles with moistened eyes 
 quitted for ever the fatal apartment ; cheer • 
 fully followed by the medical men, and most 
 reluctantly by his son. George Raymond 
 alone re-entered with his father the chamber in 
 which Merstham was seated. He desisted 
 from his rocking movement as they drew near, 
 and when Sir Charles observed, " Having 
 found the last melancholy operations up stairs 
 already concluded, the coffin soldered and 
 fastened down, it appears to me inexpedient 
 to create unnecessary disturbance to the 
 sacred remains. 5 ' George Raymond was 
 almost startled by the sudden gleam of tri- 
 umphant cunning, of irrepressible exulta- 
 tion, that brightened the countenance of Mers- 
 tham. 
 
 " You have judged rightly," he murmured, 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 179 
 
 in a hoarse, hollow, voice. " You neglected 
 poor Mary as a child, and injured her as a 
 woman ; — 'tis as well not to persecute her as a 
 corpse.— It were a bitter jest that Sir Charles 
 Raymond took more heed of his dead niece than 
 he was ever known to do while she was alive." 
 
 To resent the ravings of a half frantic man 
 would have been absurd : and Mary's uncle 
 and cousin quitted the room in silence, lest 
 the offensive rebuke should be repeated. They 
 encountered Merstham but once again ; — even 
 on the brink of the grave, when ashes were 
 re-committed to ashes, and dust to dust. 
 
 &U JU Afc Jfc AU 
 
 W ^S" *ft" TV" -7^ 
 
 But was that chamber in truth a fatal cham- 
 ber? Had its walls indeed echoed to the 
 stifled groans of the murdered, to the cry of 
 a victim's dying anguish ? — Had those lips, 
 to which the relaxation of after death im- 
 parted so soft an expression, been previously 
 distorted by the pangs of a violent end ? — 
 Had they called aloud for aid, — aloud for 
 mercy, and in vain ? — Had they faltered a res* 
 
180 MARY RAYMOND. 
 
 ponse to the admonitory question, — u Des- 
 demona I have you pray 'd to-night ?" 
 
 That secret rests with the Almighty ! — 
 But in a private asylum for the reception 
 of lunatics, at Southampton, there exists 
 an unhappy patient who for years has sat 
 rocking himself upon a chair; incessantly 
 muttering between his teeth, " I baffled them 
 all, — I baffled them all ! — I cheated the lover, — 
 I cheated the uncle, — I cheated the proud, 
 insolent, overbearing family ! — I shut her up 
 in her coffin and secured her from them for 
 ever. — And now she is mine again, — now she 
 is mine. Are you not mine, Mary? — answer 
 me child, are you not mine? — She can't 
 answer! — she groans, — She does not speak, — 
 there is blood in her mouth, — hide it, — close 
 up the coffin, — don't say I did it, — don't say 
 I strangled her ! — No, no, never tell them how 
 I managed to make you my own again, — 
 Mary,— -Mary,— Mary." — 
 
 These incoherent cries and a solitary grave- 
 stone in the village churchyard of Bonchurch 
 
 - 
 
MARY RAYMOND. 181 
 
 in the Isle of Wight, are all that remain to 
 testify of the destinies of Merstham's wife. — 
 Within a year of her decease, Henry Marlay's 
 name was included in the list of the slain at 
 Navarino ; George Raymond was wedded with 
 another; and none are left to mourn for her 
 or revive the question of her death. 
 
 Weep, nevertheless, ye children, heretofore 
 ungrateful for the blessing of parental protec- 
 tion; — tremble, ye parents, who would reck- 
 lessly confide to others the guardianship of 
 your children ; — while you ponder over the 
 twenty years of sorrow and suffering included 
 in the fate of Mary Raymond ! 
 
THE ABBEY. 
 
 A MIDSUMMER DAY'S DREAM. 
 
 Lament, lament old Abbies, 
 The fairies' lost command ! 
 
 Bishop Corbet, 
 
THE ABBEY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 In old time of the King Artour 
 All was this land fulfilled of Faerie. 
 The Elf-Queen with her jolly company- 
 Danced full oft in many a grene mede, 
 This was the old opinion as I rede. 
 I speak of many hundred years ago, 
 But now can no man see no elves mo. 
 
 Chaucer. 
 
 Alas ! for the days of Faery ! — Alas ! for 
 the fatal fact, that since new worlds have been 
 added to the old, and " perilous regions of 
 thick-ribbed ice " familiarly laid open to our 
 ken, the " land of thought" has disappeared ! 
 Dwarfs and giants are no longer creatures of 
 the imagination, but people of fairs and show 
 booths. The word Sylph presents nothing 
 
186 THE ABBEY. 
 
 more etherial than Taglioni to our mind's eye ; 
 and lo ! — at the name of Gnome uprises some 
 leathern-vested unshapeliness with pickaxe and 
 shovel, as from the trap-doors of the Surrey 
 theatre. Even our beau ideal of the frosty 
 Caucasus, with its associations of Mangraby, 
 the caverns of the Afrits and Solomon's seal, is 
 destroyed for ever by the meagre copper-plate 
 views of some modern quarto ; — Sir Tickleson 
 Nickleson's " Peep into Persia," or " The Rev. 
 Peter Popabout's bird's eye view of the Holy 
 Land." If the days of chivalry are past, the 
 days of illusion have also ceased to exist. 
 
 Mournfully and touchingly does Words- 
 worth's sonnet deplore the departure of the 
 gods, and tender are the poet's aspirations 
 after the sight of " old Triton and his 
 wreathed horn." But what would it be 
 to recall for a season our days of childish 
 simplicity (the true age of gold,) when the 
 Blue Bird was something better than a macaw ; 
 and Blue Beard, more than a fancy edition 
 of the Reis EfFendi ; when the Croque 
 Mitaine, who allegorically devoured Red Rid- 
 
THE ABBEY. 187 
 
 ing Hood figured as a four-legged wolf; and 
 the " Open sesame " of the Arabian tale, as a 
 more potent spell than aught of Rothschildian 
 invention ? What would it not be to find new 
 faith for the voyages of Sindbad as for the 
 travels of naturalist Waterton ; or as deep- 
 seated a horror of the old man of the sea 
 as of that everlasting modern bore whom his 
 tediousness was intended to typify ! 
 
 What would it not be if natural magic could 
 for a time be reconstructed into the skyey in- 
 fluences of preternatural agency ; if chemistry 
 could be re-conjured into her crucible, geology 
 re-interred by the swart spirits of the mine, and 
 all the phenomena of nature re-enveloped in 
 their pristine mystery ; — if that which now 
 overcomes us like a summer cloud were to 
 assume once more the terrors of necromancy, 
 and the gossamer hang anew upon the even- 
 ing air a tissue of unearthly enweavement. — 
 But, alas ! for the days of faery ! — Alas ! that 
 the only wands of enchantment left in the nine- 
 teenth century should be those of the Usher of 
 the black rod, and the silver stick in waiting ! 
 
188 THE ABBEY. 
 
 But is it the material world alone that has 
 been despoiled of its illusions by the discove- 
 ries of modern science ? — Has the mind of man 
 lost nothing of its alchemic wonders, — the heart 
 of woman forfeited nothing of its charms by 
 the operation of that thirst after the positive, 
 which breaks a butterfly upon a wheel to pry 
 into its organization ? — Have not the quondam 
 idols of our imagination been taken to pieces 
 like the models of an anatomical museum j — do 
 we not analyse and decompose our own senti- 
 ments and those of others, till nothing but 
 a heavy caput mortuum remains ; — nay, do we 
 not even expose the mighty dead to the influ- 
 ence of our scientific investigation, till, having 
 directed a galvanic battery upon the resusci- 
 tated victim, we clap our hands for joy to see 
 its legs quiver and its lungs expand with the 
 artificial existence of our creation ! Man de- 
 lights us no longer, nor woman either. " By 
 the Lord ! we know them as well as he who 
 made them." They have been weighed in our 
 balances and found wanting ; admeasured by 
 our compasses, and discovered to be pigmies. 
 
THE ABBEY. 189 
 
 Our knowledge of the world and its ways 
 is infinite ; but our eyes, ears, and under- 
 standings are disenchanted of all the sweeter 
 illusions of life. — Alas ! alas ! for the spells of 
 Faery ! 
 
 It was on a mild but over-clouded day in 
 autumn within the earlier half of the last 
 century, that two youths of noble appear- 
 ance, each bearing on his shoulder the para- 
 phernalia bespeaking a disciple of old Izaak, 
 were seen toiling across the country from 
 the sea coast towards the most westernly 
 of the lakes of Cumberland. Wastwater, sul- 
 len, secluded, unfathomable Wastwater, alien- 
 ated from the brighter regions of that land'of 
 hill and dale by a ridge of rugged or inacces- 
 sible mountains, appeared to be the object 
 of their pilgrimage; for ever and anon their 
 eyes were bent inquiringly upon the misty emi- 
 nence of Sty Head, and the cloud-enshrouded 
 heights of Sea Fell, as if to ascertain what fur- 
 ther wilds still interposed between them and 
 the lonely mountain lake. 
 
 All around was ruggedness and desolation - 3 
 
190 THE ABBEY. 
 
 — no bordering woods, no gladsome verdure; 
 — not even a hedge-row overgilded with the 
 yellow tints of autumn. Arid plains of stub- 
 ble proved indeed that the land had its 
 cultivators, and that its scanty product was 
 somewhere or other farmed and treasured. But 
 scarcely a hovel was visible. The rude stone 
 walls forming landmarks of possession, seemed 
 to have grown spontaneously out of the soil. 
 The scene was the abode of Solitude ; — not the 
 mildly pleasing hermit haunting apart from 
 mankind to commune unmolested with the 
 holiness of nature ; but rather that wild, dis- 
 tracted, care-crazed, briar-crowned Tom o' 
 Bedlam, who 
 
 With presented nakedness outfaces 
 The winds and persecutions of the sky ! 
 
 At some distance, however, closely enskirt- 
 ing the western shore of Wastwater, and sur- 
 mounted in the landscape by the scaurs and 
 mountain steeps that serve to shut out the lake 
 from all access to civilized life, was seen a ver- 
 dant belt of plantations \ as though one portion 
 
THE ABBEY. 191 
 
 at least of the valley was favoured as the resort 
 of human kind. Thither, the two travellers 
 directed their steps, hoping to preface their 
 sport by rest and refreshment ; and 
 
 Wilds immeasurably spread 
 Seemed lengthening as they went ! 
 
 Nevertheless, they pushed valiantly onward. 
 Their attire, at once simple and sportsmanlike, 
 consisted in short tunics of dark grey cloth^ 
 with caps of the same humble material ; and 
 it was only the grace of their aspect, their 
 gay freedom of demeanour and fine frank open- 
 ness of countenance, that inferred them to 
 be of higher degree than the sons of White- 
 haven burgesses, occasionally engaged in 
 sylvan sports in those rude and sequestered 
 dales. 
 
 Nor was that nameless air of nobility a lying 
 indication. Both were of lofty descent ; but 
 though, as the phrase runs, brothers of the 
 angle, neither brothers in blood nor even dis- 
 tant kinsmen. The taller of the two was ad- 
 dressed by his companion by the name of Cecil ; 
 
192 THE ABBEY. 
 
 the other appeared to bear the name of Claude ; 
 and they jested familiarly together on a thousand 
 topics as they trudged along, more especially 
 Cecil, — who was loud in his predictions that they 
 should repent their expedition which could 
 not choose but prove a fool's errand at so ad- 
 vanced a period of the year. 
 
 " I foresee how it will be ! " cried he, when 
 at length they reached a thicket of alder bushes 
 on the outskirts of the green oasis which gave 
 token that they were approaching the lake. 
 " You forced me hither from Whitehaven, — 
 compelled me to rest last night in a Cumbrian 
 hovel, which it was your pleasure to call a farm 
 house, — and now drive me onwards into the 
 wilderness with as heavy a sky over our heads 
 as will serve to flood the country between this 
 and Egremont, — on pretext of seeking sport, 
 where sport never yet was found, in this same 
 bottomless lake, which we shall reach I pre- 
 sume, somewhere about Candlemas ; but in 
 reality to afford you the satisfaction of travers- 
 ing a terra incognita which your pride whispers 
 at every step you stumble, was bestowed upon 
 
THE ABBEY. 193 
 
 one of your Anglo-Saxon ancestors, by way of 
 affording him wherewithal to piece his shirt of 
 mail worn out in warring against the Picts ! 
 Prythee, Claude, how was he styled, this 
 doughty hero of the north — was he a Leofric, 
 
 or a Ceorcil, or a Torquil, or a " 
 
 " It matters little, even to myself," cried 
 Claude, striving to throw off the air of vexation 
 which for a moment overspread his fine face, 
 " since neither stick nor stone of the estate, 
 (and i'faith its timber is somewhat stickish of 
 stature, and its soil fertile of sandstone ! ) re- 
 mains at present to the family. It is a legend, 
 indeed among our people, that as far as a horse 
 could pace in a day between Wastdale and the 
 sea, was once our property. But my uncle 
 Giles, like a rake as he was, sent his acres 
 rattling through the dice-boxes at White's. He 
 chose to be a gay town gentleman, and sport 
 away the inheritance of his fathers with Whar- 
 ton and his crew of wits and profligates ; and, 
 at the moment of his ruin, all his northern 
 property, not included in the deed of entail, was 
 
 VOL. I. K 
 
194 THE ABBEY. 
 
 sold to the highest bidder and parcelled off 
 in farms." 
 
 " No great matter of lamentation. Your 
 family does not seem to have been at any time 
 seated in this part of the country ; and lands 
 without house or home, held by some never 
 seen proprietor, affix no particular interest to 
 the soil. The people are happier to be neigh- 
 boured by Gaffer and Gammer Gurton, who 
 plough their own land and fatten their own 
 beeves, than by some lord in tinsel and buck- 
 ram who bows away his life two hundred 
 miles off, at the levee of Sir Robert or Sir 
 Robert's master ! As far as you are con- 
 cerned, (if the matter of the entail in any 
 way concerns you) accept my congratulations 
 that this Torquil or Tanaquil did not see fit to 
 establish his house for ever in this ultramon- 
 tane district — sans roads, sans towns, sans 
 christian-like habitations, sans everything ! I 
 would not pass a year in so savage a Goshen 
 for the world!' 5 
 
 " A year is a long time to pass in any seclud- 
 
THE ABBEY. 195 
 
 ed spot, even when it is overflowing with milk 
 and honey/' 
 
 u Say rather with claret and venison pasties, 
 —for such is the diet my hungry stomach at this 
 moment craveth," cried Cecil. " But, in good 
 time, yonder among the bushes, I discern the 
 gleaming of the silver thread that soon widens 
 into the lake of Wastwater ; the which, saving 
 its presence, I have heard likened unto the 
 Dead Sea, for any good that is to be found in 
 its waters or upon its borders ; — and, having 
 toiled thus far for the pleasure or pain of throw- 
 ing a line into it, 'tis most likely we shall find 
 neither boats to launch in, nor on this valley- 
 side footing or foundation ; and so, like Marl- 
 brook in the song " 
 
 " You are mistaken, you are mistaken ! " 
 cried Claude, pushing onwards, and gaining 
 sight of the rising green knolls and clear sedge- 
 less banks of the lake towards its Wastdale 
 limits. " I see a skiff moored to the stump 
 near yonder cabin." 
 
 u No matter; — old Sea-fell has got on his 
 
 k 2 
 
196 THE ABBEY. 
 
 nightcap. I espy a coming storm which will 
 render skiff and lake alike impracticable. These 
 ruts and cart- tracts doubtless indicate some- 
 thing that in wilderness-dialect calls itself a 
 road. Let us follow it to the nearest farm — 
 beg, buy, or appropriate to ourselves shelter 
 and refreshments — then, make our way across 
 the country to Egremont, whence we may find 
 conveyance back to Whitehaven, and run no 
 further danger from delay. Had I deemed 
 that the lake lay at so great a distance, I had 
 seen it dried up ere I adventured the loss of a 
 second night's rest." 
 
 " Farmhouse unluckily, there is none, in 
 sight ;" cried Claude, laughing heartily at the 
 growing petulance of his companion. " But 
 here comes the rain at your sendee ;" and they 
 had just time to scramble towards a sand-bank 
 overgrown by the gnarled branches of a vene- 
 rable holly tree, upon which the shower soon 
 pelted with the violence characteristic of a 
 mountainous district ; rattling, as Cecil ob- 
 
THE ABBEY. 197 
 
 served, like a shower of shot upon a suit of 
 Milan armour. 
 
 " I should be sorry to find myself up yonder 
 among the roaring storms that envelope Sty- 
 Head," exclaimed Claude, in the same reckless 
 tone ; " we are well esconced here." 
 
 " Well?" retorted his angry friend 3 " with 
 every chance of being wet to the skin, during 
 our thirty miles walk ; but without the slightest 
 hope of finding so much as an oatmeal cake to 
 appease our hunger ! Honour bright, Claude, 
 my man, I have had all but enough of these 
 mad-brained adventures, which have no- 
 thing chivalresque, or picturesque, or sports- 
 manesque about them. Pass for the encounter 
 of danger j — but the encounter of discomfort is 
 a bore !" 
 
 " How like two stone-chatterers we look, 
 croaking under this reeking hollybush !" ex- 
 claimed Claude, still making light of their 
 grievances. " What a pitiful figure we cut ! 
 and how lucky that no Marplot is at hand to 
 espy our plight, and tell it in Gath, or at 
 Christchurch." 
 
198 THE ABBEY. 
 
 But; at that moment, as if in disproval of his 
 assertion, the sound of an approaching horse 
 assailed their ears ; and immediately came can- 
 tering along the strip of turf bordering the far 
 side of the road, a well built mountain pony 
 mounted by, what at first sight appeared a page 
 — at second sight, a woman, — and at third, an 
 angel ! — 
 
 A lovely apparition sent 
 To be a moment's ornament ; 
 A dancing shape, an image gay 
 To haunt, to startle and waylay ! 
 
 Long light tresses escaped from a black velvet 
 cap, lay upon the green vest and skirting, in 
 which the beautiful equestrian was apparelled, 
 — tresses such as they had a right to suppose 
 would have floated in ringlets, had the weather 
 been more auspicious ; but not even the tor- 
 rents of rain streaming on that lovely face 
 had power to destroy the exquisite but mellow 
 softness of complexion which lent so speaking a 
 grace to the features. A moment — and the vi- 
 
THE ABBEY. 199 
 
 sion was gone !— leaving it to the two sports- 
 men to express their wonderment, so soon as 
 they might recover breath and self-possession 
 for the effort. 
 
200 THE ABBEY. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 What aspect bore the man who roved or fled 
 
 First of his tribe to this dark dell, and first 
 
 In this pellucid water slaked his thirst? 
 
 What hopes came with him — what designs were spread 
 
 Along his path ? His unprotected bed 
 
 What dreams encompassed ? Was the intruder nursed 
 
 In hideous usages and rites accursed? 
 
 The Duddon. 
 
 Half hidden in one of the most " bosky 
 bournes" adjoining the lake of Wastwater, 
 just where a silver brooklet which frets its way 
 from the mountain ridge above, finds issue into 
 the lake, may be traced peeping between the 
 thickets of dwarf ash and privet, a decayed 
 boundary wall, overtopped by a straggling plan- 
 
THK ABBEY. 201 
 
 tation of larches and chestnuts, surmounted in 
 their turn at rare intervals by the giant skele- 
 tons of a few super-centuried oaks, such as 
 were perhaps saplings when the edicts of the 
 Eighth Harry assigned them, with the soil in 
 which they flourished, to other than monastic 
 pro prie tor ship. Gate of entrance seemed there 
 none ', though the decayed wall showed more 
 than one fissure which might have served 
 all purposes of admission to the enterprising 
 adventurer. 
 
