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 a I B RARY 
 
 OF THE 
 U N IVERSITY 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 825 
 M355em 
 
 V. I
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 ' TWO OLD men's tales," " MOUNT SOREL, ETC. 
 
 The reason firm, the temperate will, 
 Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill, 
 A perfect woman, nobly planned. 
 To warn, to comfort, and command, 
 And yet a spirit still, and bright 
 With something of an angel light. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER, 
 'great MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1846.
 
 FREDERICK SHOBERL, JUNIOR, 
 
 PRINTER TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS PRINCE ALBERT, 
 
 51, RUPERT STREKT, HAYMARKET, LONDON.
 
 M 3 SSe. nn 
 
 TO 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, ESQ., 
 
 \ ONE FROM AMONG THE COUNTLESS NUMBERS OF THOSE DEEPLY 
 ^ INDEBTED FOR THE ADVANCEMENT OF THEIR MORAL 
 
 ^ LIFE TO THE FINE INFLUENCES OF HIS 
 
 \ OFFERS THIS IMPERFECT TRIBUTE OF ADMIRATION AND 
 
 POETRY, 
 
 GRATITUDE. 
 
 4
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 Der feine GrifF und der rechte Ton, 
 Das lernt sich nur um des Feldherrn Person. 
 Wallenstein's Lager. 
 
 WRITTEN IN AN EVENING OF SPRING, SITTING BY MY 
 
 SLEEPING AUNT, AND LISTENING TO THE 
 
 THRUSH SINGING NEAR ME. 
 
 Oh ! sing again, sweet bird of heav'n ! 
 
 And pour thy varied, mellowed strain, 
 While twilight dims the shower of even, 
 
 Soft sinking o'er the fading plain. 
 
 Repeat that wild outburst of bliss. 
 
 That tender call — that thrill of joy — 
 
 And soothe, in such an hour as this, 
 
 The impatient thought — the wearied sigh. 
 
 Thy song, upon the ear of Night, 
 
 Comes warbling soft, and seeks the Power 
 
 Who fills thy spring-time with delight. 
 And thanks Him for the falling shower. 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 For budding stem, for leafy cell, 
 
 For dew-bedropped, and green retreat, 
 
 Thy trembling notes' incessant swell, 
 The offering of thine incense sweet. 
 
 God, who first called thee into life, 
 To feed, to sing, and to enjoy, 
 
 ***** 
 ***** 
 
 He called thee too to taste of heav'n, 
 To dwell beneath this azure sky, 
 
 With these the feeling soul was given 
 To thrill with love and extasy ! 
 
 He breathed the trembling spirit here. 
 Alive to all of Nature's charms, 
 
 Which greets her with the adoring tear, 
 And lives enraptured in her arms. 
 
 Does evening draw her misty veil. 
 And hang on every flower and tree, 
 
 While crowding songsters swell the gale — 
 To thee the sense is extasy. 
 
 Or, when dark lurid clouds hang round, 
 Which glittering seams of lightning part. 
 
 The thundering crash, the deep resound — 
 With shuddering pleasure fill thine heart. 
 
 Or, dost thou taste the breeze of morn, 
 When the sun flames upon the east, 
 
 And sparkling dewdrops deck the thorn, 
 Is it not rapture to thy breast ?
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 3 
 
 Or, when the moon is riding high, 
 While silvery clouds around her roll 
 
 O'er heaven's wide, starry, canopy — 
 What whispers to thy swelling soul ? 
 
 Hath God thus highly strung thine heart — 
 Mysterious rapture bid thee know — 
 
 And would'st thou from these scenes depart, 
 And to the world for pleasure go? 
 
 By empty aims, debasing cares, 
 
 And Avorthless hopes thy bosom torn, 
 
 By coldness chilled, oppressed by glare, 
 To mediocrity be worn. 
 
 Then Avretched in its last estate. 
 
 And heartless in the path that's trod. 
 
 Grow discontented with thy fate, 
 
 And cast a murmuring tliought to God ! 
 
 " Artless lines enough, my dear," said the 
 fond mother, " and full of all the inaccuracies 
 of a young unpractised hand, but interest- 
 ing to me, because they paint my Emilia;" 
 — and she passed her hand calmly and kindly 
 over her daughter's shining hair — " too truly 
 paint her, I am afraid, my dear enthusiast/' 
 continued she, looking fondly at her daugh- 
 ter's upturned face. 
 
 B 2
 
 4 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 They were sitting upon the terrace; the 
 mother upon a green garden-seat, the daughter 
 upon the grass at her feet. 
 
 '' Too truly !" said she, patting the loved 
 cheek glowing with health and animation. 
 "And yet..." and she looked at the paper 
 which she held in her hand, and then at her 
 daughter again; "there is nothing sickly in 
 all this — nothing affected or namby-pamby, 
 which, you know, I detest : high strung, per- 
 haps, that heart has been by the Almighty, 
 but to me it seems destined for high, heroic 
 things." 
 
 The daughter's eyes glistened, but she said 
 nothing, and the mother went on as if speak- 
 ing to herself. 
 
 " Heroic ! did I say ? — You are thinking " 
 — and she took Emilia's hand— " of deeds of 
 high courage — of strenuous effort — of van- 
 quished difficulty — of victory achieved — of 
 dragons and monsters of the wilderness — of 
 Una, and her lion — of Clarinda, and her lance 
 — or rather of Joan of Arc and a country 
 saved. That is the sort of thing that was in
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 5 
 
 your foolish little head. Come, tell truth — 
 say it was so, my Emilia !" 
 
 ^' Ah, mamma ! what is the use of confessing 
 to the divine ^ It was some sort of confused 
 stuff of that sort, when you used the word 
 heroic ! — a very big word for you, mamma.*' 
 
 " Well, my dear, I think it is a very great 
 compliment to the power of your verses that 
 they have, for the moment, excited such a 
 very sober person as I am to the ' Ercles 
 vein.' " 
 
 She gazed at her daughter again. She was, 
 what she said, a very sober, person, who rarely, 
 if ever, indulged in the slightest exaggeration 
 or even warmth of expression ; and still more 
 rarely suffered herself to be betrayed into 
 anything beyond the demonstration of calm 
 and well disciplined feeling : but now she 
 looked at her daughter's ardent, animated, 
 yet most truthful and ingenuous coun- 
 tenance, sighed and repeated again the word 
 heroic. 
 
 " Ah, my poor little poet ! you are come 
 three centuries too late into the world ; but 
 heroism is not out of date, though the
 
 6 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 outer garb and vesture of it are so changed 
 that perhaps you poets — who, you know, are 
 apt a little too much to be caught by the out- 
 sides of things — perhaps yon poets might 
 not know it again. 
 
 " Heroism ! — To those who consider rightly, 
 it is a far nobler thing now : when it is no 
 longer a sound to mark the glowing excite- 
 ment, the lofty enthusiasm, which fights and 
 struggles in the brilliant midday, gilded by 
 the sun, all warm and genial ; but the slow, 
 silent, death-struggle of the soul in solitude, 
 darkness, and obscurity, against the heavy, 
 wearying, every-day evils of every-day actual 
 life : sacrifices of the hourly and the small, 
 but the sum of which is existence — not of- 
 fered in the fervour of the moment, but given, 
 as it were, by inches ; the heroic devotion to 
 others, and those others, not even worthy ! far 
 from grateful, too often resentful ; combining 
 patience, perseverance, endurance, gentleness, 
 and disinterestedness — that is the heroism of 
 our day, my dear poet !" 
 
 *' I know, dear mamma, that you are
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 7 
 
 terribly fond of the fireside virtues; I am 
 sure they would be truly heroic in me !" 
 
 " So it would seem," said her mother, 
 pointing to the words " impatient thought 
 and wearied sigh " in the little poem. 
 
 Emilia coloured a little. 
 
 " It was very wrong to feel so ; but my 
 poor aunt is so impatient !" 
 
 *' And my poor Emilia so ill-disciplined." 
 
 " Dearest of mothers, do not condemn me 
 too severely ; there are some virtues so hard 
 to practise : for those I love I feel as if I 
 could gladly die !" 
 
 " So I believe : but we must learn to die 
 for those we cannot love," said her mother, 
 gravely. 
 
 " Ah, mother, mother ! let it be for those 
 I love — a dry crust — privations — pain — 
 danger ! " she exclaimed, brightening and 
 smiling : "let me be like that charming Lady 
 Harriet Acland, in the American war. Let 
 me go with my husband to the battle, and 
 nurse him in his tent, and follow him in a 
 boat and under the fire of ten thousand mus- 
 kets, to the log hut in the woods, among the
 
 8 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 wildest Indians : let me at least do that, 
 dearest mamma ? 
 
 " And oh !" cried she, and looking round 
 with enthusiasm upon the wide spreading and 
 beautiful landscape before her — " anything 
 with Nature ! Only let me live with Nature ! 
 Only let me be free ! Don't shut me up in a 
 town ! Don't let me live in a street, ' peeping 
 over chimney tops,' and then * turn my sick 
 heart to think of other things.' Oh, mamma ! 
 I never can, or will, live in a town !" 
 
 "That must be as your husband pleases, 
 Emilia." 
 
 " Husband ! — oh ! mamma, we need not 
 think of that this five hundred years ;" and a 
 slight blush just heightened for a moment the 
 colour of her rosy cheek. And the mother's 
 lip was just parted by as faint a smile ; for 
 the ffate at the end of the lono^ terrace walk 
 was heard to open, and a young man was 
 seen advancing from under the trees. 
 
 The gentleman who now approached them 
 was a handsome young man, dressed in plain 
 clothes, but with a certain air which at once 
 marked him for a military man.
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 9 
 
 In that day, about the year 1809, when 
 our military life was an active military life ; 
 one in which most men devoted to the pro- 
 fession had seen the grim visage of war face 
 to face — had tasted of all its actual priva- 
 tions, sufferings, horrors and humanities, of 
 its heroism, and of its terrors, military men 
 really were a race apart, schooled in a world 
 peculiar to themselves, which gave something 
 ideal to the character, and frank and gallant 
 to the bearing, and were exquisitely attrac- 
 tive to women. They, on their side, when 
 they returned for short intervals to their 
 country and to their homes, reposing, for a 
 space, from the life of struggle, hardships, 
 and exertion to which they were accustomed — 
 and leaving the rude camp for that gentle so- 
 ciety, felt as if they were restored to a 
 paradise of innocence, peace, and beauty — 
 and were animated by all the sweet passions, 
 delicate and romantic feelings, and devoted 
 loyalty to women and to their country of which 
 you, who live in these piping days of peace 
 and luxury, can form no conception. As 
 little can you comprehend the effect all this 
 
 B 5
 
 10 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 might produce upon the romantic imagina- 
 tion of nineteen in the country-house of a 
 gentleman of moderate fortune, which was visi- 
 ted rarely except by fox-hunting squires, 
 boobies of elder sons very imperfectly edu- 
 cated, as elder sons were very apt to be then 
 (they are a good deal better now), the apothe- 
 cary, or the attorney ; the clergyman of the 
 parish too often in those days (they are 
 extremely advanced indeed since then ; it is 
 one of the best advancements made in our 
 day), belonging to the class of either fox- 
 hunters or of boobies. 
 
 What a sort of domestic Avatar it was, 
 when a young man, practised in that true, 
 universal life, which pervades an army in 
 actual service — his character elevated by that 
 spirit and courage which results from the 
 generous combat with veritable pain and 
 death — his mind and imagination filled with 
 all the infinitude of lively and romantic 
 images which various climes and various 
 scenes present — came into a society such as 
 this ; and, finding little sympathy for the 
 abundance of his ideas and the elevation of
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 11 
 
 his heart among the aforesaid foxhunters 
 and boobies, devoted his time and found his 
 happiness in the ever-ready sympathy of 
 sweet and imaginative woman ! — spending 
 hours unwearied by her side, while the rest of 
 the world were hunting, or drinking, or idling 
 — filling her fancy with the most bewitching 
 pictures, and winning, as Othello did, his way 
 to the too sincere and tender heart " by the 
 dangers he had known." 
 
 The young Lieutenant-Colonel — for young 
 as he was he had already attained that high 
 rank — (men died thick and fast in those days 
 of blood and carnage ; and advancement, rapid 
 but usually well-earned, waited on the sur- 
 vivors) the young Lieutenant-Colonel was a sort 
 of distant connexion of Mrs. Wyndham ; her 
 brother. Sir Herbert Montague, having mar- 
 ried the sister of his father ; so, as they all 
 were well acquainted together, there was a 
 kind of cousinhood maintained among them. 
 Mrs. Wyndham treated him something after 
 the manner of an affectionate aunt, and 
 Emilia with something of the unreserve of a 
 cousin ; that is to say, young as she was, she
 
 12 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 would scarcely have become so conversable 
 and so well acquainted with any other man, 
 and therefore no other man would have had 
 so good an opportunity of discovering Avhat a 
 very clever and charming creature she was. 
 
 He came however, sauntering along the 
 terrace, and did not seem to proceed with 
 any extraordinary despatch at the sight of 
 the white dresses of the ladies upon the green 
 seat at the other end. He was twisting a bit 
 of wild rose in his mouth, and lounging, or 
 rather strolling along, with his hands in his 
 pockets ; looking about him, and advancing at 
 so leisurely a pace, as would have completely 
 exonerated him, even in this our day, from 
 the suspicion of any vulgar, red-coat gal- 
 lantry, or empi^essement about the ladies. So 
 that Emilia does not appear to be in any 
 danger of being betrayed into an unfortunate 
 passion, like the lady on the castle wall, 
 for a knight " who loves and who rides 
 away." 
 
 The conversation, however, between the 
 mother and the daughter was stopped, and 
 they both sate looking at him. He turns
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 1 3 
 
 round, looks behind him — recedes a few paces 
 —advances as much again — stops — looks — 
 observes — twists the bit of briar in his mouth 
 — but, upon the whole, advances, and at last 
 reaches them, saying — 
 
 " I am looking at that curious sort of 
 scheme that my good uncle " (he used to 
 call Mr. Wyndham uncle, and Mrs. Wyndham 
 aunt, because he had been a great deal with 
 them when he was a child) — " that my good 
 uncle seems to be carrying on there. Does 
 be mean it for a military defence, or for a 
 primrose bank for my pretty cousin here to 
 amuse herself by rolling down ?" 
 
 " I don't quite understand the plan," said 
 Mrs. Wyndham. " You know I am no land- 
 scape gardener." 
 
 " I wish to Heaven you were, ma'am," said 
 he, abruptly, " and you would never set 
 about scarping this pretty, green bank, for 
 the sake of making a walk over a small grassy 
 hill deserve the name of terrace; which, it 
 must be confessed, it has most unjustly ob- 
 tained. The shrubberies that are all being 
 cleared away, and those foxgloves and broom
 
 14 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 bushes, were so pretty on that rough bit of 
 ground there. Were they not, Emilia ? It 
 will be years before it is even turfed ; and it 
 will have no keeping or character, after all." 
 
 He sat down by her upon the grass. 
 
 " A terrace, Emilia — a real terrace — is, or 
 should be, quite a different sort of thing from 
 this petty bit of ambition — I beg your par- 
 don, ma'am," looking up at Mrs. Wyndham : 
 " nobody can possibly think this place pret- 
 tier than I do, as it is — or was, alas ! but 
 really, one who has seen a noble terrace such 
 as I have seen at — — , towering above a 
 high natural escarpment, and commanding 
 half a county, and the vast ocean, all mingling 
 with the deep, deep blue of the sky, in the 
 most glorious confusion, is vexed, Emilia, to 
 see this sweet, sylvan scene, wanting to dress 
 itself up in a paltry imitation. Now, Emilia, 
 as it used to be, when I was last here — it was 
 spring-time then, you know — that brake was 
 — nothing could be prettier : the green fern 
 just springing up, and the wood flowers, those 
 white, purple-veined things . . . . " 
 
 " Wood anemones."
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 15 
 
 " Yes — yes — and the birches in little knots 
 — and the golden broom — and foxgloves...." 
 
 " No," said she ; ** you must not put wood 
 anemones and foxgloves in flower together — 
 that won't do." 
 
 " Won't it ?" drawing a little closer to her ; 
 " but I may put a hare in ; because, you 
 know, hares run about at all times of the 
 year : and do you remember our catching the 
 bright eye of the brown hare, as she sat upon 
 her form, and then scudded off, and we 
 scrambled after her, and how you tore your 
 frock? You don't care to play such tricks 
 now you have been at Madame Devery's 
 school." 
 
 " I should hope not, indeed — or a world of 
 good instruction would have been sadly thrown 
 away. But you must not say school.'* 
 
 " What must I say ? — teach me everything, 
 small and great ;" and he came still a little 
 nearer, and looked down at her as she sat 
 idly twisting a long, feathery grass round her 
 fingers — ''teach me everything, great and 
 small, proper and right ; I shall learn every- 
 thing from you — I never forget one of your
 
 1 6 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 lessons. Everything you say dwells with me. 
 I shall think of them many a fine, silent 
 night, when I mount guard in Spain — I shall 
 remember your sayings at Elvas — I shall 
 never say foxglove, and what do you call it ? 
 — wood-what ? — in the same sentence again — 
 and I shall never say Madame Devery's school 
 — only say what I shall say." 
 
 " You remember so accurately about the 
 wood anemones that it is quite worth while 
 to take pains with you," said she, laughing. 
 " You must say Madame Devery's, simply, for 
 it is not a seminary — that's a man's thing ; 
 and it is not an establishment — that is a vul- 
 gar thing ; and it is not a school — that is an 
 unheard'Oi thing : it is purely and simply 
 Madame Devery's ; and be sure you call it so, 
 if you chance to talk about it to Miss Hes- 
 keth to-morrow." 
 
 " I'll take care. And now," still watching 
 her hands as they twisted the grass into a 
 thousand idle forms, " tell me who is coming 
 to-morrow ; because I guess we are going to 
 be very grand, for certain pineapple, grape, 
 and fish reasons, best known to myself."
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 1 7 
 
 " We are going to be extremely grand," 
 was the answer; ^' so pray put on all your 
 best manners, and scour up all your most won- 
 derful and unbelievable travellers' tales, to 
 astonish all our weak minds, as you know 
 very well how to do," 
 
 *' But you must tell me who is coming — 
 you must give me the carte du pays — you 
 must describe, as only you can describe, these 
 people who are coming to drink your father's 
 best Challiers port, or I shall not know how 
 to behave myself. You know we come home 
 such brutes and savages from the wars." 
 
 She gave a merry glance at him. ' 
 
 " Well, then, the day, you must know, is in 
 honour of Sir Thomas and Lady Maria Hes- 
 keth, who, you are to understand, stand in a 
 very close and singular relationship to me, 
 inasmuch as I am mamma to their child." 
 
 " Curious fact enough : we wait expla- 
 nation." 
 
 " We were at Madame Devery's together, 
 you must know; and, child as you still pre- 
 tend to think me here, I was there a very, 
 very old, and reverend, great girl, and Lisa
 
 18 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 was four years younger, which in those re- 
 gions counts for half a century ; and so she 
 was put under my sage guidance ; and so — 
 she became my child." 
 
 " I understand. And what sort of a child 
 did she prove?" 
 
 " Oh, she was and is such a sweet, dear, 
 naughty little thing !" 
 
 " Very pretty, and all that, I suppose." 
 
 " Oh, you never saw anything half so 
 pretty ; and such a little, gay, bewitching — 
 and such a loving little darling !" 
 
 " And you had the care of her ?" 
 
 His eyes were all this time fixed upon her. 
 She had turned a little away, and did not see 
 it, but the mother did; and the mother 
 smiled to herself, and thought — " Dear, inno- 
 cent Emilia ! describing your friend in such 
 enchanting colours ! But it is of no use : he 
 is not for Miss Hesketh." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! and much care I took — I really 
 did,'' turning to him, and looking seriously. 
 " You may smile, but I really did. She was 
 a careless little thing, and it was her turn to 
 tear her frocks then, and my turn to mend
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 19 
 
 them ; and I really liked it as well. Imagine 
 if I loved her!" 
 
 He smiled, and said nothing. The mother 
 was right — the subject did not interest him. 
 
 Presently he lifted up his head from a sort 
 of reverie into which he had fallen, and he 
 said — 
 
 " Now you must tell me about Sir Thomas 
 and Lady Maria." 
 
 She glanced up at her mother. 
 
 " Must I describe Sir Thomas, mamma ?" 
 
 The mother shook her head. 
 
 " Mamma says no. I don't like Sir Tho- 
 mas : he is not one of my sort." 
 
 "And Lady Maria?" 
 
 " No ; I positively do so exceedingly dis- 
 like Lady Maria, that, without appealing to 
 mamma, I will of myself say, find her out for 
 yourself — that is, if you think it worth while 
 to take the trouble." 
 
 '' I like to hear you describe. Is there no 
 one else coming?" 
 
 " Oh, yes ; quite a party. We sit down 
 eighteen to dinner. Mr. and Mrs. Hook ; and 
 Mr. and Mrs. Cook ; and Mr. James and two
 
 20 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 Miss Hooks; and Mr. John and one Miss 
 Cook ; and Mr. Squire Phillips, as he is called 
 here, and MrSe Phillips, whom I like exces- 
 sively — stay, how many have I got ?" She 
 counted them upon her fingers — " and myself 
 fifteen, and yourself sixteen, and Mr. Wilcox 
 — oh, I had nearly forgotten darling Johnny 
 Wilcox ! — and who can the last be ?" looking 
 up at her mother. " I am short one." 
 
 " Your father desired a place might be 
 reserved for Mr. Danby, though he did not 
 think it very probable that he would stay." 
 
 " The man from London that comes on 
 business to papa ?" 
 
 " The same." 
 
 *' Well, that will not be anything to us. 
 He will have nothing to do with us. So 
 Colonel Lenox must make his amusement, as 
 he can, out of those already reported — and / 
 recommend Johnny Wilcox." 
 
 " And why so ?" 
 
 " Because he is an original, which none of 
 the rest, but Squire and Mrs. Phillips, in- 
 deed — and they are as old as the hills — can 
 be called. People may be excessively un-
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 21 
 
 cultivated, and excessively devoid of anything 
 like ton, or the conventional manners of the 
 world, and yet be anything in the world but 
 original. May they not, mamma ?" 
 
 Her mother nodded. 
 
 " Bad copies of bad models : for little minds 
 do not even dare to be themselves. Johnny 
 Wilcox for me." 
 
 Man is born, bred, reared, dyed, double 
 dyed, in jealousy — it is the universal passion. 
 
 He did not like even to hear her praise 
 Johnny Wilcox. 
 
 " He seems very happy in your admi- 
 ration." 
 
 " So I assure you he is." 
 
 " Your 7ieM favourite to Miss Hesketh ?" 
 
 " My ver^ next?" with a saucy smile. 
 
 " I am impatient to behold the man ho- 
 noured with so large a share of Miss Wynd- 
 ham's esteem." 
 
 " Really ! Well, you shall be indulged to- 
 morrow." 
 
 And now they all three rose and began to 
 walk up and down the terrace. 
 
 She was in excellent spirits and full of
 
 22 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 talk, for she had an abundant imagination, an 
 open, innocent heart, and a most overflowing 
 tongue. I always thought her very hand- 
 some when I knew her, but that was, I be- 
 lieve, because she exercised such a charm 
 over every one : the learned in such things 
 would not have called her so perhaps. 
 
 Emilia had not regular features, but no 
 one could deny that she was a very fine girl, 
 full of health and animation, with two very 
 expressive eyes of whatever colour you please 
 to call them, for no one could ever decide the 
 matter — a sweet, delicate mouth, expressive 
 of both sense, temper, and feeling — a nice, 
 steady, round chin — abundance of brown hair 
 — a colour like a rose — a light, elastic, but 
 somewhat full-formed figure, with a pair of 
 the most beautiful arms in the world, which 
 last advantage gave a singular elegance to 
 her gestures : however, when you were with 
 her, or talking to her, you seemed as little to 
 think of what she looked like as she did 
 herself. 
 
 It was about eight o'clock in the evening, 
 and she was sauntering up and down with her
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 23 
 
 gipsy hat upon her arm, chatting and smiling, 
 when the supper-bell rang, and two gentlemen 
 emerged from the shrubbery; one was her 
 father, the other his man of business ; that is 
 to say, an eminent legal gentleman from 
 London who was with him. 
 
 This gentleman — though rather an un- 
 couth one he was — practised in some one 
 of those branches of the profession, which 
 confine men to their chambers, and never 
 summon them forth to plead in public, 
 or, indeed, to mingle much with men in 
 general. There is, however, in this chamber- 
 practice abundant exercise for the acutest 
 intellect, and a vast experience of the world 
 is acquired, though usually of the worse half 
 of the world. Men who devote their lives to 
 such pursuits become, or are apt to become, 
 singular in their habits, suspicious in their 
 views, unsympathizing and cold in their tem- 
 pers; their intellects are often almost pre- 
 ternaturally excited ; though improving in 
 acuteness rather than extension — in clearness 
 rather than in breadth of comprehension. 
 
 Mr. Danby was a thin, spare man, whose
 
 24 EMILIA WYxNDHAM. 
 
 clothes rather hung upon than dressed him ; 
 his hair was either rusted or grizzled, it was 
 difficult to say which, but fell in a sort of 
 uncouth disorder over a long and thin face, 
 very pale, and only illuminated by a slow, but 
 bright and piercing eye : his manner was not 
 vulgar, for he was never in the slightest de- 
 gree occupied with himself; it was uncouth, 
 yet not disagreeable, because it was so per- 
 fectly plain, and that of a thoroughly sensible 
 man : the only thing unpleasant about him 
 was the expression of his mouth and his sar- 
 donic smile ; there was something cynical and 
 suspicious in both which was displeasing. 
 
 The gentlemen came up together, and Mr. 
 Wyndham presented Mr. Danby to his wife 
 and daughter, with that sort of air which 
 says, " this gentleman is highly valued by me ; 
 make him welcome." 
 
 On their approach, the Colonel had turned 
 aside, and his hands, as usual, in his coat 
 pockets, had sauntered away by himself. There 
 was nothing he abhorred so much as vulgar 
 associations, and, with the impertinence of his 
 age and profession, he hastily concluded that
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 95 
 
 all men of business were of a sort to be 
 avoided. 
 
 In the mean time, Mrs. Wyndham ad- 
 dressed Mr. Danby with her usual politeness, 
 and Mr. Wyndham and his daughter talked a 
 little together ; and thus, walking all four in 
 a line, they approached the house, where the 
 supper bell was still ringing, and entered for 
 supper. 
 
 Mr. Danby's eye had Ji<red, as the expres- 
 sion is, the young lady when he was presented 
 to her ; indeed, she was not at that moment 
 to be disregarded, even by an old, hackneyed 
 lawyer: she looked so charming and hand- 
 some, all blooming and animation, with her 
 brown hair about her face, and her gipsy hat, 
 hanging upon her arm. And as the gentle- 
 man entered the house, he stooped his head, 
 and in a low voice asked the father whether 
 he remembered Miss F. (a celebrated actress) 
 when in the perfection of her attractions? 
 for that he thought his daughter very like 
 her. 
 
 Some years ago he had pnce seen Miss F. 
 
 VOL. I. r.
 
 26 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 perform one of her celebrated parts at 
 the theatre, and she had served as his stan- 
 dard of ideal perfection from that time to 
 this.
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 27 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 May not an ass know when the cart draws the horse ? 
 
 King Lear. 
 
 They entered a fair proportioned, well- 
 built modern house ; one, at least, that might 
 have served two generations. 
 
 It was handsomely furnished ; the rooms 
 were light and cheerful ; the whole aspect of 
 things within particularly agreeable to the eye. 
 There was a large roomy entrance-hall, lofty 
 and airy, a handsome dining-room, a grand 
 saloon, breakfast-room, and library, as is 
 usual in houses of this description, all fitted 
 up in a style that had been, rather than what 
 would now be called,very handsome ; for it had, 
 in fact, been the work ,of Mr. Wyndham's 
 father, and was in the taste of the latter part 
 
 C 2
 
 28 EMILIA WYNDIIAM. 
 
 of George II. 's reign. There were cabriole 
 chairs, and satin curtains, and girandoles, 
 and gilded and painted tables, all in some 
 degree bearing the marks of antiquity ; and 
 the only thing displeasing to the taste was, 
 that these were intermixed with sundry 
 rich and expensive pieces of furniture in a 
 style entirely different, for it was after the 
 French taste of the period, which was a la 
 Grecque or a la Egyptienne, according to 
 the ideas of the great conqueror who then 
 ruled France, or of his fair Creole bride, 
 whose exquisite taste in these matters we, 
 of the second renaisiiance, are sometimes in- 
 clined to dispute. Certainly the sphinx- 
 headed ornaments upon some of the newly 
 imported pieces of furniture, and the pure 
 lines of Grecian art in others, harmonized ill 
 enough with the rich, elaborate, and some- 
 what quaint magnificence of the Pompadour 
 reign. 
 
 One other thing was also rather unpleasant 
 at the Oaks — for such was the name of Mr. 
 Wyndham's place — there were always altera- 
 tions going on ; and I know few things so
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 29 
 
 disagreeable as bricks, mortar, and carpenters 
 about, even to those who have not to pay for 
 them. Mr. Wyndham was one of those who 
 is ever doing and has never done — the slave 
 of ten thousand imaginary necessities, which 
 proved an equal drain upon his purse, and 
 upon the patience of his clear-siglited and 
 very sensible wife. 
 
 Of his plans, however, she was in general 
 kept in pretty complete ignorance, for he be- 
 longed to that weak species of characters 
 who are most particularly jealous of inter- 
 ference, and of every kind of influence — not 
 excluding even the influence of reason. His 
 wife, therefore, after a few ineffectual efforts 
 gently to impel in a right direction one with 
 understanding so far inferior to her own, had 
 yielded up the point, and had employed her- 
 self in quietly endeavouring to remedy such 
 evils of importance as arose, or to endure 
 with good humour such trivial ones as were 
 perpetually occurring. 
 
 But the false and irksome position which 
 she occupied had produced an effect upon her 
 character not altogether to have been desired.
 
 30 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 She was silent in her habits ; cold, and almost 
 severe in her general aspect ; cherished within 
 her own mind a thorough disgust of life, and 
 was very little liked, understood, or appre- 
 ciated. 
 
 The only thing she cared for upon earth 
 was Emilia : and such was the view she had 
 taken of a woman's position in society, that 
 she looked upon her rather as the destined 
 victim of unavoidable and irritating evils, 
 than as the hopeful candidate for love and 
 happiness. Her time and efforts were em- 
 ployed in endeavouring to strengthen and 
 fortify the mind of the young and imaginative 
 girl, to lower her expectations, strengthen 
 her powers of endurance, and prepare her for 
 that existence which she had herself found to 
 be such a cheat. 
 
 It was fortunate that Emilia's temper was 
 so cheerful and hopeful that it resisted the 
 baneful influence which such views might have 
 exercised over her habits of mind, so that, 
 vvhile well disciplined and prepared for the 
 combat, her spirits were buoyant, as if she 
 had already gained the victory.
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAltl. 31 
 
 They entered the dining-room, and sat 
 down to supper, which was almost as elaborate 
 as a modern dinner, and differing from it 
 chiefly in the circumstance that all the viands 
 were disposed upon the table at once. Emilia 
 and Colonel Lenox sat on each side of Mrs. 
 Wyndham ; the strange gentleman by the 
 master of the house. 
 
 The two parties did not much amalgamate at 
 first, or join in conversation. Mr. Wyndham 
 and his guest talked in a low voice to each 
 other ; the three others cheerfully discussed 
 any trifling matters before them. 
 
 The general composure and tranquillity 
 were first interrupted by Mr. Wyndham ad- 
 dressing his wife in a vexed, fretful manner 
 with — 
 
 " I was promised some grouse for supper 
 to-night, and here is only an odious roast 
 fowl." 
 
 " Why, I am very sorry you should be dis- 
 appointed, Mr. Wyndham," was the reply, 
 " but when the man asked half-a-guinea a 
 brace for them, I really felt inclined to be
 
 32 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 shabby, and send him away without his 
 reckoning." 
 
 " Every thing one particularly likes is 
 always half-a-guinea a brace with women," 
 was the muttered reply, accompanied by a 
 slight sneer of intelligence to his guest, who 
 however made no answer to the appeal, either 
 by word or gesture. 
 
 " What have you there before you, ma'am?" 
 
 " Sweetbreads." 
 
 " Humph ! — Emilia, is that an apricot 
 cart ?" 
 
 " No, papa — cherry, I think." 
 
 " Are apricots, too, madam, half-a-guinea 
 a half-dozen, because I rather expressed a 
 wish for some, I think, yesterday ? — but it's 
 no matter. Luckily," addressing his friend, 
 " I am no epicure ; it being no longer the 
 fashion, as in my father's days, for ladies to 
 superintend the preparations for their hus- 
 bands' comforts. Much better employed they 
 are now ; since the sex have become intellec- 
 tual, and meddle with metaphysics and 
 politics, and read Rousseau and d'Alembert,
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 33 
 
 a noble contempt for these trifling matters 
 has arisen, and it is fortunate for those who 
 can fancy black-broth." 
 
 " Well," said Colonel Lenox, " self-denial 
 is the last virtue I should think necessary to 
 practise in this house. Here is some excellent 
 looking stuff before me; let me send you 
 some of it." 
 
 " Savoury jelly ! — sham !" was the con- 
 temptuous answer. " Biggs," to his butler, 
 '* cut me a slice of that ham, and give me a 
 glass of Burgundy. I have a little choice 
 wine here," turning again to his guest ; " will 
 you try it ?" 
 
 " With pleasure." And, turning to Emilia, 
 he asked — " Won't you take wine?" 
 
 She accepted, and pledged him ; and as she 
 did so, a soft and very agreeable smile for an 
 instant gave sweetness to the cynical mouth. 
 
 He looked as if he very much wished to 
 enter into conversation with her, but did not 
 exactly know how to begin. At last, with 
 some abruptness, he inquired whether she 
 ever came to London. 
 
 She had been there only for very short 
 
 C 5
 
 34 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 periods of time, she said, when she was at 
 school at Twickenham ; and she really cared 
 very little whether she ever saw it again — she 
 did not like London. 
 
 " All young ladies prefer the country, as a 
 matter of course," was Mr. Wyndham's re- 
 mark, '' it is so amiable." 
 
 Mr. Danby cast his cold, penetrating eye 
 upon the young lady at this ; but she neither 
 coloured with consciousness nor with temper, 
 she only laughed good-humouredly at the 
 little sally. 
 
 The eye softened. 
 
 " May I ask what it is you find so disagree- 
 able in London ?" 
 
 " Everything — the noise, the heat, the 
 wretched imprisonment ; the strong contrasts 
 — the misery and the glare, the want and the 
 luxury, the beggars on the pave, and the 
 glitter on the ring." 
 
 The stranger mused a little, and said — 
 
 " I suppose these contrasts must strike an 
 unpractised eye — I confess I never see them 
 in this light. Want and wretchedness there 
 are, and must be, everywhere, so long as there
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 35 
 
 are improvidence and crime, of which they are 
 the concomitants and the consequences. I do 
 not know that people are more innocent or less 
 wretched in the country." 
 
 "I think they are probably both," said 
 Mrs. Wyndham ; " but certainly, as Emilia 
 says, there is not that harsh contrast — you do 
 not see misery and luxury elbowing one 
 another as in the streets — in the country, at 
 least, luxury is in the habit of helping misery." 
 
 " And, perhaps, thereby increasing it ; but I 
 believe charity, or the playing at such, is one of 
 the affectations of the age. I understand every 
 lady in the country has her charity club and 
 her charity school in her park — she could not 
 at all get on without it — it is said." 
 
 Emilia looked at him with a sort of indig- 
 nant surprise. He did not seem to observe it, 
 and went on — 
 
 "Nothing disgusts me like pretence and 
 seeming." 
 
 " But what do you call pretence and seem- 
 ing?" cried Colonel Lenox. " You first 
 assume that the thing is so, and then imagine 
 yourself to be disgusted at it."
 
 36 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 *' I neither assume, nor imagine myself. 
 I believe human nature to be a sham, and I 
 hate shams ; that is all I say." 
 
 " And woman's nature the sham of shams," 
 cried Mr. Wyndham. 
 
 " I don't pretend to know anything about 
 that," was the reply; " the sex has always 
 been an enigma to me. But my course of 
 life has led me little in the way of it." 
 
 " The better for you," was Mr. Wyndham's 
 short answer, thrown back in his chair, and 
 seeming to think the subject too uninteresting 
 for discussion. 
 
 There was silence for a short space. Then 
 the stranger began again. 
 
 " Then Miss Wyndham never intends to 
 visit London again." 
 
 " I don't say that. I hope to see it many 
 times ; but I don't like it." 
 
 " Consistent !" from Mr. Wyndham. 
 
 A cynical smile from the guest. 
 
 Colonel Lenox sat all this time playing with 
 the ears of Mr. Wyndham's favourite setter, 
 a permitted guest even in the supper-room. 
 He coloured a little at each of Mr. Wynd-
 
 EMILIA WYNDIIAM. 37 
 
 ham's rude speeches, but prudently said no- 
 thing. 
 
 " I should have thought," pursued Mr. 
 Danhy, addressing Mrs. Wyndham, " that life 
 in the country would want both excitement 
 and variety, and that the brilliancy of a 
 London season would have charms irresis- 
 tible even for the most reasonable of her 
 sex." 
 
 " Perhaps so, if our fortunes gave us a 
 right to take a brilliant share in such brilliant 
 doings ; otherwise, I confess with Emilia, that 
 I think London a very dull place." 
 
 The stranger fixed his eye upon her with a 
 curious sort of expression, and the suspicious, 
 sarcastic smile again stole over his features. 
 He glanced at Mr. Wyndham. 
 
 " Oh, nothing can equal our prudence and 
 economy," said the master of the house, with 
 a meaning smile. 
 
 Lenox again raised his head, looked from 
 one to the other, seemed to grow very hot, 
 pushed back his chair, and went to the 
 window.
 
 S8 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 *' What a lovely moonlight night !" he 
 exclaimed, throwing it up. 
 
 Emilia and Mrs. Wyndham were soon at 
 his side. Mr. Danby followed. 
 
 They all stood in the large window, looking 
 out upon the beautiful starry night ; the 
 moon tinting the trees of the shrubberies, and 
 throwing deep, heavy shadows on the grass- 
 plat. It was a most delightful evening; a 
 heavenly scene of silence, harmony, and 
 peace. 
 
 There was a general pause. 
 
 " I do not wonder that Miss Wyndham 
 cannot endure London," said a voice, at 
 length, close behind her. 
 
 She looked up. It was Mr. Danby. He 
 was looking at her with a softness that quite 
 altered the expression of his face. The man 
 of business even sighed, as he said, 
 
 " This is, indeed, a very different sort of 
 existence. It is very beautiful." 
 
 " We are very fond of this window," said 
 Mrs. Wyndham ; " it opens to the ground, and 
 gives us such a perfect view of what we esteem
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 39 
 
 one of the prettiest points about the grounds. 
 Emilia, give me my shawl ; it is such a lovely 
 night that I am inclined to take a walk on the 
 grass -plat." 
 
