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 http://www.archive.org/details/constancenovel01thom
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 A NOVEL. 
 
 In a word, my work is digressive, and it is progressive 
 too, and at the same time.— Sterne. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET. 
 
 (successor to h. colburn.) 
 
 1833.
 
 LONDON : 
 
 fBOTSO.V AND PAL.MCn, PRINTERS, SAVOY STREET, STRAND.
 
 
 i ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 It has been justly remarked, that if persons of 
 observation and experience, were merely to re- 
 late what they individually see and hear, in 
 ::^ the course of even a moderately long life ; and 
 '.. if they were to enter into the particulars of their 
 \ recollections with the same minuteness, that 
 ^ they would employ in detailing them for the 
 ^amusement of a friend in a fireside conversation, 
 such communications would be far more amus- 
 •^ ing, perhaps more remarkable, than many novels. 
 ^ How much, even in the most careless discourse, 
 ^•: is often afforded for subject of serious reflec- 
 -, tion, and of painful interest ! Casual remarks 
 ^in a stage-coach, narratives mutilated, and en- 
 -^feebled, by being transmitted even to the third
 
 IV ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 hand ; or, what is worse, the history of deep 
 woes, or the description of comic scenes, dis- 
 torted and coloured by a tasteless lover of the 
 marvellous ; all present to the thinking mind, 
 matter for serious speculation. 
 
 To make these available in a work, combin- 
 ing fact with fiction, has been the aim of the 
 Author of these volumes ; endeavouring, at the 
 same time, to avoid introducing all incidents 
 but such as are strictly probable; and aiming 
 to inculcate that species of moral lesson, which 
 a natural picture of the affairs of life, its pas- 
 sions, its interests, and its calamities, must in- 
 evitably conve3\
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 '^ Sir, he hath never fed on the dainties that are bred in 
 a book, 
 He hath not eat paper, as it were ; he hath not drunk 
 
 ink, 
 His intellect is not replenished." 
 
 Shakspeare, 
 
 " Thomas," said the precise Mrs. Cattell, an 
 elderly matron, resident at the borough of 
 Newberry, to her servant, as he brought in the 
 high-necked silver tea-urn, '' this water don't 
 boil, Thomas.'' 
 
 The words conveyed no very important 
 meaning, but they were uttered in a tone so 
 different to the apathetic manner habitual to 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 22 CONSTANCE. 
 
 Mrs. Cattell, that her consequential domestic, 
 humoured, as servants were wont to be, fifty 
 years ago, did condescend, as he was quitting 
 the room, to turn round and look at her. " She 
 is in a fuss — a mifF about something," was 
 Thomases internal ejaculation, while his audible 
 expostulation consisted of this laconic reply, 
 " This here water do boil, ma'am." 
 
 " You're quite in a taking, Martha,"''' ob- 
 served Mr. Cattell, who now came forward into 
 the scene of action, from a high-backed chair, 
 which in summer he was wont to place where 
 he could look out upon the Church clock ; in 
 winter, to ensconce by the fire-side ; whilst a vo- 
 lume of the Spectator, which he was reading 
 through, paper by paper, was placed on a dumb 
 waiter by his side, to accelerate his slumbers at 
 either period of the year. 
 
 " Thomas wonH stand it long, I can tell you, 
 my dear ; he's not a man to be run after, nor 
 interfered with." 
 
 " Bless me, Mr. Cattell, he's stood it these 
 fifteen year.'*' 
 
 " And if I don't give you satisfaction, — 
 ma'am— — " said Thomas, re-entering the room.
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 Thomas well knew that those words always 
 brought his mistress to reason ; and setting 
 down the toast at the same time, he retreated, 
 having said, as he thought, just enough. 
 
 Mrs. Cattell looked aghast, and poured out 
 the tea, tranquillized as if by a charm. To all 
 appearance the old people might have been 
 comfortable, for around them were all the attri- 
 butes of peace, and the usual accompaniments 
 of prosperity. They sat in a kind of summer 
 parlour, one window of which, by way of a 
 very unusual indulgence, was allowed to re- 
 main open about three or four inches, so that 
 the fragrance of the jasmine without was richly 
 perceptible, whilst one or two of its slender 
 sprays were even bold enough to intrude their 
 starry blossoms within the room. The prospect 
 without comprized no greater extent than a 
 flower garden ; but all prospects were much 
 the same to Mr. and Mrs. Cattell. AVithin 
 the room, a neatly arranged tea equipage, on a 
 little Pembroke table, bespoke the approach of 
 that social meal, before the arrival of which 
 the cares of the day are usually at an end ; 
 whilst through the streams of vapour which 
 
 B 2
 
 4 CONSTANCE. 
 
 issued from the bubbling and hissing urn, the 
 declining rays of the summer sun were playing, 
 gilding the white papered walls of the apart- 
 ment with prismatic hues. 
 
 On Mrs. Cattell's brow there sat, however, 
 indications of suppressed discontent. She looked 
 as if she had all the troubles of Christendom 
 working within her small compass of mind. 
 
 *' Thomas won't be here long, nor Mitten 
 neither, if your ward is to turn the house up- 
 side down, Mr. Cattell. Mitten won't like to 
 be bringing her up warm water half-a-dozen 
 times a-day, Mr. Cattell ; and as to the getting 
 up of her fine linen ' " 
 
 Here the entrance of Thomas again pacified 
 the good lady ; her voice dropped, and she 
 looked as meek as a lamb. But his controlling 
 presence withdrawn, her complaints broke forth 
 again. 
 
 '' It was very unkind of Colonel Cour- 
 tenay to die, and leave you charge of his 
 daughters.'' 
 
 " That is to say, very unkind of him to 
 trouble us with his daughters, for dying he 
 could not help, Mrs. Cattell, as I conceit,"
 
 CONSTANCE. 5 
 
 replied Mr. Cattell, as if he were just speaking 
 the plain truth, and nothing more. 
 
 " True, Mr. Cattell ; but what have I to do 
 with young ladies? They are so bred up, 
 now-a-days, as to be of no use but to play on 
 spinets, and to hem flounces. I don't suppose 
 now, Miss Courtenay could lend a hand to 
 preserves, and would choose weigh out the 
 sugar."'' 
 
 " Better not trust her, better not trust her, 
 Mrs. Cattell." 
 
 " I don t intend, Mr. Cattell ; but I know 
 all my servants will give me warning. Dubster 
 don't like young ladies; Mitten don't like 
 young ladies ; Thomas can't abear them ; Sa- 
 rah's fond of children, but a young lady's 
 another thing." 
 
 " Not more trouble than a lap-dog,"' rejoined 
 Mr. Cattell, not at all meaning to say a hu- 
 morous thing, and casting an eye at a pert, 
 shaggy-eared favourite, who stood up on his 
 hinder legs, begging for a piece of cake, look- 
 ing as if he was listening to the argument, and 
 ready to take a part with the first person that 
 offered him a sufficient bribe.
 
 6 CONSTAXCE. 
 
 " There, Vicky, be quiet," said Mrs. Cattell 
 peevishly. 
 
 " They've got now to that pass, to wear no 
 pockets," she resumed thoughtfully. 
 
 " Who, the dogs, my dear ?'' 
 
 " Fye, Mr. Cattell ! there's Mrs. De Courcy 
 carries her pocket kerchief in her hand — it's 
 quite indecent. There's Miss Pearson " 
 
 " Well, well, Mrs. Cattell, I am not going 
 to take charge of Mrs. De Courcy, nor Miss 
 Pearson neither ; Miss Courtenay 's Miss 
 Courtenay — she must conform to regular 
 hours." 
 
 " She must, Mr. Cattell," 
 
 " Attend the card assembly regular.'*'' 
 
 " She should, Mr. Cattell.'' 
 
 '' Then, Martha, what more can you wish 
 for.f^ She a''n''t a bull-dog, nor a hyaena, that 
 you should be so afraid of her. I would not 
 put her in the best room neither. As I wrote 
 to her,'' he continued, pulling out a venerable 
 letter-case, and taking out the copy of a 
 letter — " We breakfast at a quarter before eight 
 for eight precisely .'*'' 
 
 " Good, Mr. Cattell."
 
 CONSTANCE 
 
 " And we expect you are not to be sitting 
 up late of a night" — he continued reading. 
 " Mrs. Cattell don't like candles alight late of 
 a night."** 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Cattell—neither I do," 
 said Mrs. Cattell. 
 
 " So then, I think, my dear, you need not 
 be downcast ; you fidget yourself too much, 
 Mrs. Cattell, as I conceit," added the old 
 gentleman, folding up his precious composition, 
 and putting it into his pocket-book. 
 
 '^ She isn't so bad as a young man, Mrs. 
 Cattell," he resumed, in a consolatory tone. 
 " What think you of a boy for a ward, Mrs. 
 Cattell r 
 
 " A boy, Mr. Cattell ! I should be dead in 
 a week. A boy ! I couldn't stay in the house 
 with one a day; and as for Thomas, Mitten, 
 Dubster, Sarah — they would think the world 
 was come to an end if such a thing as a boy 
 was to be thrust upon us ! No," she pursued, 
 as if relieved from the dread of a heavy mis- 
 fortune, " that would be a judgment upon us; 
 a boy indeed, wearing the shoes off* his feet,
 
 8 CONSTANCE. 
 
 without even wiping them at the door : we are 
 not so badly off as that, neither."" 
 
 Mr. Cattell, despite his reluctance and that 
 of his wife to the responsibility of his young 
 charge, was reputed in Newberry to be the 
 most suitable man in the world for such an 
 office; for he was beyond the middle age of 
 life, sedate, of creditable descent, the most un- 
 tainted respectability, and of habits unquestion- 
 ably sober, decent, and regular. Mrs. Cattell 
 was equally unexceptionable. Not a breath of 
 scandal had ever blown near the fair fabric of 
 her virtues. Her demeanour was exemplary, 
 from her deportment every Sunday at church, 
 where she sat bolt upright with a large green 
 fan before her face, to her nightly dealing and 
 shuffling at cards, which were thought inimi- 
 table. As she had no family, the voice of 
 censure could not be directed to her through 
 that channel, by means of which the most 
 virtuous parents are often blamed ; for though 
 it be a great pleasure to criticize one's neigh- 
 bours, it is a far greater pleasure to censure 
 their children. To crown the whole, as in a
 
 consta:nce. 9 
 
 funeral sermon, Mrs. Cattell was reputed most 
 orderly and industrious. A large lion (in 
 worsted- work only) lay before her parlour fire ; 
 this was the labour of her earlier years; but 
 a cat, with floss silk whiskers, had, in an urn 
 rug, been the purpose of her life during 
 the more important period of her middle 
 age ; to say nothing of a lady, a lamb, and a 
 peacock, embroidered in fine silk, and only un- 
 covered upon certain occasions. Latterly, since 
 her eyes had become indiiferent, she had con- 
 fined herself to knitting bed-quilts, and the 
 manufacture of tape trimming, in which latter 
 art she had acquired a degree of fame by no 
 means ephemeral. The three Miss Seagraves' 
 best dresses were garnished with it, and there 
 was scarcely a lady in Newberry who had not a 
 collar, or an apron, or a habit-shirt, or some 
 piece of dress into which it was not introduced. 
 To describe Mrs. Cattell's mind or heart, after 
 this dissertation, were fruitless. No one ever 
 thought about those. Such articles were not 
 necessary in her routine of existence ; they 
 might even have been troublesome. It was of 
 no consequence what hers were, since she never 
 
 b5
 
 10 CONSTANCE. 
 
 troubled herself about either heart or mind in 
 other people. 
 
 As to Mr. Cattell, he was just such another 
 piece of human machinery as his wife. For 
 years he had not varied five minutes in any 
 customary avocation of the day. Next to his 
 wife, he seemed to value his watch most of any 
 of his appurtenances, not that he was deficient 
 in a due regard for any one of his possessions. 
 His virtues and his history were just what would 
 figure well upon a tombstone. He was a faithful 
 husband, an indulgent master, an upright ma- 
 gistrate, a liberal donor (once a year) to the 
 poor. He died in a ripe old age, and left not 
 a numerous progeny to create any confusion, 
 by the insertion of a number of unsightly 
 names beneath his own. His name still shines 
 in gold letters upon a large black board in 
 Newberry church, as having bequeathed five 
 pounds yearly to be divided among twelve old 
 women. In short, he was a most exemplary 
 man ; he only wanted feeling and sense, but he 
 performed his part in life very well without 
 either qualification. 
 
 The other individual concerned in the con-
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 11 
 
 versation which has been related, was the orphan 
 daughter of an officer, who, as well as his wife, 
 had died early. Miss Courtenay, and a younger 
 sister, had been committed to the charge of 
 Mr. Cattell for the period of their minority, 
 until the seventeenth year of which they had 
 been recommended to remain at school. 
 
 The elder of these young orphans had alone 
 even a faint recollection of having ever been 
 dear to any one, except her sister. They had 
 been cast upon society, and were expected to 
 give no trouble, and to be irreproachable in 
 conduct, at an age when other children have 
 their failings regarded with indulgence, and 
 their good impulses magnified by parental fond- 
 ness. Constance and Emily had known suffi- 
 ciently what it was to benefit by presiding care, 
 but had never felt the charm of voluntary 
 affection. Yet, in the elder sister, the depriva- 
 tion of domestic ties had not been attended by 
 indifference to what her young mind pictured 
 of them. She had often longed to share the 
 over fond caresses which she saw lavished upon 
 her schoolfellows — to know that there was some 
 one longing for the holidays on her account — to
 
 12 CONSTANCE. 
 
 try what it was to be spoiled. Her affections, 
 naturally ardent, running however in one cur- 
 rent, had become the more genuine. She knew 
 but one living being that belonged to her, and 
 that was her sister. Emily, it is true, was but 
 a child, but that circumstance rendered their 
 sisterly affection less liable to those 
 
 Cataracts and breaks, 
 Which humour interposed, too often makes. 
 
 The little varieties of thumping, pinching, 
 and scratching, which seldom however diminish 
 love, even for a time, in young children, were 
 totally undreamed of, between two girls in 
 whose ages there was four years difference. 
 Obliged, however, not only to depend upon 
 herself, but to feel that another being was 
 mainly dependant upon her, the naturally 
 buoyant spirits of the elder of the sisters had 
 been early kept in restraint by that considera- 
 tion ; not that her disposition at this period 
 of her life displayed anything of a chastened or 
 melancholy temperament, for her bereavements 
 had taken place too early in her career to occa- 
 sion, upon recollection, more than a moment's
 
 CONSTANCE. ^ 13 
 
 seriousness : a wish, perhaps, that she liad a 
 home of her own, a mother who was obliged to 
 love her, and who would caress her, as she 
 never was caressed by any human being — for 
 whose endearments are like those of a mother's ? 
 But the thought was soon dissipated, and the 
 very absence of those endearments gave a 
 cheerful independence to the character, for 
 which the idolized object of parental affection 
 might sometimes advantageously exchange the 
 consciousness of being fondly, and perhaps 
 foolishly, beloved. 
 
 Formed under these circumstances, the cha- 
 racter of Constance, at sixteen years of age, 
 might seem to differ little from that of most 
 girls of the same situation in life. Carefully 
 and judiciously instructed, those frivolities 
 which engross so large a portion of female 
 attention and ingenuity, when the vanity of 
 mothers is interested in display, had been wisely 
 disregarded in the system steadily and unre- 
 lentingly pursued in her behalf. No fashionable 
 nor fond relative had interfered to urge the ne- 
 cessity of her annoying her associates with bad 
 music, or with the jargon of criticism upon
 
 14 CONSTANCE. 
 
 current literature. Her natural tastes had, 
 however, directed her to cultivate accomplish- 
 ments ; and the habit of applying to all things 
 with energy, had enabled her to pursue them 
 with success. To literary avocations she had 
 retired, as to indulgences which were considered 
 as interruptions to the routine of her daily occu- 
 pations. The charms of poetry were neither, in 
 her case, depreciated by a painful and precise 
 committal to memory ; nor the solid excellencies 
 of English and Foreign writers rendered vapid 
 by premature familiarity, before the mind could 
 comprehend their beauties. What she read, 
 she read with enthusiasm ; and it was her lot, 
 in various passages of her after-life, to acknow- 
 ledge, almost as the chief boon of Providence 
 granted to her, the power of abstraction, — of 
 being able to divest her mind of all other impres- 
 sions, and of entering exclusively into the subject 
 placed before her. So far was she indebted to art ; 
 but nature had even done more. Sensibility, mo- 
 derated by a native integrity of character, which 
 led her to form just notions of the limits to 
 which she was authorized to allow feeling to 
 impel her, was the predominant attribute of
 
 CONSTANCE. 15 
 
 one, who, in her journey through life, fully 
 experienced the necessity of feeling rightly, as 
 a preparation to the desirable end of thinking 
 rightly. Such a process is indispensable in the 
 formation of a moral character. It is useless 
 to talk of principles as within our compass, if 
 the heart be not disposed to admit the virtuous 
 emotions, of which those principles are not the 
 basis, but the result. 
 
 About the time when Constance reached 
 womanhood, greater attention, perhaps, even 
 than in the present day, was allotted to female 
 education. Emancipated from the levelling 
 decree, which ranked them merely as house- 
 hold drudges, women, during the latter years 
 of the eighteenth century, more especially 
 among the middling ranks, ran into the oppo- 
 site extreme of over cultivation. It may be 
 considered doubtful whether such is not, even 
 now, the case ; at least in so far as relates to 
 the multiplicity of objects proposed for female 
 ambition to achieve. But this is a digression 
 — and it is merely intended as a preface to the 
 remark, that such was not the misfortune of 
 Constance. She was neither crammed with
 
 16 
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 literature herself, nor did she attempt to suffo- 
 cate plain-sailing people with hard words, nor 
 to exhaust the weary with a volume of instruc- 
 tive talk in the high key, like the little heroes 
 and heroines of good books. In fact, very young 
 ladies cannot be said to have any conversation. 
 Experience, knowledge of society, acquirements 
 gradually and imperceptibly accumulated, are 
 requisite before a person can be properly said 
 to converse. Our heroine, at seventeen, was a 
 creature rather to look at than to listen to. A 
 deep consciousness of her own limited resources, 
 and a trembling sensibility to rebuffs, rendered 
 her silent among strangers ; nor would any, but 
 the discerning eye, have descried, amidst the 
 simplicity of youth, the dawnings of a mind 
 superior to that of most women — equal, per- 
 haps, to many masculine understandings. 
 
 The female character is, from its attributes, 
 peculiarly under the controul of circumstances, 
 and the influence of other, and of stronger 
 natures. There cannot be a more momentous 
 condition than that of a young woman under 
 twenty. A fool may win her admiration, and 
 her character becomes for a time, at least, fri-
 
 CONSTANCE. 17 
 
 Volous. Many a noble spirit in woman has been 
 checked by an ill-placed, first affection ; but if 
 she be fortunate enough to place an early de- 
 pendence upon a worthy object, the tenor of 
 her life is determined. 
 
 It is observable, that in youth women cannot 
 understand friendship towards men. Girls 
 never stop at that point. There is always a 
 tinge of love in their sentiments towards inti- 
 mate associates in the other sex. Hence the 
 dangerous ascendancy acquired by their male 
 instructors, and by other less attractive and less 
 meritorious individuals, over women who have 
 been even delicately nurtured. 
 
 But Constance had never felt this latent sen- 
 timent in the faintest degree aroused, when she 
 reached the house of her guardian, there first 
 to enter life on her own responsibility. She 
 had seen, indeed, some society in the metropolis, 
 where the connexions of her deceased parents 
 had afforded her opportunities of sight-seeing 
 and of party-going; but she had beheld the 
 surface of society only. Her exterior conse- 
 quently had been affected by her partial intro- 
 duction into the gay world, but her mind had
 
 18 CONSTAKCE. 
 
 neither been improved, nor her heart affected 
 by it. It was only her outward deportment 
 which had been changed by it, and in that she 
 was both graceful and distinguished. Nor 
 could these advantages of mind and person 
 continue, without having their effect upon her 
 destiny ; and indeed she was destined to expe- 
 rience, in no ordinary degree, the harshness of 
 those penalties which women pay for superiority, 
 either personal or mental.
 
 CONSTAJs^CE. 19 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 Charles. Well, George, what of the place? 
 
 George. Place ! good ! — here the word town would be 
 misplaced. The houses, in one long straggling street, 
 appear as if they had been shut up for an age, and only 
 taken out for airing ; the flags bear the chisel of a cen- 
 tury, untrodden ; our ostler seems as immovable as the 
 horse-shoe nailed upon the gate-post : but, like other far- 
 off" regions, it has its divinities. I have seen 
 
 The Assize f M.S. Comedy. 
 
 A TALL house in a street, accessible by a re- 
 gular flight of stone steps, and dignified by the 
 interposition of a small space of garden ; on 
 the left, a long row of gable-ended and red- 
 brick tenements ; on the right, an ancient gate- 
 way ; to the front, the demure aspect of a 
 Quaker's substantial dwelling, neat, regular, 
 and in perfect repair ; and backed by a small 
 open space, in ancient days the butts or archery
 
 20 CONSTANCE. 
 
 ground of the borough — Such was the house 
 which received Constance upon her removal 
 from school. 
 
 At her age, girls are tolerably independent 
 of what is called comfort, and their ideas on 
 that score are easily reconcileable with habit. 
 I well remember, however, the chilling aspect 
 of the abode which destiny had assigned to 
 Constance. The painful neatness, and melan- 
 choly order which prevailed there — attributes 
 in themselves delightful when combined with 
 cheerfulness, and enlivened by warmth, but 
 mournful, when they are symptoms of excessive 
 precision, extreme retirement, or absence of oc- 
 cupation. The unimpaired matting at the door, 
 the carpet, seemly both from sedulous care 
 and from little use — the old-fashioned, un- 
 tempting settee, framed, as it might appear, for 
 backs either without joints, or in a state of 
 petrifaction — the covered fire-screens — and, 
 above all, the locked-up book-case, — bespeak a 
 sphere admirably adapted for automatons, but 
 ill-suited to thinking, moving, breathing, eat- 
 ing and drinking human beings. That the 
 inhabitants of her guardian's abode were living,
 
 COXSTAXCE. 21 
 
 sentient creatures, was apparent to Constance ; 
 but that they were thinking beings, constituted 
 in the same manner as the companions she had 
 left behind her, was a fact of which, for some 
 time, it was not easy for her to feel certain. 
 For several days, indeed, after her arrival, she 
 took little pains to study the characters of those 
 with whom many years of her life would pro- 
 bably be spent. Somewhat timid, and from the 
 desolateness of her early years little accustomed 
 to look for fondness from those whom she might 
 naturally expect to regard her as a trouble, 
 Constance, for the first week of her arrival, 
 passed much time in the garden of her guardian. 
 This garden, afterwards one of the minor 
 blessings of her life, was dedicated to the genius 
 of regularity, as much as the house was under 
 the influence of that deity. But if this pre- 
 siding genius had her full sway in the forma- 
 tion and care of this spot, nature, and a 
 warm summer, had, at the time of Constance's 
 first entrance, in some degree defeated her 
 
 intentions. 
 
 I have sometimes thought that the chrono- 
 logy of flowers would form as curious a subject
 
 22 CONSTANCE. 
 
 as the fashion of our costumes, so diligently 
 portrayed by antiquaries. The gay gum Cistus, 
 the voluptuous Stock, the brilliant Larkspur, 
 luxuriant Convolvolus, and unrivalled Provence 
 rose, have long since yielded to the Ixias, Lo- 
 bilias, Bigonias, Bignonias, and other nume- 
 rous tribes of exotics, now chiefly in vogue; 
 but the guardians of our heroine would have 
 expired with astonishment, had they been told 
 that Geraniums were varied by seeds, or Hy- 
 drangias changed in hue by a simple process. 
 Their plants, like themselves, had bloomed, 
 year after year, on their native soil. Selec- 
 tion and arrangement were points wholly dis- 
 regarded in their horticulture. To produce one 
 universal luxuriant sheet of blossom — to mingle 
 all hues and all families together as custom or 
 accident decided — to extirpate weeds, and to 
 avoid every indication of taste, seemed to be 
 all their care. Hence were the borders of the 
 long and undeviating gravel- walk of Mr. Cat- 
 tell's garden, fringed with a natural garniture 
 (^f shrubs and annuals, so luxuriantly gaudy 
 and varied, that the beholder almost sickened 
 with the first impressions of one of our most
 
 CONSTANCE. 23 
 
 irradicable pleasures — thelove of flowers. Pluck 
 where you would, you seemed to diminish not — 
 trample where you would, you were surrounded 
 by a forest of rival beauties — too much disho- 
 noured by any comparison even with the fairest of 
 the human race. But this pleasurable, though 
 ignoble scene, was graced by the proximity of an 
 object to which Constance, first from devotional, 
 and afterwards from tenderer associations, often 
 reverted with reverential gaze. This was no less 
 a feature in the borough than the Parish church, 
 an antiquated pile, built after the fashion of 
 the middle ages and midland counties, with 
 delicately pointed pinnacles, each surmounted 
 by a vane. The house of God is ever a heart- 
 gladdening object in a landscape — a point upon 
 which the eye, directed by the affections, is 
 certain to rest. Wretched is the man whose 
 thoughts are so surrendered to this world, that 
 he can hurry by an ancient, holy edifice, with- 
 out one momentary abstraction from his pur- 
 suits ! Yet, I believe — and scandalous it is to 
 say it — that the good people of Newberry j-e- 
 garded St. Michael's tower with more compla- 
 cency that its chimes, at six, summoned them
 
 24 CONSTANCE. 
 
 to their sessional meetings, their whist and 
 commerce tables ; and that the same deep and 
 swinging peel warned them, by a lucky ar- 
 rangement of our ancestors, to depart at nine, 
 to a yet more complete cessation from the work- 
 ings of intellect, than they had enjoyed all day 
 in their arm-chairs. 
 
 Constance, of course, attended morning and 
 afternoon service on the first Sunday after her 
 arrival at Newberry. She blamed herself for 
 almost looking forward to it as piece of gaiety, 
 so tranquil had been the tenor of her week's 
 initiation into the pleasures of independence. 
 She thought herself somewhat childish for the 
 anxiety which she felt in fitting on the London 
 bonnet which she had brought — the fears that 
 the white rose on the one side might be 
 thought too low — the bow in the other direc- 
 tion too conspicuous. Yet she need not have 
 been apprehensive, for attired with a neat- 
 ness, simplicity, and moderation, to which 
 country ladies were then strangers, she appeared, 
 in the streets of Newberry, as a being the like 
 of which had never been seen there before. 
 At length the well-known chime was heard to
 
 CONSTANCE. 525 
 
 peal ; at the commencement of the first bell, Mr. 
 Cattell changed his coat and shoes ; and Mrs. 
 Cattell appeared on the stairs with a high- 
 topped, close-poke, grey silk bonnet, decorated 
 with black lace. When the second monitor 
 roused the irreligious and slumbering from their 
 apathy, Mr. Cattell stuck on the three-cornered 
 shovel hat, which fitted his wig, not his head : 
 the respectable Thomas appeared with his huge 
 bag ; and Mrs. Cattell drew over her shoulders 
 her black silk mantle, edged with curious lace, 
 and confined to her slender waist with great pre- 
 cision. At length they all crept out, our bloom- 
 ing heroine looking as little in harmony with 
 her companions, as a modern picture would ap- 
 pear by the side of an old-fashioned portrait. 
 
 It was the arrangement of the Cattell family 
 to enter their highly-boasted parlour pew, ad- 
 jacent to the chancel, just as the introductory 
 hymn struck up. On this occasion they were, 
 however, a little sooner, and Constance had an 
 opportunity, without dereliction from her sacred 
 duties, of observing the clergyman, as he passed 
 down the long aisle to the reading-desk. She 
 was much pleased with his appearance, and was 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 26 CONSTANCE. 
 
 impressed by it with the sentiment of the 
 extreme beauty of early piety, and with the 
 interest attached to youth combined with holi- 
 ness. His regular, and somewhat aquiline fea- 
 tures, expressed benevolence, tinctured, but not 
 checked, by seriousness; — his dark and clustering 
 hair curled on a finely-formed and placid 
 brow — his figure was slight, but easy, and was 
 dignified by the folds of his sacred vestment. 
 But when he began that monitory address, 
 which is at once solemn, persuasive, and com- 
 prehensive, Constance thought tliat she could 
 have drunk in every sound of tones so full, 
 expressive, and melodious. Whilst she fervently 
 accompanied him with her heart through the ser- 
 vice, the sudden entrance of a person into Mr. 
 Cattell's pew diverted her attention. She started, 
 for, to her, the young gentleman who now took 
 his seat opposite to her, appeared as if he might 
 have figured in the gay circles of the metro- 
 polis on the same sabbath, and not have been 
 deemed unfashionable. He was about the 
 middle size, but of a figure admirably pro- 
 portioned. His features were enlivened by so 
 much, and such varied expression, and his dark
 
 CONSTANCE. 27 
 
 blue eyes were so replete with intelligence, 
 that one could not call him plain. Yet it 
 was an air of high breeding and of per- 
 fect elegance about him that pleased, rather 
 than positive good looks. His dress, though 
 carefully studied, on him looked easy, and 
 although his address was confident, yet there was 
 no degree of insolent assurance in his manner. 
 Constance at her first glance guessed him to be 
 about five-and-twenty ; had she given a second, 
 she might have pronounced him somewhat 
 younger. She concluded that he was a stranger, 
 accommodated by the verger's reliance upon Mr. 
 Cattell's size of pew, and enlargement of heart, 
 with a seat. A low, and well-trained curtsey on 
 the part of Mrs. Cattell, after church, and a ce- 
 remonious bow between the two gentlemen show- 
 ed her, nevertheless, that there was some ac- 
 quaintance. Somewhat consciousof a little undue 
 curiosity, however, she inquired not his name, 
 but heard her guardian muttering to his wife, 
 " that perhaps Sir Charles's own pew would be 
 ready for him next Sunday." To this the reply 
 was : — " My dear, I shall not go this afternoon, 
 
 c 2
 
 28 CONSTANCE. 
 
 and Sir Charles Marchmont never goes twice, 
 therefore if you wish to accommodate the Evans's, 
 you may." A mystified sort of mumbling 
 from Mr. Cattell, followed by special directions 
 to Thomas to order his *' grey hackney at 
 three," seemed an evasion to this proposal, and 
 left the important matter dubious. 
 
 When the bells tolled for evening service, 
 Constance, whose romantic as well as devotional 
 feelings had been excited by a visit to the inte- 
 rior of St. MichaeFs, requested, and obtained 
 permission, to go again to church. She was 
 now chaperoned by the venerable Mistress Susan 
 Mitten, Mrs. Cattell's other soul, who reigned 
 over the destinies of the nether regions in her 
 master's mansion. 
 
 Whilst Constance walked to church, followed, 
 rather than accompanied by her duenna, she 
 felt some disposition to inquire the name and 
 circumstances of the young intruder into her 
 guardian's pew, whom she had seen in the 
 morning; but a sense of what was due to the 
 sacred edifice, and to that unity of idea which 
 ought to prevail therein, restrained her. She
 
 CONSTANCE. 29 
 
 congratulated herself that he would not again 
 present himself, but in this expectation she was 
 deceived : he was there when she arrived. 
 