 Nevertheless, the two young fishermen had 
 busied themselves for some time, with little 
 effect, in seeking out an entrance. Having dis- 
 cussed with due fervour and eloquence the mira- 
 culous manifestation of the fair horsewoman of 
 Wastdale, they decided, that unless, like the 
 weird women of Forres, a bubble of the earth., 
 she might probably be heard of by following 
 the road she had taken, as far as the nearest 
 habitation. Upstarted they, accordingly, from 
 their lair under the hollybush ; and, though 
 the rain was still pouring, and the lightning 
 flashing, pursued their way along the beaten 
 
 k 3 
 
202 THE ABBEY. 
 
 tract till it ended suddenly at a gate overgrown 
 with nettles, docks, and scorpion-grass, which 
 had evidently remained unopened for years. 
 Eager in their pursuit, however, they perse- 
 vered in following the outskirts of the wall, 
 hoping to discern some other mode of ingress ; 
 till at length, unsuccessful and despairing, the 
 elder of the two, throwing his encumbering 
 fishing basket on the steaming grass, in spite 
 of wind and weather, storm gusts and showers, 
 climbed to the summit of the wall, resolved to 
 determine what manner of domicile lay con- 
 cealed within. 
 
 " Well ?" — cried the impatient Claude, so 
 soon as his friend Cecil, having attained a 
 point where the plantation was thinnest, 
 looked down upon the scene below; " what 
 kingdoms of the earth do you discern from 
 your pinnacle r" 
 
 " An everlasting kingdom, my dear fellow !" 
 " And of course worth scaling to see ?" — 
 " I prythee do not mock me, fellow stu- 
 dent!" 
 
 " No traces, of a habitation ?" — 
 
THE ABBEY. 203 
 
 " Of a thousand!" 
 
 " Too many, by nine hundred and ninety 
 nine ! — You will not stimulate my curiosity by 
 rhodomontading. " 
 
 " A thousand family mansions, as I am a 
 christian man ! — 'Tis a churchyard !" 
 
 " And what beyond ? — I swear our beauty 
 was a creature of flesh and blood. Do you 
 mean to tell me that she is lodged in some old 
 mausoleum ?— What beyond ?" — 
 
 "Another wall, and another range of trees, 
 concealing probably the church to which this 
 agreeable pleasure ground belongs. So out of 
 the way with you ! that I may drop down 
 again ! — Tomb-gazing when a fellow, is drenched 
 to the skin, is but a rheumatic recreation !" 
 
 And, having clambered down, and shaking 
 the wet from his garments, the unsuccessful 
 adventurer proposed that they should retrace 
 their steps, and make for the nearest cottage. 
 
 " So soon discouraged ?" cried Claude. 
 " 'Tis now my turn then to shine an ascending 
 star ; wait for me." 
 
 In a moment he had attained the sum~ 
 
204 THE ABBEY. 
 
 mit of the wall, and, catching hold of the 
 branch of an oak that extended itself over the 
 ridge, was out of sight before his friend could 
 make conditions. 
 
 " He will be back, anon," murmured Cecil, 
 ensconcing himself, so as to obtain shelter wea- 
 therward of the wall. But the minutes wore 
 away, and vague as was the adverb by which 
 he had thought proper to limit his expectancy, 
 " anon " had never before assumed so lagging 
 a sense in his experience. A quarter of an 
 hour passed away, — passed twice ; and a whole 
 hour at length expended the patience of the 
 rain-soaked Pylades, ere he made up his mind 
 to the old experiment of shooting a second 
 arrow to determine the lodgment of the first. 
 Luckily, the weather was inclined to favour his 
 enterprize. The thunder had brayed its fare- 
 well peal ; the last drops of the shower had 
 pattered over the leaves ; and the gray filmy 
 clouds seemed on the point of dispersing to 
 disclose the clearer light of the eye of day, 
 when Claude suddenly re-appeared upon the 
 waJl. 
 
THE ABBEY. 205 
 
 " At last \" cried Cecil, gladly hailing his 
 approach. " I was on the point of going to 
 seek you. Where have you been Y y 
 
 u I don^t know/' panted the new comer. 
 
 " What have you seen, then ?" 
 
 " I can't say," persisted Claude. 
 
 u But you have obtained some clue to the 
 will-o'-the-wisp which has led us so confound- 
 edly out of our way ?" 
 
 " Not so much as the thread of a spider's 
 web !" continued Claude, leaping from the 
 wall. 
 
 " You are determined not to satiate my 
 curiosity by too full a meal," said Cecil. " But 
 to proceed categorically, what lies beyond the 
 wall?" 
 
 " An ancient cemetery — as you already 
 know; 1 — in whose soft, springy turf, as in a 
 framework of greenest velvet, lie enchased 
 some score or two of worn out sepulchral 
 tablets, — forgotten remembrances of men, and 
 things forgotten/' 
 
 " And beyond the churchyard ?" 
 
 " Another wall." 
 
206 THE ABBEY, 
 
 " Which you escaladed as actively as this ?" — 
 
 " Which I passed through a simple wicket 
 gate." 
 
 " And discovered " 
 
 " The most beautiful object, my dear 
 fellow, — the fairest, loveliest thing !" 
 
 tt A woman ?" — 
 
 " No !— " 
 
 " A horse ?"— 
 
 " An ass alone would ask it ! 'Twas neither 
 woman, horse, nor mule ; but simply a ruin — 
 a cloistered Abbey, as I take it; — with fine 
 gothic arches — and clustering columns- — and 
 lofty transepts, such as even a Norman might 
 exclaim upon as magnificent !" 
 
 u One might have guessed as much ! One 
 might have known that none but the cunning 
 varlets of monks would have found out this 
 little Land of Canaan (where sinners like our- 
 selves find nothing to put into our mouths !) 
 with its lakes full of fish and wild-fowl, and its 
 pastures of fat beeves and milch-kine/' 
 
 " And think you 'twas the attraction of 
 cows and oxen," resumed his companion, 
 
THE ABBEY. 207 
 
 " which enticed its present inhabitants to the 
 Abbey ?' 
 
 " Its present inhabitants ? — Hey-day ! — Has 
 it any to boast beside swifts and swallows, 
 or, perhaps a solitary owl ? — Saw you a living 
 thing among the ruins ?" 
 
 « Not I !"— 
 
 " Prythee, tamper no more with me, my 
 good friend. Say out your say, or evermore 
 hold your tongue and let us be going," cried 
 Cecil. 
 
 " I fear we must be going," replied the 
 adventurer, looking wistfully at his tackle 
 on the grass. " But, for my say, it is 
 soon said, if you but hold your questioning. 
 Know, then, that the noble pile yonder is 
 closed in and weather proof, in that por- 
 tion of the building in former times, the 
 dormitory and refectory of the monks ; — 
 ergo, it serves for the dwelling-house of 
 living mortals. Know, again, that the inner 
 close in which it stands is cultivated with 
 parterres and plat-bands of richest flowers — 
 a sheet of flowers — a world of flowers — 
 
208 THE ABBEY. 
 
 nothings whichever way you turn your eyes, 
 but flowers, flowers, flowers ; — ergo, it serves 
 for the dwelling-house of the fairer sex l" 
 
 " Well urged — well argued ! But did you 
 not make surmise assurance, by pushing your 
 discovery ? — Did you not make good your 
 entrance r" 
 
 " Your humble servant ! — There were two 
 as ill-visaged old blood-hounds stalking in the 
 court, as you would wish not to see on a 
 summer's day ! Every time I made a move- 
 ment to penetrate beyond the ruinous nave 
 whose splendid archway forms the chief orna- 
 ment of the Abbey, — g — r — r — aw ! You 
 should have heard the ominous growl set 
 up by the mistrustful beasts !" 
 
 " It was lack of enterprize, then, and not of 
 curiosity, that kept you stumbling on the 
 threshold ?" 
 
 " Threshold ? — I did not reach it within a 
 furlong ! For, even had I chosen to defy two 
 famished mastiffs " 
 
 " Mastiffs ? — They were blood-hounds but 
 now," 
 
THE ABBEY. 209 
 
 " Well — blood-hounds — mastiffs — curs, or 
 Cerberus himself, — no matter ! Even had 1 
 ventured into their very jaws, who knows what 
 further champion I might have had to defy ? 
 The lady who passed us on the road, unaccom- 
 panied as she was, was evidently of gentle, I 
 should say, of high degree ; and has probably 
 father uncle or brother within call, to say 
 to an intruder like myself: i 'Tis not to the 
 visitor who scales our walls like a house- 
 breaker, we give welcome.' On which hint, 
 half-a-dozen stout knaves of servants might 
 start forth to drive one back to the scurvy 
 road one entered." 
 
 u You are grown wondrously prudent, on a 
 sudden \" cried Cecil somewhat out of humour. 
 " So, after all, I was kept here an hour or so 
 in a pelting rain, while you were botanizing 
 among flower-beds, and playing the antiqua- 
 rian among ruins ! — "Tis at least your turn to 
 wait; — so, presto, off I go to reconnoitre !" — 
 
 And he was about, in his turn, to scale the 
 wall, when Claude eagerly detained him. 
 
210 THE ABBEY. 
 
 " I beseech you," said he, " do not mar our 
 chance of admittance by further indiscretion. I 
 have discovered that the ordinary entrance to the 
 Abbey lies close under the bank of the lake, to 
 which its southern transept lies open. I noted 
 also, when perched on the summit of the wall, 
 that, at no great distance, in the contrary 
 direction, stands a cottage, where, no doubt, 
 we may obtain information to direct our move- 
 ments. Let us not enter this enchanted castle 
 like two starving beggars. She who had taste 
 tb adorn and cultivate yonder exquisite spot, — 
 whether maid, wife, or widow, — is not likely to 
 be struck by the merit of cavaliers, who come 
 like travelling tinkers, hungering after bread 
 and cheese. For my part, I do ever remember 
 that comfortable creature called small-beer ; 
 let us refresh and rest ourselves before we 
 renew the adventure l" 
 
 " Faith ! there is more sense in the proposal 
 than is always to be admired in measures of 
 either thine or mine/' cried his friend. " But, 
 as the first proof of our good judgment, let us 
 
THE ABBEY. 211 
 
 lose no more time !" And, snatching up his 
 paraphernalia, he proceeded, accompanied by 
 his sage councillor, in the direction pointed 
 out by Piscator. 
 
212 THE ABBEY. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 I pr'ythee, shepherd, if that love or gold 
 May in this desert place buy entertainment, 
 Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Bread and cheese, and " the comfortable 
 creature called small-beer," are far easier of 
 attainment in a Cumbrian cottage, than an 
 answer intelligible to ears polite. It was the 
 hour for the able-bodied and able-minded to 
 be abroad at labour in the fields ; and the old 
 woman and young child, from whom the two 
 sportsmen managed to procure a small portion 
 of the coarsest food, seemed to possess a still 
 more moderate allotment of the King's English, 
 to bestow upon travellers. 
 
THE ABBEY. 213 
 
 " You have a magnificent ruin yonder, on 
 the margin of the lake, my good woman ; 
 what is it called ? — To whom does it belong ? — 
 Is it at present inhabited )" — inquired Cecil of 
 his ancient hostess. 
 
 " Anan ?" answered the beldame, holding 
 up her hand to the least dunny of two deaf 
 ears. 
 
 " I asked the name of the Abbey and of its 
 inhabitants," reiterated the traveller. 
 
 " T'ould Abbey, grandmither," explained 
 the child. " T'a gentry wants to knaw haw a' 
 be colled." 
 
 " Haw t'ould Abbey be colled ? — Whoy, a' 
 be colled t'ould Abbey, to be shoar !" — bawled 
 the dame, chuckling at her superior wisdom. 
 
 " To whom does it belong, then ?" inquired 
 Cecil, giving up his first point of interrogation. 
 
 a Ee cawn't jistly seay to whom a* did 
 belong than; — a' belongs naw to them as owns 
 hur." 
 
 " And who are ' them as owns hur,' my 
 good woman ?" 
 
 " Them as boides in hur." 
 
214 THE ABBEY. 
 
 " And who are ' them as boides in hur* }" — 
 Cf Grandmither, the gentry be a makeing 
 geame o' ye !" interrupted the boy. 
 
 " Anan )" said the hag, luckily turning her 
 deafer ear to the insinuation. 
 
 " I will make mince-meat of you, urchin, if 
 you presume to be saucy," cried the elder of 
 the two young men. " But, since you have so 
 ready a tongue, answer my questions yourself, 
 and win this new crown for your trouble. 
 Who resides yonder at the Abbey ?" 
 
 " Ta ladies, sure r" — was now the ready 
 reply. 
 
 " What ladies ?" 
 
 cf Ee cawn't seay, there be twa on 'em." 
 " And what are their names?" 
 " Madam Maud and Madam Amy." 
 " And pray how old are Madam Maud and 
 Madam Amy ?" 
 
 " Ee cawn't seay — they be women grown." 
 " And as old, perhaps, as your grand- 
 mother?" cried Claude, finishing his last mouth- 
 ful of oat-cake, and mingling impatiently in 
 the conversation. 
 
THE ABBEY. 215 
 
 u Madam Maud be summut strick in 
 years, but Madam Amy be neither here nor 
 there/' 
 
 " What do you mean by neither here nor 
 there ?" 
 
 " Madam Amy be owlder than suster Sarah, 
 and younger, may be, than ta parson's woife/" 
 
 " These ladies live quite alone ?" inquired 
 Cecil. 
 
 " Noa they doan't." 
 
 " Who resides with them ?" 
 
 ce There be Alison, ta waiting-woman, and 
 owld Johnny Mayne t' shepherd, Alison's 
 father. 5 ' 
 
 " No one else ?" 
 
 " Noa !— ees, a' be thof " 
 
 " Who else ?" 
 
 " Nestor and Hector — t'owld hounds, and 
 little Galpin." 
 
 " Can any one be permitted, do you think, 
 to view the grounds of the Abbey V 
 
 " Nabudy, Sur, nabudy ! Madam Maud 
 kicked up a pratty bit o' dust ance on a toime, 
 'cause granny tuk a grand painting gemman 
 
216 THE ABBEY. 
 
 in wi' hur, to hould a bit o' a crack with 
 Alison ; an naw, ta geates be locked, and ta 
 hounds always astir/' 
 
 " We make but poor advances," observed 
 Cecil to his companion. 
 
 " While the afternoon advances rapidly/' 
 replied the other ; " and with as much rain in 
 its skies as would float an Armada. So pry- 
 thee, lose no more time in asking idle ques- 
 tions, which yield us still idler answers, or we 
 shall be benighted to-night, and be-morned in 
 the morning, leaving a sorry account to render 
 of ourselves, at last, to Rawdon and the very 
 Reverend the Dean, to whom your father 
 wrote to announce our arrival full ten days 
 ago." 
 
 cc And term commencing on Thursday 
 next !" cried Cecil, in despair. " My father 
 would never let me hear the last of the misde- 
 meanour, if I should be handed up a second 
 time as I was last year. Fools that we were, 
 my dear Claude, to loiter away those five good- 
 for-nothing days in Dublin !" 
 
 " They were good for some very tolerable 
 
THE ABBEY. 217 
 
 burgundy and the best claret I ever drank ; 
 to say nothing of your good old uncle Sir 
 Ulick's campaigning stories, still racier than his 
 wine. But time or money spent, are not to be 
 recalled by moaning after them. So let us 
 make the most of the two hours' day-light still 
 before us, and on towards Egremont/" 
 
 " Without one attempt at a visit to the 
 Abbey?" 
 
 " Without one attempt at a visit to the 
 Abbey ! — At the best, we lose one evening in 
 the enterprize ; — at the worst, (should the lady 
 who is neither here nor there in age, prove the 
 same who was here on horseback, and seems 
 to be there, in clover) we may be tempted to 
 waste another half-a-dozen at her feet. So 
 again I say, away towards Egremont or Raven - 
 glass ! I budge not a foot on the road to the 
 Abbey." 
 
 a I see how it is \" cried Cecil, bestowing 
 as he spoke a liberal remuneration on the lad 
 and his grand-dame, and gathering up his 
 tackle to be gone. " You are afraid the news 
 of your exploits of gallantry should reach my 
 
 VOL. I. L 
 
218 THE ABBEY. 
 
 sister Horatia. Or, perhaps, had the Lady 
 Maud been of tender years " 
 
 a A truce to conjectures," cried Claude, 
 pushing him out of the cottage ; u and let us 
 be trudging." 
 
 And away they trudged ; grumbling not a 
 little on reaching the mainroad they had fol- 
 lowed in the morning, at the canal-like 
 appearance of the ditches, and plashy, miry, 
 miserable condition of the causeways. All 
 that remained for them, was to push forward 
 to the nearest farm to hire horses and a guide. 
 Claude, who seriously desired to divert the 
 thoughts of his companion from the Abbey 
 and its inhabitants, wearied himself in un- 
 loosing and hunting down the bagged-fox 
 topics of common-place conversation ; while 
 Cecil remained listless and abstracted, answer- 
 ing at random, and questioning not at all; till, on 
 a sudden, just as the closing twilight admitted 
 of their discerning in the distance a farm- 
 house — the long desired object of their pilgrim- 
 age — he suddenly ejaculated : " By Heavens, 
 it was the loveliest creature that ever my 
 
THE ABBEY. 219 
 
 waking eyes beheld ! — Such have I dreamed 
 of — such yearned after, — but till this morning 
 never looked upon. And, shall I abandon 
 all chance of seeing her again, when to-morrow 
 I quit the North, and without intent of return- 
 ing hither for the remainder of my days V — 
 
 " Far better/' cried Claude, " than embark 
 in a wild-goose chase, beginning with a wet 
 jacket, and ending with — the Heavens, or 
 their antipodes, know what !" 
 
 " Well, well — this vein of philosophy sits 
 well on you," cried Cecil. " In me, 'twere 
 ' foul disproportion — thoughts unnatural !' 
 Proceed, therefore, to Ravenglass, if you can 
 procure a nag; and I, whether on horse or 
 foot, will straightway retrace my way to the 
 Abbey." 
 
 For some time, Claude attempted, with the 
 utmost force of persuasion and argument, to 
 deter his friend from his project ; but, finding 
 his representations unavailing, and trusting 
 that a short trial would disgust the enthusiast 
 with a night-ride in miry weather and an un- 
 
 l 2 
 
220 THE ABBEY. 
 
 familiar country, and induce him to turn his 
 horse's head and rejoin him, he at length 
 acquiesced. Escorted by a farming-lad by way 
 of guide, he accordingly made onwards in the 
 direction of the coast ; while Cecil, mounted on 
 the farmer's favourite hackney, and accom- 
 panied, for a sufficient fee, by the farmer's son, 
 who seemed unwilling to trust so trusty a 
 steed out of sight, departed on his Quixotic 
 adventures. 
 
 Once upon the road, the young man did not 
 fail to extract further intelligence from his 
 rustic esquire. Though the Abbey lay at a 
 distance beyond his immediate parish and ken, 
 Hobnail knew enough to swear that it was a 
 ruinous hole ; and, if a church in the olden 
 time, by no means a place of fitting habitation 
 for modern christians. Nothing could be 
 clearer to his perceptions than that those who 
 chose to reside there, did it for lack of a better 
 domicile. He had never seen the two myste- 
 rious daughters of Eve ; — but described them 
 from report as " two queerish, outlandish kind 
 
THE ABBEY. 221 
 
 of women, who did a power o' good i' the 
 coontry-soide, with physic-stuff and Gospel- 
 lessons." 
 