 " Come along then," said Lenox, offering 
 his arm, and they stepped out together. 
 
 Emilia followed, and Mr. Danby with her. 
 He walked by her side some time in silence ; 
 he seemed, as indeed he was, full of the in- 
 fluences of the society and the scene : it was 
 something new — it was something unexpected. 
 In that dry and withered heart — dry as the 
 parchments upon which he endorsed his con- 
 veyances — a sort of soft, life-breathing in- 
 fluence and warmth began to diffuse itself — 
 a charm equally unexpected, unintelligible, 
 and ineffable. 
 
 He had never experienced such sensations 
 in his life before in the forty-five years of 
 his life ; for he had spent existence chiefly in 
 his chambers. He knew but one woman in- 
 timately, and that was his own mother, with 
 whom, in her house in Charlotte Street, Bed- 
 ford Square, he regularly spent his Sundays 
 when they were not employed in bringing up
 
 40 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 arrears of business ; the only other person he 
 saw daily was his old servant, his own very 
 ugly old bedmaker. He had not been in the 
 company of young ladies for years. 
 
 Strange it may appear, but men actually 
 do pass their lives in this manner, without 
 seeming to be aware how existence is thrown 
 away, and end in the solitude with which they 
 begun, unless some happy accident brings 
 them into contact with some young and pretty 
 girl, with whom they immediately fall in love ; 
 and who, if she is very poor, and very desirous 
 of getting married, perhaps condescends to 
 accept and to tyrannize over them for the 
 rest of their days. 
 
 The man before us was not, however, of 
 the ordinary stamp. He was a man of very 
 superior abilities, and had deep feelings, quite 
 unknown to himself, lying, as it were, con- 
 gealed within his breast. He had that species 
 of imagination which belongs to intellect and 
 passion united, but it had so rarely been ex- 
 cited that nothing would have astonished him 
 more than to have been suspected of pos- 
 sessing it. He looked upon himself as the
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 41 
 
 most anti-poetic being on the face of the 
 earth, and cherished the most supreme and 
 sovereign contempt for all of the imaginative 
 tribe. The only bad feature in Mr. Danby's 
 character was his incurable suspicion ; he had 
 inherited it from his mother, who was never 
 known to think well of any human being. 
 
 He does not appear to have had the slightest 
 suspicion of what was going on within him, 
 as he walked in silence by Miss Wyndham, 
 absorbed in the most agreeable sensations; 
 while she, thinking him all the time very dull, 
 and longing to join Colonel Lenox and her 
 mother, dutifully and politely forbore to step 
 forward. 
 
 At last he found courage to address her 
 again ; and then he talked in so rational and 
 sensible a manner that she began to find it 
 not at all tedious to listen. His conversation 
 became almost interesting as he described, in 
 words eloquent by their brevity and sim- 
 plicity, the new sensations which this peep 
 into nature had afforded to one whose 
 life was so monotonous and uncoloured. Any- 
 thing in the least degree approaching to per-
 
 42 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 sonal compliment he had too much native 
 sense of propriety and good taste to indulge 
 in, yet she could not help feeling rather 
 pleased that a man, evidently of so strong and 
 masculine a tone of mind, could take interest 
 in talking to such a girl as herself. 
 
 They passed a beautiful China rose-tree, at 
 that time a rarity in England ; it was in full 
 bloom, and, as the moonbeams fell upon its 
 lovely waxen flowers, he stopped to admire 
 them : she politely gathered the prettiest she 
 could find, and, mixing them with a sprig or 
 two of white jessamine, presented them to him. 
 — Those flowers, years and years after, were 
 laid upon that man's bosom in his coffin. 
 That very night they were deposited between 
 two sheets of law paper, carefully and neatly 
 folded ; and they never afterwards left him. 
 Wherever he went, this small, white, folded 
 sheet of paper, carefully pinned together, 
 travelled too. There have been secret tears 
 shed over that little paper ; and yet the man 
 appeared all the time just as dry, business- 
 like, suspicious, and cynical as ever ; and was 
 so, in every other instance, I believe. —
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 43 
 
 " Thank you," said he, taking them from 
 her hand, " I never saw any flowers I thought 
 so pretty before ; indeed, I rarely see flowers, 
 or anything else, in truth," (with another sigh) 
 " that can awaken the agreeable sensations I 
 experience here. You are very fond of this 
 place, Miss Wyndham." 
 
 " Excessively ! foolishly ! — if it can be 
 foolish to love one's home too well ; but, cer- 
 tainly, I should be thought very foolish if any 
 one knew how greatly I prefer it to all the 
 much finer places about us." 
 
 " Miss Wyndham never means to leave it, 
 of course ?" with one of his slow smiles. 
 
 This she thought rather impertinent from 
 the acquaintance of an hour, so she felt her- 
 self entitled to walk a few steps on, and join 
 her mother and Colonel Lenox, with whom 
 she soon fell into pleasant, animated discourse, 
 and the stranger was left to himself; but this 
 he did not much care for: he was rather 
 pleased not to have to talk, but to follow her 
 white dress with his eyes as it floated before 
 him — like the swan-like wings of some 
 angel he thought it — and gazed at and smelled
 
 44 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 at his flowers; following the party up and 
 down with his slow, slovenly, shambling kind 
 of gait — now and then looking at the sky, 
 and now and then bending his eyes to the 
 ground, and now and then relieving his heart 
 with a sigh. 
 
 He was indeed experiencing new and un- 
 expected sensations, which the sweet influ- 
 ences of nature, the beauty of the night, 
 excited, as the moon shed its sweet light 
 upon the loftiest shrubs and trees of the plan- 
 tations among which they were walking, and 
 cast its deep mysterious shadows upon the 
 grass — the white moths flitting, from time to 
 time, like the sylphs of the night, across their 
 path — the profound stillness of all around 
 only interrupted by the low murmuring tones 
 of the talkers before him. 
 
 He was not one ever accustomed to con- 
 verse with himself, to question or to analyze 
 his own sensations, nor even to take much 
 account of his own conduct : to all such finer 
 operations of the mind he was a stranger.
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 45 
 
 His intellect was occupied with those nice 
 and difficult questions of abstract law which 
 belong to his branch of the profession ; and 
 when he rested his mind, it was usually by 
 the perusal of a newspaper, or, at most, one of 
 those common narrative novels of the day 
 which, before the mighty Master of the North 
 raised the tone and enlarged the scope of such 
 compositions, might, with some very rare ex- 
 ceptions, be called literary pass-times. That 
 Mr. Danby did, however, read novels is cer- 
 tain ; and, except his newspaper, he read 
 nothing else. His feelings and imagination 
 had never had time or opportunity to develop 
 themselves ; he rarely or never left London ; 
 and in London mingled not at all in general 
 society. Clubs, as they now exist, were not 
 then invented. The few associations of this 
 sort were combinations of those who already 
 were in and loved society ; and not a means 
 of drawing the solitary student from his 
 chambers, though it were merely to look upon 
 the world. 
 
 Of female society, as I have said, he knew 
 nothing. The sort of electric effect which
 
 46 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 the apparition of Emilia, in all the bloom of 
 youth and health, prattling gaily to her com- 
 panions, her straw hat hanging upon her arm, 
 produced upon him, was unintelligible to him. 
 He did not know — he did not ask himself 
 what was the matter with him ; he yielded 
 himself like a lamb to the sweet intoxicating 
 influence, without reflection upon its cha- 
 racter, far less with the slightest idea of con- 
 necting his present sensations with any future. 
 The walk had ended, and they all retired to 
 their apartments. The lawyer was shown into 
 his. On the table of the room lay several of 
 those papers tied with red tape, the perusal 
 and correction of which formed the business 
 of his life : before preparing for rest these 
 were to be looked over. 
 
 He had his precious bouquet still in his 
 hand, and this is what he did with it. 
 
 He poured out a glass of water — put the 
 flowers one by one into it with the minutest 
 care, so that not one leaf should touch the 
 wet, nor a flower be defiled; then he sat 
 down to his papers, putting the glass as close 
 to him as it could possibly stand ; and then
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 47 
 
 he bent down his head, and was soon poring 
 over his conveyances, and immersed in business 
 — while the glass of flowers stood there, 
 shedding a sort of unseen influence over his 
 feelings, and perfuming, if I may be allowed 
 the expression, every secret chamber of his 
 head and heart.
 
 48 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 But, hark ! the chiming clocks to dinner call ; 
 A hundred footsteps scrape the marble hall. 
 
 Pope. 
 
 The next day was a day of extraordinary 
 festivity. A great country dinner. 
 
 Mr. Wyndham was excessively fond of 
 giving dinners, and he gave them in a style 
 of profusion that vied with the entertainments 
 of those around him, who were most of them 
 people much richer than himself. 
 
 Mrs. Wyndham had attempted her best to 
 unite magnificence with prudence in these 
 displays, and to diminish by a skilful manage- 
 ment the expense of entertainments which 
 their frequency rendered a matter of some 
 importance ; but she found herself perpetually
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 49 
 
 thwarted in her endeavour; and at length, 
 wearied of contending the matter between a 
 two guinea and a five guinea dish of fish, she 
 gave it up in despair, consoling herself with 
 the reflection that, after all, a hundred 
 a-year, more or less, would cover all these 
 differences ; and, as she was kept in perfect 
 ignorance of her husband's affairs, quite un- 
 aware how many of these hundreds were 
 wasted in the same manner. 
 
 It is incredible how some men contrive 
 to get through their money, without either 
 credit, amusement, or conscientious satis- 
 faction. 
 
 The dinner was really a very handsome 
 affair, conducted, as the supplies were, under 
 Mr. Wyndham's particular directions; and 
 the dessert, which his own hothouse and 
 greenhouses were inadequate to supply, quite 
 maofnificent. 
 
 You will not be surprised to hear that Mr. 
 Danby had accepted the invitation to stay 
 the day, but he was to depart in the mail 
 that evening at ten o'clock. 
 
 He and Mr. Wyndham had spent the whole 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 morning together in Mr. Wyndham's study ; 
 Emilia, her mother, and Colonel Lenox in 
 their usual favourite place upon the terrace, 
 for the weather was exquisitely fine, and the 
 ladies sat at their work under the tree, while 
 Colonel Lenox read the *' Giaour" to them. 
 He had just got it down from London. It 
 was hard to say which of the three seemed to 
 enjoy it the most. It was not till late in the 
 afternoon that Mr. Wyndham and Mr. Danby 
 having finished business, the one gentleman 
 adjourned to his butler's pantry to super- 
 intend the decanting of his various wines, on 
 the excellence of which he greatly piqued 
 himself, and the other, finding the house 
 deserted, took his hat and strolled out. 
 
 He rambled about for some time, inhaling 
 all the delights of a fine August day among 
 the pleasant shrubberies, grass-plats, and 
 knots of flowers and rose-trees which sur- 
 rounded the Oaks, and on which Mrs. Wynd- 
 ham and her daughter lavished so much care, 
 and spent so many sweet and peaceful hours 
 employed. 
 
 He did not very well seem to know what be
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 51 
 
 was seeking, but he was certainly in search of 
 something as he pursued his walk. At last, 
 coming out from behind a thick knot of 
 laurels, bird-cherry, and mountain-ash min- 
 gled, he found himself just behind the tree 
 under which the party was sitting. 
 
 Mrs. Wyndham was on the green seat, en- 
 gaged on a piece of tapestry work ; and on a 
 lower bench, on which her feet rested, and 
 separated by her, one from the other, sat 
 Emilia and the Colonel. 
 
 He was reading aloud, and the tones of his 
 sweet rich voice were to be heard ; she had 
 let her hands and her netting-needles fall into 
 her lap, and, lost in attention, her eyes rest- 
 ing upon him, was drinking in every delight- 
 ful word of the delightful poem. 
 
 Mr. Danby stood at a little distance behind, 
 observing them. It was a beautiful picture 
 of social happiness — and perfect ! It wanted 
 no addition. The two young people seemed 
 formed for each other : the mother's presence 
 gave a sort of sanctity to the scene. The 
 stern man of law stood in mute observation, 
 as one riveted by some enchantment to the 
 
 D 2 
 
 :;r rItv of "Xl^'0<>-
 
 52 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 spot. Any idea of jealousy, even of envy, 
 was foreign to his thoughts and feelings : he 
 had never even idealised such a picture of 
 happiness as belonging to himself — he had 
 never in thought brought the charming crea- 
 ture and himself into the same circle of 
 thought, as I may say. He had something of 
 the sensation we experience when we view in 
 some exquisite work of art a scene we never 
 hope to see realised upon earth, but the image 
 was being engraven upon his heart in in- 
 delible characters ; and the sigh, with which 
 he turned away, unperceived, and resumed 
 his solitary walk in the shrubbery, is probably 
 better understood by you, my reader, than it 
 was by himself. 
 
 It was three o'clock, and time to go in and 
 dress. And, at a quarter to four, our party 
 assembled in Mrs. Wyndham's dining-room, 
 expecting the carriages to arrive. 
 
 The drawing-room is all in its best dress. 
 Several articles of expensive furniture have 
 arrived from London a few days ago, and Mr. 
 Wyndham is walking up and down the room, 
 surveying them all with considerable anxiety :
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 53 
 
 now, with his foot, smoothing down his new 
 double-pile carpet ; now stopping to gaze at 
 four girandoles which, rather too elaborately 
 ornamented, occupy the four corners of the 
 room ; and with which he does not seem well 
 satisfied. 
 
 He is better pleased with a new Italian 
 table of fine marbles, ornamented with the 
 usual birds and basin, which, very handsomely 
 mounted, occupies the pier between the two 
 large windows. 
 
 Mrs. Wyndham is sitting upon her sofa, 
 and he goes up to her from time to time. 
 
 " I don't quite like those girandoles, after 
 all, Mrs. Wyndham." 
 
 She had assured him when he ordered 
 them that he would find them too elaborate 
 and heavy for his room, and had received only 
 a pettish reprimand for her interference. She 
 was, however, too prudent to remind him of 
 that. 
 
 '* I am sorry they do not please you, but I 
 think they look very well." 
 
 " How can you be so wanting in taste ! 
 Don't you see how much too gorgeous they
 
 54 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 are for the rest of the furniture ? Either I 
 must change them, or we must refurnish the 
 whole room/' 
 
 " Much better change them. But do you 
 think it much signifies ? The room looks very 
 well. They will give abundance of light ; 
 and I dare say nobody will care about them 
 but ourselves." 
 
 " That is always the way you talk, in your 
 dry utilitarian style, which you think sen- 
 sible. / could not endure such a blemish 
 before my eyes for a day !" 
 
 And he turned pettishly away. He soon 
 came back again, however, with — 
 
 " How do you like my carpet, madam ?" 
 
 " It is a very handsome carpet." 
 
 " Ricb — but the colour rather too glaring. 
 I thought it had been flatter." 
 
 " So I thought too, when you showed me 
 the pattern." 
 
 '* Thought what ! Why couldn't yon say so 
 at the time ? Here is a carpet that has cost 
 me seventy guineas at least, and all spoiled by 
 a little mistake in the colour ! Why could you 
 not say what you thought?"
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 55 
 
 " I did say — I thought it had been flatter." 
 
 " I dare say the fellow has sent me the 
 wrong pattern, after all. Oh ! you thought 
 it had been flatter! What a rascally 
 fellow ! I am sure this is not what I chose ; 
 but he thought to get rid of a less saleable 
 pattern, I'll be bound. I have a good mind 
 to return the carpet on his hands." 
 
 '* I am afraid you cannot do that, for it 
 was certainly the pattern you chose." 
 
 " I am almost sure — nay, now I look at it 
 again — I am quite certain it was not the pat- 
 tern I chose." 
 
 Mrs. Wyndham gave a dissenting shake of 
 the head. 
 
 " You always love to contradict me, that I 
 know ; but / am sometimes in the right. I 
 am certain the reds are very considerably 
 brighter." 
 
 Mrs. Wyndham rose, crossed the room 
 deliberately, opened a card-table drawer, took 
 out a twelve-inch square of carpet, and laid 
 it upon the floor. 
 
 " Pshaw !" 
 
 And he turned away to the window, for the
 
 56 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 ten-thousandth time under a mistake ; and as 
 ready on the ten thousandth and one occasion 
 to be as offended with contradiction as ever. 
 
 His mode of getting out of this scrape was 
 to be sulky, and not to speak to his wife again 
 for an hour. 
 
 And in such miserable daily, nay, hourly 
 contentions, excited by such frivolous and 
 petty interests, was this high-minded and ex- 
 tremely . clever woman destined to pass the 
 best part of every day for twenty years of her 
 life. 
 
 Emilia was the only spectator of the scene. 
 She had become so accustomed to her father's 
 fretful temper from her childhood, that it 
 seemed to her as a natural annoyance which 
 was as a matter of course to be there, and 
 which troubled her no more than the noise of 
 the great wheel did the sick workman at 
 Coalbrook Dale. Her mother, a woman of 
 much reflection, had, as soon as she became 
 aware of the unimprovable nature of this 
 trifling, vain character — united to a peevish, 
 fretful temper — endeavoured to meet the evil 
 in the best manner she could.
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 57 
 
 She had soon obtained sufficient mastery 
 over her own temper and feelings, not to 
 suffer them to be outwardly, in the least 
 degree, discomposed by these perpetual an- 
 noyances; and though she never could pre- 
 vent a certain pain within upon every fresh 
 occasion — which kept her heart perpetually 
 sore — she was able to conceal this from her 
 daughter ; with all a mother's generosity, 
 most carefully avoiding, by look or gesture, 
 to excite a sympathy in her daughter's heart 
 which might cloud her young spirits. She 
 had succeeded to such perfection that, without 
 the slightest insensibility to her mother's hap- 
 piness, Emilia had become perfectly insensible 
 to her father's temper : and, like a good 
 child, submitted to his wayward and perverse 
 ways cheerfully and good-humouredly, as she 
 thought a child ought to do. 
 
 Colonel Lenox was less passive. It made 
 him excessively hot and impatient ; but as he 
 had, on occasion of one or two outbursts, re- 
 ceived an intimation from his aunt that such 
 an interference was .quite inadmissible, he 
 used to sit champing the bit, and pulling the 
 
 D 5
 
 58 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 setter's ears, and admiring the sweetness and 
 good humour of his aunt and cousin, with as 
 little outward demonstration of sympathy as 
 might be. 
 
 It was, however, considered fortunate by 
 both ladies when upon such occasions he 
 chanced not to be there. 
 
 He now, however, came in, looking exces- 
 sively charming and handsome, particularly 
 well dressed and elegant, and quite prepared 
 to make an impression upon the heart of Miss 
 Hesketh if he should feel so inclined ; how- 
 ever, for the present, he made his way up to 
 Emilia with a good deal more emfressement 
 than was ordinary with him. She was sitting 
 near an open window, and looking very 
 pretty, and he drew a chair close to her. 
 
 " You were not tired with sittinof so Ions: 
 out of doors ? Nay, I need not ask you — 
 how well you are looking to-day ! Mr. Wil- 
 cox and his heart will be in danger. What is 
 this pretty chain made of that is hanging in 
 this nice negligent manner round your neck ?" 
 (taking up one end of the long, pendent orna- 
 ment) " and this cross V
 
 ExMILIA WYNDHAM. 59 
 
 " That is an amulet. It is to guard me, 
 you know, from all evil influences." 
 
 " From the influence of an evil eye ? — No 
 doubt. Very a propos. There is one eye, at 
 least, perpetually bent upon you — for evil or 
 for good, I cannot tell which ; but you cer- 
 tainly have fascinated that lanky scrivener 
 whom your father seems to make such ac- 
 count of." 
 
 " Do you know that scrivener is a very 
 sensible man. You cannot think how agree- 
 able he made himself last night." 
 
 " Ah, naughty Emilia !" he exclaimed, with 
 one of his sweetest and most fascinating 
 smiles ; " don't praise him as you did Johnny 
 Wilcox. I believe I could find in my heart to 
 be jealous of this footstool if you praised it." 
 
 " You want to absorb all admiration in your 
 sweet self," said she, laughing. " I did not 
 give you credit for so much selfish vanity." 
 
 " Give me but the power to absorb the 
 admiration of one human being, and I will 
 give up all the rest of the 'varsal world," 
 said he in the same tone, but with a tender-
 
 60 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 ness in his eye that sent the blood coursing to 
 her cheek. 
 
 The company began to arrive. 
 
 The Hooks and the Cooks 1 shall not stay 
 to describe — they are just such as every- 
 body in the world is. You may fancy them 
 seated upon the chairs, playing scenery for 
 the more principal characters of the piece, 
 which is very much the destiny of such people 
 in real life. Mr. Wilcox was next announced : 
 a rather rustic-looking youth, with fair hair, 
 grey eyes, ruddy complexion, and not very 
 finely cut features ; yet with an honest heart 
 and a simple character, which made him wel- 
 come wherever he went, and particularly 
 welcome to Emilia, on whom he doted — with 
 a most generous passion, it is certain, for it 
 was totally without hope, and consequently 
 escaped the anguished alternations of despair. 
 He worshipped indeed, rather than loved ; 
 for love without hope is, it is said by the 
 learned in such matters, an impossibility. To 
 serve her even in the smallest things was the 
 purpose of his life : to attend her on horse-
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 61 
 
 back, to dance with her at a county ball, to 
 dine at Mr. Wyndham's, and have to call 
 afterwards, his principal pleasures. It must, 
 however, be added that he kept up his health 
 and spirits by a deep devotion to the sports of 
 the field, which second passion, no doubt, 
 assisted to maintain the first in rational order. 
 
 Every body had been seated at least half an 
 hour; and Mr. Wyndhara was beginning to 
 grow very fidgety, and to look at his watch, 
 before the splendid coach and four, with ser- 
 vants attending on horseback, was seen driving 
 up the approach, and Sir Thomas, Lady Maria, 
 and Miss Hesketh were announced. 
 
 You who live in the rich harvest of knights 
 of all descriptions, and for all reasons, and 
 baronets without number — the happy result 
 of our victories both in arms and commerce, 
 and of the rapid progress of our wealth and 
 population — think very little now-a-days, I 
 day say, of a Sir, but years ago it was a very 
 different thing, and Sir Thomas was honoured 
 accordingly. He was, moreover, a man of 
 very good family, and one of the oldest 
 baronets in England ; and Lady Maria was the
 
 62 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 daughter of the Earl of Bandon, and a person 
 of the first fashion. 
 
 She was a very showy woman, still young, 
 and with pretensions to be still younger. 
 She came in with a slip-slop fine lady air, 
 dressed in the extreme of the mode, with 
 shoulders most elaborately displayed — her 
 dress expensive, in every point, to the very 
 highest degree — hanging on the arm of her 
 tall, pompous-looking husband, both evidently 
 thinking they were doing Mr. and Mrs. Wynd- 
 ham a prodigious favour by thus accepting 
 their hospitality. 
 
 Their slender, elegant, and most exquisitely 
 beautiful daughter slipped into the room 
 negligently after them : and, while the elders 
 received the elders with due form and cere- 
 mony, Emilia came forward to receive her 
 friend, and carry her away to the window 
 where she had before been sitting. 
 
 She was scarcely fifteen; and had that 
 sweet, shy, wild fawn-like look in her beau- 
 tiful eyes, that is to me the loveliest expres- 
 sion in the world. Her figure was not fully 
 formed, but it was of a perfectly exquisite
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 63 
 
 delicacy and symmetry; and her dress, the 
 perfection of good taste and simplicity, added 
 fresh charms to her appearance. 
 
 She looked enchanted to see her friend 
 again, and continued to hold her hand, and to 
 cling to her, as she had so often done in school 
 days, as to the kindest and most courageous 
 of mammas and protectors. 
 
 The innocent and unsuspecting Emilia pre- 
 sented her to Colonel Lenox with a look of 
 pride and a little malicious smile of triumph, 
 as much as to say, " Is she not enchanting ?" 
 
 He bowed at the introduction, and con- 
 tinued leaning with his back to the side of the 
 -window, and talking very pleasantly to the 
 young ladies seated before him. 
 
 The last who stole in was Mr. Danby, 
 
 He came in quietly, answered a few words 
 addressed to him by Mrs. Wyndham, and 
 then, gliding to a position behind Miss Wynd- 
 ham's chair, though at some little distance 
 from her, listened, with a grave smile, to all 
 the idle talk that was going on between her, 
 the Colonel, Mr. Wilcox, and Miss Hesketh. 
 
 It was an event in Mr. Danby's life, and.
 
 64 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 therefore, trifling as it may appear, should be 
 recorded here, that, when dinner was an- 
 nounced and the proper personages disposed 
 of, the Colonel was content to take out Miss 
 Hesketh, and Emilia was consigned to Mr. 
 Danby; Mr. Wilcox's ready arm being re- 
 jected, in submission to maternal authority. 
 
 The soft fair hand, with braceletted wrist 
 and delicate white glove, rests on Mr. Danby's 
 somewhat rusty coat sleeve, and he looks down 
 upon it with the sort of enthusiastic admira- 
 tion with which a Catholic might be supposed 
 to regard his virgin saint. He dared not 
 press that lovely arm to his heart, which was 
 beating fast with emotion, and demanding, as 
 it were, that one ineffable indulgence, and so 
 great was his confusion that he could hardly 
 speak ; but he was in a rapture of extasy 
 which cannot even be imagined by people 
 who lead the every-day life of society. I will 
 not attempt to paint it — it was like that of 
 one transported to the seventh heaven. 
 
 He was to sit by her at dinner- — close by 
 her the whole time ; he was to take wine with 
 her, he was to talk to her, and it was her duty
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 65 
 
 to talk to him, and very sweetly she performed 
 the duty; for, conscious that he was a little 
 looked down upon by the rest of the party, 
 her generous nature was all alive, and she 
 paid him every sort of attention in her power. 
 
 She found him, as she had found him 
 before, sensible and agreeable ; one whose 
 conversation seemed to excite and raise the 
 tone of her mind. His manner was brief — 
 slightly sarcastic ; but his observations were 
 acute and his views penetrating. 
 
 In the mean time, how did the Colonel get 
 on with his beautiful companion ? 
 
 Emilia could not help glancing every now 
 and then to that side of the table on which 
 they were seated. He was looking charming, 
 as he always did when he chose, and, in his 
 pleasantest manner, seemed intent upon the 
 subject he was talking of. She was looking 
 down, but seemed to colour every now and 
 then with pleasure at what he said. He 
 would leave off and resume his dinner, and 
 then appear to return to the subject with 
 fresh pleasure. And yet Emilia did not feel 
 jealous. She was of a confiding nature; so
 
 66 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 truthful herself that she never doubted the 
 truth of others; he had hinted too many 
 affectionate things to make her doubt of his 
 affection, and she had not yet learned to dis- 
 tinguish between affection and love. 
 
 The dinner and dessert, with all their pomp 
 and fuss, are over ; the ladies leave the room ; 
 pass through the windows of the dining-room, 
 and walk out upon the grass-plats. 
 
 Lady Maria is extremely condescending and 
 good-humoured, and is discussing dress, fa- 
 shions, furniture, and operas, to the wearied 
 Mrs. Wyndham, who hates company, and 
 whose breaking health renders it very difficult 
 and painful for her to exert herself long, or, 
 in other words, to do what she does not like. 
 
 When the gentlemen join them, she has, 
 however, some relief. It is plain Lady Maria's 
 eye has singled out Colonel Lenox as by far 
 the handsomest and most charming man of 
 the group, and she has engaged him in con- 
 versation, and is laughing and flirting with 
 him in a very forward and affected manner. 
 
 The Colonel is far too much of a man of the 
 world not to respond to this ; and the two
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 67 
 
 young ladies are left to the other young gen- 
 tlenien who, in an awkward sort of manner, 
 are paying their devoirs. 
 
 The elder gentlemen, among whom must 
 be classed Mr. Danby, are talking business 
 and politics. 
 
 They walked about till they were all tired, 
 and then they came in to tea ; the piano-forte 
 was opened, and the different young ladies 
 were requested to play and sing. 
 
 Colonel Lenox was passionately fond of 
 music, and he seemed quite enchanted at a 
 duet which the two girls had learned at 
 school, and now were singing together ; Miss 
 Hesketh with a voice sweet, warbling, and 
 clear as a nightingale, Emilia in a rich tenor. 
 He sat listening in a sort of extasy. 
 
 Mr. Danby stood alone in a corner of the 
 room, looking, as Emilia thought, very deso- 
 late. 
 
 She went up to him. 
 
 " Do you like music, Mr. Danby ?" 
 
 " I don't know one note from another." 
 
 " I don't know that knowledge is exactly
 
 68 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 necessary — the ear is pleased without know- 
 ing why." 
 
 '* To me it is quite an unintelligible jingle 
 of sounds, and a horrid waste of time that 
 might be so much better employed." 
 
 " Better employed in such a meeting as 
 this !" 
 
 " I shall be gone," he said, looking at his 
 watch, " in less than half an hour; and I shall 
 never, never behold Miss Wyndham again, 
 and she need not wonder that I begrudge the 
 precious moments wasted upon stuff such 
 as that, who have spent the day as I have. — 
 It will be marked with a white stone in my 
 life, Miss Wyndham. But the bright light 
 only deepens the shadows," he said, as he 
 turned away, and went to speak to her father. 
 He was in conversation with him for a few 
 moments, and then it was time to go. 
 
 He took leave of Mrs. Wyndham, then ap- 
 proached the place where Emilia was stand- 
 ing. He intended merely to bow gravely, 
 but she held out her hand ; he took it, held 
 it a moment — gazed as if he would have
 
 EMILIA WYNBHAM. 69 
 
 longed to kneel, raise it to his lips, and wor- 
 ship it — pressed it gently, but firmly — let it 
 fall — turned away. 
 
 And returned to his life of solitude and 
 law.
 
 70 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A wise man maketh more opportunities than he finds. 
 
 Bacon. 
 
 " Pretty ? — Yes, really very pretty, beau- 
 tiful ! A nice sort of a little thing, but the 
 mother is perfectly odious ! I never saw such 
 a disgusting piece of affectation in my life. 
 If she were not Lady Maria — and of course 
 Lady Maria is a woman of fashion — I should 
 have called her a vulgar, forward, bold 
 woman, endeavouring to pass herself off for 
 young." 
 
 Such — as Mrs. Wyndham smiled with plea- 
 sure at the justice of her own observations — 
 were Colonel Lenox's opinions of those with 
 whom he had spent the day.
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 71 
 
 '' Well," said Emilia, " I am quite disap- 
 pointed. I thought you would have been 
 enchanted with Lisa : I am sure you seemed 
 so at dinner." 
 
 He looked at her pleasantly, and said — 
 
 " I am glad you thought it worth while to 
 look at us. Perhaps you would like to know 
 what we were talking about — of the subject 
 that interests me the most of any in the world, 
 but that certainly is not Miss Hesketh. Ah, 
 Emilia !" and he took her hand. 
 
 The door opened, and a servant entered — 
 — letters— and, before he left the room, Mr. 
 Wyndham came in very much fussed and very 
 angry, because the letter-bag had been opened 
 by some one in his absence. 
 
 " And a very great liberty it was, and he 
 would not put up with such things," &c. 
 
 At which Colonel Lenox rose up to escape, 
 as he always endeavoured to do upon such 
 occasions, carrying his letters out of the 
 room. An hour afterwards, he was hunting 
 Miss Wyndham all over the house, but Miss 
 Wyndham had driven out with her father and 
 mother.
 
 72 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 Colonel Lenox was in a paroxysm of vex- 
 ation and impatience. Where could they he 
 gone to? When would they return? The 
 first coach — when would it leave the village 
 below? At four o'clock. 
 
 At half-past three they returned. There 
 was time but for hasty and brief explanations; 
 he was summoned to join his regiment ; the 
 transport by which he was to sail was wait- 
 ing at Portsmouth; he must depart imme- 
 diately ; his servant had packed up all his 
 things ; he must go by the four o'clock 
 coach. 
 
 He looked in a sort of imploring agony at 
 Mrs.Wyndham, but her husband was fidgeting 
 her about some trifle or another, and she could 
 not give him a moment's attention. Emilia 
 stood at the window, looking out ; her colour 
 high, and scarcely venturing to trust her voice 
 to speak. But all this was passing, alas ! not 
 in the large saloon, but in the small breakfast 
 parlour, where not a sentence could be spoken 
 but what must be overheard. 
 
 On such small links does the chain of 
 human life depend. His servant entered.
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 73 
 
 " No time to be lost, sir ; the coach is 
 coming up the village." 
 
 He throws his coat over his arm — grasps 
 the hands of the mother and the daughter-- 
 and, with a hasty, choking, " God bless you 
 all !" rushes from the apartment, runs down 
 the hill, and is lost to sight. 
 
 He sailed the next day for Lisbon. 
 
 Mrs. Wyndham watched every post for the 
 first few days with an anxiety almost in- 
 tolerable, but no post brought what she 
 fondly expected. 
 
 Emilia was without any such anticipations. 
 Such a vast event as a proposal of marriage 
 was beyond the sphere of her expectations. 
 She was certain he loved her; that was 
 enough — she was content : and, after the first 
 pangs of parting were over, recovered her 
 cheerful spirits, returned to her employments 
 and her mother's society, and lived upon the 
 newspapers and intelligence from Spain. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 74 EMILIA ^TNDHAM. 
 
 I have not succeeded in my endeavour, I 
 fear. I have but ill described any one of the 
 persons with whom I wish to make you ac- 
 quainted. It is very disagreeable to me to be 
 employed in delineating unamiable and im- 
 perfect characters; it is painful to live the 
 time over again with them — it is painful to 
 observe how the faults and failings of the 
 weak and ill-disciplined — even when not ac- 
 tually vicious — cloud over and obscure the 
 destiny of those blest and better spirits, ap- 
 parently by their tempers and their talents 
 intended for a far happier lot. 
 
 Yet, of what is the moral of real life com- 
 posed, save of reflections drawn from such pic- 
 tures; either presented by our own experience 
 or by the experience of others ! 
 
 But does any one ever draw such reflec- 
 tions ? — Is any one really the better even for 
 his own experience? How far less is his 
 chance of improvement from that of others ? 
 
 It is a disheartening question. — And yet, as 
 the ancient Jews were required to enforce 
 their law, " line upon line and precept upon 
 precept," upon the minds of their children,
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 75 
 
 it is impossible not to hope and to believe that 
 some good influences will arise, and some 
 good impressions remain, from the delineation 
 of the faults to be avoided and the virtues to 
 be cherished in this life. 
 
 Human nature is careless and unthinking 
 rather than callous — undisciplined and un- 
 civilized rather than radically bad ; and hap- 
 piness is trifled and slatterned away rather by 
 unthinking negligence with regard to the 
 wants and feelings of others than by deliberate 
 evil purpose. The latter indeed is, I believe, 
 a very rare occurrence in everyday life ; it is 
 the subject-matter of the dark and tragic 
 passages of the human story — the other, to 
 use the French expression, coure les rues — 
 it is all but universal; and indeed it re- 
 quires a very careful education from others, 
 and a sedulous self- education on our own part, 
 to arrive at those kind and benevolent daily 
 habits which make the sum of life. 
 
 There is indeed, as St. Paul says, '' a more 
 excellent way" than even reflection or mental 
 self-discipline — there- is the simple, Christian 
 " love," which, in itself, at once forms the 
 
 E 2
 
 76 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 character to all that is kind, tender, and 
 good. But alas ! for that divine innocence 
 of love, where shall we find it? Among the 
 jarring creeds, the irritating contentions, the 
 censures, the condemnations, the motes in our 
 brothers' eyes, that so much offend us ! Amid 
 the bigotries, the superstitions, the divisions, 
 and all the thousand evils, under fair names, 
 that mar the divine image of the Christian 
 man, and destroy the divine unity of the 
 universal church ! Where, alas ! 
 
 But I will not indulge my love of reflecting. 
 I will only point out to you — fearing that the 
 way I have told my story may not have been 
 sufficiently animated to do so effectively — 
 the evil that a weak miderstanding, jealous 
 of authority, united to a thoughtless and 
 indifferent rather than to a really ill-natured 
 temper, was able to produce, 
 
 " We lions are no painters" may be said by 
 women : the best of them are most often not 
 painters. Any vulgar penny-a-liner can 
 draw a Mrs. Caudle, and publish her in a 
 popular journal ; and with such success that 
 she shall become a by-word in families, and
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 77 
 
 serve as an additional reason for that rudeness 
 and incivility, that negligent contempt, with 
 vrhich too many Englishmen still think it 
 their prerogative, as men and true-born 
 Britons, to treat their wives. 
 
 The reverse of the picture is rather pathetic 
 than comical, and, therefore, far less interest- 
 ing to the mass of our population, who seem 
 to care neither for truth, nor sense, nor feel- 
 ing, so they can but be made to laugh. The 
 tears of a sensitive and tender-hearted creature 
 over the whims, the follies, perhaps the ex- 
 cesses, vices, and extravagances of the being 
 she cannot but love — for all women love their 
 husbands — are easily resolved into pettishness 
 or affectation. It is very much more amusing 
 so to consider it, and certainly not a little 
 agreeable to be able to dispense with all 
 attention to other people's feelings, by being 
 assured that if they feel pain when they are 
 wounded it is their own fault. 
 
 Mrs. Wyndham's life had been the sacrifice 
 to a short-sighted woman's folly. She had, 
 sensible woman as she was, been captivated 
 by Mr. Wyndham's handsome person, gay and
 
 78 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 pleasing manners, and intense and passionate 
 devotion to herself. 
 
 She was very young when she committed 
 the folly of marrying him ; that is all we can 
 say in her behalf. She found herself the idol 
 of a day, and, when the short-lived passion 
 was over, there was neither friendship, nor 
 affection, nor confidence, to replace it. Of 
 friendship, such a man as Mr. Wyndham is 
 evidently incapable ; that desecrated name 
 belongs only to the attachments of the finer 
 spirits, the rare and excellent among our race. 
 A combination of qualities on both sides is 
 necessary to produce that precious and in- 
 estimable sentiment. This was not to be 
 expected. Of affection not many men are 
 capable ; they have usually a sort of attach- 
 ment to the things they live among, the people 
 who fill their house and family ; that is, they 
 do not very well like to do without them 
 when they have been accustomed to their 
 presence : but that is all. Take them away, 
 and replace them by something, or some 
 person else, and you soon learn to measure 
 the strength of attachment in the ordinary
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 79 
 
 human heart. As for confidence, that is not 
 the attribute of a little mind, especially if 
 tinged with jealousy of a mind more enlarged 
 and noble than itself. It loves to keep its 
 own frivolous plans and ideas a secret, for 
 there seems, indeed, a sort of instinctive dread 
 on the part of folly to come into contact with 
 wisdom. 
 
 Rely upon it, that the man who loves those 
 higher in the scale of intellect than him- 
 self is a hero undisclosed by circumstances. 
 Folly hates wisdom, even the gentlest wis- 
 dom. 
 
 I will not say, however, that Mrs. Wynd- 
 ham's was always the xiery gentlest wisdom, 
 for she was of a high and somewhat impatient 
 temper, and most noble, spirited, and honour- 
 able. She really could not stoop to flatter 
 and to coax Mr. Wyndham. She was so 
 much too good for him, that even her fine and 
 generous qualities were actually in her way. 
 Had she but possessed some portion of his 
 own littleness, undoubtedly she would have 
 managed him much better. 
 