 It is difficult to conceive a mode of reli- 
 gious worship more simple, impressive, and 
 even solemn, than the evening service of our 
 church, performed whilst the shades of night 
 are gathering around us. The autumnal day 
 was fast drawing to a close; the high Gothic 
 windows admitted a softened light upon the 
 small and scattered congregation — the select 
 few of a lukewarm parish — who were dispersed 
 among the '^ long-drawn aisles." The old, the 
 poor, and the afflicted, were there; but the 
 young and happy were wending their gladsome 
 way along the fair meadows by the river side. 
 Constance was one of the few in life's early 
 promise, who found it pleasant to repair to the 
 courts of her God. On this occasion it might 
 almost seem that the sermon was peculiarly 
 adapted to her situation. The young, and 
 earnest preacher spoke of the helplessness, and 
 expatiated upon the duties, of the orphan state. 
 He described the sorrowing parent, bequeathing
 
 30 CONSTANCE. 
 
 the charge of his infant race to that God who 
 called them into being. He represented our 
 heavenly Father as the peculiar guardian of the 
 destitute, and exhorted the bereaved and the 
 faint-hearted to throw all their care upon him. 
 Constance took these admonitions deeply to 
 heart. A sense of her condition pressed upon 
 her, for thefirst time, heavily, and almost prophe- 
 tically ; she felt that she had now entered upon 
 life, destitute of most of those ties which could 
 endear it ; and a vague consciousness of danger, 
 an indefinite fear of injury and of temptation, 
 made her spirit sink within her. 
 
 " O !" exclaimed she within herself, *•' had I 
 but a friend — a monitor like him who has thus 
 called forth these apprehensions, how would I 
 cherish and pursue his counsels !" Serious, 
 even to dejection, she returned home, nor saw, 
 what all the ladies of Newberry would have 
 died rather than have missed seeing, the gay 
 young Baronet escorting the widow, Mrs. De 
 Courcy, home across the market-place.
 
 CONSTANCE. 31 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 And lo ! the crowded ball-room is alive 
 With restless motion, and a humming noise 
 Like on a warm spring-morn a sinmy hive. 
 
 Wilson. 
 
 Soon after the arrival of Constance at New- 
 berry, she was invited to a ball, given by a 
 neighbouring family, as a sort of annual enter- 
 tainment. Our readers must not suppose that 
 it was any thing of a very splendid nature, 
 especially as the chances of beaux were in those 
 parts few, and dependent on many contin- 
 gencies, and the presence of musicians by no 
 means certain. The society of Newberry, at 
 this period, differed, in no respect, from that 
 of most country towns, forty or fifty years 
 ago, saving, that it was more genteel, or, in 
 other terms, more contracted, than in some
 
 32 
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 other places of the same extent. The younger 
 branches of aristocratic families, elderly clergy- 
 men, retired officers, and physicians with- 
 out practice, of whom its inhabitants were 
 partly composed, looked with contempt upon 
 the commercial portion of their fellow-towns- 
 men, who had, however, the superiority in 
 wealth, and perhaps in intelligence, over their 
 haughty neighbours. Hence, the vulgarity of 
 the commercialists remained unchanged by ad- 
 mission into the more refined circles of their 
 self-exalted, but detested superiors ; whilst 
 the ignorance, narrow-mindedness, pride, and 
 self-delusion of the latter, were undiluted by 
 any deviations from their own peculiar set. 
 It happened, also, that a remarkable dearth of 
 attraction among the aristocratic party prevailed. 
 They had no public spirit : no taste for inno- 
 vation ; no desire for improvement ; and were 
 mostly of an age to prefer the card assembly 
 to the dancing-room. There were few young 
 persons amongst them. If you went into a 
 party, you heard nothing but asthmatic coughs, 
 and saw few of your company free from some 
 infirmity. The young and blooming were as
 
 CONSTANCE. 33 
 
 misplaced here as roses on a sepulchre. The 
 long, long hand at whist, the unfathomable 
 poole of quadrille, are recreations which de- 
 prive youth of its freshness, and give a calcu- 
 lating turn to the mind, and stiff appearance 
 to the manners. Hence, few of those who 
 were once young ladies in Newberry, had 
 been so fortunate as to obtain husbands. The 
 Newberry parties were so notoriously dull, that 
 no agreeable young man could be prevailed to 
 take more than one trial of them, and the air 
 of Newberry began to be deemed a sort of anti- 
 dote to love. Such was the state of things 
 when Constance arrived there. 
 
 But, in the neighbourhood, affairs were 
 better managed. Household establishments 
 were more enlarged : cards had not, from 
 nightly repetition, become indispensable ; and, 
 where there were young people, it was found 
 necessary to have some amusements for them 
 natural to their age. True it was, that the 
 belles were in those regions clumsy, and the 
 beaux rather of the Nimrod, than of the Ches- 
 terfield order. The young ladies might be 
 vastly expert in horsemanship, archery, and 
 
 c5
 
 34 CONSTANCE. 
 
 gardening, but they were mightily deficient in 
 the graces of the mind, and in the arts which 
 throw a charm around retirement, or instil into 
 society its chief zest. Along with these defi- 
 ciencies in intellectual culture, much pride, 
 folly, and overweening vanity, are certain to 
 prevail; and, at the period to which I refer, 
 they did prevail, to a much more uncommon de- 
 gree than at the present time. Hence, to the 
 refined, the reflective, and the sensitive, that 
 solitude of the heart, which is sometimes ex- 
 changed for a far more dangerous condition, 
 not unfrequently produced by force of contrast 
 between one favoured individual and the less 
 engaging objects who act as foils to that per- 
 sonage. 
 
 Constance received, with no slight degree of 
 pleasure, the invitation which called her into 
 something like social intercourse. The mono- 
 tony of her life was not, indeed, displeasing to 
 her, for she had but few and transitory scenes 
 of pleasure with which to contrast it ; nor, were 
 there as yet aroused in her innocent bosom, 
 those passions which render excitement neces- 
 sary to preserve us from despair. Cheerful,
 
 CONSTANCE 35 
 
 because occupied, and often gay from mere 
 animal spirits, the artificial wants of young 
 ladies of the present generation were unknown 
 to her. Nevertheless her heart glowed within 
 her at the thoughts of a ball. 
 
 The scene of action was at a village about 
 five miles distant from Newberry ; the invitations 
 had been numerous, and post-chaises, barouches, 
 and even mourning coaches, were in constant 
 requisition during the course of this eventful 
 evening. The hair-dresser, who generally loi- 
 tered at his shop-window all day, was now in 
 urgent request ; and he conferred the last 
 touches upon the unadorned ringlets of Con- 
 stance, before the chaperon appointed by Mrs. 
 Cattell to supply her place arrived to take charge 
 of the young lady : for it was well known in 
 Newberry, that the good, precise Mrs. Cattell, 
 could never keep her eyes open after ten o'clock, 
 and that her husband, who slept the whole even- 
 ing, was equally early in his hours of retirement. 
 Constance was therefore consigned to the gui- 
 dance of Miss Monckton, one of the most ex- 
 emplary, aristocratic elderly virgins, that ever 
 blossomed on the single thorn in her native
 
 36 CONSTANCE. 
 
 town. The character of this lady deserves to 
 be so far distinguished from the class to which 
 she belonged, as that its harsher points were 
 softened by benevolence, and that her fearless 
 sincerity was in general untinctured by ill- 
 nature. Perhaps there is no person so little, 
 in general, to be loved, as an high-bred and 
 poor old maid. Proud from education, mo- 
 rose from circumstances; frivolous from ne- 
 cessity, or, rather from the absence of induce- 
 ments to better things ; envious until a certain 
 period of life, and when the sear and yellow 
 leaf of age falls around her, inactive, selfish, and 
 repining, she forms a hedge-row in society which 
 few would be willing to approach. With Miss 
 Monckton, however, some variation existed. 
 Contemptuous, and even sarcastic in her man- 
 ners, her conduct was often at variance with the 
 system which the singly blessed seem frequently 
 resolved to adopt. She was even reproached 
 by her sister-sufferers, with the sin of liking to 
 see " young people gay," a propensity not 
 often apt to be gratified among the select assem- 
 blies of Newberry. 
 
 Entrenched in a lutestring dress of for-
 
 CONSTANCE. 37 
 
 midable compass, her head surmounted by one 
 of those turbans worn in former da^^s, from 
 which a tail of its own material was left dansr- 
 ling, and which, in the main structure, appeared 
 not unlikely soon to descend upon the nose, her 
 grey eyes twinkling with a transitory excite- 
 ment, and every muscle of her worn-out coun- 
 tenance in play, Miss Monckton surveyed, with 
 some degree of pride, the fair girl whom it was 
 her office to introduce. Her first observation 
 was that Miss Courtenay was like Lady Harriet 
 Somebody, who had figured at the county and 
 race-balls some thirty years ago. Her next 
 remarks extended to the modesty of Miss Cour- 
 tenay's attire, which she much commended ; 
 " For upon my word," said the good lady, as 
 she stepped into the carriage, " Mrs. Tom- 
 linson, the other night, appeared at the Hunt 
 ball in a white satin —chemise, it appeared to be ; 
 and her three sisters, the Miss Haydons, all in 
 chemises also : married ladies now-a^days show 
 as much of their trowsers as their little boys 
 do." 
 
 " But,'' continued she, " you must not ex- 
 pect to eclipse the five Miss Tribes. Among
 
 38 CONSTAXCE. 
 
 such a collection of beauties, you have no 
 chance ;" — and then, with a slight laugh, she 
 pursued ; " I'll lay my life they are dressed 
 .with huge red roses in their hair, all alike, 
 boddices laced with blue, or some such trum- 
 pery.'' 
 
 " Are they handsome, madam?" 
 
 " My dear, they have plenty of flesh and 
 blood, good wholesome complexions, no over 
 sensibility there ; nothing pulls them down — 
 they can dance down forty couple without being 
 out of breath, but no wonder with such legs. 
 Such legs ! Do you know the young gentle- 
 men, my dear ?" 
 
 " No, ma'am, I do not know any of the family ; 
 I was merely told that Tribe was the name of 
 the lady who gives the ball to-night, and that 
 there were several daughters." 
 
 " Several !" my dear, there's a constant fresh 
 supply, a never-ending replenishment of the 
 quiver. Five are introduced into society, and 
 two twin sisters were introduced last summer 
 into the nursery. I don't suppose one of the 
 elder girls has had an offer yet. Charitable 
 would be the man who would take a couple of
 
 CONSTANCE. 6\) 
 
 them off Mr Tribe's hands. And then the sons ! 
 the pride of their poor mother, who tells you 
 that Tom has /ace, and James ^oure. Tom, 
 I should observe, is scarcely five feet high : he 
 has the round, healthy, unmeaning, but, as 
 some people think, good-looking face of the 
 Tribe family ; but James is immoderately ugly- 
 Do you know what Sir Charles calls him ? Sir 
 Charles Marchmont." 
 
 '' Sir Charles Marchmont, who sits in our 
 pew at church ?'" 
 
 " Yes, my dear. The heir apparent — (not 
 very apparent yet, for his estates to come are 
 mortgaged to the Lord knows- whom) — how- 
 ever, tlie heir apparent, as they call it, to the 
 Priory, and other property round Newberry. 
 Well, this Sir Charles, who is more witty than 
 wise, entitles this man of figure, this Mr. James 
 Tribe, Asmodeus." 
 
 " Vastly satirical, ""' thought Constance; and 
 no doubt this Sir Charles is, what he looks, a 
 supercilious man of fashion, who despises the 
 simplicity of these country gentry. " And 
 what sort of a person," she inquired, " in mind, 
 I mean, is Sir Charles himself?"
 
 40 CONSTANCE. 
 
 " O, my dear, he is a man who can do every 
 thing, bad and good, I believe. He draws 
 finely, dances elegantly, rides inimitably, and 
 converses irresistibly. You know, my dear, I 
 say what I hear. As to my own opinion of Sir 
 Charles, I confess I think him a gentleman, as 
 he should be, born and bred. I am told he is 
 generous, though not rich ; that he is honour- 
 able, and has, since his childhood, been a 
 mighty favourite with old and young on his 
 father's estate. You know his history, I sup- 
 pose ?" 
 
 " T ! O no '" said Constance, with some ea- 
 gerness. 
 
 " His father destroyed himself, it is sup- 
 posed, in a fit of jealousy of his mother. Lady 
 Marchmont, — I know not why or wherefore. 
 Well, this lady goes off to France or Italy, 
 and dies there, some people say, others affirm 
 that she is still living. Meanwhile, there is, as 
 you know, an ancient Gothic residence, called 
 the Priory, on the north side of the town. 
 Lady Marchmont had a life interest in this 
 place, therefore, until her death is ascertained, 
 it cannot be sold, a great detriment to Sir
 
 CONSTANCK. 41 
 
 Charles, whose family residence, Marchmont, 
 is shut up for want of funds to keep it up — 
 funds which the sale of this tumbling-down old 
 place would supply. So here he lives, part of 
 the year in general, and amuses himself with 
 hunting, coursing, sketching, and the like, and 
 I am told that the young man knows how to 
 behave himself. He has plenty of noble blood 
 in his veins, and has been noticed in town by 
 his high connexions on both sides. He is much 
 attached to our Vicar, Mr. Bouverie ; and I 
 trust that the example of that excellent young 
 man may preserve the young Baronet from the 
 extravagance and imprudence of his mother, 
 and the rash impulses of his father. But here 
 we are at our journey's end. Now, my dear, 
 be advised by me, and don't dance with any 
 
 body."*' 
 
 Constance and her companion were early 
 
 visitors, and, at the request of Miss Monckton, 
 were shown into Mrs. Tribe's dressing-room, to 
 repair such damage as might have been in- 
 curred in their transit. Here they w^ere diverted 
 by the anxieties of the five Miss Tribes, whose 
 various toilets had been completed, and who
 
 42 CONSTANCE. 
 
 now awaited the approval of their mother in an 
 adjacent room. At length, they descended to 
 the drawing-room, to which they were speedily 
 followed by our heroine and her chaperon. 
 
 Every one knows the contrivances resorted 
 to in former days to illuminate, adorn, and 
 enlarge a house, upon ball occasions. It has 
 now become vulgar to stick up candles in re- 
 cesses, to chalk floors, and to adorn door- 
 ways with garlands of flowers. The five Miss 
 Tribes, in those days, thought diff'erently. 
 The dancing-room was like an arbour, and it 
 would have required Aladdin's lamp to enlighten 
 the foliage, which they had sedulously ar- 
 ranged on the sundry pannels and irregularities 
 of an old-fashioned wainscot. The effect was 
 expected to be very striking, and was certainly 
 gratifying, as conveying to the mind of the 
 guests the impression that great pains had 
 been taken to do them honour, an impression 
 always agreeable to poor human nature ; but 
 otherwise, a dread of earwigs, and a sensation 
 of impeded air, might endanger the comfort of 
 some fastidious belles. But all was in accord- 
 ance with the taste of the times, and of the
 
 CONSTANCE. 43 
 
 neighbourhood ; and, accordingly, the young 
 friends of the house, and especially those who 
 had an eye to Mr. Tom or Mr. James, ap- 
 plauded loudly. 
 
 The five Miss Tribes, all in yellow mus- 
 lins, stood in a group, looking like a bunch of 
 daffodils, and were pronounced — as a show of 
 stout, healthy sisters always is — to be quite a 
 picture ; only, as Miss Monckton remarked, 
 they had one general defect pervading the 
 family : — they were altogether too thick — had 
 thick ancles, thick waists, thick voices, and 
 thick heads. 
 
 At length, the party increasing, music struck 
 up — that sort of music which drowns the 
 loudest voice, and makes stillness not merely a 
 negative state of tranquillity, but an absolute 
 pleasure. Constance was speedily entrapped 
 into the toils of Mr. Thomas Tribe, a large- 
 headed youth, whose upper part seemed de- 
 stined for a tall and portly man, but whose 
 nether proportions appeared not to have kept 
 pace with the intentions of nature. He tried, 
 however, to dance genteelly, and to converse agree- 
 ably ; and there was a happy look of perfect self-
 
 4* consta:nce. 
 
 satisfaction about him that made Constance, in 
 spite of some inclination to laugh at him, sym- 
 pathize in his good spirits. She was next con- 
 signed to the irresistible James, reputed by his 
 sisters to be " a marvellous fine figure,"" on ac- 
 count of his havino^ attained to a stature some 
 six inches higher than his brother ; but to recon- 
 cile Tom to his inferiority in this respect, the 
 fates had decreed that James should display 
 a grotesque contrariety of feature, which was 
 not relieved by any particular expression. He 
 had, however, the family self-complacency, and 
 was observed always to attach himself to the 
 prettiest woman in the room, with a perfect 
 insensibility to rebuffs, and a happy deficiency 
 in the art of discovering certain feminine stra- 
 tagems which were often made to elude him as 
 a partner. With him Constance was dancing, 
 when Sir Charles Marchmont and Mr. Bouverie 
 entered the room. She instantly met the 
 glances of the former, and saw that they passed 
 from her to her partner, with an expression 
 which good-breeding and good-humour alone 
 prevented from being very satirical. With the 
 bashfulness of a girl newly introduced to so-
 
 CONSTANCE. 45 
 
 ciety, she fancied, however, that she was in 
 part the object of Sir Charles's sarcasm, and, 
 with the warmth natural to her age, she took 
 almost an instantaneous dislike to him ; yet it 
 was curious, nor could she, in after life, account 
 for the circumstance, that whenever she en- 
 countered him, in the dance, or passed him in 
 the promenade, a sudden blush, and slight pal- 
 pitation of the heart, gently agitated her 
 frame. 
 
 Meanwhile, she was really anxious to become 
 acquainted with Mr. Bouverie, but he declined 
 all solicitations to dance, notwithstanding the 
 five different assaults upon his vanity made by 
 the Miss Tribes, and sundry floating observa- 
 tions upon the scarcity of beaux, and the pre- 
 dominance of the fair sex. He refused, how- 
 ever, their requests, not upon the plea of his 
 clerical functions — a species of company heroism 
 to which he was superior — but pleaded want of 
 practice, and of dancing-shoes, and a total in- 
 ability to comprehend the elaborate figures of 
 Money Musk, the College Hornpipe, and the 
 Boulanger, then in vogue. Unhappy man I
 
 4b CONSTA-NCE. 
 
 Had he lived in these more easy times, he 
 might have gallopaded without knowing either 
 tune, time, or figure ; or he might soon have 
 been initiated into the eternal first set of 
 quadrilles ; or he might, by dint of a vigorous 
 partner, have been waltzed round in the tena- 
 cious grasp of some young lady. However, 
 he chose to sit still, and Constance was obliged 
 to hear a succession of regrets from most of 
 the young ladies around her, many of whom 
 would gladly have instructed the young and 
 handsome Vicar, even in the difficulties of Sir 
 Roger de Coverley, that test of memory and 
 patience. 
 
 Shortly afterwards, however, Constance was 
 waited upon by a deputation of Mr. Thomas, 
 and one of his sisters, to inform her that Sir 
 Charles wished to be introduced to her, a cere- 
 monial to be followed, of course, by a solicita- 
 tion to dance. Now Constance had enough of 
 the woman to be somewhat perverse, so that 
 this compliment, far from conciliating her, 
 rather brought to a head a certain pettish 
 spleen against Sir Charles Marchmont. To the
 
 CONSTANCE. 47 
 
 surprise of every one about her, therefore, she 
 declined dancing, and rejected the offer of being 
 led off by this prime beau of the room. 
 
 " What ! my dear," said Miss Monckton, 
 " do I hear right ? It is quite unaccount- 
 able." 
 
 " Not at all, dear Miss Monckton,"" replied 
 Constance ; " I do not wish to dance with any 
 gentleman who looks down upon the company 
 he is in." 
 
 " Looks down ! And has he not a right to 
 look down ? Pray whom do you wish to put 
 upon a par with him ? Perhaps the gentleman 
 with long bows of black galloon at his knees — 
 
 Mr. Kendall, of , the son of a ribbon 
 
 weaver ? Or perhaps you think that young 
 
 man preferable — Mr. Harvey, of the 
 
 militia. Let me tell you, that his father's fa- 
 ther was only steward to Mr. Boswell, of 
 Boswell Court ; and besides it is well-known 
 that this Mr. Harvey, whom you perhaps ad- 
 mire, hung himself up with a skipping-rope of 
 his sister's when he was eighteen, for love of his 
 mother's maid, and was only just cut down
 
 48 CONSTAXCE. 
 
 '• O, my dear Miss Monckton, do take care 
 what you say, and indeed you need not be 
 afraid of my falling in love with Mr. Harvey — 
 but see — do look at the partner whom Sir 
 Charles has chosen."' 
 
 The young Baronet was now leading to the 
 dance the most notoriously plain, old young lady 
 in Newberry. This was a Miss Pearson, one 
 of two sisters, who had hung on hand many 
 years after the bloom of youth had passed 
 away. They were well-principled and well- 
 educated women, but were also, what is inex- 
 cusable in good people, because it disparages 
 virtue, dull, to a degree unimaginable by any, 
 but those unhappy persons — their intimate 
 friends. Miss Arabella Pearson was a notorious 
 proser : she could tell you to a minute when 
 every stage-coach passed by her door, and 
 when it would re-pass. Her information on 
 higher subjects was chronologically just to a 
 second; her geographical and historical accu- 
 racy were unimpeached ; but there wanted that 
 indescribable something, that tact, or inspira- 
 tion, called talent, without which a learned 
 female is not near so good a companion as a
 
 CONSTANCE. 49 
 
 dictionary, and a very small degree of which 
 contributes to gild moderate acquisitions with 
 some portion of intellectual interest. It was 
 surmised l^y several of the guests at Mr. Tribe's 
 ball, that Sir Charles selected this respectable, 
 but ungainly lady, as a partner, chiefly to mor- 
 tify the fair nymph who had previously rejected 
 him, by showing her what he might wish her 
 to suppose he considered as a fit successor to 
 the scornful beauty ; just as a widower, who 
 has lost an attractive wife, is thought to dis- 
 honour her memory by supplying her place 
 with an illiterate, or unseemly helpmate. The 
 affront, if intended to be such, was, however, 
 impervious to the simple perceptions of Con- 
 stance, whose attention was entirely rivetted on 
 the extreme elegance of the young Baronet's 
 dancing. Whilst other gentlemen sprang, 
 kicked, crossed legs, advanced, and retired, 
 with inexplicable steps, in which no legitimate 
 airangement could be discovered ; whilst some 
 with elaborate neatness of execution, lost by pre- 
 cision the graces which they might be thought 
 to have gained in study ; whilst many loitered 
 or lounged, and seemed in the condition of 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 OV CONSTANCE. 
 
 men unwillingly dragged about by their part- 
 ners, and whilst others, chiefly the stout, robust 
 men, who wished to be accounted light figures, 
 spun round like tetotums ; Sir Charles, in a 
 style animated, yet gentle, cultivated, yet not 
 formal, moved through the mazes of a cotil- 
 lion with an agility and elegance as far re- 
 moved from the attitudes of a dancing-mas- 
 ter, as from the awkwardness of the Tony 
 Lumpkins by whom he was surrounded. 
 Much was he doubtless to be commiserated 
 for the weight which he was doomed to drag 
 after him, in his partner ; yet he conducted 
 that substantial form with as much apparent 
 ease and address, as if her every movement 
 had not been out of time, and her elbows like 
 ton weights. 
 
 Constance, who had suffered the recent in- 
 fliction of poussetting with the clumsy Mr. 
 James Tribe, almost sighed to think that she 
 had relinquished such a partner as Sir Charles. 
 With girlish admiration she moved eagerly 
 towards the dance, to have a nearer inspection, 
 when she was way-laid by old Mr. Tribe, who 
 begged to introduce to her Mr. Bouverie, who.
 
 CONSTANCE. 51 
 
 as the officiating parish clergyman, requested 
 an acquaintance with his young parishioner. 
 Constance, with undisguised pleasure, received 
 this attention, and, by a strange presentiment, 
 regarded it even at that moment as the prelude 
 to an intimacy of a peculiar nature. Of love, 
 towards any man, she had, as yet, scarcely 
 even thought ; but she had always cherished 
 the idea of some time or other discovering in 
 some male acquaintance, a friend on whose 
 counsels she could rest, and whose mind, whilst 
 it assimilated with her own, would yet display 
 powers far superior to those which she could 
 perceive in her ordinary female acquaintance. 
 Impressed with this notion, she listened to the 
 remarks made by Mr. Bouverie with an eager- 
 ness which quickly communicated to those 
 around her the notion, that she was greatly 
 interested in the young Vicar. He led her 
 into the supper-room, and was observed, in 
 the course of a long discussion of fowls, jel- 
 lies, trifles, and jaiine manges, to present her 
 with a rich and clustering stock, which was, ac- 
 cording to the fashion of old times, thrown 
 carelessly as a garniture of one of the dishes. 
 
 D 2
 
 52 CONSTANCE. 
 
 Meanwhile, notwithstanding the unfeigned, 
 and somewhat boisterous merriment of the 
 Tribe family, and others of a similar stamp, 
 Sir Charles Marchmont sat abstracted in earnest 
 conversation with IMiss Monckton, who ap- 
 peared to be stimulating him to some grand 
 enterprize. 
 
 " But, my dear Miss Monckton," he was 
 overheard to say, " it is obvious that she has 
 taken a dislike to me. Well, I admire her dis- 
 crimination in liking Bouverie, and wish him 
 joy of the impression he has evidently made. 
 He too is smitten : I never saw him so absorbed 
 before. How is it possible to resist the artless- 
 ness and intelligence of that girPs smile ? Her 
 beauty, though a quality rare enough in these 
 parts, might be passed over, though I confess 
 I am not the person to despise a lovely face, 
 and, with expression " 
 
 " Well, well, what then prevents you from 
 being introduced to her .'*"" 
 
 " Not this time, my dear Miss Monckton ; 
 besides I will not interfere with Bouverie's 
 happiness. Recommend him to her by all 
 means ; but if you find he has no chance, then
 
 CONSTAXCE. 53 
 
 put in, dear charitable soul, a word for me. 
 Well, adieu ; I see the petticoats are disappear- 
 ing —au revoir in the ball-room ; and do teach 
 your pretty charge to be a little less cynical, 
 and not to fancy, because a man happens to 
 be three degrees removed from a clodpole, 
 that he looks down upon the company he is in.'*
 
 54 CONSTANCE. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Unmuffle, ye faint stars, and thou, fair moon, 
 That wonst'st to love the traveller's benizon ; 
 Stoop thy pale visage through an amber cloud, 
 And disinherit Chaos, that reigns here. 
 
 Mask of Comus. 
 
 The party broke up in that healthy and seasona- 
 ble time which ensures vigour, enhances enjoy- 
 ment, and preserves good complexions. Thenight 
 was dark, and the roads were drenched with rain ; 
 and Miss Monckton and Constance, as they en- 
 rolled themselves in their cloaks, and stepped into 
 their cold chariot, almost envied a merry party 
 of six, who, for want of any conveyance equally 
 roomy," were returning to Newberry in a Mourn>. 
 inff-Coach. Mr. Cattell's carriage formed the 
 first of the home procession, and, furnished 
 with lamps, was on the road at some distance
 
 CONSTANCE. BB 
 
 before the rest of the revellers. The two ladies 
 within were earnest in talk — Constance expa- 
 tiating in praise of Mr. Bouverie, and Miss 
 Monckton putting in, according to instruc- 
 tions, a word for Sir Charles, when they were 
 startled by a sudden descent of the carriage, 
 and a splashing of water. Happily for their self- 
 command, the two ladies were unconscious of the 
 potency of Mr. Tribe's ale, to which, having had 
 no personal experience on the subject, their 
 minds never reverted. A little stream, however, 
 crossing the road, had been swollen to some 
 magnitude by the heavy rains which had fallen 
 during the course of the evening : it was not of 
 depth sufficient to have endangered the passage 
 of a carriage, under the controul of a careful 
 driver ; but, unluckily, he to whom the lives of 
 Miss Monckton and Constance were entrusted, 
 being in a debateable state between drunkenness 
 and sobriety, had verged into a ditch by the 
 wayside, now forming, with the lesser waters, a 
 pool of some extent. The vehicle in which the 
 two ladies sat, was therefore threatened with a 
 speedy overturn, if not with an entire submer- 
 sion.
 
 56 CONSTANCE. 
 
 Plunged into this Slough of Despond, Con- 
 stance, for the first time since her infancy, ex- 
 perienced in this unlooked-for extremity the 
 agony of strong personal fear — that emotion 
 which is known to break even the force 
 of natural ties, in the vehemence of our in- 
 stinct of self-preservation. She clung to her 
 companion, as she perceived the horses taken 
 off their feet, and the water reaching almost up 
 to the carriage window. To her horror she 
 found Miss Monckton cold and motionless, 
 that lady having, upon the discovery of their 
 danger, instantly fainted. The oaths of the 
 postilion, the struggling of the horses, and the 
 splashing of the water, were the only sounds 
 which Constance heard, though she listened 
 eagerly for the noise of coming travellers. 
 At length, after a few minutes' breathless re- 
 flection, she leaned her slight form as far as 
 possible through the window, and with the 
 strong effort of despair, screamed piei'cingly for 
 help. An interval of silence succeeded, in 
 which the sickness of death seemed to come 
 over her. But youth is fertile in expedients. 
 With a trembling hand she opened one of the
 
 CONSTANCE. 57 
 
 carriage lamps, and holding up one of the lights 
 by way of a beacon, reiterated her agonized 
 and plaintive entreaties. All around her seem- 
 ed security and peace, contrasted with her own 
 situation. The dark abyss, for such seemed to 
 her the petty, yet dangerous waters beneath 
 her, imparted to her, as the light she held 
 gleamed over it, a sensation of horror which 
 she had little notion that the fear of death could 
 have imparted. She cast her eyes towards the 
 postilion, [who, struggling and swearing alter- 
 nately, seemed totally unable to avert, yet re- 
 solved fully to merit the doom which threatened 
 him : almost hopeless, she still extended her 
 arm, and at intervals reiterated her piercing cries 
 for assistance. 
 
 At length, the sound of horses reached her 
 ears, and immediately afterwards the exclama- 
 tion, " Good God ! Is it possible ! Miss 
 Monckton's carriage, — Miss Courtenay ! Bouve- 
 rie, hold my horse — no, no ; I perceive the waters 
 are too deep ; I will ride to that door — you to 
 this — open the carriage doors and let us each 
 bear away a lady." Thus saying, and retaining, 
 even in his real anxiety, address enough to direct 
 
 D 5
 
 58 CONSTANCE. 
 
 his own course to the relief of the youngest and 
 fairest of the distressed damsels. Sir Charles 
 March mont rode boldly into the water, but not 
 advancing so far as to the dangerous position in 
 which the carriage stood. He was enabled, how- 
 ever, to open the carriage door on the side which 
 Constance stood, she having previously, in the 
 first impulse of joy, at his approach, dropped 
 the light which she had held into the water. 
 He then entreated her to hold out her arms 
 towards him, conjuring her, for the preservation 
 of her own life and that of her companion, to 
 disregard all considerations but those of safety. 
 
 " But Miss Monckton,'' cried Constance, 
 " how can I leave her in this situation .?*" 
 
 " Never mind, there is help for her ; think 
 only[of yourself — extend your arms towards me ; 
 I can then seize hold of you — of your dress, 
 or any thing— forgive this necessary forward- 
 ness, — wait not, delay not, I entreat you, or 
 I must plunge deeper into the water, and 
 then—" 
 
 " O do not stir, whoever you are," cried the 
 object of his care; " I will do what you advise, 
 for the waters are fast rushing into the carriage :
 
 CONSTANCE. 59 
 
 sir, be firm, and let me not drop into this 
 horrible place," she added, shuddering at the 
 fear of a sudden descent into the pool below. 
 
 " Not for my existence," rejoined the young 
 Baronet, with genuine zeal. " Now, dear lady, 
 grasp this hand firmly, and, leaning forwards, 
 
 1 can soon rescue you from your peril." 
 Constance instantly complied with his in- 
 structions, and her agile form, scarcely emerged 
 from girlhood, was speedily snatched from its 
 post of danger, by the young and dexterous 
 knight errant, Avhom Providence had sent for 
 her rescue. In a few seconds she was conveyed, 
 firmly grasped in his arms, to terra firma ; 
 but such was the agitation of the moment, 
 that, had she been asked exactly how she ar- 
 rived there, she would have found any reply 
 impossible. 
 