 " Physic-stuff and Gospel-lessons !"~Cecil, 
 who had his Farquhar and ' Beaux Stratagem* 
 by heart, pshawed at the idea of his Queen of 
 Faery transmuted into a broad-skirted Lady 
 Bountiful, brewing and dispensing cordial 
 waters to the old women of the parish ; and, 
 by way of silencing his companion, lightened 
 the remainder of the road by carolling the 
 following idle ditty of the olden time : 
 
 Balls*, 
 
 Where stands a castle, proudest 
 
 Of all that guard the Rhone 
 Above, the winds blow loudest, 
 
 Below, the waves flow on ! 
 
 There, leant the rampart over 
 
 A lady fair and lone, 
 Who mourned her captive lover ; — 
 
 But the murm'ring waves flowed on ! 
 
222 THE ABBEY. 
 
 Quoth she " If tears endear me 
 To that loved absent one, 
 
 Ye woods, ye waters — hear me ! — " 
 But the murm'ring waves flowed on I 
 
 ** He sought me of my mother 
 But gold or lands had none ; 
 
 And they gave me to another, — " 
 But the murm'ring waves flowed on t 
 
 " 'Twas then that, broken-hearted, 
 
 To battles lost or won, 
 He for the East departed — " 
 
 But the murm'ring waves flowed on t 
 
 11 The Paynim war-trump sounded, 
 The Crescent fiercely shone ; 
 
 And he was captured — wounded — ' 
 But the murm'ring waves flowed on I 
 
 " And now where Christians languish, 
 On Syria's dungeon-stone 
 
 He lies, nor dreams my anguish." — 
 But the murm'ring waves flowed on ! 
 
 " Ah ! lady hush ! — Beside thee 
 Thy lord o'erhears thy moan, 
 
 Away !— ere ill betide thee ! — " 
 
 But the murm'ring waves flowed on ! 
 
THE ABBEY. 223 
 
 A steel-gloved hand descended 
 
 Her tender cheek upon, 
 She fell — her woes were ended ! — 
 
 But the murm'ring waves flowed on ! 
 
 The rampart's edge flung over 
 
 The heavy corse is gone , 
 Rhone ! the dark deed discover ! — 
 
 But the murm'ring waves flow on !" 
 
224 THE ABBEY. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 On Heaveu and on thy lady call, 
 And enter the enchanted hall. 
 
 Walter Scott. 
 
 " Oberon be my speed !" ejaculated the 
 
 Quixote of Ch-~- — ■ Ch , when at length, 
 
 accompanied by the lad Ralph (his cottage 
 acquaintance of the morning, and the self- 
 vaunted acquaintance of Nestor and Hector), 
 he passed the wicket from the western shore 
 of the lake, and confronted the majesty of 
 Holy cross Abbey ; — " for, if any unearthly thing 
 have influence here, it must be elf or fay. — The 
 mitre has departed ; — nought but the fairy- 
 wand can be its substitute !" 
 
 And, fascinated by the wondrous beauty of 
 
THE ABBEY. 225 
 
 the scene, he stood contemplating the massive 
 ruin, all steeped in streams of silvery moon- 
 4 light; —its venerable face in meditative solem- 
 nity " commercing with the skies ;" of which, 
 at that enchanting hour, a higher and more 
 etherial portion seemed revealed to the eye of 
 adoration. Not an ivy-leaf upon the crumbling 
 towers, — not a masque grinning on the key- 
 stones of each ribbed aisle, but was visible 
 as at noonday ; and the hoary features of the 
 consecrated place seemed to rejoice as in a con- 
 genial atmosphere. 
 
 But how strange a contrast between the 
 time-worn and rugged aspect of that reverend 
 structure, and the trimly and ornate array of 
 the green and flower-fringed lawn, on which 
 the entranced traveller stood contemplating its 
 beauties ! 
 
 " By Jove ! *tis as though old Saturn had 
 purloined the cestus of Venus to engird his 
 swarthy sides !" ejaculated the classical colle- 
 gian. " Or, as if Nox himself had played the 
 pilferer with the rosy garlands of Aurora; — ■ 
 while yonder watchful planet — — " 
 
 L 3 
 
22(3 THE ABBEY. 
 
 " Whew ! — Nestor — Hector — whew, boy ! — 
 down, down !" interrupted the cow-boy, per- 
 ceiving that the two hounds were taking some- 
 what mistrustful cognizance of the stranger 
 who addressed the moon so familiarly, but 
 had nothing to say to themselves. 
 
 " l'se be thinking, Master," he continued, 
 coming closer to Cecil, as if to point him 
 out to the dogs as an acquaintance of his own ; 
 " l'se be thinking that if we were to gang our 
 ways at once t' kitchen door " 
 
 " The ways of the kitchen door are not my 
 ways/' replied his temporary master. " Tell 
 me, pry thee, where lies the ladies' entrance ?'* 
 
 And Master Ralph having pointed to a low 
 postern leading from the cloisters, Cecil was 
 about to raise the huge iron ring appended to 
 the heavy-knobbed oaken door, when before he 
 could make his summons audible, he found 
 himself tapped lightly on the shoulder, and, on 
 turning hastily round, was accosted by a beau- 
 tiful boy, scarcely past the age of childhood, 
 attired in a short white tunic, who with very 
 
THE ABBEY. 227 
 
 little ceremony demanded his business and vo- 
 cation. 
 
 " A traveller from the South who, having 
 lost his way crossing Sty Head from the gorge 
 of Borrowdale," said Cecil, " would fain find a 
 lodging for the night." 
 
 " Not here, I trust," said the child, saucily, 
 and, raising his hand as if to shade his bright 
 blue eyes from the intense moonlight, while he 
 examined the person and habiliments of the 
 intruder. " Our ladies of Holycross keep no 
 hostel for the accommodation of man and 
 beast. Nevertheless, if an hour's shelter 
 and a meal's refreshment would serve your 
 purpose " 
 
 " Excellently — since more extensive hospi- 
 tality is denied,' 5 said Cecil, chiefly anxious to 
 gain admittance into the house. " Foot-sore 
 and weary as I am, a stool to rest on and a 
 cup of water to refresh me, were a charity for 
 which I should be thankful." 
 
 And his heart leapt within him, when the 
 boy, applying to the oaken door the key he 
 carried in his hand, promised to conduct him 
 
228 THE ABBEY. 
 
 to the presence of Dame Alison, who would 
 perhaps add something more substantial to the 
 fare he so modestly demanded. 
 
 " If you were to announce to Mistress 
 Maud," observed Cecil, as he entered a little 
 dark vestibule and found the page on the 
 point of pushing open one of two doors, which 
 stood alike ajar into chambers in both of 
 which lights were burning, " if you were to 
 announce at once that a stranger — " 
 
 " Who have you there with you, Galpin r" 
 croaked a hoarse voice from one the chambers. 
 " Who have you there with you, Galpin ?" 
 whined a feeble voice from the other. 
 
 And ere the boy could frame a reply, "Who 
 have you there, with you Galpin }" was re- 
 iterated by a third voice, — Cecil could not 
 say from whence, — so enchanted was his ear 
 by the bird-like sweetness of its intonation. 
 
 "A stranger, if it please your Ladyship," 
 replied the boy, without entering either apart- 
 ment ; and the word " stranger" was so im- 
 mediately caught up in chorus by the three 
 voices, that it became impossible for Cecil 
 
THE ABBEY. 229 
 
 to discover whether it were to the gruff, the 
 feeble, or the melodious, that Galpin ad- 
 dressed his reply. But there was no time 
 for the indulgence of his curiosity. In a 
 moment, the two doors were flung open; at 
 the one, appeared a withered visage surround- 
 ed by a plaited coif; while, at the other, 
 poor Cecil had the happiness to hail the 
 identical star-bright beauty of which he was 
 in chase ! Her riding skirt and cap thrown 
 aside, Mistress Amy stood before him, with 
 the light held at the opposite door by old 
 Alison reflected upon her lovely, face ; and 
 as she retreated into the chamber, incoherently 
 announcing : " A gentleman, dear aunt — a 
 strange gentleman," Cecil unhesitatingly fol- 
 lowed ; — bowing low at every step, and at every 
 bow explaining, in hurried terms, the disastrous 
 plight he had chosen to invent for himself 
 in pretext for intrusion. 
 
 A rapid glance round the room, once an 
 abbatial sanctuary and now the bower-chamber 
 of ladies fair, enabled him to descry that its 
 antique furniture was of a mean quality, as 
 
230 THE ABBEY. 
 
 well as worn and faded. Yet the atmosphere 
 was strongly impregnated with the sickly 
 fragrance of frangipane ; while on the rude 
 oak table drawn towards a hearth whereon, 
 in spite of the fineness of the night, a heap 
 of pine-logs was blazing, lay a snuff-box and 
 a bonbonnifrre, — an open letter and a volume 
 bound in velvet and ornamented with clasps 
 of richly chased gold. Close beside it, in a 
 high-backed chair covered with rugged tapestry, 
 sat a tall, rigid looking female ; who, after 
 listening attentively to Cecil's harangue and 
 carefully noting the high-bred courtesy of his 
 address, bade him, with considerable gravity, 
 be welcome to her roof, — be seated, — be of 
 good cheer ; — and, by the time he had thrice 
 repeated his history, so as to have become 
 tolerably fluent in its details, and thrice been 
 assured by the lady stricken in years, that 
 she rejoiced in the opportunity of being ser- 
 viceable to him, all parties appeared tolerably 
 at ease. 
 
 Cecil meanwhile, found the younger of the 
 ladies Bountiful, far fairer in her stomacher 
 
THE ABBEY. 231 
 
 and knots, than even her masculine attire of 
 the morning : nor did the mysterious ladies of 
 the Abbey who lived 
 
 Remote from cities, like the swain 
 Unvexed by all the cares of gain 
 
 of Gay's then recent fable, scorn to gather 
 from the lips of so polite a traveller tidings 
 of the civilized world ; — of the playhouses and 
 the prayhouses; — popular poets and popular 
 preachers ; — of court fashions and city politics ; 
 — the fiddle-faddle of Lady Mary Wortley, 
 and Sir Charles Hanbury Williams; — the vogue 
 of Quinault's operas and Congreve's comedies. 
 Yet ever and anon, the successful adventurer 
 could not help thinking he discerned glances 
 of significant and supercilious meaning pass 
 betwixt Madam Maud and Madam Amy; — 
 more especially when he enlarged upon the 
 gaieties of the court, and described as an eye 
 witness, the gala recently given at the King's 
 Mews, in honour of the wedding of the Prince 
 of Wales with Augusta of Saxe Gotha. 
 
 "I see they take me for an impudent ad- 
 
232 THE ABBEY. 
 
 venturer !" thought the young man, — so 
 construing the contemptuous expression of 
 countenance with which his elder hostess lis- 
 tened to his mention of St. James's and its 
 illustrious hosts. " But no matter ! even 
 their mistrust shall not seduce me into the 
 needless braggartry of announcing myself. 
 Let them suppose me what they list; since 
 they are so chary of their confidence, as to 
 withhold from me their name and condition. 
 Under all circumstances, however, they can- 
 not choose but offer me a bed ; and by'r Lady, 
 to-morrow morning shall work wonders for 
 me!" 
 
 He continued, therefore, to exercise his live- 
 liest conversational powers for the entertain- 
 ment of his companions. Inexplicable as was 
 their position, two things regarding them was 
 sufficiently plain ; — that the elder, who from 
 her black robe and hood of a peculiar shaping, 
 her massive gold chain and cross, might be 
 inferred a member of some religious com- 
 munity, had, at some period or other of her 
 existence, been jumbled into contact with the 
 
THE ABBEY. 233 
 
 very greatest of the great world ; but that 
 the other, gay and naive as was compatible 
 with the strictest feminine delicacy, was a 
 child of the wilderness, uncontaminated by 
 the corruptions of social life. Thus far 
 indeed, was avouched by the demeanour of 
 both ; — nor had Cecil spent an hour in their 
 society, — sipping small hyson and seasoning it 
 with small talk in a manner that might have 
 done credit to the afternoon circle of some 
 antiquated maid of honour at Hampton Court, 
 —without discerning certain traits of striking 
 resemblance between the two, such as might 
 warrant the supposition of closest affinity be- 
 tween them. Were they in reality aunt and 
 niece; or what were they, — who were they, — 
 and why residing in that ex-mundane spot? 
 Had the spinster-mother retreated thither 
 from the indignation of some family of high 
 condition, after having introduced into it under 
 the screen of her hoop, some nameless and in- 
 admissible scion ? — Provoking and perplexing 
 guesses ! Why could he not gratify his 
 curiosity, by a plain question following a 
 
2-34 THE ABBEY. 
 
 plain avowal ? — Why not say at once, u I 
 have deceived you, gentlest ladies, in an- 
 nouncing myself an obscure traveller, you 
 behold in me " But no ! it was at pre- 
 sent neither his business nor his pleasure to 
 acquaint them whom they really beheld under 
 the humble designation by which he had 
 chosen to be known. 
 
 It happened, however, that Mistress Maud, 
 having been roused by Cecil's arrival out of 
 her habitual evening doze, was growing irre- 
 sistibly drowsy. Her eyes drew straws, — her 
 head nodded ; — nor would the aid of either 
 snuff-box or bonbonnfere avail to keep her 
 eye-lids unclosed, while her visitor entered 
 learnedly into lengthy details of Saxon and 
 Roman architecture, — of Norman and Bri- 
 tish cathedrals, — the Domkirch at Cologne 
 and the Domo at Milan — crypts, transepts, 
 choirs, chancels, naves and sacristies ! At 
 length, and undisguisedly, the lady slept ; yea, 
 slept and snored ; and, either to avert their 
 guest's attention from so vile a frailty, or 
 from some other cause best known to herself, 
 
THE ABBEY. 235 
 
 Amy was soon afterwards moved to observe 
 in an undertone to her visitor : 
 
 " Confess that you are strangely puzzled 
 to make us out ? — you, who would fain pass 
 yourself upon us for so fine a gentleman, does 
 it not amaze you, that one who has evidently 
 swam in a gondola and seen the Louvre, like 
 my lady kinswoman yonder, (who soit dit 
 en passant, would expire in her sleep did she 
 conjecture what eloquent music her nose is 
 discoursing) should content herself to do pen- 
 ance here from summer to summer — from 
 Christmas to christmas, — with no better com- 
 pany than my wilful, sinful self, — two clod- 
 hopping servitors like Alison and her father, 
 — little Galpin the page, and some half dozen 
 horned owls, who harbour during the winter 
 in the old belfry ? — Does it not amaze you ?" 
 — said Amy with an arch smile, fixing her 
 liquid blue eyes inquiringly upon his face. 
 
 " You have named a palliative such as must 
 render seclusion not only endurable — " 
 
 " But a heaven on earth ! — My own sweet 
 
236 THE ABBEY. 
 
 society of course. — Spare your labour, gentle 
 Sir ! Bumpkins as we are, so much at least 
 are we skilled in the flummeries of life as 
 to know that gallant anglers like yourself 
 bait your hooks with gaudy feathers and ends 
 of silk,— good enough to entrap the silly 
 fry for which you condescend to throw the 
 line." 
 
 " On my life — my soul !" cried Cecil— 
 
 " On your life, your soul — as Beau Fribble 
 says in the play, — but as a man of honour 
 should be above saying in order to give weight 
 to that which is lighter than the summer gos- 
 samer !" — cried Amy. 
 
 " You wrong me," hastily interrupted Cecil, 
 with encreasing fervour. " From the moment 
 I beheld your face this morning — " 
 
 " From the moment you beheld my face 
 this morning ? — How befel the chance, I pray 
 you, fair Sir, of any such beholding ? — You who, 
 on our own showing crossed the mountains 
 from Borrowdale late in the afternoon; while 
 I returned at mid-day from my morning's 
 
THE ABBEY. 237 
 
 ride to Calder Abbey. Soho ! Monsieur Tra- 
 veller ! — Soho ! found out !— Be at least con- 
 sistent in the romances of your fabrication. " 
 
 " Dame Alison desires to know, Madam, 
 does the stranger gentleman sleep to-night 
 at the Abbey ?" — inquired the little page of 
 Mistress Amy ; having entered the room on 
 tiptoe to remove the enamelled tray and tea- 
 cups, — the pride and glory of his elder lady. 
 
 " I cannot at present disturb my aunt to 
 make the inquiry," replied the beauty, half 
 pouting at the ill-timed question which she 
 was not privileged to answer in the affir- 
 mative she saw would have been so wel- 
 come to her guest ; and which, perhaps, if 
 the truth were told, might not have been al- 
 together disagreeable to herself. " But, while 
 we wait her waking, fetch hither a flambeau, 
 Galpin; and bid old Mayne attend at the 
 western portal. I have promised you shall 
 show this gentleman the crypt and cloisters of 
 the Abbey." 
 
 A significant glance directed towards Cecil, 
 warned him that the duty required of him 
 
238 THE ABBEY. 
 
 was ready compliance : nor in his heart could 
 he help thanking the positive damsel for hav- 
 ing devised a pretext for getting him out of 
 the way while she awakened Mistress Amy, and 
 preferred her entreaties that a night's lodging 
 might be vouchsafed to so agreeable a guest. 
 For that entreat she would, Cecil never 
 doubted: and he accordingly followed the 
 saucy child out of the chamber, convinced 
 that ere he entered it again, all would 
 be settled to his satisfaction with the elder 
 lady. 
 
 Old Mayne had been summoned, and old 
 Mayne obeyed the summons, and old Mayne 
 grumbled while he obeyed : muttering that, 
 " 'Twas no such pleasant thing, forsooth, 
 for a man of threescore years to quit a hearth- 
 side where the embers were glowing, on a 
 frosty October night, to pace thechill-strik- 
 ing gravestones of an abbey aisle, or bear 
 a blazing flambeau aloft amid the clinging 
 damps of a vaulted crypt ;" and, while he sul- 
 lenly plodded along the echoing cloisters, 
 followed by the listless guest, little Galpin 
 
THE ABBEY. 239 
 
 flitted hither and thither before them among 
 the columns : now in moonlight, now in shade, 
 — laughing, halloing, and anon creeping back to 
 Cecil's side, and affecting to address him in 
 faint and awe-stricken whispers. 
 
 " Beside yonder shrine/' faltered the lad, 
 u observe the marble effigies of the warrior on 
 his bier ; extended at full length, palm against 
 palm, and greave against greave ; his lance 
 and red-cross shield beside him. 'Tis the 
 tomb, sir, of no less a man than Dacre of 
 Gilsland, whose bones, for crimes untold of, 
 are said to have been refused christian burial 
 by the monks of St. Mary's in Furness, 
 and the prior of Bolton : and lo ! to this 
 day, every month, when the new moon glim- 
 mers yonder through the western arch, up- 
 rises the stone figure from its grim resting- 
 place, and, stalking with measured tramp along 
 the very aisle we are treading, kneels down 
 yonder in the choir, before a niche where once 
 stood a miraculous image of Our Lady, to do 
 penance with Ave Marias and Paternosters 
 until daylight. At early cockcrow, the garden 
 
 
240 THE ABBEY. 
 
 lads have oftentimes seen it retreating back to 
 the tomb, when the rattling of the marble 
 armour, as it lies down again, is ghastly to 
 hear." 
 
 " His soldiership seems tranquil enough 
 to-night," said Cecil, casting a passing glance 
 upon the finely preserved effigy of a recum- 
 bent warrior, which graced the mausoleum of 
 the Dacres. 
 
 " And see yon iron door, gentle Sir ! Wot 
 you whither it leads V inquired the urchin 
 resuming his ominous whisper. 
 