 Her worst anxiety, because it was one of
 
 80 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 which nothing could disguise the importance, 
 was upon the subject of his affairs. She could 
 bear with his peevishness, she could endure 
 his tediousness, she could manage to get along, 
 as the saying is; but her suspicion that he 
 was every year spending more than his income, 
 the impossibility to obtain the least cer- 
 tainty as to what money he ought to spend, 
 or as to what money he actually did spend — 
 the vexation of seeing him duped by trades- 
 men with whom he had to do — imposed 
 upon by every pretender who wanted a job, 
 let him be picture-cleaner, landscape-gardener, 
 horse-breaker, furnishing professor, or any 
 other of those innumerable leeches that prey 
 upon facile men of property — was secretly 
 undermining her health and spirits. 
 
 The hope held out by Colonel Lenox's 
 attentions to Emilia, that her daughter might, 
 by a marriage with a man of manly tem- 
 per, whom she saw was liked only too 
 well — escape the evils which must sooner 
 or later break upon them, was now disap- 
 pointed. 
 
 Mrs. Wyndham knew the world better than
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 81 
 
 Emilia did ; she knew how evanescent a thing 
 is a man's liking, or even love ; how soon, in 
 new scenes and among new faces, he forgets 
 the heart which with such constancy and 
 generous faith clings to him alone. She felt 
 that if the force of a passion be not sufficient 
 to drive a man to that last decisive step, 
 which brings him out of the land of dreamy 
 feeling into the regions of stern reality — it 
 serves but to deceive the fond, trusting being, 
 whose affection is far too deep and serious even 
 to suspect, the idle, unreal thing which love 
 is too often with men ; that the woman 
 plays her life against the man's least serious 
 hours ; that, in short, if a man does not link 
 himself by a proposal, the rest is as 
 nothing. 
 
 So long as they were together, this im- 
 portant step might any day be taken — even 
 when they were parted, his feelings might 
 have had sufficient force to urge him to it. It 
 was now plain they had not. 
 
 The wise mother drew her own conclusions ; 
 and her chief anxiety now became to eradicate 
 by degrees all expectation, and if possible 
 
 E 5
 
 82 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 erase the image itself, from the ardent and 
 enthusiastic heart of her daughter. 
 
 The task was more difficult than she had 
 imaofined. Emilia loved Colonel Lenox. She 
 had loved him from a child — before she knew 
 what love was, he had been the object of that 
 sort of idolatrous admiration with which 
 some young men have been known to inspire 
 quite little girls when they have condescended 
 to take notice of them. Colonel Lenox had 
 always been excessively fond of and kind to 
 his little cousin ; and he never suspected the 
 impression his good-natured attentions were 
 making upon her childish heart. 
 
 Her love for him was so entirely a part of 
 her being, that she did not seem to be aware 
 of its force or its nature ; and she had been 
 for so many years accustomed to delight in his 
 society, and to feel very sad and sorry when 
 he went away, that the present parting, and 
 the subsequent gloom and dullness, only ap- 
 peared to her as a matter of course. She 
 felt, without even saying so to herself, that 
 nothing could divide them ultimately; and 
 she looked forward into life, as though it
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 83 
 
 were to be passed either with him, or in 
 thinking of and beincr devoted to him. 
 
 To be often separated from each other was 
 part of his destiny as a soldier ; but in her 
 dreams she was, some time or other, to be his 
 companion — to follow him through hardships 
 and dangers, to nurse him when wounded, to 
 work for him in his tent, to prepare his meals 
 when faint, his bed when weary ; to be his guar- 
 dian angel of comfort, and his faithful devoted 
 slave. The pictures which her fancy drew 
 were those of a felicity too exquisite for 
 words. — There is something in woman that 
 seems born for the knapsack. 
 
 And what were his feelings? They are 
 more difficult for me to describe. 
 
 He loved Emilia very dearly, and never 
 saw any woman that he could put the least 
 in comparison with her ; but he did not par- 
 ticularly desire to be married. He had not 
 much fortune besides his profession, and he 
 had a very particular horror of squalling nur- 
 series, rough meals, a desecrated busy wife, 
 and all those appendages to marriage in rather 
 confined circumstances, which he had not quite
 
 84 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 love enough, perhaps not nobility enough, in 
 his temper to glorify. He was indeed at 
 present quite in love with his profession, and 
 thought very much more of his campaigns 
 against Soult than of his progress in any 
 young lady's heart. 
 
 He, like Emilia, seemed to take it for 
 granted that they were to pass their lives 
 together; and he was always excessively 
 annoyed, excessively jealous, and felt himself 
 exceedingly injured, if any man presumed to 
 appear to admire or appropriate her. 
 
 So he had come and gone. On this last 
 parting his feelings, however, had been more 
 decided — the pain he felt at parting much 
 more severe — and the desire to fix his fate so 
 strong, that, had not a chain of trifling circum- 
 stances forbidden, I believe he would not have 
 left the house without an explanation. 
 
 Once gone, however, and that explanation 
 not made, he did not feel inclined to pre- 
 cipitate it by a letter. He preferred the 
 pleasure of making it in person ; and he said 
 to himself that it was scarcely proper, in- 
 deed, to ask her to form an indefinite engage-
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 85 
 
 ment, when he could for the moment ask for 
 nothing else. 
 
 He felt as secure as she did what the end 
 of the story was to be : and so the matter 
 remained.
 
 86 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 To vengo e vado, ogni giorno 
 Ma tu andrai, senza ritorno. 
 
 Now the scene changes. 
 
 We have had some short scenes of love : we 
 have now to do with death. 
 
 Death and love ! — Human history ! 
 
 The first person whose departure threw the 
 Wyndhams into mourning was that aunt whom 
 Emilia mentioned slightly at the beginning of 
 her history as having been tiresome and 
 exacting. She was in fact, a very tiresome 
 woman; one who required every possible 
 sacrifice of every other person's comfort, time, 
 health, and welfare to be made to her ; never 
 troubling herself to weigh her own life's value 
 against that of those whose time, health, and
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 87 
 
 even life, she would have been ready to 
 demand. 
 
 She died, and everybody went into deep 
 mourning ; and the world was the loser only 
 of one tiresome, selfish, and unamiable person. 
 
 The mother of Colonel Lenox had been 
 dead some time ; this last death, of Lady 
 Montague, seemed rather to loosen the ties 
 which united him to Mr. Wyndham's family. 
 He used to write to his rich aunt with con- 
 siderable regularity ; a letter now and then 
 to Mrs. Wyndham was all the news they 
 got of him now. He was no great writer ; 
 and - his movements were so uncertain, 
 that what letters he did write came very irre- 
 gularly. 
 
 Whenever they arrived, however, they 
 were certain to be productive of very great 
 pleasure both to mother and daughter. There 
 was always a something — a word, a sentence 
 — in some part or other of these lively, nar- 
 rative letters, which spoke of a heart that 
 dwelt alone with them; reassured the mother's 
 anxiety, and confirmed the daughter in her 
 happy confidence.
 
 88 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 Mrs. Wyndham did not trouble herself about 
 the difficulties on the score of money matters 
 which seem to have perplexed Colonel Lenox ; 
 his father, who lived in a remote part of 
 Scotland, she knew to be a man of good 
 estate. Colonel Lenox was his only son, and 
 there seemed no probability of the father 
 marrying again. Even if he should, and 
 should have in his old age a new family of 
 children, that might diminish, but would not 
 seriously impair Colonel Lenox's fortune or 
 expectations ; for the custom of his country, 
 and all the prejudices of his odd-tempered 
 father, would forbid the idea of dividing 
 the landed estate, far less alienating it, from 
 his eldest son. 
 
 His income at present was small, for his 
 father was of a penurious temper. But little 
 would Mrs. Wyndham have cared to expose 
 her daughter to the difficulties arising from 
 a slender income during the first years of 
 marriage. With her views of life, such a call 
 for wholesome exertion would have appeared 
 rather an advantage than the contrary. And 
 I think she would have liked Colonel Lenox
 
 EMILIA WYMDHAM. 89 
 
 somewhat less, could she have known the sort 
 of light in which he regarded it. 
 
 She would have considered it as a proof of 
 some deficiency in that genuine independence, 
 and true nobility of spirit, which she valued 
 more than anything in the world, to have been 
 so fearful of these paltry disagreeablenesses 
 when put in contrast with satisfied love and 
 sincere friendship. 
 
 But Colonel Lenox was no paragon of per- 
 fection. He had many very fine and estimable 
 qjialities, but he had many faults and many 
 weaknesses ; and he was — like the majority 
 of his sex — almost entirely without those 
 habits of self-examination and self-discipline 
 which can alone improve and perfect a cha- 
 racter, and in which species of duty men are 
 too often lamentably deficient. 
 
 But now we must enter a large and hand- 
 some bedchamber — which is rendered twi- 
 light by the heavy curtains that fall over 
 the windows. The room is most comfortably 
 and beautifully furnished and carpeted, and
 
 90 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 presents every appearance of luxury. A large 
 bed is on one side of it, the curtains of which 
 are all drawn but one. Stillness pervades the 
 apartment — you might have heard a pin drop. 
 
 A pale and attenuated countenance appears 
 above the bed-clothes, the figure raised some 
 little with pillows; the breath comes slow, 
 heavy, and with difficulty ; one hand grasps 
 that of her daughter, who is sitting by the 
 bed-side. 
 
 " My dearest child," the sick and sinking 
 mother is saying, *' it cannot be — such feel- 
 ings as mine rarely deceive. It is my turn 
 now to do that which we have all sooner or 
 later to do — resign my being to him who gave 
 it, and pass into that other, and, I humbly 
 trust, better world." 
 
 Emilia answered by her tears. 
 
 " You must not weep, my fondly loved 
 one : — look steadily forward, treasured darling 
 of my soul. — A few years, and my sweet 
 Emilia will follow me ; and, trust this heart, 
 my angel, we shall meet again. — Yes, dearest 
 and sweetest girl, the friendship which it has 
 been my rare and inestimable lot to enjoy
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 91 
 
 with you — precious child of my bosom — shall 
 not be dissolved, though all else be dissolved. 
 He who knit the tie will not sever it eternally 
 — dear, loved, and valued Emilia ! your poor 
 mother shall find you again." 
 
 '* Ah, mamma !" she exclaimed, pressing her 
 hand tenderly. 
 
 *' I have loved you 'pasdonately ^'' said the 
 dying mother ; " but the All Merciful has 
 been pleased to look with pity upon my weak- 
 ness. — If this heart, in its desolation, has 
 erected you into an idol, his pity has not 
 chastised me too severely. He has not suf- 
 fered -me to be wounded through you. Anxious 
 for your fate — too anxious I may have been ; 
 but my heart has never felt the wound so many 
 hearts are doomed to endure — Your love — your 
 tenderness — your duty have even exceeded 
 mine. — And had I not, on my knees, every 
 morning and evening of my life, blessed and 
 praised the Giver for this gift, I should now 
 be troubled with the remorse of ingratitude — 
 but of thai sin I am not guilty. — I have prized 
 the treasure as it deserved.. . .Good, dutiful, 
 affectionate Emilia, give your poor mother
 
 92 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 one more of those kind, tender, child-like 
 kisses, and let her bless thee, — Bless her, oh 
 Father !" 
 
 Her eyes were turned up with an expres- 
 sion of almost extatic thoughtfulness and 
 devotion, as Emilia, her heart filled with 
 sweet and bitter feelings, bent over the mother 
 she loved so dearly, and kissed her. 
 
 Even in moments such as these Mrs.Wynd- 
 ham soon recovered her composure. She was 
 very little in the habit of allowing herself to 
 yield to feeling ; and this was one reason, 
 perhaps, for the great affection she inspired in 
 those few who really appreciated and loved 
 her. 
 
 " I have been thinking much," she pur- 
 sued, after a little pause, " over my past life, 
 endeavouring to trace its history in its causes. 
 I have been asking myself why I have been so 
 little happy, and whether it was the fault of 
 others or my own. — To speak without affec- 
 tation, I do not think it has been my own 
 fault — nor, properly speaking, the fault of 
 others ; it has been that the circumstances in 
 which I have been placed have been, I should
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 93 
 
 have said, had I been called upon to judge, 
 just exactly those least calculated to make 
 me happy.... All other creatures seem placed in 
 the sphere in which they are best calculated 
 to enjoy existence, to flourish, and to live. 
 Why has it not been so with me ? 
 
 ...."Is my case peculiar? or is it the 
 general lot ? Human life, human society," 
 she continued, " is a strange mystery ; but, 
 as some one justly remarked, ' we must wait 
 the denouement before we judge of the story.' 
 ....But, indeed, my precious Emilia, I am 
 wasting the little breath that is left me. — My 
 dear, dear child, my heart is dwelling upon 
 your probable fate. — My love ! My poet ! as 
 I have fondly called you, what is before you ?" 
 
 Her countenance became excessively agi- 
 tated, even livid ; tears, in spite of all her 
 efforts, brimmed over her eyes, and her mouth 
 was convulsed with the endeavour to suppress 
 her emotion. 
 
 " My dear, dear mamma," said Emilia, ten- 
 derly, " do not, do not distress yourself about 
 me. I am young, healthy, and have a stout 
 heart and spirit. I know I must lose you" —
 
 94 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 here her voice trembled — '' but you have 
 taught me where to find the father of us both 
 — He will not forsake your orphan child. Yet 
 this thing, dearest mother — very often have 
 I seen you thus agitated and distressed when 
 you have looked at me, as if some very fearful 
 and terrible tale was in store for me — let me 
 beg of you, dearest mother, to tell me the 
 worst you anticipate." 
 
 " I am ashamed — I ought to be ashamed," 
 said the mother, resuming her composure. 
 " I do not know why I dread that so intensely 
 for you, which I have always felt that I could 
 meet courageously myself. But that is a 
 fearful word — Ruin !" 
 
 Emilia started. 
 
 The mother said truly — that is a fearful 
 word for any ears. 
 
 " My child ! my child !" cried the mother, 
 very much distressed. " Do not look so pale ! 
 Where is your courage, my Emilia ?" 
 
 Emilia recovered herself, but she looked 
 very pale. 
 
 " I ought to be glad," she said, in a low 
 voice, " and I aiji glad, that this hideous
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 95 
 
 thing will not involve you ; you will escape 
 it, my friend, my mother — but I was terrified, 
 at the moment, at the thought of meeting it 
 by myself." 
 
 " Ah, that is it ! that is it !" said the 
 mother, shaking her head bitterly. " That 
 is it ! I am taken away, and cannot share 
 the suifering with you," and she wept for 
 some moments with a bitterness quite un- 
 usual with her. *' If it had but pleased Him 
 to let me stay with you, ah, never ! never ! 
 should you have felt a pang while your poor 
 mother could have been there to receive them 
 for you. But I am very weak — my business 
 is to prepare you as best I may.... My love, I 
 set you a very bad example," said she, wip- 
 ing her eyes, and endeavouring to smile; *' I 
 hope you will have more courage for yourself 
 than your poor mother has for you." 
 
 " Depend upon it, dear mother, I will. 
 Best and kindest of mothers," said Emilia, 
 kissing her hand fondly, " how much have 
 you taught me! how much have you en- 
 deavoured to strengthen my mind ! — I bless
 
 96 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 God I have been able, in some degree, young 
 as I am, to appreciate all the love that dic- 
 tated your cares to school, direct, and form 
 me. — Indeed, my mother, it has not all been 
 thrown away. ., If I understand what that 
 terrible word ruin means, it means that I 
 must work for my living, and I am sure I am 
 very ready to do so. — Why should I be pri- 
 vileged ? Why should I not do that which so 
 many, far better than I, are obliged to do 
 everyday ? — Dear mother, cheer up ; this is 
 no such very dreadful thing." 
 
 The mother smiled sadly, yet with ad- 
 miration, at the generous, open countenance, 
 the truthful, healthy sincerity in that glis- 
 tening eye. And the hideous form of even 
 Ruin began to be less appalling to her ima- 
 gination. 
 
 She thought of the power of goodness and 
 of truth, even in this dark world ; of the final 
 triumph of the right, however long delayed, 
 even till faith almost fail. She thought there 
 was nothing too hard to be achieved by such a 
 temper, and so brave a young heart.
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 97 
 
 " Thank you, my dearest love," said she, 
 more cheerfully, '' you have, indeed, com- 
 forted me very much ; but — " 
 
 *' Let us say no more of it, svs^eet 
 mother. What you would tell me is only a 
 confirmation of my own suspicions. — I have 
 long seen your anxiety; I knew jou Avould 
 not be anxious without good cause. I have 
 seen other things — I have been expecting 
 some time that things could not go on in this 
 way for ever." 
 
 " My death, I fear,'' said Mrs. Wyndham, 
 *' will precipitate the catastrophe, and I fear 
 the confusion will be only the greater because 
 I shall no longer be there to offer my assist- 
 ance, such as it is, to your poor father. — He 
 seems, my dear, not to be quite equal to the 
 entanglements and embarrassments with which 
 he is beginning to be aware that he is sur- 
 rounded. — He has applied to me lately for 
 assistance, in a way he has not before been 
 accustomed to do.... Many men dislike to 
 trouble their wives upon the subject of their 
 affairs.... It is too late for me now to be of any 
 service." 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 98 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 " There would have been a provision for 
 you, my Emilia," she now continued, lower- 
 ing her voice, which in spite of her efforts 
 grew very husky, " if, unfortunately, it had 
 not been decided by a very eminent legal 
 man, that there was a flaw in our marriage set- 
 tlement, and that it was — good for nothing." 
 
 Her hands fell upon the bed. 
 
 *' There was that little dyke, as I thought !" 
 she cried, raising and clasping lier hands, 
 " against the impending destruction ! It has 
 given way — and the waters are gone over my 
 soul.... 
 
 " There is nothing ! — absolutely nothing 
 secure ! — not the slightest thing ! The whole 
 is unstable as the wind. — When the earth- 
 quake rocks under the feet, the awful feeling 
 is that the solid world is fluctuating like 
 the fleeting waters. ...So it is now with me! 
 I cannot fix my heart upon one earthly 
 foundation." 
 
 " There is a better foundation, mother, 
 you have taught me than that," said* the 
 young girl, steadily. " Suffer me, mother, this 
 once — There is the rock of ages !"
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 99 
 
 The poor mother again gazed upon her, 
 with a sort of rapturous comfort. 
 
 " Yes, yes, my child ! you do well. — I have 
 lost my faith, my confidence. — Oh, child ! 
 child ! I am indeed a poor, weak coward — 
 but is it not for thee?. ..All the lovely dawn 
 of thy most lovely life and prospects de- 
 stroyed ! All thy little pretty plans ! — all 
 thy sweet hopes !" 
 
 Emilia's face was crimsoned with a deep 
 blush, as she bent down her head, and said in 
 a low voice — 
 
 " Not so — he will never forsake me because 
 I am poor." 
 
 The mother smothered a sigh. She would 
 have given the universe to have shared upon 
 this subject in the confidence of her daughter. 
 She could not — she had seen too much of the 
 world. 
 
 Had they but been pledged — she knew his 
 honourable soul well — not all the considera- 
 tions upon earth could have divided them; 
 nor would she ever have felt, or he have felt 
 a change. But hei'e, alas, was no engage- 
 
 F 2
 
 100 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 merit, no pledge of honour, nothing even 
 said by which a man of the nicest honour 
 could think himself bound. The world, his 
 father, distance, time, accident — everything 
 she felt would be against her. She could 
 not — indeed she felt it would not be right to 
 disturb her daughter's confidence by her own 
 melancholy forebodings ; upon that subject, 
 therefore, she did not touch again. 
 
 After a little time, they began to talk 
 seriously of what was best to be done, and of 
 the present state of affairs. 
 
 Mrs.Wyndham communicated to her daugh- 
 ter her fears that Mr. Wyndham had added 
 to his entanglements by putting himself into 
 the hands of a very low and dishonest prac- 
 titioner of the law, who had been raising 
 money for him in the most unprincipled and 
 imprudent manner; and supplying him with 
 it in a way which had greatly added to his 
 habits of profusion — habits which nothing but 
 necessity could check. 
 
 " I fear," she said, " that Mr. Rile has 
 so worked himself up into your father's
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 101 
 
 affairs, that lie is the master of everything, 
 and holds all of us in his power — It is the 
 idea of your father and you, defenceless as 
 you are," she said, while a sort of spasm con- 
 tracted her face, " being left in the hands of 
 an unprincipled wretch like this, which ter- 
 rifies me so dreadfully. Simple poverty ! — To 
 beg your bread even !...But it is this dreadful 
 intricacy of social ruin ! 
 
 " It was not till this morning," she con- 
 tinued, after a little pause, '' that I discovered 
 the whole truth. I had flattered myself into 
 a sort of security that things could not be 
 irretrievably bad, by the idea that Mr. Dan by 
 was the man who conducted your father's legal 
 business. He was evidently a man of sense, and 
 I thought of honour — it turns out that he has 
 not been lately consulted. Your father's 
 necessities, I fear, led to the use of means to 
 which Mr. Danby would not lend his coun- 
 tenance. You know your father is not very 
 patient under opposition. I have reason to 
 fear that he quarrelled with Mr. Danby, and 
 withdrew his confidence from him." 
 
 Emilia looked perplexed and sorry. This
 
 102 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 was a form of evil she had not anticipated. 
 She began to form some faint conception of 
 the net of entanglement in which the dreadful 
 meshes of the law maybe made to enwrap the 
 unwary. A sort of disagreeable, painful, 
 nightmare sort of feeling of embarrassment, 
 succeeded to her first, straightforward, hope- 
 ful security that she could earn her own 
 bread. 
 
 " There is my uncle," she said, at last, in 
 a hesitating voice. But it was plain that she 
 had little hope from him. 
 
 '' Your uncle, my love," said Mrs. Wynd- 
 ham, " is not a very good man of business. 
 I do not think you will do much by any 
 application to him ; he and your father do 
 
 not, you know, agree very w^ell together 
 
 The only person in the world in whom I can 
 place any confidence is, after all, Mr. Danby. 
 He is, it is true, almost a perfect stranger to 
 both of us ; but, from what little I saw of 
 him, I felt an instinctive, rather than a 
 reasonable feeling, that he was one in w^hom 
 you might place confidence. — Having no 
 evidence to guide us, we must trust to our
 
 EMILIA WYNDIIAM. 103 
 
 instincts..., He is the only person in the world 
 to whom I can advise you to apply." 
 
 " / apply !" said her daughter, amazed. 
 
 " My dear love, when I am gone, you will 
 have," said the mother lowering her voice, 
 *' a new and strange task imposed upon you. 
 You must guide those who naturally should 
 guide you. In this moment of extremity, it 
 may be forgiven to me to speak openly, with- 
 out that reverence ever due to the father of 
 my child. ...You will find his understanding 
 has been considerably weakened of late— if 
 you do not influence him, others will. You 
 must' not let this be the case, Emilia. ..for his 
 sake, still more than for your own ; for his 
 credit, his salvation from misery and disgrace 
 — that worst of misery — you must become 
 the mistress of his mind, my Emilia.... He 
 loves you and esteems you — this will not be 
 difficult. When I used the word, you must 
 apply, it was for brevity's sake — my time is 
 short. I should have said, influence your 
 father to apply." 
 
 Emilia again kissed her mother's hand in 
 silence : the pledge was received and acknow-
 
 104 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 ledged by a confiding pressure. Mrs. Wynd- 
 ham seemed relieved now she had said so 
 much. She was exhausted, and she turned, 
 or rather was turned by the tender hands of 
 her daughter, for she could scarcely move 
 herself ; and she dozed or slept a little. 
 
 Emilia continued to sit by the bed-side. 
 
 It was late in the autumn. The wind was 
 roaring round the house ; the rain and sleet 
 at intervals beating against the windows ; all 
 was gloomy without ; the evening had drawn 
 on, and the room was darkening. The fire 
 threw its dim and fitful gleams upon the 
 ceiling and the bed; and now and then, a 
 falling cinder was the only sound heard within 
 the apartment. The slight breathing of Mrs. 
 Wyndham might likewise be faintly heard. 
 All else was still. 
 
 She sat, her eyes fixed upon the fire, in a 
 sort of dreamy reverie, revolving all she had 
 heard. She was astonished, she was grieved, 
 but she did not feel terrified. There was 
 something in her young heart that rather 
 rejoiced in difficulty ; something brave and 
 generous, that almost panted to meet danger.
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 105 
 
 The idea of her father consigned to her care, 
 of shielding him under, perhaps rescuing him 
 from his present difficulties, was consoling ; 
 it was an object worthy of that heart, so 
 desolate before at the idea of parting with 
 that dear mother, so long the object and 
 reward of every care. 
 
 She was not appalled at the confusion and 
 disorder which she seemed called upon to dis- 
 entangle. She felt that she should accom- 
 plish the task ; and then there was an image 
 — a dear, treasured, cherished image of one, 
 with his sensible, manly, and truthful tones, 
 and that smile of approbation, never, never 
 to be forgotten — who looked upon her, and 
 blessed her, and told her she had done wisely 
 and well, and that he loved and esteemed her 
 for it. 
 
 And the roar of the night wind, and the 
 pelting of the rain, was as loud music to her 
 ear. 
 
 F 5
 
 106 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 There is no end, no limit, measure, bound, 
 
 In that word death ; no words can that woe sound. 
 
 Romeo and Juliet. 
 
 When Emilia met her father that day at 
 dinner, she could not help looking upon him 
 in a quite different manner from what she 
 had ever done before, with a mixture of ten- 
 derness, curiosity, and interest quite new. 
 
 She felt something of the tenderness in- 
 spired by helplessness that is to be dependent 
 upon us ; of interest, as for one who would 
 soon be called upon to suffer much ; of cu- 
 riosity, to know how far he appeared sensible 
 of his own situation, and how far he was pre- 
 paring himself for it. 
 
 The meal was a melancholy and silent one,
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 107 
 
 as usual ; it had been so ever since Mrs.Wynd- 
 ham had been confined to her room. Mr. 
 Wyndham — who had never seemed to have 
 loved or valued his v^ife as she deserved 
 during her days of health and vigour, and 
 who had never troubled himself to provide 
 for her happiness, or to smooth and arrest 
 those first symptoms of decay, when tender- 
 ness and care might have availed to arrest 
 them — now that he found himself in danger 
 of losing her altogether, seemed suddenly 
 aware of her value, and was seized with dismay 
 and despair. So jealous as he had been of 
 the superiority of her understanding when it 
 could have availed him, now that he was to 
 be deprived of its assistance, he felt like one 
 suddenly robbed of his whole stay and sup- 
 port. 
 
 He had been, unacknowledged by himself, 
 in the constant habit of resting upon her ; he 
 had secretly cherished a sort of feeling that 
 she would prevent his ever making any very 
 grievous mistakes, or falling entirely into the 
 power of other men ; — that her talents and 
 energy would finally triumph over every
 
 1 8 EMILIA WYNDH AM. 
 
 difficulty with whicli he might be embarrassed, 
 and finally liberate him from every entangle- 
 ment into which he might fall. 
 
 This reliance, without the attendant con- 
 fidence, had really been the cause of addi- 
 tional mischief. The high opinion he enter- 
 tained in secret of his wife's powers had 
 rendered him only more hasty, imprudent, 
 and unwary, than he might otherwise have 
 been ; whilst his dread of her interference, as 
 I have said, entirely prevented that truth and 
 confidence in his dealings with her, which 
 might have enabled her in time to judge of 
 and to extricate him from the impending 
 danger. He was now as miserable as it is in 
 the power of a weak, inconsistent character 
 to be ; for those who have no persistence of 
 character have no persistence even in their 
 grief. Like children, they are diverted from 
 the contemplation by the slightest circum- 
 stance ; like some children, only to continue 
 their groans and lamentations when that cir- 
 cumstance is removed. 
 
 Mr. Wyndham was as weak and as selfish 
 in his grief as he had been in everything else.
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 109 
 
 His daughter had already found that she 
 must seek neither for support nor comfort 
 from him. 
 
 His lamentations would have been weari- 
 some and depressing to excess, had not 
 Emilia loved her mother with such enthu- 
 siasm that she was content to see her 
 lamented, whatever the manner; and she 
 loved her father the better for his very weak- 
 ness. 
 
 " Well, my dear," he began, with a heavy 
 sigh, as they sat down to dinner, " how did 
 you leave your poor mother ? How is she now?" 
 
 " She is a little more comfortable, I think, 
 sir, this afternoon ; she has been dozing, and 
 is refreshed by it." 
 
 '' Well. What will you take her up ?" 
 
 " Mrs. Simpson has made her tea, and is 
 taking it up to her. I do not think she would 
 like anything else." 
 
 " Now, I don't agree with you at all, 
 Emilia. I am sure you are keeping your 
 mother too low. There is some capital hare- 
 soup, pray take her up a plate. If she would 
 live a little better, I am sure she would feel
 
 110 EMILIA WYNDH AM. 
 
 the good effects of it ; but you seem to me to 
 give her nothing." 
 
 " Dear papa, if she could but eat it — " 
 
 " Nonsense ! that is an idea you get into 
 your heads, you people who pretend to under- 
 stand nursing. The first thing you do is to 
 starve your patients to death. If you will 
 not take it up, I will." 
 
 '* I will take it up immediately," said 
 Emilia, rising. '' I wish she might be per- 
 suaded to taste it." 
 
 '' I will go with you ; I dare say I can per- 
 suade her. It makes me wretched to see you 
 all going on in this perverse way." 
 
 He accompanied his daughter up stairs. 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Wyndham," said he, open- 
 ing the door with a noise that startled the 
 dying woman from a short, uneasy slumber, 
 " here is some capital hare-soup Emilia has 
 brought you, and here is a glass of my finest 
 sherry ; come, let me have the happiness to 
 see you sit up and partake of it. It will do 
 you good." 
 
 Mrs. Wyndham opened her heavy eye-lids, 
 and looked kindly at him.
 
 EMILIA ^TNDHAM. 1 1 1 
 
 " Raise me up, Simpson ; let me try it." 
 
 The father cast a triumphant and reproach- 
 ful glance at his daughter, as much as to say, 
 '' You see." 
 
 Emilia smiled sadly, and presented the 
 soup. Her mother made a faint effort to 
 carry the spoon to her mouth; she turned 
 paler than ever, hecame very sick, and said 
 softly, shaking her head, 
 
 " It won't do — lay me down again." 
 
 And she sank upon her pillow, and closed 
 her eyes. Even this little effort was too much 
 for her strength. 
 
 Mr. Wyndham looked appalled. 
 
 " Give her the wine," said he, presenting 
 the glass ; hut she faintly asked for a little 
 water; while Mr. Wyndham, struck and 
 disappointed, groaned, and retreated down 
 stairs. 
 
 Emilia followed him. The dinner was sent 
 untasted away ; and, after the servants were 
 dismissed, Mr. Wyndham drew his chair to 
 the fire, and sat rocking himself and groaning 
 at intervals, the picture of melancholy and 
 despair.
 
 112 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 " Don't leave me, Emilia," he said, as she 
 was rising to go up to her mother; ** you 
 always run away from me, and I am so 
 mournful and so miserable alone.... I wish you 
 sometimes would remember me, and not go 
 away so — you never seem to think of my 
 sufferings." 
 
 '* Dear sir, if I could do anything to relieve 
 or comfort yoji — " 
 
 " You might as well not always run away 
 so." 
 
 " I was only going up to my mother to 
 relieve Simpson, and send her down to her 
 dinner." 
 
 " I think it would do Simpson no harm to 
 wait a little. — Everybody is made such a fuss 
 about in this house, and taken such good care 
 of, that even a woman servant cannot be kept 
 from her dinner an hour, forsooth, even for 
 the sake of the master of the family.— But do 
 as you like : I see you are in a hurry to 
 get away.... I never wish people to sacrifice 
 themselves for me." 
 
 Emilia sat down by him. 
 
 " Well," he began, after a little time, in a
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 113 
 
 pettish tone, " what is the use of your sitting 
 in this way by me — with not one word to say ; 
 you might as well be with your mother 
 as sitting here too sulky to speak, because 
 your poor father asked you to stay with him 
 a little." 
 
 Poor Emilia ; when her own heart was so 
 dreary and sad, so longing for a kind, com- 
 fortable word from somebody. 
 
 " You are always so absorbed in your own 
 feelings that you never think of mine — No- 
 body cares for the poor, bereaved husband. 
 And what am I to do when she is gone ?" 
 
 Aiid he burst into tears. 
 
 " Dear, dear papa ! What can I say to you ? 
 How can I comfort you ?" said Emilia, her 
 tears falling in company with his. " Our loss 
 is irreparable ! our grief but too natural ! — 
 But we must endeavour to bear it as we best 
 can." 
 
 ** Don't talk to me," said he, impatiently. 
 ** It is very easy to talk ;— you who have 
 youth and life before you—to talk of bearing 
 it.. ..But what is ta become of me?"
 
 1 1 4 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 " What, indeed, of both of us?" thought 
 she. 
 
 He continued to weep, and to strike his 
 hand against his knee in a sort of despair 
 — rejecting all comfort, yet persisting in 
 keeping her by his side, till, at last, anxious 
 to return to her mother, she said, 
 
 " Had I not better go up stairs? It is 
 time her medicine should be given, and she 
 may want me." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! go away, don't stay. — Were 
 you staying for my sake?. ..I am sure I want 
 nobody to stay by me. — Of course you love to 
 be best with her. There, go away," as she 
 tried to kiss his forehead, for she would not 
 be discouraged ; but he turned peevishly 
 from her, and would not let her. " Yes, yes, 
 go to your mother — never think of me." 
 
 " Indeed, dearest papa, I do and will think 
 of you, and feel for you very, very much ; but 
 my mother, you know, is so helpless and so 
 ill — she demands all my time and care." 
 
 " I know it, I know it ; that is just what I 
 said. — Go away directly ; I dare say she
 
 EMILIA WYNDH AM. 115 
 
 wants you. What are you staying for here?" 
 
 "I was only staying in the hopes I 
 might say something that might help to com- 
 fort you," said she, sadly ; " but I see that 
 would be, indeed, in vain. — Shall I come and 
 make tea for you, sir, at seven o'clock ?" 
 
 " Well, yes," said he,wearily ; " thank you, 
 Emilia. Yes, come down again, and tell me 
 how she is — I can think of nothing else." 
 
 The door opened. " Mr. Rile," said the 
 servant. 
 
 Mr.Wyndham started, and seemed to Emilia 
 almost to shudder at the name; he turned 
 pale, then red ; then looked up at Emilia in 
 a suspicious manner, and said, hastily, 
 
 " What are you staying for here. Miss 
 Wyndham? why are you not gone to your 
 mother? No eaves-dropping, if you please." 
 
 Emilia was leaving the room as Mr. Rile 
 entered it. She just caught the cringing 
 figure of the little, mean-looking attorney as 
 she passed him. He made her a very low and 
 obsequious bow, which she returned with a 
 slight courtesy, and went up to her mother's 
 room.
 
 1 1 6 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 The wind roared around and whistled, 
 shaking the windows of the staircase as she 
 passed ; and howling along the passages and 
 around the house. Every now and then, a 
 heavy shower of rain and sleet pattered against 
 the windows. Nothing could be more dreary 
 than the night ; nothing more sad and cheer- 
 less than her feelings, so desolate and so 
 solitary as she felt, so wearied, so disconsolate. 
 There was something in her father's temper 
 almost insupportably trying to her patience, 
 now that her mother's illness brought her into 
 contact with it. 
 
 She felt too low to venture immediately 
 into her mother's room. She took a few 
 turns in the long gallery into which the 
 bed-rooms opened, and, approaching the 
 window at the farther end of it, looked out. 
 What a dreary prospect is a dark November 
 day in a lonely country house ; and to one " of 
 imagination all compacet" as was this hapless 
 young creature, and over whom the aspect of 
 nature exercised so powerful an influence, its 
 effect was particularly depressing. 
 
 The indigo-coloured, heavy clouds rushed
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 117 
 
 on before the wind — now darkening the land- 
 scape, now falling down in floods of rain — while 
 the trees rocked and waved, tossing up their 
 branches and leaves in that wild, lugubrious 
 manner, so desolate and so mournful. Not a 
 living creature was to be seen from the window, 
 which looked over the park and shrubberies ; 
 not a sound to be heard but the cheerless 
 moaning of the wind, and the fast patter, from 
 time to time, of the rain. 
 
 It was very cold, too ; and she shivered, 
 and wrapped her shawl about her, as she stood 
 mournfully reflecting upon the present and 
 the future. 
 
 From the mother, dying in the neighbouring 
 room — from the father, at this very moment 
 shut up with the man whom she had just been 
 taught to dread as the author of so much 
 future misery — from the whirling trees and 
 pelting storm before her — her thoughts 
 travelled far away... to him they fled, as it 
 were, for comfort, who was then in that 
 distant land, and from whom, lately, no sign 
 of remembrance ha'd come, but whose image 
 still dwelt warm in her heart, and was never
 
 118 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 recurred to without a sweet gleam of hope 
 and encouragement. 
 
 Again her memory passed over all those 
 many scenes in which he made a part— the 
 games of her childhood, in which the tall, 
 beautiful youth, in his ensign's uniform, had 
 assisted her with his mischievous frolics — the 
 young captain, who had again visited them 
 when she was a girl of fourteen, and whose 
 conversation and affectionate gallantry had 
 been so inexpressibly flattering and delightful; 
 and the last charming, charming visit ! 
 
 His conversation, as sitting by her, bending 
 over her, and watching her as she worked or 
 idled over her netting — the delightful descrip- 
 tions of what he had seen and felt — the still 
 more delightful discussions upon what they 
 had mutually thought and felt — the little 
 pointed compliment — the look of love and 
 approbation — the hasty colour — the impatient 
 push backwards of his chair when her father 
 was peevish or unreasonable, making her feel 
 as if the shield of some generous protector 
 were for ever ready to be thrown over her — 
 the tender reverence of his manner to her
 
 EMILIA WINDHAM. 119 
 
 mother — her mother's pleasant, ahnost merry 
 ways with him — all came back in a stream of 
 recollection, cheering, animating, and com- 
 posing her spirits, till the night wind was 
 heard no more to roar and whistle, the melan- 
 choly clouds assumed a lighter hue, and she 
 turned to her mother's room composed and 
 comforted. 
 
 Her mother was not asleep, but she seemed 
 more easy and comfortable ; she stretched out 
 her hand when she came in, and asked who 
 was come. 
 
 " I heard the door-bell ring — who can have 
 come to-night ? It seems such a wild night. 
 Not poor Mr. Finch (the apothecary), I hope, 
 upon a most useless errand ?" 
 
 " No, mamma, it cannot be Mr. Finch, for I 
 know he had to go so far to-day to visit one 
 of his distant patients, that he said, if you 
 could spare him, he would not call in to- 
 night ?" 
 
 " Who was it, then ?" 
 
 " I believe it was Mr. Rile." 
 
 " Ah !" said Mrs. Wyndham, very much
 
 1 20 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 alarmed, ^' on such a night as this ! Some- 
 thing must be fearfully the matter. Where 
 is he?" 
 