 Meanwhile, Mr. Bouverie had a more difficult, 
 as well as a less interesting task. It is true, 
 that the water was far less deep on that side of 
 the carriage where Miss Monckton sat, than on 
 the opposite one from which Constance had re- 
 cently been emancipated. But the elder lady 
 had but recovered from her state of syncope, to an
 
 60 
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 hysterical seizure, a lady's privilege on such oc- 
 casions, but extremely inconvenient and unfa- 
 vourable to any plans for assistance in danger. 
 Mr. Bouverie, who was able to ride up to the 
 carriage door, had first to convince her that he 
 was there ; then, to satisfy her, that she was 
 not drowned ; then to assure her that he could 
 hold her on his horse, if she would so far ho- 
 nour him by entrusting herself to him ; then to 
 beg her to let him open the carriage door : 
 and then, there would have been the difficulty 
 of compassing the deliverance of a tall, gaunt 
 figure, inflexible in form, and opposed by scru- 
 ples more foolish than delicate, in this instance, 
 to any very great proximity to the person of 
 lier male deliverer. Now ail this trouble and 
 persuasion might have been very agreeable to 
 Mr. Bouverie, had it been exerted in behalf of 
 a young, and lovely female ; and probably, had 
 he been on the other side of the carriage, he 
 would have been more energetic in his entrea- 
 ties. His patience, however, was beginning to 
 be exhausted, when he was relieved by the arri- 
 val of the Mourning Coach, filled with several 
 male and female denizens of Newberry, all
 
 CONSTAXCE. 61 
 
 equally curious to know the cause of the bus- 
 tle, of which they caught some glimmering, 
 even through the shades of night. The cum- 
 brous vehicle which arrived so opportunely, was 
 driven securely into the midst of the swoln, but 
 not deep, streamlet which crossed the road, 
 and, with the assistance of Mr. Bouverie, the 
 affrighted Miss Monckton was soon removed 
 into its enclosure, and tliere, revived by the 
 kindness, and the smelling bottles of the young 
 and old ladies which it contained. This said 
 coach, like a life boat, was also made availa- 
 ble, through the means of its driver, in as- 
 sisting the drunken postilion, the " head and 
 front" of all this perturbation. By the united 
 efforts of drunk and sober, the horses of 
 Mr. Cattell's chariot, were, after much exer- 
 tion, restored to the full use of their fore feet ; 
 and the carriage once more reinstated in its 
 proper equilibrium. 
 
 Meanwhile, Sir Charles and Miss Courtenay 
 were standing upon the way side, in as profound 
 silence as if they were actually the spectres, for 
 whom a wayfaring man would have mistaken them. 
 Constance, on finding herself safe, was unable to
 
 62 CONSTANCE. 
 
 refrain from giving way to a burst of tears, to 
 which thankfuhiess for her deliverance, and 
 agitation at the novelty of her situation, im- 
 pelled her. Gentlemanly in every action, Sir 
 Charles appeared unconscious of this necessary 
 relief, to a timid, and feminine, but not weak, 
 or cowardly mind. After some minutes' silence, 
 he entreated her to allow him to protect her 
 from the damp's of night with his own riding 
 cloak, every incumbrance in the shape of enve- 
 lopes having been left by her in the carriage, 
 in order to facilitate her release. This propo- 
 sal was silently accepted by Constance, who 
 was ashamed of her own dismantled appear- 
 ance, her white dress waving to the wind, and 
 her head uncovered, standing too, in the dead 
 of night, apart from others, with a young 
 stranger. The next entreaty of the Baronet 
 was, that she would avail herself of the support 
 of his arm, for he could not, he said, but per- 
 ceive the tremulousness which this frightful ad- 
 venture had occasioned in her, and he trusted 
 that she would excuse the seeming liberty taken 
 by so recent an acquaintance, and accept of his 
 aid. But whilst all this gallantry was going
 
 CONSTAKCE. 63 
 
 forward, Mr. Bouverie, released from his less 
 captivating charge, and dismounted from his 
 horse, made his way up to Sir Charles with Miss 
 Courtenay, and, cruelly for his friend, frus- 
 trated the opportunity of making himself agree- 
 able, which fortune had chalked out for him. 
 He informed Miss Courtenay, with extreme 
 modesty of manner, " that it had been ar- 
 ranged by the conclave in the mourning coach, 
 that they would make room for her, their vehicle 
 being fortunately of an ample size ; it was 
 also decided that he and Sir Charles should 
 perform the office of piloting Mr. CattelPs 
 chariot home, and prevent the drenched votary 
 of Bacchus from effecting any further mis- 
 chief. Chilled, and weary, Constance had 
 scarcely warmth enough left in her to be grate- 
 ful, even to Sir Charles. She endeavoured, in- 
 deed, to speak her acknowledgements, but with 
 feminine contrariety, thanked Mr. Bouverie 
 most, and left Sir Charles with scarcely the re- 
 ward of a civil word. Yet hers was neither 
 a nature to forget benefits, nor to feel inju- 
 ries slightly, and it was^ in this instance, the 
 vehemence of her feelings, which checked
 
 ^4 COXSTAXCE. 
 
 what she might have uttered. Much emula- 
 tion was displayed by the two gentlemen, as 
 to which should have the honour of replacing 
 on her fair shoulders her own mantle, which 
 had been restored to her ; which operation 
 being completed, Constance was soon received 
 within the warm precincts of a coach, con- 
 taining eight people. Many condolences were 
 passed on all sides. The middle-aged Miss 
 Grey was fearful that her dear friend Miss 
 Monckton would have her old, troublesome 
 cough again. Miss Pearson calculated the 
 depth to which the carriage must have sunk, 
 and might have sunk, still farther. Her cou- 
 sin, a pretty blue-eyed young lady, declar- 
 ed, she considered Sir Charles the " first 
 of men,'' and said, with a sigh, that she 
 thought him like Lord St. Orville, in Eve- 
 lina. Miss Monckton, at this remark, revived 
 a little, and observed that Miss Courtenay 
 might remember " that she owed her life to 
 him." This admonition was received in si- 
 lence, which was only broken by Mrs. Craw- 
 furd, a widow lady, declaring, " that for her 
 part, she would never go to a dance in a 
 Mourning Coach again."
 
 CONSTANCE. 65 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Slander prevails ! to woman's longing mind, 
 Sweet as the April blossom to the bee. 
 
 Hogg — Madoroftke Moor. 
 
 On the following days sundry reports ran round 
 the town of Newberry, of a nature very re- 
 volting to the delicacy of Miss Monckton. 
 Some related, that in the hurry of escaping, 
 one of her shoes came off ; (the days of sandals 
 not being then arrived ;) others, that she had 
 fainted away in the arms of Mr. Bouverie, who 
 was obliged to call Sir Charles to his aid, to 
 assist him in holding her. In short, such ill- 
 natured things were said, that the calumniated 
 lady had some thoughts of contradicting them 
 in a circular to her friends. Neither did Miss 
 Courtenay escape. By the pretenders to kind, 
 compassionate interest in the young lady, it was 
 lamented, that Mr. Bouverie, to whom she had
 
 66 
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 shown so evident a pai'tiality during the even- 
 ing, should not have been her deliverer instead 
 of Sir Charles. All agreed that she was 
 " making a dead set at him;" but, according 
 to the opinions of several staid damsels, turned 
 thirty, he was too sensible, high-minded and 
 pious, to be taken by a pretty face, and a girl 
 of seventeen. Ah, ladies ! your knowledge of 
 human nature "was but scanty ! 
 
 Meanwhile, Constance had begun much to re- 
 proach herself for the apparent indifference she 
 had displayed to the obligations received from Sir 
 Charles. Sheendeavoured, in the course of a long 
 morning call from Mr. Bouverie, to introduce 
 the subject, and to show some sense of gratitude, 
 in hopes that it might " go round" to his 
 friend : but Mr. Bouverie had so much to say 
 on general subjects, after his first inquiries 
 had been answered, he had so many new books 
 to recommend to Miss Courtenay, he could 
 point out so many views in the vicinity, sub- 
 jects for her pencil, and he ran over the various 
 pursuits of botany, poetry, history, and con- 
 chology, so rapidly, and with so little intermis- 
 sion, that Constance could not interrupt him in
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 67 
 
 his progress to make a studied, and perhaps 
 unexpected eulogium upon his friend's exer- 
 tion. Yet Mr. Bouverie was not considered 
 a great talker : it was, however, remarked 
 that in Miss Courtenay's presence he became 
 so. This, it was presumed, was the first 
 stage of love — like a fever, which quickly 
 rises to delirium — then comes the low, agitated, 
 pensive, silent state ; lastly, the certainty either 
 of present cure, or speedy death. But nobody 
 in Newberry at that time, dreamed of anything 
 like annihilation to Mr. Bouverie's hopes. 
 
 Constance resolved, that the very first time 
 she should have an opportunity of speaking to 
 Sir Charles, she would endeavour to make him 
 sensible of her gratitude. To this she was fur- 
 ther incited by the reproaches of Miss Monck- 
 ton, who told her that she had behaved shame- 
 fully, inexcusably, and assured her that she 
 knew Sir Charles had too much proper pride 
 ever to do any thing but slightly bow to her in 
 future ; not that the good lady thought this in 
 her heart, but she was really anxious that her 
 favourite young beau, Sir Charles, should meet 
 with some little return for his ardent admi-
 
 68 COXSTANCE, 
 
 ration of Miss Courtenay. Little did this 
 well-intentioned woman dream of the woes 
 which she might be preparing for both par- 
 ties, by creating in either an interest, which, 
 in young minds, is seldom devoid of some por- 
 tion of the romantic. But it is remarked, that 
 no persons are so fond of meddling in love af- 
 fairs, as those who have nothing to do with 
 them themselves. 
 
 Due notice having been given of a Card 
 party, at the house of Mrs. De Courcy, an 
 acquaintance of Mrs. Cattell's, Constance was 
 certain, that she should meet Sir Charles there, 
 and was resolved to behave as well as her na- 
 tural courage, and a foolish habit of blushing, 
 from which, in the progress of human intel- 
 lect, our more modern young ladies are hap- 
 pily exempt, would allow her. She there- 
 fore screwed her courage to the sticking place, 
 and arranged, during sundry successive reve- 
 ries, a very proper, modest, yet somewhat 
 flattering address to the young Baronet. She 
 felt secure that he would be at Mrs. De 
 Courcy's, because, not only was he always in- 
 vited to every party given by the haut ton of
 
 CONSTANCE. 69 
 
 Newberry ; but because, also, he was supposed 
 to be rather intimate with the lady hostess of 
 the projected rout. For Mrs. De Courcy was 
 not a widow after the fashion of half-mourning, 
 lilac and black ribbons, and a perpetual black 
 silk gown ; but a pretty, accomplished woman 
 of thirty, who patronized the circulating libra- 
 ries, had her bonnets from London, improved 
 upon Nature with a little rouge, flirted when 
 she had an opportunity, but was select in 
 lier flirtations. She was fond of poetry, drew a 
 little, sang a little, and walked about a good 
 deal ; was observed to be partial to the elm 
 walk in the Prior}^ Park, drove a pony phaeton, 
 and was sometimes overtaken by Sir Charles, 
 and, in short, was supposed not to dislike him. 
 Constance, had she designed to captivate the 
 " observed of all observers" in the town of 
 Newberry, would never have thought of enter- 
 ing the lists with so practised a flirt as Mrs. De 
 Courcy, by universal and sedulous report of all 
 ladies of inferior attractions, was noted to be. 
 The sole aim of the simple-minded girl was, 
 as she thought, to do what she ought to have 
 done before ; but it is a matter of conjecture,
 
 70 CONSTANCE. 
 
 whether if her deliverer had been the good- 
 looking Mr. Thomas Tribe, or the man of 
 figure, his brother, instead of Sir Charles March- 
 mont, she would have thought quite so much of 
 the mode of conveying her thanks. 
 
 At length the evening, and the sedan arrived, 
 in which first Mrs. Cattell and then Miss Cour_ 
 tenay were to be conveyed to a Newberry rout. 
 Constance was dressed, on this occasion, with 
 great simplicity, and in a style almost girlish, 
 yet she found far more trouble than heretofore 
 in arranorino^ her attire to her satisfaction. Her 
 hair was impracticable, her frock too short- 
 waisted, and she, who was generally dressed 
 with much dispatch, was, on this occasion, 
 almost as long at her toilet, as old Mrs. Cat- 
 tell. Yet, as she descended the stairs, Van- 
 dyck, could he have stepped out of his grave 
 to have seen her, might have deemed a portrait 
 of her, a fit companion for that loveliest of 
 nature's works, — Henrietta Maria of England. 
 Like that justly celebrated beauty, the features 
 of Constance possessed elevation, chastened by 
 extreme delicacy. Her redundant hair, which, 
 arranged in fifty various ways, still became
 
 CONSTANCE. 71 
 
 her, was, in colour and glossiness, not unlike 
 the rich brown hues in the plumage of a phea- 
 sant, although somewhat darker. Its clus- 
 tering curls hung upon a brow where innocence 
 contended with intelligence, which should 
 stamp its character most forcibly. The dark 
 blue eye beneath, was totally devoid of that 
 flash and glare which are thought by vulgar 
 judges to constitute what are called fine eyes ; 
 and never, under any circumstances, lost the 
 softness of their expression, although that ex- 
 pression were alternated by thought, or by 
 mirth, or by sorrow. Few could look into 
 those eyes without sympathy with every feeling 
 which they indicated ; few who had long been 
 accustomed to view them, could forget the de- 
 licious repose, the exquisite playfulness by 
 which they were varied, and characterized. — 
 To complete the sketch. The figure of Miss 
 Courtenay had at this time almost attained its 
 full stature, but not its subsequent dimensions. 
 Gently restrained, but not confined by dress, 
 it had scarcely attained the form or rotundity 
 of womanhood. Its slightness and activity 
 were, however, unmarked by angularity, and
 
 7'J COXSTAXCE. 
 
 its flexibility and beautiful proportions gave 
 promise, in this budding stage between youth 
 and maturity, of future perfection of womanly 
 grace. Such was the outline of her person; 
 and the whole was rendered interesting to the 
 intelligent observer, not only by the total ab- 
 sence of all artifice, and of that accomplishment 
 which is called " making the most of oneself," 
 but by a refinement, and involuntary display of 
 habitual good-breeding, which, whilst it was 
 natural to Constance, had undoubtedly been 
 confirmed and improved, not by art, but by 
 habit and imitation. 
 
 This digression, whilst Mrs. Cattell is enter- 
 ing her chair, must be excused, because it is 
 presumed that none of my readers will be very 
 anxious to know the particulars of that lady's 
 appearance. Neither will Mr. Cattell's mush- 
 room wig, black satin breeches, and large buckles, 
 be here expatiated upon, though, relatively to 
 him, subjects of no small concern. 
 
 Constance entered Mrs De Courcy's drawing- 
 room full of good resolutions. Sir Charles, 
 however, appeared not. Mr. Bouverie was the 
 only gentleman that broke the unspeckled white
 
 CONSTANCE. 73 
 
 of a large circle of ladies in muslin dresses, who 
 were sipping their tea out of little china cups 
 without handles, or ladling the cream out of a 
 little silver vase, formerly in vogue before the 
 less elaborate use of the cream-jug came into 
 fashion. Meanwhile, pools of quadrille, rubbers 
 of cassino, and hands of whist were formed, to 
 the exclusion only of Constance, who could not 
 play, and of Mr. Bouverie, who never played. 
 Sly glances were exchanged between some of the 
 partners, and stupid old Mrs. Cattell was ob- 
 served once to look round, as Mr. Bouverie took 
 his place by Miss Courtenay. But Constance, 
 almost to her own surprise, was disconcerted at 
 the non-appearance of Sir Charles, without 
 liking to ask if there were any chance of his ar- 
 rival. " Well '" thought she, with some vexa- 
 tion, " he must continue to think me ungrateful, 
 that is all." Every time the neat little footboy 
 opened the door, she expected to see him enter, 
 but every time was disappointed. Only once was 
 his name mentioned, when, in answer to an ap- 
 parently careless inquiry from Mrs. De Courcy, 
 Mr. Bouverie informed the listening circle, that 
 " he had gone into Leicestershire that morning; 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 74 CONSTANCE. 
 
 upon which Miss Pearson, and two elderly 
 ladies, the Miss Seagraves, interchanged looks, 
 with a sort of running glance at Mrs. De Courcy, 
 significant of the disappointment which they 
 supposed that lady to feel ; but the attention of 
 the younger portion of the assemblage was 
 wholly engrossed by the close siege which they 
 now conceived Mr. Bouverie to be laying to Miss 
 Courtenay's heart ; for in Newberry, where 
 few were the opportunities afforded to the fair 
 sex of witnessing the course of " true love," a 
 civil bow was deemed a sort of matrimonial 
 prelude ; the offer of an arm considered as a 
 symptom of a speedy wedding ; and two or three 
 polite speeches from a gentleman to a lady, set 
 the whole town in an agitation.
 
 CONSTANCE. 75 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 She is a woman, and she may be woo'd, 
 She is a woman, and she may be won. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 In the course of a few weeks, Constance was 
 taken by Mr. and Mrs. Cattell to pay their 
 annual visit to Powis Court, an old manor house 
 about six miles from Newberry. It was a spe- 
 cimen of the imposing and picturesque archi- 
 tecture, in which the English gentry and nobi- 
 lity spent some of the wealth which they had in 
 many instances acquired in foreign wars, in 
 the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Like most 
 of the works of her time, Powis Court was 
 stately and enduring, without any great ap- 
 pearance of strength and massiveness. The 
 front was regular, and somewhat castellated, 
 
 E 2
 
 T6 
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 with every possible variety in the shape and 
 size of its windows ; but the back and sides 
 of the building jutted into numerous gable 
 ends and compartments. Its fair but not ex- 
 tensive domains, assorted well with the man- 
 sion. A broad and exquisitely rolled, gravelled 
 space in front, without the vestige of a weed 
 or the apprehension of a loose stone, was 
 succeeded by an ever verdant lawn sloping up- 
 wards, and gradually narrowing into an avenue 
 of pines, which extended to the belt by which 
 the pleasure-grounds were enclosed. To the 
 rioht and to the left of the house, were groves 
 of Plane, Acacia, Hawthorn, Sycamore, and 
 Lignum Vitae, thronged with those tuneful in- 
 habitants which serve as companions to the 
 meditative rambler, and intersected by many 
 walks, which seemed to hold out lures for 
 duets of an equally fond description with those 
 diligently pursued by the feathered denizens of 
 the " bosky dell." The woods, now faintly 
 touched with autumnal hues, extended on the 
 one hand to the high road, on the other to a well- 
 managed, over-stocked, garden.
 
 CONSTANCE. 77 
 
 The former mistress of this fair demesne, 
 was a Mrs, Fowls ; but she had very lately re- 
 signed her sovereign controul to her son, recently 
 of age, and acted, with deference to his superior 
 right, as the nominal director only of the con- 
 cerns of Powis Court. She was a good, useful, 
 and cheerful, widow lady ; hospitable to a pro- 
 verb, notable beyond imitation, and charitable 
 almost to a fault. By her excessive love of 
 order, a virtue now quite out of date, the in- 
 terior of Powis Court had been kept up during 
 the long minority of her son, with a nicety 
 which is almost inconceivable in a modern 
 house. Acting as trustee for the heir of Powis 
 Court, every item of furniture, every old picture 
 or print, every window-curtain and counter- 
 pane, had been transmitted to him on his birth- 
 day in marvellous preservation. All savoured 
 of the antique; and Mr. Powis was little 
 likely, if report spoke true, to remodel the 
 ancient edifice, or to furnish anew the old seat 
 of his ancestors. 
 
 Mr. Powis, of Powis Court, had never for a 
 single instant of his boyhood or youth, for- 
 gotten that he was his own important self. His
 
 78 CONSTANCE. 
 
 family genealogy hung in the hall, his family 
 monuments stood before him in the church. 
 His mother, for the honour of the family, had 
 always made a marked distinction between him 
 and his younger brother ; in short, she had 
 petted him, coddled him, and humoured him, 
 till he became more like a girl than a boy. 
 His little, irritable, proud, selfish mind settled 
 upon trifles; a!nd being almost always with 
 elderly ladies, he had imbibed all their dawdling, 
 gossiping ways, thought their occupations of 
 paramount importance, and, when he went to 
 college, made his own chair-covers, and em- 
 ployed some hours in cutting out fly-catchers. 
 He had quitted Oxford without making a single 
 acquaintance, and having acquired nothing but 
 additional habits of unemployed seclusion, and 
 of indolent retirement. Strange to say, he had 
 also returned with increased ideas of his own 
 personal importance, and of the importance of 
 Powis Court. He was now installed in the full 
 dignity of possession. 
 
 It was inwardly thought by Mrs. Cattell to 
 be a point of propriety to introduce her charge 
 to the notice of this interesting young free-
 
 CONSTANCE. 79 
 
 holder ; not that she had the remotest thoughts 
 of love on either side. Of that passion she knew 
 only the forms; she was acquainted with it 
 only as the tie which bound Jacob to Rachel, 
 or as the motive which brought Sir Charles 
 Grandison forward in full dress, bowing away 
 like a Chinese mandarin. But Mrs. Catteli 
 had much respect for the institution of mar- 
 riage, which she could fully comprehend, be- 
 cause she had entered into it with Mr. Catteli, 
 but she had not the remotest conception of any 
 thing beyond the scope of his actions. Con- 
 stance had, however, nothing to fear or to hope 
 from the young heir, who thought far more of 
 a game of piquet with Mrs. Catteli herself, 
 than of a flirtation with her young ward. He 
 received them, indeed, in the room of his 
 mother, who was, at the moment of their ar- 
 rival, inspecting the progress of some damson 
 cheese ; and he conducted his guests into a sit- 
 ting apartment coldly blue, and awfully tidy, 
 into which, as it was not yet Michaelmas, the 
 introduction of a fire had not been permitted. 
 Here they sat, receiving the condescending as- 
 siduities of the youth, who, like a newly created
 
 80 , CONSTANCE. 
 
 peer, thought it incumbent upon him to be 
 particularly condescending ; until the half-hour 
 dinner-bell sounded, when Constance and her 
 aged friend retired to their several apartments 
 to dress. 
 
 The circle at Powis Court was at this time 
 unusually cheerful, compared with the assem- 
 blage of elderly gentlemen and ladies who 
 usually composed it, for Mrs. Powis's chief ac- 
 quaintance were sexagenarians^ like her de- 
 ceased husband, who had been much older than 
 herself. Antiquated virgins of good family, 
 who came to spend a long day with her, and 
 prosing old squires and their wives, who 
 strolled about the grounds whilst their horses 
 were put up, formed the chief part of her so- 
 ciety. 
 
 At the present season, however, there were 
 two young visitors at Powis Court, before 
 Constance arrived there. The first, by cour- 
 tesy, to be described of these, was Miss Le- 
 titia Sperling, the niece of Mrs. Powis, but 
 otherwise, as her aunt herself observed, " no 
 ways remarkable." She was a tall, insipid 
 girl, with a back like a deal-board, and long,
 
 CONSTANCE. 81 
 
 angular limbs, unfledged as it were, and till 
 now not emancipated from the parent nest, and 
 was compared by Miss Monckton to a " darn- 
 ing needle."' Her character must be detailed 
 in negatives : she was not pretty, she was not 
 lively, she was not well-bred, she was not en- 
 tertaining, she was not useful. We would will- 
 ingly consign her to oblivion, but that every 
 human being, whether gifted or not, has some 
 part to perform in life. At present, she seemed 
 to answer no earthly purpose but to afford Mrs. 
 Powis the privilege of saying, " that she had a 
 young lady at Powis Court." 
 
 The other inmate was Captain Edmund 
 Powis, the half-brother of Mrs. Powis's defunct 
 husband, and heir to all the poverty, obscu- 
 rity, and temptations to bad passions, which 
 seem entailed on the younger sons of opulence. 
 He was also that anomalous being, a modest 
 soldier : his diffidence, which probably pro- 
 ceeded from his early dependence on an elder 
 brother, was the more remarkable when opposed 
 to the acknowledged courage in the field which 
 had raised him, without interest, to his present 
 rank. To the fair sex he was peculiarly re- 
 
 E 5
 
 82 CONSTANCE. 
 
 served, and never, by his nearest relations, had 
 he been suspected of the remotest dream of an 
 attachment. In age, he was about five and 
 and thirty, and his appearance, matured by 
 time, and improved by personal activity, pre- 
 sented a fine contrast to that of his half- 
 nephew. 
 
 The most remarkable trait about this brave 
 officer was his taciturnity ; yet, to the nice ob- 
 server, he might seem not deficient in soldier- 
 like knowledge, nor insensible to the pleasures 
 of the belles lettres. A handsome, regular, but 
 somewhat unvarying physiognomy, and a gentle- 
 manly deportment, complete the portrait. Sim- 
 ple-hearted, and kind herself, Constance was 
 almost instantly struck by the evident small 
 account in which Captain Powis was held by his 
 relations at Powis Court. Mrs. Powis was, in- 
 deed, too good-natured not to evince the utmost 
 hospitality to every one under her roof ; but her 
 eyes, her ears, her thoughts, were engrossed 
 with her eldest son ; and she seemed to assign 
 the superiority to him in all things, as un- 
 hesitatingly as the vassals in feudal times to 
 their chiefs. The precious favourite himself
 
 CONSTANCE. 83 
 
 lost no opportunity of showing off his own 
 little pride, and Constance could sometimes with 
 pleasure have left the room when he talked to 
 " uncle Edmund" of "my horses," " my farms," 
 " niy rents,'" " my gardens," " my tenants," 
 " my bailiffs," &c. Neither could she forbear 
 expressing to Mrs. Cattell the futile wish that 
 destiny had made the captain the heir of 
 Powis Court, and his effeminate relative, not a 
 soldier — for he was only fit to war with 
 women — but at any rate a younger son: but 
 such a declaration on her part was considered 
 by Mrs. Cattell as little better than very pro- 
 fane talking. *' Hyperion to a satyr," thought 
 Constance, as she one day compared the two 
 kinsmen ; the one erect, and full grown, with 
 the bending, unmuscular, thread-paper like 
 form of the other. Meanwhile, artless herself, 
 and unsuspicious of the observations of others, 
 she often endeavoured, though in vain, to draw 
 the retiring and neglected Edmund out of the 
 obstinate silence in which he generally per- 
 severed. 
 
 The system maintained at Powis Court was 
 not conducive to the acceleration of intimacies.
 
 °^ CONSTANCE. 
 
 nor kindly favourable to flirtations. A strict 
 separation of the ladies and gentlemen, except 
 at meal times, was the order of the day. After 
 a stately breakfast, Captain Powis, whose visit 
 was with the express purpose of shooting, and 
 who was thought to be highly favoured in 
 being permitted such a privilege, withdrew to 
 his sports, and was seldom visible till dinner 
 time. The lord of the manor himself dawdled 
 about the flower beds, or wrangled with the 
 servants, or wrote in red ink little conundrums, 
 or worried the patience of his grooms, or took 
 a languid ride; and so he was disposed of. 
 Constance, who was at that buoyant age when 
 the mind can almost create its own world, was 
 perfectly contented by the prospect of a walk, 
 even with companions so totally uninteresting 
 as Miss Sperling and William Powis. She 
 walked between them, enjoyed the rich scenery, 
 wished for her sketch-book, and longed to have 
 her sister with her. 
 
 The vicinity of Powis Court was wild and 
 unfrequented, and though the young pedes- 
 trians frequently heard the guns of the sports- 
 men, they seldom, in their rambles, came in
 
 CONSTANCE. 85 
 
 contact with a human being. It is in such 
 excursions as these that our love of nature is 
 put to the test ; the assistance of the imagi- 
 nation is called into play, and the mind, even 
 of the gay and thoughtless, forced into re- 
 flection. 
 
 An incident, however, soon occurred, to vary 
 the scene. " My son expects Sir Charles 
 Marchmont and Mr. Bouverie to-day," said 
 Mrs. Powis, one morning at breakfast ; *' Miss 
 Monckton is coming also, and Sir Charles 
 offered her a place in his chariot, which of 
 course she declined ; for that, you know," 
 looking ■ at Mrs. CattelJ, " would not be 
 proper." 
 
 " Would not be proper indeed," echoed that 
 lady. 
 
 " Not proper, mama !" said William, a for»- 
 ward boy ; " why, I should think Miss Monck- 
 ton might have come with him, for she is old 
 enough to be his mother." 
 
 " Be quiet, William," said Mrs. Powis; "you 
 are too young to judge of those things; wait 
 till you have seen as much of society as your 
 brother my dear."
 
 86 CONSTANCE. 
 
 " But if I were to see society for ever," re- 
 plied the youth, " it would never make me think 
 Miss Monckton young — or that it could be 
 improper for her to come along with Sir 
 Charles. Why, you would not call it improper 
 for Miss Courtenay to go in a post-chaise with 
 my uncle Edmund, and he's about the age of 
 Miss Monckton, and she's quite a girl.'' 
 
 " I beg you will not make free with Miss 
 Courtenay's age, William," returned Mrs. 
 Powis. 
 
 " Nor with mine either," said Captain Powis, 
 in a tone scarcely audible; the first words 
 which he had been known to speak in full con- 
 clave. 
 
 " What spirits William has, ma'am," sighed 
 forth the elder brother ; " but no wonder, he 
 has not the cares which I have." 
 
 " No, my dear, very true, he has not your 
 cares upon him; a large property is a very 
 great care, is it not, Mrs. CattelLf^" 
 
 " Very great, very great indeed," returned 
 the old lady in a tone of condolence. 
 
 " I should like to try," observed William, 
 drily.
 
 CONSTANCE. 87 
 
 '* Well, young gentlemen ! you will be ready 
 to receive your guests; I mean you7* guests, 
 Mr. Powis,'' said Mrs. Powis as she quitted 
 the room, " at four o'clock ; Sir Charles has 
 set his mind on a stroll with Mrs. Cattell round 
 the lawn before dinner ; so he says in his 
 note." 
 
 " He has a horrid bad taste then," whispered 
 William to Miss Sperling, " for she walks so 
 remarkably slow. I pitted her against the Ca- 
 nada goose the other day, and the goose gained 
 it by three minutes." 
 
 Notwithstanding the risk which Sir Charles 
 ran of being beaten by the Canada goose also, 
 if he chose to undertake a ttte-a-ttte with Mrs. 
 Catell, he came in time to walk with her ; and 
 to punish him for his insincerity, he found 
 Mrs. Cattell quite prepared to take him at his 
 word, and to accompany him round the grounds 
 In vain he looked up every alley, and into 
 every arbour, in hopes of seeing the pretty 
 object of his visit, who, he had the vanity to 
 flatter himself, would really put herself in his 
 way. She had gone in another direction, on 
 horseback with Wjlliam, and returned only
 
 88 CONSTANCE, 
 
 just in time for dinner, and scarcely in time to 
 dress. Meanwhile the young Baronet exhausted 
 his agreeable spirits, and soiled his shoes, casting 
 his "• bread upon the waters," and addressing 
 himself in vain to his stupid companion, who 
 was about as intellectual as the trees and shrubs 
 amongst which they wandered. He thought 
 the dinner-bell would never ring, and not being 
 able, by his indirect questions, to extract from 
 the dull old lady a positive answer whether 
 Miss Courtenay were at Powis Court or not, 
 was once half inclined to order his carriage and 
 drive away. 
 
 From this act of despair he was saved by 
 the entrance of Mr. Bouverie, who, in the 
 happy guilelessness of a heart at ease, asked 
 boldly how Miss Courtenay was, and if they 
 were to have the pleasure of seeing her to-day. 
 
 " Why, yes," said Mrs. Cattell ; " she's 
 somewhere with her young companions, for 
 she's vastly fond of that Miss Sperling, I be- 
 lieve; and I dare say they're both with the 
 Captain f' 
 
 Here was a piece of intelligence ! 
 
 " What Captain.?" asked Sir Charles of Mr.
 