 " To the belfry, perhaps, — perhaps, to the 
 cool and well-vaulted binns of the monks ?" 
 
 " To the judgment chamber, Sir, where re- 
 fractory sinners were tried and condemned 
 of old ; where the decaying masonry of the 
 walls discovers many a frightful niche of im- 
 murement ; and lo ! at the feet of every skele- 
 ton stands an earthen cruise, placed there 
 to furnish the last measure of their earthly 
 nourishment ! — Day and night, Sir, winter and 
 summer, moans may be heard in that grated 
 chamber, such as curdle the human blood 
 
THE ABBEY. 241 
 
 to hear ! Lower your torch, Daddy Mayne 1" 
 he continued, addressing the greyheaded shep- 
 herd. " Lower your torch, for the gentleman 
 to see the grating that gives vent to the 
 judgment chamber." 
 
 " Wha gae thee freedom, younker, to prate 
 o'thae things ? v growled the old man. " Lead 
 on t'quoire, and haud 'ee peace, or t'll be 
 the warse for'ee." 
 
 And, following their guidance, the stranger 
 traversed the nave, now roofless and open to 
 the winds of Heaven ; graced, in lieu of ban- 
 ners captured from the infidels, with streaming 
 brambles, and floating pennons of ivy that 
 shed their desolate blossoms from many a 
 rift among the crumbling arches ; while the 
 torches carried by the page and the old shep- 
 herd casting a warm reflection on the walls 
 within reach of their radiance, seemed to im- 
 part a glow of life to the fiendish visages 
 grinning from many a sculptured ' eoigne of 
 vantage/ But beyond — beyond at a far dis- 
 tance — the cold, calm, holy moon poured 
 her chastened light upon the pavement of the 
 
 VOL. I. M 
 
242 THE ABBEY. 
 
 chancel ; revealing here a ruined shrine, and 
 there an empty niche, and, below all, the grave- 
 stones with their half obliterated tributes to 
 the memory of the long long dead ! — 
 
 u Behold, Sir," whispered the boy, ap- 
 proaching nearer to Cecil and plucking him 
 by the sleeve to excite attention lest he 
 should be overheard by his morose com- 
 panion. a Around us is the haunt of fiends, 
 and evil spirits : and, when the brambles rustle 
 as the bats flit by, one might swear one heard 
 them croaking their fearful vespers over- 
 head. Yonder is the spot where the fairy 
 train gain grace to gambol and dance on holy 
 ground on St. John's eve, Sir, or Candlemas, 
 or the vigil of St. Antony ; on which nights, 
 not a man in all the dales of Cumberland 
 would enter the Abbey and guide you hither 
 as I am doing now. 'Tis said, indeed, that 
 
 At that moment, the boy interrupting 
 himself in his narrative, shrieked aloud for 
 fear. A stern gripe fixed its hold upon his 
 shoulder ; nor was it till he perceived that 
 
THE ABBEY. 243 
 
 Cecil had advanced towards him and was 
 pointing in the direction of the moonlit aisle, 
 that he gained courage to demand of the guest 
 the motive of his interruption. 
 
 " Be silent !" said Cecil. " Keep your 
 death's head legends for those that ask them : 
 and tell me whether yonder figure be the effigy 
 of an impaled nun, or a creature of daily 
 life ?" 
 
 And again he pointed towards an opening 
 in the distant aisle ; where a moment before 
 a figure clad in loose drapery, and veiled in 
 white, had been distinctly visible. 
 I see nothing/ 5 said the boy. 
 Nor I/ 3 quoth Daddy Mayne, straining his 
 bleared eyes in the same direction. 
 
 " Nor I !" cried Cecil, striving to laugh 
 when he found that the vision had disappeared, 
 or that his eyes had deceived him. " And yet 
 I could have sworn I saw the figure of a 
 woman standing motionless yonder in the 
 moonlight/ 5 
 
 " One of t'marble pillars!' 5 growled old 
 Mayne. 
 
 m 2 
 
 
244 THE ABBEY. 
 
 " I say the figure of a woman !" reiterated 
 Cecil. 
 
 u Like enough ?' murmured the page, his 
 voice sinking to a whisper. u Such appari- 
 tions were nightly seen wandering about the 
 ruins here, at Furness, and Calder Abbey, 
 just before the rising of the north in the 
 fifteen. I have heard Madam Maud de- 
 clare " 
 
 He stopped suddenly. A strain of music 
 rising in the air, seemed to hover like the flight 
 of a bird among the ruined arches of the ancient 
 pile. Slight and melodious as it was, Cecil 
 could distinguish the following wild verses as 
 the burden of the song : 
 
 Away ! 'tis midnight's witching hour ! 
 
 The owl that haunteth 
 Yon churchyard yew and inoukTring tower 
 
 Her vespers chaunteth ; — 
 List not ! the hell-hag with her imps 
 
 Thine ear entranceth ; 
 Gaze not ! the meteor's livid glimpse 
 
 Around thee glanceth ! 
 
THE ABBEY. 245 
 
 The toad that squats on yonder grave 
 
 With bright eye gleaming,— 
 The leathern hat that flits the nave. 
 
 The nightbird screaming, — 
 The swollen reptiles, poison-fed 
 
 In silence creeping, 
 Keep watch around ! — the quick and dead 
 
 Alone are sleeping. 
 
 Arise, ye flesh-denuded forms 
 
 Bare-skullM and grinning, — 
 Arouse, ye slumberers with the worms, 
 
 The game is winning ! 
 Toll out, thou bony skeleton, 
 
 Our ghastly measure ; 
 With shrieking mandrakes strewn, lead on 
 
 The path of pleasure ! 
 
 Hurrah ! the sable banner's fold 
 
 Is darkly playing 
 O'er lone Dunbar's dark ramparts old 
 
 And line decaying : — 
 Hurrah ! the heir's stern requiem swell, — > 
 
 His moments number ; — 
 Hurrah ! prepare yon wormy cell 
 
 To grace his slumber ! 
 
 Startled by the burden of a song, which evi- 
 dently addressed itself to the friend with 
 
246 THE ABBEY. 
 
 whom he had that morning parted, Cecil's 
 heart thrilled within him. A young Oxonian 
 of the eighteenth century was not likely to 
 be over-susceptible to the influence of the 
 supernatural. Yet the singular adventure in 
 which he had embarked, the hour, the scene, 
 the growing ascendancy of the mysterious 
 beauty, the genius of that sequestered place, 
 conspired to augment the amazement with 
 which he heard his friend, — his bosom-friend, 
 —his companion of many months past — his 
 brother-in-law of some future moment — thus 
 apostrophized at midnight in the ruined Abbey 
 of Holy Cross 1 — His heart swelled with emo- 
 tion, his breath came short, and, as the verse 
 proceeded, he gradually advanced towards that 
 part of the building from which the sound 
 appeared to emanate : till, at the conclusion, he 
 found himself standing where the pale moon- 
 shine gleamed fairest and brightest into 
 the roofless transept. 
 
 As the song ceased, he turned hastily to 
 question his companions. But where were 
 they ? — gone — vanished — no page, no torch- 
 
THE ABBEY. 247 
 
 light visible ! — He called aloud on Galpin — 
 not a word ! — on the shepherd — no answer ! 
 He strove to retrace his steps, he traversed the 
 church, he passed the warrior effigy of Gils- 
 land, the fearful grating of the chamber of 
 judgment; — not a living being to be heard or 
 seen ! — To venture into the darker portions of 
 the church, encumbered as it was with fallen 
 cornices and jutting abutments, was not a 
 tempting task ; yet even thither he wandered, 
 and in vain. 
 
 Again he called aloud on Galpin, on the 
 shepherd ; — nay, on Madam Amy and Dame 
 Alison to come and release him. And this 
 time the mocking laughter of fiends derided 
 his appeal ; and a chuckling croak from the 
 north was answered by a shrill burst of mer- 
 riment from the south. — He stamped — he 
 swore — and again the mirth of his invisible 
 tormentors was renewed. — He felt as if the 
 grotesque masks were grinning and making 
 mouths, as if a thousand unearthly things were 
 in league against him. He was overmastered, 
 
248 THE ABBEY. 
 
 derided. Neither strength nor courage could 
 avail against such enemies. 
 
 At length, the syren voice by which he 
 had been fascinated, once more addressed 
 him : 
 
 " Rejoin your friend, Sir Knight !" said its 
 clear, shrill accents. " And when master 
 Claude shall demand from master Cecil an 
 account of his exploits at the old Abbey, 
 fail not to tell him that the Queen of Faery 
 Vale and her elfings remained masters of the 
 field !"— 
 
THE ABBEY. 249 
 
 CHAPTER V, 
 
 This is no mortal business, nor no sound 
 That the earth owes. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 " You draw too largely on my credu- 
 lity [* cried Sir Claude Dunbar to Lord Cecil 
 Reresby, one gloomy night in November, as 
 they sat cheating the weariness of the time over 
 a bottle of claret in Dunbar's snug apartment 
 overlooking the venerable quadrangle of Christ 
 Church ; some weeks after their return from 
 passing the summer vacation in Ireland, at the 
 seat of Lord Cecil's father, the Marquis of 
 Grandison. 
 
 M 3 
 
250 THE ABBEY. 
 
 " Or on mine/ 5 exclaimed a young clergy- 
 man named Rawdon, at once the college tutor 
 and friend of the two young men ; " after 
 all I believe you are both in league to play 
 upon my good faith with the marvels of a 
 Winter's Tale ! » 
 
 " Honour bright, not I ! " cried Dunbar. 
 " I blush to return from the land of lakes 
 mountains and trout streams, without a single 
 exploit to boast worthy the attention of so 
 zealous a disciple of Walton, and so devout a 
 votary of the muse. But I plead my insignifi- 
 cance ! Driven by stress of weather into 
 Whitehaven instead of Holyhead, Reresby 
 and myself, having timed the date of our 
 return to our last moment of leisure, agreed 
 to make the best of our way to Oxford ; 
 when, fool as I was, finding we had still a day 
 on hand, I suffered myself to be persuaded to 
 take a peep at the far-famed lakes of Cumber- 
 land, and enjoy if possible an afternoon's fish- 
 ing, such as the season afforded/' 
 
 " W T hich, you knew, afforded nothing I" 
 
THE ABBEY. 251 
 
 added Rawdon. " So, after sleeping at C alder 
 Abbey, you set forth on foot to Wastdale, 
 got drenched to the bones, and were re- 
 warded for cold, hunger, and a hail shower, 
 by the momentary sight of some farmer's 
 goodly housewife, trotting home on Dobbin 
 from the neighbouring market ! — All this I 
 have already heard, am willing to hear again, 
 and to credit, the last time as the first." 
 
 " Extending your belief/' added Dunbar, 
 stretching out his limbs before the fire, " so 
 far as my safe return to Whitehaven early in 
 the night, and Reresby's re-appearance early in 
 the morning." 
 
 " Common- place and credible enough! — " 
 " While I," continued Dunbar, " am re- 
 solved to limit my faith to the tale our marvel- 
 loving friend here was pleased to relate on 
 our journey back to Oxford, videlicet : that 
 disgusted by the state of the roads he aban- 
 doned his project, and attempted to join me 
 at Ravenglass ; found I had already quitted 
 the inn ; and, after refreshing himself, while his 
 horse was baiting, with a jug of nappy north 
 
252 THE ABBEY. 
 
 country ale, became too sleepy to proceed and 
 so rejoined me at day -break." 
 
 " Indebted no doubt to the aforesaid nec- 
 tareous potation for his dreams of fays and 
 goblins, Ariels, and Calibans," cried Rawdon. 
 " Would I could sleep so much to the pur- 
 pose ! Belinda's lock and its sylphs should 
 no longer monopolize the admiration of Grub 
 Street; but a duodecimo of Rosycrucian phi- 
 losophy go forth to prove that others have 
 out-imagined the imagination of the bard of 
 T wit'nam." 
 
 " Sleepy yourself, to give your readers sleep," 
 cried Dunbar. 
 
 " *Tis all very well/ 5 observed Lord Cecil, 
 who since his return to Oxford had fallen into 
 a strangely absent frame of mind. " You 
 laugh at me for a crack-brained visionary, and 
 I expected no other at your hands. For this, 
 I forbore at first to inflict my revelations on 
 Dunbar ; who I foresaw would treat me as a 
 dupe, or as seeking to make him mine. On 
 rejoining him, thereforej I framed an excuse 
 to serve all immediate purposes of explanation. 
 
THE ABBEY* 253 
 
 But the impression has since gained such 
 ground upon me, that I am no longer able to 
 drive it from my thoughts. If I sleep, it is to 
 dream of the Abbey ; nor can even our worthy 
 professor's prosiest prose efface from my wak- 
 ing mind the poetical associations connected 
 with that bewildering spot. One moment I 
 convince myself that I was befooled by a set 
 of cunning jades, who amused a dull even- 
 ing by playing off their pranks at my expense ; 
 the next, I become more firmly persuaded than 
 ever, that the beings I saw were creatures of 
 the elements — motes in the moonbeam, — re- 
 vealed by some magnetic influence to my sight." 
 " A clear case of nympholepsy \ 9S cried Raw- 
 don. " If you continue in this disordered 
 state of mind, my dear Lord Cecil, I shall make 
 it a matter of conscience to bleed and blister 
 you, according to the most approved formula 
 of Warwick Lane." 
 
 66 I begin to think that I am mad, or likely 
 to become so \" ejaculated Reresby, with a 
 despondency of air and tone that did not es- 
 cape the attention of his companions. 
 
254 THE ABBEY. 
 
 " But pry thee tell me, my dear Cecil," cried 
 Dunbar, growing more serious, " what chanced 
 after, on finding yourself alone in the Abbey, 
 and a thousand scramblings and turnings, you 
 made your way forth again ? — How happened 
 it that you returned not to the door through 
 which you at first entered the inhabited por- 
 tion of the building ?" — 
 
 " For full an hour I tried to retrace my steps 
 thither in vain. The night became over-cloud- 
 ed ; not a soul seemed stirring in the premises ; 
 the darkness of the sky threatened a recur- 
 rence of the showers of the afternoon. Nestor 
 and Hector were not forgotten in my cogita- 
 tions ; and when, on reaching the wicket of the 
 old dilapidated gateway where I hoped the 
 farm lad Ralph would have been in waiting, I 
 found only my former guide and the horses, 
 I was glad to mount and be off. I in- 
 sisted, indeed, on visiting the cottage where he 
 had agreed to await me; but all was closed 
 for the night, and no effort could obtain an 
 answer ; while my guide was so overpowered 
 by drink as to be wholly unintelligible. As to 
 
THE ABBEY. 255 
 
 talking to the brute of the Abbey, or the 
 ladies of Wastdale, I might as well have ad- 
 dressed myself to his horse. Before morning, 
 torrents of rain increased the misery of my 
 plight. I knew that Dunbar was impatiently 
 waiting for me ; that our departure for Oxford 
 was indispensable ; and reluctantly gave up 
 the point of revisiting the place by daylight 
 and deciding by whom or what I had been 
 imposed on." 
 
 " I wish you had !" — exclaimed Dunbar. 
 " I felt so discouraged, so mortified, so in- 
 dignant ! — It was my purpose to explain all to 
 you on my arrival, and claim your councils ; 
 but you accosted me in so bantering a vein res- 
 pecting my adventures of the night, and broad 
 daylight was so unpropitious to the tale I was 
 desirous to unfold, that I judged it best to 
 remain silent." 
 
 " What opinion should you have given at 
 the moment?" said Dunbar, addressing him- 
 self to Mr. Rawdon. 
 
 The same I have now expressed." 
 
 cc 
 
256 THE ABBEY. 
 
 " That I was maudlin ! — Thank you." 
 
 " Thank me rather that I do not pronounce 
 you crazy in right earnest." 
 
 " But what say you to Claude, then? He 
 was with me when I first set eyes on the 
 accursed creature who thus bewildered my 
 senses. He admired her as I did — followed her 
 as I did, — ay, pledged as he is in heart and 
 hand to my sister Horatia, — followed her at the 
 risk of breaking his neck over a churchyard 
 wall !" 
 
 " ^Tis true," said Dunbar, speaking apart to 
 Rawdon. " She was the most lovely being I 
 ever beheld — the most singular - — the most pic- 
 turesque ! All he has related of our collation 
 at the cottage and the accounts given us there 
 of the Abbey and its inhabitants, are strictly 
 correct." 
 
 " And on that and your participation in 
 the intelligence has he grounded his ro- 
 mance," cried Rawdon, relapsing into incre- 
 dulity. " And now he would actually engage 
 our sympathy in his ideal sufferings J One 
 
THE ABBEY. 257 
 
 thing, however, I pledge myself to undertake 
 in his behalf. You two are to pass the Christ- 
 mas holidays at Grandison Park ; and neither 
 Lady Horatia nor the Marquis, I conclude, 
 will spare you to go Quixotizing about the 
 country, instead of fulfilling your engagement. 
 I, meanwhile, am to celebrate the new year 
 at Edinburgh ; and will gladly diverge from 
 my road to resume my route northward at 
 Carlisle. What say you, my dear lord? — 
 Shall I proceed to exorcise this haunted 
 Abbey; or should I find access to its mys- 
 terious heroines — " 
 
 " Spare your trouble and your jests, Raw- 
 don," said Reresby. " The instant term is 
 over, I make my way to the north." 
 
 " Good ! — we will go together !" — said Raw- 
 don, extending a hand towards Cecil, which was 
 eagerly clasped by his pupil. " It has never 
 yet been my luck to light upon fay or spectre. 
 Introduce me but to so much as the smallest 
 goblin of the Abbey establishment, and I am 
 your proselyte for ever ! — Meanwhile, banish, 
 if possible from your mind the fancy that dis- 
 
258 THE ABBEY. 
 
 turbs it; or, instead of a bachelor's degree by 
 midsummer next, you will find yourself re- 
 turned in disgrace upon my hands/' 
 
 " You are like to lead a pleasant life of it 
 between us, my dear Rawdon !" observed Sir 
 Claude. u With one pupil full fathom five in 
 love, and spending his days sonneteering to his 
 mistress's eyebrow ; and the other bewildered 
 by a host of — " 
 
 " No more of it ! " interrupted Reresby, 
 somewhat angrily. " I find no fault with you 
 for your romantic ravings concerning my sister 
 Racy ; and, if Lady Dunbar should consent, 
 have promised to intercede with my father 
 for your early marriage. In your turn, be 
 forbearing with my infirmities. I shall men- 
 tion the subject no more. Maintain a similar 
 silence towards myself." 
 
 But although the compact thus proposed 
 was strictly observed on the part of Mr. Raw- 
 don and Sir Claude Dunbar, they observed 
 with pain that Lord Cecil's mind was en- 
 grossed by the forbidden topic. His studies 
 were neglected ; he mingled no more in the 
 
THE ABBEY. 259 
 
 pastimes of his companions. Hitherto an eager 
 sportsman, he loitered away his leisure in his 
 own apartments, till his friends entertained 
 serious apprehensions for his health or reason. 
 As the period approached for emancipation 
 from college rules and his journey to the north, 
 his eye brightened, and his spirits in some de- 
 gree resumed their elasticity. Dunbar would 
 fain have accompanied his friend on his 
 excursion, that his presence might be of 
 service in detecting any imposture likely to 
 be renewed upon his susceptible imagination. 
 But Lord Cecily tenderly attached to his sister 
 Horatia, refused to be instrumental in de- 
 laying her lover's promised visit to Grandison 
 Hall; and eventually, Sir Claude took his de- 
 parture for Holyhead within a few weeks of 
 Reresby's starting in company with his kind and 
 sagacious tutor on his singular expedition. A 
 cheerless journey was in store for all parties ; 
 for, in those old fashioned times, winter made 
 his annual appearance arrayed in a mantle of 
 snow and gallygaskins fringed with icicles ; nor 
 was it always that the northern mails could 
 
260 THE ABBEY. 
 
 force their way across the wintry waste of Staen 
 Moor — still less penetrate the mosses and mires 
 of western Cumberland. 
 