 " He was shown into the dining-room. I 
 met him just as I was going out." 
 
 " How did he look?" 
 
 " He only made me a very low, cringing 
 bow, and looked, as I thought, a very mean, 
 disagreeable sort of man. Don't distress 
 yourself, sweet mamma. I dare say nothing 
 particularly unpleasant has happened." 
 
 There was a knock at the door, and Simp- 
 son entered. 
 
 " If you please, Miss Wyndham, master is 
 asking for you." 
 
 ** Good heavens ! I had forgotten to tell 
 her of that," said Mrs. Wyndham, suddenly. 
 " Emilia ! Emilia !" cried she, endeavouring 
 to raise her voice, but her daughter did not 
 hear her. " Simpson, Simpson ! Stop her ! 
 I must speak to her ! — I must speak to her 
 before she goes down to her father !" cried 
 the mother, in so much agitation that she 
 could scarcely articulate.
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 121 
 
 The dining-room door was heard to shut. 
 
 '' She is gone in to master, ma'am," said 
 Simpson. 
 
 '' Go down, Simpson. Open the door ; 
 say I want to speak with Miss Wyndham for 
 one moment — that I 7?iust speak to her imme- 
 diately." 
 
 Simpson went down, and soon returned 
 with — 
 
 '^ Master says. Miss Emilia shall come 
 directly ; he only wants her for a few mo- 
 ments." 
 
 " What were they doing ?" 
 
 " Master had some papers before him, and 
 Mr. Rile was talking to Miss Emilia, explain- 
 ing something ! A nasty fellow, I hate the 
 
 sight of him!" {Aside,) 
 
 '* My poor child ! Go down again, Simpson," 
 she exclaimed, hardly able to breathe from 
 agitation ; " tell her to come to me hisfajitli/.'' 
 
 Simpson returned with — 
 
 *' Master is very angry, and asked me how 
 I dared to interrupt him ; and told me to 
 open the door again- at my peril." 
 
 The mother's face was convulsed, as it 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 122 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 were, with suddeu passion ; she started, to 
 the astonishment of Simpson, suddenly to her 
 feet, and stood, like some spectral figure, 
 before the terrified woman. Ordering her in 
 a low, imperative tone to give her her large 
 wrapper, and hastily thrusting her feet into 
 her slippers, she stept forward, and laid her 
 hand upon the lock of the door. 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, madam !" cried her 
 terrified v/oman-servant, '' what are you 
 about? It is as good as your life is worth." 
 
 But her mistress shook at the handle of the 
 door with a firm and resolute hand, opened it, 
 and passing along the gallery with a swift 
 and commanding step, descended the stairs, 
 opened the dining-room door, and presented 
 herself, as one risen from the dead, to her 
 astonished husband and shrieking daughter. 
 
 She went straight up to the table, and laid 
 her cold, wasted hand upon the attorney's 
 arm. 
 
 " What is that, sir?" she said, in a voice 
 hollow, but imperative ; " what is that paper 
 I saw but this instant in your hand ? Give it 
 to me."
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 123 
 
 *' Good lauk, madam !" cried the asto- 
 nished and terrified attorney ; " nothing at 
 all. Who could have thought it possible — 
 that you — that you — " trembling and shaking 
 as he looked at her face, scarcely knowing 
 whether she was of the living or the dead; 
 " only — only — a little trifling matter — a — " 
 
 " Give it to me this instant, I command 
 you," in a voice like thunder. " What, dare 
 you refuse the dead ? — Pillager of the orphan 
 and the defenceless ! I know what that paper 
 contains. Give it to me." 
 
 '' For Heaven's sake, mother !" cried 
 Emilia, recovering from the petrified state of 
 astonishment in which she had been standing 
 from the first moment ; " for Heaven's sake, 
 mother !— " 
 
 " Child ! what have you been doing ? Why 
 did you not come when I sent for you ? — You 
 have signed a paper. — Tell me the truth," 
 shaking with impatience ; '' you have signed 
 a paper, and this wretch has got it !" 
 
 Again she shook the attorney's arm with 
 violence. 
 
 " Give it to rae ! Give it to me ! Robber of 
 
 G 2
 
 124 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 the orphan ! How dare you ? — Give it to me, or 
 from the grave that is yawning under my feet 
 I will come and snatch the wretched deed 
 out of your most wicked hands. Give it tome 
 — give it to me !" 
 
 *' Indeed, indeed, madam — Mr. Wyndham, 
 I appeal to you — Miss Wyndham — I thought 
 this transaction — Very well, sir — if it is against 
 your will, you know the consequences." 
 
 " It is the last penny she possesses in the 
 world, that miserable thousand pounds, wretch, 
 that you have just robbed her of ! You know 
 it is ! — Oh, Wyndham ! Wyndham !" she cried, 
 turning piteously to her husband, " could 
 you have the heart to take it all !" 
 
 And, sinking into tears, she fell exhausted 
 upon a chair ; while the terrified attorney, 
 looking the very picture of sneaking cowardice 
 and cunning, buttoned up his pocket, and was 
 preparing to leave the room. 
 
 But she was up again in a moment, inspired, 
 as it were, with supernatural energy. 
 
 " Don't go, sir," cried she, seizing him ; 
 *' I insist upon your surrendering the deed, 
 and let me tear it into ten thousand atoms
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 125 
 
 before your eyes — I tvill have it," with in- 
 creasing wildness, " or I will rend it, miserable 
 caitiff, from your heart — hide it as you may, 
 I ivill have it !" 
 
 And she shook the trembling wretch with 
 the force of a giantess. 
 
 " My mother ! My beloved mother !" again 
 interposed the terrified Emilia, "you will kill 
 yourself. What is all this about? Dearest 
 mother, let me put you back into your bed." 
 
 " Did you know," asked she, with flashing 
 eyes, " did they tell you — what you were 
 about to sign?" 
 
 " No, no ; my father only asked me to sign 
 a paper for him, as a witness, I believe — a 
 matter of no consequence.... Let me put you 
 back in your bed, dear mamma," said Emilia, 
 soothingly. 
 
 But she turned upon Mr. Wyndham. 
 
 " Could treachery and meanness go thus 
 far !" 
 
 Mr. Wyndham — who, during the whole of 
 this scene, had stood like one astonished and 
 out of his senses,' his face all manner of 
 colours, and shuffling from one foot to another
 
 1^6 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 — turned pale at this attack ; and, stammer- 
 ing like the attorney, said, in a hesitating 
 sort of way — 
 
 " It could not be helped., .it was for your 
 sake...." 
 
 " For my sake !" she almost shrieked. 
 
 " Yes, for yours," said he, with more 
 courage ; '' there would have been an execution 
 in the house this very night. — For your sake 
 it was done." 
 
 She clasped her hands, gave a low groan, 
 and sank upon the ground. Emilia flew to 
 her. The attorney stole out of the room. 
 
 Emilia endeavoured to raise her. 
 
 " Mother ! Mother ! speak to me." 
 
 A groan. 
 
 " Mother ! Mother ! — your Emilia — speak 
 to her." 
 
 A faint endeavour to. mutter a few words. 
 Emilia bent her ear to the lips. 
 
 " Not me," she just faintly articulated. 
 
 Two struggling, smothering sighs — the 
 head fell back — and all was over.
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 127 
 
 It was too true. In the emotion of the last 
 conversation which had passed between Mrs. 
 Wyndham and her daughter — under the con- 
 fusion of thought and failure of memory 
 which accompanies extreme weakness — Mrs. 
 Wyndham had quite forgotten to mention 
 that one thousand pounds, the legacy of a 
 deceased aunt, remained, amidst the wreck of 
 Mr. Wyndham's fortunes, still in Emilia's 
 power. 
 
 Lying upon her bed, while the father and 
 daughter had been sitting so long after dinner, 
 and ruminating, as was her constant practice, 
 upon her daughter's future prospects, this cir- 
 cumstance had suddenly come to her recol- 
 lection ; she reproached herself for having 
 forgotten to mention it, and especially for not 
 having warned her daughter, when upon the 
 subject, to be extremely cautious in setting 
 her name to any paper without being well 
 aware of its contents. 
 
 She determined to mention these two things 
 as soon as her daughter should come up stairs, 
 and waited very impatiently until she should 
 appear. When she heard the door-bell ring,
 
 128 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 the circumstance did not alarm her, as she 
 supposed it to be the apothecary. 
 
 Even when Emilia mentioned that it was 
 Mr. Rile, though uneasy at his appearance, 
 as she had but too much reason to be, no ap- 
 prehension of the real purpose of his visit 
 struck her till Emilia was summoned down 
 stairs ; then, by one of those instinctive 
 flashes of almost magnetic light which some- 
 times visit those in the highest state of ner- 
 vous debility, the truth had flashed into her 
 mind. ^ She had called her daughter, but her 
 voice seemed arrested by agitation : she 
 struggled for speech, and could not make 
 herself heard. 
 
 The refusal on the part of her father to let 
 her obey the summons by Simpson increased 
 her agitation. She saw, with horror in- 
 expressible, the last morsel of bread snatched, 
 as it were, from the hands of her unfortunate 
 daughter ; and, animated by that undying 
 power of a mother's passionate love which 
 has been known to perform such miracles of 
 force and energy, she rose, as one instinct 
 with fresh vigour, from her bed, and hurrying
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 129 
 
 down stairs, endeavoured, as we have seen in 
 vain, to avert the catastrophe. 
 
 Emilia, at the same moment, found herself 
 bereft of her mother, and utterly penniless. 
 
 g5
 
 1 30 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Oh, you gods ! 
 Is yon despised and ruinous man my lord ? 
 Full of decay and failing ? 
 
 It was the knowledge of the rapidity with 
 which Mr. Wyndham's affairs were approach- 
 ing to a conclusion, aggravated by intelligence 
 of the intended proceedings of certain cre- 
 ditors over whom he had no control, which 
 had determined Mr. Rile to ride over in this 
 stormy evening, and secure for himself, if pos- 
 sible, the last solid thousand pounds that 
 remained to this miserable family. 
 
 He had worked upon the terrors and the 
 weakness of Mr. Wyndham, by representing 
 an execution as impending which only this 
 thousand pounds could avert.
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 1 3 1 
 
 The horror of the poor victim of his own 
 folly and the rapacity and villany of those 
 he trusted, at the idea of an execution while 
 his wife lay in this alarming state — of the 
 disgrace with which it would cover him, an,d 
 the consequences that might ensue — left him 
 neither breath nor time to pause. That it 
 must be done was at once decided upon — 
 there was no alternative; and, sending for 
 Emilia, he betrayed her with his usual 
 cowardice — for he dared not lay the true 
 situation of his affairs before her — into the 
 sacrifice of the last miserable pittance that 
 remained for any of them. 
 
 He was now a beggar, and far worse than 
 a beQr<rar : he was overwhelmed with moun- 
 tains of accumulated debt. 
 
 Never was ruin so utterly complete. 
 
 Emilia, at this terrible scene, stunned into 
 that calmness which is the result of a last and 
 uttermost despair, rose from the floor where 
 she had been kneeling, as soon as she perceived
 
 1 32 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 that her mother had indeed breathed her last. 
 She folded the garments over the lifeless 
 limbs, closed the eye-lids, and, ringing the 
 bell with extraordinary composure, desired 
 the butler, who entered, to call her mother's 
 maid, and, with her assistance, to carry the 
 body to the bed. 
 
 She stood by, her eyes fixed upon the 
 dreadful spectacle of mortality before her; 
 for the fierce passion which had agitated the 
 last moments of the unhappy mother still 
 glared with a sort of fixed expression of rage 
 and despair upon the lifeless countenance. 
 
 Her cheek was blanched with horror, but 
 not one tear moistened her eyes, till, turning 
 them to one side of the room, she caught the 
 figure of her miserable father — her utterly 
 wretched, miserable, fallen father — who, 
 shrunk as it were to half his natural size — a 
 broken, trembling wretch— stood, or rather 
 crouched, the picture of dismay and shame. 
 
 All passions melted in that good and 
 generous heart to ineffable pity at the sight. 
 Like some angel, she stepped up to the
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 1 SS 
 
 wretched man, folded him in her arms, 
 pressed his sinking head to her kind daugh- 
 terly bosom, and kissed him fervently, while 
 the tears ran down over her cheeks and 
 literally bathed his. 
 
 He opened his arms, clasped her to his 
 breast, and fainted away. 
 
 A short insensibility snatched the unhappy 
 creature for a few instants from the horrors of 
 reflection. 
 
 The mother's body was reverently carried 
 up stairs, bedewed by the now ready flowing 
 tears of the pious daughter, mingling with 
 thosie of the affectionate domestics. The be- 
 loved form with tender hands was composed 
 upon the bed, covered with the sheet, the 
 chamber of death arranged ; and then Emilia 
 sat down by the bed-side to watch. 
 
 In vain good Mrs. Simpson tried to prevail 
 upon her to lie down and take some rest. 
 
 That she felt to be utterly impossible. 
 
 She dreaded to be alone ; she dreaded to 
 close her eyes. The frightful picture of her 
 mother, with her ghastly face, her flashing
 
 134 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 eyes, and her unearthly and passionate voice, 
 was ever before her. 
 
 To fray and weep beside the silent clay, 
 now lying insensible in all the more than marble 
 coldness and immoveable stillness of death 
 before her, was all that she could do. 
 
 The face had now lost its anguished ex- 
 pression, and had resumed that sweet and 
 heavenly composure that attends the first 
 hours after departure. 
 
 " Before decay's effacing fingers 
 
 Have swept the lines where beauty lingers." 
 
 It was to Emilia an inexpressible comfort 
 to gaze upon it thus. Something of the 
 awful composure seemed to steal over her own 
 senses ; the dreadful scene of the dining- 
 room faded into indistinctness before the awful 
 infinite of the contemplation. Gradually her 
 spirits composed themselves to serious and 
 earnest prayer. The tumult of her wild 
 adjurations subsided into a deep, fervent, 
 and most real supplication to the father of 
 all spirits, for strength and patience to bear
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 1 35 
 
 the burden in his providence laid upon her. 
 Long was this prayer; she seemed never 
 weary of calling for support from that living 
 fountain, whence she felt alone such help 
 could flow. And she found that help, which 
 is 7iever so sought in vain. 
 
 She rose from her knees comforted and 
 composed. 
 
 The cold morning was now beginning to 
 dawn, and to bring with it another cheerless 
 day. 
 
 How cheerless now ! The friend, the mother, 
 there lay silent and still ; and the unutterable 
 feeling of solitude and desolation with which 
 she met the rays of the rising sun is not to 
 be described. It seemed as if the light of the 
 day was intolerable, and she hastily drew 
 down the blinds, and shut out that external 
 world, to her now so strange and dreary. 
 
 Her father had slept during the night, but 
 was oroint): to breakfast in his own room that 
 morning. He had not asked to see her, and 
 she was glad of it. She dreaded the first 
 meeting. 
 
 She desired Simpson to bring her the Bible,
 
 136 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 and to go and take some rest, promising her- 
 self to do the same on her return. She opened 
 the book of Psalms, and sat by her mother's 
 bed, reading by herself what has assisted and 
 strengthened so many a solitary and silent 
 sufferer. 
 
 And thus passed the first hours of her 
 loneliness. 
 
 Emilia was disturbed about eleven o'clock 
 by a knock at the door. She rose to open it, 
 and encountered the housemaid. 
 
 " Mrs. Simpson is in bed, Miss Emilia ; 
 and so I thought I might take the liberty to 
 come to you — Mr. Biggs says master seems 
 very ill." 
 
 " I will come to him directly," cried 
 Emilia, much alarmed ; " take ray place, 
 Mary, and wait here till I return." 
 
 She hastened to her father's room. 
 
 The apartment was darkened, the curtains 
 drawn round the bed ; her father's heavy 
 breathing was to be heard as soon as she 
 opened the door. She went up to the bed- 
 side, but he was not asleep. 
 
 His face was flushed, his eyes not quite
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 137 
 
 closed, and he was breathing in a hard and 
 difficult manner, with a noise most un- 
 natural and distressing. 
 
 Mr. Biggs was standing, looking very much 
 terrified and perplexed, by the side of his 
 master's bed. 
 
 " How is this ? what is the matter, Biggs ?" 
 she cried, dreadfully alarmed. 
 
 " Why, Miss Emily, that's what I don't 
 know; but this is not a natural sleep, for 
 certain. I have been at master's door several 
 times this morning, for my heart misgave me 
 that all was not right when he ordered me to 
 leave him last night. As all seemed quiet, I 
 hoped he was asleep ; but just now, as 
 I listened, I heard this hard breathing, 
 and made bold to open the door; and 
 I think this is not at all like a natural 
 sleep." 
 
 " Send Tom for Mr. Finch on the fastest 
 horse in the stable. — Oh, my dear father ! 
 Do you not know me ?" 
 
 As the eyes opened with a sort of vacant 
 stare, and then closed again. 
 
 She sat down by his side to await the
 
 138 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 arrival of the apothecary, who was not long 
 in making his appearance. 
 
 Mr. Finch looked very much alarmed when 
 he saw his patient, and pronounced it a 
 seizure upon the brain, brought on, he had 
 no doubt, through the shock occasioned by 
 the sudden death of Mrs. Wyndhara. 
 
 He bled his patient, applied all the remedies 
 usual in such cases, but freeiy confessed to 
 the anxious and terrified Emilia that he 
 thought the case a very bad one — that what 
 turn the disorder would take it was impos- 
 sible to prognosticate — that the patient must 
 be kept perfectly quiet, and recommended that 
 a physician should immediately be called in. 
 
 The remedies he had applied had, how^ever, 
 for the present removed the most alarming- 
 symptoms. 
 
 Mr. Wyndham opened his eyes; but his 
 daughter, to her inexpressible terror, per- 
 ceived that his mind was at present so weak 
 and unsettled, that not the slightest assistance 
 could be expected from him in the strange, 
 perilous situation in which she stood. 
 
 She looked round her with dismay.
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 139 
 
 The scene of last niglit — the expression 
 her father had used, " an execution in the 
 house" — the embarrassment of his affairs — 
 her total ignorance of all his concerns, 
 even, I believe, to the very name of his 
 banker — the absolute necessity of immedi- 
 ately finding money, both to pay the phy- 
 sician and to provide for her mother's funeral, 
 when she did not even know where to procure 
 thirty pounds — filled her with terror. 
 
 She had no friend to whom she could 
 apply but her uncle, Sir Herbert Montague, 
 and he lived in a distant part of the kingdom. 
 She felt, for a short time, absolutely stunned 
 and dizzy with the weight of responsibility 
 thus suddenly imposed upon her, and stood 
 like one almost as much bereft of the power 
 of thought and action, as the unfortunate 
 being who lay incapable of either before 
 her. 
 
 But her good spirit did not long forsake 
 her. She consigned her father to the care of 
 his faithful old servant, Biggs, and, retiring 
 to her own room, sat down to recover breath 
 and reflection. 
 
 The inestimable benefits of that wise and
 
 140 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 sound education which her mother had so 
 sedulously bestowed upon her were now first 
 fully shown. Emilia had been accustomed 
 from her earliest infancy to struggle for the 
 mastery over herself. The exquisite sen- 
 sibility, the ardent imagination with which 
 she had been endowed by nature, had never 
 been suffered to be pleaded as an excuse for 
 the w^ant of presence of mind, composure, and 
 self-government, on every occasion which 
 might occur. She had been taught to be 
 ashamed of hysterics and tears, as of the most 
 selfish weakness; and to despise the sen- 
 sibility which fled from the aspect of pain, 
 rather than endure everything for the chance 
 of relieving it. Above all, she had been taught 
 to hold the soundest views of religion; to 
 honour the wisest, and justest, and most 
 benevolent of heinous, by confidence in His 
 wisdom, mercy, and justice ; to seek His favour 
 by doing all that she could ; to rely upon His 
 goodness in every circumstance ; and, as a first 
 step in this direction, to use the powers en- 
 trusted by Him to her that she might help 
 herself. 
 
 These views had aided her naturally hopeful
 
 EMILIA W YNDH AM. 141 
 
 temper, and bad formed one of the most 
 cheerful characters in the world. In every 
 circumstance that befel, after the first natural 
 anguish was a little over, Emilia seemed to 
 feel a faith and reliance within, that threw a 
 light upon the darkest hours. 
 
 Even now, her good spirit did not forsake 
 her. She never thought of bewailing herself 
 or her destiny ; weak lamentations over the 
 inevitable she had been taught to consider as 
 a most vain and culpable indulgence. She had 
 long been preparing herself, by prayer and 
 reflection, to meet with fortitude the dreaded 
 event of her mother's death ; she, indeed, felt 
 that every task must be light after that. 
 
 She sat down in her own small dressing- 
 room to compose, as I said, her spirits, and 
 to consider wbat she had to do. She opened 
 the window, and looked out upon that terrace 
 and those shrubberies, where she and her 
 mother had sat and wandered together. A 
 few natural tears fell as she gazed upon them. 
 The storm of the night had passed away, and 
 a still autumn morning had succeeded ; the 
 yellow and scarlet leaves yet hung upon
 
 14S EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 the trees, and the sky, cahn, yet melancholy, 
 was in sympathy with her feelings. 
 
 She indulged for a short time in the kind 
 of tender reverie which the scene and the 
 aspect of nature excited ; and then, turning 
 from and closing the window, she set herself 
 to consider what she had to do. 
 
 Money ! 
 
 The absolute necessity for money was the 
 first thing that pressed upon her. 
 
 Mr. Finch had promised to write and send 
 express for the physician ; he would have to 
 come twenty miles, and his fee would be 
 twenty guineas. This she knew ; for he had, 
 upon two occasions, been called in to her 
 mother. 
 
 She went to her secretaire to examine her 
 own little store. There never was much 
 money beforehand at Mr. Wyndham's ; and 
 the allowance to his daughter was what would 
 have been thought very slender by you young 
 ladies of the present day; but a long war, 
 heavy taxes, and the high price of every 
 necessary of life, carried away so much money 
 in those days, that, I assure you, men with
 
 EMILIA WYISDHAM. 143 
 
 handsome fortunes found very little to allow 
 their daughters for vanities. I have known 
 young ladies with six pounds for their allow- 
 ance ; twenty-five guineas, which was Emilia's 
 portion, was reckoned very liberal. 
 
 She happened just to have received her 
 quarter, and had five guineas in her drawer. 
 
 During her mother's illness, she had been 
 her treasurer. The allowance for clothes and 
 pocket-money to the mistress of the family 
 was sixty guineas ; of this, fifteen guineas she 
 knew was in hand. There was enough for 
 the physician. 
 
 The wants of to-day were provided for. 
 
 She must, if her father's illness continued, 
 visit his money-drawer, and see what could 
 there be found ; and then, the question re- 
 curred, should she apply to her uncle. Sir 
 Herbert ? She knew well that he and her 
 father were on indifferent terms, and that to 
 meet him always irritated and tormented Mr. 
 Wyndham to the last degree ; for Sir Herbert 
 was an obstinate, dogmatical, and haughty 
 man, who always was accustomed to give the 
 law wherever he happened to be ; and favoured
 
 144 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 her father with his advice in a style and 
 manner, which, however much it was required, 
 and however good it might be, would have 
 rendered it insupportable. 
 
 Mr. Wyndham both dreaded and hated his 
 brother-in-law. It was, however, necessary 
 to inform him of her mother's death and of 
 her father's illness ; and the first thing to be 
 done was to sit down, and, in a simple and 
 touching letter, to relate to him what had 
 happened. She did not, however, think it 
 proper to allude to the state of embarrass- 
 ment in which she found herself: it was her 
 father's secret, and, as such, sacred from the 
 very last man upon earth to whom, she knew, 
 he would himself have entrusted it. 
 
 She had finished and despatched her letter 
 to go by the next post, when again there was 
 a knock at the door, and, without waiting for 
 permission, it opened, and the pale and scared 
 face of good Simpson presented itself. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Emilia," she said, coming in 
 without being bid, and shutting the' door after 
 her, " are you well enough ? Can you come 
 down stairs ? There is a man on business to
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 1 45 
 
 master, and he says he must see him, and 
 cannot leave the house till he does. — He 
 has another man with him, a very ill-looking 
 fellow, too. The back kitchen door was open, 
 and they w^alked straight in, and he showed 
 me a piece of paper — but I can't make 
 anything of it. He seemed shocked, when 
 he heard how it was with my poor mis- 
 tress and master, and he said he was sorry, 
 but he must see him — or perhaps you would 
 step down, seeing master is so ill." 
 
 " Give me my shawl, Simpson. — Yes, show 
 him into my father's study ; I will come down 
 and speak to him." 
 
 She hastened along the gallery, passed her 
 mother's door, not venturing to give a glance 
 towards it; and, hurrying down the stairs 
 and across the hall, was soon in the little 
 room that was called her father's study. 
 
 It was a little, dark, secluded chamber, 
 quite embowered in the trees of the shrub- 
 bery, hung round with some of his favourite 
 pictures, and fitted with his innumerable gun- 
 cases, pistol-cases, and cases for half a hundred 
 costly, cumbersome, and useless things, which 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 146 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 had accumulated under liim during his childish 
 reign. 
 
 But grieved as Emilia had lately learned 
 to be, when any admirable new contrivance 
 for doing some very ordinary thing — any 
 peculiarly excellent fowling-piece, or un- 
 rivalled bit of virtu, was purchased and dis- 
 played, she could not now enter the room, so 
 full of the effects of all her poor father's tastes 
 and foibles, without a pang and a certain 
 feeling of tenderness — as she gazed around her, 
 and passed on to occupy, for the first time, 
 the chair of business which stood empty be- 
 fore his desk. The door opened, and Simpson 
 herself ushered in the two men. 
 
 The first was a tall, broad-set, very power- 
 ful-looking being ; his round head covered 
 with thick, curling, jet-black hair; his face 
 ruddy, his eyes dark ; his expression firm and 
 daring, yet not either harsh or cruel. Some- 
 thing almost kind might be distinguished in 
 the bearing of the man, who reminded you 
 forcibly of that noble animal, whose name 
 has become the patronymic of the race of 
 genuine Englishmen of those days. It is all
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 147 
 
 forgotten now, and the race has become 
 pretty nearly extinct. I do not know whether 
 that which has succeeded it is much of an 
 improvement — but that by the by. 
 
 This man was followed by a very low, ill- 
 looking fellow, with a most sinister coun- 
 tenance, and squint in his eye, who entered 
 with him. But the man, evidently the supe- 
 rior of the two, having cast one glance upon 
 Miss Wyndham as she sat in her father's 
 chair, turned to his understrapper, and very 
 unceremoniously bade him keep the other 
 side of the door, and not come in till he was 
 called. 
 
 Having performed this operation, and shut- 
 to the door, the man turned round, and, hold- 
 ing a paper in his hand, approached Emilia. 
 He looked at her once or twice, did not seem 
 exactly to know how to venture to address 
 her ; a change came over his hardy face, and 
 he muttered — 
 
 " The poor young lady !" 
 
 " I understand you had business with my 
 poor father," said Emilia, endeavouring to 
 
 H 2
 
 148 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 speak with composure ; " he is very ill — too 
 ill, I am sorry to say, to see any one." 
 
 *' Why, miss, as for his being ill, you see, 
 gentlemen are very apt to take to their beds 
 at unlucky times — and — and — send young 
 ladies down to speak for 'em, as does not 
 understand business— I should be better 
 pleased to speak to Mr. Wyndham, if you 
 could be pleased to let me see him for five 
 minutes or so." 
 
 " I assure you," said Emilia, colouring, 
 and the tears coming into her eyes, " my 
 poor father is utterly incapable of seeing any 
 one, or of even understanding one word of 
 business. — Have you not been told that he is 
 threatened with a brain-fever ? that Mr. Finch 
 has been with him, and that Dr. Lestock is 
 sent for? — I do not understand business. I 
 hope my father will be better soon.... you had 
 much better call again another day." 
 
 " Call again !" said the man, his coun- 
 tenance changing, and assuming a suspicious 
 expression. " Call again,... I dare say." 
 
 '' But what can be done ?" she expostulated.
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 149 
 
 " It is, I assure you, quite impossible for my 
 father to enter upon the slightest business. 
 His brain is so unsettled, that he is everything 
 but delirious. I am sorry to give you the 
 trouble, but you really must call again." 
 
 " Miss," said the man, '' I am not the prin- 
 cipal in this business ; and if I were, call 
 again wouldn't do — it's too late for that." 
 
 " What is your business, then? Tell it 
 me — I will do my best to settle it." 
 
 " Settle it !" said he ; " why it's a matter 
 of fifteen hundred pounds, thirteen shillings, 
 and sixpence, besides law expenses. Master 
 Wyndham is sadly belied, if he can settle 
 that in a jiffy." 
 
 Emilia could only look upon him with a 
 stare of terror and amazement. 
 
 " Ah, miss !" said the man, eyeing her, 
 and all his suspicions of connivance vanishing 
 before her artless and natural expression of 
 countenance — for he was one used to read 
 countenances, and to detect in them the 
 slightest line which was false — " Ah, miss ! 
 if this were all, he would make short work of 
 it. There would be security enough, even in
 
 150 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 this house. But, if all tales be true, my prin- 
 cipal is only the first of a crowd too big to be 
 counted ; and so, you see, he must secure his 
 own interest. — He has got a bill of sale upon 
 the furniture for the last fifteen hundred 
 pounds he advanced to Mr. Wyndham; and 
 as some ugly reports have reached him — for 
 that Rile is a tJioroiigh rascal — he thinks it 
 best to put in an execution, and make sure of 
 the property.... unless, indeed, you, miss, can 
 pay the money, as it is said you have plenty 
 of your own, if you knew of it." 
 
 Emilia continued to fix her eyes upon him, 
 but she did not speak ; her heart was beating 
 so fast with distress and terror, that it was 
 with the utmost difiSculty she could keep her 
 seat. She was endeavouring to struggle with 
 herself, to compose her faculties, and to under- 
 stand what she was to do. The man looked 
 at her again; and again turned away, and 
 gazed through the window, as if to give her 
 time to recollect herself. 
 
 At last she said — 
 
 " I do not quite understand who you are, 
 or what you are here to do. — If you come on
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 151 
 
 your own part, I think you will not press 
 your business, whatever it may be, upon a 
 poor young creature, situated as I am.... If 
 upon the part of another, perhaps you will be so 
 kind as to represent to him the state of things 
 here. I am sure my father's first wish is to 
 act honourably by every one, but it is impos- 
 sible that he should arrange his affairs now." 
 
 The man looked at her again. 
 
 " Why, miss," he said, " the thing is — 
 can you pay the money ? or will you pay the 
 money ?" 
 
 " I assure you, upon my honour," said she, 
 " that twenty guineas is all I at present can 
 command in the world, and I reserve it to pay 
 the doctor's fee who is coming to see my 
 father — of course, I have not yet ventured 
 to look into my father's drawer ; but, if you 
 will wait here, I will fetch the key, and you 
 shall see what he has." 
 
 " Nay, miss," said the man, " you are very 
 soft and young ; you must not go and pay 
 away your father's money in that way — you 
 should understand^ — for I see you are not used 
 to these matters, the natur' of the claims like.
 
 152 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 It's a very great shame, and a very great pity, 
 that your father put himself into the hands of 
 that Rile ; and if you were to send for him, 
 he would only mess matters, and take care to 
 pay himself, let the other creditors get what 
 they might : so that would only bring the 
 whole hornets' nest upon you.... Is there no 
 other gentleman who is in the secret of Mr. 
 Wyndham's affairs but Mr. Rile ?" 
 
 Emilia felt touched by the frank and kind 
 manner of the man. In her utter destitution 
 of all assistance, in this novel and unexpected 
 situation of embarrassment and perplexity, 
 her heart almost warmed to him, as she said — 
 
 " You must easily believe, sir, that all this 
 is very new and perplexing to me, who am in 
 total ignorance of the state of my poor father's 
 affairs, and know nothing, of course, whatever 
 of law proceedings. I am obliged to you for 
 your advice : I will consider of it. — Perhaps 
 my father may be so much better in a few 
 hours that I may be able to consult him." 
 
 " Why, miss," said the man, " to tell you 
 the truth, I believe there are a great many 
 writs out against your father ; but execution
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 153 
 
 has been delayed, I understand, for a short 
 time, on account of the news as has got about 
 of the poor lady there," making a motion 
 with his thumb as if he pointed up stairs. 
 " But my principal having this bill of sale, 
 you must understand — though I don't think 
 he is a harder man than the rest of 'em — yet, 
 if you understand, miss, he was afraid to lose 
 the benefit of the deed, if as how others got 
 possession of the goods. Last night, one out 
 of that Rile's office— but I'm not going to 
 tell secrets — gave him a hint how that fellow 
 had been up here getting some security out of 
 yourself.... There was no knowing what the 
 rascal might do more ; so, miss, my principal 
 wished either to have his money, or a security 
 from?/o?/ — such as you have given to Rile last 
 niofht, or else make sure of his o^oods. — He 
 wouldn't press for a sale just at this time, you 
 know, but he must be put in possession ; and, 
 therefore, if you cannot be security — " 
 
 " I assure you," said Emilia, " that I know 
 nothing of my own affairs — I did not even 
 know that I possessed that thousand pounds 
 which I yesterday signed away. I should be 
 
 H 5
 
 154 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 unwilling to pledge myself to anything, be- 
 cause I am quite in ignorance what I could 
 
 perform But to save my father in this 
 
 miserable extremity from distress and dis- 
 honour, I am quite ready to do anything — 
 everything that is within my power." 
 
 " I verily believe you, miss ; for an honester, 
 truer, less shufflinger sort of a countenance I 
 never set my eyes upon. — But the more I 
 sees into this mess of a business, the worserer 
 and the blackerer it seems to me. And, 
 miss," approaching nearer to her, and laying 
 his large red hand upon the desk, " take 
 my advice — don't move a finger in it 
 without good counsel. — Send to that legal 
 gentleman of your acquaintance in whom 
 you have the most confidence, but don't trust 
 that rascally Rile." 
 
 " I will think of it," said she, as her poor 
 mother's advice came to her recollection ; and 
 she thought of Mr. Danby, the only person 
 connected with the profession with whom she 
 had the slightest personal acquaintance, while 
 something within her whispered that he would 
 not be unwilling to serve her.
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 155 
 
 But first she must visit her father, and 
 endeavour to obtain his consent to such an 
 application. 
 
 She was rising to leave the room. 
 
 " Stay, stay, miss," said the bailiff; " we 
 have not quite done yet. I must take pos- 
 session of the goods." 
 
 " How ! what do you mean ?" 
 
 *' Why, miss, without much explanation, it 
 will be necessary for me and that man there 
 to stay in the house, like, to keep possession 
 for our principal. — You'll have no objection 
 to that, miss. — He's a rough-looking un, but 
 Tom's no very bad creature ; and as for me, 
 I'd not hurt a hair of your pretty head if it 
 was never so ! We shall live with your ser- 
 vants. — I dare say the tap below is good 
 enough ; and all the expense will be so much 
 a-day for our trouble till the execution is dis- 
 charged. — And harkye, miss," coming up to 
 her and whispering, " we may be of use for 
 keeping of the door locked. There's a ca.fa. 
 out, as I hear — ay, may be one or two — and 
 you'd be sorry to see the poor, foolish gentle- 
 man there up stairs carried to prison."
 
 156 EMILIA WYNDH AM . 
 
 *' To prison !" cried she, turning paler and 
 paler, as every new horror of her wretched 
 position presented itself. " To prison ! my 
 father ! to prison !" 
 
 " You are as innocent as a babby, that I 
 see, miss," said the man, passing the back of 
 his rough hand across his eyes ; " but you see 
 the sheriff's writ breaks no locks. We must 
 see to your back door, which, bless you, stood 
 as wide open for us as Temple Bar. They 
 cannot get in and trouble the gentleman, if 
 we look sharp, and that I'll do for you— for a 
 prettier and nicer young lady I never saw; 
 and it was a shame and a sin of Rile to ruin 
 your father, and all of you, in this fashion. 
 And so, good day to you, miss, and I and my 
 man will try the good ale of the Oaks — of 
 which I never heard small beer — and see 
 w^hat's in the larder, for I'm somewhat hungry 
 with this most fashioust job that ever I had a 
 hand in." 
 
 And so saying he walked out, leaving 
 Emilia perfectly bewildered. 
 
 What was to be done ? 
 
 If she understood the bailiff aright, there
 
 EMILIA WYNDH AM. 1 5 7 
 
 remained not one thing in the house which 
 she could properly call her father's, or 
 honestly apply to their most urgent neces- 
 sities. The little sum in her own purse, 
 even, could that with justice be called her 
 own? Was it not rightfully belonging to 
 others ? AVhere was she to turn for money, 
 even to furnish bread for the family ? What 
 was she to do ? Was she to incur fresh debts, 
 when she too justly expected that those 
 already incurred could never be discharged — • 
 deliberately take from others, either in the 
 form of goods or money, that which she knew 
 she never could repay ? Could she do that ? 
 Impossible ! 
 
 Then, the pale corpse of her mother lying 
 stretched in that chamber rose before her. 
 She had not the means of even affording it a 
 coffin. Her uncle ! — certainly, her uncle, 
 would he but come, could of course rescue 
 her from this most urgent of her distresses ; 
 but, in the sort of nervous, unintelligible 
 terror that now took possession of her, she 
 dreaded to act under that impression. A
 
 158 EMILIA WYNDH AM. 
 
 horror of incurring fresh debt seemed to pos- 
 sess her almost to frenzy. 
 
 She sat down, and wrote a very different 
 letter to her uncle from that which she had 
 last despatched. 
 
 " For the love of Heaven, dear sir, come to 
 me immediately — that is, if you possibly can. 
 My poor father is so ill that he can give 
 directions about nothing. I am in a state of 
 the most unparalleled perplexity and distress. 
 It is impossible for you to conceive the state 
 in which things are here. Come to me, I 
 beg of you, dear sir, as soon as you receive 
 this — that is, if you possibly can. 
 
 " Emilia Wyndham." 
 
 This letter being despatched, she felt that 
 help was near, though her note could not 
 possibly reach her uncle for two days ; and it 
 would take two more, travelling day and 
 night — which it was not likely he would 
 choose to do — before he could join her. 
 
 Her spirits were, however, in some degree
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 159 
 
 tranquillized after having taken the decisive 
 step of applying to him. And she felt more 
 able to look her situation in the face. The 
 certainty that her uncle would soon join her, 
 and that, however severely he might be in- 
 clined to look upon Mr. Wyndham's conduct, 
 he would not hesitate to repay any debt she 
 might have found it absolutely necessary to 
 incur for herself and her mother, enabled her 
 to overcome the sort of wild dream of terror 
 which had first seized upon her, and to think 
 upon what was necessary. 
 
 For her mother's funeral, she determined 
 to give no orders, except such as might be 
 absolutely required, till Sir Herbert's arrival. 
 He was a man so difficult, nay, impossible, to 
 please, that she could not guess whether he 
 would choose it to be executed according 
 to the late or present circumstances of the 
 family. If she gave orders with all the 
 plainness and modesty which her heart told 
 her was the best honour, she knew she might 
 be reproached for insensibility and impiety, 
 under the circumstances of the time, to her 
 poor* mother's memory : if, on the contrary,
 
 160 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 she ventured to arrange things in a way 
 suited to her uncle's present and her mother's 
 former station, she would probably be ac- 
 cused of a pride and wilful extravagance, 
 utterly unpardonable in her present situa- 
 tion. 
 