 CONSTANCE. Oy 
 
 Bouverie, and " O ! what a place to make love 
 in ! I declare I thought these groves looked as 
 if they were haunted by muses or by lovers ! 
 Here's a seat underneath that tree just fit for 
 two people ; the walks are only wide enough 
 for two — nature and art alike seem resolved 
 upon a tete-a-ttte. ' O happy shades ! to me 
 unblest !' These captains ought to be extir- 
 pated ! There's a race of them everywhere. 
 Ask a pretty girl to dance with you, and she's 
 engaged to the captain ! No matter whether a 
 long-legged Irish captain of militia, or a squat 
 Birmingham volunteer officer, who made the 
 arms which he brandishes; if he be but a 
 captain, that's enough! Well, who do you 
 suppose this invincible captain to be ?'" 
 
 '* O," replied Mr. Bouverie, " he is only a 
 relation of the family, a brave officer in the 
 artillery; not one of the equivocal sort of 
 zoophiles, connecting links between the civil 
 and military condition, upon which useful class 
 of people you are pleased to be so severe." 
 
 " And is he young ?" asked Sir Charles. 
 
 " About thirty-three," answered the Vicar.
 
 90 CONSTANCE. 
 
 " Oh Heavens ! the most dangerous age. — 
 And handsome .^" 
 
 " I believe he is considered so,"" said his 
 friend. 
 
 " Agreeable V^ 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And rich ?" 
 
 " Why, no." 
 
 " No: that's some consolation ! But malheur 
 a moi ! that does not much signify either, for 
 at seventeen, girls are not so clever at compound 
 addition as seven years afterwards ; or at any 
 rate, they cast up the sum of a man's personal 
 qualifications, and make their calculations some- 
 what after this fashion : — fine eyes they will set 
 down against a fine estate; good teeth they 
 will take in preference to a good house ; flatter- 
 ing and tender looks, the disinterested little 
 creatures will value at a much higher price than 
 a long purse ; and a little sentimentality, more 
 especially, Bouverie, if there be a touch of 
 religion in it, a something between Rousseau 
 and Fenelon — makes them forget all the pounds, 
 shillings, and pence in the kingdom. But
 
 CONSTANCE. 91 
 
 come ; do let us go in, and reconnoitre our 
 costume a little: don't let the captain have 
 all the advantage. I dare say the fellow is a 
 mere block to hang regimentals on ; a walking 
 ramrod — a piece of humanity faced with a 
 yard or two of scarlet cloth," continued the 
 thoughtless young baronet, as they entered the 
 house. 
 
 It sometimes happens that a young and 
 beautiful woman appears to far greater advan- 
 tage when she is hastily, and even carelessly 
 dressed, than when the utmost pains have been 
 bestowed upon her appearance. So was it with 
 Constance on this occasion. Knowing the ex- 
 cessive precision of her host and hostess, and 
 being extremely considerate with respect to the 
 wishes and arrangements of others, a good pro- 
 perty out of date now, she was almost breathless, 
 from her haste to complete her toilette; when she 
 reached the drawing-room door, the last bell 
 had sounded, and the company were just at the 
 critical moment of departure. Mr. Cattell held 
 Mrs. Powis by the tip of his little finger, after 
 the fashion of former days, looking as if he 
 were afraid to touch her ; the young host was
 
 92 CONSTANCE. 
 
 marching out with Mrs, Cattell ; Mr. Bouverie 
 had resigned himself to Miss Monckton ; Sir 
 Charles, who ought to have led the van, having 
 waited dexterously in an embrasure, talking 
 with such pretended earnestness to William, 
 that no one chose to interrupt him. When 
 Constance entered, the Baronet came, how- 
 ever, to a sudden period in his discourse, 
 and moved quickly forward to offer her his 
 hand. Before he could, with all his speed, 
 reach her, she had consigned herself to the care 
 of the Captain, who, whether intentionally or 
 not could not be known, had intercepted her 
 on her entrance. Too gentlemanly to insist 
 upon his right, the countenance of Sir Charles 
 was yet overclouded by vexation, and he fol- 
 lowed, with a far less agreeable aspect than was 
 his wont. Few of our readers will pity him, 
 for they will naturally conclude that his ad- 
 miration of a lovely and unprotected girl was 
 far more the result of a selfish desire of transi- 
 tory amusement, than of any feelings which 
 could terminate in the rational happiness of 
 either party. Yet, if we allow this conjecture 
 to be true, it must also be granted, that Sir
 
 CONSTANCE. 93 
 
 Charles was neither a practised flirt nor a de- 
 signing libertine. Too easily captivated by 
 beauty, or by grace, he was seldom known to 
 accord to it more than the common attentions 
 of gallantry, unless when there existed along 
 with personal charms corresponding elegance 
 of mind ; or, what is still more likely to allure 
 vain man, a decided preference to himself; a 
 circumstance which even to the latest day of 
 life, has a most powerful influence on all men. 
 He was now, however, piqued in no small 
 degree, at the indifference which Miss Courtenay 
 appeared to evince towards him. To others she 
 was easy, and sometimes playful, but towards 
 him she seldom looked, nor ever voluntarily 
 addressed him. He also remarked, with some 
 chagrin, that she never alluded even distantly, 
 though now in his presence for the first time, 
 to the evening when he saved her from a peril, 
 at once imminent and ignoble. On the other 
 hand, Constance was abashed and displeased at 
 the undisguised, and as she thought, imperti- 
 nent admiration which he evinced of her personal 
 qualifications, which, it must be remembered,
 
 94 CONSTANCK. 
 
 were the more conspicuous when set off by such 
 foils as Miss Monckton, Mrs. Cattell, Miss 
 Sperling, and Mrs. Powis. She thought he had 
 no right to make her the object of his undisguised 
 attention, and almost wished herself at school 
 again, rather than be condemned to encounter 
 what she had good taste enough to consider as 
 an insult. She could but acknowledge that he 
 was infinitely superior to the rest of the company 
 in information, in natural wit, and in manners ; 
 and even Mr. Bouverie appeared deficient in 
 ease and vivacity, in comparison with his ac- 
 complished friend. Such is the charm of good 
 breeding, and so powerful an influence has it in 
 setting off our best qualities, that even whilst she 
 disliked Sir Charles, she admired his deportment. 
 Once or twice she determined to address him, 
 and to thank him for his timely services to her 
 on the fatal mourning-coach business ; but 
 whenever she looked towards him, she encoun- 
 tered in his eyes such an expression as men of 
 the world study to throw into their counte- 
 nances when they wish to show their admiration 
 of the other sex ; and being new to this species
 
 co:nstance. 95 
 
 of notice, and naturally susceptible of the 
 slightest impropriety, Constance felt that she 
 could not speak to her unabashed admirer. 
 
 Meanwhile, as dinner proceeded, Sir Charles 
 experienced from Miss Monckton, some of that 
 private, gentle castigation with which that lady 
 occasionally indulged her particular friends. 
 
 " My dear Miss Monckton," said he, " how 
 happy I was to see you safe from that execrable 
 dilemma in which you were placed the other 
 night." 
 
 " You might be happy to see me safe," 
 returned she, " but you did nothing to help me 
 out of it." 
 
 '' But you know you had my best wishes," 
 rejoined Sir Charles; " and besides, I was 
 occupied in saving one very dear to you ; and 
 you may conceive how much it grieved me that 
 I could not act as the personal liberator of 
 both." 
 
 " You are very kind. I always find that we 
 elderly ladies have the best wishes of such 
 young gallants as you — we have apologies in- 
 stead of services, and polite speeches enough, if 
 we will keep out of your way. But I forgive
 
 96 CONSTANCE. 
 
 you — Miss Courtenay is a fair excuse for 
 you." 
 
 *' Indeed she is — fair as Iceland snows, and 
 as cold, as some one has said ; she is lovely, 
 but wants soul ; her loveliness will never cause 
 one pang in any man's heart ; no one can adore 
 a statue ; nor did any man ever shoot himself 
 for an automaton." 
 
 " Statue ! automaton ! This shows your dis- 
 cernment indeed, Sir Charles. You want to make 
 a fool of the girl, and find her insensible to the 
 gross flattery with which you fine gentlemen 
 assail beauty. You quarrel with her because 
 she is too modest to encourage your advances. 
 Reverse the picture ; suppose that she met 
 you with the assurance of a woman of fashion, 
 or the pert boldness of a vulgar rustic, what 
 would you think of her — say of her? Are not 
 you men the first to fling incense on the shrine 
 of vanity, and the first to ridicule her votaries ? 
 Is it not your daily aim to lead on poor victims 
 to folly, and then to punish them with scorn .?" 
 
 *' But, my dear Miss Moncton, how serious 
 a view you are taking " 
 
 " By no means too serious ; many are the
 
 CONSTAKCE. 97 
 
 young women whose characters are ruined, 
 though not in the common acceptation of the 
 word, on their first coming into society. The 
 weak and selfish let them pass — no one cares 
 for them; but the affectionate, the generous, 
 the confiding, the gay and innocent, are assailed 
 with attentions which mean nothing, but which 
 have serious, though varied, effects upon all of 
 them. A taste for excitement is given — in 
 some instances the heart is entangled — the com- 
 mon duties of life, its rational occupations 
 become vapid — all moral and mental improve- 
 ment is at an end — one object alone is kept in 
 view, and that is admiration. A parent cannot 
 teach the young heart to distrust, but must, 
 I fear, in many instances see its best affections 
 withered, and the highest faculties of the mind 
 unemployed, and all — all for the gratification 
 of man's vanity ; for I will not call it by a 
 worse name. But the ladies are rising, and I 
 must leave you to digest my lecture, or to laugh 
 at it, whichever you think best." 
 
 The evening was sultry, and Constance, 
 after breathing for some time the air of that 
 suffocating atmosphere of formality, a ladies' 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 5fO CONSTANCE. 
 
 drawing room after dinner, grew weary of 
 Mrs. Powis's eulogiums upon her son and her ser- 
 vants, of Mrs. Cattell's dozing replies, and 
 even of the acrid seasoning with which Miss 
 Monckton's conversation was interspersed. It 
 was now about the middle of September, and 
 the dinner-hour at Powis Court being four 
 precisely, there was still daylight sufficient to 
 tempt the young and active to an evening stroll. 
 Constance stood, her feet resting on the thresh- 
 hold of the drawing-room window, and con- 
 templating with a longing view the face of 
 nature in that deadly repose which sometimes 
 precedes its wildest convulsions. Not a breath 
 moved the high tops of the Larches, or ruffled 
 the delicate foliage of the Acacias. The fea- 
 thered tribe were silent, and a solemn stillness, 
 "save where the beetle wheeled his drony flight," 
 attended the last rays of sun-set. Constance long- 
 ed, like the " owl," to " complain" to the moon 
 of the imprisonment to which she compared her 
 present situation — confined in a dull drawing- 
 room, with still duller companions. With the 
 exquisite " Ode on Evening"' of one of our most 
 faultless poets in her thoughts, she glided from
 
 CONSTANCE. 99 
 
 the presence of the junto, and entangling Miss 
 Sperling, whom she met at the door, in her 
 scheme, proposed a walk to the summer-house 
 at the end of the avenue. Miss Sperling was 
 one of those giggling girls who love a joke in a 
 dull way ; she could comprehend nothing that 
 was not practical ; delicate shades of humour 
 were thrown away upon her, but a trick, or a 
 valentine, were quite upon the level of her 
 capacity. She entered immediately into the 
 idea ; and cloakless, and bonnetless, they pur- 
 sued their way to the spot proposed, Constance 
 enjoying her emancipation, and Miss Sperling 
 laughing, and wondering whether her cousin 
 William would find her out. As they pro- 
 ceeded, the wind rose, at first not more than 
 sufficient to blow back the ringlets of their hair, 
 and to induce Constance to raise her head 
 joyously to receive the freshening breeze ; but 
 as they approached the summer-house, a hurri- 
 cane, which made the woods resound, and 
 whistled through the old avenue, warned them 
 of the approaching storm. They had scarcely 
 begun to retrace their steps, when a loud, and 
 near clap of thunder, succeeded by vivid light- 
 
 F 2
 
 100 CONSTANCE. 
 
 nings, transfixed them both with fear; but a 
 violent shower of rain coming on, they hastened 
 into the summer-house, too glad to gain that 
 dangerous station, as a shelter. 
 
 In the mean time, the gentlemen having per- 
 ceived the storm, had risen hastily from their 
 wine, and the party being thus disturbed, soon 
 adjourned to the drawing-room. Here they found 
 a general desertion on the part of their female 
 friends had taken place. Mrs. Cattell and 
 Mrs. Povvis had retreated to the cellar, and 
 Miss Monckton, equally alarmed with them- 
 selves, had gone to bed. The young ladies 
 were no where to be seen. It was supposed 
 that they had also concealed themselves, and 
 the gentlemen, who had borne the absconding 
 of the elder ladies with great fortitude, and 
 had never, to do them justice, even talked of 
 following: Mrs. Cattell and Mrs. Powis to the 
 cellar, began their search for the younger 
 nymphs with great eagerness. They might be 
 in the library — an instant investigation of that 
 apartment was made, but no living being was 
 visible among the lettered dead; and to say 
 the truth, seldom was the repose of those heroes
 
 CONSTAXCE. 101 
 
 disturbed at Powis Court. The billiard-room, 
 the keeping-room, as it was called in old- 
 fashioned times, (a sort of steward's room,) were 
 also inspected. It was concluded that they also 
 had retired to their separate apartments, and Sir 
 Charles, who had been ringleader in the search, 
 returned to the drawing-room, followed by 
 Mr. Bouverie and Captain Powis, each evincing, 
 according to their different characters, differing 
 expressions of disappointment in their counte- 
 nances. Meanwhile, the fury of the storm was 
 such, that the old building seemed to rock to its 
 foundations, and few, even of the stoutest 
 hearted, could view, without awe, the visible 
 ejffects of the power of Him whose voice is in 
 the whirlwind. On a sudden, after a private 
 intimation from William Powis, Sir Charles 
 started up in some agitation, and hastened to 
 the lawn. His departure was not observed by 
 Mr. Bouverie, who was contemplating, with 
 mingled feelings, the warfare of the elements ; 
 but Captain Powis instantly followed the Ba- 
 ronet. He saw Sir Charles flying with the 
 utmost speed in the direction of the summer- 
 house, with his cloak hanging over his arm,
 
 102 CONSTANCE. 
 
 regardless of the heavy rain which had now 
 succeeded the thunder and lightning. It is 
 difficult to say which of the two young men ran 
 with the greatest eagerness. They entered the 
 summer-house almost at the same time. They 
 found Miss Sperling extended on the floor, in a 
 state of insensibility; the roof of the little 
 edifice was secured with cramps of iron, and 
 the electrical fluid, without causing any fatal 
 efi'ect, had produced in the poor girl all the 
 semblance of death. Beside her was Constance, 
 pale as the statue to which Sir Charles had 
 compared her, supporting upon her knees the 
 head of her companion, and with an expression 
 in her countenance of despair, in aggravating 
 which self-reproach played a busy part. Des- 
 tined, as it seemed, by the performance of offices 
 of kindness, to dispel her prejudices towards 
 him. Sir Charles earnestly, yet gently entreated 
 her to resign to him the lifeless burden which 
 she held, and to escape immediately to the 
 house. At his approach Constance raised her 
 eyes, which had been intently fixed upon Miss 
 Sperling; but as she saw alarm strongly de- 
 picted in Sir Charles's countenance, the thought
 
 CONSTANCE. 103 
 
 flashed across her that he saw the hand of 
 death depicted on the countenance of her young 
 companion. In an agony of self-accusation, 
 she exclaimed, 
 
 " O, Sir Charles, you are come too late ! 
 It was I — it was I who brought her here: 
 may God forgive me !" and leaning her head 
 on the seat of the summer-house, she gave vent 
 to a passionate burst of anguish, such as the 
 first sorrows of youth produce in a sensitive 
 mind. Sir Charles, though full of vivacity, 
 and even deemed reckless by his friends, was a 
 man of excellent and warm feelings. With the 
 utmost tenderness of manner he endeavoured to 
 reassure her ; and with the assistance of Captain 
 Powis, who lent a silent aid, he raised the sufferer 
 from the position in which she had lain, and 
 placed her on the seat ; he pointed out the symp- 
 toms of returning animation, and entreated Miss 
 Courtenay to return to the house ; for, said he, 
 " There is danger here," and he entreated her to 
 leave him to follow with Miss Sperling. But 
 Constance resolutely refused to quit her compa- 
 nion : " I have brought her into this," she said, 
 " and I will not desert her— my inexperience, my
 
 104 CONSTANCE. 
 
 ignorance plead my excuse; but see, Captain 
 Powis is gone ; he will return with assistance." 
 
 " Dear Miss Courtenay," said -Sir Charles, 
 do not reproach yourself, your friend will 
 be restored to you, and you — rescued from 
 this danger, will be more valued, will be dearer 
 to your friends than ever." These words were 
 said with a softness of manner, which would, at 
 any other time, have overwhelmed poor Con- 
 stance with confusion. 
 
 *' But see, see !" said she, " she revives — 
 " tell me, tell me, how you feel ;"" eagerly in- 
 quired she, as Miss Sperling looked round 
 her, and extended her hand. — " She is only 
 stunned. Thank God !" exclaimed Constance; 
 her warm heart glowing to Him who had 
 been a present help in trouble. " And you. 
 Sir Charles ;" said she, her lively affections 
 expanding to human objects, "you have saved 
 me before, and I did not thank you — forgive 
 me, and believe that I shall never forget your 
 kindness, "" she added, the blood rushing to her 
 cheeks as she spoke ; whilst in the ardour of 
 the moment, she half extended her hand 
 towards him. She withdrew it, however, on
 
 CONSTANCE. 105 
 
 hearing footsteps, so instinctive, even in our 
 most excited moments, is the sense of propriety 
 in a pure female mind; but Sir Charles was 
 resolved not to be cheated of the half-proffered 
 favour. He pressed respectfully, but some- 
 what w^armly, the pledge of gratitude; but his 
 manner was far more modest, and respectful, 
 than it had hitherto been ; for he knew how to 
 combine, most happily, an expression of fervent 
 admiration towards one object, with that of the 
 utmost reverence. Meanwhile, servants, cloaks, 
 and condolences arrived in profusion : a sort of 
 litter was formed for Miss Sperling, by the 
 united arms of the old butler, the two house- 
 maids, and the dairy-maid. Covered with 
 every variety of wrapper, and looking like a 
 bundle of shawls, she was carried down the 
 avenue, and Constance, wrapped in a thick 
 Spanish mantilla of Sir Charles's, and leaning 
 on his arm and that of Captain Powis regained 
 the drawing-room. 
 
 F 5
 
 106 
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 O ! lost to virtue, lost to manlv thous-ht. 
 Lost to the noble sallies of the soul ; 
 Who think it solitude to be alone. — Young. 
 
 Brushing, with hasty steps, the dew away. — Gray . 
 
 To those of my readers who may be very 
 anxious about the recovery of Miss Sperhng, 
 it may be satisfactory to learn, that by dint of 
 lavender drops, gruel, warm bottles, cooling 
 draughts, much pity, and plenty of her fa- 
 vourite remedy, sleep, the young lady was 
 actually in tolerable health the next day, but, by 
 her own acknowledgment, on the road only to 
 convalescence a week afterwards; for she was 
 one of those persons, who having no other 
 earthly importance, are fond of the distinction 
 that a little illness gives them, and always keep 
 up the game to the last. Constance was very 
 attentive to her, and by force of sympathy, would
 
 CONSTANCE. 107 
 
 have become attached to her, had there been a sin- 
 gle lov cable property in Miss Sperling. They part- 
 ed, nevertheless, with mutual regret, when the 
 full period allowed for Mrs. CattelFs visit being 
 completed, Constance bade adieu to Powis Court. 
 But there was one person, who, without altering 
 a muscle of his countenance, experienced sincere 
 concern at the departure of Miss Courtenay : 
 this was Captain Powis, to whom her vivacity, 
 and gentle consideration of his feelings had 
 rendered his visit to Powis Court a scene 
 of happiness. Her quick appreciation of his 
 merits, and her unobtrusive, but constant en- 
 deavour to show him that they were prized 
 by her, had made a deep impression on the mind 
 of a reserved, and proud, but not insensible 
 man; unaccustomed to society, and looking upon 
 females in general as the most vain, frivolous, 
 and ill-judging part of the species. He saw 
 her enter the high-built, yellow, clean-looking 
 chariot, which Mr, Cattell hauled out about 
 twice a year, with a pang for which he could 
 not account. " She is but a girl," he said to 
 himself, '' and by the time that I see her again, 
 she will be spoiled enough no doubt. Such
 
 108 CON'STANCE. 
 
 men as Sir Charles will soon destroy the sim- 
 plicity of a young girFs mind. It is obvious that 
 at present she dislikes him : yes, her heart is 
 happy in its unconsciousness of any preference. 
 I wish her well, and should fate ever bestow 
 prosperity upon me, might perhaps wish her to 
 feel a dearer interest in me." Thus parleyed 
 one, who was seldom known to " commune" 
 with any thoughts but his own. 
 
 Constance, as she entered Newberry, thought 
 it looked duller and more formal than ever. 
 There is something peculiarly chilling to young 
 and ardent minds in the regularity and mono- 
 tony of unintellectual retirement. The hope- 
 lessness of change or interest, the absence of 
 all prospect for to-morrow, save a repetition of 
 to-day, are felt at an age when it is in the order 
 of things that the state of the mind, as well as 
 of that of the body, should be progressive. 
 Constance felt her heart sicken within her, as she 
 saw Mrs. Cattell resume her position by the fire- 
 place, and Mr. Cattell his place in the arm-chair, 
 and thought, that to a daily recurrence of all 
 their dulness, and drowsiness, she was con- 
 demned for the approaching winter. She almost
 
 COXSTAXCE. 109 
 
 looked with aversion upon the little tea-tray, the 
 formal, slender, well polished candlesticks, and 
 all the insignia of a set-in, long evening. But 
 she had too much sweetness of disposition to 
 repine, and too much wisdom to complain of 
 what was inevitable ; so she resolved to make 
 sources of amusement for herself. 
 
 In the first place, after a long night of un- 
 disturbed rest, she determined to acquire the 
 valuable habit of rising early, and walking be- 
 fore breakfast, a resolution not difficult to put in 
 practice after nine hours' sleep. She dressed her- 
 self quickly, and hastened out into the street, se- 
 cure of meeting no one that she knew, at that 
 hour, and sanguine in her hopes of enjoyment of a 
 clear autumnal morning's walk. The quiet 
 little borough might at all times well challenge 
 the inquiry, whether its inhabitants were all 
 at church, once made by a traveller passing 
 through one of our county towns, in the middle 
 of a summer's day. As Constance moved 
 briskly along the clean, but unaccommodating 
 pavement, constructed before the use of flag- 
 ged stones in streets occurred to the mind of 
 man, she discerned not a living being, except
 
 110 CONSTANCE. 
 
 the parish clerk, returning from ringing the six 
 o'clock bell, and an old decrepit woman, who 
 was seated upon the steps before a door, appa- 
 rently much fatigued. Constance passed her, 
 not without some compassion, as she contrasted 
 the worn-out appearance of the woman with her 
 own light-footed pace. She walked through the 
 town, and entered upon a large meadow, com- 
 monly known by the name of Lammas Land, 
 from the circumstance of the hay upon it, not 
 being allowed to be mown until Lammas-tide ; 
 for this piece of ground appertained by some 
 old charter to the town of Newberry, and its 
 produce was one of those many perquisites to 
 the corporation, at which the reformists of that 
 ancient borough were greatly scandalized. Pass- 
 ing along a narrow path, our young and agile 
 heroine seated herself upon a stile, from which, 
 shaded by clustering branches of hawthorn, in 
 berry, and overhungby a natural canopy of white 
 briony and nightshade, she could view the 
 grey towers of the churches, and the old-fa- 
 shioned gable ends of the town, not yet emerged 
 from the morning mists, though partially irra- 
 diated by the god of day. A faint hum of hu-
 
 CONSTANCE. Ill 
 
 man sounds, broke, but dispelled not, the tran- 
 quillity of the scene, which was enlivened and 
 ruralized by the lark's matin lay, and by the 
 distant sheep-bells, tinkling along the adjacent 
 common. 
 
 I shall perhaps be laughed at when I say, 
 that I do not believe there is any habit calcu- 
 lated to. form the character of the young, more 
 beneficial than solitary walking. Thrown upon 
 its own resources, the mind inevitably becomes 
 imaginative, or reflective : the excess of the 
 former is, it is true, an evil ; but is soon modified 
 by the pleasures of society, and the cares of life ; 
 whilst the latter renders us independent beings, 
 for none can truly be reckoned so, who cannot 
 bear the necessity of thought. The train of 
 Constance's meditations was, however, disturbed 
 on this occasion by the approach of the same old 
 woman, that she had seen in the High Street 
 of Newberry. She dragged a weary pace, her arm 
 laden with a basket, and the bright red cloak 
 on her shoulders seeming to oppress her feeble 
 form with its weight. As she drew near the 
 stile, Constance descended from it, saying to her, 
 " Good woman,let me help you with your basket."
 
 112 CONSTANCE. 
 
 " Thank you, young lady. " 
 
 " How far have you to go ? I will carry it 
 a little way for you.*" 
 
 " Nay, 'tis not for such as you to carry an 
 old woman's basket; but if you will, — I live 
 at Bird-brook, close again the trees yonder." 
 
 '' O, I can walk there !"" said Constance, 
 stoutly proceeding with the basket on her arm, 
 but acknowledging to herself that she found it 
 very heavy. 
 
 *' And what have you been to Newberry for, 
 good woman — to fetch these eggs.'^ 
 
 " Nay, not wholly that,"' said the old wo- 
 man, with a sigh — " I went to fetch a letter, 
 and found none. '" 
 
 " And was it from one of your children ? 
 and were you much disappointed.'^" 
 
 " Ay I but it's not the first disappointment 
 that I have had in my day. Two fine boys 
 have I lost ; one at sea, the other got a kiqk 
 in training Sir Charles's fine hunter, and he 
 never held up his head afterwards. They say 
 he broke a vessel— but he was long on the bed 
 of affliction, but now he's at rest, yonder in 
 the churchyard."
 
 CONSTANCE 113 
 
 " And have you no daughters, good woman ?" 
 " None, thank God ! sons are enough for a 
 poor lone widow; one indeed I had, but she lies 
 by her brother. She went to live in service with 
 a relation of Sir Charles Marchmont's in Lon- 
 don, and came home to me in a consumption, 
 and of that, not all the doctors in the world 
 could cure her." 
 
 " I hope that Sir Charles was kind to you 
 upon that occasion," said Constance, hesi- 
 tatingly. 
 
 " He was but a boy of fifteen, then," said 
 the old woman, " and knew nothing about us, 
 but he would give the coat oiF his back to any 
 poor soul that wanted help. When he came to 
 the Priory after his tour, two years ago. Mr. 
 Bouverie made it a point to tell him how that 
 my poor Susan caught her death in his relation's 
 service, and since that he has been very good to 
 me— too good — too generous for his means, poor 
 young man !"' 
 
 " And is he, then, in embarrassments ?'** 
 asked Constance. 
 
 " Why, my good Miss, they say that every 
 inch of his estates is what they call mort-
 
 114 CONSTANCE. 
 
 gaged, and he has not wherewithal to keep up 
 his rank, poor young gentleman !" As she thus 
 spoke, they came to the last stile, which sepa- 
 rated the highly cultivated field, along the edge 
 of which they had been walking, from a rushy, 
 three-cornered slip of ground immediately adja- 
 cent to the village church : here they parted ; the 
 old woman with difficulty gaining the narrow, 
 but distinct path which led to her home, through 
 the churchyard, and Constance bidding her fare- 
 well, after receiving instructions how to find her 
 out when opportunity offered. With a light 
 step, and a countenance glowing with health 
 and good-humour, she retraced her steps, and 
 reached her guardian's abode, fortunate enough 
 to enter the breakfast parlour, before the last 
 spoonful of Bohea had been inserted into the 
 little silver tea-pot. 
 
 The monotony of Constance's existence was 
 such, that she soon found the love of news and 
 of gossip, which pervaded the town of New- 
 berry, becoming infectious. Soon after her re- 
 turn thither, the universal theme of conversa- 
 tion was the close attention, not which Sir 
 Charles Marchmont was paying to JMrs. De
 
 CONSTANCE. 115 
 
 Courcy, but which Mrs. De Courcy was paying 
 to Sir Charles Marchmont. Miss Pearson 
 counted the number of times that her pony 
 carriage was seen to drive down the High Street, 
 at a certain time in the day, when Sir Charles 
 was frequently known to return from hunting: 
 the mild, but spiteful Mrs. Crawfurd observed 
 that the young widow had become very bloom- 
 ing of late, her colour being, as Lady Teazle 
 would say, " fresh put on :"" whilst even Miss 
 Monckton, whom Constance usually deemed 
 above the gossip of the place, remarked, that 
 it was strange Mrs. De Courcy should change 
 her seat at church, the one which she had re- 
 cently chosen, being just opposite to that of Sir 
 Charles. In short, the ladies made common 
 cause against her : so decided is their indigna- 
 tion, when they conceive one of their sex to 
 be encroaching upon the privileges of the other, 
 namely, that of making the first advances ; or 
 suspect her of disgracing her own feminine nature 
 by being won, unsought. In proportion as their 
 resentment against Mrs. De Courcy was excited, 
 their watchful interest in Sir Charles's conduct 
 was aroused. Miss Pearson cross-examined his 
 servants, intrigued with his tradespeople, and
 
 116 CONSTANCE. 
 
 never lost sight of his minutest proceedings. 
 Miss Monckton rallied him obliquely, sneered 
 when Mrs. De Courcy"'s name was mentioned, 
 and could scarcely keep her temper on the 
 subject. Mrs. Crawfurd made skilful in- 
 uendoes, saying to Mrs. De Courcy severe 
 things with a sweet smile, and covering the 
 sting of her speeches with a flattering sua- 
 vity of manner which looked like real regard. 
 Mr. Bouverie seemed incredulous, and dis- 
 missed all their insinuations with contempt. 
 Mrs. Cattell had made up her mind that Sir 
 Charles would never marry a person of such 
 " inferior family as Mrs. De Courcy's, whose fa- 
 ther was an attorney;" whilst Constance wonder- 
 ed at herself for being inquisitive and disturbed 
 upon the subject, and found herself looking out 
 of the window much more frequently than 
 formerly. Affairs were in this state, when Sir 
 Charles fell dangerously ill ; a fever, caught in 
 some imprudence in hunting, and in the excesses 
 of society, not then wholly redeemed from occa- 
 sional intemperance, threatened for some time his 
 existence. All Newberry was inconsolable, for 
 he was no less admired, than beloved. Every one
 
 CONSTANCE. 117 
 
 had some kind, and liberal action of his, to relate, 
 some virtue to extol, some loss to lament. Mr. 
 Bouverie never left his sick room, nor could Sir 
 Charles have a better friend to counsel him, 
 either in the ways of life, or in the valley of the 
 shadow of death. To this excellent man, of whom 
 it might be truly said, in the fine language of 
 Cowley, that he had "the light, without the 
 fire of youth," other descriptive lines of the 
 highest panegyric by the same poet might also 
 be with justice applied. All prose must be 
 feeble, when compared with language clothed 
 in such verse as this : — 
 
 His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit, 
 Yet never did his friends or God forget; 
 And, when deep talk and wisdom came in view, 
 Retir'd, and gave to them their due. 
 
 For the rich help of books he always took, 
 Though his own searching mind before. 
 Was so with notions written o'er, 
 
 As if wise Nature had made that her book. 
 