 Nevertheless, Lord Cecil's spirits rose from 
 mile to mile, from post to post ; and, by the 
 time they caught sight of the lofty crests of Sea 
 Fell and the great Gavel, overlooking the dales 
 to which he was bound, the elation of the young 
 nympholept knew no reasonable bounds. 
 
THE ABBEY. 261 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 By this we see the Fairies 
 
 Were of the old profession ; 
 Their songs were Ave-Maries, 
 
 Their dances were procession. 
 
 Bishop Corbet. 
 
 A new-made grave is a cheerless thing to 
 look on ; — a spot of earth watered by human 
 tears in lieu of the dews of Heaven ;— a portion 
 of the dust to which dust hath returned ; — a 
 pledge of fulfilment of the first sentence of 
 mortal punishment ; — the end-all of some tale 
 of human happiness and hope ! 
 
 But never does it look more chill, more 
 cheerless, than when the unshapely mound, 
 
262 THE ABBEY. 
 
 reared in the depth of winter, opposes the 
 contrast of its rude earthy unsightliness to 
 the smooth surface of a waste of snow ! — And 
 lo ! when Rawdon and Lord Cecil, chilled to 
 the marrow by their ride from Ravenglass, 
 checked their horses beside the enclosure 
 of the humble kirkyard of Wastdale, in 
 the midst of which stood a reed-thatched 
 temple of christian holiness, — and saw no 
 fewer than nine rising above the snow, — nine 
 newly-filled graves out of the population of 
 that scarcely inhabited valley, — it seemed as 
 though Death had taken too strong a hold upon 
 the children of the land ! 
 
 One grave, alas ! was still open. The pit 
 still gaping, with a mass of clay and gravel 
 upheaped beside it, proclaiming that its inmate 
 was expected ; — nay ! — the old sexton, the ar- 
 chitect of that last habitation — was loitering 
 near the church-porch, evidently awaiting the 
 instalment of his tenant to give him a house- 
 chilling. He looked out so earnestly, in fact, 
 as the travellers paused beside the low stone 
 wall, that Rawdon' s eyes, following the direc- 
 
THE ABBEY. 263 
 
 tion of his own over the snow, discerned, 
 afar off, an approaching procession, — that 
 saddest and most touching of processions — a 
 pauper's funeral ; — the ovation of the slave 
 released from bondage — the progress of the 
 sovereign to his enthronization — the pilgrimage 
 of the outcast towards the land where the tears 
 shall be wiped from off all faces — the welcome 
 of the christian unto the bosom of his God ! — 
 
 " Who are you about to bury ?" cried 
 Rawdon aloud over the wall, to the old man. 
 But the stone wall and the ears of the sexton 
 were pervious in a like degree to the appeal. 
 
 " 'Tis labour lost talking to deaf Joe," in- 
 terrupted the man who had accompanied them 
 from Ravenglass. " But, if your honour wants 
 to know whose funeral be coming yonder along 
 the causeway, I'm bold to say 'tis that of one 
 of the last in the village. They have had the 
 purple fever here these two months past, as 
 yonder graves can testify. The infection has 
 scarcely spared a living soul." 
 
 " Let us waste no further time, my dear 
 Rawdon," said Reresby, in a low voice, to his 
 
264 THE ABBEY. 
 
 companion. " I acceded to your proposal that 
 we should not hazard spreading the news of 
 our arrival by stopping at the cottage where 
 I was formerly entertained. Pr'ythee, let us 
 make at once for the Abbey, instead of loitering 
 in a church-yard." 
 
 And, pricking forward over the hard-beaten 
 snow, Rawdon was fain to follow the excited 
 young man, till they reached a portal of vener- 
 able masonry closing a dilapidated wall, within 
 a few furlongs of the black-looking, but never- 
 freezing, lake of Wastwater. 
 
 " Tis the entrance to the Abbey/' observed 
 Reresby, in a concentrated voice. But the 
 intelligence was superfluous ; for the trees, so 
 thickly foliaged at his first visit as to shut out 
 every glimpse of the ruin, were now leafless ; 
 and the high towering arch of the western 
 front stood proudly visible from the road. 
 
 " Proceed to the cottage with our horses," 
 said Rawdon, addressing the guide ; u and, in 
 the course of a couple of hours, we will rejoin 
 you;" — an injunction obeyed not- without 
 grumbling by the man, who had no mind to 
 
THE ABBEY. 265 
 
 visit a spot depopulated by a raging epide- 
 mic. 
 
 " But how is this ?" — continued Rawdon, 
 flinging ajar the shattered wooden gate that 
 closed the solid mason-work; and entering 
 unmolested a desolate -looking close, the snow 
 on whose surface was unbroken by the print 
 of footsteps. " Neither dwarf nor giant seems 
 on the watch, my dear fellow, to guard the 
 entrance of your enchanted castle !" 
 
 On turning towards Lord Cecil, he desisted, 
 however, from further pleasantries. The ex- 
 pression of his young friend's countenance 
 attested that all the eagerness he had hitherto 
 evinced to bring to the proof the reality of his 
 adventures at Holy Cross, was merged in an- 
 xiety for the fate of one who had, inspired him 
 with so strange an infatuation ; and instead of 
 rushing towards the long- talked- of spot and 
 verifying his midsummer day's dream, he 
 trembled lest the depopulation of Wastdale 
 should have comprehended the Abbey within 
 its bills of mortality ! — Inconsistency of human 
 nature ! — Cecil, who had often been heard to 
 
 VOL. I. N 
 
266 THE ABBEY. 
 
 surmise that the beauteous Amy was a mystic 
 daughter of the air, feared to find her the 
 victim of so plebeian a distemper as the typhus 
 fever ! — 
 
 " You do not imagine that any one is 
 resident here }" exclaimed Rawdon, at last, 
 after following the guidance of his pupil from 
 aisle to aisle, from roofless nave to ruined choir. 
 
 " This is the Abbey Church of Holy Cross : 
 the apartments of which I spoke, lay in the 
 Monastery," replied Reresby, somewhat puz- 
 zled to recall to mind in the snow-drifted 
 and cheerless platform around him, the para- 
 dise he had left luxuriantly sheeted with 
 flowers. 
 
 And, again launching forth on his voyage of 
 discovery, he reached a low portal leading to 
 three or four ruinous chambers, the windows 
 of which were obscured by damp and dust, the 
 dilapidated stone floors green and discoloured, 
 the whole place dreary, tenantless and deso- 
 late ! 
 
 Rawdon had scarcely courage to fix his eyes 
 on his companion. Reresby 's previous irrita- 
 
THE ABBEY. 267 
 
 bility convinced him that his chimeras were no 
 laughing matter ; yet it was impossible to 
 regard his former declarations touching the 
 Abbey as any thing but the result of an ima- 
 gination heated by wine, or disturbed by 
 delusions. He contented himself, therefore, 
 with a stedfast scrutiny of the rooms, the 
 doors of which stood open ; and straightway 
 taking Lord Cecil's arm and traversing the 
 snow, towards the gateway, proposed that they 
 should rejoin their guide, and return to the 
 place from whence they came so soon as the 
 horses were baited. 
 
 " You do well to spare me,' J ejaculated 
 Reresby, in a broken voice, after pursuing 
 their way in silence; "for, on this detestable 
 subject, I can bear neither irony nor argument. 
 To be so deeply the dupe of thick coming fancies 
 implies latent insanity. — Yes, Rawdon — yes— I 
 shall die a lunatic — a miserable, heart-broken, 
 lunatic ; and, when I am dead and gone, you and 
 Dunbar will talk over me on a winter's night, 
 and say : c We ought to have guessed the 
 
 n 2 
 
268 THE ABBEY. 
 
 poor fellow was mad, after those strange vaga- 
 ries of his about the Abbey !' " 
 
 " My dear Lord — my dear friend !" said 
 Rawdon, in a soothing tone, distressed and 
 alarmed at his emotion, " believe me, this — " 
 " Yes !" interrupted the young visionary, 
 " yes ! — that is exactly the soft cajoling voice 
 in which they will address the patient — poor 
 mad Reresby ! — That is just the tone in which 
 they will say : c Your Lordship is right. There 
 was an Abbey — there were ladies abiding there 
 — you did visit them one moonlight night. 
 Compose yourself, my Lord, we admit that 
 you were perfectly in your senses !' But, for 
 all that, they will secure me in a strait-waist- 
 coat, or chain me in a cell." 
 
 " What are we to say Dunbar, then ?" ex- 
 claimed Rawdon, now really alarmed for the 
 reason of his pupil, and eager to pacify his agita- 
 tion. " Dunbar admits that he saw the lady you 
 name Amy, and even heard at the cottage 
 that—" 
 
 " True, true \" cried Reresby, snatching at 
 his only remaining chance of information. 
 
THE ABBEY. 269 
 
 " Let us, at least, re-visit the cottage, and 
 learn all that can be learned ; be it only suffi- 
 cient to convince you that, whatever I may 
 hereafter become, I am now in my right 
 senses." 
 
 And he led the way towards a hovel 
 surrounded by a miserable enclosure ; which, 
 during the summer season, might perhaps 
 have classed its dilapidations under the title 
 of " picturesque, " — but which exhibited no- 
 thing, amid frost and snow, but the degrada- 
 tion of extreme penury. 
 
 " Was it not here that two travellers rested 
 in the month of September last, one of whom 
 returned on horseback, the same night, on his 
 way to the Abbey ?" — demanded Lord Cecil, of 
 a wretched-looking labouring man, by whom, 
 after much knocking, the door was opened. 
 
 " Wha be ye, to be speering idle questions 
 at sic a toime V s demanded the peasant in a 
 broad border dialect. " Ta gudewoife just 
 carr'd ower the threshold, and the bairns lying 
 i' the fever ! — awa' wi' ye !" 
 
 " We are travellers, as you may perceive," 
 
270 THE ABBEY. 
 
 said Reresby, " and ignorant of your misfor- 
 tune, or we should not have presumed to disturb 
 you.' 5 
 
 " Gang yer ways naw, then," growled the 
 man, slamming the door in their faces; and 
 Rawdon, alarmed lest his young friend should 
 expose himself in addition to his other cala- 
 mities, to the perils of infection, immediately 
 proposed to address further inquiries to the 
 clergyman of the parish. " It is impossible," 
 said he, " that persons of note should have 
 been resident in such a place, unknown to 
 the Rector." 
 
 On reaching the little straggling hamlet, 
 however, no mansion presented itself of suffi- 
 cient respectability to pass in collegiate eyes 
 for that of a beneficed divine ; and when, 
 having retraced their steps towards the thatch- 
 ed church, whence the funeral- train was depart- 
 ing and penetrated a dark nook pointed out 
 to them as the vestry, they beheld a homely, 
 middle-aged man, exchanging a rusty cassock 
 for a shabby smock-frock, the Oxonian was 
 almost as much shocked by the aspect and 
 
THE ABBEY. 27 1 
 
 habit of the clericus of St. Bees', as by the 
 fantastic imaginings of his pupil. 
 
 With a view to enlist in their cause the pro- 
 fessional sympathies of his brother of the cloth, 
 (that cloth being in the present instance no 
 other than threadbare hodden gray) Rawdon 
 unluckily thought fit to announce himself as 
 Reverend, and of Oxford. 
 
 The northern-light immediately flared up ! 
 Smarting with jealousy, and hungering after 
 Israel and its flesh-pots, he detested the 
 high-church priest as he would have hated a 
 Jewish Rabbi ; and, closing his mouth even 
 as if it were the parish poor-box, persisted in 
 declaring, in reply to Rawdon's interrogations, 
 that " there might have been people living at 
 the Abbey at the time he mentioned ; — that two 
 women had resided there for many years — two 
 miserable, misguided papists — near akin to the 
 wretches instrumental in raising the North in 
 the year fifteen ; but that now — the Lord be 
 praised ! — the parish was rid of them !" 
 
 " Dead ?" inquired Cecil, with a heavy 
 heart and faltering voice. 
 
272 THE ABBEY. 
 
 " No, — not dead — (that he had heard of), 
 gone, — departed, — flitted ; — no one knew 
 whither, and no one £ared; — or he, at least, 
 knew not, cared not, and had never inquired." 
 
 In the same morose spirit, were answers 
 yielded by the ehrwiirdiger Pastor von Griinau, 
 to Cecil's inquiries touching the name, nature, 
 habits and associations of Mistress Maud and 
 Mistress Amy. The respondent "knew that 
 they were called Mistress Maud and Mistress 
 Amy, and that they belonged to the bloody- 
 minded Church of Rome ; — the Church of 
 the Devil and the Pretender; — which was 
 all he knew, or wished to know, about the 
 matter." 
 
 And anon he nodded, without touching his 
 hat to the civil querists standing beside him 
 at the gate of his own kirkyard ; and tramped 
 off in hobnail shoes through the snow, to 
 his agricultural occupations ; after the fashion 
 of a neighbourhood unfertile in fat livings 
 and those evangelical loaves and fishes, which 
 the miracles of modern Christendom convert 
 into turbots and French rolls. 
 
THE ABBEY. 273 
 
 " One important point, at least, is establish- 
 ed by our colloquy with my urbane clerical 
 brother," observed Rawdon, when, rinding 
 from the guide, that not a house of the 
 hamlet but was infected by the fatal fever, 
 he persuaded Lord Cecil to remount his 
 horse and return with him towards Raven- 
 glass. " It can no longer be doubted that 
 the ladies, whose existence I have been some- 
 times bold enough to question, were not only 
 flesh and blood, but sufficiently good catho- 
 lics to give umbrage to the pastor of Wast- 
 dale. It had more than once occurred to 
 me, indeed, that parties leading the secluded 
 life you described and purposely enveloping 
 themselves in mystery, might be involved in 
 the dangers of the Stuart cause, and, for their 
 own safety, were compelled to i come like 
 shadows — so depart/ They were perhaps 
 under hiding — certainly (as papists) under sur- 
 veillance." 
 
 " It had already occurred to you — yet you 
 never comforted me by the suggestion !" eja- 
 culated Reresby, "I can scarcely forgive you!" 
 
 n3 
 
274 THE ABBEY. 
 
 " Let me make amends for the fault, by 
 future assiduity," cried Rawdon, charmed to 
 witness the return of cheerful smiles to the 
 countenance of his friend. " As it happens, I 
 have connexions among that unfortunate party, 
 such as may enable me to pursue our inquiries 
 to the point. Did you ask, or do you happen 
 to know, to whom the ruins of Holy Cross 
 Abbey belong ?" 
 
 " To some Cumberland farmer, I fancy," 
 replied Lord Cecil. " The guide informs me 
 that the valley is divided into small farms, 
 belonging to proprietors known by the name 
 of ' dalesmen.' " 
 
 " No matter ! It will be easy for me so to 
 designate the place as to ascertain, from the 
 agents of Charles Edward, whether it be 
 marked in their charts with the symbol of the 
 white rose." 
 
 " My dear, dear Rawdon ! — when are you 
 likely to obtain this intelligence ?" exclaimed 
 Reresby. 
 
 " On reaching Edinburgh ; — provided you 
 covenant on your own part to proceed instantly 
 
THE ABBEY. 275 
 
 to Grandison Park, and take no further steps 
 till you hear from me." 
 
 " My heart and hand upon the bargain !" 
 cried Lord Cecil. " You resume your journey 
 to-night ?"— 
 
 "Stop, stop! — have a little mercy!" said 
 Rawdon, pointing laughingly to the six inches 
 of snow already on the ground, and the over- 
 charged clouds which threatened a doubly- 
 deep addition. u Give me one good night's 
 rest ; after which, I promise to start as readily 
 and expeditiously on your errand as the great 
 North mail will carry me!" 
 
276 THE ABBEY. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Countess. — In delivering my son from me, I bury a se- 
 cond husband! 
 
 Bertrand. — And I, in going, weep o'er my father's death 
 anew. 
 
 Sir Claude Dunbar was the only son of his 
 mother, and she was a widow. Herself sole 
 child and heiress of a wealthy west country 
 laird, her marriage with Sir Arthur Dunbar had 
 preceded the fatal epoch of the political troubles 
 of Scotland by years so few, that the influence 
 of a bride prevailed over his weak and timid 
 nature sufficiently to retain him snug and sober 
 at the Castle of Dunbar, when the party to 
 which his family was hereditarily attached, was 
 spreading fire and fury through the country. 
 
THE ABBEY. 277 
 
 The unfortunate issue of the insurrection might 
 be supposed, in some measure, to justify her 
 conjugal prudence. 
 
 Nevertheless, after the execution of Derwent- 
 water, Sir Arthur held up his head no more. 
 The circumstance that more than one member 
 of his family had remained staunch to that of 
 Stuart, seemed only to increase the poignancy 
 of his affliction. Before his only child, young 
 Claude, overstepped the age of infancy, the poor 
 man was gathered to the forefathers he had dis- 
 honoured ; — dying, as was jocosely said among 
 his enemies, of having taken too much care 
 of his life. 
 
 From that period, the widowed Lady Dun- 
 bar seldom or ever quitted the Castle she had 
 deprived of its laird, and the clan of its chief. 
 Conscious, perhaps, of her fault, she evinced 
 no desire to repress the manly spirit of her 
 son ; and, while limiting her habits and de- 
 sires by rules of strictest parsimony, afforded 
 to the boy every advantage of education that 
 money could command. She even engaged 
 
278 THE ABBEY. 
 
 for him, on his repairing to Oxford for the 
 completion of his studies, the services of a 
 tutor recommended by the Jacobite friends of 
 the late Baronet ; and, though persisting in 
 her residence, winter and summer, at their 
 family Castle on the shores of the Mull of 
 Galloway, taking no thought for the morrow 
 what she should eat or what she should drink, 
 or for her raiment, what she should put on, 
 took infinite care that the product of the 
 wheels of her whole household should be laid 
 aside to stock the future napery of the young 
 Baronet; — and stored her cellars and garners 
 with an abundance that seemed to anticipate a 
 famine in the land . 
 
 Such a mother, if she did not call forth the 
 filial tenderness of her son, had strong claims 
 upon his gratitude. Sir Claude could not 
 always admire the customs of the castle, but 
 his respect for its liege lady was undeviating ; 
 and though unlike to become, as his father, a 
 victim to passive obedience, would have suf- 
 fered much ere he ventured on any measure of 
 
THE ABBEY. 279 
 
 importance, in opposition to the wishes of the 
 widow. 
 
 It was under a full admission of these feel- 
 ings, that he had attached himself to the sister 
 of his schoolfellow and fellow-collegian, the 
 lovely Lady Horatia Reresby; yet now the 
 period was approaching to solicit the good 
 lady's consent and assistance ere he laid his 
 proposals in form before the Marquis of Gran- 
 dison, he trembled for the result ! A presen- 
 timent forewarned him that he should meet 
 with opposition from his mother ; and lo ! on 
 his arrival in Dublin on his way to Grandison 
 Park, while waiting the arrival of Cecil to com- 
 pose and dispatch to Lady Dunbar a demand 
 for her sanction to his matrimonial views, he 
 received from her a letter, acquainting him 
 that she had peremptorily disposed of his 
 hand. 
 