 She resolved to wait. 
 
 That a physician had been sent for at such 
 a great expence to attend upon her father, 
 she knew would be resented by Sir Herbert 
 as a most culpable piece of extravagance. 
 She rejoiced, however, that it w^as done : the 
 blame of such an action she could cheerfully 
 bear. 
 
 She thought now it would be better to 
 await her uncle's arrival before applying to 
 Mr. Danby. It was an infinite source of 
 relief to her mind, to cast the responsibility 
 of her future proceedings upon another. 
 
 She had despatched her letter, and was 
 crossing the hall to go up stairs and inquire 
 for her father, when the footman met her 
 with the letter-bag in his hand. 
 
 She took it from him, intending to get the 
 key, which she supposed to be lying in her
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 161 
 
 father's bedroom. She listened at the door 
 some little time, in the hope that he might 
 be asleep ; but, hearing voices, she opened 
 it. 
 
 Her father was talking to himself in a 
 manner the most incoherent, while Biggs 
 was vainly endeavouring to argue with and 
 pacify him. He was insisting upon being 
 dressed, and going immediately to his wife's 
 funeral, saying, he heard the carriage in the 
 yard, and that he should be too late ; and 
 abusing Biggs for his insensibility and in- 
 attention, who, poor man, was vainly endea- 
 vouring to quiet, by talking reason, one whose 
 reason, alas ! had fled. 
 
 " Come here, child !" said Mr. Wyndham, 
 as soon as Emilia appeared. " Are you 
 not ashamed to wear that pink muslin on the 
 day of your mother's funeral? — And why do 
 you keep me prisoner in this manner ?....! say, 
 Emilia, I insist upon getting up. I am a 
 very wretched, foolish old man, I know that, 
 but not so old as to be treated in this manner 
 like a child. — She wouldn't have allowed it.
 
 162 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 She always treated me with respect — that 
 she did; and I'm not used to it — and I 
 will—'' 
 
 " Alas, my dear father ! be still — your face 
 is all crimsoned with fever. It is a mistake, 
 indeed it is — my poor mother's funeral is not 
 to be yet. You must get well, sir — you must 
 lie still, and get well — or you will not be able 
 to follow her to the grave. You would follow 
 her to the grave, dear papa — would you not ? 
 Be still then !" 
 
 And thus she attempted to soothe and 
 pacify him ; sometimes not altogether with- 
 out eifect, most often quite in vain. His 
 delirium was such, that it was plain all real 
 communication between his mind and that of 
 any other person was at an end. It was im- 
 possible to consult him upon any matter ; all 
 that could be done was to tranquillize him as 
 much as possible. 
 
 It was a dreadful spectacle. Sometimes 
 he would forget his wife, and then the subjects 
 of his debts and embarrassments would seem 
 to take entire possession of his mind — he was
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 163 
 
 suffering under all the horrors of arrest and 
 imprisonment. Sometimes he was bolting 
 the door against the bailiffs, and crying to his 
 servants, in an agony of terror, to make fast 
 the windows at which he saw their terrible 
 eyes glaring. Then he was immured in a 
 prison, in which he fancied himself chained 
 to the ground, crying out and bewailing his 
 folly and his sins, and suffering, in an imagi- 
 nation but too faithful to the truth of his 
 situation, all the agonies of remorse, regret, 
 and despair. 
 
 It was in vain to conceal the truth from 
 the faithful old servant, who, the tears 
 running over his cheeks, would persist in 
 endeavouring to do away with his poor 
 master's delusions, by assuring him that he 
 was in his bed, quite safe, that no cursed 
 bailiffs should ever get at him — that his 
 house was his castle — and every servant 
 would die in his defence. 
 
 All this time the heart of his poor daughter 
 was dying within her at the reflection 
 that the dreaded evil was already con-
 
 164 EMILIA WYx\DHAM. 
 
 summated, and his house no longer his 
 own. 
 
 The letter-bag, unopened, was still in her 
 hand ; but when her father, exhausted by his 
 raving, sunk into a sort of restless slumber, 
 seeing the key upon the chimney-piece, she 
 opened it. 
 
 It was quite full of letters — each, as she 
 took them out one after another, directed to 
 her father. In the present state of affairs 
 she ventured to open them. They were, one 
 and all, upon the same subject — long bills for 
 articles of all descriptions ; petitions for pay- 
 ment in some — threats and insolent expres- 
 sions of contempt for promises broken in 
 others — heartrending entreaties for a small 
 part of the account from others — others were 
 lawyers' letters, filled with terms she could 
 not understand, and only, therefore, the more 
 alarming. The last letter she drew out of 
 the bag was in her uncle's hand, and addressed 
 to her mother. It had slipped into the letter- 
 book, and it was not till she was about to 
 close the bag that she perceived it. It was 
 short, and as follows ;
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 165 
 
 " Dear Sister, 
 
 " As Emmy's account of you is 
 pretty comfortable this morning, I sliall not 
 longer delay my projected journey, which 
 Pugin tells me will do me a great deal of 
 good. Indeed, I feel I want a change. I 
 shall start to-morrow for the Highlands, and, 
 perhaps, get as far as the Shetlands ; it may 
 be, cross to the Giant's Causeway. I do not 
 know where I shall go, or where I shall be for 
 the next three weeks, so it is no use to write 
 to me. Tell Emmy to let me find letters 
 from, her on my return, about three weeks 
 or a month hence. I take John, and 
 my own horses. I hope this cold weather 
 will do you no harm. An odd time, you will 
 say, for me to start on such an expedition ; 
 but I have always wished to see the High- 
 lands in winter" 
 
 She read no more. — The letter fell 
 from her hand ; and, when she recovered, her 
 senses, she found poor Biggs supporting her 
 head, and endeavouring to moisten her lips 
 with a glass of water.
 
 166 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 " Miss Emmy ! Miss Emmy ! look up. 
 What's the matter? Don't take on so," said 
 the good old man. 
 
 She opened her eyes, and looked in a wild, 
 distracted manner about the room. It was 
 some time before she could recover speech or 
 recollection ; but when she had a little col- 
 lected her spirits, she saw her course at least 
 plainly before her. There was nothing else to 
 be done — she must write to Mr. Danby. 
 
 Her letter was as follows : 
 
 " In the greatest perplexity and distress, 
 I venture to apply to Mr. Danby ; perhaps, 
 the knowledge he at present possesses of my 
 poor father's affairs may lead him to surmise 
 the nature of the difficulties which surround 
 me, when he hears that my father is delirious 
 in his bed, and that the messengers of the 
 law are in the house. I am too ignorant to 
 be aware how far I commit an impropriety 
 in applying to one of Mr. Danby's reputation, 
 and begging him to assist me, in this my 
 extremity, with his advice. He best knows 
 whether he can extricate me from the bewil-
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 167 
 
 derment in which I find myself. All I can 
 say is, that if he could come down to the 
 Oaks, were it only for a few hours, his pre- 
 sence would be an inexpressible relief to 
 
 " Emilia Wyndham. 
 
 " My mother died last night at about eight 
 o'clock."
 
 168 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Nova angeletta soore lale accosta 
 Scese dal cielo in su la trista riva, 
 La'nd' io passava sol per mio destine. 
 
 Mr. Danby was sitting in a dark back- 
 room, whence windows, which seemed not to 
 have been cleaned for centuries, almost ex- 
 cluded the light — his table, covered with 
 black leather, almost completely hidden by 
 pile upon pile of papers ; his pale and thin face, 
 still paler and more sallow if possible, than 
 when we saw him last, resting upon his thin, 
 wiry hand ; his hair ruffled and thrown back, 
 as if pushed away in impatient and perplex- 
 ing thought, and his mind engaged in solving 
 some knotty point of his profession. Amidst 
 a heap of letters, a small one, written upon
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 169 
 
 delicate satin paper, and directed in a beau- 
 tiful female hand, but which had evidently 
 trembled a good deal in the writing it, was 
 presented to him. 
 
 Mr. Danby turned the letter about between 
 his finger and thumb, looking at it with that 
 kind of curiosity with which a naturalist 
 might be supposed to examine some curious 
 and delicate shell, and then, with a sort of 
 peevish expression of contempt, threw it 
 down upon the table, and took up those 
 letters of a more important size and business- 
 like aspect which lay before him. 
 
 Still, while he opened the first long folio 
 sheet which presented itself, his eye continued 
 fixed upon the little, delicate, and sweetly 
 scented missive, and, turning it round to look 
 at it again, he perceived that it had a very 
 small black seal : he held the seal somewhat 
 curiously to his eye, and he then thought that 
 he had seen that beautiful antique seal once 
 before, upon occasion of his taking up a note 
 by mistake, which was lying upon a certain 
 drawing-room table in the country, at a certain 
 
 VOL. i: I
 
 170 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 gentleman's house. He recollected it directly : 
 but not the sooner did he open the letter. 
 
 He laid it carefully on one side, and very 
 conscientiously, or, rather, like the truest 
 epicure, opened and read every one of the 
 numerous missives around him, before — I will 
 not say before he touched it again — ^for he 
 could not forbear taking it up from time to 
 time while thus employed, and looking at it. 
 
 At last he laid it down upon a small folded 
 sheet of writing-paper, which by this time 
 was anything but white, (the flowers she had 
 given him were in it,) and continued to attend 
 to what he was about. 
 
 At length all the letters were read, pro- 
 perly arranged, and laid one upon the other 
 methodically, and then — he took up the little 
 letter for the last time. 
 
 The sudden start that he made as he read 
 it — the colour that flushed up into his pale 
 cheek — the flashing of his eye — the smile of 
 sweetness that came over that thin, sardonic 
 mouth ! — you should have beheld. 
 
 It was really touching to see the emotion
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 171 
 
 that shook every nerve in this dry, insensible 
 man. 
 
 He laid the letter upon the table — bent 
 down — read it again — and then — oh, smile 
 not, youth or beauty, in contempt! — this 
 grave, aged, business-like, withered man, 
 raised the morsel of insensible paper, and 
 pressed it to his lips with rapture. I am 
 almost ashamed to betray him — I feel that 
 there is something sacred in such a love, in 
 such a breast ! — something pathetic in this 
 sweet spring of tenderness welling up in a 
 desert such as this ! — something most piteous 
 in feelings excited so sadly too late ! — some- 
 thing lamentable in such a passion, that can 
 never, never meet return. 
 
 But he did not think of any return. His 
 extasy at receiving such a summons from the 
 being whom he had never for one moment 
 forgotten, was something too supreme for 
 expression. Words it, of course, would never 
 find with him. He shuffled away his papers 
 — rose from his chair — hurried out of his 
 room — locked his door — called his clerk, who 
 officiated as man-servant, told him to order a 
 
 I 2
 
 172 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 chaise and four horses for Hounslow imme- 
 diately, and then shuffled hastily into his own 
 room, and began to pack his portmanteau, 
 much in the fashion of the man who emptied 
 his drawers into a sheet, and pushed it into 
 his portmanteau. 
 
 He would not wait even to tell his mother 
 wdiere he was going ; but, sending her a hasty 
 line to inform her that he should be out of 
 town for about twenty-four hours, told his 
 clerk to say to all comers that he had been 
 summoned upon indispensable business into 
 the country, tumbled into the post-chaise, and, 
 as fast as four post-horses, such as they were 
 in those days, could carry him, was whirled 
 over the stones on the way to Hounslow 
 — in such a confusion of thought, in such a 
 tempest of happiness, that his brain and his 
 heart, little accustomed to these excitements 
 of delight, were almost in a state of delirium. 
 
 It was about eight o'clock on the following 
 morning that Mr. Danby found himself 
 driving up through the avenue of ancient 
 oaks, which led and gave its name to the 
 mansion of Mr. Wyndham.
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 173 
 
 As he approached it, even he, unobservant 
 as he usually was of mere external things, 
 could not help being struck with the silent 
 melancholy that pervaded it, and contrasted 
 so forcibly with the impression of gaiety, 
 brightness, and cheerfulness, which had been 
 left upon his imagination. When last he had 
 left it, bright lights illuminated the front of 
 the mansion — the sound of cheerful conversa- 
 tion resounded through the open windows — 
 the crowding servants were filling the hall, or 
 hanging about the steps of the vestibule — 
 horses, carriages, grooms, and coachmen, 
 were heard from the not very distant stable- 
 yard. 
 
 Now, a silence as of death pervaded all 
 things. The blinds were let down in the 
 front of the house ; not a creature, not even 
 a dog, was to be seen about ; not a sound 
 issued from the stable-yard or offices. It 
 seemed like a mansion of the dead. 
 
 It was a dull November morning; heavy 
 clouds covered the sky, and the wind swept 
 moaning through the swaying trees. The 
 carriage, however, drove briskly up to the
 
 174 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 door, and one of the postillions was dismount- 
 ing to ring the bell, when Mr. Danby, struck 
 by the air of desolation which pervaded the 
 front of the house, desired him to drive 
 round to the offices. 
 
 Emilia had passed a sorrowful night, 
 divided between attention to her father and 
 the attempt to take that rest which she felt 
 to be absolutely necessary, in order to enable 
 her to go through the task imposed upon her. 
 
 The physician had visited her the day 
 before, and the opinion he had given upon 
 the case had only served still more to in- 
 crease her alarm. The delirium had con- 
 siderably increased ; it was a delirium of that 
 worst and most alarming kind, which too 
 often, if it do not issue in death, leaves the 
 brain so much disordered and weakened as to 
 impair its functions for the rest of life. The 
 most undivided attention was required, 
 both to keep the patient quiet and to apply 
 the necessary remedies for cooling and tran- 
 quillizing the brain. 
 
 In this, with the assistance of her two 
 faithful servants, she had been unremittingly
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 175 
 
 employed, till her own brain began to reel 
 and turn dizzy with excitement and fatigue, 
 and she felt the absolute necessity of endea- 
 vouring to take a little repose. 
 
 But repose seemed impossible. 
 
 No sooner did she lay her aching head upon 
 her pillow, than all her sorrows and all her 
 anxieties appeared to present themselves in a 
 darker and more terrible array. What was 
 to be done ? 
 
 The physician — of course not in the 
 slightest degree aware of the circumstances 
 of the family — had accepted his fee of twenty 
 guineas, and finally drained her little purse ; 
 and her horror of touching any of her 
 father's money, under the uncertainty in 
 which she stood, began to amount almost to 
 a morbid feeling. 
 
 She could not rest — dark threatening 
 phantoms of undefined ill pursued her ; and 
 she found the melancholy of her waking 
 thoughts, and the view of her actual position, 
 far less intolerable than these gloomy, indis- 
 tinct shadows.
 
 176 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 She had risen, and gone into her mother's 
 room to watch and pray by her side. 
 
 The prospect of death — the calm and deep 
 tranquillity — the indescribable solemnity 
 which the presence of the dead impresses on 
 the human soul — tranquillized hers. The 
 storm was over — the strong battle of life had 
 ceased — the anxious energy, the strife with 
 evil, were at an end — sunk into that marble 
 stillness, that dread quiet, which, ponder on it 
 as we may, we never, never can comprehend. 
 
 Where was she gone? In what region 
 was that spirit now? — that burning intel- 
 ligence, that high intellect, that deep, hidden 
 sensibility, that stern resistance against 
 wrong, that mother's passion to defend her 
 child ? A cold, marble portraiture of what 
 it once had been was all that remained. 
 
 They were not tears that the unhappy 
 daughter shed. Her eyes seemed now too 
 dry for tears ; it was a deep, earnest, awe- 
 struck contemplation, which, however, seemed 
 to strengthen her heart and to tranquillize her 
 spirits.
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 1 77 
 
 How small appear the keenest interests of 
 life before such a spectacle ! How brief the 
 space of hurried being ere we must be as they 
 are, and the most strenuous circumstances 
 become less than the memory of a dream ! 
 Soon it would all be over, and the terrible 
 ruins which now surrounded her sink into the 
 night of the past; and, as with so many 
 vaster ruins, the plough of time pass over 
 them, and every trace of what had been be 
 forgotten. 
 
 It had been to pray that she came there — 
 but prayer was mute. When we soften and 
 melt, then we pray — then we lift up the eye 
 of faith and hope, and the gushing living 
 waters refresh the thirsting soul. When we 
 are wound up to a pitch like this, the pulse 
 of life stands still. We are silent, awe-struck, 
 and, for the moment, even without ideas — we 
 neither look above nor around, Ave only look 
 there. 
 
 She was in a mood like this when she was 
 summoned to meet one, his soul just awakened 
 from the deepest night of all — from the abso- 
 
 i5
 
 1 78 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 lute death of sensibility — to the wildest and 
 strongest passion of the heart. 
 
 Mr. Danby had been ushered into the small 
 breakfast-parlour, where a fire w^as kindled, 
 and the table already set for breakfast for 
 one. 
 
 The fire blazed cheerily, and glittered upon 
 the table equipage and the frames of the 
 many pictures which adorned the little apart- 
 ment ; so that, though the blinds were down, 
 it looked light and cheerful, and con- 
 trasted wath the invariable cloud of gloom 
 that pervaded the rest of the house. 
 
 He did not sit down, though the servant 
 had rolled Mr. Wyndham's comfortable arm- 
 chair to the fire for him ; he stood leaning 
 with his arm upon the mantelpiece, lost in 
 sweet thoughts, and contemplating, with a 
 pleasure quite new, the scene before him. 
 The elegant little apartment, fitted up with 
 all that could render life agreeable to a mind 
 such as his. No show, which he w^ould have
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 179 
 
 despised — no apparent extravagance, which 
 he would have hated — no exaggeration of 
 luxury, which he would have condemned; 
 but all so fresh, so light, so delicate, so 
 pleasant ! The few tables with their books — 
 the pictures — the elegant furniture — a few 
 flowers from the greenhouse — the beautiful 
 silken work-baskets of the ladies — the blazing 
 fire — the choice ornaments on the mantel- 
 piece ! What a contrast to his chambers ; 
 his foul, dusty chambers, littered with musty 
 papers and dingy parchments, with their 
 dirty windows, their dark creaking staircase, 
 their worm-eaten and discoloured furni- 
 ture ! 
 
 So he had lived, or rather existed, buried, 
 as it were, alive for nearly thirty years — 
 ignorant, as it would have seemed, that any 
 better existence was to be found : like the 
 shell-fi.sh, fastened to its native rock in 
 some gloomy sea-girt cave, that knows not of 
 the bright myriads that cleave with finny, 
 rapid wing, and sport in the crystal element 
 above. 
 
 His mother's close and gloomy house in
 
 180 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 Charlotte Street, Bedford Square, was little 
 better than his own chambers ; there was 
 scarcely more light or cheerfulness, and only 
 a little less dust and dirt. 
 
 He took up a small black case that lay 
 upon the mantelpiece, and in mere absence 
 of mind, opened it. What a picture ! 
 
 A cherub, with a face of angel serenity, 
 love, and innocence ; the locks of golden hair 
 hanging round the face, and showering about 
 the round waxen shoulders — the white frock 
 — the blue sash ! 
 
 " EMILIA WYNDHAM, AGED SIX YEARS," 
 
 in small seed pearl, surrounding a lock of that 
 golden hair behind. 
 
 He had never, I believe, noticed a child 
 before. He ! — he had never, except as 
 minors or wards in chancery, contemplated 
 the existence of such things. Of course, he 
 had tumbled against little, dirty, impudent 
 looking boys and girls in the streets, and had 
 thought just as much of them as of any rough 
 dray or cart, or the like, that might have 
 encumbered the path he was treading.
 
 EMILIA WYNDIIAM. 181 
 
 He started as at a heavenly vision— bent 
 down his eye close to the picture — and was 
 engaged in a sort of reverie, rather than con- 
 templation, over it, when the lock turned, the 
 door opened, and she herself appeared. 
 
 She had not yet assumed her mourning, 
 but was in a pale lilac muslin morning-gown, 
 with a good deal of white about it. He did 
 not know what it was, but it looked to him 
 like the colour of the dove's wing. She 
 looked deathly pale, more than pale, sallow ; 
 her beautiful rosy colour, which had seemed 
 to him like the waxen cup of the rose she 
 had given him, all fled — her animated eye 
 was grave and anxious — her bright hair was 
 hanging discoloured round her face. 
 
 Such was the change ! Such was the beau- 
 tiful half-cherub, half-angel — goddess — Hebe 
 — Flora — as he might have called her, had 
 his vague imagination taken words — of his 
 dreams. Such was she become. 
 
 Was he disappointed ? 
 
 No. 
 
 There is something to the heart of man yet 
 dearer, when the divinity of his imagination —
 
 182 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 the bright goddess of his thoughts, something 
 too radiant and beautiful for real life — is 
 presented, after all, but as the tearful, suffer- 
 ing daughter of clay. He could have fallen 
 at her feet, and wrapped his arms about her 
 knees in silent adoration ! And what did he 
 do ? He looked excessively ugly, excessively 
 shy, and excessively awkward — his head more 
 uncouthly carried, his arms more dangling, his 
 knees more in, his gait more shuffling than ever 
 — as he moved forward, and met the hand 
 extended to him, while a smile of grateful 
 pleasure, like the gleam of the sun upon a 
 dreary winter day, just lighted for a moment 
 her countenance. 
 
 His extreme shyness and awkwardness were 
 a relief to her ; she had felt a little afraid 
 when first he was announced, and, had not 
 her feelings already mounted so high, would 
 have come down to the interview with this 
 clever man of business with all the trepi- 
 dation that girls of her age are accustomed to 
 feel at the idea of meeting those awful per- 
 sonages, middle-aged men — men of high 
 standing in the estimation of other men.
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 183 
 
 They are almost as much afraid as these 
 personages are of them — not quite so much, I 
 believe, but it will do for a comparison. 
 
 But when she saw Mr. Danby look so very 
 awkward, and so very much afraid of her, it 
 restored her at once to her self-possession — 
 for she was a coward in grain, like all the 
 rest of her sex, bluster as they will. 
 
 " I am deeply, deeply obliged to you, Mr. 
 Danby," she began, in a voice of much feeling, 
 while he held the hand she had given to him ; 
 ** I cannot express to you how much I feel 
 this act of kindness. I ought to make many, 
 many apologies for presuming so far upon a 
 gentleman on whose consideration I had not 
 the slightest claim, but the excessive distress 
 and perplexity of my present situation, my 
 total ignorance of business, my uncle's most 
 unfortunate absence, and — and — and — " 
 
 But here her voice began to falter. 
 
 He could have listened to her for ever, as 
 she ran on in this way in a fluttered, hurried 
 voice. He never thought of stopping her by 
 the usual assurances ; he kept holding her 
 hand, his eyes bent upon it, for he had not
 
 184? EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 courage to raise them farther, drinking in, 
 with a sort of exquisite delight, the tones of 
 her sweet, harmonious voice. 
 
 The trembling and faltering — like the 
 breaking of pebbles in a clear, flowing stream 
 — awakened him from his extatic reverie ; he 
 lifted up his head, and said, abruptly and 
 somewhat roughly, 
 
 " Yes, yes — -I know — " 
 
 He only thought of preventing her from 
 entering upon a painful subject; but the tone 
 startled and checked her. 
 
 She withdrew her hand, and was silent. 
 
 " I mean," he said, stammering and con- 
 fused — " I mean that I am truly sorry for 
 you, and I wish — I mean I hope — I haven't 
 offended you," he added, going close up to 
 her, and in a most beseeching tone of voice. 
 
 " Oh no, far from that," she replied, re- 
 covering herself. " Will you not be seated, 
 Mr. Danby, and take some breakfast ?" she 
 then asked, with her hand upon the bell. " Ex- 
 cuse me, I believe I am very nervous to-day." 
 
 *' You look very ill, indeed," said he ; "I 
 never saw any one so much changed in my life.
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 185 
 
 I am afraid you have suffered greatly, you 
 look so very, very ill." 
 
 *' Do I, indeed," said she, and she could 
 scarcely suppress a slight smile at his sim- 
 plicity; but even that little smile did her 
 good. " I have, indeed, had cause — " 
 
 The servant just then entered, and she 
 ordered breakfast immediately, and, sitting 
 down at the head of the table, prepared her- 
 self to make it for him. 
 
 He took a chair, and sat down by her. 
 
 It is astonishing how much good this simple 
 arrangement seemed to do her. There is a 
 tendency to monomania in grief and anxiety, 
 for which such trifling, little, vulgar occupa- 
 tions and distractions afford the best and 
 most wholesome relief. It is by the small, 
 but necessary occupations of the day, that 
 we are carried living, and with minds un- 
 distracted, through such hours of darkness. 
 The very opening of the tea-chest, the pre- 
 paring the cups, the ordering fresh sugar — 
 these miserable little employments were of 
 service. They are,- after all, among the best 
 antidotes against melancholy — these occupa-
 
 186 EMILIA WYNDH AM. 
 
 tions, common as daily bread. His presence 
 too had lifted an insupportable load from her 
 heart. Her dreadful perplexity was at an 
 end. She had the most perfect faith in Mr. 
 Danby's ability, and the most perfect con- 
 fidence in his kindness — why^ she could hardly 
 have told herself, but so it was. And, per- 
 haps, we could have told her why. 
 
 She is sitting there making his tea, and, 
 for the first moment since her mother's 
 death, swallowing hers with a feeling of re- 
 freshment ; she cannot yet eat, but the tea is 
 doing her infinite good. 
 
 He is drinking the tea she pours out for 
 him, and it is as the nectar of the gods ; but, 
 to win Heaven, neither could he, at that 
 moment, have eaten a morsel. 
 
 " I am afraid there is nothing that you 
 like, sir," she said, politely and anxiously ; 
 " is there anything you are in the habit of 
 taking that we can get for you ?" 
 
 " No, thank you, ma'am — pray don't — 
 don't speak of it. One other cup of tea, and 
 then, you will excuse me, but" — the sound 
 man of business was now beginning at last to
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 187 
 
 make his voice heard, and to silence that of 
 the man of passion — " the sooner you put me 
 into possession of the matters on which, if I 
 understand, you desire my advice, the better. 
 If I comprehended the purport of the letter 
 with v^hich you were pleased to honour me, 
 there is an execution out against your father, 
 and the bailiffs are in the house. — They can- 
 not have taken him into custody ?" 
 
 She shrank a little at the word, and the 
 somewhat harsh tone of voice in which this 
 last was delivered. Mr. Danby, once engaged 
 in business, was himself again ; his counte- 
 nance as hard, his tone as dry, his eye as cold 
 and piercing. 
 
 " No," she said, shuddering; " but, if I 
 understood the man rightly, who came first — 
 he would have been — would be — if he were 
 not at this moment so frightfully ill ; and oh, 
 sir" — and she began to feel very much afraid 
 again of this cold, penetrating face of business 
 — " his affairs !" 
 
 " Are in the worst of all possible messes," 
 said he. ^' I anticipated this. Miss Wynd- 
 ham ; and, when I was last here, pointed out
 
 188 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 to your father what I thought the only course 
 that could possibly save him from utter 
 destruction. My advice was not received in 
 the spirit in which it was given — or rather, 
 there are some characters so hopelessly w^eak, 
 and so recklessly self-indulgent, that there is 
 no stopping them, while a penny is to be 
 obtained, by fair means or foul. I wish the 
 means adopted by that vile, shuffling rascal, 
 Rile, for supplying Mr. Wyndham with 
 money, may not have been as dishonest and 
 dangerous as the purposes on which it was 
 squandered were childish and ridiculous." 
 
 She was almost petrified at this sudden 
 and rude attack ; but the manner in which he 
 spoke of her father before her face roused 
 her indignation, and she could not help 
 saying, 
 
 " My father may have deserved censure — 
 I cannot be a judge — but before his daughter, 
 at least, I might have hoped he would have 
 been spared." 
 
 " Spared !" said he ; " from what I saw 
 of his proceedings while I was here, I think 
 his conduct to you^ and to your mother, the
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 189 
 
 most infamous part of tbese shameful pro- 
 ceedings. To think of his robbing you both 
 in this inexcusable manner !" 
 
 She was at a loss for words to reply. 
 
 His eyes had been bent upon the carpet 
 while he was speaking; engrossed with his 
 own thoughts, and, according to his usual 
 habit, soon entirely lost to the world about 
 him, he had not the slightest perception of 
 what she was feeling — of the pain, distress, 
 and terror now visible in her countenance. 
 The idea of exposing her father's affairs to 
 so rude and terrible a judge began to be in- 
 supportable. 
 
 At last he looked up, but even then was 
 far from perceiving how hurried she was. 
 
 He said — 
 
 " We had better not lose any time," and 
 he looked at his watch. *' Let me see Mr. 
 Wyndham's papers, and form some estimate 
 of the position of things. I dare say the 
 whole are in the most unpardonable con- 
 fusion, but some ideas may be gathered from 
 them." 
 
 " I do not know" — she began hesitating.
 
 190 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 colouring, and the tears beginning to cloud 
 into her eyes — " I begin to think, perhaps, 
 that I have no right — I don't know whether 
 I ought — to unlock my father's private 
 drawers, display his papers, his affairs, to 
 a — a — stranger." 
 
 " Why did you send for me, then ?" said 
 he rudely, for he felt offended. 
 
 " I mean, I don't know" — all her con- 
 fidence in him was now lost — " I don't know 
 what I ought to do. My perplexities, my diffi- 
 culties, only increase !" and the tears stood 
 in her eyes, but they did not fall. 
 
 He looked at her, and was again charmed 
 and softened, though not in the slightest 
 degree aware of the cause of this sudden 
 change in her resolution. He attributed it 
 to a very prudential and proper repugnance 
 to giving up such important things as 
 papers without a proper authority ; to such a 
 rational difficulty and view of things he was 
 quite sensible, so, laying his hand upon the 
 table, he said in a calm and steady voice — 
 
 " Your dislike to surrender your father's 
 papers to the inspection of a stranger, without
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 191 
 
 his authority, is perfectly just and reason- 
 able — and, under any circumstances, as a 
 stranger I could not so receive them — but, if 
 I understood the purport of your letter, you 
 summoned me here as a friend — as d. friend 
 I came — as 2. friend I am ready to offer any 
 advice and assistance in my power. Surely, 
 Miss Wyndham," and a faint colour suffused 
 even his pale cheek, " Miss Wyndham cannot 
 believe that I would make any unworthy, any 
 dishonourable use of her confidence." 
 
 She saw at once how far he was from 
 comprehending her feelings, and, at the same 
 instant, blamed her own susceptibility. She 
 hastened to assure him that her repugnance 
 arose only from the natural hesitation of a 
 person acting under circumstances so new and 
 unexpected, and only begged him to assure 
 her she was acting right in what she was 
 about to do — to unlock her father's most 
 private repositories. 
 
 " It all depended upon the urgency of the 
 case," he said. 
 
 She proceeded to relate in detail all that 
 had passed; she did not omit, exquisitely
 
 192 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 painful as the relation was to her, the nar- 
 ration of what had taken place on the fatal 
 evening of her mother's death. 
 
 He listened in profound silence, not inter- 
 rupting her relation by the slightest gesture, 
 or even change of countenance. There was 
 something quite terrible to her, in his grave, 
 serious, impassible manner; nothing is so 
 alarming to a young girl of feeling as this 
 impassibility, which seems to refuse all sym- 
 pathy with weakness or with error. 
 
 She ended, and there was a silence of con- 
 siderable length. 
 
 At last he lifted up his eyes, which had 
 been bent upon the floor in serious rumina- 
 tion, and said — 
 
 *' After the dislike and hesitation you have 
 very properly expressed to put me in posses- 
 sion, unauthorised, of your father's secrets and 
 papers, it is extremely disagreeable to me to 
 say — and it is the first time in my life — and 
 
 I vow to shall be the last that ever 
 
 I will do such a thing — it is necessary, 
 if I am to be of any use in this, as far as I 
 can judge, most disgraceful business, that I
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 193 
 
 should be immediately put in possession of 
 the facts, so far as they can be learned from 
 papers probably in excessive confusion. But, 
 once more, do you thoroughly understand? 
 This surrender of the papers is your own act 
 and deed — done upon your own responsibility, 
 and at no desire of mine ; surrendered to me 
 as amicus familias, friend of the family, in 
 order to tell you what you must do till your 
 uncle and better advisers get about you." 
 
 " I understand," said she, rising to lead 
 the way to the study, " that if I do wrong, 
 the whole responsibility is to rest upon me. 
 I am prepared for it, for, indeed, what other 
 course can I take?" 
 
 He made no reply, but followed her to the 
 little, secluded, and darksome apartment. 
 
 She opened the drawer, and put him in 
 possession of the papers. 
 
 He sat down, and began inventorizing, 
 examining, and noting, and was soon lost in 
 business — this habit, which had become a 
 second nature, of giving his whole attention 
 to what he was about, rendering him soon 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 1 94 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 insensible to the presence of any one else in 
 the room. 
 
 He had sat in this way for a considerable 
 time, she standing by the fire playing with a 
 stick of sealing-wax, and impatiently waiting 
 for a sentence of intelligence or for one of 
 dismissal ; but he never lifted up his head, or 
 took the slightest notice of her. At last, she 
 became quite anxious to go to her father's 
 room, and she ventured to step to his side, 
 and to say — 
 
 ** Can I be of any service ?" 
 
 Her started at the voice, and looked sud- 
 denly up. It was like an apparition ; in the 
 midst of his pre-occupation, her image, at any 
 time suddenly presented, would have sent the 
 blood to his heart. The impression wore off, 
 as you have seen, when they had been long 
 together, but its effect, as I have said, sud- 
 denly presented, was irresistible. 
 
 A strange unwonted expression was in his 
 eye. 
 
 " I haven't been keeping you standing 
 here, 1 hope — have I?" he asked, looking
 
 EMILIA W YNDH AM. 195 
 
 rather hurried and confused. " No, I shall 
 not want you at present — I have not done 
 examining the papers — I will send you word 
 when I have done." 
 
 " I am wanted in my father's room ; if you 
 will please to ring the bell, and summon me, 
 I shall be at your service, sir, at any moment." 
 
 " Very well." 
 
 And, letting her open the door for herself, 
 he resumed his examination, while she went 
 up to her father. 
 
 With what different feelings did Emilia 
 leave Mr. Danby from those with which she 
 had seated herself by him at the breakfast- 
 table ! Then, her heart was overflowing with 
 gratitude and warm with confidence ; now, 
 froissee by his roughness, wounded by his 
 rudeness, and offended by the way in which, 
 in her very presence, he had spoken of her 
 father, she was upon the point of bitterly 
 regretting that she had ever applied to him. 
 
 She felt almost angry — certainly dissatisfied 
 with herself — that she had been led to lay 
 open to so severe and unpitying a judge his 
 
 K 2
 
 196 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 foibles and his faults. All his little ill 
 tempers, all his many errors, were forgotten 
 by the tender and pious child ; she thought 
 of him only as stretched helpless upon the 
 bed of sickness, as reduced to the extreme of 
 poverty, and all his misconduct exposed to 
 the cruel eye of one who seemed to possess 
 neither indulgence nor pity. 
 
 She remembered the harshness of the sen- 
 timents which he had expressed when he 
 visited them before, and w^ondered how she 
 had found courage to apply to him. 
 
 She entered her father's room. 
 
 He was very low — in one of the low fits of 
 his delirium. As soon as he saw her, for he 
 knew her perfectly well in spite of his wan- 
 dering fancies, he began talking to her in the 
 tenderest and most affectionate, though in 
 somewhat of a childish manner ; bewailing 
 his faults, and the evils he was bringing upon 
 her and her saint-like mother, whom it was 
 evident, now the disguises of temper and 
 jealousy were taken away, he worshipped to 
 the bottom of his heart, and of whose death 
 he did not seem to be in the least aware.
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 197 
 
 It was sweet to her to be thus addressed, 
 and to fondle and soothe him like a child ; 
 and then she thought of the pitiless, unre- 
 lenting eye that was employed in scanning 
 the record of his weaknesses and follies. 
 
 And, much as she was indebted to him, she 
 almost hated Mr. Danby.
 
 198 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Defect of manners, want of government, 
 Loseth men's hearts, and leaves behind a stain 
 Upon the beauty of all parts besides, ^ 
 
 Beguiling them of commendation. 
 
 King" Henry IV. 
 
 In about two hours she heard the study- 
 bell ring. There was a knock at the door, 
 and the voice of Biggs. 
 
 " Please, Miss Wyndham, will you please 
 to step down into master's study?" 
 
 She came down, and opened the door. 
 
 He came forward to meet her with more 
 assurance and politeness than she had ever 
 observed in him before. This, you will ob- 
 serve, was a meeting upon business, and he 
 was at home there ; and he handed her to a 
 chair, and seated himself opposite to her. 
 
 He looked exceedingly grave, but there
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 199 
 
 was much more feeling and softness than 
 usual in liis voice, as, after fixing his eyes 
 upon her in silence for a few moments, he 
 began — 
 
 "I am very sorry to have to tell you, 
 from what I can gather from your father's 
 papers, that his affairs are in a more desperate 
 condition than even / had anticipated." 
 
 She could scarcely turn paler than she was 
 before ; she did not, however, shrink, or even 
 move; she sat fixed in mute attention. 
 
 Her steadiness increased, if possible, the 
 admiration he felt for her; he began to 
 respect her— a very new feeling with him. 
 
 *' You have a great deal of fortitude and 
 courage, Miss Wyndham, and they are very 
 rare and noble qualities." 
 
 This was, perhaps, the first sentence ap- 
 proaching to a sentiment that had dropped 
 from his lips for years. 
 
 " Shall I with frankness lay before you the 
 state of the case — so far, at least, as you can 
 be capable of comprehending it ?" 
 
 She did not speak, but signified her acqui- 
 escence by a gesture.
 
 200 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 " Your father is involved beyond all hope 
 of extrication. So far from possessing a 
 penny in the world, I doubt whether his 
 whole fortune could discharge his obligations, 
 were it twice told." 
 
 There was a faint, smothered cry. He 
 looked up, and, little as he was accustomed 
 to be moved, there was something in the 
 expression of her face that touched him 
 deeply. He rose from his chair, went up to 
 her, and making a gesture as if he would 
 support her with his arm, for she had fallen 
 back in her chair, said, in a kind tone — 
 
 " I have been too abrupt, I am afraid. 
 This is too much for you ; let me" — and he 
 made a movement as if he would raise her head 
 — " let me, dear Miss Wyndham — " 
 
 But she shook him off with a sort of hidden 
 shudder. Unjust as it is, we do not love the 
 messenger of evil ; and her dislike to him was 
 increasing in spite of herself; the " dear 
 Miss Wyndham" gave a little tremble of 
 repugnance. 
 
 " Thank you, sir," said she, recovering 
 herself, and sitting upright in her chair, while
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 201 
 
 he, in some trepidation, resumed his. '' I am 
 better. I was a good deal prepared for this ; 
 but I did not think things had been so very 
 — very — " 
 
 " Can't be worse — the infatuated fool !" 
 he exclaimed, for the moment roused to indig- 
 nation by the distress he witnessed, and again 
 forgetting all delicacies and proprieties in the 
 bitterness and exasperation of his feelings. 
 