 But even Mr. Bouverie's philosophy seemed at 
 times cast down by fears, lest his friend should 
 be cut off in the prime of youth, and, as per- 
 haps in his secret soul, he might think, ere yet 
 his character had received the true impression
 
 118 CONSTANCE. 
 
 of a living faith. He avoided all company, 
 however, and spoke but little on a subject, 
 which notwithstanding all his fortitude, agi- 
 tated him not a little. But whilst all were 
 grieved, Mrs. De Courcy's distress was outrage- 
 ously afflicting ; and it was that sort of sorrow 
 which the least acute could not help observing. 
 Instead of her usually spirited demeanour, she 
 drove her beautiful poneys with a listless air as 
 if she cared not whether they took her into 
 the next ditch or not. She sent three times 
 a-day to the Lodge, to inquire, suh rosa, how 
 the young Baronet was : she was twice carried 
 out of church fainting, and wore no rouge 
 for a fortnight. Of course, as Miss Monckton 
 observed, if Sir Charles recovered, he would be 
 obliged to marry her from gratitude. At 
 length, after an illness which had nearly bowed 
 his young frame to the dust. Sir Charles was 
 pronounced convalescent. The physician and 
 apothecary," who had shaken their heads as 
 they dealt their cards at the evening parties, 
 began each to claim the honour of his cure. 
 
 " I can assure you, madam,"" said Mr. 
 Doubledose to old Mrs. Ruding, " I never
 
 CONSTANCE. 119 
 
 found my line of practice to fail in those cases. 
 People talk of nature, and a fine constitution, 
 medicine is superior to both. Medicine consti- 
 tutes a second nature. Really, madam, men 
 need never die of common diseases now-a- 
 days : though I don't believe that there are 
 five people in England who know how to 
 prescribe." 
 
 Thanks to nature, and a fine constitution, 
 however, and in spite of the regular attempts 
 made to murder him in a regular way, by the 
 united blunders, prejudices, and misconceptions 
 of Dr. Stately and Mr. Doubledose, Sir Charles's 
 recovery was as rapid as that of a young man 
 of twenty-five, who really wishes to be well, 
 and endures, rather than desires sympathy, usual- 
 ly is. One fine day it was rumoured that he was 
 seen leaning on Bouverie's arm, on the bridge : 
 the next, he drove out in a new phaeton, ordered, 
 as soon as he could write a line, from London. 
 In a week or two he was able to dine at Lord 
 Vallefort's, a distant relation, and very soon af- 
 terwards, to mingle a little in the usual society of 
 the town : for Sir Charles, well born and highly 
 bred as he was, had one good principle which
 
 120 CONSTANCE. 
 
 would have well become a betterman. He accom- 
 modated, without lowering himself to his neigh- 
 bourhood, and excited no ill-feelings which, by 
 a little courtesy, he could avoid creating. Such 
 was his popularity at this era, that poor as he 
 was, had he offered himself as member for the 
 borough, there was no doubt, as Miss Pearson 
 from calculation affirmed, but that he would 
 have succeeded'.
 
 CONSTANCE. 121 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless, 
 Their nights unquiet, lang, an* restless; 
 An' even their sports, their balls, an' races, 
 Their galloping through public places. 
 There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art. 
 That joy can scarcely reach the heart. 
 
 Burns. 
 
 Constance had soon an opportunity of seeing 
 how great a chance there was of Sir Charles 
 being spoiled. All the elite of Newberry went to 
 the autumnal races at the county town at a few 
 miles distance. Of course the old family cha- 
 riot was moved out, looking like a large edition 
 of those little tin carriages which one sees in 
 toy shops, and reinforced with four post horses, 
 the fat humoured beasts which composed Mr. 
 Cattell's stud, not being permitted to undergo 
 the fatigue of a long day's sport. Without, 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 122 CONSTANCE. 
 
 was Thomas with a large nosegay in his button- 
 hole, and aside him Mrs. Mitten, her hair ar- 
 ranged in four flat curls, a close border of good 
 lace round her brow, a black pinched-up bonnet, 
 most mysteriously fastened on without strings, 
 concealing her face, in which there was a great 
 show of hypocritical gravity, whilst a vast deal 
 of pleasure rioted in her heart. In the interior 
 were Mrs. Cattell and Miss Monckton, Mr. 
 Cattell declining, preferring, as he said, " To 
 ride a race with his own grey mare," though, 
 by the pace, it must have been a race with a 
 snail. Between her two protectresses sat Con- 
 stance, looking like a rose-bud between two 
 Michaelmas daisies, and converting, by the 
 mere gaiety of her heart, every little inci- 
 dent on the way into a source of merriment ; for 
 to the light-hearted, there is scarcely any sub- 
 ject from which amusement may not be ex- 
 tracted. The road was, as usual on such oc- 
 casions, thronged by every sort of conveyance, 
 from the neat chariot and four, or the stately 
 family coach, to the little chaise-cart, look- 
 ing as if it were going to shake out its contents 
 of men, women, and children, at every instant.
 
 CONSTANCE. 123 
 
 When Mrs. Cattell and her party reached the 
 race-ground, they entered the stand, and Con- 
 stance was enabled to enter fully into all the 
 dull routine of a day of pleasure. 
 
 The room and balcony were filled, but chiefly 
 with ladies, for the gentlemen being, or endea- 
 vouring to be thought, learned in turf matters, 
 preferred remaining on horseback or in car- 
 riages. Hence, on entering, Constance per- 
 ceived only two specimens of the male sex, to 
 relieve the eye amid a succession of pink rib- 
 bons, and gowns of that pure white with which 
 London belles are seldom acquainted. Occu- 
 pying a tolerably large angle, sat the five Miss 
 Tribes, whose brothers, James and Edward, 
 v/ere the only beaux who set an example of 
 brotherly attention, or of a gallant preference 
 to the fair sex ; but envious report, in the per- 
 son of Miss Monckton, assigned as a reason, that 
 Tom could never be taught to ride, and that 
 Edward was loath to soil his new white buck- 
 skins : insinuations at once frivolous and spite- 
 ful. Not far from the five sisters, but seem- 
 ingly insensible of their presence, sat the pretty 
 Mrs. De Courcy, fondling in her arms one of the 
 
 G 2
 
 124 CONSTANCE. 
 
 diminutive dogs which bear King Charles's 
 name, and which seem to have been born to 
 afford a suitable accompaniment to beauty and 
 affectation. The dress of the young widow was 
 studied in the extreme, yet so perfectly adapted 
 to her form and face, that one might conjecture 
 the little Sylphs and Gnomes, who presided over 
 Belinda's toilet, to have regulated hers. The 
 Miss Tribes, all spick and span new, in new 
 lilac spencers, new Leghorn bonnets, new white 
 worked gowns, new yellow gloves, new dust- 
 coloured shoes, with their redolent faces beam- 
 ing with the effect of fresh air and hearty ap- 
 petites, their thick-set figures, with that seeming 
 uncompressibility which country stays give, 
 presented, each severally, and all collectively, as 
 striking a contrast to this lady, as a daub affords 
 to a well-finished picture. Whilst Constance 
 could not but pity the absorbed yet anxious coun- 
 tenance of the widow, she envied not the perfect 
 contentment of the Tribe family, there was 
 something so totally unspiritual in their joy. 
 To be dressed, to be on a race ground, with 
 beaux and horses in perspective, seemed to be 
 their sum of human happiness ; their minds
 
 CONSTANCE. 125 
 
 appeared to comprehend the present tense only: 
 the past and the future were alike forgotten. Un- 
 luckily for Constance, she found herself instantly 
 entrapped within the vortex of their stupidity. 
 They seized upon her, by right, as a young 
 friend, concluding that she must be delighted 
 to get to them from her Duennas. Mr. Thomas 
 Tribe grinned from ear to ear as he placed her 
 between the insipid Miss Dora, and the deep- 
 voiced, brown-faced Miss Hester. James, the 
 man of figure, strutted before in all the dignity 
 of five feet four, a height to which none of his 
 family, father and mother inclusive, had at- 
 tained. Then they talked to her of themselves 
 and their brothers, as of the subjects most in- 
 teresting to her and to every one. Constance 
 thought that anecdotes of the Tribe family 
 would never end. They had cousins innumer- 
 able, their aunts and uncles were interminable, 
 and all had a degree of Tribe-like importance 
 attached to them. Things went on in this way 
 for some time, when a slight bustle near the 
 door announced a fresh arrival, and a stiff, 
 proud-looking man entered, conducting, as by 
 right, to the very centre of the front seat, a
 
 126 CONSTANCE. 
 
 pale, genteel-looking girl, whose plain but 
 costly dress, high carriage, and chilling manner, 
 announced an aristocratic importance. Her 
 features had been arranged by nature with sym- 
 metry, and were stamped by sense and reflection, 
 but wanted the sweetness of an affectionate dis- 
 position, and the vivacity of a happy mind. She 
 looked on the gay scene passionless, and with- 
 out enjoyment, and took not the slightest notice 
 of those around her. This party was soon an- 
 nounced to Constance, from the diligent in- 
 quiries of Mr. Tom, who ascertained it to be 
 Lord Vallefort, and his daughter Miss Herbert : 
 he farther declared the young lady to be the 
 first-cousin of Sir Charles Marchmont, an 
 heiress, and related, both by her maternal 
 and paternal kindred, to some of the first 
 families in England. The entrance of these 
 grandees was quickly followed by that of Sir 
 Charles, who appeared to belong to their party. 
 He lingered, however, before joining them, nor 
 betrayed any of that little pride which some- 
 time induces weak people to slight those be- 
 neath them when higher powers are present, 
 but greeted his Newberry friends with his usual
 
 CONSTANCE. 127 
 
 gaiety and urbanity. He was stopped in his 
 progress to Miss Monckton and Mrs. Cattell, 
 by a supplicating look from Mrs. De Courcy, 
 from whose dark eyes the most brilliant glances 
 emanated upon his entrance, and even her dog 
 Flush was thrown into agitation by the wished 
 approach. The face of the young widow glowed 
 with a hue so bright and natural, and her de- 
 light seemed so genuine, that the Baronet must 
 have been more than man had he not devoted 
 some moments to her. All eyes, at least those 
 of the Newberry people, were directed towards 
 them, and by many, the long-nourished conjec- 
 ture was resolved into a conclusion, that Mrs. De 
 Courcy would become Lady Marchmont ; but 
 whether the fair widow were herself of that per- 
 suasion was not so obvious : it only appeared 
 evident that she wished it. At length, released 
 from so agreeable an interruption. Sir Charles 
 with a smile and a bow, moved onwards. He 
 was again, not unwillingly, entrapped within 
 the net of Tribes, who had within their power a 
 victim of no small interest ; for Constance, some- 
 what pale from lack of amusement, and weari- 
 ness of those with whom accident had thrown
 
 128 CONSTANCE. 
 
 her, seemed to him even more attractive than 
 when in the full indulgence of her natural spi- 
 rits. His intention of speaking to her was how- 
 ever frustrated, for he was still in the trammels 
 of a course of interrogatories from the elder 
 Miss Tribes concerning a race which had just 
 been run, when another entrance summoned him 
 to fresh duties. 
 
 The door was thrown wide open in a manner 
 expressive of coming events, and Sir Robert and 
 Lady Dartmore were announced by the whis- 
 pers of the beholders. Her ladyship^s entrance 
 seemed to electrify the " natives," as she herself 
 called them, for nothing so resplendent had 
 been as yet seen that day. As a taste for bio- 
 graphy is natural to the human mind, a few re- 
 marks upon her ladyship's early history may 
 not be deemed impertinent. She was the natural 
 daughter of a peer, who had pensioned off a 
 lady with three daughters, enabling her, as a 
 compensation for the charms of iniquitous splen- 
 dour, to assume a factitious respectability. 
 Hence, the once comely Mrs. Stevens passed as 
 an officer's widow, and finally, by her extremely 
 discreet behaviour, succeeded in becoming the
 
 CONSTANCE. 129 
 
 wife of an attorney in a country town Years 
 passed away, the daughters grew up in loveli- 
 ness and plenty, and their mother blessed the 
 limb of the law with scions of his own. His 
 happiness, and her propriety, were the themes of 
 universal remark among the *' gnatlings," as 
 Pope calls them, in that confined region, a coun- 
 try town, where observation, being pent within 
 narrow bounds, is proportion ably eager. A 
 fresh subject of self-exultation presented itself 
 to the happy husband, when he was told that 
 a certain nobleman, a distant relation of his 
 wife''s, intended to honour him with a visit. 
 All due preparations were made, the lovely 
 daughters were presented to their kinsman in all 
 their attractions, when to the consternation of 
 their father-in-law, he claimed them for his 
 own, and establishing that claim by indisput- 
 able proof, announced his intention of intro- 
 ducing them to the world as such. Retrospec- 
 tion was vain, and the prospect of some pro- 
 fessional pickings through "my lord"'s" influ- 
 ence, and the hope of assistance to his younger 
 children, induced the polite lawyer to hush up 
 the matter. 
 
 G 5
 
 130 CONSTANCE. 
 
 Transplanted from comparative obscurity, the 
 three young ladies and their brother, of whom 
 Lady Dartmore was the eldest, soon felt the 
 disadvantages of their equivocal origin. The 
 great and high looked askance upon them — 
 with the middle classes they had no longer any 
 ^hing to do The charms of the eldest sister 
 were ripened into maturity before a suitable 
 offer of marriage' occurred. It was at a county 
 ball that Sir Robert Dartmore saw, and paid 
 her some attentions. On the ensuing day, her 
 brother, a notorious shot, waited upon the Baro- 
 net, and offered him the lady or a pistol. The 
 Baronet had scarcely recovered from his astonish- 
 ment to find that his gallantries were taken in so 
 serious point of view, before the marriage pre- 
 liminaries were settled. 
 
 They married, and for some years Lady 
 Dartmore shone in the hemisphere of fashion 
 with a brilliancy which was not, in the early 
 days of their union, eclipsed by her birth, or 
 diminished by some parts of her character. 
 After a short career of gratified vanity, however, 
 mortifications began to arise. She had set out by 
 proclaiming an insolent indifference to the stigma
 
 CONSTANCE. 131 
 
 upon her origin ; this, in a young beauty, was 
 admired by the men as high-mindedness, and 
 thought clever by the ladies, as a piece of policy. 
 By degrees it disgusted, was accountedindelicate, 
 and became, in the eyes of the world, effrontery. 
 She declared at first, that she knew herself to 
 be the handsomest woman in London, and that 
 she would never disguise from others that she 
 thought herself so. This also did very well at 
 first, but when her beauty began to wane, it 
 was expected, but in vain, that she would leave 
 off saying so. People will not be driven into 
 believing that which they can see to be an error. 
 They were tired of her ladyship's face, and 
 would not be brow-beaten into saying that they 
 were not. Added to this, certain unblushing 
 indiscretions began to make prudent people shy 
 of her. The men were afraid of one who 
 would shrink at no public display of her con- 
 quests. The women are always sure to be clear- 
 sighted on these matters. 
 
 Sir Robert and Lady Dartmore took refuge 
 in the country, and here after the first brush of 
 initiatory dinners, they also began to feel that 
 the world loved them not. And now shone
 
 132 CONSTANCE. 
 
 forth Sir Robert's characteristics. In London, 
 board wages, busy tradespeople, non-communi- 
 cation between acquaintance in small matters, 
 and the practicability of returning, or not, the 
 visits which you pay, or of being out of town 
 when convenient, all combine to cover the de- 
 monstrations of parsimony. But in the coun- 
 try, one cannot get off so easily. Sir Robert 
 was a man who, in the possession of five and the 
 expectation of eight thousand a-year, narrowed 
 to the very narrowest his expenditure. Obliged 
 by dexterous management to settle three hun- 
 dred a-year upon his wife for pin money, he 
 made up for that gulf of expense by every 
 possible deduction from the compound addition 
 which accumulated upon his hands. To enter 
 into the details of unnecessary parsimony, is re- 
 volting. Suffice it to say, when in town, he 
 bargained for inferior meat, kindly took off the 
 fishmonger's hands fish which he could not 
 dispose off, bought his liveries in Holborn, gave 
 out soap, candles, coals and potatoes himself, 
 and kept with difficulty, for few would remain 
 with him, just half the number of servants 
 which any other person in his station would
 
 CONSTANCE. 133 
 
 have maintained. In all points except expense, 
 he was hen-pecked to a degree by his consort ; 
 but where money was concerned, he was inex- 
 orable. She rated, she ridiculed, she deafened 
 him with her attacks, but she could never ex- 
 tract one single additional shilling from his 
 purse. Yet Sir Robert, with this grand defect, 
 had some respectable points about him. He 
 loved study, and was that most useless article 
 of all literary lumber, a fine classic. Allow him a 
 tallow candle, and a Greek lexicon, and he trou- 
 bled no one. By many, he was despised for the 
 latitude he allowed his lady wife, but the confi- 
 dence he placed in her was the only generous 
 part of his nature. He knew that she despised 
 him, and that she was vain even to the verge of 
 licentiousness, but he believed her incapable of 
 sacrificing her honour, if that can be called 
 honour which, whilst it is acknowledged to 
 exist, is totally severed from purity of mind. 
 He thought that her attachment for her chil- 
 dren would prevent her bringing degradation 
 upon herself, and he was right ; for Lady Dart- 
 more had for her offspring that sort of fondness 
 which coarse minds feel, something of the
 
 13i CONSTANCE. 
 
 nature of brutish tenderness, alternately beating 
 and caressing, but little resembling that in- 
 tense, yet chastened love, which a gentle and 
 sensible female experiences for her children. 
 But we will close this long digression, and re- 
 turn to the Race Stand. 
 
 " What a regular canaille !" said Lady 
 Dartmore, as she entered the room, and ad- 
 vanced, as by i*ight, to the very best seat, dis- 
 placing all who were foolish enough to be inti- 
 midated into that act of submission. " There's 
 not a well-dressed woman in the room,'* she 
 continued, a little raising her voice, as if she were 
 saying something which would give general sa- 
 tisfaction ; and turning round to her husband, 
 who crept in behind her, looking as if his 
 clothes had been made for him six years be- 
 fore, with an air of abstracted no-meaning on 
 his countenance, " Sir Robert," she almost 
 thundered, "desire the people to open those 
 windows at the side there, for I'm suffocated 
 with heat." 
 
 Sir Robert obeyed her, but having more pro- 
 per feelings than his wife, moved along with a 
 supplicating look to the motley assemblage, who
 
 CONSTANCE. 135 
 
 were put into commotion by this command. 
 His operation produced a revolution among 
 some of the company, for Mrs. Cattell and Miss 
 Monckton took instant flight from the threaten- 
 ed danger, and Constance, not sorry of an ex- 
 cuse to leave the Tribe family, prepared to ac- 
 company them. Sir Charles, whose natural po- 
 liteness was struggling with his impatience, 
 stepped forward to conduct her to her friends. 
 He managed also to say in a low voice, 
 " Miss Courtenay, if you go to the ball to- 
 night, may I have the honour of dancing with 
 you the first set .'^" when Lady Dartmore, per- 
 ceiving him, shouted out, '' Sir Charles March- 
 mont, I have reserved a seat for you by me.'"* 
 
 As she turned to speak, Constance thought 
 she had never seen any face which conveyed so 
 complete an idea of perfect beauty, but it was 
 the symmetry of beauty only, its expression was 
 absent. The dark and flashing eyes, full open- 
 ed, and clear as in infancy, when the distinction 
 between the pupil and the white of the eyes is 
 most strongly marked, the pencilled eye-brow, 
 the forehead, and nose, chiselled, as it were, by
 
 136 COXSTAXCE. 
 
 the hand of nature with exquisite delicacy, the 
 faultless mouth, and the profuse and shining 
 hair, might well establish for Lady Dartmore 
 the reputation which she loved best, that of a 
 beauty. But here her charms ceased : an un- 
 skilful substitution of artificial for natural co- 
 lour, gave to her countenance that mask-like 
 look by comparison with which the triumph of 
 nature's hues is most obviously shown. Her 
 expression was fierce, voluptuous, and inflexible. 
 There was no repose in her features — nothing 
 to dwell upon, no melting variations ; the fire 
 that kindled in her eyes was that of passion^ 
 not of genius. Sir Charles hesitated comply- 
 ing with her summons, until Constance, with- 
 drawing her arm from his, assured him that she 
 should not go the race ball, and sat down be- 
 tween her elderly friends. She was not so 
 far, however, from Lady Dartmore, as not to 
 overhear, although reluctantly, some of their 
 conversation. 
 
 " My dear March mont," said her ladyship, 
 " think of my distress. You know Dartmore Park 
 was full of visitors last week — I wanted them all
 
 CONSTANCE. 137 
 
 to stay the races — but one after another disap- 
 peared. Never, as I could take my oath before 
 a court of justice, did any woman behave better 
 to these people than I did — but they all went, 
 except poor Colonel Earle. Well, he too came 
 the other morning to me, and said he had re-- 
 ceived letters from Scotland, and that he too must 
 go. ' That's impossible,' said I, ' for the post 
 has not been in this morning.' So he was 
 obliged to own that it was all an excuse. So I 
 would have the reason out of him, and what do 
 you think it was ? You can guess, I am sure." 
 
 " No," said Sir Charles, afraid of touching 
 upon dangerous ground if he did. 
 
 " Well then, I will tell you" — glancing round 
 to see if Sir Robert was very close — " He 
 said, if he must tell the truth, that Sir Robert 
 was so very little conversant with the duties of 
 hospitality, was so silent, and so — so disagreea- 
 ble I suppose he meant — that he could not stay. 
 But I gave him the best reply in tlie world. 
 ' Good heavens !' said I, ' you have no con- 
 sideration for me — if it is so very irksome 
 to you to be with him, wlio, I must own, is a 
 learned fool, for a short time, what must it be
 
 138 CONSTANCE. 
 
 to me, who have his society constantly ?' So I 
 had the best of it there, had I not ?" 
 
 " Certainly, your ladyship's reply was very 
 pointed," said Sir Charles. 
 
 " Tell me, dear soul," said Lady Dart- 
 more, " the names and genealogies of some of 
 the people here. Absolutely their looks re- 
 mind me of a story of my dear Lady Lifford. 
 She was at a country ball, somewhere, and met 
 her wine merchant face to face at the door — 
 well, she behaved suitably to her rank and cha- 
 racter, and declaring to the stewards, that the 
 room smelt so abominably of wine and spirits 
 that she could not abide it, left the company. 
 Tell me the names of the red-faced girls you 
 were talking to — don't give me a regular list — 
 it would be like a catalogue of monsters in a 
 museum, for I never saw such fresh-caught divi- 
 nities in my life; they looked as if they had milk- 
 ed- their fathers' cows, and churned his butter. 
 Their dress is of the year one. And are thofee 
 animalculae you were talking to their brothers.?" 
 
 " A very worthy family," said Sir Charles, 
 " to whose kindness and hospitality " 
 
 " Yes, I should think they would feed peo-
 
 CONSTANCE. 139 
 
 pie well ; both their guests, their cattle, and 
 themselves." 
 
 " A very needful duty, nevertheless," said 
 Sir Charles, somewhat slily. 
 
 " O yes ! well^ we'll leave them alone, sweet 
 little cabbage rose-buds ! you can't marry them 
 all, so you're safe there. Sir Charles, you must 
 introduce me to your cousin — you hesitate — 
 you sad hypocrite, youVe afraid of my finding 
 out your secret — are the settlements begun ?" 
 
 Constance, she knew not why, hung almost 
 breathless to hear Sir Charles's answer. 
 
 " That, my lady, is a question, which ladies 
 may think themselves privileged to ask, but 
 which a gentleman is equally privileged to re- 
 fuse answering." His colour rose as he spoke. 
 
 " Well, I won't vex the dear little soul by 
 impertinent inquiries. Is she called handsome ? 
 I don't think her so ? she looks like a piece of 
 orange-blossom, with that white face, and green 
 dress." 
 
 *' Her complexion is, at least, natural^^'' said 
 Sir Charles, emphatically. 
 
 " So you really defend her, and pretend to 
 marry her for love. I know she's as proud as
 
 140 CONSTANCE. 
 
 Lucifer, and I can't endure pride. I never 
 was intended to be born in a high station, IVe 
 so little pride myself. Had I been a village 
 girl I should have been more thankful ; I am 
 sure it would have suited me much better than 
 the best station. What do you think .f^" 
 
 " I make a point of agreeing with a lady ;" 
 replied Sir Charles, with a suavity which made 
 it impossible for Lady Dartmore to take his re- 
 ply in bad part. 
 
 Thus ended all that Constance heard of their 
 conversation, for Mrs. Cattell, true to her din- 
 ner hour, summoned her to the carriage, and 
 Constance, not without a little of the heart- 
 ache, left the scene which had just become in- 
 teresting to her, in obedience to the commands 
 of her chaperon. She had not even the gratifi- 
 cation of a bow from Sir Charles, who, occupied 
 with some strangers, was unconscious of her 
 departure. 
 
 " How can I," thought Constance, " expect 
 him to look at or think of me, engaged and 
 flattered as he is by the great and the gay ? 
 How foolish I was to suppose that he even re- 
 collected my indifference and rudeness to him
 
 CONSTANCE. 141 
 
 on the night when he saved me from drowning ? 
 Why should I cherish such intense gratitude 
 to one who feels no interest in me ? It is true, 
 my gratitude is due to him, but he would have 
 performed the same acts of kindness to Miss 
 Monckton or to Mrs. Cattell, or to others, had 
 they happened to fall in the way. I have, in my 
 own mind at least, paid him the full tribute of 
 thanks for his services to me. I will now en- 
 deavour to think of him no more." Thus she 
 reasoned with herself, and, to the beloved 
 inmates of a numerous and happy family, 
 there may seem little difficulty in the perform- 
 ance of her resolution. But Constance, desti- 
 tute of those ties which interest others, had in 
 her character a depth of feeling, impassioned 
 yet pure, which wanted some object upon which 
 to expand its tenderness. To imagine that any 
 one regarded her with interest, was not, as to 
 the habitually beloved, a part of her daily por- 
 tion in life ; but a source of joy, amounting 
 almost to rapture. To the generality of my 
 readers, this assertion may seem exaggerated : by 
 those who have been situated like Constance, it 
 will not be discredited. The fond and anxious
 
 142 CONSTANCE. 
 
 looks of parental love, the rapturous embrace 
 of a mother, prepare us for the expectation of 
 those dear ties, which Providence in mercy has 
 allotted to sweeten life, and render us even fas- 
 tidious in our notions of what ought to be felt 
 towards us. But these Constance had never 
 known. The love bestowed upon her, by those 
 with whom her life had hitherto been spent, had 
 been directed by duty; the attentions she had 
 received had been paid for : — disinterested 
 and involuntary attachment was at present new 
 to her ; and in all, but especially in the young, 
 there is a quick discernment of the difference 
 between real fondness and general benevolence.
 
 CONSTANCE. 143 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Then merrily, merrily went their Tabors, 
 And merrily went their toes. 
 
 See Scotfs Demonology . 
 
 Constance replied with a dispirited air to 
 Miss Monckton's inquiries of " how she had 
 enjoyed herself." These inquiries were made 
 in a gloomy, stately, untouched, untrodden, 
 sleeping room, in the house of a friend 
 of Mrs. Cattell's, where they where to dine, and 
 remain all night. No prospect had been held 
 out to Constance of her going to the Race ball. 
 Miss Monckton would have taken her, but did 
 not like to go without a gentleman. The fa- 
 mily they dined with were long past even 
 minuet dancing. Constance had therefore laid 
 her plans for a dull evening, thankful, however, 
 for Miss Monckton 's company, for there was
 
 144 COXSTAXCE. 
 
 a spirit both of ill-nature and benevolence in 
 that lady's conversation, which amused her. 
 She was not, therefore, thinking of the ball, 
 when she declared herself to have been disap- 
 pointed in the races. Just then came that im- 
 portant arrival, a note, sealed wdth a very large 
 coat of arms, and directed with as much preci- 
 sion as if it had been going to the Indies. 
 
 '* My dear Miss Monckton, what do you 
 think it is ?'' said Constance. 
 " What ?" 
 
 " Why it is an invitation to go to the 
 ball to-night with IMrs. Powis, but she has 
 not asked you ; you must go with us: — I wnll 
 not leave you in this dull place by yourself. 
 Where is Mrs. Powis, that I may go and ex- 
 plain to her that you are here.^^" 
 
 " But of this Miss Monckton would not hear ; 
 so Constance was obliged seemingly to acquiesce, 
 and to put in a little sly postscript which she 
 hoped would procure her friend an invitation. 
 She was disappointed, for Mrs. Powis, though 
 good-natured herself, was under the control of 
 her son, who was afraid that his horses would be 
 fatigued by going the length of one street twice,
 
 CONSTANCE. 145 
 
 as the carriage must have done, had Miss 
 Monckton made their party five instead of four. 
 A merciless silence on the subject was therefore 
 agreed on, which puzzled Constance not a little, as 
 she felt reluctant that her friend should know of 
 that inattention, and yet fancied that it might be 
 intended as an assent. This circumstance greatly 
 lessened the pleasure which she felt in her pre- 
 parations for her first public ball, but her friend 
 manifested unmingled satisfaction in assisting 
 her, and in inspecting her toilet. 
 