 " Your uncle Giles,' ' she wrote, " whom 
 fortune appears to favour in proportion to his 
 slighting her gifts^ has unexpectedly returned 
 from Surinam with heaps of wealth. It is his 
 
280 THE ABBEY. 
 
 desire to secure it to the family by uniting you 
 with his only daughter ; and Miss Dunbar and 
 her father being now on a visit here, I have to 
 request you will immediately repair to the 
 castle to do its honours to your nearest re- 
 latives — still nearer (I hope) to be." 
 
 Here was a stroke of destiny for the unfor- 
 tunate Claude ! 
 
 Lady Dunbar, who till now had neither 
 mentioned the name of mortal woman to her 
 son nor seemed to fancy he could incline 
 towards the matrimonial estate, admitted that 
 she had planned his immediate union ! What 
 an absolute termination to his pretensions to 
 the hand of the high-born, high-bred Horatia ! 
 — The young lover shuddered as he thought 
 of it ! Miss Dunbar was doubtless the off- 
 spring of a marriage between his graceless 
 uncle, (of whose movements for many years 
 past the family had heard no tidings) and 
 some Surinam heiress, — the amply petti- 
 coated widow or daughter of a Dutch planter ! 
 What blood, what breeding, to recommend 
 
THE ABBEY. 281 
 
 her to his attachment ! — His heart sickened as 
 he pondered upon the broad flat face, sandy 
 hair, and freckled complexion of his pro- 
 mised wife ; and he consoled himself by a 
 vow, registered in Heaven arid his heart of 
 hearts, that if fated to abjure all hope of be- 
 coming son-in-law to the Marquis of Gran- 
 dison, nothing should compel him to bestow 
 his hand and title upon Miss Dunbar. 
 
 This determination, couched in the most 
 respectful terms, was forthwith unfolded in a 
 letter to his mother. Relying upon the thrifty 
 lady's prudence to keep the communication to 
 herself, he declared that, even were his affec- 
 tions disengaged, nothing would induce him 
 to unite himself with the child of one so 
 irregular in his conduct and loose in his prin- 
 ciples, as the uncle whose recently acquired 
 and probably ill-gotten wealth, endowed him 
 with so much consequence in the family. 
 The widow replied to this bold challenge of 
 her authority in a similar spirit of defiance. 
 Sir Claude retorted, — her ladyship was quick 
 to answer the retort. That which might have 
 
282 THE ABBEY. 
 
 speedily been pacified between them in a war of 
 words, promised to become a " seven/' or even 
 a " thirty years' war' 5 when waged per return 
 of post. 
 
 The young Baronet became reluctantly con- 
 vinced, that however resolute against bestow- 
 ing the family title on her who bore the 
 family name, it was by no means a propitious 
 moment for expediting the progress of his suit 
 to Lady Horatia ; and the Christmas vacation, 
 instead of affording to the two young men the 
 superlative happiness to which they had looked 
 forward, threatened to end " for one in mad- 
 ness — both in misery.' 5 
 
 Neither Claude nor Lord Cecil afforded 
 much addition to the brilliant assemblage at 
 Grandison Park. Their attention was ab- 
 sorbed by the arrival of letters from Scotland. 
 To Dunbar's correspondence with his mother, 
 and Reresby's with Rawdon, was attached their 
 every hope of earthly happiness ! 
 
 But the course of true love ran unevenly for 
 both ; and they found themselves once more 
 buried in the learned shades of Granta to be 
 
THE ABBEY. 283 
 
 emancipated only by the lapse of time indis- 
 pensable to their college studies — without 
 having advanced a step towards the con- 
 summation so devoutly the object of their 
 wishes. 
 
 It were tedious to trace page by page, 
 volume by volume, problem by problem, the 
 progress of the aspirants. The musty atmos- 
 phere of the Bodleian is scarcely of a quality 
 to sustain the buoyant wings of fancy; and 
 Ariel herself would become materialised, if en- 
 robed in academic cap and gown. Suffice it 
 that Rawdon's pupils having graduated with 
 honour, bade adieu to the venerable cloisters 
 of Christ Church — 
 
 The sacred fountains — the o'ershadowing groves, 
 Whose walks with godlike harmony resound. 
 Fountains which Homer visits ; — happy groves 
 Where Milton haunts : and th' intellectual power 
 On the mind's throne, suspends his graver cares 
 And smiles ! 
 
284 THE ABBEY 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 That she is living, 
 Were it hut told you, should be hooted at 
 Like an old tale ; but it appears she lives, 
 Though yet she speaks not. 
 
 Winter's Tale. 
 
 It was midsummer — bright, glowing, gor- 
 geous, glorious midsummer — 
 
 When hearts and babbling brooks are most in tune. 
 
 Roses, in flaunting array, softening from deep- 
 est damask to the pure and tender tints of 
 maiden's-blushhood, imparted fragrance and 
 jouvence to the garden breezes ; lilies, all ivory 
 and gold, stood overlooking the parterres with 
 
THE ABBEY. 285 
 
 the air of ladies at a tournament ; while blue 
 convolvuluses trailed with an azure streak upon 
 the ground, like— 
 
 Un pezzo del ciel caduto in terra ! 
 
 The fountains threw up their silver springlets 
 into the sunshine, as if to interlace themselves 
 with its golden rays ; — while a hundred mar- 
 ble goddesses retreated coyly from the glare of 
 day into the verdant nooks of the well-trimmed 
 lime-bowers adorning the bosquets and par- 
 terres of Grandison Park ! The gardens were 
 all sweetness and bloom, — the slopes of the 
 park beyond all majesty and shade. The dap- 
 pled deer lay grouped as in sylvan medita- 
 tion beneath the venerable oak trees \ while 
 the wood-pigeons winged their way in happy 
 pairs across the clear expanse of an unclouded 
 sky. And lo ! on the shaven lawns, around a 
 mansion of lordly degree, ladies with sweeping 
 trains and fans outspread, and plumes that 
 waved and nodded as they stepped, were idling 
 side by side with red-heeled maccaronis and 
 
2S6 THE ABBEY. 
 
 courtiers in suits of velvet or paduasoy whose 
 embroideries glistened in the sun, taking care 
 that their swords should oppose no awkward 
 entanglement to the mincing steps of the little 
 silken-haired lap-dogs, trotting after the rust- 
 ling furbelows of their loving ladies. 
 
 It was midsummer, — and every countenance 
 at Grandison Park was bright as the season and 
 the scene. A grand festival was in preparation. 
 The offices sent forth savory steams. Mar- 
 row-bones were crushing, cullises distilling, 
 and the aroma of citrons and rich spices exhaled 
 from the coming banquet. The high altar 
 of the chapel was richly covered with tapestry ; 
 velvet benches were dispersed in formal array— 
 the marble pavement strewn with flowers, for, 
 behold ! " the darling of each heart and eye" — 
 the daughter of that ancient house, — the lovely 
 Horatia Reresby was about to be united to the 
 man of her choice, Sir Claude Dunbar, the 
 dearest friend of her dearest brother. 
 
 There could not be a handsomer couple than 
 Lady Horatia, with her fawn-like eyes and 
 gestures, and the noble youth who had success- 
 
THE ABBEY. 287 
 
 fully stemmed the tide of family opposition, to 
 become her husband. Theirs was a true and 
 trustful affection, theirs a destiny of peace and 
 prosperity — even the destiny of the favoured 
 ones of the earth ; — no cares around or before 
 them, but enough of clouds behind to enhance 
 the brilliancy of the prospect in the distance. 
 The gay groups chatting, smiling and con- 
 versing, upon that courtly lawn were seen at 
 intervals to cast impatient glances towards the 
 long avenue of elms traversing the park ; for 
 every minute the family of the bridegroom was 
 expected to arrive : the dowager, who for so 
 many years had been unable to uproot herself 
 from Dunbar Castle, having graciously con- 
 sented to grace the auspicious bridal of her 
 own — her only son. Lady Horatia, whose heart, 
 long motherless, yearned towards her as to- 
 wards a mother, trembled nevertheless at 
 the prospect of the approaching meeting. Not 
 that she apprehended lack of kindness or in- 
 dulgence on the part of one whom, she was 
 prepared to love and honour and obey, as 
 
288 THE ABBEY. 
 
 part (and a part most venerable) of him who 
 maintained the dearest hold upon her affec- 
 tions; but with Lady Dunbar was expected 
 the wealthy uncle, — the stern uncle, — the mor- 
 tified uncle, — compelled by the obduracy of 
 Sir Claude to renounce his views for his 
 daughter upon the family honours and their 
 representative. She knew how vast a waste 
 of epistolary eloquence had been lavished 
 by her lover during the six preceding months, 
 to mollify the heart of the dowager and obtain 
 from old Giles Dunbar the cession of his pro- 
 jects. But they had consented. The marriage- 
 contract was ready to be signed — the marriage- 
 tapers to be lighted. Nothing jarred against 
 the completion of the hopes of the young 
 couple ; nor was aught unsatisfactory connected 
 with the mode and manner of their nuptials, 
 unless the inevitable presence of Miss Dunbar 
 the semi-Dutchwoman, and her pragmatical 
 father. 
 
 Yes, — one thing more ! One circumstance 
 was wanting to complete the happiness of 
 
THE ABBEY. 289 
 
 Horatia and her bridegroom. The attired 
 figure and dejected countenance of Lord Cecil 
 did not fail to remind them that, although he 
 no longer courted the ridicule of his family, or 
 the wonderment of strangers, by alluding to 
 the marvellous adventure in which he had 
 borne a part, the recollection did not the less 
 powerfully weigh upon his spirits. He had 
 perhaps given up, as a matter of question with 
 himself, the reality of his impressions : con- 
 vinced that he had indeed been admitted to the 
 society of two ladies of condition, consigned by 
 some strange chance to a residence at Holy 
 Cross Abbey, who, for either wantonness or 
 mischief's sake, had successfully practised upon 
 his young imagination. But, was it a subject 
 of less concern to him, that all his investiga- 
 tions sufficed not to discover aught concerning 
 the fantastic but most captivating being, whose 
 arch countenance and radiant smiles had im- 
 pressed themselves more indelibly, more per- 
 plexingly upon his heart, than the most regular 
 array of perfect loveliness ? 
 
 Why, why had he been fated to hear the 
 vol. i. o 
 
290 THE ABBEY. 
 
 music of that changeful but melodious voice ; — 
 why permitted to gaze upon the spell-like 
 brightness of those speaking eyes — to witness 
 that gracious play of sportive fancy ? His soul 
 was still entranced by the charm of an interview 
 so brief, that the cistus flower has a longer 
 existence — the summer lightning almost as 
 prolonged a brightness. Day after day, he 
 wandered hither and thither through the 
 wooded glens of Grandison Park, and hung in 
 listless abstraction over the falling waters of 
 each wild cascade. He was no longer himself 
 — no longer capable of applying his powers of 
 mind to the common j)urposes of life. His 
 family began to look upon his condition rather 
 with terror than with pity ; and when about 
 ten days previously to the marriage of Lady 
 Horatia and Sir Claude, Mr. Rawden, who had 
 been the able negociator for his pupil with the 
 family at Dunbar Castle, arrived as a plenipo- 
 tentiary at Grandison Park, with full powers 
 from the Dowager to treat for the hand of the 
 beautiful daughter of the Marquis, half the 
 tutor s time was occupied, during the first two 
 
THE ABBEY. 291 
 
 days, in private confabulation with his Lord- 
 ship touching the health, moral and physical? 
 of Lord Cecil, — its symptoms, tendencies, and 
 chances of convalescence ; the mystery of 
 which was a problem which the learned pundit 
 of Christ Church alone seemed capable of 
 solving. 
 
 The result of these consultations did not 
 transpire. Many persons at the Hall inferred, 
 indeed, from the cheered demeanour of Lord 
 Grandison, after the first interview, that coun- 
 sels had been imparted likely to secure the 
 restoration of his son. Yet, after the mo- 
 mentary elevation of spirits produced by the 
 announcement of Horatia's happy prospects, 
 Lord Cecil relapsed into all his former dejec- 
 tion ; and, though Rawdon and the Marquis 
 appeared satisfied that an amendment was in 
 progress, his kinsfolk and acquaintance were of 
 opinion that the happiness he was required to 
 witness, served only to demonstrate to the un- 
 fortunate young man, that he was himself 
 miserable beyond all hope, and sick past all 
 surgery. 
 
 O 2 
 
292 THE ABBEY. 
 
 At length arrived the day of days ; and the 
 young lover, who beheld its auspicious auroral 
 uprise beside the earth, sandalled with gold and 
 arrayed in a mantle of purple resplendent with 
 showering light, felt assured that the blessing of 
 Heaven was upon its great events. From 
 earliest dawn, the air was alive with music and 
 mirth ; every thing and every body laughed 
 aloud with glee, — saving the gentle bride, 
 whose pensive grace promised smiles hereafter, 
 as a showery morning fore- shows the brightest 
 noon. 
 
 While all the rest of the gay household 
 paraded the great galleries or the blooming 
 gardens, Horatia wandered apart in her snow- 
 Avhite bridal array, leaning upon the arm of 
 Lord Cecil; for, at a moment of such general 
 hilarity, she felt that her brother needed con- 
 solation. Ever and anon, Sir Claude deserted 
 the joyous company of guests, to hold a mo- 
 ment's converse with his beloved ; and when, 
 at last, he ventured to reproach her, that on 
 such a day her countenance should- retain a 
 single trace of sadness, her tearful eye glanced 
 
THE ABBEY. 293 
 
 from his towards the dejected figure of his 
 friend, reminding him of the presence of a deep- 
 seated sorrow. 
 
 Lady Horatia dreaded, however, lest her 
 brother should suppose himself an object of 
 commiseration ; and attributing her sadness to 
 the anxieties attendant on a first meeting with 
 her future family, whispered to Dunbar, that 
 till his mother and uncle had embraced her and 
 sanctified his choice, her heart could not be at 
 ease. And again, for the twentieth time, Dun- 
 bar flew to the window commanding the great 
 avenue, to ascertain whether the tardy travellers 
 were in sight ; leaving Horatia and his friend 
 alone beneath the old oak-tree. 
 
 " Sister I" faltered Cecil, as he placed him- 
 self beside her on the bench of fretted marble ; 
 " I have long looked to this day as the crown- 
 ing one of my destiny ; having waited but to 
 see you happy in Dunbar's protection, I pur- 
 pose to quit my home — my country — and seek 
 in distant climes, and a new aspect of nature, 
 relief from the heavy cares that overpower my 
 soul. Be happy, dearest Horatia, — happy as I 
 
2D4 THE ABBEY. 
 
 once hoped to be, — happy as I shall be no 
 more. I was ambitious, and my aspirings have 
 passed away ; I was covetous of domestic 
 peace, — and lo ! a desert lies before me ! No 
 matter; — the two beings dearest to me on earth 
 will be indebted to each other for the happiness 
 which is denied to me ; and, satisfied that all is 
 well with those whom my soul loveth, I shall 
 resign myself to go down to the grave undis- 
 tinguished and unloved, — without a name — 
 without a tear — without a requiem !" 
 
 He paused ; for at that moment a strain of 
 inspiriting music burst upon their ears. The 
 travellers were approaching, — the happy mo- 
 ment was come. 
 
 Again, the rustic pipes and tabors sounded 
 stirringly from a distance. There was a crowd 
 ' — a clamour ; — the bridegroom's family were 
 come, and looking eagerly around them for the 
 object of his choice. 
 
 Cecil and Horatia beheld the Marquis ap- 
 proaching them along the laurel-shaded shrub- 
 bery, leading by the hand a stately but soft- 
 browed dame, whose resemblance to their 
 
THE ABBEY. 295 
 
 beloved Claude proclaimed her to be his 
 mother. 
 
 " Let us meet them by the way," whispered 
 Reresby, offering his brotherly support to the 
 trembling Horatia, but wondering within him- 
 self that Sir Claude did not make his appear- 
 ance to conduct her to the feet of his parent. 
 Bat it was in her arms that Lady Dunbar re- 
 ceived her daughter-in-law ; — - it was to her 
 bosom that again and again, she closely pressed 
 her; — and Cecil's feelings were so penetrated 
 by the joy of seeing his sister thus cordially 
 welcomed, that, for a moment, he had no eyes 
 for any other object. 
 
 But, what strange sight has brought, at 
 length, the colour into his pale cheek, as he 
 uplifts his eyes in search of the bridegroom ? 
 What sudden shock hath wrung such a cry of 
 wonderment and joy out of his heart? — Some 
 incident which seems a source of general gratu- 
 lation ; for his father has placed his hand en- 
 couragingly on the young man's shoulder, and 
 Rawdon's face is bright with smiles, and Ho- 
 ratia and the bridegroom are turning a deaf ear 
 
296 THE ABBEY. 
 
 to the exhortation of Lady Dunbar, while Lord 
 Cecil stands transfixed, and at length recovers 
 himself sufficiently to accept the proffered hand 
 of a fair and graceful girl, which the prompting 
 of a jovial old gentleman extends towards 
 him. 
 
 " Have you nothing better than an awk- 
 ward obeisance to tender to my lovely cou- 
 sin, Mistress Amy Dunbar?" cried Sir 
 Claude, without pity for his friend^s confu- 
 sion. 
 
 " Have you no remonstrances to address to 
 my daughter }" cried the ex- Antonio of Suri- 
 nam. 
 
 ce Have you no homage to render to your 
 future wife ?" added the Marquis. 
 
 And at that announcement, all present 
 heartily sympathised in the rapture of the 
 wonder- whelmed Lord Cecil. His quondam pre- 
 ceptor (by whose sagacity these marvels had 
 been brought to bear) stood rubbing his hands 
 for joy, and explaining to the inquiring guests 
 that every preparation had been secretly com- 
 
THE ABBEY. 297 
 
 pleted for the solemnization of a double wed- 
 ding. 
 
 The bells now rang out a merry peal, when 
 the Marquis was the first to propose their ad- 
 journment to the house. And then, in the 
 grand saloon, the two young couples were for- 
 mally presented to the valetudinarian Mistress 
 Maud, the aunt of Claude and Amy, — in her 
 youth a Maid of Honour to the deposed queen 
 consort of England, at the court of St. Ger- 
 main ; and, during her age, guardian to the 
 only daughter of Giles, her banished brother, 
 in the sequestered Abbey of Holycross — the 
 last remnant of an estate squandered in the 
 cause of the Stuarts. 
 
 " But they are wealthy, now, — enormously, 
 prodigiously wealthy," observed Rawdon, in 
 explaining to the inquisitive country cousins the 
 particulars of a plot graced by so charming a 
 denouement. " Mr. Dunbar's first care, on 
 his return to England, was to hasten down to 
 the miserable dwelling he had been compelled 
 to assign to his sister and his child, and remove 
 
 o 3 
 
298 THE ABBEY. 
 
 them from a spot rendered doubly dreary by the 
 perils of infection. Thus deserted (for the young 
 orphan adopted into their household shared 
 with the faithful Alison and her father their 
 journey to Dunbar Castle), the rooms they had 
 occupied at the Abbey were speedily dismantled 
 by marauders, and left to the undisputed do- 
 minion of the rats and bats : so that, on Lord 
 Cecil's second visit, all wore the aspect of utter 
 desolation. Miss Dunbar, conscious of the 
 strong impression produced by her incantations, 
 had perhaps maliciously calculated on the pro- 
 bability of her guests return, and the wonder 
 likely to be excited in his mind, by the trans- 
 formation of the place." 
 