 " My poor father !" was all she answered, 
 humbly. 
 
 " Father !" he said, with increasing bitter- 
 ness ; " a pretty father ! To ruin such a 
 child !" he muttered. 
 
 She said no more — she could not bear it ; 
 and yet she felt, at the same time, that her 
 irritation against one so invincibly blind to 
 the nature of her feelings was childish and 
 useless. She tried, too, to remember how 
 very kind it was of him thus to interest him- 
 self in her father's affairs, and that, if he was 
 rude in his mode of telling unpalatable truths, 
 he must be excused for it. 
 
 So she sat in her usual method, quite still 
 
 K 5
 
 202 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 and silent, for a few minutes, to recover her 
 spirits. 
 
 And then she said — 
 
 " What would you advise to be done?" 
 
 *' The worst feature in the case," he 
 replied, " is, that your father has put himself 
 so entirely into the power of that low scoun- 
 drel attorney. Rile." 
 
 And then, while she listened with deep 
 attention, he very patiently endeavoured to 
 explain to her all the intricate involvements 
 of securities, under - securities, cross -bills, 
 mortgages, bonds, notes of hand, &c. &c., 
 with which I will not trouble you, and which, 
 indeed, I am not lawyer sufficient clearly to 
 understand myself, unless I had a Mr. Danby 
 by my side to hold the clue to the inextricable 
 labyrinth. 
 
 Enough to say, that it was, as he asserted, 
 twice Mr. Wyndham's fortune would have 
 been insufficient to discharge his obligations. 
 
 Returning to whence he had begun — 
 
 " The first thing. Miss Wyndham," he said, 
 "is to get you out of the gripe of that
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 203 
 
 execrable Rile, whose purposes I see ; but," 
 he added, seeing her turn very pale again, and 
 looking at her with a genuine expression of 
 kindness, which she neither perceived nor could 
 understand, " leave all that to me. Trust to 
 me. — I possess the means, and they shall be 
 used in your behalf, to liberate you — and, for 
 your sake, your father — from his clutches. 
 You shall have time — and he shall have time 
 — to pause, and look about him. He shall 
 not be hurried to a jail, whether he deserve 
 it or not ; he shall be rescued from that, for 
 your sake." 
 
 The peculiar way in which all this was 
 spoken failed to excite her attention ; her 
 whole soul was in dismay at the revelation 
 which had just been made to her. 
 
 " Thank you, sir — thank you, sir," was all 
 she could articulate in a hurried manner. 
 
 " One thing more," said he, as he was 
 preparing to close the drawer, after neatly 
 replacing all the papers in their proper 
 situations ; " have you any ready money ?" 
 
 She coloured crimson, but said nothing.
 
 204 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 " The drawer is empty," said he, " that 
 is to say, this drawer," opening the secretaire 
 again, and displaying a small drawer within ; 
 " this, which I conclude was his money- 
 drawer.... there is only two guineas and a few- 
 half-crowns in it. Do you think he had any 
 more in other parts of the house ?" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " And there is Mrs. Wyndham's funeral," 
 said he, abruptly. 
 
 She felt quite sick, and her knees trem- 
 bled. This rough way of bringing painful 
 images before the mind was too much for her. 
 
 " Suffer me, then, to be your banker. 
 Here is a check," hastily opening his pocket- 
 book, taking out a banker's check, and filling 
 it up, '' for one hundred pounds. If that is not 
 sufficient for the moment," he added, hastily 
 signing several blank checks, " these are w^hat 
 we call chartes blanches — you have only to fill 
 them up for what you want ; here, mind, you 
 must write the sum in figures, and here in 
 words. Shall I put them into the money- 
 drawer, and give you the key? You must
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 205 
 
 take care of them, if you please, for if they 
 fell into any other person's hands, there might 
 he the d — 1 and all to pay." 
 
 And he was putting them into the drawer 
 before she could recover breath to exclaim — 
 
 '* Impossible ! Mr. Danby." 
 
 " What do you mean ?" said he ; " why 
 should it be impossible?" 
 
 There -was a simplicity in his tone and 
 look, as he lifted up his head and said this, 
 that quite touched her. 
 
 No man was more indifferent to the money 
 he had heaped together by his laborious life 
 than Mr. Danby; and though he understood 
 the world wonderfully well, there were some 
 things he never could understand : and why 
 one man should not offer money to another 
 man, if that man chanced to want it — that is, 
 if the other man was willing to let him have 
 it — he never could be brought to comprehend. 
 
 " You must have some money immediately, 
 my dear Miss Wyndham ; it may be three 
 weeks, at least, before you can communicate 
 with your uncle : and to try to get things 
 upon credit just now, believe me, might
 
 206 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 expose you to very disagreeable conse- 
 quences." 
 
 Still she said nothing. Not in the least 
 understanding the expression of distress in 
 her countenance, he went on. 
 
 " Never mind the money — it is nothing to 
 me. Take just what you want. Nay," he added, 
 seeing her increasing agitation, and some slight 
 idea of its cause at last penetrating into his 
 mind, " Sir Herbert will repay me when he 
 comes, if you will not allow me the pleasure 
 of assisting you ; so pray have no scruples. 
 Indeed, what can you do ?" 
 
 What could she do, indeed ! 
 
 She stammered — she hesitated — she turned 
 red — she turned pale — she was sick — she was 
 irritated. To accept money from him ! — 
 from one with so little gentleness, so little 
 delicacy, so rudely careless of w^ounding her 
 feelings, even when he was doing his best to 
 assist her. 
 
 Emilia's was no character of sickly refine- 
 ment, yet there is something in money obliga- 
 tions so revolting to a generous mind, except 
 under the most peculiar relations ! There
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 207 
 
 mioflit have been those to whom she would 
 have been proud to be indebted for any- 
 thing; but she felt — in this, however, she 
 was unjust — that a dependence of this sort 
 would give Mr. Danby an additional right to 
 abuse her father, and disregard her feelings 
 as much as he pleased. I do not pledge myself 
 that he would have had sufficient refinement 
 and sense of delicacy, to be more reserved in 
 his contemptuous expressions of disapproba- 
 tion after Mr. Wyndham had made use of his 
 money — all I maintain is, that the circum- 
 stance would not have had the vulgar effect 
 of making him more so. 
 
 This Cymon was rather more slow of im- 
 provement than the rustic of the fable ; and you 
 will think, and you are right, his was a far 
 more hopeless case. The clown could see his 
 slouching gait in his looking-glass, but where 
 was the mirror that should present to this 
 man the thousand wants of his rude, uncul- 
 tured mind? How reach his perceptions, 
 which in themselves were rendered so obtuse 
 upon every subject 'but that of his profession? 
 The ten thousand noble and generous shames
 
 208 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 that rise to the honest heart, at accepting 
 obligations from those it is impossible to love, 
 were quite lost upon him. With his usual 
 bluntness, he said— 
 
 " You accepted my time, which is far more 
 valuable to me than this paltry sum of money, 
 and why will you not accept my money ? I 
 assure you it cannot put me to the slightest 
 inconvenience. I have more money than I 
 know what to do with. Do not make a 
 scruple about it." 
 
 " My scruples," said she, after a consider- 
 able effort to speak with composure, " are 
 those of habits of thought, of which I must, 
 perhaps, now for ever take leave. It is true, 
 sir, this obligation must be added to that load 
 of obligation under which I lie to you. My 
 mother's funeral, as you justly told me, must 
 be provided for. I thank you, sir, very 
 much ; my uncle will, I am sure, repay you 
 as soon as ever he arrives." 
 
 " What is it?" said he, looking at her; 
 there was a coldness she could not conquer 
 in her manner, which shocked and grieved 
 him. '* What is it? what is it that displeases
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 209 
 
 you, MissWjndham ? — Anything I have done? 
 anything I have said ? I sincerely beg your 
 pardon," he continued, approaching her with 
 much anxiety in his tone and manner ; " my 
 wish has been to serve and assist you. Have 
 I neglected anything you wish to have done ?" 
 
 " You are only too kind, sir," was all she 
 could bring herself to say : there was some- 
 thing in his manner that touched her; she 
 felt ashamed of her own injustice and in- 
 gratitude. Had she known what he was 
 about to do, she would have felt still more 
 discontented with herself. 
 
 He was going to meet Rile that evening, 
 and with the determination to put more than 
 half his own hard-earned fortune into jeopardy, 
 rather than that she should be disturbed in 
 this moment of distress, while her mother 
 lay dead in the house. And yet, such is the 
 unavoidable effect of inattention to the feel- 
 inofs of others which his unfortunate educa- 
 tion had made almost habitual to him — but 
 in which most of us men more or less offend 
 —that he was forfeiting all the regard due to
 
 SIO EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 this noble and generous kindness, even at the 
 very moment he was contemplating it. 
 
 He now again took up the signed draft, 
 which had been lying all this time upon the 
 table, and, with an air of more gentleness and 
 solicitude than he had till then assumed, again 
 tendered it to her acceptance. 
 
 But her hand refused to advance to receive 
 it. She could not — something, an invincible 
 something withheld her. He, however, was 
 not to be thus baffled ; he actually took pos- 
 session of the small, delicate, white hand — 
 pressed the note into it — gave one fervent 
 pressure with his thin, almost skeleton fingers 
 — raised it to his lips, imprinted a kiss upon 
 it, and immediately left the room. 
 
 She stood as one petrified, the paper in her 
 hand. Could it be possible? Was it a 
 dream ? Could she in truth be a beggar — 
 a dependant upon charity for bread — a de- 
 pendant upon the charity of Mr. Danby ! 
 
 She thought she knew — she tried to feel 
 sure — that her uncle, though a very mean 
 and covetous man, would have too much
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 211 
 
 pride not to discharge this obligation. And 
 then, in spite of herself, came a feeling of 
 relief in possessing the money. The dreadful 
 destitution, that horrible panic which pos- 
 sesses the penniless, she was at least relieved 
 from. The bread for her family, and the 
 expences of her mother's funeral, were pro- 
 vided for ; there was amply sufficient till her 
 uncle should return. 
 
 To this feeling of security was soon added 
 the recollection of what he had said on the 
 subject of Rile, which, in the hurry of her 
 feelings, she had scarcely given attention to. 
 She now recollected, with a sensation of relief 
 inexpressible, that he had promised to secure 
 her father from further disturbance for the 
 present, so as to allow them both a little 
 breathing time. She began to reconsider 
 with pain, the coldness, the more than cold- 
 ness, of her conduct — the feeling almost of 
 repugnance with which she had met his kind- 
 ness. As is often the case in such circum- 
 stances, this sentiment of irritation and almost 
 capricious dislike died with the presence of 
 its object. He had been gone but a very
 
 212 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 short time, before she felt almost remorseful 
 for her behaviour; she longed to see him 
 again, and by her gentleness and gratitude 
 make atonement for it. She began to look 
 round for some excuse for speaking to him 
 once more. 
 
 Then she recollected the blank cheques he 
 had locked up in the drawer ; a mark of con- 
 fidence she felt that, at all events, she ought 
 not to accept. She felt a nervous fear lest 
 they should get into any other hands; she 
 might be robbed of them, they might be mis- 
 used. It was impossible to keep them. 
 
 To return them would furnish an oppor- 
 tunity for speaking with him. 
 
 She left the room and went into the hall, 
 hoping to find him in the breakfast-room ; as 
 she passed the hall-door, two men went by 
 upon the carriage-road — it was the bailiff and 
 his follower. Her heart leaped within her. 
 Was it possible ? Were they gone ? Had 
 he found security for the debt ? 
 
 He had taken the whole of it upon himself. 
 
 But this she did not learn till long after- 
 wards.
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 213 
 
 He was not in the breakfast-room, but, 
 through the window which looked upon the 
 terrace, she saw him walking alone, lost, as it 
 would seem, in a deep reverie, his hands 
 behind his back, and his eyes bent upon the 
 ground. 
 
 The breakfast-room sash-window opened to 
 the ground ; she threw it up, and, holding 
 the signed drafts in her hand, went up to 
 him. 
 
 He was so absorbed in thought that he 
 did not perceive her till she was close beside 
 him, and very timidly said — 
 
 ^' Mr. Danby." 
 
 He started from his reverie — saw her — the 
 accustomed flash of delight passed over his 
 pale and serious face, as he exclaimed — 
 
 " You, Miss Wyndham ! Do you want 
 anything with me f " 
 
 " I come," said she, blushing, stammering, 
 and the tears almost in her eyes, " because I 
 think I must have seemed very, very ungrate- 
 ful to you in the library....! am so unhappy 
 that you will, perhaps, excuse me, for so 
 very, very ill expressing what I ought to feel
 
 214 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 — what I do feel:... I am very sorry, I hope 
 you will forgive me." 
 
 " Forgive you !" he said, coming up to her, 
 taking her hand again in his, and regarding 
 her with a look of ineffable tenderness, which, in 
 her confusion, she fortunately did not perceive. 
 " This to me ! Were you condescending to 
 say all this to me ? Can you doubt that to 
 assist you — to oblige you — is the highest 
 pleasure of my life, the only pleasure I ever 
 tasted in my life ?" 
 
 She was full of her own ideas of what she 
 had and ought to say ; she was blind to the 
 rapture which spoke in his eyes at that 
 moment. 
 
 " I am exceedingly obliged to you," she 
 went on, " for what you have done — and 
 though, at first, it did give me excessively 
 great pain to accept money from you, I am 
 sure you will understand my feelings. I 
 now feel how considerate and friendly it 
 was. Those two horrid men, too — they, you 
 have sent away — I do not know how to thank 
 you; but these," presenting the cheques, 
 " you must allow me to return. I do not
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 215 
 
 want them ; nothing should tempt me to 
 abuse your confidence by making use of them. 
 Will you take them back, or shall I tear 
 them ?" 
 
 He looked more than ever pleased with her. 
 He had been accustomed to regard women as 
 a set of extravagant, rapacious harpies, who 
 preyed upon all the men weak enough to 
 trust or to indulge them. This delicacy, now 
 he came to understand it, delighted him more 
 and more. 
 
 It was a very coarse view of things, you 
 will agree with me, which could lead a man 
 to be very much delighted with such a simple 
 act of propriety as this. But Mr. Danby, 
 like most of those who have a very low 
 opinion of human nature, had taken a very 
 partial and imperfect view of woman's nature 
 especially. 
 
 Her delicacy, however, could not make him 
 delicate. He pressed her to keep the 
 cheques. 
 
 " There is no knowing what you may want, 
 and I cannot have you distressed. Indeed, I 
 cannot allow it. Till Sir Herbert's return, you
 
 216 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 are under my care. I consider myself as your 
 guardian and protector. Is it not so?" 
 he added, pressing the hand he held. 
 
 She did feel, at that moment, as if he were 
 what he said — a guardian and protector, 
 standing in the place of her uncle to her. 
 His age, which to her young, impertinent 
 imagination seemed quite venerable, prevented 
 her attaching that meaning to his words 
 which his too fond and foolish heart was in 
 secret doing. 
 
 She withdrew her hand, however, and, 
 taking hold of the cheques with both, said 
 resolutely — 
 
 '' It must be so '" 
 
 And, tearing them into four pieces, pre- 
 sented him with the fragments ; which he, 
 with a vexed look, took, and tearing them, 
 with some impatience, into a thousand mor- 
 sels, distributed them to the winds. 
 
 " I must leave you to-night," he said, 
 addressing her as they walked side by side 
 towards the house, " for business that must 
 be attended to demands my presence in town, 
 but I shall return again in the course of a few
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 217 
 
 days, to finish much that it will be neces- 
 sary to do here. In the mean time, it is my 
 advice to you to get over the funeral. Let it 
 be done in a proper manner, such as you 
 think your uncle would approve. You will 
 find yourself relieved when this is all at an 
 end, and more capable of attending to your 
 father's affairs ; the management of which, in 
 all probability, will devolve upon you. From 
 what I can learn, there is every appearance 
 of your having to sue out a statute of 
 lunacy." 
 
 " Good heavens!" cried she, flinging up 
 her hands ; " good heavens, Mr. Danby, do 
 not use such shocking words ! I cannot bear 
 them. One thing after another ! — oh, where 
 is all this to end ?" 
 
 And she burst into an agony of tears. He 
 was shocked and sorry, and kindly begged 
 to know if he had hurt her. 
 
 " Hurt me !" she cried, impatiently. " To 
 use such an expression — how horrible ! My 
 poor father ! he is only very ill, and now you 
 would deny him the use of his reason. It is 
 quite barbarous !" 
 
 VOL. I. t
 
 218 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 He looked as if he thought she was losing 
 the use of hers, so excessively astonished was 
 he at this outbreak. He, however, only said, 
 and with some dignity — 
 
 '' When I am speaking upon matters of 
 important business, it is always my custom to 
 call things by their right names. The delicate 
 feelings of ladies are, perhaps, sometimes hurt 
 by such proceedings; but I thought Miss 
 Wyndham possessed a courage above her sex. 
 Yes," said he, with severity, " what I tell 
 you is the plain truth — it is extremely likely 
 that Mr. Wyndham will be altogether de- 
 prived of the use of an understanding he has 
 so horribly jnisnsed ; and justice will require 
 that his affairs shall be taken out of the hands 
 of a madman, and placed in those which will 
 administer them so as to save, if possible, 
 from ruin the numbers of miserable creditors 
 who have trusted him. I, for my part, 
 never did — and never will mince matters. — 
 It will be the best thing for all parties if his 
 present fever lays him on the shelf, legally^ 
 as the poor incompetent creature he has 
 long morally been. Your tears" — for she
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 219 
 
 was weeping bitterly — " your tears, Miss 
 Wyndham, might be shed to better purpose 
 than upon this occasion." 
 
 The pitiless, bitter, unrelenting, merciless 
 advocate of legal justice spoke in these tones. 
 Yet, let me add, the foundation of all this 
 man thought and did was invariably just and 
 right ; could he but have tempered his rec- 
 titude with pity, his plain speaking with gen- 
 tleness, his severity with mercy. 
 
 But this he could not do. Even to her he 
 loved he was merciless, and hard as iron when 
 he thought she was in the wrong ; he could 
 not pity or sympathize in the feelings of the 
 pious child, anxious to hide her father's 
 shame and infirmity^ He thought only of 
 the faults and follies of the man, not of the 
 natural tenderness of the daughter, and was 
 indignant as if she had been defending 
 vice. 
 
 He looked quite angry, and took two or 
 three turns up and down the terrace, while 
 she, overcome with her emotions, had sunk 
 upon that green seat, where so many happy 
 hours had been spent. 
 
 L 2
 
 220 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 He came up to her again, but his tones were 
 not much softened as he said- — 
 
 " I am very little used to- be with women. 
 I believe they always cry excessively when 
 they are vexed or contradicted....! am sorry 
 to see you crying in this manner, because I 
 told you that which it was proper you should 
 understand; and, for my part, I think it very 
 weak not to be able to look difficulty in the 
 face, and when the thing is so, to cry because 
 one is told plainly that so it is.... I thought 
 that you had been of a different sort. Miss 
 Wyndham, and not one who would * drown 
 business in tears,' as somebody said. But the 
 sex are all alike," he added impatiently, for 
 she really could not stop crying. 
 
 She had been controlling herself so long, 
 and with such effort, that, when once tears 
 forced their way, they came in torrents. In- 
 deed, she was quite hysterical for the moment; 
 but he knew nothing of such things. 
 
 He took two or three turns, and came up to 
 her again. She w^as still crying, and her 
 bosom heaving with the passion of her 
 emotion; she was only just mistress of her-
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 221 
 
 self enougli to keep down the loud hysterical 
 cries which were struggling for utterance. 
 
 He looked at her with a sort of half angry, 
 half wondering attention, and then took ano- 
 ther turn or two. His absence assisted to 
 recover her. When he came again, she had 
 ceased crying, had wiped her eyes, and was 
 rising to return to the house. Her knees, 
 however, were trembling, and she could 
 hardly stand; he saw this, and offered his 
 arm, but she refused it by a gesture, and 
 made the best of her way to the hall-door — 
 he following her. 
 
 In the hall the butler met them, to ask at 
 what hour Mr. Danby would like to have his 
 dinner. He said that it was quite indifferent 
 to him whether he dined or not ; he had to 
 w^alk down to the village below, and should 
 not be back till five o'clock, too late, he 
 thought, for dinner. 
 
 Then Emilia's heart smote her again ; she 
 came up and said, she hoped he would take 
 some refreshment before his long journey, 
 that any hour he would mention his dinner 
 should be prepared for him ; adding —
 
 222 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 " I shall have the honour to attend you at 
 dinner, sir, if you will give me leave." 
 
 And so saying, she left him, and went up 
 stairs to her sanctuary — her mother's cham- 
 ber; where, her arms stretched round, and 
 her head resting upon her mother's coffin, she 
 wept as much as she pleased.
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 223 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 But if the whHe I think on thee, dear friend, 
 All losses are restored, all sorrows end. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 What a contrast ! 
 
 A letter from Spain. It was addressed to 
 her mother, but she opened it. 
 
 It spoke of nothing but brilliant actions, 
 wonderful achievements ; the great Captain, 
 and his astonishing enterprises; of all the 
 romantic incidents of that most romantic war, 
 in that most romantic country ; of mountains, 
 valleys, splendid monasteries, secluded nuns ; 
 restless Guerillas ; gushing streams and fervid 
 suns. 
 
 Touched by the hand of a master, all these 
 things lived again upon the close-written
 
 224 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 pages. She perused them, her eye bril- 
 liant with pleasure or blinded with tears — 
 the fervid imagination, the manly enterprise, 
 the splendid temper of the writer was im- 
 pressed upon every line. His image rose as 
 might the sun, chasing away all the heavy 
 clouds of depression and despondency that 
 rolled around her. 
 
 Then there was—" Tell Emilia this"— 
 " Make Emilia understand that" — " I wanted 
 Emilia here" — " Emilia would have described 
 this far better than I can do it" — " Bid 
 Emilia make me a song for such a valley, a 
 lament for such a ruin." 
 
 Emilia — Emilia — the letter was full of it. 
 
 Then, the Oaks — but here it was all pain 
 again — with what tenderness he spoke of the 
 Oaks. 
 
 " That terrace that I was puppy enough 
 to ridicule — how inexpressibly dear has ab- 
 sence made it to my heart ; that sweet green 
 terrace, those heavy green trees — the soft, 
 misty, blue sky of loved, beloved England — 
 how inexpressibly beautiful do they appear in 
 my dreams ! My dreams ! awake or slumber-
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 255 
 
 ing, dearest aunt, how are they filled with 
 the Oaks and you !" 
 
 The Oaks ! 
 
 Ah, never, never should they together sit at 
 the Oaks again ! All those sweet remembrances 
 which made the place so inexpressibly charm- 
 ing — that hallowed every walk, eveiry turfy 
 seat, every hanging tree — peopling them, in- 
 st(iad of the fawns or fairies of the olden 
 world, with all the beloved domestic enchant- 
 ments of the present — with that image, so 
 tall, so graceful, so beautiful — and with the 
 deep, earnest, feeling countenance of the 
 mother, her protecting angel ! The Oaks ! — 
 hallowed spot, filled with sacred memories! 
 — where she had hoped for life to dwell — 
 which thought had often peopled with children 
 of her own, whose laugh had sounded sweet 
 as the wild bird's note to her imaginative ear ! 
 Those woods, the haunt of all the wild 
 denizens of nature, whose forms and notes 
 she so delighted in ! — all, all must go ! 
 
 She must be an exile, and a wanderer, and 
 a vagabond, and a beggarly dependent upon 
 the face of the earth, said black Despair. 
 
 L 5
 
 226 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 Ah, not so ! not so ! whispered Hope, 
 
 She knew the heart in which she trusted ; 
 she knew it well. Sooner or later, he would 
 return. With the plaintive tone of Jacques, 
 in the most pathetic drama, her heart re- 
 peated, " I know he will come again !" 
 
 She had carried the precious pages to her 
 mother's room, and, kneeling by the bed on 
 which the coffin lay, she had there read and 
 re-read them, while the balm gushed over her 
 poor wounded heart, and life, and hope, and 
 strength, were imbibed at every word. 
 
 It was in an effusion of a tender kind of con- 
 gratulation, if I may use the word, that she 
 pressed her lips upon the silver plate that 
 bore her mother's name, and seemed to call 
 upon her for sympathy in her innocent joy. 
 Rapture....it might have been called, this first 
 taste of joy, after all she had endured. The 
 letters in her bosom ; her beautiful hair 
 now once again arranged ; her dress changed ; 
 her countenance refreshed ; like the unhappy 
 king who rose from the earth he had watered 
 with his tears, and again took hope and com- 
 fort, at five o'clock she went down into the
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 227 
 
 breakfast-parlour, to pay what she thought 
 the respect due to Mr. Danby, and join him 
 at dinner. 
 
 He was sitting by the fire, reading a news- 
 paper, when she came in ; he just lifted up 
 his eyes, looked at her, and resumed his 
 reading. The occupation in which he had 
 been employed had not been quite so cheering 
 to the spirits as hers. 
 
 He had found only fresh reason for appre- 
 hension and disquiet in every disclosure that 
 had been made by Mr. Rile, and quitted 
 that gentleman's office, equally disgusted with 
 his villany and the inconceivable infatuation 
 of his patron. Her refreshed and almost 
 beaming look was in as strange contrast with 
 his present feelings as with the state in which 
 he had last seen her. 
 
 He was as little pleased with the effect as 
 he would have been, could he have divined it, 
 with the cause. As it was, he considered it 
 only as a fresh proof of the levity and incon- 
 sistency even of the least faulty of women ; 
 and his good opinion of the sex was certainly 
 not increased by it.
 
 228 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 Yet he could not help admiring her, in spite 
 of his ill-humour ; and stole mciny a glance 
 over his newspaper, as she sat, apparently 
 studying a hand-screen which she held be- 
 tween herself and the fire, and thinking of the 
 monastery of Alcoba^a. 
 
 Dinner was announced, but he did not 
 again offer his arm, so she walked alone, 
 and he followed, into the dining-room, where 
 an elegant little meal was prepared for him, 
 at which she did the honours, with a charm 
 and a grace which would have softened a 
 harder heart than his. They did not talk 
 much, for, in truth, he had never much to 
 say, and she was little inclined for conversa- 
 tion. After dinner was over, and the servants 
 had left the room, she made as if she would 
 rise and go away. 
 
 " One moment, Miss Wyndham," he said. 
 
 She resumed her seat. He rose, and 
 changed his place ; he had been sitting oppo- 
 site to her, at the end of the table— he came 
 and sat down near her. 
 
 " Miss Wyndham, you will perhaps allow 
 me — unlucky as I am in my mode of ex-
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 229 
 
 pressing myself so as not to wound your 
 feelings — to say a few words to you before I 
 go away." 
 
 " I have been wrong, sir," she said, with 
 more serenity and cheerfulness than he had 
 seen before, " very wrong and very ungrate- 
 ful ; where the intentions are so very kind as 
 yours, surely it is most ungenerous to be so 
 susceptible as I have been. But something 
 must, and, I am sure, will, be forgiven to a 
 daughter's feelings; and, may I venture to 
 say so much ?...if you could — if it were possible 
 to spare my poor father a little — I should be 
 deeply... immeasurably obliged to you." 
 
 The man of business could little understand 
 all these refinements, these cryings and dis- 
 pleasures, and asking of forgiveness, and all 
 that sort of thing ; in truth, he had not yet 
 quite recovered his temper. 
 
 He looked at her with an expression that 
 might have discouraged an angel, but she 
 thought she had been wrong, and she would 
 not be so discouraged. 
 
 She held out- her hand with excessive 
 sweetness, and said —
 
 S30 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 " You will not forgive me, I see; I suppose 
 you cannot help feeling offended, but, when I 
 am so greatly obliged to you — " 
 
 He took her hand, pressed it under his 
 upon the table, and, while he held it prisoner, 
 said, in a low tone — 
 
 " By Heaven, you are altogether an angel ! 
 and whatever you bid me do I shall do — 
 and bid me feel I shall feel.... for you are 
 goodness and sweetness itself, and I am an 
 old, drivelling, worm-eaten, law-book of a 
 fool." 
 
 But seeing her start, and look surprised 
 and terrified — 
 
 " I will have done with this absurd non- 
 sense, E — Miss Wyndham, I beg your 
 
 pardon — I am very little used to the com- 
 pany of women — yours has been to me like 
 the possession of a new sense. But I am now 
 going back to my old life — and what I live 
 for I am sure I do not know, for it is not to 
 live as I pass away existence. Yon ask my for- 
 giveness, and I ask yours. And now," said he, 
 abruptly stopping himself, and letting go her 
 hand, " let us talk of business — the only
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 231 
 
 thing," he muttered, " such an old, dust- 
 dried skeleton as I am is fit for." 
 
 He then told her that he had seen Rile — 
 had put things into the best situation that the 
 time would admit of; but that the business 
 would be long and protracted, and would 
 require much care and thought to bring it to 
 a tolerable issue ; but that, having under- 
 taken it, he had resolved to go through with 
 it. 
 
 " And you need not fear," he added, " that 
 dreadful addition to these kind of evils — law- 
 yers' bills." 
 
 He told her that he had ordered his chaise 
 to be at the door at seven o'clock — (it was 
 now past six) ; but that, in the course of a 
 week, he should be probably down again — 
 once more, but in softer tones, advised her to 
 finish the celebration of her mother's funeral 
 without waiting for her uncle ; and to make 
 herself easy, and attempt no further change 
 or disturbance till he should arrive. 
 
 " I know," he added, " you will be anxious 
 to discharge servants, and diminish the ex- 
 penses of your housekeeping. This is quite
 
 S32 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 worthy of a mind so just as yours ; but let 
 me advise you to make no changes till I come 
 again, which shall be as soon as I can possibly 
 command the time. 
 
 " And now," for the chaise was heard roll- 
 ing to the door, " I take my leave for the 
 present. Miss Wyndham." 
 
 And before she could speak a word, he had 
 taken her hand, and again kissed it. The noise 
 of the clattering steps of his chaise was heard, 
 the door shut, the horses galloped off; and so 
 they parted.
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 233 
 
 CHAPTER XI, 
 
 Wondrous it is to see in diverse mindes 
 How diversely Love doth his pageants play, 
 And shews his power in variable kindes. 
 
 Spenser. 
 
 The lawyer pursued his solitary way — his 
 heart still vibrating, his imagination still 
 filled Ivith the image of the sweet creature he 
 had left — her gentle voice, her soft and almost 
 tender air as she asked his forgiveness. For- 
 giveness from him ! and for what ? 
 
 Absence is like death. It summons the har- 
 dened conscience to account ; it recals all the 
 bitter words, the unkind looks, all that we have 
 spoken, all that we have done, under the in- 
 fluence of irritation, and that irritation passed 
 away. But here, far happier than with death, we 
 can efface, we can atone. But what shall efface, 
 or atone, when the cold, helpless image of the
 
 234 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 departed looks upon us with its melancholy 
 and reproachful eyes, and reminds us of 
 uukindness or neglect that can never, never 
 be repaired ! 
 
 Mr. Danhy was a rough, and rude, and cer- 
 tainly far from a good-tempered man, but he 
 had not a hard heart, and he had, strange as it 
 might seem, a very impressible imagination. 
 His memory, filled with the image of the 
 lovely being with whom he had spent this 
 memorable day, he ran over all that had 
 passed between them. He recollected with 
 remorse, not so much the rough things he 
 had said — for of what he had said he had, 
 indeed, but a very imperfect recollection — 
 but he recollected that he had felt angry, 
 irritated, offended, and he marvelled at his 
 own cruelty. Her mother dead in the 
 house ! her father deprived of reason ! — and 
 he had dared, he had found it possible, to 
 take offence at anything she could do or say. 
 He looked upon himself as the greatest brute 
 in existence ; and as his regret and repent- 
 ance increased, so did her image present itself 
 with fresh charms to his distracted eye.
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 235 
 
 He longed to return, to throw himself at 
 her feet to tell her — only to tell her — how he 
 adored her loveliness and sweetness, and to 
 supplicate pardon for all he had done amiss. 
 His imagination went no farther; he only 
 panted to tell her that he worshipped her — 
 that was the utmost extent to which the 
 humility of his passion aspired. 
 
 He w-as not at all more easy till, his 
 thoughts taking another turn, he drew out 
 all the papers he had put into his pocket 
 connected with the case, and, by the light of a 
 clear, full moon, endeavoured to spell them out 
 as the chaise rattled along. A word here and 
 there was all that he could make out, but this 
 was sufficient to give the cue to his thoughts, 
 and he was soon lost in reflections upon the 
 best course to be pursued with regard to her 
 affairs. He had already put a very consider- 
 able sum into jeopardy to secure her from 
 present interruption, but he never thought 
 about this ; he never, for one second, looked 
 upon her as under obligation to him for this ; 
 when he had been hurt at her, it was because 
 he thought she did not feel for all his worry
 
 236 EMILIA '^^^NDHAM. 
 
 and anxiety on her account — he never once 
 thought of his endangered thousands. 
 
 A. few hours brought him home to his 
 chambers in Chancery Lane. 
 
 It was still dark, and his drowsy clerk, 
 who had been sitting up for him, looking as 
 rusty and as miserable as possible, with his 
 slovenly dress, and dingy face and hair, 
 ushered him into his little, dark bedchamber. 
 
 What a contrast did this close, squalid 
 apartment form with all that he had left ! The 
 unwholesome closeness of the air, the dirt of 
 the discoloured hangings — the little, dusty 
 glass upon the deal table, covered with an old 
 towel — all his clothes lying about in disorder 
 — what a contrast to the Oaks ! 
 
 He had never in his life cared for, or 
 thought of such things before — never even 
 seen them. Now, the miserable destitution 
 of all that could make life lovely, in which 
 he lived, struck him, yet he never thought of 
 its being possible to alter it ; he only asso- 
 ciated all this with the idea of himself, and
 
 EMILIA WYNBHAM. 237 
 
 it seemed to make the distance between him 
 and the sweet object of his passion only the 
 more immeasurable. 
 
 Heavy were the sighs which broke from 
 his oppressed heart, as he sat down in the old 
 rush-bottomed chair, that stood before his 
 rickety table, wearied in body — for this was 
 four o'clock in the morning of the second 
 wakeful night, and the day had been one of 
 great and anxious exertion — and depressed in 
 mind. It would be difficult to describe the 
 deep depression into which he fell. 
 
 He was quite alone ; for, his clerk having 
 opened the door, and ushered him in, had 
 retired immediately to his bed, and the soli- 
 tude and the silence were only broken by the 
 drowsy call of the watchman — past four 
 o'clock on a rainy mo-or-ning — and the 
 ticking of his alarum clock by his bedside. 
 One flickering tallow candle threw its scanty 
 and disagreeable light upon the apartment, 
 adding gloom to gloom, and uncertain shadow 
 to shadow, upon this grim and uncomfortable 
 scene. His thoughts went back to the past ;
 
 SS8 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 all one pale, colourless representation of a life 
 without pictures, without sensations, without 
 pleasures, almost without ideas— G?rj/ as a law 
 dictionary ! 
 
 The dreary waste was broken only by the 
 events of two short days, bright as the wing of 
 the bird of Paradise, and evanescent as that 
 glowing form amid the dewy shades. He 
 looked forwards, and what was there before 
 him ? The same arduous toil — the same 
 laborious exercise of thought on words, and 
 words, and technicalities, and forms — the 
 very driest and most arid state of things — 
 that was to be the food of his fancy : a fancy 
 which had just been called into life to yearn 
 and clamour for more. For his heart no 
 hope, no love, no tenderness, no warm and 
 genial glow : death ! the coffined dead ! had 
 as much of the life and spirit-stirring bliss as 
 he could hope for. 
 
 Solitary he had lived, and solitary he was 
 to die. He should see her once or twice 
 more; he must — business would render it 
 indispensable — meet her once, twice, thrice
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 239 
 
 more. There was something yet sweet in 
 existence left, even for him ; and when that 
 was over— what? 
 
 Why — the dim chamber, the piles of papers, 
 the musty packets, the points of law, and the 
 cold solitude of the grave. 
 
 This was the first time he had ever been 
 brought to such a rumination on life. His 
 busy days had been followed by the deep 
 sleep of the night ; he usually closed his eyes 
 with some unresolved point or other in his 
 head, and opened them in the morning to 
 occupy himself with the same thought. He 
 had been devoted — alive only to his profes- 
 sion, and he had become quite the most 
 eminent man in that branch of it which he 
 occupied. 
 
 I do not know whether he had ever felt 
 any very particular gratification from this ; 
 certainly, as I have told you, he cared little 
 about the money which it brought into his 
 purse. He was too much immersed in the 
 details and technicalities of business to have 
 time for vanity, luxury, or ambition. 
 
 I should doubt whether such a man, as I
 
 240 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 am now describing, could be found, at the 
 moment I write, within the circle of the pro- 
 fession. This sort of blind abstraction from 
 life — this devotion to professional objects, 
 from habit and a peculiar turn of mind — this 
 abnegation of all the luxuries and pleasures, 
 which it seems now with men the prime object 
 of all their efforts to obtain — was the result 
 of certain systems of education, and ways of 
 thinking, which have altogether, I should 
 imagine, passed away. 
 
 It is, in most respects, probably better as 
 it is. Yet my fancy dwells with interest 
 upon all characters thus disinterestedly de- 
 voted to a pursuit, without regard to the 
 advantages or profits to be earned. There is 
 a simplicity of purpose, a disregard of personal 
 happiness, an earnestness of devotion, which, 
 unreasonable as it may be, touches and in- 
 terests me. This very clover, astute lawyer 
 is to me, in this view, like a child ^ 
 
 And now he languidly and wearily rises, 
 and begins to prepare for bed. Sigh — winds 
 up his watch — another — looks at the hour — 
 another. Do you not see him, his counte-
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 241 
 
 nance has as little expression as usual — he 
 can only sigh. 
 
 And now h^ has fallen into an uneasy slum- 
 ber ; but soon the benign fancy wakes, and 
 begins to w^eave her forms instinct with life 
 and beauty. She is there, bending over him, 
 with that angel smile of sweetness and can- 
 dour, begging his pardon. And he starts and 
 wakens — he is in tears ! 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 242 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Fantastic, frolicsome, and wild, 
 With all the trinkets of a child. 
 
 Cotton. 
 
 The funeral is over. 
 
 The grave has received that warm and 
 earnest being — the mother has been returned 
 to the dust — and Emilia feels more than ever 
 alone. 
 
 The house, while tenanted even by the life- 
 less remains of her whom she had loved so 
 dearly, and who had loved her with a passion 
 stronger than death, had not seemed desolate. 
 Awful and melancholy it was— but not deso- 
 late. 
 
 Now she walks through the silent chambers, 
 round which the mournful blasts of a chill
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 243 
 
 evening are roaring, seeking, as it were, the 
 image that is gone. 
 
 She does not weep ; she goes gravely and 
 quietly along — alone. 
 