 Punctually at eight o'*clock the carriage, with 
 Mrs. Powis's compliments, stopped at the door, 
 and Constance, not without much chagrin at 
 leaving Miss Monckton, was quickly conveyed 
 to the scene of gaiety. The race-ball of 
 a country town was then, as it is now, fre- 
 quently held in the county hall, boarded 
 over, and adapted to its change of pur- 
 pose. Thus, the rendezvous of judges, bar- 
 risters, and attorneys, at an assize, and 
 the arena of provincial orators at a public 
 meeting, became the theatre where beauties 
 made their debut, and beaux their conquests. 
 Race-balls have been, from time immemorial, 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 146 CONSTANCE. 
 
 the concentration of all that is gay and splendid 
 in the districts where they are held. Here 
 country mothers formerly first introduced their 
 daughters to the pleasures of that world, of 
 which they have heard the rumour only in their 
 nurseries, " at a safe distance, where the dying 
 sounds" of fashion or of folly, 
 
 Fall like a murmur upon the uninjured ear; 
 or for which they have been holding preparation 
 in their school-room and dancing academy. Un- 
 fledged youths, who had just learned how to ask 
 a lady to drink wine at dinner, and who had but 
 recently commenced the anxieties of wishing to 
 please, were here first initiated into the know- 
 ledge of their own importance as elder, or in- 
 feriority as younger, sons. The high-born and 
 the fashionable here enjoyed the full privileges of 
 their distinction, their descent, property, and 
 station in society, being here more thoroughly 
 known than in the democratic haunts of conta- 
 minating London. A strong line of demar- 
 cation was drawn between the denizens of 
 the town and the freeholders of the country ; 
 and this the exclusive country belle not un- 
 frequently rendered more visible, by the conde-
 
 CONSTANCK. 147 
 
 scending manner in which she turned, or the 
 haughty manner with which she refused to turn 
 the burgesses in the mazes of a country dance. 
 The room, chalked with an incomprehensible 
 device, and lighted by dingy lustres, rendered 
 still more lugubrious by wreaths of laurel, was 
 but half filled when Constance, with her party, 
 entered. Those who had arrived were amazons 
 of the neighbourhood, noted for their assiduity 
 in the dance, and for their diligent search after 
 partners of a more permanent character than 
 those of the dance merely. There were the three 
 Miss Grantleys, famous each for tiring half- 
 a-dozen men down in an evening. There was so 
 much display of steps and attitudes about these 
 young ladies, and they had such an established 
 reputation as good dancers, that it was thought 
 an appropriate thing for young honourables, and 
 commoners in their teens, to come out at their 
 first ball as the partners of one or other of these 
 damsels, as it was sure to bring a young gen- 
 tleman into notice; although it was observed 
 that the honour was rarely sought another 
 time. There stood the neat, quiet daughters of 
 some country clergyman, in bold relief with the 
 
 IT 2
 
 148 CONSTANCE. 
 
 experienced votaries of fashion from some gay 
 watering-place, or perhaps the metropolis itself. 
 The gentlemen were a still more motley crew. In 
 most country places, except a detachment of mi- 
 litary come to the rescue, there is no medium in 
 the ages of the beaux — they are either too young 
 to be of importance in society, or too elderly to 
 adorn it by their exterior. This, to a certain ex- 
 tent, was the case on this occasion ; and when 
 Constance first entered the ball-room, there was 
 every appearance of her being condemned to the 
 forlorn hope of figuring with a school-boy, or 
 of hobbling down with gentlemen who might be- 
 her grandfather. But the entrance of a party of 
 modish-looking young men, in Miss Herbert's 
 train, dispelled these gloomy fears, and put 
 a whole row of young ladies into a com- 
 motion of pleasure. The most conspicuous 
 figure of this newly-arrived group was Miss 
 Herbert, considered by universal suffrage as 
 the principal personage of the room, and by no 
 means apparently herself opposed to that opi- 
 nion. To dismiss this young lady in few words : 
 there was nothing to criticize about her as ill- 
 bred, inelegant, or disagreeable. To assume a
 
 CONSTANCE. 149 
 
 precedence, which by common consent was al- 
 lotted to her, was not considered blameable ; yet 
 humility in one so young would doubtless have 
 been graceful, and even captivating. That which 
 has been said of her manners, might apply to 
 her face and figure. There was nothing objec- 
 tionable in either, except that the perfect quietude 
 of her countenance and the stately languor of her 
 movements, took fromher the attributes of youth, 
 and scarcely left her one of its charms. Con- 
 stance, as she gazed upon her unperceived, 
 thought it scarcely possible that the intellectual 
 Sir Charles Marchmont could select so unvarying 
 a companion to attend him in his path through 
 life. His young relative entered, indeed, leaning 
 upon his arm, and a perfect intimacy appeared 
 to subsist between them ; but it resembled 
 the intimacy of habit, rather than that of 
 love. Fortunately for Sir Charles's inclina- 
 tions. Miss Herbert was appropriated as the 
 partner of the principal steward of the ball, and 
 with him led off the dance. Sir Charles had 
 therefore considered himself at liberty to ask 
 Constance to be his first partner ; nor had he 
 given entire credit to her declaration that she
 
 150 CONSTANCE. 
 
 should not j oin the assembly, as he knew that young 
 ladies generally contrive to go where they please, 
 and especially when a dance is in question. It was 
 with delight that he saw her standing by the 
 side of her chaperon, beaming with youth, and 
 health, and animation, but overpowered with 
 confusion, as he thought, at his approach. The 
 fact was, that Constance had hardly expected 
 that he would have claimed an engagement to 
 which she had scarcely assented : willingly, how- 
 ever, would she have made the experiment, and 
 she was prepared to negative the request of Cap- 
 tain Powis that she would dance with him, when 
 the aspect of the Miss Tribes, with scarlet bodi- 
 ces, all alike, and huge scarlet flowers impartially 
 disposed in equal number on the head of each, 
 and a perspective view of James and Edward, 
 in clean white waistcoats, black small-clothes, 
 and all the insignia of regular ball dresses, im- 
 pelled her to the rash resolution of accepting the 
 gallant Captain's proposition. Her surprise, how- 
 ever, was extreme at his asking her to dance, for 
 he had not been known, within the memory of his 
 friends, to have conferred such a distinction on 
 any young lady; his servicesbeing usually neither
 
 CONSTANCE. 151 
 
 offered nor required, except in cases of a distress, 
 when a run upon maiden aunts, good-natured 
 matrons, or even active and wonderful grand- 
 mothers, occasioned a general turn out of all the 
 effective forces that could be mustered at Powis 
 Court. 
 
 The fate of Constance was just decided, when 
 Sir Charles, his eyes glistening with more than 
 their wonted vivacity, and looking, even in the 
 presence of several elegant men, the most ele- 
 gant person in the room, advanced and offered 
 his hand to lead her to the dance ; but he 
 was immediately superseded by Edmund, 
 who, with a flushing cheek, and a manner un- 
 usually excited, claimed Miss Courtenay as his 
 partner. Sir Charles's disappointment com- 
 pletely overcame a temper naturally somewhat 
 hasty: he expostulated almost angrily, when 
 Constance, vexed and almost tearful, entreated 
 him as a favour to herself, to drop the contest. 
 The request was instantly acceded to, for Sir 
 Charles, punctilious as men of his rank and time 
 were, about his rights and precedence, knew how 
 to yield, when to oppose appeared to pain a 
 favourite individual.
 
 152 CONSTANCE. 
 
 It seemed as if Captain Powis desired to emu- 
 late his example, for he instantly entreated Con- 
 stance to intimate her wishes to him, and assured 
 her that they should be obeyed. " No, Captain 
 Powis," said she, " I have promised to dance 
 with you, and do not wish to release you from 
 your engagement to me. My promise to you," 
 said she, turning to Sir Charles, " was conditional; 
 but if," she continued with some eagerness, " you 
 will give me an opportunity of explaining it all 
 to you, I am sure you will neither be angry with 
 me nor with Captain Powis." 
 
 This was no difficult boon to crave ; and 
 Constance, when her probation with Captain 
 Powis was completed, found herself the far too 
 happy partner of Sir Charles. Who, as they pa- 
 raded the ball-room, in a little interval of pre- 
 paration, which often occurred in those days 
 when ladies chose the tune and decided the figure, 
 who would not have said that they were destined 
 for each other ? Her youthful beauty, of which 
 those who knew her best thought least; the spirit, 
 grace, and intelligence, which were displayed 
 in her familiar discourse; the " eloquent blood" 
 speaking, as it were, in her cheeks ; the eye, im-
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 153 
 
 passioned, yet unspeakably soft and innocent ; — 
 these, and a thousand undefinable attractions 
 which were brought into play by the gaiety of 
 the moment, might well authorize the admira- 
 tion of a man her superior in station, and 
 show her worthy of being his choice. On 
 the other hand, the accomplished Sir Charles 
 was proverbially dangerous and fascinating 
 to the fair sex. The uniform deference which 
 he paid to them, his high tone of feeling, 
 and mode of acting on every point where 
 honour and generosity could be concerned, the 
 variety of his talents, his address in conver- 
 sation, and, perhaps, even the very circum- 
 stances of his unfortunate history, rendered it the 
 universal opinion that few women could receive 
 his attentions with indifference. Yet, had the smi- 
 ling object of his preference possessed, at that 
 moment, the power of probing every secret of 
 his heart, she would have recoiled with horror 
 at her own incipient feelings towards him ; nor, 
 had she possessed experience to analyze his prin- 
 ciples, would she have returned from the ex- 
 amination the happy girl she that night was. 
 She found courage, on the first onset of their 
 
 H 5
 
 154 CONSTANCE. 
 
 conversation, to tell him the cause of her breach 
 of promise to him. Sir Charles laughed so heartily 
 at her simple horror of the Mr. Tribes, that 
 she almost repented having brought her friends 
 into ridicule. Yet, in the volatility of her young 
 heart, she could not refrain from laughing also. 
 This beginning broke the ice, as it were, of that 
 coldness, which the girlish timidity of Constance, 
 and the consciousness of Sir Charles, had esta- 
 blished hitherto between them. For the first 
 time, the Baronet saw her in her true colours. 
 The originality of her character, its native hu- 
 mour, the wildness of her spirits when uncon- 
 trolled, the enthusiasm, yet delicacy of her feel- 
 ings, broke upon him by degrees ; for he pos- 
 sessed a quick discernment of excellence, and 
 that which he had hitherto only imagined her to 
 be, he found her actually to prove. Very difficult 
 did this young couple find it to separate when 
 the dance began, and to stand, like a regiment 
 of soldiers, in two separate lines, gazing at each 
 other whilst an insurmountable barrier of form 
 was between them. But in the now despised 
 country dance, there were innumerable oppor- 
 tunities of little sio^nificant attentions which are
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 155 
 
 wholly impracticable in the measured step of 
 a quadrille. To lead down the dance with the 
 partner whom you preferred, was sometimes 
 the prelude to an offer at the end of it ; in 
 poussette, many kind words might be uttered, 
 and even the separation in hands-across was but 
 momentary. But now it is all a system of set- 
 ting and rigardooning ; the gentlemen and la- 
 dies seem afraid to touch one another ; they 
 figure away as if they were in the presence of 
 their dancing-master, and resign a partner with 
 whom they can have no communication beyond 
 a few syllables, with the same composure as 
 they make a balancee. In the happy days of my 
 heroine, it was permitted also, for a lady, after 
 dancing down thirty or forty couple, to take a 
 little breathing time at the bottom of her set 
 with her partner ; and here the interrupted con- 
 verse of the dance was frequently renewed with 
 spirits accelerated, not jaded by the exhila- 
 rating exercise in which they each joined. 
 
 " Did you observe Lady Dartmore this morn- 
 ing, on the race-stand ?" inquired Sir Charles, 
 as he seated himself by Miss Courtenay. 
 
 " Yes, I not only saw, but heard her."
 
 156 CONSTANCE. 
 
 " And what did you think of her ? did you 
 subscribe to the general opinion of her matchless 
 beauty ?" 
 
 " I thought her beautifal, certainly — but I 
 believe she is a friend of yours." 
 
 " An acquaintance, not a friend; pray do not 
 hesitate to say what you really think of her." 
 
 At this instant the lady in question entered 
 the room, displaying all the advantages which 
 full dress is supposed to give. Her form, round- 
 ed by self-indulgence almost into corpulency, 
 seemed disdainful of the stiff stays, and tight 
 scanty dress, which it was then the fashion to 
 wear, and impatient to burst the restraints it 
 was compelled to assume. But, while clipped in 
 below, it was unmercifully exposed above, and 
 made due amends by its display of neck and 
 shoulders, for the tyrannical compression of the 
 waist. Hence, Lady Dartmore seemed rather 
 to waddle than to walk along the room, whilst 
 leaning on the arm of a jolly fox-hunting lord of 
 the neighbourhood, and followed by her hus- 
 band, creeping along, as if he were afraid of 
 treading upon her heels, she made her way into 
 the centre of the ball room. Her hair was en-
 
 CONSTANCE. 157 
 
 circled by a bandeau of diamonds, and the ex- 
 tensive region of her throat and shoulders pro- 
 fusely adorned with jewels. Yet, attired as she 
 was, she wanted the genuine attributes of a 
 lady, and even Sir Robert had more the ap- 
 pearance of original gentility than his splendid 
 wife. 
 
 " I should like," said Sir Charles, as he care- 
 lessly returned Lady Dartmore's gracious bow, 
 " I should like. Miss Courtenay, to know your 
 opinion of her."*' 
 
 " Well then — but it is very wrong to speak 
 upon such slight knowledge ; she seems to me 
 to have beauty without attractions, pride with- 
 out dignity, courage without ease, fluency 
 without wit ; and, from all I have heard, wealth 
 without enjoyment.*" 
 
 " Tolerably severe, but undoubtedly true. 
 And what do you say to her charming help- 
 mate.?'' 
 
 Why, I pity and despise him too much, if 
 all Miss Monckton tells me be true, to say any 
 thing about him." 
 
 . " To pursue your mode of illustration," said 
 Sir Charles, *' I should observe, that Sir Robert
 
 158 CONSTANCE. 
 
 comprises within himself all the machinery ne- 
 cessary to compose animated nature, without a 
 spark of its ethereal essence. He has learning 
 without sense, narrowness without prudence, 
 for a man who goes into extremes in any way, 
 cannot properly be said to have prudence ; and 
 to crown the whole, you never can tell whether 
 he be asleep or awake. He is the only man 
 whom I ever saw sleep standing: look at him 
 now, are not his eyes shut ?*" 
 
 " They are," replied Constance, " and to say 
 the truth, that argues his prudence, for surely 
 those lack-lustre orbs must be half put out with 
 the brilliancy of his lady. She reminds me of 
 Mrs. Bland, or Mrs. Mountain, in an afterpiece 
 which I saw. She seems painted for stage 
 effect : in a room, it amounts to daubing. But 
 I blush for myself, and for you, at passing our 
 time so uncharitably, and never will I again be 
 betrayed into such wicked ill-nature." 
 
 " Believe me, you are wrong in terming it so. 
 To dwell upon the frailties of our friends, to 
 accuse them upon conjecture, or to set down 
 aught in malice against the humble and un- 
 offending, is ill-nature. But to discriminate
 
 CONSTANCE. 159 
 
 shades of character so coarsely blazoned forth 
 as those of Sir Robert and Lady Dartmore, is 
 unavoidable ; unless you mean to close your 
 eyes upon all moral distinction, and to view all 
 men and women in the mist with which what is 
 called charity would seek to envelope all the 
 frailties and foibles of mankind." 
 
 "But," said Constance, "wearealltoo apt to err 
 on the other side, and to draw forth frailty, rather 
 than to disclose merit. Besides, I can never con- 
 sider it as a necessary point of duty, to point out 
 failings so obvious as those of Sir Robert and 
 Lady Dartmore.**^ 
 
 " Who is severe now ?'''' asked Sir Charles, 
 smiling. 
 
 But Constance was not allowed time for a 
 rejoinder, Mr. Powis of Powis Court claiming 
 her as a partner. Sir Charles being summoned 
 to dance with Miss Herbert. 
 
 Constance was now doomed to experience the 
 force of contrast, between a companion in her 
 pleasurable recreations, animated, intelligent, 
 and devoted to herself, and one who was ab- 
 sorbed in the consciousness of his own import- 
 ance, and in the antiquity and grandeur of Powis
 
 160 CONSTANCE. 
 
 Court. He stickled much about the set in which 
 they were to dance. One hada gentleman farmer 
 in it, another was mediocre, another was mixed ; 
 to be at the extremity of the aristocratical dance, 
 was more sufFerable, than to stand at the top of 
 an inferior set. Constance, as she passed, and 
 repassed a fashionable groupe, assembled round 
 Miss Herbert, who chose to stand leaning on 
 the arm of her cousin instead of dancing, wished 
 herself in the bottom of the Red Sea. Nor 
 could she help hearing some observations upon 
 herself and her partner, which abashed her, 
 because they showed her that both were the ob- 
 jects of notice. 
 
 " Sir Charles, who is that fine girl, walking 
 with a certain Mr. Slender of Powis Court, 
 I think they call his place?" inquired a gentle- 
 manly, self-assured, looking man, who was one 
 of Lord Vallefort's party. You need tell me 
 nothing about the man : my nephew knew him 
 at college, he was the far-famed fellow-commo- 
 ner of Oxford, who was annoyed by a mouse in 
 his chambers, and went to a shop to buy a 
 trap. He engaged to take the mouse-trap on 
 trial, caught the mouse, and returned the trap
 
 CONSTANCE. 161 
 
 next day to the vender, saying, "it would not 
 do." 
 
 Happily for Constance, she heard nothing 
 more than this anecdote, for a vacancy oc- 
 curring in one of the sets, she and her partner 
 were soon engaged in the mazes of the dance. 
 Soon after this exhibition, Mrs. Powis retired, 
 and Constance was conducted to the solid and 
 quiet mansion, where she was to pass the night, 
 every inhabitant of which was, at the time of her 
 demanding admission, plunged into profound 
 and enviable repose.
 
 162 CONSTANCE. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Silence, and whatever approacheth it, weaves dreams 
 of midnight secrecy into the brain. — Sterne. 
 
 Fame caught the notes with her brazen trumpet, and 
 sounded them upon her house-top. In a word, not an 
 old woman in the village, or five miles round, who did 
 not understand. — Sterne. 
 
 This was perhaps the first night in the an- 
 nals of Constance's brief existence, that she had 
 ever failed to close her eyes for ten minutes, 
 after laying her head upon the pillow. In 
 general, no sooner had her blooming cheek 
 pressed its allotted place of repose, than her 
 spirits, undisturbed either by fear or grief, were 
 hushed into that tranquillity, which health, a 
 good conscience, and a heart at peace with 
 others, usually impart. On the evening of her 
 first ball, her slumbers were, as might naturally 
 be supposed, less propitious ; often did she re- 
 view every little event of the evening. She had
 
 CONSTANCE. l63 
 
 appeared among the gay assemblage, unknown 
 and insignificant; yet she could not but per- 
 ceive that the attention of strangers, and the 
 admiration of all, had been lavished upon her. 
 She had seen Sir Charles Marchmont courted 
 by the great and the gay, yet she had found 
 herself incessantly the object of his observation 
 at a distance, and of his devoted attentions 
 when near him. She could not be insensible, that 
 it was her own attractions that led to this result ; 
 yet, like all who are highly gifted in one pe- 
 culiar way, she thought, with little pleasure, 
 that it was her beauty that produced the, charm, 
 but longed for some more permanent and de- 
 finite hold on the affections of others. 
 
 " How happy, thought she to herself, are 
 those who have parents, or at least kind friends, 
 to witness their first entrance into society ! 
 I envied even the Miss Tribes, the fond, 
 proud, approving looks of their mother. For 
 me, I have no claim upon the affection of any 
 one here, and it is probably compassion on 
 that account only, that induces Sir Charles 
 to show me any attention."' This idea a little 
 abated the fever of her spirits, and cast, she
 
 164 
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 knew not why, a dejection over her. After a 
 few minutes of sadness, brighter thoughts oc- 
 curred. '' Well," thought she, " whatever be the 
 source, I may cherish his kindness, and prize 
 his partiality, as that of the only being, except 
 perhaps Miss Monckton, who has hitherto 
 shown me regard." With these soberizing aiFec- 
 tions, she fell asleep ; her adventures of the 
 evening, her little triumphs, her playful ob- 
 servations, unshared by that pleasant sym- 
 pathy which young ladies know so well how to 
 bestow reciprocally, and her recollections of all 
 that had passed, deprived of half their zest by 
 the absence of one, to whom, in the luxury of 
 confidence, she could impart some of those 
 feelings which had not, as yet, taken too deep 
 a root to be revealed. This was a deprivation, 
 but perhaps not a disadvantage, and Con- 
 stance, in the later periods of her life, found 
 ample reason to rejoice that she had not had the 
 temptation of making a confidante in any friend 
 younger than herself. 
 
 On the following day, Mrs Cattell and her 
 companions returned to Newberry. It was a 
 gloomy, half-rainy afternoon, when they reached
 
 CONSTANCE. 105 
 
 the dismal abode in which our young and beau- 
 tiful heroine was to pass the long succeeding 
 winter. Let those who murmur at the noise 
 and inconveniences of a numerous family, ex- 
 perience, as a corrective, the oppressive dullness 
 of a life without object, devoid of all very in- 
 teresting ties, or destitute of rational society, to 
 compensate for that deficiency. Constance felt a 
 chill creep over her, and had a foretaste of many 
 a gloomy day, as she entered her own pri- 
 mitive bed-room, and saw the same broad- 
 bottomed arm-chair, with its polished mahogany 
 arms, the same white dimity curtains, the same 
 well-guarded windows, with dark green canvas 
 blinds, the same imperishable carpet, looking as 
 if even fairy feet had never ventured to make in- 
 roads upon its antediluvian patterns. She sat for 
 some moments disconsolate, but a short period 
 of reflection showed her the impolicy of dis- 
 content, and she resolved to " wrestle with the 
 enemy." " I can, at least, be a source of con- 
 solation to the afflicted," thought she ; and she 
 resolved to walk over to Eirdbrook on the 
 ensuing day. 
 
 Constance had before attempted to seethe aged
 
 166 CONSTAXCE. 
 
 person, whom she had met on the Common, and 
 whose name she understood was Rose Dean; 
 but had found, on arriving at her cottage, 
 the door locked, and had learned from the 
 neighbours, that the old woman was absent at 
 a neighbouring village, on some little errand, or 
 occupation. She resolved, therefore, to choose 
 a different and a less busy hour for her visit, than 
 she had hitherto done, and storing her work-bag 
 with such things as she thought might be accep- 
 table to Rose, she set forward, exhilarated by 
 the thought of making herself acceptable to one 
 human being at least, and reflecting at the same 
 time, how very limited had hitherto been her op- 
 portunities of doing any good, and how inexperi- 
 enced she was, as to the best mode of effecting it. 
 She set off in privacy, not even confiding to 
 Miss Monckton the pleasure she took in these 
 solitary walks; for there is a feeling of indepen- 
 dence, and of importance, in alittle mystery, very 
 tempting to the young and adventurous; and 
 besides, it was more than probable that her pru- 
 dent friend might have discountenanced these ex- 
 peditions, so unusual among the careful maidens 
 and matrons of Newberry, who would have been
 
 CONSTANCE. 167 
 
 afraid of cows, or of damp feet, or of the tooth- 
 ache, or what was worse than all, of spoiling their 
 clothes in a long walk. Leaving Mrs. Cattell 
 therefore in a safe doze, after an early, but not 
 hasty dinner, and Mr. Cattell writing a letter, 
 an operation which was seldom achieved by him, 
 except at repeated sittings, Constance passed 
 hastily through the streets, and»ascending the ris- 
 ing ground, soon felt herself raised above all the 
 sublunary concerns of Newberry. The morning 
 had been wet, but the brilliancy of the afternoon 
 was enhanced in its charms by the little difficul- 
 ties of small swollen brooks, purling along by 
 the side of the paths, or intersecting their course; 
 and the derangement of the earth's surface, 
 was finely contrasted with the serenity of the 
 blue and cloudless sky. Constance passed on 
 with a light step, but an unusually pensive 
 heart, till she gained the old church, within 
 whose precincts, even at this prime hour of the 
 da}^, a repose reigned, which was unbroken, 
 save by the flight and noises of a few rooks 
 perching their dark bodies on the pinnacles of 
 the rustic edifice, or affixing themselves to its 
 grotesque fane. " All here is rest,"' thought
 
 168 
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 Constance, as she seated herself on one of the 
 tombstones, the shadow of which checquered 
 the pathway, " yet who knows what an aggre- 
 gate of human woes might be collected from 
 the simple annals of those whose last memorial 
 is preserved here." As this reflection passed 
 across her mind, her eye caught the inscription 
 upon the head-stone of a small green mound, 
 tufted with the hare bell, " To the memory of 
 Susan Dean, aged nineteen, daughter of John 
 and Rose Dean, of this parish;" beneath these 
 expressive words, 
 
 " Depart in peace, for thy sins are forgiven thee." 
 
 " Poor young creature ! " thought Constance, 
 " this is doubtless the daughter of whom old 
 Rose spoke. What sins could she have com- 
 mitted, that the record of them should be em- 
 blazoned here ? Surely, so early a doom is sent 
 in mercy to preclude the mastery of bad passions 
 over the pure emotions of a young and innocent 
 heart." Such were her meditations, produced 
 partly by the scene and partly by the chastened, 
 not to say melancholy, state of her own feel- 
 ings, which seemed almost like the forebodings
 
 CONSTAXCE. 169 
 
 of evil to come, weighing clown her spirits with 
 an undefinable, yet oppressive sensation of me- 
 lancholy. Rousing herself from her reverie, 
 Constance passed onwards, closing the wicket 
 behind her, and walked towards the small strag- 
 gling village, pausing for a few moments to gaze 
 upon the lowly, yet picturesque parsonage, the 
 garden of which, belted with a low fringe of 
 laurels, joined the churchyard. The smooth turf 
 before the house was interspersed with parterres, 
 which in spring bloomed luxuriant in flowers, 
 and, even at this lovely season, exhibited, amidst 
 the gloom of autumn, like stars in the 
 darkened firmament, occasional remains of 
 floral beauties; for still, near the house, the 
 China aster and the Crysanthemum mingled 
 their staring blossoms with the red leaves on 
 the Virginian creeper, or the redder berries of 
 the pyracanthus on the walls. 
 
 Constance gazed upon this picture of peace, and 
 pondered upon the ideas of comfort and seclu- 
 sion which it presented — a scene which, although 
 it is so familiar to the English eye, yet is acknow- 
 ledged to be almost peculiar to this country. 
 " Surely," thought she, " there is something 
 
 VOL. 1. I
 
 170 CONSTANCE. 
 
 hallowed in a parsonage, as well as in a church ! 
 Who can look upon this simple dwelling with- 
 out envy, if the minds of its inhabitants be con- 
 sonant to the serenity which characterizes it ? 
 Here is a haven of rest for the aged, or a 
 sphere of hope, and piety, and utility, for the 
 young and active." She moved onwards with a 
 sigh, for some yearnings for a home, and that 
 home the abode of love and elegance, and the 
 scene of virtuous exertion, had already at times 
 taken possession of her heart. But it was as a 
 dream which she acknowledged to have little 
 semblance of probability, and she banished it 
 with a vigorous effort from her imagination ; 
 nor dared to picture to her waking thoughts the 
 beings with whom she could wish such a vision 
 realized. She walked quickly through the scat- 
 tered and ruinous looking cottages which com- 
 ])osed the village of Bird brook, and to which 
 small, but well cultivated gardens, and over- 
 shadowing trees, alone imparted an air of cheer- 
 fulness. It was Saturday, and the cottagers 
 were mostly employed at this time of the after- 
 noon in cleaning up their narrow domains, and 
 in arranging the little furnitui-e which they pos-
 
 CONSTANCE. 171 
 
 sessed. Constance observed that Rose had 
 finished her task, and was seated in her oaken 
 arm-chair within the enclosure of her ample 
 chimney. A wood fire, her tea-things arranged 
 before her, and the neat appearance, and com- 
 posed, though sad and abstracted look of the old 
 woman, presented a picture which the lover of 
 village scenes might not have disdained to paint, 
 especially as the leading figure, with the strong 
 light reflected upon her brow and features, was 
 not unlike one of Girardot's favourite subjects. 
 
 " Well, Rose," said Constance, " I have 
 walked all this way to bring you some tea and 
 sugar, and I am glad to see you look so well : 
 but I have not long to stay, for I have loitered 
 a good deal in your churchyard, and the even- 
 ings close in soon now."*' She sat down never- 
 theless by the deep inclosure of the fire-place ; 
 and if charity had brought her to Rose's cot- 
 tage, curiosity now prompted her to stay ; for she 
 found that the old woman had once been a kind 
 of upper servant in the Marchmont family. 
 Rose was superior to most of her class in edu- 
 cation and ideas, and possessing a natural 
 discrimination and acuteness which are the 
 
 i2
 
 172 CONSTANCE. 
 
 result of experience. Constance found in her 
 observations the charm of accurate and minute 
 description, by which the simple narratives of 
 such chroniclers are sometimes rendered more 
 instructive than an elaborate and well-turned 
 description. 
 
 Some minutes were occupied in various inqui- 
 ries about the village, its pastor, and its con- 
 cerns ; and Constance learned from Rose, that 
 the living of Birdbrook was in the presentation 
 of the Marchmont family, for some member of 
 which it was at present held by Mr. Bouverie, 
 until Sir Charles should have a son or relative, 
 upon whom it might be bestowed. 
 
 " When he does marry," said old Rose ex- 
 pressively ; " but he seems to think little about 
 that. Nay, he says sometimes he should like to 
 live here himself. ' Rose," says he, one day, 
 when he called to see me, ' what think you of 
 my turning parson and marrying — coming to 
 live in yonder crazy old house, for I see no bet- 
 ter prospect before me.' " 
 
 " And what advice did you give him ?" asked 
 Constance, with a deep blush. 
 
 " Go into the army, go into the army, Sir
 
 CONSTANCE. 173 
 
 Charles, says I, for you are fit for nothing 
 but to be shot at. He was a boy then, miss, 
 scarce sixteen, and made free with every body, 
 or I should not have been so free. But we all 
 liked him, down to the lovvest stable-boy in his 
 grandfather's service. His poor mother doated 
 upon him." 
 
 " Was she like him .?" inquired Constance, 
 with suppressed interest. 
 
 " She was, and she was not — she w^as, in the 
 wild look of her eye, and in that random, 
 thoughtless way he has — she was not in her fea- 
 tures, for there he favoured neither father nor 
 mother. I was waiting upon Sir Philip, Sir 
 Charles's father, when my lady went off with 
 Mr. Ferguson. — Perhaps you never heard of 
 that, miss ?'^ 
 
 " I have, I have ; and how was it — tell 
 me all about it," cried Constance, with an 
 eagerness and impetuosity which she could not 
 conceal. " Was she guilty .?" 
 
 " I believe so in my heart," replied the old 
 woman, solemnly, " for she never loved Sir 
 Philip. She was once so gay and so fine, they 
 called her the belle, and the toast of the coun-
 
 174 CONSTAKCL. 
 
 ty ; and beautiful she was. And there was this 
 Mr. Ferguson that would have had her, only 
 her friends would not let her, for they were set 
 upon her being the Baronet's lady." 
 
 " Poor creature !" said Constance. " So it was 
 a marriage of persuasion ?""* 
 
 " That was the talk of the servants, ma'am ; 
 I was there often in her mother''s house, help- 
 ing, on great occasions, and long at Sir Philip 
 Marchmont's ; and it was not till the marriage 
 was all settled between her and Sir Philip, that 
 they would allow her to see Ferguson." 
 
 " And did she, then.^" 
 
 " I well remember, among the other servants, 
 looking in at the dancing: the assemblies were then 
 held in Newberry ; but since Lady Marchmont 
 went away, they have all been broken up. I had 
 a" friend, who let me into the music-gallery; and 
 there was my lady dancing away with the white 
 feathers in her hair, and her partner was Mr. Fer- 
 guson, and he was the handsomest man in the 
 room, and she was the handsomest lady ; and 
 we all said, that she was fitter for Ferguson 
 than for Sir Philip. And then it was said to 
 be all friendship between her and Ferguson, and
 
 CONSTANCE. 175 
 
 she was married next week to Sir Philip. And 
 a year after that, there was a sad piece of work 
 with Mr. Ferguson, and he went away abroad, 
 as they said ; — and if he had never come back 
 again, it would have been quite as well." 
 
 " He did return then.?"" asked Constance, 
 mournfully. 
 
 " Yes, he came back again, or Sir Charles 
 wouldn't have been Sir Charles now. I can't 
 tell you the ins and outs of it, miss ; neither 
 durst I, for Sir Charles don't like it talked of," 
 she added, lowering her voice. " But he did 
 come back, and it's said, that it was my lady's 
 doing, and that she wrote to him to come post- 
 haste from Scotland, whilst Sir Philip was in 
 France, to fetch her away — she was so tired of 
 being all alone in that there Priory — and Fer- 
 guson travelled night and day till he came." 
 
 " And Sir Philip — where was he ? How 
 did he receive the news ? — Her son, too ! — how 
 could she leave him !" 
 
 " Aye, miss ! that was a heart-break to her, 
 no doubt. But there's some things, and that is 
 one of them — the love of another man beside 
 your husband, that changes the very nature of a
 
 176 CONSTANCE. 
 
 woman. She left the boy, miss, though she 
 loved him dearly — he was at school then, or it 
 was thought that she would have carried him 
 away with her." 
 
 " Then he was not quite a child," inquired 
 her auditor, with emotion. 
 
 " Just turned of seven, miss ; for seven years 
 had Sir Philip and my lady lived together, 
 after Ferguson left England. But they were 
 like cat and dog together : he was a harsh, pas- 
 sionate, jealous man, fond of cards and such 
 like, and always in debt and danger ; and when 
 my lady went off, he was in France, or Italy, or 
 somewhere." 
 
 " Then he came home again, to his son, I 
 suppose ? Did he not ?''"' 
 
 " O yes ! home indeed ! But he wouldn't 
 come nigh the Priory, and we were all sent off* 
 to Marchmont. I went one of the first, and I 
 shall never forget his coming home ; and Sir 
 Charles had been sent for from school, thinking 
 that would soften him." 
 
 " And did it not ?"" said Constance, her eyes 
 filling with tears. 
 
 " Soften him ! no ; it affronted him still far-
 
 CONSTAXCE. 177 
 
 ther. Now Sir Philip never liked that boy, nor 
 the boy never liked his father. Some said, in- 
 deed, that Sir Charles was more like to Fergu- 
 son than to his father, and would have had it 
 that he was Ferguson's son — and there is no 
 knowing." 
 
 " O shame ! shame !" cried Constance indig- 
 nantly, and rising from her seat ; but she sat 
 down again instantly, checked by the look of 
 surprise which the old woman gave her. 
 