 " But how chanced it, sweet coz/' inquired 
 Sir Claude of Mistress Amy, u how chanced 
 it, that our names were so familiarly known at 
 Holycross V 
 
 " Through your own indiscretion in address- 
 ing each other during your sojourn at the cot- 
 tage/' replied the young lady, archly smiling. 
 " Ralph, the neatherd, was brother to our little 
 
THE ABBEY. 299 
 
 page -, and, long before Lord Cecil returned, 
 had communicated to me, even to the smallest 
 details, your conversation of the morning. — 
 Accident favoured the entrance of your friend 
 into our dwelling ; and, in order to get rid of 
 him without discourtesy, stratagem was indis- 
 pensable. To take my aunt into my confidence 
 I dared not ! In spite of the feud existing be- 
 tween her and the elder branch of her house, 
 I feared that the name of Sir Claude Dunbar 
 would hurry her into disclosures that might 
 prove injurious to my father. I knew not that 
 the sentence passed on him in 1715 was on the 
 point of being reversed ; and, so scrupulous had 
 I learned to be in all regarding his safety, that 
 I forbore, year after year, to acquaint him with 
 the indigence to which we were reduced by the 
 exactions of our fallen party, lest he should 
 come forward to its assistance. 5 ' 
 
 u A confused sequel to a most perplexed 
 story, my pretty coz !" — cried Sir Claude. 
 Xi Some winter's evening, you shall instruct us 
 more largely, as we sit in a happy circle, round 
 a blazing fire in the Castle of our forefathers. 
 
300 THE ABBEY . 
 
 Meanwhile, let me bless the stars that pre- 
 sided over our disastrous voyage to White- 
 haven : and insured me — since wife she was 
 not to be — a sister, in my mad-brained cousin, 
 Amy." 
 
 u No further reminiscences, just now !" ejacu- 
 lated Cecil, who just then rejoined them from the 
 chapel " All is prepared, — the witnesses are as- 
 sembled, — and Rawdon stands surpliced at the 
 altar. Unless you wish aunt Maud to faint 
 outright with fatigue, detain them no longer 
 — for Galpin, her page, informs me that his 
 Lady's Eau de Luce was left behind at the 
 last inn they slept in ; — and hark ! the bells 
 ring out ; — the chimes are sounding, the tenants 
 crowding to the door with music and ac- 
 clamations. They ask to see the bride — 
 they want to catch a glimpse of the en- 
 chantress." 
 
 u No longer an enchantress, but an humble 
 and happy wife/' answered Amy, placing her 
 hand in that of Lord Cecil, while her father ap- 
 proached to conduct her to the altar. " My 
 wand of necromancy is buried for ever, amid 
 the ruins of The Abbey \" 
 
XAVIERA. 
 
XAVIERA. 
 
 " In Valencia," quoth the Castilian proverb, " flesh is 
 grass, and grass is water; men are women, and women — 
 nothing!" 
 
 It was perhaps at the instigation of this 
 disparaging adage, that Don Luis di Junquera, 
 the representative of one of the most ancient 
 houses in the province, saw fit to amend his 
 Valencian meat by the efforts of a Parisian 
 maitre d* hotel ; and the enervated tempera- 
 ment of his Valencian line, by an alliance with 
 the only daughter of a Neapolitan nobleman, 
 a refugee in Spain from the political troubles 
 agitating his native country. These innova- 
 tions, however, tended greatly to disturb the 
 
30 i XAVIERA. 
 
 more than flema Castellana of his kinsfolk and 
 acquaintance. 
 
 The correctness of the proverb was dis- 
 proved no less by the manly boldness with 
 which Don Luis had outraged Valencian cus- 
 tom, and the tenacity with which he defended 
 his right to be master of his own household, 
 and the carver of his own destinies, than by 
 the vehemence with which his lordship's sud- 
 den assumption of independence was resented 
 by a certain Don a Xaviera d'Andujar, the 
 widow of one of his near relatives, who had 
 preconcerted his conjugal subjugation. 
 
 Dona Xaviera was decidedly " something!" 
 She was a very beautiful woman, as well as a 
 very audacious manceuvrer ; and, but for the 
 fact that she had attained her thirty-eighth year, 
 while the lovely Carolina di Pignatelli was just 
 entering her eighteenth, might have eventually 
 succeeded in establishing her ascendancy over 
 one who, although firmer and more manly in 
 his purpose than accorded with the truth of 
 the Castilian adage, was peculiarly under the 
 domination of female attractions. 
 
XAVIERA. 805 
 
 One day, however, at the very period when 
 Dona Xaviera considered herself securest of the 
 offer of his hand, and therewithal of the pre- 
 sidency of his magnificent palace in the Gloreta 
 and castle on the Guadalquivir, with their costly 
 hangings, sumptuous marbles, gorgeous plate, 
 and princely caskets of ancestral jewels, it hap- 
 pened that Don Luis was persuaded to accom- 
 pany her to the convent of the Assumption, 
 fast by the Puerta de los Serranos, in Valencia ; 
 where her only child, his ward^ was deposited, 
 to be out of the way of her intriguing mother, 
 and in the way of receiving such sprinkling of 
 education as was bestowed upon daughters of 
 hidalgo blood during the last century. Dona 
 Xaviera was anxious to display to the world 
 the paternal interest taken by Don Luis in the 
 welfare of little Dona Florencia ; but, unluckily, 
 the self-same grating which secured the little 
 chocolate-complexioned damsel from the cor- 
 ruptions of the city, extended its protection 
 over the maturer beauties of the blooming 
 Carolina, who, at the moment of this ill-timed 
 visit, was receiving the fond greeting of her 
 
306 XAVIERA. 
 
 father, Prince Pignatelli, on his arrival from a 
 hazardous expedition to his Calabrian estates. 
 Ever bright and joyous, the countenance of the 
 young Neapolitan was so exquisitely irradiated 
 by the rapture of an unexpected reunion with 
 her parent, that Don Luis found it impossible 
 to fix his attention upon the tapestry frame 
 presented him by a lay sister, as a sample of 
 the talents and industry of his future step- 
 daughter. He could see nothing but Carolina's 
 arm thrown around her father's neck ; he 
 could listen to nothing but the bland and en- 
 dearing accents of affection with which she 
 welcomed the old man's arrival. 
 
 In vain did Dona Xaviera strive to win his 
 ear by the cajoling tones in which she adjured 
 her dingy little offspring, as, " Hija de mi 
 alma /" " Child of my soul !" — her lion-port 
 and awe-commanding grace were not in unison 
 with words of human endearment. It was 
 only the gentle Carolina who knew how to 
 love ! 
 
 From that period, the destiny of the Valen- 
 cian lord was determined. If the haughty 
 
XAVIERA. 307 
 
 widow of Andujar had found her influence in- 
 sufficient to reform Don Luis's propensity for 
 a foreign household, still less was it available 
 against the heavenly charm of Carolina's eyes ; 
 and, in defiance of all obstacles, within two 
 months of their encounter at the grate of the 
 convent, Don Luis had managed to obtain the 
 friendship of the banished Pignatelli, and the 
 hand of his daughter. 
 
 His claims upon her heart were perhaps of 
 a more problematical nature ; but if, as yet, 
 Carolina had bestowed no more than kindliness 
 and gratitude on the man who had endowed 
 her with a noble name and honourable home, 
 and loaded her father with services at some 
 risk to the reputation of his own loyalty, Dona 
 Xaviera's inference was far from just, that the 
 young Neapolitan was prepared to loathe the 
 shallow egotist she had sworn to honour as 
 her husband. 
 
 It is true, the wily widow was, at present, 
 careful to keep this opinion to herself. Having 
 failed in her project to become the wife of 
 Junquera, she still chose to write herself down 
 
30S XAVIERA. 
 
 his loving kinswoman and ally ; and soon be- 
 gan to affect a matronly tenderness towards 
 the bride, and even such airs of duenna-ship as 
 she might have assumed towards a daughter 
 of her own. 
 
 Carolina, meanwhile, who had been so early 
 domesticated in Spain as to have become more 
 than half a Valencian in habits and language, 
 accepted the counsels of Junquera's relative as 
 readily as she had already adopted the costume 
 and dialect of his country. Motherless from 
 her cradle, the guardianship of the venerable 
 abbess and sisterhood of the Assumption had 
 sufficed the instinctive cravings of her young 
 heart after womanly companionship and guid- 
 ance ; and she was as ready to adopt Doiia 
 Xaviera as a trusty counsellor and friend, as 
 the crafty manceuvrer to proceed against her as 
 an enemy. 
 
 When, at the conclusion of the carnival, the 
 hidalgo and his household migrated from their 
 palace in the city to San Felipe, a castle over- 
 looking the beautiful Huerta de Valencia, Caro- 
 lina earnestly seconded the entreaties of her 
 
XAVIERA. 309 
 
 lord that his charming relative would deign to 
 bear them company during the summer season ; 
 and Dona Xaviera, with seeming reluctance, 
 allowed herself to be persuaded into a project 
 originally planned and suggested by her own 
 intentions. 
 
 It was a welcome thing to be the bride, im- 
 mured as she had been for years and years of 
 childhood, and habituated to no nearer inter- 
 course with nature than could be effected within 
 the narrow limits of the cloister gardens of the 
 Assumption, to find herself for the first time 
 pacing by her husband's side (on a stately 
 Andalusian barb, black as night, unless where 
 a speck or two of foam was seen upon its glossy 
 flank, and with two scarlet pomegranate blos- 
 soms stuck gallantly into the head-rein of its 
 silken housings), along the deep ravine forming 
 the channel of the Guadalquivir ; or roaming, 
 with his sprightlier kinswoman among the gar- 
 den grounds skirting the castle of San Felipe, an 
 ancient Moresco fortress of considerable dignity. 
 
 Like a wild bird or a honey-bee, Carolina 
 seemed to hover over its fragrant wilderness 
 
310 XAVIERA. 
 
 of geraniums and jessamines; or reclined be- 
 side its tinkling fountains ; or mused beneath 
 the shadowy thickets of venerable cork-trees 
 forming the outermost barrier of the domain : 
 — tracing vistas of the valley far far below, 
 whose spreading rice-fields and verdant planta- 
 tions of mulberry-trees have obtained for Va- 
 lencia the appellation of the garden of Spain. 
 
 Every object around her was new and 
 precious to Carolina. The purple mountains — 
 the sheltered pastures — the inter-tangled woods 
 — the solitary, down-drooping tree — the herds 
 midway in the pool or grouped tranquilly in 
 the shade — the majestic bird winging its flight 
 sea-ward through the skies — the grasshopper 
 singing in the grass — the chaffinch brooding 
 over its nest — the humblest as well as the most 
 imposing shows of nature — each had a voice 
 for her ear, and woke a respondent chord in the 
 sympathy of her young heart. The beauty of 
 the external earth seemed to offer to her lips a 
 fountain of intoxication. She sang — she flew 
 — she laughed her solitary way through the 
 green gardens, as though she had learned to 
 
XAVIERA. 311 
 
 trifle with the solemnities of her lofty destiny. 
 The joy of gazing unchecked upon the sunshine 
 or the moonlight, — upon flood or forest, — was 
 enough for her happiness ; she had attained 
 the consciousness of a sense which had hitherto 
 slumbered in her breast — even that of gratitude 
 to God for his gifts of loveliness unto a world, 
 which his goodness seemed to have adorned for 
 her sake ! 
 
 Most men would have rejoiced, and even the 
 undemonstrative Conde di Junquera evinced 
 some satisfaction on finding himself the instru- 
 ment of so much happiness to so gifted a being ; 
 for Carolina never looked more beautiful than 
 when she smiled, and now, having overcome 
 the depression of spirits produced by her 
 father's return to Italy soon after her marriage, 
 she was always smiling. 
 
 But Dona Xaviera saw things in a different 
 light. She had no faith in innocent gaiety; 
 and choosing to interpret the vivacity of the 
 young countess into the indication of a vain 
 and frivolous disposition, was exasperated that 
 the Conde, in deference to the foreign birth of 
 
312 XAVIERA. 
 
 Carolina, should have been induced to dispense 
 with that second providence of Spanish virtue 
 — the veil and the duenna. 
 
 Xaviera was careful, however, not to awaken 
 the vigilance of Don Luis till she could con- 
 trive to introduce, as a guest into the castle, a 
 certain Don Juanito d'Albufera, whom she took 
 occasion to present to the notice of its noble 
 owners as a high-born Murcian cavalier, se- 
 lected by her maternal care to be the future 
 husband of her daughter. 
 
 Yet, vast and manifold as were his merits, 
 she admitted her anxiety to exercise some fur- 
 ther scrutiny into his character, ere she hazarded 
 the happiness of her child by his solemn be- 
 trothment with Dona Florencia ; and Don 
 Luis, who felt himself pledged as kinsman and 
 guardian to watch over the welfare of the 
 young lady, could do no less than request that 
 the intended bridegroom might become his in- 
 mate for a week or two, during the sojourn of 
 Dona Xaviera under his roof. 
 
 Juanito was accordingly welcomed into the 
 domestic circle of San Felipe. He came — he 
 
XAV1ERA. 313 
 
 saw — he even conquered — not, indeed, at first 
 sight, the gentle heart of Carolina, but what 
 the wily widow regarded as a first step towards 
 that final consummation — the esteem and pre- 
 dilection of her husband. The young Hidalgo 
 was, in truth, a very taking personage. He 
 possessed all that easy frankness of demeanour 
 to which persons so reserved and formal in 
 their address as Don Luis di Junquera are apt 
 to affix especial value ; he was a bold and ex- 
 pert horseman, and consequently a pleasant 
 companion to the lord of the castle ; he was an 
 accomplished musician, and therefore a valuable 
 acquisition to the lady. After rising with the 
 lark to follow Don Luis to the chase, he would 
 wake and watch with the nightingale, that he 
 might touch his guitar in accompaniment to 
 the Moorish ballads with which, during the 
 hush of the moonlight hour, Carolina was per- 
 suaded to recreate the ears of the Conde and 
 his friends ; and Don Luis, who loved to listen 
 to her spirit-stirring recital of the prowess of 
 his ancestors — the defeat of El Chico, and the 
 redemption of the fortress of San Felipe from 
 
 VOL. I. V 
 
314 XAVIERA. 
 
 the hands of the Moors, was grateful for the aid 
 of a minstrel by whose animated chords her 
 genius seemed to be inspired. 
 
 It was impossible, in fact, not to like Juanito. 
 The irresistible openness of his countenance 
 and character, won every heart to his side. But, 
 had he been less prepossessing, Don Luis was 
 not the man to be moved to a paltry feeling of 
 jealousy by the mere beauty of his person, or 
 the mere refinement of his manners. Carolina's 
 bridegroom boasted not a very strong or a very 
 cultivated understanding, but he had high in- 
 stincts of honour. The countryman of the 
 Cid, he was proud of the distinction ; and the 
 generosity of character which sense and en- 
 lightenment sometime fail to strengthen or 
 excite, arose in his mind from the consciousuess 
 of chivalrous descent. He would have been 
 guilty of a sin — of a crime— -rather than of a 
 base or unworthy action ; and suspicion he re- 
 garded as mean and degrading. Nor could all 
 Dona Xaviera's hints and insinuations avail to 
 stir up his jealousy of the superior attractions 
 of his young guest ; for Don Luis was satisfied 
 
XAV1ERA. 315 
 
 that both his lady and Juanito were come of 
 too gentle blood to be guilty of deceiving a 
 hospitable host or confiding husband. 
 
 The widow, meanwhile, shrugging her shoul- 
 ders at the obtuseness of his perceptions, re- 
 frained not from her efforts to render them 
 more susceptible to the fact, that his sable- 
 silvered head was seen to disadvantage by the 
 side of Don Juanito's raven locks, and that the 
 soft cadences of her Florencia's intended bride- 
 groom did not tend to enhance the harsh dis- 
 cords and unpleasing sharps of his own un- 
 tuneable accents. 
 
 She seemed resolved that her refractory kins- 
 man should not be too happy in the enjoyment 
 of his cheerful home and the tenderness of his 
 youthful bride ; and it was wormwood to her to 
 find her manoeuvres obstructed by the more 
 than knightly magnanimity of the high-minded 
 Junquera. Although neither so young nor so 
 handsome as the boyish d'Albufera, he was 
 incapable of stooping to become the puppet of 
 an envious woman's machinations. 
 
 Unfortunately, however, Carolina was as 
 
 p 2 
 
olG XAVIERA. 
 
 little conscious of enmity on the part of the 
 widow, as of this elevation of soul on the part 
 of her husband. Reared in the seclusion of 
 conventual life, she had not improved her mind 
 by the study of love-romances, printed or 
 acted ; had neither " run the gauntlet of a 
 string of puppies" in the ball-room of fashion, 
 nor refined her sentiments by the code of any 
 manual of tender devotion more modern than 
 the ballads of Granada, or the Righte Tragicall 
 Historye of Inez de Castro. 
 
 Unprepared, therefore, to espy indications of 
 passion in Albufera's dark eyes, she was equally 
 unobservant of Xaviera's cunning, and of the 
 dignified demeanour of Don Luis; and con- 
 tinued to laugh, and talk, and ride, and run with 
 Juanito, — suffering him to place the pome- 
 granate blossoms in the silken housings of her 
 jet-black jennet, and inviting him to join his 
 voice with hers in the fervent strains of some 
 old madrigal, or the unmeaning sentimentalities 
 of a modern canzonet. She even accepted from 
 him the gift of a dainty silken-eared spaniel, 
 such as seem formed to become the appropriate 
 
XAVIERA. 317 
 
 watch-dog of a lady's boudoir ; diminutive as 
 that wonder of a lap-dog in the fairy tale, which 
 lay concealed within a grain of millet-seed, and 
 originally destined by the gay gallant as a gift 
 of homage to Dona Florencia d'Andujar. 
 
 But, although the young hidalgo allowed him- 
 self to be confided in by Carolina as a brother 
 and roamed with in the shade, and sported with 
 in the sunshine, he had deeper thoughts and 
 deeper feelings concerning the lady of San 
 Felipe than could have been altogether conned 
 out of his lady mother's book of psalmody, or 
 acquired in the seminarium whence, but a few 
 months before, he had issued forth from stu- 
 dentship to gird on the sword of chivalry. 
 
 Whether his motives were brightened by in- 
 stinct or increased by experience, — stimulated 
 by the pulses of his own heart or the instiga- 
 tions of Dona Xaviera, — it might be difficult to 
 determine ; but certain it is, that he began to 
 see in the beautiful Carolina the youthful wife 
 of an elderly lord ; open as such, by established 
 precedent (and perhaps accessible), to the per- 
 suasive words and more persuasive sighs of any 
 
318 XAVIERA. 
 
 young and handsome cavalier who might be so 
 lucky as to penetrate into the sanctum of her 
 familiar friendship. 
 
 He drew closer to her side, therefore, when 
 they wandered together through the algarobba 
 groves of the Huerta ; seized her bridle-rein, 
 when they approached some rugged ascent in 
 the mountainous regions of the Puente de la 
 Viuda, and hung over her with more than 
 fraternal intimacy as they sat together at even- 
 tide, beside the opeu lattice of her bower win- 
 dow, soothing the summer air with music. And, 
 while the widow calculated upon poisoning the 
 ear of Junquera with hints of his wife's indis- 
 cretion, Juanito, on his part, to insinuate him- 
 self into the better graces of the wife, by at- 
 tempting to excite her jealousy of Don Luis 
 and the widow. 
 
 The first moment he found himself alone 
 with the lady of San Felipe, was sure to elicit 
 his lamentations over the destiny of one who 
 had been tempted to sacrifice herself in marriage 
 to a hoary libertine whose reminiscences of 
 former profligacy were still too strong to admit 
 
XAVIERA. 319 
 
 of his imbibing the principle of a pure and hal- 
 lowed affection. 
 