 Her father was sunk into a state of half 
 insensibility : he does not seem to suffer, but 
 he is only half alive. All the unavoidable 
 bustle and disturbance of that funeral day 
 have failed to arouse him in the least ; from 
 time to time he had taken the refreshment 
 she had ministered, and had sunk again 
 into his doze. 
 
 The medical men, however, had pronounced 
 that he is not in any immediate danger, in- 
 deed that there is every reasonable proba- 
 bility that he will recover ; but Mr. Finch, 
 good and sympathizing Mr. Finch, had an 
 expression upon his face while he said this 
 which was anything but cheerful. She was 
 struck with it, but, considering the circum- 
 stances around her, merely received it as a 
 proof of the affectionate sympathy of one 
 whom from babyhood she had looked upon as 
 a friend — and she had thanked him in her 
 heart for it. 
 
 M 2
 
 244 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 He had better reasons for his gravity than 
 she could surmise — happily for her. 
 
 The following day one affectionate being 
 came to comfort her ; a consolation she had 
 little expected, for she was not aware that 
 Sir Thomas Hesketh's family had returned to 
 Haldimands. 
 
 She had only just finished a late breakfast, 
 when she heard the sound as of a light car- 
 riage coming up to the door ; the bell rung — 
 the door opened — and her child, her Lisa, 
 flew into her arms, and covered her pale face 
 with her affectionate kisses. 
 
 It was a wintry day, and the beautiful being 
 was all muffled up in the most delicate furs, 
 and satins, and velvets. I don't know how, 
 but she was quite the most beautiful heap of 
 elegant and soft-looking things, and the 
 sweetest little face among them all, that 
 could well be imagined — beaming it was with 
 tenderness and affection ; and, as she kissed 
 Emilia a thousand times, the tears were 
 streaming over her face, and wetting the pale 
 cheeks of her friend. 
 
 It was some time before that voice of
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 245 
 
 music could find words to utter, in interrupted 
 pauses, mingled with her sobs — 
 
 " My dear, dear Emily! — my friend ! — my 
 mamma ! — poor Emily ! — poor, sweet Emily ! 
 — How pale you are, my Emily ! — How ill 
 you look, my Emily !" 
 
 All this breaking out, mingled with a flood 
 of tears and caresses. 
 
 While Emilia, her arms clasped round her, 
 and pressing her fondly to her bosom, an- 
 swered, from time to time, by her calm and 
 earnest kiss upon that pure and spotless fore- 
 head, and those waxen, weeping eyelids. 
 
 It was a lovely picture — for the one was 
 tall, and nobly formed, and her features 
 marked, and almost severe in their outline, 
 and the other was small, delicate, and pliant 
 as the tender sapling — as she twisted her 
 arms round her friend's slender waist, and 
 hid that loving and most exquisite counte- 
 nance on her shoulder. 
 
 When the first emotions at this meeting 
 had subsided, they sat down together in the 
 large arm-chair, Lisa's arm hanging fondly
 
 246 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 round Emilia's neck, and they began to talk 
 together. 
 
 " And how kind, and how good of you, my 
 sweetest Lisa ! to come to me so soon !" she 
 said, stooping down, and kissing her forehead 
 again ; " I did not think you would have 
 come down to Haldimands till Christmas." 
 
 " Oh !" began Lisa, impetuously, *' it was 
 the most gracious piece of good luck that 
 ever was. Mamma got into a quarrel at 
 Bath with our landlady — she was not a land- 
 lady, but a lady.... a friend of mamma's, who 
 let her have her house; and there was a 
 quarrel about a piece of china, which mamma, 
 you must know, let fall — that is, it fell to 
 pieces in her hand, yoii know, for mamma 
 vowed it was cracked before — and Mrs. 
 O'Brien swore — she really did, Emily — that it 
 had not the least blemish in it, and that 
 mamma should pay the whole value of it, and 
 mamma vowed she would not ; that would have 
 been to own she had said — you know what," 
 she added, looking up slily in Emilia's face. 
 ** And mamma went into one of her.. ..hum-
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 247 
 
 hums, and so there was such a quarrel ! and 
 so mamma vowed she would not stay one 
 single moment longer in Mrs. O'Brien's 
 house, if it stood empty and she had to pay 
 rent for a century ; and so, thank goodness, 
 down we came to Haldimands, and I am 
 with you, my precious, darlingest Emilianas." 
 
 Emilia pressed the prattler to her heart. 
 She could not, at that moment, do as it was 
 her custom to do, tell her where she was 
 wrong, and what was wrong in that which 
 she felt and said. She felt obliged at the 
 moment to let it pass. 
 
 " I am sure," she said, fondly, " you are 
 the dearest and kindest of little Lisas to 
 come to me so soon ; and Lady Maria was 
 very, very good to let you." 
 
 " Oh, as for mamma," she said, colouring a 
 little, and hiding her head on Emilia's arm, 
 " she — she doesn't know very much about it." 
 
 " I hope, my loved one, you have not come 
 without her leave — you have not been so 
 naughty — tell me, Lisa," she added, bending 
 down her head to the little wilful face that 
 was now again hiding itself on her shoulder.
 
 248 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 " Should you be very, very, very, very, 
 excessively sorry, that I was naughty," at 
 last she said, looking up with a little, mean- 
 ing smile ; *' or would you," she muttered, 
 hiding her face again, " have rather I had 
 waited, and come with mamma in the coach 
 and four?" 
 
 " Naughty, naughty Lisa," muttered 
 Emilia, bending down to the averted head, 
 " you know I never wish you to do wrong, 
 even to come to me in my distress. My love, 
 you should not ; but how was it — " 
 
 " Oh, it's not very bad neither ; you know 
 mamma is so fussy and whimsey." 
 
 '' Don't, Lisa," said Emilia. 
 
 " Well, I won't — I know it plagues you — 
 I won't. Well, mamma is — ^you know how ; 
 and so I knew if I asked her to let me run 
 over to you, she would say, ' I am going to 
 call upon Miss Wyndham, as soon as it is 
 proper, and I shall take you with me.' And so 
 said, so settled, and no more to be done ; and 
 to want after that to come by myself, would 
 have been nonsensical indeed..,. You know 
 mamma has no more feeling for others
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 249 
 
 than this floor," she exclaimed, striking her 
 pretty foot upon it. 
 
 " Oh, Lisa !" said Emilia. 
 
 " Well, I do beg your pardon, Emilia — 
 well, where was I ? Oh ! so I went to papa — 
 you know he's a dear, old, foolish, good- 
 natured, pompous, puffy papa — and so I 
 threw my pretty arms, just this way," she 
 added, clasping them in a sweet, childish 
 manner round Emilia's neck, "just this way, 
 and gave him one of my sweetest kisses.— 
 You know, Emilia, nothing can resist me. — 
 And I said, * Nasty old man, you must do me 
 a huge favour,' and so he pinched my arm — 
 I vow it's blue yet. He is so rough, papa. 
 And he said, * What do you want, you little 
 minx V And so I begged the little curricle, 
 and for old John to drive, and the dear old 
 fellow granted my request in a twinkling. 
 Did you ever know him refuse me anything, 
 Miss Emilia? — And then I mn to mamma, 
 and said, * Papa had desired me to go out 
 with John, and try the new curricle, and 
 take the air, as he thought I was looking 
 rather 'palish y and so, she was trying on a 
 
 M 5
 
 250 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 new turban — what a fright it was ! — and so 
 she was too busy to care much about my 
 doings, and so I took my opportunity — and 
 here I am." 
 
 But Emilia could now only look grave. 
 
 " My Lisa ! if it were possible, you have 
 made me quite sorry you are come." 
 
 " Oh ! don't be that— don't be that," said 
 the pretty child, beseechingly; " was it so 
 very, very naughty ? what was the harm of 
 it? Don't look like that, Emily! Mamma 
 Emily, don't look so grave !" 
 
 Her dark blue eyes were now fixed beseech- 
 ingly on those of her friend. 
 
 " Dear Lisa, you make me shudder for 
 you. That sad deceit, my love.... have you 
 forgotten all our talking, and all your pro- 
 mises that you never, never would play such 
 little, contemptible tricks again ?" 
 
 " But this was such a little bit of a trick ! 
 and so very white a lie, that nobody but you, 
 Emilia, could, I am quite sure, see it. — Papa 
 was very glad I should get the air, and I dare 
 say he did think I looked palish, for you 
 know he is always thinking I look palish, or
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 251 
 
 thinnish, or delicateish, when I am as healthy 
 as a wild kid." 
 
 " Ah, Lisa ! Lisa !" her friend exclaimed, 
 shaking her head, " if I had the spirits and 
 exertion, which, alas ! I have not just now, I 
 would not let this pass so. My child! my dear 
 child, Lisa ! remember your promises to me." 
 
 " Well, I'm sure I keep them — in general. 
 Indeed I do, Emilia, but this was such a very 
 great temptation." 
 
 ** Nay, my love, don't talk so ; the excuse 
 is worse than the fault." 
 
 " Well, that I don't see," said the little 
 one, resolutely. " / think to come to a 
 friend in affliction is excuse for anything." 
 
 The young preacher stooped down involun- 
 tarily, and kissed her again. 
 
 But then, recovering herself, and the slight 
 gravity, almost severity, of her youthful coun- 
 tenance returning — severe, and youthful, and 
 beautiful, at once, as that of the cherub who 
 gave " the grave rebuke," she said- — 
 
 " Let us say no more of it now, my dear 
 Lisa. I see you will not be convinced. I 
 leave you to your own good evening thoughts.
 
 952 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 My Lisa can always see what is right after it 
 is done. She must not let the warmest and 
 best of hearts blind her to it before. Let us 
 talk of something else." 
 
 Quite subdued by her gravity, the little 
 creature impressed upon her hand a sweet, 
 submissive kiss, and there was an end of that 
 subject for the time. They sat in silence for 
 some moments, the younger leaning her head 
 upon the shoulder of the other, gazing, how- 
 ever, upon the pale cheek which was a little 
 turned from her, for. Emilia seemed lost in 
 thought." 
 
 At last, Lisa said— 
 
 " You are very, very pale, Emilia." 
 
 " I have suffered very much," was the 
 reply. 
 
 " Ah, Emilia ! if you loved your mother as 
 I love you, it must almost have broken your 
 heart to part with her." 
 
 And she pressed her affectionately in her 
 aims. 
 
 '' It has," said Emilia, in a low voice. 
 
 " What a dreadful, dreadful thing, it must 
 be ! How awful ! how solemn !" said this
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 25S 
 
 beautiful being, lifting up her eyes, and her 
 whole countenance filled with a kind of holy 
 terror. 
 
 "Ah, my Lisa! — and sooner or later we 
 must all stand by that bed on which our 
 dearest lie, and, sooner or later, we must all 
 lie there ourselves. I could have wished," 
 added Emilia, in a low tone, ^' that you could 
 have been there. It would have been dear 
 to me to see those kind tears falling upon 
 her coffin, and it would have made a great 
 impression on you, dear Lisa. — You would 
 have been very, very much afraid to offend 
 God, after you had seen the dead who are 
 gone to him, Lisa !" 
 
 There was a profound silence. 
 
 " My Lisa, let me have the comfort of 
 thinking, that my sorrow may be as your 
 sorrow in this — that my grief may make you 
 serious and thoughtful, Lisa." 
 
 " Yes, Emilia. It does make me serious 
 and thoughtful; your grief makes me very 
 sorry.... And then your goodness and your 
 composure, with that pale cheek, and that 
 calm, serious face, and the tear in your eyes, 
 but no more. — No vain lamentations, no pas-
 
 ^54 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 sionate sobbings and faintings, as I should do, 
 ifyou died, Emilia....! suppose," she added, in a 
 little, timid whisper, " you had thought a great 
 deal, and tried to prepare yourself, and to 
 bear it with fortitude and resignation, as you 
 used to talk to me — oh ! of, in comparison, 
 such little things ; and now I see your good- 
 ness and your religion, and all that, which I 
 used to think a little, wee bit too much, 
 Emilia. — It has stood you in good stead." 
 
 '' It has," said Emilia. " Think of this, 
 my Lisa, when you think me a little, wee bit 
 too — " and she smiled upon her with one of 
 her grave, wintry smiles. 
 
 " I will, indeed ! — I will, indeed, Emilia ! 
 I will be quite good from this time for ever, 
 and never do the least thing in the world that 
 you would not approve. I'll promise you 
 solemnly — " 
 
 " No," exclaimed her friend, putting her hand 
 over the rosy mouth, " no promises. Shall we 
 go out, and take a turn upon the terrace, for it 
 is dry and pleasant, and this room gets hot ?" 
 
 They were soon walking arm in arm upon 
 the terrace. 
 
 " This is such a pretty terrace," Lisa
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 255 
 
 began ; " and I often think what a sweet 
 place that grove there would be for you and 
 your lovers, Emilia, to walk in." 
 
 " Stuff!" said Emilia, rather contemptu- 
 ously. 
 
 " Well, you never will let me talk about 
 your lovers ; and I am sure nobody but you 
 talks of anything else — even mamma ! She 
 thinks more of admirers and lovers than I 
 should, I am sure, if I were as old as she is ; 
 by the by, / think she had a very great mind 
 to run away with a lover of yours, the day we 
 were last here." 
 
 " My dear Lisa," said Emilia, " you know 
 how excessively I dislike this sort of vulgar, 
 schoolgirl talk." 
 
 " Oh dear me," said Lisa, heedlessly ; 
 " well, I really thought you were going to be 
 married to him — and so, perhaps, you are, 
 only you won't trust such naughty little 
 things as me with your secrets." 
 
 Emilia coloured, but said nothing. 
 
 " You couldn't refuse him, he was such a 
 charming, handsome, clever-looking creature ; 
 and I am sure he was excessively in love with
 
 ^56 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 you. — Do you know what he was doing all 
 that long, prosy dinner, we had here last 
 time ? — Really, it was very prosy to me. — I 
 don't like such ver^ sensible young men as 
 that Colonel Lenox. What's the use of being 
 in the army to be so grave and wise ? Well, 
 he talked of nothing but my schooldays. — My 
 schooldays, forsooth ! thought I, pleasant 
 talk for a young lady. At last, I saw him 
 glance at you — and oh ! meth ought. Miss 
 Emilia, you were my mamma in those same 
 schooldays." 
 
 Emilia smiled, and this speech she did not 
 quite seem to think such vulgar nonsense. 
 
 " And then, after tea — oh, I was so pro- 
 voked. I thought to have seen him all atten- 
 tion to you, and to have plagued you well ; 
 or that he would have flirted with me, and 
 seen you look so vexed and so jealous. And 
 then mamma must lay hold of him, with 
 her great.... and it was impossible you should 
 be afraid of her» Do you remember how you 
 and I paraded after them, like two suivantes 
 in a French tragedy after Queen Berenice, or 
 Clytemnestra, or some of those old harridans in
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 257 
 
 love — and those cubs of beaux attending us? 
 And they with not one word to proffer to our 
 beautyships — and that most extraordinary 
 quiz that walked by you?... Now, if you call 
 me vulgar again, I will beat you ; but never 
 believe me, if that curious old piece of goods 
 was not in love with you — verily he was. I 
 had heard before of an oyster in love, and 
 theii I saw it — ha, ha, ha !" 
 
 Emilia turned away, half angry, half dis- 
 gusted. 
 
 " That gentleman," she said, " is a very 
 clever man, and very much esteemed in his 
 profession ; and he has been so exceedingly 
 kind to my father and to me, that I beg you 
 will not make game of him, Lisa." 
 
 Lisa looked a little frightened. She always 
 did when Emilia spoke with that tone and 
 manner. 
 
 So she said nothing more, but took hold of 
 Emilia's hand, and began pinching and pulling 
 her glove, and playing all sorts of tricks 
 with it. 
 
 And, at last, she said —
 
 S58 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 " But I did think that Colonel a very, very 
 handsome, charmmg man; and I wonder — 
 do you ever hear from him ? — ^for they tell 
 me he is gone to Spain." 
 
 " Sometimes we have letters from him," 
 said Emilia. 
 
 " Oh, Emilia!" she exclaimed, after ano- 
 ther little pause, " would you grant me the 
 greatest, greatest favour in the whole world ?" 
 
 " Why, Lisa, how could I refuse it?" 
 
 " Will you let me hear the least little bit 
 of one of his letters to you ?" 
 
 " They were to my mother, not to me," 
 was the answer, in a low tone. 
 
 " Then you are not engaged to be married 
 to him !" cried the other, briskly. 
 
 " No." 
 
 Lisa said no more ; she walked along by 
 the side of her friend, pulling now at the 
 fingers of her own gloves, and seemed lost in 
 thought. 
 
 Her meditative moods, however, never 
 lasted long ; so, after a while, she lifted up 
 her pretty head, and said —
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 259 
 
 " Well, I never ivas so deceived in my 
 whole life ; but aren't you going?" 
 
 ** Going ! — what do you mean ?" 
 
 " Going to be—" 
 
 " My dear Lisa, you must know that 
 you are asking questions you should not 
 ask." 
 
 " But I am so excessively curious, because 
 I was so sure he was in love with you, and 
 one does not like to be in the wrong ; and I 
 think, as I am your very best friend in 
 the world, that you might give me — a 
 notion." 
 
 " How can I do that ? — How can I know 
 myself?" broke from Emilia. 
 
 " Well, I thought people always knew 
 themselves, when men were in love with them. 
 I am sure, mamma — " 
 
 " My dear love," said Emilia again, seri- 
 ously, " how can you let your head and 
 tongue run so upon this subject ! — Don't 
 you remember how we used to hate those 
 vulgar Miss FoUiett's, at school, who were 
 always thinking and talking of lovers? —
 
 260 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 I am quite sorry, dear Lisa, to see you so full 
 of such nonsense." 
 
 " Oh, dear me ! nobody I know talks of 
 anything else. I am sure my governess would 
 entertain me from morning to night with her 
 conquests, if I did not clap my hands to 
 my ears, and run away. — Dear Emilia, if 
 you go on in this way, you will die an old 
 maid." 
 
 *' Very probably," was the sober answer. 
 
 " Very probably — ha, ha !" she cried, frisk- 
 ing about her like a young kitten ; " dear 
 Lady Sobersides ! — Well, if that Colonel 
 thinks like me, he thinks you the handsomest, 
 prudesomest, cleverest, dearest, beautifuUest, 
 wisest angel in the wide, wide world ; and he's 
 a fool and an ape if he doesn't — and that 
 old oyster who does is worth ten thousand of 
 him... for he would want eyes to see, and ears 
 to hear, if he was not in love with my own, 
 own Emily !" 
 
 Thus the young, playful, and heedless 
 creature prattled away. 
 
 Wild and thoughtless as a little bird —
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 261 
 
 totally unschooled, except by the gentle hand 
 of Emilia— surrounded with all those innu- 
 merable temptations, which belong to a gay 
 and beautiful creature such as she was — the 
 only daughter of a man of large fortune — and 
 with a dressy, vain, coquette, violent-tempered 
 mother, whom she could neither love nor 
 respect — that temper must have been naturally 
 sweet indeed which could preserve so much 
 warm and generous affection, and a heart so 
 free from pride and vanity, as belonged to 
 her. 
 
 Her excessive beauty was perhaps in her 
 
 favour; she had been so accustomed to be 
 
 admired, that she really thought and cared 
 
 very little about it. She was too giddy and 
 
 careless to mind anything, perhaps, but 
 
 amusement, and had too warm a heart to be 
 
 gratified with what never yet had touched 
 
 it. Of all the many admirers who, young 
 
 as she was, pursued her, she cared for not 
 
 one. The only two persons she loved were 
 
 Emilia, to whom she was most tenderly 
 
 devoted, and her' father, who, proud and
 
 262 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 pompous as he appeared, was, at the bottom, 
 a very foolish, good-natured man ; and who, 
 long indifferent to his fashionable wife, was 
 wrapped up in the love of his sweet little 
 daughter.
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 263 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 How happy is he born and taught, 
 That serveth not another's will ; 
 
 Whose armour is his honest thought, 
 And simple truth his utmost skill ! 
 
 Sir H. Wotton- 
 
 The visit had done Emilia infinite good. 
 
 It Was like a return to life and light, after 
 her melancholy and anxious occupations, thus 
 to be once again with this dear little com- 
 panion of her brighter days, and to receive 
 all the testimonies of her warm and artless 
 affection. 
 
 The very anxiety with which so many 
 things that had dropped from the pretty, 
 prattling lips had filled her, served to occupy 
 her mind, and to relieve her from the mourn- 
 ful circle of thought in which, almost as in 
 some magic circle, she seemed to be involved.
 
 264 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 In the mean time the hours slipped away. 
 
 " Time and the hour" passed on, though 
 at a heavy pace, with her. 
 
 She had to receive the visits of condolence 
 of all the neighbourhood — this was a painful 
 ceremony. 
 
 There was a something ill-concealed in the 
 manners of most of these visitors, the majority 
 of whom did not exactly belong to the great 
 world, and had not learned the best thing, 
 perhaps, to be got in that world — habitual 
 politeness and self-possession. There was a 
 something which made her suspect that the 
 secret of the family affairs had escaped, and 
 that the equivocal position in which her father 
 stood was beginning to be known. 
 
 There was a sort of compassion — a con- 
 descending kind of compassion — in the tone 
 of many of the visitors, which underbred 
 people are too often apt to apply to money 
 disasters. The fall of their neighbour sets 
 them at once upon a pinnacle ; and to be 
 richer and greater, after all, than the long- 
 respected family at the Oaks, filled many a 
 mind with a fresh accession of dignity.
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. ^65 
 
 She bore all with true magnanimity. 
 
 She had observed the world, young as she 
 was ; — she knew the value of reputed wealth, 
 and she was prepared for all those " spurns" 
 in adverse fortune, which our great poet 
 enumerates among the reasons for making- 
 men out of love with life. 
 
 When Lady Maria, accompanied by her 
 daughter, made her formal call, she, who had 
 never been cordial, was coldly and haughtily 
 indifferent ; and showed by her manner how 
 immense was the distance she intended in 
 future to establish between herself and the 
 fallen family at the Oaks. 
 
 But not so Lisa. 
 
 The intelligence had reached her : it is a 
 sort of intelligence which common minds 
 always seem to spread with particular plea- 
 sure, while with many groans and lamenta- 
 tions they take care to exaggerate it. 
 
 Not so Lisa. 
 
 .She w^ould not believe it ; she declared, 
 her face red with passion, that it was all an 
 infamous falsehood. She knew the Wynd- 
 hams well ! — And, she was sure, Mr. Wynd- 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 266 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 ham was a very pleasant man — and Mrs, 
 Wyndliam a very clever woman — and Emilia 
 the most charming girl in the world ; and she 
 was positive there was not a word of truth 
 in the report, and she was quite certain it 
 could not be so. And, in confirmation of all 
 these excellent reasons for incredulity, she 
 fell into a passion, and quarrelled with every 
 person who took pains to undeceive her. She 
 was one who belied the maxim of La 
 Rochefaucauld — there was something in the 
 misfortunes of her friends altogether i^ainful 
 to her. 
 
 She was excessively naughty the day she 
 called with Lady Maria; she could not 
 endure her mother's way of speaking to and 
 treating Emilia, and showed her resentment 
 in a manner which very much increased the 
 emharrassment and disagreeable feelings of 
 her friend. 
 
 Emilia was in an agony all the time lest 
 there should he an outbreak ; for the young 
 lady, who did not value her mother's anger in 
 the least, and who was to the last degree 
 obstinate and headstrong when she thought
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 267 
 
 herself in the right, gave such very undis- 
 guised demonstrations of the opinion she 
 entertained of her mother's manners, that 
 even the well-bred Lady Maria could scarcely 
 refrain from taking notice of it. 
 
 Her dislike and coldness to Emilia, most 
 innocently the cause of her daughter's be- 
 haviour, seemed to increase every moment 
 she sat in the room. It was an excessive 
 relief when the visit was ended, and mother 
 and daughter rose to go. 
 
 Emilia could not help looking her distress 
 and disapprobation as, while the mother was 
 making her cold and formal adieu, Lisa flung 
 herself into her arms with almost an affecta- 
 tion of passionate attachment — there seemed 
 indeed as much desire to vex and offend her 
 mother, as to comfort and support her friend, 
 in these caresses. 
 
 Emilia could distinguish this — but it was 
 not this which gave her pain ; she knew it 
 was only another form of misguided but 
 o^enerous attachment and indio^nation. — 
 Her grief arose from anxiety for the ardent 
 
 N 2
 
 S68 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 being thus unrestrained by any well-regulated 
 principle. 
 
 She pressed her to her heart with a gesture 
 which Lisa understood well enough. 
 
 But the more she loved and valued Emilia, 
 and the more she thought her in the right, 
 the more angry she was. She had never been 
 properly taught to respect, if she could not 
 love, her mother. That holy commandment — 
 like, alas ! all the other commandments — had 
 been learned in her Catechism, but never 
 applied to her heart till she met the kind 
 young monitress. 
 
 She was too young, and had been too short 
 a time with her, to triumph over the effect of 
 long neglect and previous bad habits of thought: 
 she effected much while they were together, 
 but the impression too soon wore away. 
 
 The following dialogue which took place 
 in the coach will, I trust, shock the most 
 part of you, as much as it would have grieved 
 Emilia. 
 
 '• Upon my word. Miss Hesketh." said the 
 mamma, her colour bright with passion,
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 269 
 
 ^^ your conduct is most extraordinary. — May 
 I be favoured with knowing what was intended 
 by all those ill-bred insinuations with which 
 you were pleased to make my visit intoler- 
 able to all parties?" 
 
 " It was not my fault, ma'am, if the visit 
 was intolerable; I am sure I found it the 
 most disagreeable visit I ever paid in my 
 life." 
 
 " You took care to make it as disagreeable 
 to other people as it was to yourself.,..! really 
 do think you are the rudest, most underbred 
 girl I ever met with. " 
 
 " t can't help it if I am." 
 
 " What do you mean by that ? — How dare 
 you?" 
 
 *^ Oh, nothing at all, of course.... but there 
 is one thing," she added, crimsoning with pas- 
 sion, and tears of rage in her eyes, " that I 
 never will bear — to see a fallen friend insulted." 
 
 " How dare you say such a thing ? — What 
 do you mean?" 
 
 " You did — you did ! Oh, I understand it 
 all quite well ! And she felt it — I saw she 
 felt it — poor Emilia ! Yes, I saw, though
 
 270 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 she has an angel's self-command and dignity 
 — I can't think how you could have the heart 
 to do it." 
 
 " Don't yoii me — I'm not going to bear 
 this from my own daughter." 
 
 " You oughtn't, then, to drive your daugh- 
 ter almost mad.... Miss Wyndham this, and 
 Miss Wyndham that.... when it used to be 
 sweet Emilia and dear Emilia — because you 
 think she's poor !" she exclaimed, in a pas- 
 sion of tears — " but she shan't be poor — she 
 isn't poor — and I wish she was an empress 
 that she might trample upon us all !" 
 
 " Have done, then !" said the mother, with 
 a threatening gesture. 
 
 I will shock you with no more of this. 
 These things have been ; these things, I fear, 
 still sometimes are. 
 
 Alas ! we shall have to follow the fatal 
 effects of such a rearing, and of such habits, 
 upon a fine, young creature's fate. 
 
 One other visit shall be slightly recorded, 
 because it shows the delicacy that flows from 
 a kind and simple heart. Not the clever Mr. 
 Danby, not the passionate and devoted Lisa,
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM, 271 
 
 could give, or did give, such sweet comfort 
 to poor Emilia, as did one little thought of 
 by any one — the young man they called in 
 the neighbourhood Johnny Wilcox. 
 
 He was a young man who had been 
 brought up as many then were, and some still 
 are, at a common-place school ; and his father 
 a country gentleman of small estate, had not 
 thought of even sending him to the University 
 — for, as Johnny was an only son, it was not 
 intended that he should be of any profession. 
 And to educate a youth well, for the pro- 
 fession of gentleman^ w^as not thought so 
 indispensable then as, I am happy to say, it 
 is be™nino^ to be thouo-ht now. 
 
 So young Wilcox, having imbibed and for- 
 gotten as much Latin as was usually acquired 
 in such seminaries, and learned to write his 
 own name, and spell his own language — and 
 this was about the sum of his accomplishments 
 — returned home to pursue those rural sports 
 which were the passion of his heart. 
 
 A passion for rural sports is, by the highly 
 advanced inhabitant of cities, usually regarded 
 as the strongest proof of an ordinary and
 
 272 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 degraded mind, fit for nothing else ; but this 
 is often a very short-sighted view of the case. 
 A passion for nature — a deep, imaginative pas- 
 sion for her wild scenes and solitary beauty — 
 very often lies hidden under the rough coat 
 of the fisherman, the velveteen shooting- 
 jacket, and even under the scarlet coat.... 
 though the scarlet coat has more of the show 
 and vanity of life in it, and is often, though 
 not always, the covering for that vulgar and 
 most unpoetic feeling, the love of fashion — 
 the same may be said of the battue. 
 
 But the solitary or one companioned sports- 
 man, who travels over the breezy champaign, 
 or penetrates the deep, dark thickets, the 
 game serving as an exciting aim rather than 
 as the main enjoyment of the toil — or the fly- 
 fisher, under the pendent oak, pensive and 
 silent, bending over the clear, crystal, pebbly 
 stream, and watching the many-spotted trout 
 gliding amid his moss-covered recesses — or 
 the man enjoying any other of the innu- 
 merable forms of the romantic chase — may be 
 blamed by the really tender philanthropist, or 
 ridiculed by the man of the world, but he is
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 273 
 
 no unimaginative brute, and very rarely a 
 fool. 
 
 In such employments, wholesome, healthy 
 tastes, and many sound and manly virtues are 
 exercised. Nature — wild, beautiful, romantic 
 nature — never speaks to the human heart 
 altogether in vain. 
 
 And so it was with Johnny Wilcox. 
 
 His passion for rural sports was the pas- 
 sion of a poet, who never read half a dozen 
 lines of poetry in his life ; but the great 
 mother spoke to his heart, unknown even to 
 himself, and purified it by her own kind 
 and benignant influences. His love and 
 admiration for Miss Wyndham exceeded de- 
 scription ; her blooming cheek, her animated 
 air, her vigorous, healthy, and graceful form, 
 was to him as the Diana of the woods he 
 loved. In a drawing-room he was half afraid 
 of her. In spite of her easy politeness and un- 
 affected grace, there he could not help feeling 
 awestruck, awkward, and something uneasy in 
 her company ; but set them both upon horse- 
 back, and he was perfectly happy. 
 
 On horseback he was graceful and at ease 
 
 n5
 
 274 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 as well as herself, for he was, of course, a 
 capital rider ; and she, who rode as well, was 
 to his fancy the perfection of beauty — while 
 he had the exquisite delight for the moment, 
 of feeling equal to and at ease with his 
 charmer. 
 
 It was pretty to see Miss Wyndham riding 
 with her father and Mr. Wilcox at her side. 
 Mounted upon one of the best horses, and 
 looking one of the handsomest young fellows 
 in the neighbourhood, he knew his advan- 
 tage, and rode gallant and protecting along, 
 through the bosky glades, and dew-dropping 
 branches of an autumn morning, in a state 
 of enjoyment it is given to few to 
 know. 
 
 His adoration — for it had not hope enough 
 in it to constitute a passion, was met on her 
 side by a very sincere liking — it had all that 
 genuine warmth of that genuine liking in 
 which it is felt to be impossible that any more 
 dangerous feeling can mingle ; and I can 
 assure you that, in my opinion, there are 
 few things pleasanter in life than such 
 likings.
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 275 
 
 Young Wilcox was associated in her mind 
 with all those deep and bowery lanes — those 
 fragrant, health - breathing heaths — those 
 pebbly brooks and nutty thickets, that slie 
 so delighted in ; and she felt something of 
 the same fresh and cheerful pleasure in his 
 devotion and his society. 
 
 He, like the rest of the neighbourhood, had 
 heard the disagreeable rumours afloat with 
 respect to the state of Mr. Wyndham's affairs, 
 and he, like the warm-hearted Lisa, was 
 deeply, deeply grieved. 
 
 Till the funeral was over, he felt that all 
 intrusion upon Miss Wyndham's privacy was 
 impossible; he contented himself, therefore, 
 with riding in person every day into the 
 stable-yard, to inquire how Miss Wyndham 
 and the family were. 
 
 The second day, when he had been sitting 
 idly on his beautiful hunter, waiting for the 
 usual unsatisfactory message — " Miss Wynd- 
 ham's thanks and compliments, and Mr. 
 Wyndham is much the same, she herself 
 tolerably well" — he had seen a very ill-looking 
 fellow, with a pipe in his mouth, lounging at 
 the kitchen-door.
 
 276 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 When the groom returned with the mes- 
 sage, Wilcox had said — 
 
 " Who's that ill-looking scoundrel, John ? 
 I didn't use to see him among the servants. 
 You should be careful who you let into the 
 doors while the master's so ill." 
 
 " Oh!" said John, who had the greatest 
 possible regard for Mr. Wilcox, for reasons 
 both of sympathy and others more solid, 
 coming up to the side of the horse, laying his 
 hand upon the animal's neck, and speaking in 
 a low voice — " we do not know much of him. 
 There's another of 'em in the house — I wish 
 we were well rid of 'em. It's a hard thing 
 for poor Miss Emilia." 
 
 " Why, you don't mean," cried Wilcox, 
 surprised for the moment out of his propriety 
 — ''You don't mean — " looking expressively 
 at the man. 
 
 " But I do, though," said John. 
 
 Mr. Wilcox said no more, but rode away 
 briskly. 
 
 His visits of inquiry were repeated every 
 day, but, as we know, he did not see the ill- 
 looking face again. He had, however, drawn 
 his own conclusions.
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 277 
 
 Two clays after the funeral, he presented 
 himself at the front door, and was admitted. 
 
 He thought, as he rode along, that nothing 
 was so easy as the task he had proposed to 
 himself. 
 
 He was too sincerely grieved and anxious 
 for Emilia to feel his usual embarrassment, 
 and he found himself, as we all have done at 
 moments of crisis, suddenly relieved from the 
 shackling forms and restraints of society, and 
 restored at once to truth and nature. 
 
 But as the hall-door opened — as he de- 
 scended from his fine horse — as he entered — 
 as the door closed after him, and he was 
 ushered into the well-known breakfast-room, 
 he was like the knight in the enchanter's 
 castle ; all his old discouraging and depressing 
 feelings of timidity fell upon him. 
 
 She was not in the breakfast-room, so there 
 was time, while he waited, for his trepidation 
 to increase; and his knees became feebler, 
 and his colour higher, at every step that 
 seemed approaching the door. 
 
 At last, she entered in her deep mourning 
 dress. The beautiful colour he once thought
 
 S78 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 SO lovely, all gone — her face pale, her ani- 
 mated eye dimmed, her gay and cheerful 
 expression grave and calm. 
 
 She held out her hand to him with a smile 
 of affectionate pleasure, while he grasped 
 hers unable to speak, and the tears, in spite 
 of all his efforts, brimming to his eyes. 
 
 The weakness was infectious — her eyes 
 soon ran over ; and the first effect of their 
 meeting was to have a good cry together. 
 They sat a little while so, till Emilia said — 
 
 " You loved and honoured my mother, Mr. 
 Wilcox, and you will be among those who 
 lament her most sincerely." 
 
 " I did honour that lamented lady. Miss 
 Emilia. She was a great deal cleverer and 
 wiser than I, poor fellow, could even appre- 
 ciate ; but she was the kindest of friends to 
 me from a boy, and if I am not quite so bad 
 as I might have been, I owe it to her." 
 
 " She was one," said Emilia, " whose 
 great abilities were always employed to pro- 
 mote the real good of those she loved — and 
 she had a great regard for you, Mr. Wilcox." 
 
 " Miss Emilia," said he, fixing her eyes
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 279 
 
 upon her face, and assuming a very grave and 
 serious air, " am I o'oino^ to take the greatest 
 and most inexcusable of liberties?... Mrs. 
 Wyndhani had a regard for me — to believe 
 it is the greatest pride of my life ; her esteem 
 has led me to hold myself in some esteem, 
 and preserved me from many things that 
 would now have been bitterly regretted. I 
 owe it her that I am not a brutal, drunken 
 sot — unworthy to sit in the same room with 
 you. Miss Emilia." 
 
 The simple tribute went warm to her heart, 
 and her countenance showed that it did. 
 
 " Miss Emilia," he began again, and he 
 hesitated and coloured, "you are, too, ex- 
 tremely clever and extremely penetrating, and 
 I think you know my heart ; if"- — with in- 
 creasing courage — " you do know my heart, 
 you know that I would rather be trampled 
 under foot by wild horses — I would rather 
 cut off this hand, and fling it in the fire — I 
 would rather perish — than offend you." 
 
 " Indeed, Mr. Wilcox, I believe it," said 
 she, a little surprised at this exordium. 
 
 " Then you will not believe — for you are
 
 280 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 as just as you are clever — that in what I am 
 about to say, however ill or improperly I may 
 express myself, that I can mean anything to 
 offend — anything but what the deepest re- 
 spect might lead a man to say — " 
 
 " I am sure you will never wilfully offend 
 or hurt any one, Mr. Wilcox— but if there is 
 any danger of it...." 
 
 " I had better not go on, you were about 
 to say — perhaps so — but as what I am going 
 to say may be of some little use to you, and 
 can hurt no one on earth but myself — it may 
 make you hate 7ne, but it cannot harm you — 
 1 will say it." 
 
 She began to feel a little alarmed, but she 
 was not prepared for what was coming. 
 
 '* Miss Emilia, certain reports" — looking 
 another way from her, indeed, almost turning 
 his back upon her — " have reached me.. ..I do 
 not presume further, except to say, that my 
 life — you have long known that was yours — 
 and to spend it for you and yours at any 
 moment would be my glory — but that my 
 fortune is at Mr. Wyndham's disposal.... If 
 you would make a good-hearted, humble-
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 581 
 
 minded fellow — whose sole happiness has been 
 in your suterlij friendship, Miss Wyndham — 
 proud and happy beyond the expression of 
 human words... you will treat him like a friend, 
 trust in him like a brother, and — and — make 
 use of him." 
 
 " My dear Mr. Wilcox," she said, touched 
 beyond words at the feeling and delicacy of 
 his tones and gestures, and contrasting them, 
 in spite of herself, with the roughness of 
 Mr. Danby — " I should be an ungrateful 
 wTetch, indeed, if I did not meet this kind 
 and generous friendship as it ought to be met 
 — with confidence. It is too true — things 
 are not here as my father's sincere friends 
 must desire ; but the present pressure — the 
 only difficulty which can lead any person of 
 common honesty to take advantage of the 
 generous kindness of his friends — is, by the 
 interposition of a very able man of business, 
 removed. If it had not," extending her 
 hand, *' as frankly would I have accepted 
 your assistance, as it has been generously and 
 delicately offered."- 
 
 He turned round ; took the hand she held
 
 282 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 out, gazed with an air of tenderness and 
 reverence in her face.... It was impossible for 
 love, respect, and admiration, to be more 
 beautifully mingled, and said — 
 
 " For the ^present, you said. May I ask, is 
 it only for the 'present removed ?" 
 
 " I do not know — I cannot tell...." 
 