 " I do not say it was so, miss," rejoined 
 Rose ; " but I shall not to my dying day for- 
 get how Sir Philip thrust his son from him, as 
 the child came into the parlour full of spirits at 
 being sent for home, and ran up to his father, 
 asking for his mama. — Poor little lad ! he 
 never forgot it, nor forgave it, it is my opinion. 
 I took him into the housekeeper's room : at first 
 he stormed and pouted, but we amused him with 
 childish plays, and the like. Then he begged 
 and begged to go to his mama, and thought 
 she was at the Priory, and wondered he had not 
 been sent for there to see her ; and cried sopite- 
 ously, and begged so hard, that we all cried 
 
 i5
 
 178 CONSTANCE. 
 
 " Crue], cruel mother !" said Constance, 
 weeping ; " and did he forget it soon ?" 
 
 " At last one of the servants told hira that his 
 mother was gone away, and would never come 
 back again ; and I suppose his childish mind 
 picked up some sense of her disgrace, and that — 
 and the child turned sullen, and would not play 
 nor be sociable, but went by himself, and seem- 
 ed to pine like for a time. But, child-like, he 
 did, after a few days, forget her, and we never 
 heard him mention her name again. Nay, 
 Adam Spencer, that has attended upon Sir 
 Charles ever since they were both boys — and 
 Adam is a good deal older than Sir Charles- 
 remembers that his young master, long after he 
 seemed to have forgotten his mother, would 
 hang his head when her name was mentioned, 
 and slink out of the room into the grounds, or 
 somewhere." 
 
 " I must go, I must go. Rose," exclaimed Con- 
 stance, as, turning to the window, she perceived 
 the shades of evening gathering around them ; 
 and wishing to conceal her face from the obser- 
 vation of the old woman, she turned to the door. 
 " Good bye, Rose; — yet tell me," she added,
 
 CONSTAXCE. 179 
 
 as she lingered on the step, " what became of 
 Sir Philip ?'' 
 
 " Did you never hear, miss ? May be, it's 
 best not to tell you. — Aye ! the country blamed 
 him sorely about my lady, far more than they 
 did my lady — they said he had misused and 
 neglected her ; and many of his intimate friends 
 would not come near him. So the judgment of 
 God fell heavy upon him," proceeded the old 
 woman, clasping her hands, " and he died very 
 sudden, and it was thought from something he 
 had taken." 
 
 Constance sighed heavily. " Another day 
 when I come, you will perhaps tell me of 
 your own troubles, Rose — your daughter." 
 
 " My daughter ! — you saw her grave, then ?^*' 
 replied the old woman. She paused for a few 
 minutes, and, communicative as she had been 
 upon the miseries of others, seemed averse to 
 touch upon her own ; so difficult is it, where 
 the heart has been deeply wounded, " to give 
 sorrow words," 
 
 " Farewell, then. Rose !" said Constance, ty- 
 ing on her bonnet ; " I shall soon come again, 
 when I hope to have much talk with you about
 
 180 CONSTANCE. 
 
 former days." She was about to lay down some 
 money, but hesitated, feeling a pain in making 
 Rose's pleasure in seeing her an interested one. 
 " Yet such is the nature of these people," 
 thought she; " their necessities both render them 
 mercenary, and furnish the best apology for 
 such a disposition;" and hastily placing a 
 guinea on the old woman's table, she hurried out 
 of the cottage, and turned her steps homewards. 
 It was one of those clear wintry afternoons, 
 late in November, when the daylight disap- 
 pears suddenly. Constance was aware of this, 
 and drawing her shawl closely around her, 
 began her walk in good earnest. She would 
 have stopped, and asked one of the villagers to 
 have given her his protection ; but that would 
 have destroyed the enjoyment of her indepen- 
 dence, in the slight danger of which there was 
 a degree of romantic pleasure ; and besides, she 
 felt assured that she could reach home before, 
 tea-time. With a mind filled with melancholy 
 reflections and regrets, of which one person was 
 the chief object, she passed through the church- 
 yard, and was soon at the extremity of the ad- 
 joining field, when a large spaniel, known to
 
 CONSTxVXCK. 181 
 
 her as the favourite companion of Mr. Bouve- 
 rie's rambles, leaped over the style which she 
 was about to mount. She had scarcely time to 
 collect her thoughts, and to resume her compo- 
 sure, when she encountered the clergyman, some- 
 what to her confusion, for she could not help 
 thinking that he would consider her solitary ex- 
 cursion, so late, as an act of imprudence, if not 
 of impropriety. The meeting seemed, how- 
 ever, to produce so much pleasure, that the 
 surprise of Mr. Bouverie was superseded by 
 more delightful emotions. 
 
 " I am sure,"" he said, with his wonted de- 
 licacy, " that some office of kindness has taken 
 you to Birdbrook this afternoon ; but it is 
 growing late, certainly : this is a lonely road. 
 I must insist upon your accepting my protection 
 home, and trust that you will allow me to offer 
 you my arm." 
 
 " How thankful I am," thought Constance, as 
 she accepted Mr. Bouverie's proffered assistance, 
 " that it is not Sir Charles whom I have met. I 
 should have had the whole town of Newberry 
 ringing with the intelligence to-morrow.'' 
 
 " How delightful these autumnal afternoons
 
 182 CONSTANCE. 
 
 are for walking," resumed Mr. Bouverie, after 
 
 short silence ; " I love this time of the year 
 and of the day. There is a degree of calmness 
 which is almost heavenly in this partial gloom, 
 and even that melancholy, which pervades the 
 leaflessness of nature, is agreeable to my peculiar 
 feelings."" 
 
 Perhaps, prone to religious reflection, 
 as he always was, any aspect of nature would 
 at this moment, have charmed the young Vicar. 
 
 " I have been much interested," said Con- 
 stance, " in talking to Rose." She paused, and 
 scruples, which she could not but deem needless, 
 and a confusion for which she had no satis- 
 factory reason to give, prevented her from 
 touching upon the main subject of the dis- 
 course with Rose. "Do tell me," she said, 
 " what was the history of Rose*s daughter ; I 
 fear it must be a very sad one. I did not like 
 to ask her about it." 
 
 " It is indeed ; but perhaps it will be as well, 
 that Rose should tell you the story herself," 
 answered Mr. Bouverie, with a little embarrass- 
 ment. 
 
 " The wounds which her daughter's sad fate
 
 CONSTANCE. 183 
 
 occasioned, are now somewhat healed, and it 
 will perhaps be a relief to her to impart 
 it to one so sympathizing as yourself, Miss 
 Courtenay." 
 
 " Sir Charles Marchmont has been very kind 
 to this poor old woman, has he not ?" asked Con- 
 stance, who could, at this moment, think of 
 no one but Sir Charles, and who desired ear- 
 nestly to bring him up to the standard of ex- 
 cellence which the young and ardent ever wish 
 their favourites to attain. 
 
 " Sir Charles is always liberal and kind-heart- 
 ed, and in this instance, he has been extremely so," 
 was Mr. Bouverie's reply. " But I have never had 
 an opportunity of asking you, Miss Courtenay," 
 he continued, quickly changing the subject, 
 " how you like tlie retirement of Newberry, after 
 the gaieties of the races? It is very natural that at 
 your age, you should find a void, which, in the 
 absence of important duties, is apt to sadden the 
 mind, in a society so contracted as ours. T am 
 afraid we have no agreeable young acquaint- 
 ance for you at Newberry." 
 
 " Indeed !" said Constance, " I should not 
 mind that, had I any object of interest; mere
 
 184 CONSTANCE. 
 
 amusement is not essential to me ; my own 
 little Emily will be with me in another year, 
 for some months at least, and then I shall have 
 something that belongs to me. She is almost 
 the only relation that I have."" 
 
 She looked at Mr. Bouverie as she spoke, 
 and fancied that he regarded her with a more 
 intense interest, than she had reason to expect. 
 
 " Few," he said, " are similarly situated — 
 few so destitute of all endearing ties." 
 
 " Ah !" said Constance, " the ministers of 
 religion can teach us how to bear the loss of 
 friends ; but can you supply to those who have 
 no claim upon the affections of others, the en- 
 joyments which kindred alone can give? I 
 fear it is not in us that the love of God should 
 be all-sufficient to us." 
 
 " Providence," replied Mr. Bouverie, not in 
 a monitory, but in a soothing tone, " assigns no 
 lot to us, w^hich we may not alleviate by some 
 efforts of our own. To those whose minds are not 
 engrossed by near and dear connexions, general 
 benevolence ought, in a great measure, to supply 
 the place of strong interests ; indeed, in all cir- 
 cumstances, it is not only an auxiliary to hap-
 
 CONSTAXCfi. 185 
 
 piness, but to fortitude and patience. I have 
 ever observed, that the most benevolent, bear 
 afflictions best. Their philanthropy enables 
 them to feel an interest in the joys of others, 
 even when borne down by calamity themselves. 
 With regard to the love of God, I think that 
 sentiment mingles so naturally with all our best 
 affections, is so intimately connected with all 
 well-placed and well-regulated human attach- 
 ments, that, in that sense, and manifesting itself 
 in that manner, to our comprehensions, it may 
 be said to be all-sufficient to us. But I am 
 giving you quite a sermon." 
 
 " O no,'' said Constance, " and if you were, 
 I should like it, for there is not a single sermon 
 I ever heard from you that is not treasured in 
 my memory." 
 
 She said this in perfect innocence of heart, 
 but was surprised to observe, that the counte- 
 nance of her companion was suffused deeply as 
 she spoke. 
 
 " Well, since you encourage me to proceed," 
 he said, after a short pause, " I wish to illustrate 
 my point, by observing, that, as we have not a 
 single blessing which the rightly disposed mind
 
 186 
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 does not refer to God ; so also, when our affec- 
 tions are bestowed on improper objects, or even 
 our time and attention given to them, how 
 averse are we to admit the recollection of that 
 supreme Being as the governor of the universe ! 
 We pray not for such objects, we thank Him 
 not in prayer for them. This is a proof, by 
 contrast, of the close connexion which we hold 
 with Him, when we cherish the innocent objects 
 of love which He has assigned to us, -and in 
 which we trace the evidence of His benevolence. 
 But indeed. Miss Courtenay, I shall tire you. 
 You have drawn me into a subject on which I 
 should be apt to expatiate too long, were I 
 not afraid of making it apparently a subject for 
 display. I can, indeed, only talk of religion to 
 those whom I respect and love." 
 
 Constance longed to ask, whether he ever 
 spoke upon the subject to his friend, Sir Charles, 
 but not knowing how to introduce the question, 
 even in the most circuitous way, she was silent. 
 
 " It is upon this account," said Mr. Bou- 
 verie, " that I dislike religious parties, and 
 other meetings of that description, held by sin- 
 cere, but injudicious Christians. The sacred
 
 CONSTANCE. 187 
 
 subject, which is most dear to all right-minded 
 people, becomes a theme of argument, and a 
 pretext for display. If all the party be of one 
 mind, the discussion flags, or is likely to be so 
 dull, as to render the most valuable of all 
 themes, wearisome. If not, it shocks, in my 
 opinion, the delicacy of a pious mind to ' bandy 
 words' on such a topic. Besides, as there must 
 be persons of various characters assembled, the 
 humble Christian must, I apprehend, be often 
 disgusted by what is vulgarly called cant, in 
 religious matters. But it is a matter of taste ; 
 to my own taste, these sacred societies are ob- 
 noxious ; but I do not mean to condemn those 
 who like them, and I believe, that eventually, 
 to the highest, and the lowest classes, this 
 fervour of religious enthusiasm, so prevalent 
 among some of the most cultivated, will be 
 beneficial.'" 
 
 " And why not to the middling classes ?" 
 inquired Constance. 
 
 ''Because the highest and the lowest classes 
 most resemble each other. Their reasoning 
 powers areleast cultivated, theirpassions themost 
 strongly indulged : hence whatever is addressed
 
 188 CONSTANCE. 
 
 to the imagination and the feelings, and to 
 those only, will have most weight with the 
 majority of both classes." " 
 
 As upon this, and various other topics, they 
 discoursed, they entered the town of Newberry, 
 both, in their own minds, acknowledging that the 
 walk had been too short. Had Constance been 
 with Sir Charles Marchmont, she would have re- 
 joiced that it was now dusk, for she felt certain 
 that she was unperceived by any of the gossips 
 usually stationary at their windows. But she 
 was mistaken, for the scandalous propensities 
 of Newberry were too well organized, for some 
 scouts from the post of observation not to be 
 upon the look-out for news.
 
 CONSTANCE . 189 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Had we never loved so kindly, 
 Had we never loved so blindly ; 
 Never met, and never parted. 
 We had ne'er been broken-hearted." 
 
 Burns. 
 
 On the following day, as Constance was walk- 
 ing to church, she was drawn aside by Miss 
 Monckton, who whispered to her, 
 
 " My dear, are you positively engaged to 
 Bouverie ?"" 
 
 "No, dear Miss Monckton ; what can you 
 mean .'^^ 
 
 " Because the cousin of Miss Pearson's ser- 
 vant saw you walking with him over the Lam- 
 mas meadow last evening." 
 
 " Well, my dear Miss Monckton, it was by 
 accident that I met him ; and surely I may walk
 
 190 CONSTANCE. 
 
 half a mile with so grave, and respectable, and 
 quiet a person as Mr. Bouverie, without being 
 taken to task, either by Miss Pearson, or by any 
 one else. You would not have wished me to have 
 turned round when I met him, and walked 
 home a diiferent way." As they spoke, they 
 entered the aisle of St. Michael's, and the con- 
 versation dropped. Constance was on her way 
 from church, when Miss Pearson and Mrs. De 
 Courcy accosted her. The former was evi- 
 dently the jackall, catering for food in the form 
 of gossip for the latter, who, for private reasons, 
 chose not to appear interested about Miss 
 Courtenay's marriage with any body. 
 
 " How are you. Miss Courtenay, after youf 
 long walk last night ? You were late ; it was 
 twenty minutes past five when you came home, 
 I hear." 
 
 Constance could not help laughing ; " I am 
 sorry,'' said she, " that any ladies should trouble 
 themselves to look at their watches on my 
 account, for I am sure I did not think about 
 the time ; I only regretted that it passed so 
 quickly, IMiss Pearson." 
 
 " It is a charming walk to Birdbrook, I
 
 CONSTANCE. 191 
 
 don't wonder you were late," observed Mrs De 
 
 Courcy wishing to creep into a little confidence. 
 
 " Sir Charles has often told me, that I ought 
 
 to walk there some afternoon, and he is very 
 
 fond of the walk himself."" 
 
 "Is he?" said Constance, "I never met 
 
 him there."" 
 
 " No !'** said Miss Pearson, her b^-oad face 
 
 widening into a laugh, " it was very lucky 
 
 you did not meet him last night, for he would 
 
 have been the wrong man.'* 
 
 " But perhaps Miss Courtenay would have 
 
 had no objection to that, either," said Mrs. De 
 Courcy, slyly. 
 
 Constance was angry with herself for blushing 
 at this insinuation, but disdaining any reply, she 
 said to Miss Pearson, courageously, " I had a 
 delightful walk with Mr. Bouverie, nor can I 
 see why ladies should not enjoy the society of 
 superior men, with the same innocence and 
 impunity, as they do that of intelligent women. 
 You are quite welcome to publish my opinions, 
 in Newberry, Miss Pearson." 
 
 " O, not all," rejoined that lady, " only, 
 we all want to know," casting a side glance
 
 192 CONSTANCE. 
 
 at Mrs. De Courcy, " when we are to congra- 
 tulate you." 
 
 " Never!" if you mean with regard to Mr. 
 Bouverie replied Constance, with the impa- 
 tience of a person, who rejects a suggestion 
 disagreeable to her. " I admire him, I respect 
 him, I almost love him ; but he neither suits 
 me, nor I him ; and having said this, T shall 
 treat this subject with the silence which it de- 
 serves ; and I am sure that Mr. Bouverie will 
 do so also," she added, as she curtseyed quickly, 
 and bade the ladies good morning. 
 
 To those who are conversant with country 
 towns, it will appear by no means remark- 
 able, that this conversation should soon be 
 reported to Mr. Bouverie himself. It was, 
 in fact, cunningly related by Mrs. De Courcy 
 to Sir Charles, with the hope of eliciting some 
 opinion from the young Baronet as to the merits 
 of the fair lady in question, or to her chance of 
 becoming Mrs. Bouverie. But Sir Charles 
 knew how to conceal his own sentiments, and to 
 penetrate those of others. The intelligence of 
 Mrs. De Courcy was not, however, thrown away 
 upon him; for the first time, it occurred to
 
 CONSTANCE. 193 
 
 him that his friend's feelings might be somewhat 
 interested in the beautiful Miss Courtenay, and 
 he resolved to sound him shortly on the sub- 
 ject ; and such is the weakness of human na- 
 ture, and such, in particular, the weakness of 
 man's nature, that the very suspicion served to 
 enhance Miss Courtenay's attractions in his 
 eyes, and to increase his anxiety to be the first 
 object of her regard. 
 
 It was after a ttte-a-ttte dinner, in the dining- 
 room of the Priory, that Sir Charles, after some 
 general conversation, began the subject. They 
 were neither of them addicted to wine; the dinner 
 table had been pushed aside, and coffee placed on 
 a smaller one near the fire, when Sir Charles said, 
 with apparent carelessness, " So, Bouverie, you 
 were walking the other evening with the belle of 
 Newberry." 
 
 " Whom do you mean ?" 
 
 " I don't mean Miss Pearson nor Miss 
 Monckton, nor any one of the three Miss Sea- 
 graves, nor even Mrs. De Courcy ; I mean one 
 who would bear away the belle any where. 
 Miss Courtenay." 
 
 " Well, and what if I were fortunate enough 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 194 CONSTANCE. 
 
 to walk with her ? I know others who would 
 have had no objection." 
 
 " Oh ! but you don't know the sensation it 
 has excited in the town. The three Miss Sea- 
 graves are jealous, Miss Pearson is positively 
 spiteful, and Miss Monckton is piqued because 
 she thinks nothing less than a Viscount fit for her 
 pet, Miss Courtenay, who has superseded the 
 lap-dog and the parrot, and half-a-dozen ma- 
 caws, in Miss Monckton's affections." 
 
 " I am much obliged to you, Sir Charles ; 
 you are so kind as to allow me the jealousy of 
 the plain and elderly ladies, that of the young 
 and the pretty you keep to yourself,'' replied 
 Mr. Bouverie. 
 
 " But to convince you, my good friend, 
 that you have little chance with Miss Cour- 
 tenay, she was taxed with encouraging your at- 
 tentions, when her reply was, ' I admire, re- 
 spect him, but he neither suits me, nor should 
 I suit him.' — Upon my soul, he blushes ! — 
 Why, Bouverie, my dear fellow, I did not 
 think it was so serious with you." 
 
 " You misunderstand me. Sir Charles," said 
 Bouverie, gravely ; " I cannot, with my present
 
 CONSTAXCE. 195 
 
 prospects, think of engaging the affections of 
 any woman ; and that which I know I ought 
 not to do, I will not do, be the temptation what 
 it may."" He turned away as he spoke, and a 
 shadow of anger or vexation, or of something like 
 it, rested on his usually tranquil countenance. 
 
 Sir Charles seemed unaccountably affected by 
 this reply. He coloured deeply, and it was 
 not until after some minutes had elapsed that he 
 again addressed his friend. But Mr. Bouverie 
 was insensible to his confusion, and was leaning 
 his head on the chimney-piece in deep thought. 
 He started, when Sir Charles said — 
 
 " Bouverie, do you remember that we pro- 
 mised to go to one of the Newberry routs to- 
 night.^ I knoAv you hate such dumb-show 
 meetings, and so do I, but I do not like to disap- 
 point the old ladies:" — and so they walked forth. 
 
 The party which they joined was more than 
 usually animated, for Mrs. Powis, her son, and 
 brother-in-law, and Miss Sperling, were staying 
 in Newberry, and had joined it. Constance was 
 playing chess with Captain Powis when Sir 
 Charles and Mr. Bouverie entered. It was 
 remarked by Miss Pearson, that she lost her 
 
 K 2
 
 196 CONSTANCE. 
 
 queen immediately afterwards : then went two 
 bishops ; and a castle surrendered, 
 
 " Good heavens, my dear Miss Courtenay !" 
 said Miss Monckton, " what are you about ?" 
 In a few minutes she was check-mated. She look- 
 ed up, and saw that Sir Charles was standing by 
 her. He was watching attentively for her re- 
 cognition of Bouverie, and saw, not without 
 secret pleasure, that although somewhat embar- 
 rassed, it was far less so than that w^hich she 
 gave to himself ; but the quorum of ladies, sit- 
 ting round the room on little settees, or stationed, 
 with visages of apparent thought, at the card-ta- 
 bles, agreed thatVhilst Sir Charles evidently was 
 only flirting with Miss Courtenay, Mr. Bouverie 
 was dejected, and perhaps rejected. They in- 
 stantly made common cause in his favour. 
 
 " It was so shameful in her, to encourage, 
 and then refuse him. She might wait long be- 
 fore she would meet with such another. What 
 he could see in her, was a marvel." And the 
 younger Miss Pearson, who would have had 
 no objection to be settled at the Vicarage, re- 
 marked, that Miss Courtenay's girlish attrac- 
 tions might blind him for a time, but would
 
 CONSTANCE. 197 
 
 soon cease to charm him;" an observation 
 which came with considerable weight from a 
 lady in her thirty-first year. He left early, 
 upon the plea of business ; and Constance, too 
 easily forgetting his departure, enjoyed one of 
 those happy evenings which inspire subse- 
 quent regret, when time or change have de- 
 prived us of the objects which once consti- 
 tuted our happiness. She dared not task her- 
 self concerning her sentiments towards Sir 
 Charles : she ventured not to consider what 
 were his towards her. She felt within her a 
 newly-awakened sentiment, an interest different 
 to what she had ever before experienced ; and 
 though it required no prudent friend, no un- 
 looked for event, no romantic incident, to 
 reveal to her that it was a very strong and 
 a very new interest to her ; yet she ventured not 
 to consider what must be its result, so far as 
 her welfare or happiness were concerned. 
 
 It was soon obvious to her that her walks, her 
 visits, her occupations, were anxiously watched 
 by Sir Charles, and that wherever she walked 
 or rode, he contrived to meet or overtake her. 
 It was now approaching to Christmas, the wea-
 
 198 CONSTANCE. 
 
 ther was clear, frosty, and delightful for the 
 young and active, and not cold enough to chill 
 the pleasures of conversation. The few recrea- 
 tions of Constance consisted in a walk with 
 Miss Monckton, or an evening occasionally pass- 
 ed in the contracted society of the place : but 
 whether she and her friend strolled through 
 the old Elm avenue which adorned the 
 Priory Park, and which by ancient usage 
 was a public path ; or whether they wound 
 their way over the Castle Bridge ; or whe- 
 ther they took a safe and sheltered course 
 along a path skirting some fields to a neigh- 
 bouring village, the favourite promenade of 
 the town's-people, they were sure either to 
 meet Sir Charles returning from the hunt, full 
 of health, and high spirits, on his superb horse, 
 or he joined them, as he happened to be going 
 their way, or he overtook them by accident, or 
 sometimes he acknowledged to have followed 
 them, having a song for Miss Courtenay, or 
 a book for Miss Monckton, or upon some pre- 
 text or other, he always contrived to see them. 
 Miss Monckton took this, at first, very quietly, 
 for she thought it extremely natural that two
 
 CONSTANCE. 199 
 
 such delightful young people should enjoy 
 each other's society, and if they fell in love 
 there was no great harm ; and as there never was 
 any thing but the utmost respect to her, and de- 
 ferential attention to Constance, she did not 
 deem it necessary to sound an alarm-bell for 
 the safety of her friend's heart, thereby let- 
 ting her know that it was in danger. There 
 seemed indeed no obstacle to their future union 
 but Miss Courtenay's extreme youth, and Sir 
 Charles's present difficulties : the one, however, 
 was an obstacle which every hour diminished ; 
 the other, time, and economy, and skilful ma- 
 nagement, might obviate. The incumbrances 
 upon the estates would be gradually lightened, 
 Lady Marchmonfs death might be ascertain- 
 ed, the title to the Priory property made 
 good, and that estate sold to great advantage. 
 These expectations appeared to Miss Monckton 
 well founded : — yet still Sir Charles spoke not 
 his too evident wishes, nor ascertained by words 
 those of Constance; and Miss Monckton be- 
 gan to feel an anxious, as well as a deep inte- 
 rest in the matter. Nor was this out of cha- 
 racter, for it is often observed that old maids
 
 200 CONSTANCE. 
 
 delight in watching a love affair, on the same 
 principle, I suppose, that the light-hearted are 
 fond of witnessing a tragedy. 
 
 Such was the state of things when Constance 
 was invited to " dance out the old year, and 
 dance in the new year," at Mr. Tribe's. For the 
 first time since her residence at Newberry, she 
 felt the utmost reluctance to quit it. Her 
 whole soul seemed to be centered in the place, 
 and she could now picture to herself no happi- 
 ness without its walls; every street in it 
 had charms for her, every walk, each dell of its 
 picturesque vicinity, every turn of the road from 
 the Priory Park to the Phillbrook water was 
 associated with the image of Sir Charles March- 
 mont. Let those who blame her for thus aban- 
 doning her heart to a lover not declared, recol- 
 lect that such precautions are for the wary and 
 experienced. It has always appeared to me that 
 the generous and confiding nature of youth will 
 not wait for such declarations as are necessary 
 to justify oneself gravely for the sin of lov- 
 ing too well ; nor will it calculate how and 
 when, and upon the faith of what asseverations, 
 the tribute of a heart is to be rendered.
 
 CONSTANCE. $}01 
 
 Constance was not, however, permitted to yield 
 to those predilections which might induce her 
 to decline a visit to the Tribe family ; for Mrs. 
 Cattell, who had a high opinion of Mr. Thomas 
 and his brother, and considered them, she said, 
 as the two most gentlemanly young men next to 
 Mr. Powis that she knew, recommended her to 
 accept it, in terms much stronger than usual. 
 The dancing party was to consist chiefly of the 
 family, Mr. Tribe senior jocularly observing, 
 that " he could make up one cotillion and a 
 fiddler ;" but Sir Robert and Lady Dartmore 
 were to spend a few days in the house, and Mr. 
 and Mrs. Cattell and Constance were particu- 
 larly requested to stay a little time also. Ac- 
 cordingly, on a bitterly cold day, the twenty- 
 ninth of December, the old yellow chariot was 
 rubbed up, the two fat horses put into harness, 
 and Constance, with her guardian and his wife, 
 conveyed to the residence of the Tribes. It was a 
 large, rickety, banging and slamming sort of 
 house, famous for breezes, in which there was a 
 perpetual contest between the wind without, and 
 the children within, which should create the 
 greatest noise. Not one of the Tribe family 
 
 k5
 
 202 CONSTANCE. 
 
 was ever known to shut a door without sundry 
 reproaches and entreaties, although Mrs. Tribe 
 was screaming out all day to Hetty, " Come 
 back ; you've left the door open. — Amy ! here !" 
 — "Well, mama."" — "Shut the door, James, you 
 really have no mercy on us," &c. And Mr. Tribe 
 never sat down to dinner without saying to his 
 foot-boy, yclept, from courtesy, ' our man,' 
 " Benjamin, really my legs are perished ; no 
 wonder I have the gout — there's that outer hall 
 door open as if we kept an inn or a post-office. 
 There's not a servant in my house ever shuts a 
 door, Mrs. Cattell." All this admonition, which 
 only made one feel the colder, was thrown away 
 upon this large disorderly family, who might be 
 said to live extempore, and, from the unfortunate 
 circumstance of having a very good-tempered, 
 easy mother, one of the most grievous calamities 
 that can befal so numerous a household, were 
 always in confusion. The servants of course had 
 imbibed largely the latitudinarian system : ring- 
 ing the bell was hopeless under five or six repe- 
 titions ; mending the fires equally hopeless ; they 
 were generally let so low, that nothing but the 
 utmost skill could recover them ; when, lo I in
 
 CONSTANCE. 203 
 
 came a dusty house-maid in curl papers, and 
 discharged a whole coal-scuttle upon them. Let 
 those smile who live in tropical climates, but 
 these are no small grievances in merry, but cold 
 England. Yet nothing could spoil the tempers 
 of the Miss Tribes : they laughed as loud when 
 the fire went out as when it blazed ; they made a 
 regular joke of the bell never being answered, 
 and seemed almost in a state of consternation 
 when the servant happened to come at the first 
 summons. One or other of the sisters was con- 
 stantly on the search for the house keys, which 
 were usually lost twice a-day, and one or other 
 of their friends usually engaged in pinning up 
 the gathers and closing the gaps in their gowns 
 behind ; for as fast as one separation was con- 
 cealed, another came to view. With all this, 
 their mirth was unabated. 
 
 " Do you not think, Miss Courtenay, my 
 daughters have all very open countenances.?" 
 said Mrs. Tribe one day to Constance. 
 
 " If, for the term open, you supply the term 
 vacant," thought Constance, ^' I can perfectly 
 agree with you." 
 
 On the last day of the year, unusual prepara-
 
 204 CONSTANCE. 
 
 tion was, however, made for the reception of 
 Lady Dartmore, whose visit was considered a 
 great honour ; for the Tribes were by no means 
 in the first set of county society, notwithstand- 
 ing it was Mr. Tribe's frequent remark, that 
 he came of an ancient family — *' the Tribes of 
 Israel." 
 
 Accordingly, as the servants said, a great 
 piece of work was made, and every thing was 
 put straight for once. Stair-carpets were cleaned 
 and beaten. Books were put upright that had 
 lain horizontally or obliquely for months ; the 
 hammer of the carpenter, and the tools of the 
 glazier, were heard in all directions, and added to 
 the noise of the piano-forte tuner, and the addi- 
 tional banging of doors produced by the bustle, 
 made quite a concert. 
 
 Then the servants were to be tutored. 
 
 " Betty," said Miss Tribe, " you are not to 
 stick a piece of holly in the plum-pudding — it 's 
 quite out now." 
 
 " A plum-pudding without a bit of Christ- 
 .mas in it ! Why, it won't look noble, miss." 
 
 "No, 1 assure you, it 's not used any where. 
 I am assured it 's quite vulgar ; and at Lady
 
 CONSTANCE. 205 
 
 Augusta's, the other day, we had only a little 
 wine sauce." 
 
 " Little enough, I dare say, miss ; for Lady 
 Augusta 's not full-handed. Her housekeeping 
 is no great shakes, Miss Tribe." 
 
 " Yes, Betty ; but it's not fashionable to be 
 full-handed now," said Miss Tribe, escaping 
 from the kitchen, fleetly. 
 
 These, and similar hints, might be, it was 
 hoped, available ; but the difficulty was in 
 tutoring the younger members of the ten 
 Tribes, who, like the canary birds, were sure 
 to be noisiest, when they were most wished to 
 be quiet. 
 
 "Emmy, you're not to dance, even if you're 
 asked ; there 's not gentlemen enough for you. 
 You're to sit down until you're older. John, 
 if Lady Dartmore or Lady Augusta, at din- 
 ner, should help you to anything, you should 
 say, * Thank you, my lady ;' for instance, if 
 you send your plate for potatoes, say ' Thank 
 you, my lady.' " 
 
 "What should I say, 'Thank you' for," 
 said John, who had not yet arrived at the age 
 of civility — " they're not her potatoes."
 
 206 CONSTAXCE. 
 
 " Fie, John," answered Miss Tribe, reprov- 
 ingly ; but the younger branches of the family 
 applauded John's reasoning. " And O ! I do 
 hope," said Miss Tribe, aside to Hetty, " that 
 papa will not tell any of his old stories — so 
 vulgar — I shall sink into the ground, if he 
 does." 
 
 "Nor quote Latin,"" said Hetty. 
 
 " Nor talk about the history of England,'' 
 whispered Dora. 
 
 " Nor tell over again, that old story about 
 the loin of beef being knighted." 
 
 " Which we have had every Christmas-day, 
 since I began to dine in the parlour," said 
 Hetty. 
 