 At these condolences, Carolina at first 
 laughed heartily; but when again and again, 
 and circumstantially repeated, she at last grew 
 angry. Her soul was anything but disposed 
 to soften at Juanito's tale of perfidy ; she was 
 no less indignant at the imputed treachery of 
 Don Luis, than at the positive treachery of the 
 guest who had thought fit to unfold it to her 
 knowledge. Yet it was scarcely possible to 
 remain angry with her young companion. 
 Juanito laughed off the confession of his fault 
 with so good a grace, that she soon forgot to 
 tax him with his scandalous propensities ; and 
 the bride, and he who would have been so 
 suitably matched as her bridegroom, became 
 closer and dearer friends than ever. 
 
 Such, alas ! was the critical epoch selected 
 by Dona Xaviera for a definitive attack upon 
 the credulity of Don Luis di Junquera. 
 
 " You profess, I perceive, a somewhat 
 catholic latitude of faith in the virtue of woman- 
 kind, and the discretion of your charming 
 
320 XAVIERA. 
 
 Carolina/' said she, one evening, when she had 
 drawn him forth to amble by her side along the 
 castle bastions, holding in his hand her fan of 
 peacock's feathers and her comfit-box of carda- 
 mums, as became a gallant of his years and 
 breeding ; — " and, truly, you are right. It has 
 been observed by all in Valencia on this delicate 
 topic, that when a man so far presumes to out- 
 rage the customs of his country, as to unite the 
 pure blood of his race with that of a Neapolitan 
 rebel, he must needs have had especial incen- 
 tives to so mad an action. The peerlessness of 
 the object preferred, can alone exonerate its 
 rashness. " 
 
 " Methinks," replied Junquera, caressing his 
 beard, as with dignified gravity he stalked be- 
 side her, " methinks, Madam, the excellent 
 merits and attractions of Prince Pignatelli's 
 daughter afford a sufficient apology for my 
 alliance with a stranger of noble blood, even 
 admitting the right of all the old women in 
 Valencia to impugn my liberty of choice. " 
 
 " The superficial attractions of mere youth 
 and beauty/' quoth the widow, with a bitter 
 
XAVIERA. 321 
 
 smile, u are not always accounted, by the 
 opinion of the world, sufficing qualifications in 
 a wife. There was a time, my good Lord, when 
 parity of years, parity of station, parity of " 
 
 " There is a time for all things, Madam/' 
 interrupted Junquera, in a peevish accent. 
 ** When a boy, and trammelled by the preju- 
 dices of the narrow circles of that narrow city 
 which you are pleased to call the world, I, too, 
 fancied that the bloom and cheerfulness of 
 youth were secondary in importance to inter- 
 alliance with the more ancient houses of Va- 
 lencia ; for bloom and cheerfulness were then 
 familiar things to my eyes, and in the common 
 course of enjoyment. But I have grown older, 
 Dona Xaviera d'Andujar; and those who were 
 fair and guileless when I was young, have, like 
 myself, become morose, and crafty, and hard of 
 feature -, and now it is, that, enlightened by 
 their deficiencies^ I begin to appreciate the 
 value of loveliness of person and simplicity of 
 mind." 
 
 The mortification experienced by the widow 
 at this insolent inuendo, caused the habitual 
 
 p 3 
 
322 XAVIERA. 
 
 paleness of her complexion to vary into a green 
 and yellow tint, imitating that of the citron 
 fruits which turned their pale gold ripeness to 
 the sun in the fragrant orangery overlooked by 
 the bastions of San Felipe. Predetermined on 
 vengeance, her malice was now overflowing. 
 
 " Far be it from me," she cried, " to plead 
 the cause of age and deformity ; which none, 
 my Lord, regard with a more loathing eye than 
 I do. Yet I confess I know no cause why 
 maidenly modesty or matronly purity should 
 be held inconsistent with a smooth cheek, a 
 winning smile, and a waist of comely dimen- 
 sions. I can even figure to my fancy a lady of 
 San Felipe, a wife for the Conde di Junquera, 
 sufficiently graced in person to satisfy the fas- 
 tidiousness he affects, yet incapable of soiling 
 the high name with which he has endowed her, 
 by trifling with a handsome stripling — a stran- 
 ger, the affianced bridegroom of her husband's 
 ward." 
 
 u The Holy Trinity be judge over me !" — 
 muttered Don Luis, turning suddenly aside 
 towards the bastions, as if to extend his gaze 
 
XAVIERA. :J23 
 
 over the valley below. "Does the fiend 
 possess this woman? — On what poisonous 
 herb has she trodden ? — let not yet her mis- 
 chief-working tongue, betray me into unbe^ 
 coming emotion." 
 
 " Even now — even at this very moment/ 5 
 resumed Dona Xaviera, " when the birds are 
 carolling their even song among the bushes, 
 and the sunshine streams in mellow splendour 
 athwart the Huerta, and all things in nature 
 are arrayed as if to allure us forth to their en- 
 joyment, does it not please the lady countess 
 to tarry in her chamber, making music, or 
 making grimaces, for the diversion of yonder 
 fanciful boy ? — Ay ! my Lord, even though I, 
 her guest, her kinswoman, and her elder, — 
 even though yourself— her husband, and her 
 elder still, have condescended to solicit her 
 company in our promenade I" 
 
 " Twenty legions of fiends repay the crea- 
 ture's malice !" again muttered the Conde, 
 apart. " That I had but strength of mind to 
 stop her short at once !" 
 
 " And though such, my dear friend, may be 
 
321 XAVIERA. 
 
 the unseemly customs of the Sicilies," persisted 
 the Dona, bridling up with self-importance, 
 ** we old-fashioned wives and mothers of Va- 
 lencia, are accustomed to look with suspicion 
 on their introduction to our homes and 
 hearths." 
 
 " You do wisely," said Don Luis, abruptly. 
 " Should the Lady Florencia my ward for in- 
 stance, strive to introduce them into yours, 
 beware, Madam, beware of the innovation ; for 
 from her, such innocent freedom of speech were 
 an outrage against the established pruderies of 
 her country. But my Carolina drew breath on 
 a foreign strand; and on her, the Spanish ce- 
 remonial of the duenna and confessor would sit 
 as unbecomingly, as the basquina and mantilla 
 of an Andalusian on a sculptured goddess of 
 Greece/' 
 
 " 1 had ever imagined," insinuated the 
 widow, " that Prince Pignatelli's daughter 
 imbibed her notions of decorum in company 
 with my own daughter, in the Spanish convent 
 of the Assumption, in the Spanish city of 
 Valencia ?" 
 
XAVIERA. 325 
 
 " Rather from Heaven itself!" — interrupted 
 the Conde, with sudden warmth, rendered 
 furious by the pertinacity of his companion ; 
 " from Heaven, which blessed her with such 
 angelic innocence of heart I" — 
 
 " Innocence so absolute and complete/ ' re- 
 torted Dona Xaviera, " that she espies no evil 
 in twilight assignations with a gay Murcian 
 cavalier, whose whispers, if their nature may 
 be inferred from the heightened complexion 
 and enraptured glances which accompany their 
 utterance, can scarcely be listened to with im- 
 punity." 
 
 " Assignations ?" — reiterated Don Luis, in- 
 dignant against himself for giving ear to her 
 scandals, yet wanting the self-mastery to si- 
 lence them. 
 
 " Assignations !" persisted the widow 
 " When suitors of Don Juanito's age, and 
 heroines of that of Dona Carolina di Junquera, 
 meet together by appointment in some secluded 
 solitude, I know no other term by which to 
 designate the rendez-vous. Between ourselves, 
 my good Lord, your lady is in possession of 
 
326 XAVIERA. 
 
 the key of a certain private garden — the pavi- 
 lion-garden of the castle — which has been made 
 the little instrument of mighty evil." 
 
 " That very key/' observed Don Luis, 
 musing, " did I myself present to Carolina on 
 her arrival at San Felipe, to secure to her a 
 tranquil and unmolested haunt, and, when I 
 asked it of her this morning, with the view of 
 exhibiting the frescoes of the pavilion to — to — 
 to " 
 
 " Juanito," said the lady stoutly. 
 
 " Even so, — to Don Juanito d'Albufera, that 
 very key, did my wife protest was no longer 
 in her possession." 
 
 " She may have spoken truly; — it might 
 at that moment have been in his.' 3 
 
 u And ingenuously laying the blame on her 
 own carelessness," continued Junquera, with- 
 out adverting to the lady's inuendo, " she ad- 
 mitted that she had lost it from her chamber !" 
 
 " What matter where or on whom she laid 
 the blame ?" cried Dona Xaviera, impatiently j 
 " 'tis where yourself, Don Luis di Junquera, 
 shall be pleased to affix it, that the stain will 
 
XAVIERA. 327 
 
 rest. Nevertheless, 2 would be the last to in- 
 fluence your counsels. See with your own eyes, 
 hear with your >wn ears, and exhort or con- 
 demn with your own lips. This evening, so 
 please you, we will watch together in the plan- 
 tations leading to the pavilion, and then " 
 
 " Play the spy upon my wife — degrade my- 
 self into an eaves -dropping lacquey?" — cried 
 the Don, well content to have found a pretext 
 for the explosion of the wrath already boiling 
 in his bosom. " I — I, who have proved my 
 superiority to the vulgar foibles of matrimonial 
 life, by bestowing on my Carolina the freedom 
 of action enjoyed by the wives of other 
 countries ? — Better call back at once the 
 duenna and the veil, and render myself a 
 laughing-stock to all the prudes and viragos of 
 Valencia !" 
 
 " As you will !" — replied his companion, 
 drawing up with assumed dignity. " But per- 
 mit me to doubt whether the charming Dona 
 Carolina di Junquera will leave it a matter of 
 your choice to become a laughing- stock to the 
 
323 XAVTKRA. 
 
 world. The distinction may chance to have 
 been already and amply conferred !" 
 
 So saying, and having at that moment 
 reached the portal, Dona Xaviera, as she 
 claimed back the abanico from his hands, cour- 
 tesied with mock respect to the ground, and 
 glided through the open wicket ; leaving to the 
 unfortunate husband, the alternative of ending 
 his perplexities by accepting her counsels, or 
 by a leap from the fearful northern rampart of 
 the Castle overlooking the rocks of San Miguel 
 de los Reyes. 
 
 " Fool and wretch that I am !" — murmured 
 he within the troubled depths of his soul ;— * 
 "fool, for having given scope to the possibility 
 of such mischiefs as this she- demon an- 
 nounces ; wretch, for wanting courage to clear 
 up my misgivings, or confirm the sentence of 
 my despair ! — Meet him by twilight — moon- 
 light — midnight — (how said she ?) — in the so- 
 litude of the pavilion garden ? Carolina ! — my 
 w ife — mine I Oh ! that yesterday were but 
 come again ; that I could be asleep and wake, 
 
XAVIERA. 323 
 
 confirmed in reliance on her excellence, as be- 
 fore this boy's arrival — that I could but look 
 once more into her face, and hold it, as at 
 first, the mirror of every earthly — heavenly 
 virtue! — I, who so trusted her — who gave my 
 honour into her keeping, without so much as 
 an apprehension of being forced, even in jest, 
 to call it back for scrutiny ! — Meet him by 
 night, in the Pavilion garden ! — to what end ? 
 — does she not see him every hour of the day ? 
 Has he not the entree of her oriel chamber, 
 unchecked, unwatched ? — Ay, ay ! — but there 
 my dainty lady is subjected to importunate 
 visits ; — there, this boy — this stripling — this 
 damned, damned lover-minion— may be ob- 
 structed in his homage by the intrusion of a 
 jealous husband or officious waiting-maid. 
 And they must needs appropriate to themselves 
 the pure retreat I had devoted to her secret 
 meditations — her solitary delight ! — ■ Faugh ! — 
 I cannot breathe this evening — a heavy storm 
 seems brooding in the air ! — How fearfully still 
 is everything around me ! — Yet the strangest 
 tumults are ringing in my ears, and my breast 
 
330 XAVIERA. 
 
 is loaded with oppression. Carolina r — Juanito ? 
 — Oh ! that it were — that it were with me but 
 as yesterday ! " 
 
 But, as he gradually drew towards the Castle, 
 calmer thoughts possessed themselves of the 
 mind of Junquera ; and the high self-reliance 
 of a noble nature returned with double force. 
 
 " I will visit her chamber/' said he firmly^ 
 as he set foot upon the private stair leading to 
 Carolina's apartments — " I will question her 
 with frankness, as husband to wife, even as I 
 could wish that she would deal with me in re- 
 turn. She so loved her old father — she so 
 loves and venerates him still — that I will not 
 believe she can have stooped to that which 
 would lay his gray hairs with sorrow in the 
 grave !'* 
 
 And thus, taking counsel of his better self, 
 he ascended slowly towards the private en- 
 trance especially devoted to his use in Caro- 
 lina's apartments, which having gently opened 
 — oh, grief ! — oh, consternation ! — he found 
 the arras' hangings discreetly drawn over the 
 door as during the chilly autumn evenings, so 
 
XAVIERA. 331 
 
 as to screen the persons within from sudden 
 interruption ! 
 
 It had been but the work of a second to tear 
 aside the tapestry, and at once unveil the 
 offenders ; but, as Don Luis raised his hand for 
 that purpose, the voice of Albufera modulated 
 to tones of the tenderest intercession suspended 
 his movements. At that critical moment, the 
 cry of honour was stifled in the breast of Jun- 
 quera^ and his hand involuntarily clenching 
 the hilt of his rapier, revealed his determina- 
 tion to play the spy — to hear and revenge all 
 — to become a listener, perchance a murderer I 
 
 " Believe it not as you list," were the first 
 words uttered by the unlucky Juanito — (and 
 Don Luis could not but figure to himself, as 
 he stood with his limbs convulsively pressed 
 against the threshold, the blooming cheek of 
 his Carolina fanned by the perfidious breath 
 that gave them utterance) — " but 'tis as certain 
 as the truth of Heaven, that a league somewhat 
 more tender than of amity, subsists between 
 Dona Xaviera d'Andujar, and your respected 
 
332 XAVIERA. 
 
 lord. Disposed though we may be to interpret 
 favourably of the conduct of both, I am bound 
 to declare that I have seen nods, and winks, 
 smiles, passing after a most unseemly fashion 
 between my future mother-in-law and her 
 daughter's guardian." 
 
 " It may be so — it may be so — it may — it 
 may be so !" said, or rather sang, the gay- 
 hearted Carolina, lightly touching the strings 
 of her guitar as if in accompaniment to her 
 giddy affirmation — " and why not, I pray 
 you ? — Junquera is Dona Xaviera's near kins- 
 man, and was her husband's friend ; and there 
 may be private matters of business stirring be- 
 tween them, which it little imports us to 
 know." 
 
 " And can you content yourself," exclaimed 
 Albufera in a still closer whisper — a whisper 
 that caused the ardent blood of Don Luis to 
 scorch his very veins — " that he whom you 
 profess to love should withdraw his gaze from 
 your lovely countenance — (a countenance 
 whose merest smile is worth the Indies !)— « 
 
XAVIERA. 333 
 
 to fix it on the meretricious graces of a 
 withered coquette ? — 'Tis on Dona Xaviera 
 that the eyes of Junquera are riveted — 'tis to 
 
 her his compliments are addressed — 'tis " 
 
 " And would you have him then Hidalgo, as 
 he is/' interrupted Carolina, somewhat moved, 
 " inflict his caresses in public upon his wife, 
 like some water-carrier or melon-vender of the 
 street-corners of Valencia ? — Look you, Don 
 Juanito ! this arraigning of my husband's con- 
 duct, is, on your part, but a graceless effort, 
 Don Luis di Junquera is indeed my elder in 
 years. I knew it when we wedded, and was 
 not daunted by the fact ; I know it now, and 
 the knowledge serves only to mingle some 
 shade of reverence with my attachment. I 
 love him, Juanito, — I honour him — as those 
 alone deserve to be loved and honoured who 
 know how to show love and honour in return. 
 And, if at times I am moved to regard his mea- 
 sures as mysterious or of ill account, I have 
 but to look down yonder on the olive groves of 
 the Huerta, and mark how dim and dark the 
 aspect of their foliage, till the breeze, wafting 
 
334 XAVIERA. 
 
 aside the leaves, reveals their silver lining to 
 the day. — So it is with the character of Jun- 
 quera ! 
 
 "Bah!" interrupted Albufera, while un- 
 consciously the heaving breast of Don Luis 
 drew calmer breath, and his hand released its 
 clutch of the pommel of his sword—" this is 
 the mere language of romance ! — But facts are 
 stubborn things : — and, when I show you this 
 key, which I have managed to coax out of 
 Dona Xaviera, this key, which by her own 
 admission has long afforded her means of 
 secret interviews with the Conde, and which, 
 I, dearest, loveliest Carolina, humbly trust to 
 render the protecting talisman of mutual hap- 
 piness between us, more blest than ever fell to 
 
 the lot of mortal man " 
 
 " That key is mine !" interrupted Carolina, 
 eagerly snatching it from his hand. a It must 
 have come into the possession of our kinswo- 
 man by treachery ; but not by the treachery of 
 my husband, for Junquera is incapable of an 
 unworthy thought or action. Since" Dona 
 Xaviera became our guest (unwilling to admit 
 
XAVIERA. 33j 
 
 into a spot rendered sacred by happiest and 
 holiest reminiscences) I have neglected the 
 Pavilion garden, and noted not that the key, 
 for some invidious purpose, had been with- 
 drawn from my chamber. But now I bid you 
 restore it, my Lord ! — Yes ! — I bid you restore 
 it with the authority of one who, insulted by 
 your evil designs, has a right to assume so 
 much command over your proceedings. Give 
 me the key, then, and quit this place for ever ! 
 We have been happy companions together, but 
 I was deceived in you, Don Juanito ! — and 
 thrice deceived in the mother of Dona Floren- 
 cia d'Andujar. No more, Sir ! — Repair, at 
 least, the injury you have done, by departing 
 from San Felipe without compelling me to 
 acquaint my husband how greatly we had mis- 
 placed our trust :— I would willingly spare him 
 the pain of the discovery ! — God forgive you, 
 my Lord — God forgive you ! — and save us in 
 future from such false friends !" 
 
 " I obey you," replied the young Hidalgo, 
 in a subdued tone; for in a moment he saw 
 that the indignation of the lovely lady was 
 
,*}3G XAVIERA. 
 
 genuine and undissembled. " With a heavy 
 heart, I quit your presence ; but believe me at 
 least when I swear on my life, my soul, my 
 honour, that I am guiltless of all participation 
 in the plots of Dofia Xaviera ; — guiltless, dear- 
 est, sweetest Carolina, of all but adoring 
 you I" 
 
 The sound of a heavy weight falling on the 
 chamber, reduced his protestations to silence. 
 Don Luis di Junquera, overcome by the emo- 
 tions contending in his bosom — by the sense 
 of shame at his own position as a spy — of in- 
 dignation at the perfidy of his kinswoman, — 
 and, above all, of triumph in the noble excel- 
 lence of his wife — had fallen into a deep 
 swoon. Ere he recovered perfect conscious- 
 ness, Dona Xaviera and her protege, apprised 
 that their misdemeanours were brought to light, 
 had discreetly taken their way back to Valen- 
 cia, without waiting for the ceremony of a 
 farewell interview. 
 
 Six years afterwards, when Don Luis di 
 Junquera was gathered to his Gothic fore- 
 fathers, it was to his widow he bequeathed the 
 
XAVIERA. 337 
 
 vast inheritance of his fortune and estates ; and 
 it is recorded in the scandalous chronicles o£ 
 Valencia, that five years afterwards, the fair 
 Carolina was moved to share them with — Don 
 Juanito d'Albufera. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
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