 " Then, Miss Wyndham....! hope I have at 
 least manliness and self-command enough 
 not to disturb you in these serious hours with 
 my weakness and my feelings. I have always 
 made one resolution, not to mar the happiness 
 I did enjoy, by aspiring to that which was 
 never intended for such as I am. But only 
 this much — there is one man in the world 
 devoted heart, soul, and being to you — what- 
 ever betide you and your father, there is one 
 who will never, never fail you. I ask nothing 
 — I hope for nothing — your own fine mind 
 and generous heart will teach you what it 
 must be to me to be able to do something for 
 you.... You will not deny me this one mark of 
 esteem, if you want it." 
 
 " I will not. We understand each other 
 well, I believe, Mr. Wilcox. You, probably.
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 283 
 
 can read my heart as, I think, I read yours ; 
 the generous friendship you profess for me is 
 fully returned, and the sweetest moment I 
 have yet known since my mother died, I owe 
 to you." 
 
 His heart glowed within him. 
 
 " Yes," she said, her heart glowing too, 
 " your delicacy — your kindness — your gene- 
 rous regard-^have comforted me more than I 
 have w^ords to express." 
 
 He was no fool, Johnny Wilcox — and no 
 coxcomb : he understood all that this speech 
 conveyed, and he was not puppy enough to 
 take it for more. 
 
 He rode away grateful and happy — his 
 heart lightened of a load of anxieties, fears, 
 and generous, but hopeless wishes. And she 
 went up to her father's bedside, knowing that 
 there was one good, and kind, and feeling- 
 being, to whose assistance she need not fear 
 to have recourse.
 
 284 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 She doth tell me where to borrow 
 Comfort in the midst of sorrow, 
 Makes the desolatest place 
 To her presence be a grace. 
 
 The Muse — G. Withers. 
 
 A fortnight had thus slipped away. 
 
 Mr. Wyndham was slowly recovering his 
 strength, and had been removed to his arm- 
 chair. 
 
 But there was something about him that 
 she could not quite understand, and which 
 gave her great uneasiness — his delirium 
 seemed to be over. He had always been 
 aware of the presence of those about him, 
 and never made mistakes with regard to them ; 
 but for a time it had been impossible to com- 
 municate with him, to penetrate his mind, 
 or make him aware of any ideas you wished
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 285 
 
 to convey. This had gone off, and he was 
 again capable of receiving new impressions. 
 He had been made aware that his wife was 
 dead, that the funeral was over, and that 
 Emilia remained, a most tender and assiduous 
 nurse, devoted to his recovery and comfort. 
 
 But he was changed. She felt as if he were 
 hardly the same man. He had always been 
 pettish and unreasonable, and was certainly 
 neither a very wise nor a very considerate 
 being ; but this was far different from what 
 he was now. 
 
 His pettishness had changed to the helpless 
 crossness of a whining, sick child ; his whole 
 attention seemed absorbed by his personal 
 comforts, and he was exacting and unreason- 
 able to the greatest degree. Nothing was too 
 expensive, or unattainable, to be the subject 
 of his longings ; and nothing more querulous 
 than his lamentations when what he desired 
 could not be procured. His whole attention — 
 such power of it as seemed left — was absorbed 
 by himself ; he did not seem to have a per- 
 ception of what was due to any other crea-
 
 286 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 ture. His imagination seemed occupied with 
 one picture alone, namely, that of Wingfield 
 Wyndham — the most unfortunate and the 
 most justly to be pitied of human beings, 
 whose sorrows it ought to become the sole 
 business of the human race to assuage. 
 
 Such is the wretched state into which 
 mental disease may reduce a man. It remains 
 to be proved whether those who have used 
 their faculties well and worthily while they 
 had them, can, even in this state of fatuity, 
 ever become so thoroughly selfish and un- 
 amiable. I would hope not. As our native 
 character and acquired habits are said to dis- 
 play themselves in our dreams, so, I would 
 fain hope, that something of their native 
 worth might still linger and be discovered 
 amid wrecks and ruins such as these. But I 
 will not affirm this. Such excessive patience 
 and inexhaustible indulgence is required to- 
 wards these unfortunates, that I would not 
 diminish the pity their unhappy condition 
 ought to inspire, by the reflection that it is 
 perhaps partly the result of former ill-disci-
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 287 
 
 pline and selfishness. Only let us hope, that 
 for the really generous and good to fall into 
 such a moral state is rare. 
 
 His daughter flattered herself that this 
 peevishness was merely the result of sorrow 
 and illness, and that it would disappear in 
 time. She cheerfully applied herself to at- 
 tend upon and entertain him — met his grum- 
 blings with a pleasant excuses— his lamen- 
 tations with the kindest sympathy — his dis- 
 appointed wishes with regrets — and his 
 peevish complaints against herself with a 
 good-humoured smile. He was not quite 
 insensible to all this ; for he showed, even in 
 the midst of his ill-humour, an affection for his 
 daughter which he had never seemed to feel 
 before — clung to her like a child, and was 
 never happy without her. 
 
 Fortunately, as he dozed and slept a good 
 deal, she could often leave him under the care 
 of Biggs, and, sallying forth by herself, enjoy 
 the rapture of the woods. 
 
 It was a mild November, and they had not 
 yet lost all their beauty. The grave and 
 pensive beauty of the declining year still
 
 288 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 hung upon the sear and crimsoned branches. 
 Her relaxation was to stroll amons: the walks 
 with which they were intersected, to visit 
 every rocky glade and hanging thicket, and, 
 in some deep recess, to sit down on one of the 
 sylvan benches, and read — 
 
 His letters. 
 
 She had got them all — she read and re-read 
 — she knew every word by heart — but still 
 she read again. 
 
 The syllables seemed to convey more latent 
 meaning — the " Emilia " seemed to speak 
 and promise more every time she went over 
 them. There was a certain tone of recollec- 
 tion and affection through them all which 
 could not be mistaken. 
 
 The newspapers, too, were perused with the 
 most ardent curiosity, and though his name, 
 and the name of his regiment, seldom ap- 
 peared, yet he was of the army, and that was 
 enough. 
 
 And then, under the present excitement of 
 her feelings, it was natural — was it not ? — 
 that she, nature's poet, should find in her 
 numbers a companion for her solitude. Poetry,
 
 EMILIA WYNDIIAM. 289 
 
 to those who have any ear for rhythm, is the 
 natural expression of any high-wrought feel- 
 ings. It is a very great mistake to fancy 
 poetry an artificial mode of pouring out the 
 heart; the history of every poet that ever 
 lived would assure us of the contrary. 
 
 Don't be frightened — I am not going to 
 waste any of her effusions upon you. You 
 would only make a face, and turn over the 
 page ; though, I assure you, if I had indulged 
 you with one or two of them, you might have 
 been the better for it, for they were full of 
 simple, truthful, tender, and pathetic feeling, 
 and coloured and adorned by an imagination 
 which, unspoiled by false and affected styles 
 and fashions of writing verses, had fed alone 
 upon nature. 
 
 Such as they were, they were certainly 
 written, and, according to the custom of most 
 youthful poets, preserved — though in rather 
 a careless manner, just as they were written, 
 on broken scraps of paper, and locked up 
 with her letters in her writing-desk. This 
 solitude, and these , reveries, were, however, 
 dangerous for her heart. Tiie impression 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 290 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 made by Lenox was considerably deepened 
 by such solitary musings — no mother near to 
 shake her head, or, with more anxiety than 
 ever she suffered her countenance to express, 
 engage her in some reading or some employ- 
 ment, which would dissipate her thoughts as 
 much as possible. 
 
 Thus passed the time till Mr. Danby came 
 again. 
 
 This meeting was on both sides far less 
 agitating and disagreeable than the last. Her 
 father was able to receive him, and to con- 
 verse, as best he might, upon business. This 
 unpleasant occupation did not fall upon her. 
 
 Mr. Danby came, intending to stay for two 
 days, during which time he never once ad- 
 dressed her upon the subject of affairs. He 
 was very much and seriously engaged during 
 the greatest part of the day, and only suffered 
 his deeply thoughtful brow to relax, and his 
 severe eye to assume a softer expression, when 
 he sat with her. 
 
 She, on her part, was most anxious to show 
 him every attention. She made his breakfast 
 and his tea for him; she sat with him at
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 291 
 
 dinner and some time afterwards, talking to 
 him, or reading the newspaper to him — for 
 having once offered to read a passage, he had 
 seemed so rested, happy, and comfortable, 
 while she was so employed, that, in mere 
 gratitude and good nature, she had repeated 
 the task. 
 
 At tea-time she met him again ; and, 
 while she presided at her tea-table, her talk 
 was very pleasant, for she only thought of 
 showing her thankfulness for the evident 
 fatigue and vexation he was undergoing, by 
 diverting and amusing him as much as lay 
 in her power in his hours of relaxation. 
 This placid mode of life passed on unheeded 
 by her ; for she thought of him only as of a 
 respected friend of her father's ; one a century 
 older than herself, and of whom she only 
 wondered that she was not more afraid. But 
 it was not so with him. 
 
 The peaceful happiness he was now enjoy- 
 ino" exceeded everything he could have ima- 
 gined in his most extatic dreams. The wild 
 throbs of passion under which he had found 
 himself such a poor distracted victim, were 
 
 o 2
 
 292 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 now at an end. There was nothino: to excite 
 his feelings — nothing to disturb hers. She 
 was all calm serenity and cheerful good sense 
 — he at ease, and no longer embarrassed by 
 his shyness, awkwardness, and want of the 
 habit of company. He enjoyed this tete-a- 
 tete without any alloy ; he did not speak 
 much-^he did not feel the slightest desire of 
 making himself agreeable — he was too en- 
 tirely absorbed in the pleasure of sitting with 
 and listening to her, even to think of himself, 
 or the impression he might make. The idea 
 of pleasing her was, indeed, far too high to be 
 within the scope even of his widest ambition. 
 
 All he desired was to be near her. 
 
 And he was near her, and the two days 
 lengthened into a week, and his society be- 
 came quite a sort of pleasure to her. She 
 felt so secure and safe in his hands, that she 
 grew^ to find considerable satisfaction in the 
 thoughts of coming down to make his tea, 
 and to sit and chat and read the newspaper. 
 
 People came and went. The little routine 
 of every-day life went on. 
 
 He continued to be occupied with business,
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 293 
 
 and not Mr. Wyndham's business alone, for 
 his other papers of more urgent nature had 
 been sent for, and had followed him to the 
 Oaks; and when the toil of the day was 
 over and the hour of meeting approached, 
 he, who had been too busy to think about it, 
 too much occupied even to anticipate it, re- 
 ceived it as we receive the unbought bless- 
 ings of nature — a smiling sky or a refreshing 
 breeze. 
 
 His life was all calm and peaceful delight. 
 
 I repeat myself, I dwell upon it. The 
 heart rejoices in this pause in the midst of his 
 desolate existence.... this blissful paradise in 
 the waste of his dreary life.. ..these few brief 
 hours of a happiness not one in ten thousand 
 could have tasted as did he. The heart — 
 even mine-- -cannot dwell but with pleasure 
 upon this prospect. 
 
 In spite of all that followed — alas !
 
 294 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Her hair 
 Is like the summer tresses of the trees, 
 When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek 
 Blushes the richness of an autumn sky 
 With ever-shifting beauty. 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 You should have seen Emilia and Mr. 
 Danby sitting at tea, or, rather, after tea. 
 The shutters shut, the curtains closed, a 
 bright fire blazing in the grate ; she, employed 
 in working at a beautiful dress that she is 
 embroidering for her Lisa — and he, in his 
 arm-chair, lingering, and finding it impossible 
 to rise and return to his work in the study. 
 
 Now taking up the end of the delicate crape 
 in his bony hand, and holding it, and looking 
 at it with a sort of wonder, such as an intel- 
 ligent savage might feel at beholding, for the 
 first time, some beautiful work of art.... But
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 295 
 
 there is more there than the beauty of those 
 soft and delicate colours to fascinate his 
 attention, while he holds it, and pores over 
 it with his half- shut eyes. A sort of mag- 
 netic attraction seems to pervade it. 
 
 While she, half amused, half flattered, but 
 not the least in the world aware of the true 
 nature of his feelings, talks and smiles with 
 that sweet, quiet smile — the only smile that 
 has been seen upon her lips since her mother's 
 death. 
 
 The love wl^ich had been admiration, ten- 
 derness, attachment, and a host of sweet, un- 
 intelligible feelings mingled, has, during the 
 last few days of his stay, begun to assume 
 the form of one of those deep, ineffaceable 
 passions for which men have been known to 
 sacrifice life, and — far more than life — honour, 
 reputation, and all that renders life dear. 
 
 Here was a man entirely without the habit 
 of conquering or controlling his feelings — 
 for feelings strong enough to demand control 
 he had never experienced before — brought 
 up, as he had been, by a mother with whom 
 I shall soon have occasion to make you ac-
 
 296 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 quainted, his mind had never been enlarged 
 or cultivated in the slightest degree, he 
 reflected little either upon himself or upon 
 any of those great questions of religion and 
 morality, which ought to occupy the thoughts 
 and attention of every rational being. 
 
 Devoted to law — reared in that narrow 
 circle of technical ideas in which the mere 
 study of law involves the mind — his very 
 Sabbaths no day of rest for him, but most 
 often employed in bringing up the arrears of 
 the week. His intellect never roused to 
 the consideration of those great principles 
 of eternal justice and right on which law 
 ought to be based — but employed in dis- 
 entangling, or in fencing against, all the in- 
 tricate questions founded on the construction 
 of words and phrases, which the imperfection 
 of language — or the imperfection of our legal 
 language entails ; his mind, as I believe I have 
 said before, far from becoming enlarged by 
 the practice of life, became narrower and 
 narrower every day, though his intellect upon 
 this one matter had acquired an almost pre- 
 ternatural acuteness.
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 297 
 
 And yet nature, it is evident, had intended 
 him for no such man. There was a depth of 
 feeling, a strength of imagination lying un- 
 excited within, which the life he had led 
 might smother, but could not destroy ; and 
 which, called at length into being, burst forth 
 with a force that would almost have over- 
 powered one far more accustomed than he 
 was to comprehend and be upon his guard 
 against the violence of his own feelings. 
 
 The frequent sighs that would heave his 
 bosom, as he sat thus holding the magical 
 piece of muslin in his hand, might have 
 alarmed her had she not been unconsciousness 
 and inexperience itself in such matters. There 
 was only one heart in the wide world whose 
 love she desired to obtain, there was only one 
 being whose words and looks were weighed 
 and dwelt upon with interest; with regard 
 to all the rest of the race of man, she lived in 
 that artless, unsuspicious ease, which gave 
 to her manners their peculiar charm. 
 
 o 5
 
 298 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 It was during Mr. Danby's stay at the 
 Oaks that Emilia received the following 
 letter : — 
 
 " Dearest of Ems, 
 
 *' Here is an event ! Guess. 
 I give you — like that old mother Sevigue, in 
 ray French exercise upon the celebrated 
 letter — ten million of guesses, and I'll swear 
 you won't guess right — you won't come 
 within a million miles of the truth. Je vous 
 le donne en deu.v,je vous le donne en trois, je 
 vous le do7ine en mille. Do you recollect 
 what a blundering business I made of that 
 detested letter — six exercises I had on it 
 before it was right. I abhorred the very 
 name of Sevigne. I little thought how it 
 would serve to round my periods at this most 
 extraordinary crisis of fate. Well, you 
 haven't guessed, have you? — Turn over the 
 page, and see ! 
 
 '' Why, what do you think they've made 
 papa — dear, old, good-natured, pompous 
 daddy — well this heaven-born minister of 
 ours has made him — what ?
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 299 
 
 " Don't swoon — don't go into a fit with 
 surprise — why they've made him an — 
 
 " Ambassador ! 
 
 " There's for you ! 
 
 *' You don't believe me — I see you don't. 
 Don't be impertinent, miss ; papa is a very 
 influential man — he has a thousand votes, I 
 believe, in the House of Commons.... No, I 
 believe that's not it — thousands of votes out, 
 and some little snug boroughs and things — 
 oh, I am becoming quite an adept in these 
 matters. Well, I don't know what he else 
 has got, or what else he has not got, but he's 
 got to be an ambassador. 
 
 ** And to St. Petersburgh. 
 
 " We are going up to town immediately, 
 that is, mamma and I, for papa has been in 
 town this ten days ; and I am to be presented 
 before I go, and come out — though I'm only 
 sixteen next birthday ; and it makes mamma 
 so mad! — She thought she had me safe in 
 coop for one other season, and, lo and behold ! 
 I'm out ! 
 
 " Oh, I'll make mischief among them all 
 at St. Petersburgh — see if I don't — and I'll
 
 300 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 marry some grand Russian prince — Prince 
 RufFamuffapufflislowsky. Don't you see the 
 Princess coming walking up to you in a grand 
 London party — you'll only be poor, little 
 Mrs. Colonel Len . . — don't beat me — hang- 
 ing on your husband's arm, with maybe a 
 paltry bit of a red ribbon just peeping at his 
 button-hole, and a paltry Sir as a handle to 
 his name ; and I shall come up to you with my 
 grandee — all sorts of sheep-skins, and two- 
 necked eagles, and dragons, and Georges, 
 and Michaels, and monsters, adorning his 
 breast, and covered from head to foot with 
 stars and garters ; and you'll look so humble 
 and so afraid, and I shall be so sweetly con- 
 descending. 
 
 " I think I see mamma and me among all 
 those great white Russian bears, gaping at 
 Madame I'Ambassadrice ! There she goes, all 
 glorious, with her great black eyes and her 
 great bare shoulders; and then comes after 
 her, I— mincing and smiling, and all muffled 
 up in furs, and downs, and laces, and tipped 
 and mipped, and showing only the least part 
 of my nose. And the bears wonder what this
 
 EMILIA ^VYNDHAM. 301 
 
 little, comical looking creature, wrapped up 
 in this waj, is that's coming along.... and they 
 saj — ' Who can this little piece of goods be ? 
 — she must be as old as the hills.' 
 
 " * And so I am,' I cry, with a scream of 
 laughter, * I'm mamma's mamma — ha, ha, 
 ha!' 
 
 " Don't shake your head, and put up your 
 finger, and purse up your nice mouth, and 
 look like a prude. It won't do, Emilia — I'm 
 as wild as the winds. 
 
 " I think if they'd make me a coach of 
 thistledown I'd fly to the Orcades. 
 
 "J'm sure I was changed at nurse — 
 mamma's child ought to have been a big, 
 hobgoblin, strapping, six foot girl. I'm sure 
 I'm Queen Mab's child ; I seriously am quite 
 sure I am, I am so full of mischief. 
 
 " However, I'm not quite gone to the 
 Orcades yet. And now I come to the dolo- 
 rous part of my letter. 
 
 *' About coming to see you — I will come 
 and see you — do you think I'll go to the 
 world's end without taking leave of you? Never 
 think of it. — Mamma has been in a huff ever
 
 302 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 since our last visit, and she told me to-day, 
 while we were quarrelling abor^t it, that you 
 had a great deal too much influence over my 
 mind, and that, if it was not for you, I should 
 not be so disrespectful to her. 
 
 " I thought I should have burst with rage ! 
 I was quite in a blaze, and should have gone 
 up like a sky-rocket, if I had not been 
 quenched in quite a passion of tears. What 
 shameful injustice ! and so I told her. I told 
 her that it was false, and that it was you who 
 were for ever telling me to be good, and 
 showing me my duty, and saying that, how- 
 ever bad our parents might be, we ought to 
 love and honour them because they are our 
 parents. 
 
 " And then wasn't she in a fury ? — and I 
 said, as well as I could, for I sobbed like a 
 fool, that it was her own fault if I did not 
 love her and honour her, for I couldn't. 
 
 " I thought she'd have thrown her book at 
 me, and dipped under the table — but it didn't 
 come. 
 
 '' What a shame ! to take my Emilia en 
 grippe in this way ! The best and only friend
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 303 
 
 I have in the world ! The only person that 
 ever scolds me, or tells me I'm wrong, that is 
 in the right way — for, to be sure, mamma 
 does her duty as far as scolding goes. 
 
 " Emilia ! who's always taking mamma's 
 part, till she quite makes me jealous and 
 angry ! — Emilia ! who is wisdom and goodness 
 itself. Ah, Emilia ! what do you not owe to 
 your mother? 
 
 ** But where was I ? Oh ! she says I 
 shan't come and see you again, and I say I 
 must and will — and there the matter rests ; 
 but never believe me, if you don't see me pop 
 in one or other of these mornings." 
 
 *' My Lisa," wrote Emilia back, " how 
 unhappy you make me ! My dear, dear Lisa, 
 how can you be so wrong ! Your letters are 
 nothing but pain to me ! not because you are 
 wild as the winds, as you say — tliat^ perhaps, 
 is quite natural for one so young and so happy 
 as you are — but how dare you, my Lisa ? how 
 dare you write of your parents as you do? 
 How dare you quarrel with your mother ? It
 
 304 EMILIA WTNDHAM. 
 
 makes my very hlood run cold when I hear of 
 so unnatural a thing— so horrid a thing — 
 and done by my darling Lisa ! I will not 
 quarrel with you for your speech about me, 
 for that was a blunder of your honest feel- 
 ings — but only reflect what a rude, improper 
 speech to any one, much more to your own 
 mother. No wonder Lady Maria hates me, 
 if this is the way you represent me to her. 
 I must appear like a hypocritical, mischief- 
 making meddler, professing to teach you what 
 is right, and encouraging you in all that is 
 wrong.... but wdien you are in a passion, my 
 Lisa, you are like a little mad thing, and 
 never know what you say. 
 
 " As for coming to me without Lady 
 Maria's consent — that I must positively for- 
 bid. 
 
 " I could have no pleasure in seeing you 
 so, and you ought to have no pleasure in 
 seeing me. 
 
 '' No, we must give that up — indeed, we 
 must, my Lisa. It makes me feel very sad 
 to think you are going so far and far away ; 
 but I hope you will write to me, and tell me
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 303 
 
 all that is in your foolish heart. Perhaps 
 your friend may be able, now and then, to 
 give you a little sober advice, and temper 
 Queen Mub's spirit with some of her own 
 gravity. 
 
 " For me, laughter and joy have taken 
 leave of me— I — but I will not trouble you 
 with my affairs or anxieties — I do not very 
 well know how things are going on. Mr. 
 Danby is here, but he does not say one word 
 to me upon the subject. When I know my 
 fate, you shall know it, and I am not afraid 
 the Princess RuffamuffapulFaslowski will ever 
 forget her friend." 
 
 Two days after this letter, as Mr. Danby 
 and Emilia were sitting quietly at breakfast, 
 the door opened, and a little figure, dressed 
 in an old woman's red cloak, came flying in, 
 arms spread, and clasped round Emilia's neck 
 in a moment, quite unaware that any one 
 else was in the room. 
 
 " Done — Here I am — T said I would.... I 
 was sure I ought, and here I am, my best of 
 loves and Emmys."
 
 306 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 Emilia could not but press the pretty 
 trifler to her heart — all her principle could 
 not prevent her rejoicing thus to see her once 
 more — yet she was pained and grieved. She 
 kissed her, and then, holding her a little off, 
 looked at the old, dingy red cloak, and black 
 bonnet, which had fallen upon the floor, dis- 
 playing her beautiful tresses, dishevelled 
 round her cheeks and neck. 
 
 The presence of Mr. Danby embarrassed 
 Emilia; she did not like to remonstrate, and 
 yet she could not be silent. 
 
 " Sit down, my dear, and tell me how it 
 has happened," at last she said. 
 
 The little thing looked round, and now was 
 first aware of the presence of Mr. Danby. 
 
 *' Oh !" she said, looking as if a little taken 
 by surprise ; and, making him a low courtesy, 
 she sat down by Emilia. 
 
 Mr. Danby, who scarcely seemed to per- 
 ceive her presence, tossed off his cup of tea, 
 and, with one of his awkward bows, rose and 
 left the room. 
 
 And then it was — jumping up and dancing 
 about in the wildest spirits —
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 307 
 
 " I've caught you ! — I really have — This is 
 the reason, Miss Prue, you would not let me 
 come. Oh, the darling Celadon ! oh, the 
 beautiful, dangerous creature. — Never preach 
 to me again !...." 
 
 ** My dear Lisa ! how can you be so ridi- 
 culous ? — so disagreeable ?" 
 
 '* Oh ! I am — am I !" she exclaimed, run- 
 ning on with a torrent of nonsense, evidently 
 intended to stop Emilia's voice, and prevent 
 the expected remonstrance. 
 
 " Lisa, my love, be quiet — you torment 
 me," cried Emilia, almost impatiently. " How 
 did you come here ? Nay, tell me the truth — 
 I trust Lady Maria gave leave." 
 
 " Don't trust anything about it — and don't 
 talk about it at all — for my coach, like Cin- 
 derella's, will turn into a pumpkin if I stay 
 long.... in other words, I shall be found out, 
 which I suppose was what was signified by 
 that delectable fable." 
 
 She took Eaiilia's hand, gazed fondly into 
 her face, and then said with feeling — 
 
 " If I have done a wrong thing, it is the 
 last I intend to do in my life; henceforth,
 
 308 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 and for ever, I mean to be as good as good 
 — I shall think of all you have taught and told 
 me when I am away from you, Emilia — be- 
 lieve me, I shall — but to go away without 
 seeing you, and thanking you for all your 
 love and all your care, which I shall remem- 
 ber and treasure up as long as I breathe, I 
 could not and I would not — and I should 
 abhor myself if I could^ — and I don't care 
 whether I am wrono* or rirfit." 
 
 '^ Ah, that ' don't care !' " cried Emilia, 
 shaking her head. 
 
 *' I shall be eat by lions on the coast of 
 Africa, like that bad Harry, you mean. — 
 Well, Emilia, I will be eat by lions before I 
 forsake you...." 
 
 Here followed a tender embrace. 
 
 ^' But how did you come ?" 
 
 " Oh, mamma positively refused to let me 
 have the carriage, so I thought first I would 
 walk — and then 1 thought of the old pony — 
 but then I thought, why if Philip saddles 
 and bridles it, even for me, he will maybe 
 lose his place — so I am not quite so forgetful 
 of other people as you sometimes think,
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 309 
 
 Emilia. Then I thought of Goody Green — 
 that dear, nice, little, old woman, that has 
 the little covered cart and goes to market 
 with her butter and eggs — she is so very 
 obscure, that the thunderbolt of mamma's 
 vengeance could not, I thought, reach her. 
 He who lies prostrate.... you know. So I gave 
 her two guineas, and that will pay a year's 
 rent, and I borrowed her little black bonnet 
 and cloak, and she put me down just at the 
 last gate — and there she's waiting to take 
 me up again. Mamma's never down till 
 twelve, and it's only ten now — and so I must 
 soon be back. 
 
 " And now," taking her friend's hand 
 again, " give me a promise, a solemn — solemn 
 promise, Emilia." 
 
 ** What must I promise, Lisa? — tell me 
 that first." 
 
 " There is something amiss about money, 
 and all that. — You let it out in your last 
 letter." 
 
 Emily coloured — 
 
 " I did not intend it...." 
 
 " Well, you did — and now for the promise.
 
 310 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 Promise me, your hand in mine, that you will 
 make a friend of little me — that while I hmie 
 you will never want, and that when you have 
 — if you have no other home to go to, you 
 will share mine. You know I shall be as rich 
 as Croesus — so all the maids and governesses 
 say — and there will be enough for both of us, 
 and in spite of Prince Ruffapuifa....! never 
 mean to marry — I never do, Emilia ; and if 
 you don't marry that colonel — if he is killed" 
 — Emilia shuddered and started — " No, no, 
 he won't be that; but if, if — he shouldn't 
 after all come and marry you — promise me 
 you'll live with me. We will be like Rosalind 
 and Celia in the play — ^you shall be Rosalind, 
 and ril be your Celia. — ' So I prithee, sweet 
 coz, be merry.' " 
 
 And the tears stood in the two sweet, 
 earnest eyes. 
 
 " My little love — how you talk !" she said, 
 fondling her ; " very prettily, my sweetest 
 Lisa...." 
 
 '* But will you promise ?" 
 
 " My dearest child !" 
 
 " But will you ? — say you will. Nay,
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 311 
 
 Emilia, don't be so unkind — say you'll live 
 with me — we shall be so happy. And don't 
 do — what — I am afraid you will do — marry 
 that hideous Mr. Danby." 
 
 " My dearest little simpleton, how could 
 such an absurd thought come into your head ? 
 Marry Mr. Danby !" 
 
 ** Stranger things have happened when 
 people want a home. I don't believe things 
 are very bad with you, but your letter made 
 me afraid — and so this was what I came espe- 
 cially for, to make you swear you would 
 make my home your home — and then I'm cer- 
 tain you'll not marry that horrid old Danby." 
 
 Emilia smiled. 
 
 " Well, I think I might safely promise not 
 to marry Mr. Danby, only I never make pro- 
 mises — but one thing I might almost engage, 
 that if ever I make a home with any one, it 
 shall be with you, my Lisa." 
 
 ** Promise — " 
 
 " No, I won't promise — 1 said almost — that 
 must content your little, generous heart." 
 
 " Well, he is the ugliest old fellow I ever 
 saw in my whole life ; and I think he'd be
 
 312 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 ashamed of himself to ask you — and so I 
 don't believe he ever will." 
 
 " And I am sure he never will," said 
 Emilia ; " so let us have done with him, for 
 it is time you should go back, and I will, at 
 least, walk with yon to yonr pumpkin, and 
 go with you part of the way home. I \^'ill 
 share in the scrape you have got into for my 
 sake, as you promise me it shall be for the 
 very last time." 
 
 It was a bright, crackling, frosty morning 
 — the hoar hanging upon every spray and 
 blade of grass — the sun glancing as upon so 
 many diamonds — the sky blue and serene — a 
 fair winter day — as the two girls pursued 
 their walk through the woods, till they 
 reached the place where the little covered 
 cart stood. The old woman was waiting for 
 them, and they were soon in, and set off at a 
 good round trot towards the gate which led 
 to Haldimands; there was a near way not 
 good enough for a carriage, but quite passable 
 for the small cart, and which would bring the 
 little truant safely home in less than half an 
 hour.
 
 EMILIA WYNDH AM. 313 
 
 Here the two friends parted, with many 
 tears ; — Emilia reiterating her warnings ; and 
 insisting upon the promise that this should be 
 the very last act of disobedience that her friend 
 should ever commit ; — and Lisa, her arms 
 round her neck, and sobbing upon her bosom, 
 promising to be good ; and repeating her 
 declarations that she should never marry — and 
 that they would have but one home and one 
 heart, like Rosalind and Celia in the play. 
 
 The conclusion of this unlucky escapade 
 was, that the Lady Maria learned all the 
 particulars about it, even to the fact of 
 Emilia accompanying her friend part of the 
 way home. 
 
 Her daughter was exposed to a fresh storm 
 of reproaches, so beyond reason violent, that far 
 from bringing her to confess — or in the least 
 convincing her that she was wrong, their only 
 results were to rouse her spirit of resistance, 
 irritate her ill-disciplined temper, and pro- 
 voke her to say much that even she herself 
 regretted. 
 
 As regarded Emilia, the expressions made 
 use of by Lisa in her passion only served 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 3 1 4 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 still more to impress Lady Maria with the 
 idea that she was the cause and the encourager 
 of her daughter's disobedience. She haugh- 
 tily forbade all future correspondence — to 
 which command Lisa as obstinately declared 
 she would never pay obedience — carrying her 
 threat into execution that very night, by 
 writing a letter in defiance; and openly laying 
 it with the other letters upon the hall-table. 
 
 But Lady Maria soon proved that she coilld 
 be as determined as her daughter.
 
 EMILIA \V YNDH AM . 315 
 
 CHAPTER XVL 
 
 Thus men go wrong with an ingenious skill; 
 Bend the straight rule to their own crooked will ; 
 And with a clear and shining lamp supplied, 
 Eirst put it out, then take it for a guide. 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 We are now in Charlotte Street, Bedford 
 Square. 
 
 In a small house in that most gloomy part 
 of the town — at that time, it is true, not so 
 completely abandoned as it is now by every 
 one who has the slightest desire to be com- 
 fortable, but still dark, dull, and desolate — 
 and it is upon a cold, foggy, winter's day. 
 
 The room is a small square room, covered 
 with a green and red Scotch carpet, and 
 surrounded with old-fashioned, heavy, ma- 
 hogany chairs, with black horse-hair seats — 
 a square, uncomfortable-looking settee is at
 
 316 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 one end of the room, and faces a mahogany 
 bookcase, with drawers beneath and shelves 
 above, shut in with glass paned doors, lined 
 with ^reen silk, and surmounted by a sort of 
 scroll of flourished mahogany. Between the 
 windows is a small glass in a black frame, 
 and under it an old Pembroke table, rather 
 rickety in the legs. Upon the chimney- 
 piece of painted wood — of that hue which 
 painted wood assumes in a neglected house in 
 London — there is not a single ornament but 
 a snufFer-dish and a pair of snuffers. 
 
 A black, leather arm-chair is wheeled to 
 the fire, which consists of one moderate-sized 
 piece of coal, surmounted by a heap of cinders, 
 half dust, half red ashes — burning in that 
 smoking, unwholesome way, which neither 
 warms, nor cheers, nor refreshes the apart- 
 ment. 
 
 In the arm-chair sits an old, thin gentle- 
 woman, somewhat beyond the middle age — 
 perfectly erect — doing nothing. This lady 
 is the mother of Mr. Danby — she sits there, 
 dressed in a black mode silk, once hand- 
 some, but now considerably the worse for
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 317 
 
 wear, though it is her Sunday dress. It fits 
 very tightly to her shape, and the sleeves 
 are close as those of a riding-habit. She has 
 a handkerchief of not very white muslin — 
 yellow with age alone, however — pinned over 
 her gown, and a pair of leather mittens on her 
 withered, thin hands, which lie unemployed 
 in her lap. Her face is thin and blueish- 
 coloured — her eyes sharp, bright, and ma- 
 licious — her lips wiry and thin — her nose 
 high, delicate, and peaked. She might have 
 been once a very handsome woman, and pos- 
 sibly was — she is a very disagreeable-looking 
 one now. 
 
 A tall, large, bony woman — nearly as old 
 as herself, more ugly, but not half so ill- 
 natured-looking — enters the room with some 
 coal for the fire, when the following dialogue 
 takes place. 
 
 " You need not stir the fire, Susan — it'll 
 do very well — we don't want more coals. — 
 Take them away again." 
 
 " Why, ma'am, it's a very cold, dripping 
 night, and when master comes in he'll maybe 
 like a bit of a blazing fire."
 
 318 EMILIA WYNDH AM. 
 
 " He will not come to-niglit, I dare say — 
 this is the third day I have expected him, 
 and had a supper ready for him. I don't 
 know what's the matter, or what keeps him 
 down there in the country, neglecting busi- 
 ness, and putting me to all this expense — but 
 I can't help suspecting he's entangled himself 
 in a very disagreeable and foolish business, 
 and, if all tales be true, he may whistle for 
 his fees, after he's worked himself to death." 
 
 " I can't think," continued she, in a tone 
 of increasing acrimony, " what he can be 
 about ? — I never knew him absent from town 
 for more than two days together before — and 
 as for coming to-night.... you may as well send 
 the rump-steak back again to the butcher's, 
 Susan. He's not coming, you may be sure." 
 
 " Why, as to the beef-steak, ma'am, it 
 won't be lost ; and, really, Williams seems to 
 begin to look as if he didn't like this taking 
 back of things. This is Sunday night — we 
 had best keep it for dinner to-morrow," &;c. 
 
 But I am not going to trouble you with a 
 description of this housekeeping — these miser- 
 able economies, because perfectly unnecessary
 
 EMILIA WINDHAM. 319 
 
 economies — of a mind, occupied with a detail 
 of petty savings, without system or plan — 
 the sole purpose of life seeming to be to save. 
 
 All we can say for it is, that the habit 
 had been contracted at a time when saving, 
 when the strictest economy was the first duty 
 of life — when she and her husband had begun 
 the world almost without a penny they could 
 call their own, and had to struggle, and did 
 struggle through it to competence, and even 
 to fortune — escaping all the temptations and 
 dangers of debt, and fulfilling every obliga- 
 tion strictly and honourably. 
 
 Such a career is a beautiful sight ! The 
 innumerable small daily temptations to be 
 resisted — the virtuous self-denial, the honest 
 sense of independence maintained — the mag- 
 nanimous disregard of the world's dread 
 lauo^h....It is beautiful — it is noble — it is 
 heroic ! 
 
 But, as I once heard one of the cleverest 
 men I ever knew observe, " virtue lies in the 
 medium, vice in the extreme — and every 
 virtue has its attendant vice." The practice
 
 320 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 of virtues with their attendant vices is com- 
 mon — the practice of virtues without them, 
 alone, rare, excellent, and beautiful. We have 
 generosity and extravagance — justice and 
 severity — tenderness and weakness — economy 
 and covetousness, walking hand in hand. 
 How few there are who learn well to consider 
 and watch over the nature and habits of their 
 own minds, and to avoid the evil tendencies of 
 their constitutional virtues. 
 
 You will be wearied with my dwelling so 
 long upon this text — self-examination, self- 
 discipline — but the history which I am re- 
 lating perpetually excites my own attention 
 to the evils resulting from that indifference 
 to the practice of these virtues, so common 
 to the bulk of mankind. 
 
 Here is a fresh instance of it. 
 
 For want of this self-examination — for 
 want of this self-discipline — for want of 
 enlarged views of her own duties and her 
 own tendencies — the frugal, prudent, self- 
 denying, careful little wife, became the 
 selfish, covetous, money-loving, grasping old
 
 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 321 
 
 woman. She had suffered her ideas to run 
 upon gold, till gold became the god of her 
 idolatry — her thoughts to be concentrated 
 upon petty details of expenditure, till she 
 could think of nothing else. What had been 
 the first of duties, degenerated into almost 
 the greatest of corruptions. The necessity 
 for saving had long ago passed away — the 
 habit was suffered to remain. 
 
 Her son had been reared in habits of the 
 utmost parsimony, so that parsimony was 
 become a second nature with him. — As we 
 have seen in the domestic arrangements of 
 his chambers — there was neither art nor 
 luxury about him — there was the self-denial 
 of an ascetic, without its motive or its reward. 
 It was merely a habit. 
 
 His mind, however, engrossed from his 
 youth upwards by the contemplation of ab- 
 stractions, had escaped the corruption of 
 covetousness. He, as I have told you, heaped 
 together untold gold, and scarcely knew that 
 he possessed it. He carried it to his bankers 
 — his bankers' book was kept by his mother — 
 
 p 5
 
 322 EMILIA WYNDHAM. 
 
 he scarcely ever even looked at it. The habit 
 acquired while a boy, of receiving all he spent 
 from her hands, she, fond of power and jealous 
 of his independence, had managed to make 
 him retain during life. 
 
 END OF VOL. I, 
 
 FREDERICK SHOBERL, JUNIOR, 
 PRINTER TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS PRINCE ALBERT, 
 
 51, RUPERT STREET, HAYMARKET, LONDON.
 
 
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