 " Lady Dartmore 's sure to be pleased with 
 James and Tom," observed Miss Tribe. " Tom 
 is quite a flame of her's, she says." 
 
 " An abridgment of all that is pleasant in 
 man," cried Hetty, with a smile ; " that is what 
 she calls bim. She prefers short men." 
 
 "Perhaps James is rather too tall for her 
 taste," remarked ]\Iiss Tribe, with some elation 
 of spirit, feeling confident of her brothers ac- 
 quitting themselves well.
 
 CONSTANCE. 207 
 
 At length the heroine of the comedy, Lady 
 Dartmore, arrived. Constance was in her own 
 room reading, and indulging from time to time 
 a few unbidden thoughts, when, by the con- 
 fusion of tongues, the sounds of ineffectual 
 bells, the unusual turbulence of the children, 
 and the accents of Lady Dartmore's unmodu- 
 lated voice, she concluded that the consumma- 
 tion of Mrs. and Miss Tribes' hopes was at 
 hand. 
 
 In about an hour she was summoned into the 
 drawing-room by the last dinner-bell, which was 
 by no means, in this house, a certain symptom of 
 dinner. The Miss Tribes, who were acting ma- 
 nagers in their mother's household, had taken a 
 great deal of trouble to assemble a select party 
 for Lady Dartmore. There were, sitting in dis- 
 mal silence on each side of the chimney-piece, 
 Mrs. Powis and her niece, and opposite, Lady 
 Augusta Tarell, an antiquated scion of a Ducal 
 family, who had married her brother's tutor, now 
 a clergyman of the neighbourhood. The beaux 
 mustered were really respectable in point of num- 
 ber : first, there was Captain Edmund Powis, who, 
 for reasons only known to himself, was again a
 
 208 COXSTANCE. 
 
 visitor at Powis Court, whereas usually his 
 visits were biennial only. Then appeared Mr. 
 Powis, with his wrists enveloped in red worsted 
 mufFatees, to preserve those precious members 
 from being frost bitten, and an air of extreme 
 anxiety depicted on his countenance, whenever 
 the door, as was its wont, stood open unnoticed. 
 Miss Tribe had been determined to have some 
 young men to amuse Lady Dartmore, who was 
 avowedly indifferent to female society ; but 
 being quite tired, as she said, of Sir Charles 
 Marchmont and Mr. Bouverie, or rather finding 
 they were a degree above her. Miss Tribe re- 
 solved upon uniting two ends, namely, the gra- 
 tification of Lady Dartmore, and the advantage 
 of herself and sisters. The persons she had 
 selected were these : first, Mr. Puzzleby, a 
 young lawyer, expressly come from London to 
 pass his short Christmas vacation with this 
 Avorthy family ; a keen, smart young man, se- 
 cond-rate, however, in talent, third-rate in per- 
 son, and fourth, fifth, and sixth-rate in manners, 
 conversation, and gentility. His o^Yr\ advance- 
 ment in the profession was ever in his thoughts: 
 he had a snare to litigation in every sentiment.
 
 CONSTANCE. 209 
 
 a pufF in every joke. Garrow, Erskine, Ellen- 
 borough, were constantly in his mouth — you 
 would think that he ate his very dinner in the 
 courts of law. His anecdotes had all travelled 
 round Westminster Hall ; his routes had all been 
 circuitous ; his details were all cases ; his very 
 hat was bought in Chancery-lane ; his whole 
 heart seemed at Nisi Prius. This gentleman 
 had a pale, parchment-looking complexion, and 
 one of those hatchet profiles which seem to be 
 created purposely for lawyers : his very eyes 
 had a legal near-sightedness about them; he 
 spoke as if he were addressing a jury ; he had 
 the regular dusty look of a solicitor-general in 
 embryo. Next in popularity to Mr. Puzzleby, 
 was Mr. Saunders, an importation from a neigh- 
 bouring county. This gentleman aimed at 
 fashion ; but he founded his claims on his hav- 
 ing passed the last October and November in 
 London, and concluding that every thing in the 
 metropolis must be fashionable, splendid, and 
 worth talking of, and having seen nothing but 
 the fag end of things, he had come away, — poor 
 young man ! — in a lamentable state, worse than 
 ignorance, of the relative importance of places.
 
 210 CONSTANCE. 
 
 people, and sights. He was a sort of man who 
 would begin by asking you " if you had been 
 to Astley's this season ?" and was in a wonder- 
 ment if you had not. As he is not worth much 
 description, we discuss him in these few words, 
 leaving the Miss Tribes to be in raptures about 
 his being so remarkably entertaining, and well 
 dressed — his new scarlet waistcoat, and his 
 " uncommonly gentlemanly" manners. 
 
 Constance had but just made her obeisance 
 to Mrs. Powis and Lady Augusta, and her 
 more distant curtesies to Captain Powis, whose 
 frequent gaze she had of late perceived and en- 
 deavoured to avoid, when the door was flung 
 wide open, and Lady Dartmore entered in full 
 sail. She came in the bustle of amber co- 
 loured satin, dressed far more than the occa- 
 sion required, rouged far more than any occa- 
 sion required, and making all the other ladies 
 look thin, pale, and shabby, especially Lady 
 Augusta, who was one of those grey looking, 
 drab-complexioned little women, whose rank 
 was not obvious in the cut of her gowns, nor the 
 adornment of her hair. All eyes turned on 
 Lady Dartmore, as she took her seat at the head
 
 CONSTANCE. 211 
 
 of the room, and gave a bold yet not pene- 
 trating stare around her; and Constance felt 
 her pride rebel against the peering glance which 
 she directed towards herself: but she was soon 
 deserted for more attractive objects, for Lady 
 Dartmore seldom took much notice of her own 
 sex, or if she did, it was to ridicule or scan- 
 dalize them. The beaux were duly presented 
 to her; first, Mr. Tom and Mr. James sim- 
 pered their compliments, Mr. Tom rising al- 
 most on tip-toes as he spoke to her. He hoped 
 her ladyship had found the roads good. " Ex- 
 ecrable!" was her reply. Hoped she liked 
 
 shire better than she did. " I detest it," 
 
 was her answer. " Sir Robert seems pleased 
 with it," said James, with much humility. " Sir 
 Robert's taste and mine don't suit at all." 
 
 " Sir Robert," said she, with a voice which 
 roused him from his habitual reverie, " how 
 
 can you think of saying that you like shire 
 
 when you know I mean to go to Bath, and that 
 I hate your dull country quarters ?" 
 
 Sir Robert made some reply, but was in- 
 audible. 
 
 " Tell me who that ugly old frump is," said
 
 212 CONSTANCE. 
 
 Lady Dartmore, in a voice meant to be a 
 whisper, but much more audible than that of 
 her consort. 
 
 " Lady Augusta Tarell,"" said James, with 
 great satisfaction. 
 
 '' O, the Duke of what-d'ye-call-'em's 
 daughter. Those people have been very rude 
 to me; I can't endure them. So I suppose 
 you mean to carry off that pretty Miss Courte- 
 nay, don't you, Mr. Tom.^" 
 
 Constance could not avoid hearing this, and 
 felt highly flattered, of course, at having her 
 name coupled with that of so fascinating a 
 hero. But she sustained it better than Captain 
 Powis, who was sitting near Lady Dartmore, 
 and whose face betrayed an emotion, first of 
 surprize, and afterwards of indignation. His 
 handsome and manly countenance, ever addicted 
 to blushing, remained, indeed, suffused for some 
 time. 
 
 " My brother," said James, " is an abso- 
 lute Benedict." 
 
 " Indeed ! then I am sorry for the young 
 lady," said Lady Dartmore ; but I fancy she 
 can console herself elsewhere. Do bring her
 
 CONSTANCE. 213 
 
 up to me — I want to know her ; for if I give 
 a ball, I shall perhaps ask her to Dartmore 
 Park, if I like her on acquaintance." 
 
 Away went Mr. Thomas, but to his inex- 
 pressible astonishment he found Constance by 
 no means disposed to accept the proffered ho- 
 nour, and by no means disposed to smile upon 
 the charming Benedict. 
 
 Just then dinner was announced, and they all 
 moved off for the dining-room, Lady Dartmore, 
 with a very bad grace, being obliged to yield 
 precedence to Lady Augusta Tarell. 
 
 "It were vain to tell," as they say in old 
 chronicles, " what manner of meats, and subtle- 
 ties with divers choices," were displayed in the 
 repast which Mr. and Mrs. Tribe set before 
 their guests. The party, excepting Constance 
 and Captain Powis, were all of a description to 
 be too much engrossed by their dinner to show 
 off much of their natural character. Sir Robert 
 and Lady Dartmore were famous for making 
 up, at the houses of their friends, for the defi- 
 ciencies in their own table at home. Lady Au- 
 gusta, though she never appeared to profit 
 from it, had the aristocratic faculty of eating
 
 214 CONSTANCE. 
 
 and drinking liberally. The rest of the party 
 did very well, whilst Mr. Puzzleby contrived, 
 by way of entremets to slide into the good graces 
 of Lady Dartmore, who commenced a sort of 
 condescending flirtation with him, wheedled him 
 out of a law opinion, talked of her family 
 affairs, and told family anecdotes, until the rest 
 of the party were nearly sick of this all-engross- 
 ing beauty ; and even the Miss Tribes gaped, 
 whilst Tom and James could scarcely keep up 
 their ever-flowing stock of good-humour. 
 
 But the most cruel blow was reserved for 
 Constance, when they returned to the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 " I must be introduced to this paragon. Miss 
 Courtenay,*" said Lady Dartmore, as she ex- 
 tended her capacious form on one of the broad, 
 high backed, commodious sofas, (now, alas ! 
 out of vogue,) near the fire-place. 
 
 '' O, I'm sure she will be so much honoured,""* 
 said Miss Hetty Tribe. " Miss Courtenay, 
 allow me to take you to Lady Dartmore." 
 
 There was no retreating, and Constance had 
 scarcely time to curtesy, when Lady Dartmore
 
 CONSTANCE. 215 
 
 said- — " I think you are acquainted with my 
 friend, Sir Charles Marchmont." 
 
 " I do — I am," said Constance, her colour 
 mounting to her face. 
 
 " Well, and what do you think of him ; isn't 
 he a dear, charming soul ? He's very fond of 
 me — I am a vast favourite, I assure you. It is 
 well Sir Robert is not jealous, as I often tell Sir 
 Charles ; but he laughs, and says if he were, he 
 would be jealous of a great number. What a 
 pretty dress you have on. Miss Courtenay !" 
 
 " How am I to deal with such a character as 
 this ?" thought Constance to herself. " She seems 
 to think herself privileged to say any thing/"* 
 
 " Well, and so you do like my pet, do you ?''"' 
 resumed Lady Dartmore ; " and how long may 
 you have known Sir Charles, Miss Courtenay ?" 
 
 " About a year, I believe." 
 
 " And did he ever tell you of his romantic 
 engagement to his cousin? Good God, how 
 surprised you look ! Betrothed to each other 
 from the age of fifteen, I have heard; but 
 he can't care about her — it's impossible. She 
 is a piece of machinery, a veritable wax doll. 
 She's monstrous proud, and has no heart.
 
 216 CONSTANCE. 
 
 But I suppose he will marry her, just for the 
 sake of the dowry, and console himself with 
 some pretty actress." 
 
 She paused, but Constance made no reply. 
 
 " You are quite shocked, I see. Miss Cour- 
 tenay ; but believe me, my dear, it's the way of 
 all these men. But here comes Captain Powis, 
 always first — ask him what he thinks of Sir 
 Charles's morality ? I heard him say one day, 
 that if he had a sister, he would not trust her 
 within twenty miles of him. But, good heavens! 
 Miss Tribe — Miss Hetty-— Miss Amy, bring 
 salts, sal volatile ; run to the medicine chest, 
 Miss Courtenay's as white as a sheet.'"* 
 
 " My Miss Courtenay !" said Captain 
 
 Powis, looking almost indignantly at Lady Dart- 
 more, though he had not heard what she had said ; 
 " will you let me conduct you to the hall — this 
 fire is overpowering;" and drawing her arm 
 within his, he stalked out of the room with her, 
 for she was too much overpowered to resist. 
 
 *' Quick march ! a military manoeuvre,"" said 
 Lady Dartmore, contemptuously ; " I never 
 heard of heat being overpowering on the 31st 
 of December before."
 
 CONSTANCE. 217 
 
 She mused for a few moments, and rested 
 her beautifid head on her hand. 
 
 " Well, I hope Sir Charles won't play Jerry 
 Sneak any more ; but, if he really prefers this 
 Miss Courtenay to Miss Herbert, marry her 
 outright." 
 
 This was partly addressed to old Mrs. Cattell, 
 who sat in her usual state of afternoon inanity 
 near the mischievous Lady Dartmore. 
 
 " Sir Charles ! Miss Courtenay — I never heard 
 — I never thought ; sure your ladyship must be 
 mistaken ; it is Mr. Bouverie that admires Miss 
 Courtenay, my lady, I fancy; but I don't know." 
 
 " Bouverie ! who is he ?*" 
 
 *' Why he is a great friend of Sir Charles's ; 
 — and Miss Monckton, or I should say Miss 
 Pearson : — and my maid Mitten, thinks so too, 
 that he would have Miss Courtenay if she'd 
 have him.'' 
 
 *' Sir Charles shall hear of this, thought 
 Lady Dartmore to herself This pretty young 
 miss is not to run away with all the men ; she 
 may have Bouverie to herself: faute de mieti.v, 
 I mean to amuse myself with Sir Charles." 
 
 VOL. I, L
 
 218 CONSTANCE. 
 
 " But your protegee's run off now with Cap- 
 tain Powis, ma'am," shouting so loud, that the 
 old lady, who was a little deaf, was quite af- 
 fronted at Lady Dartmore's over zeal to make 
 her hear ; for persons slightly afflicted in that 
 way, are remarkably ungrateful to those who 
 speak loud to them. 
 
 " O Captain Powis —she canH be with a 
 better person," she replied shortly. 
 
 " I dare say she thinks so herself, ma'*am," 
 rejoined Lady Dartmore, who never allowed 
 any one to have the last word. 
 
 Meantime, Miss Courtenay had recovered her 
 composure, and thanking her companion, begged 
 to be allowed to go to her own room. But 
 Captain Powis, for a shy man, was tolerably 
 pressing for her to remain a few minutes, lest 
 walking up stairs should overset her again. 
 His arm trembled as she leaned upon it, and 
 Constance, observing his earnest expression of 
 countenance as he looked at her, was suddenly 
 struck by a conviction of the nature of his sen- 
 timents towards her. 
 
 " I do indeed pity him," thought she, " for
 
 CONSTANCE. 219 
 
 he loves one, who loves another. Our fates are 
 similar, but I will not act to him the ungene- 
 rous part, which that individual has acted to 
 me." 
 
 " Will you not sit down in the library ?'''' said 
 Captain Powis, " it will be quieter there ; I see 
 that Lady Dartmore overpowers you."*' 
 
 " She does indeed," said Constance, and 
 suffered herself to be led into the room. 
 
 " How can I undeceive him," thought she, 
 " if he supposes his affection returned. O that 
 I could spare him the misery of uncertainty, 
 the agony of hopeless conviction ! But no; for- 
 tunately for our sex, we are to be passive ; yet 
 I will not lose the first moment that I can with 
 propriety set him right." 
 
 She seated herself before a large blazing fire 
 in the library, and unconsciously leaned her 
 face in her hands. There were no candles in 
 the room, and the light of this large, but ill- 
 tenanted apartmant, fell upon the figures of Con- 
 stance and her timid admirer, who stood leaning 
 beside her, his eyes intently fixed upon the 
 ground. A stranger, entering the room at that 
 momentj would not be at a loss how to interpret 
 
 L 2
 
 220 CONSTANCE. 
 
 their silence. To those who know not well the 
 heart of man, it may seem strange that so re- 
 served and diffident a person as Captain Powis, 
 should venture to aspire to the favour of any 
 woman at all, far less to that of one so admired, 
 and so superior to those around her as Constance. 
 But the shyest men are most determined in mat- 
 ters of love, and there is something dogged in 
 their natures, which, when they have ventured to 
 a certain point, prevents them from going back. 
 Their perseverance is proverbial ; for they have 
 in their characters a fund of vanity or pride, 
 whilst it makes them jealous of exposing them- 
 selves to ridicule, sustains them when once the 
 ice is broken. Captain Powis, in conjunction 
 with an ample share of pride, possessed a great 
 degree of sensibility, a genercnis and grateful 
 heart. His interest in Constance had been first 
 awakened by her gentle and delicate endeavours 
 to prevent his feeling those slights to which she 
 saw him daily exposed, by the insolent neglect 
 of his relative, the squire. He had never felt 
 the slightest approach to the tender passion 
 before. His life had been past between fighting 
 and sporting, and if he had ever experienced
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 the least desire for domestic happiness, he had 
 checked it as a wish, puerile, futile, and incon- 
 sistent with his profession. He was totally at 
 a loss how to begin a declaration, and had often 
 meditated in his own mind, in what way he should 
 first plant his trenches, direct his fire, and per- 
 suade the fair fortress eventually to capitulate. 
 From what he had read, and heard, he con- 
 sidered that offers were as formal as invitations : 
 a solemn epistle beginning, '' Since on you alone 
 my happiness depends,'* or a set oration, com- 
 mencing with a petition to be heard, and ending 
 by a descent on one's knees, were, as he su im- 
 posed, the legitimate modes of taking a plunge 
 into the bay of matrimony, preparatory to 
 reaching its haven. But now all his precon- 
 ceived intentions put to flight, and his honest, 
 manly feelings getting the better of him, he 
 stood, his eyes fixed upon Miss Courtenay, with 
 an expression, which had she seen, she could 
 not have misunderstood. At length she raised 
 her head, and recollected how strange an ap- 
 pearance their absence must have had. But, in 
 her passage to the door, she was arrested by 
 Edmund, who, for the first time in his life.
 
 222 CONSTANCE. 
 
 ventured to seize hold of a lady's hand. She 
 stopped, and raised her eyes to his. 
 
 " Isitnotmore honourable," thought she, "to 
 put an end to all doubt, than to let him persist 
 in hopes which may perhaps destroy his chance 
 of settling in life for ever ?" Yet she felt the 
 utmost agitation assail her, on being obliged, 
 for the first time, to encounter the formal ad- 
 dresses of any man. Captain Powis did not 
 leave her long in perplexity. 
 
 " Miss Courtenay," he said, gaining courage 
 after he had passed the rubicon of those words, 
 *' before I saw you, I never felt the slightest 
 preference for any woman, nor have I now a 
 right, from any conduct of yours, to suppose, 
 or hope, that you would ever condescend to 
 think of me ; yet if you were so good as to 
 give me hopes, you would find that the warmth 
 of a soldier''s love is only equalled by its 
 constancy. I would give up any thing, even 
 my profession,"" he continued, raising his voice, 
 " if you could tell me that you are free, and 
 that I may one day hope to gain your affections." 
 
 Constance had thought that she should feel re- 
 lieved when she could explicitly undeceive Cap-
 
 CONSTANCE. 223 
 
 tain Powis on a point, of which she regretted 
 that she had not earlier thought more seriously, 
 and that she had not crushed his hopes in the 
 bud. But the earnestness of his manner, and 
 the novelty of the scene, to her, rendered her 
 reply more difficult than she had expected. 
 The refusal of a first offer, far from being a 
 triumph, is, to a generous mind, one of the most 
 painful incidents to which youth is liable. She 
 felt, however, that she had no time to lose, 
 and mustering all her energies, she resolved to 
 repay the candid avowal she had heard, at 
 least, honestly and decidedly. " Your request, 
 Captain Powis,'"* she said, " is answered in very 
 few words : I cannot give you a higher proof of 
 the esteem and confidence which I shall ever 
 feel for you, than by my answer. I trust, 
 I am sure you will hold it sacred. Had I 
 known you sooner, I cannot say how I might 
 have felt towards you, but it is now too late." 
 Resolved to spare him the fruitless pain of a 
 reply, and overcome by a recurrence to her own 
 state of mind, she passed him quickly, and was 
 soon in her own apartment. 
 
 It was well for Constance that she had Cap^
 
 224 CONSTANCE. 
 
 tain Powis and his disappointment to engage 
 her attention, before dwelling upon her own 
 thoughts. When she did recur to those, her 
 distress was the more poignant, that she was 
 angry with herself for the involuntary acknow- 
 ledgment of her own attachment to Sir Charles, 
 which the Captain's avowal had drawn from her. 
 " Yet my love has not unsought been won," 
 thought she. " How I used to avoid, and al- 
 most dislike him ! Has he not often since com- 
 plained to me of my former avoidance? And 
 now, O Sir Charles ! were you but what vou 
 seemed, you would not have to complain of my 
 coolness. — What will Miss Monckton think of 
 this.'^'*'' again she reflected. "But no, I will 
 not, by seeking for sympathy, either lower 
 myself into an object of compassion, or reflect 
 dishonour upon him. I will subdue all my too 
 easily cherished regard for him, but my secret 
 shall die with me ; for Edmund — the sincere, 
 generous Edmund — knows not to whom my 
 weak heart has been given. But what if that 
 bold woman should have invented this tale.'* 
 Alas ! some such idea has been before suggested 
 to me, her discourse has only confirmed it, I
 
 CONSTANCE. 225 
 
 have been blinded by vanity, by ignorance of 
 the world ; but it is not too late to tear away 
 that veil — to withdraw my rash confidence." 
 
 Whilst thus ruminating, Constance was sum- 
 moned down stairs ; and so retrievable was her 
 happiness at this early period of her attachment 
 to Sir Charles, that she felt she could, with 
 some exertion, have feigned the semblance of a 
 heart at ease. But a dread of again encoun- 
 tering Lady Dartmore's coarse raillery, and a 
 fear of giving pain by her presence to Cap- 
 tain Powis, determined her not to return to 
 the party, as previous indisposition afforded 
 a fair excuse for remaining in her own room. 
 We pass over the description of her solitary 
 evening, her restless night, and the thousand 
 resolutions which she made before morning, 
 convinced that there is not a single young lady 
 who has not experienced what we should neces- 
 sarily describe. Her reveries, until she went 
 to bed, were several times interrupted by the 
 Miss Tribes, hot and breathless from the dance, 
 with " O Miss Courtenay, we are so sorry you 
 are not with us ! Such a delightful evening, 
 though we have not sufficient for the College 
 
 L 5
 
 226 
 
 COXSTAXCE. 
 
 Hornpipe or the Boulanger," — and by old 
 Molly, the family nurse, who had spoiled and 
 babyfied all the young Tribes, with a large 
 bason of water gruel, and a dose of James's 
 Powders, recommended by Mrs. Tribe, who 
 thought that something must have disagreed 
 with Miss Courtenay. At length, she was left 
 to repose. 
 
 The following day happened to be Sunday, 
 and Constance, in attending the simple village 
 church, derived that consolation which never 
 fails to accompany a heartfelt participation in 
 our Liturgy, the compilers of which appear to 
 have had every possible extremity, and every 
 incidental want of human nature in their view, 
 when they so admirably adapted our hebdo- 
 madal petitions to the thankful, the powerful, 
 the needy, and the afflicted. Constance left the 
 sacred Edifice with a composure which v\^as not 
 entirely disturbed, even by the presence of Cap- 
 tain Powis, who, to her surprize, remained at 
 Mr. Tribe's, and even accompanied the party to 
 church, although he did not, as usual, offer 
 Constance his arm. The freshness of a cold 
 winter's day had given a bloom to her clear but
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 varying complexion, and the consciousness of 
 being more ' sinned against than sinning,' a con- 
 tented, though pensive expression to her coun- 
 tenance, when, with Miss Hetty Tribe, she 
 proposed walking along a sunny terrace, shel- 
 tered by one of those formal yew hedges which 
 were the boast of our ancestors, who decreed 
 that fated sepulchral tree to assume any shape 
 but its own. 
 
 " Did you hear,'' said Miss Hetty, " that Sir 
 Charles Marchmont has called here, on his way 
 from Lord Vallefort's, and that he is walking 
 with Lady Dartmore in the garden .?" 
 
 " No, I did not know it." 
 
 " Lady Dartmore is only just dressed, for 
 she never goes to church. Her piety, she says, 
 is of the heart, and she can't endure formal ob- 
 servances, nor being bothered with long ser- 
 mons." 
 
 " A dangerous description of her religious 
 feelings, my dear Hetty ; for doubtless these 
 forms are necessary aids to our piety, which, 
 without it, will, I fear, resemble a house with- 
 out props." 
 
 " Gracious me !" said Hetty, " there are Sir
 
 228 CONSTANCE. 
 
 Charles and Lady Dartmore. How earnestly 
 they are talking. Now I dare say it is all about 
 papa, and mama, and us. I would give my 
 eyes to hear what they say.^"* 
 
 " Let us go back, dear Miss Tribe, for they 
 are coming this way, and indeed I cannot see 
 them now." 
 
 " You're in a vast hurry ; perhaps you prefer 
 meeting Captain Powis,'' said Hetty, laughing. 
 And so they returned to the house. 
 
 " YouVe a dear eccentric creature," said 
 Lady Dartmore to Sir Charles, as they sauntered 
 along the terrace. " Nothing surprises me 
 more in you than your admiration of that pretty 
 baby-flirt. Miss Courtenay. I verily believe, 
 after all, you will jilt Miss Herbert, and marry 
 this young lady." 
 
 " Your ladyship seems to have settled it so." 
 
 "Well, you'll have your choice; whether 
 you like to fight that lean and slippered panta- 
 loon, Lord Vallefort, or to exchange shots with 
 that ramrod concern. Captain Edmund Powis, 
 for each of these gentlemen will conceive them- 
 selves aggrieved, let your choice fall where it 
 may."
 
 CONSTANCE. 229 
 
 " Indeed ! and what has Captain Powis to 
 do with it — he is not Miss Courtenay's father ?" 
 
 "No, certainly; but Captain Powis has a 
 right to resent a lady's marrying another when 
 she faints away in the young captain's arms, 
 allows him to convey her into a library, and re- 
 mains there with him an hour and three quar- 
 ters, as I can testify from this dear little true 
 monitor," said Lady Dartmore, placing her 
 hand upon her watch. 
 
 " O, your ladyship's watch is apt to gallop 
 sometimes," said Sir Charles, playfully. 
 
 " Well, you're incredulous — but I can refer 
 you to a host of Tribes.'"* 
 
 •' Indeed, I have no right to interfere with 
 Miss Courtenay's concerns," said Sir Charles, 
 with some degree of irritation ; " she may run 
 off with Mr. Tom, and Mr. James, too, if she 
 pleases.'' 
 
 " That's right — that's proper pride ; and now 
 I've a good mind to tell you what she said of 
 yow." 
 
 " Do ; it will add to my satisfaction," replied 
 the young Baronet, with an attempt at a smile. 
 
 " Why, she told me that she had, she
 
 230 COXSTAXCE. 
 
 thought, known you about a year, but had seen 
 very little of you, for truly she hated to be pes- 
 tered with any man's admiration. And when I 
 asked her whether she thought you were clever, 
 the pert thing*'s answer was, Why, very well for 
 a baronet, but it's well he's ' born to greatness,' 
 for he'll never ' achieve any.' " 
 
 " Very gratifying ; and the more so, as she 
 seems to have taken the trouble of quoting from 
 that old villain, Shakspeare, for the purpose of 
 running me down." 
 
 "' And had you heard how she said it. I long 
 to see you together, and to observe with what 
 infinite contempt you will treat her." 
 
 " That is not altogether so easy," thought Sir 
 Charles to himself. " However, I will see what 
 I can do.'' 
 
 " You'll stay here to-day to dinner, won't 
 you, mo7i amif said Lady Dartmore to him, 
 as they walked to the house, with one of her 
 sweetest smiles. " Do ; I'm literally choaked 
 with these Tribes — their stupidity suffocates 
 me. Then they're all so civil ; absolutely they 
 stick in the door-way. And then that James is 
 so monotonous ; his conversation falls unheeded
 
 CONSTANCE. 231 
 
 like a shower of rain, drop, drop, drop. And 
 only think of my being doomed to hear the his- 
 tory of all Mrs. Tribe's confinements, and Mr. 
 Tribe's improvement of the roads. But you're 
 quite in a reverie, Sir Charles. Well, I declare 
 this Tribe Hall is almost as bad as Dartmore 
 Park, with Sir Robert." 
 
 " I can hardly imagine any place dull with 
 Miss Courtenay in it, traitress though she be," 
 thought Sir Charles, as he slowly drew his 
 heavy companion along with him up the ample 
 steps which led from the garden to the hall. 
 " Perhaps,"*' he said aloud, " I may stay, for 
 the enjoyment of a little spiteful observation of 
 Miss Courtenay and Captain Powis." 
 
 " Do, that's a good soul, and I will assist you 
 in taking your retaliation. You shall see how 
 I'll show them up." 
 
 " Nay, Lady Dartmore," said Sir Charles, 
 making a full stop ; " whatever Miss Courtenay 
 * may choose to say of me, I will never be acces- 
 sary to the exposure of her imprudencies, or 
 the wounding of her feelings. Your ladyship 
 will act as you think proper ; but if there is to 
 be any showing up, I shall run away, and per-
 
 232 CONSTANCE. 
 
 form my promise of dining with Bouverie. But 
 we have forgotten one important point — I may 
 not have an invitation to dine here." 
 
 " You will have at least a dozen," rejoined 
 Lady Dartmore, " reiterated from the seniors 
 of the family to Miss Matilda — though last, not 
 least. People like these are always hospitable." 
 
 "^ And can there be a better trait ?" said Sir 
 Charles, as they entered a sort of low, long par- 
 lour, a kind of common room for the Tribe fa- 
 mily, when they were at all on easy terms with 
 their guests.
 
 CONSTANCE. 233 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 " Ye blessed spirits, 
 Look down upon your daughter in her trouble, 
 For I am sick at heart." 
 
 Wilson— Ci(y of the Plague. 
 
 Neither Constance, nor her reputed admirer 
 Captain Powis, were in this apartment when 
 Sir Charles and I^ady Dartmore entered it. 
 
 " I '11 lay my life," whispered she to Sir 
 Charles, " that they are closeted together in the 
 library." 
 
 She was mistaken; for, in a few minutes, 
 Miss Courtenay appeared alone. She was de- 
 sirous neither to seem to shun Sir Charles, nor 
 to behave as if she felt any resentment towards 
 him, nor to betray pique ; and yet she was too 
 ingenuous to demean herself towards him as
 
 234 CONSTANCE. 
 
 heretofore, although she was fully sensible of 
 the indelicacy of manifesting indignation for 
 the perfidy of a man, who had not made any 
 explicit declaration. Altogether, her situation 
 was very awkward ; but she possessed tact and 
 spirit to cope with it for a time, if her season of 
 probation happened to be short. The danger 
 was, that her strong and natural feelings would 
 get the better of her ; for Constance had none 
 of the propensity to finesse which is thought to 
 belong to the female character, but which is 
 often erroneously adopted by them in self-de- 
 fence. She had yet to acquire what is called 
 management of character. The necessities of 
 her present condition gave her, however, a lesson 
 in this art. Feeling what was due to herself, 
 she made a strong effort to return Sir Charles's 
 respectful bow with as little variation from her 
 usual manner as she could possibly effect ; she 
 was not, however, so successful, but that his 
 penetrating eye could mark a change — a smile 
 less fascinating, a glance less happy than usual : 
 for, of late, the enjoyment which she innocently 
 felt in his society had been expressed when they 
 met, with all the artless warmth of a girl of
 
 CONSTANCE. 235 
 
 seventeen, and had, indeed, been met with far 
 more than equal rapture on the part of the 
 young Baronet. He now imputed the shade of 
 coolness, obvious only to him, in her behaviour, 
 to any thing but the right cause. " She is 
 conscious," thought he, " of her real indiffer- 
 ence to me ; and I see clearly that she has al- 
 lowed of my attentions only as a blind to those 
 of a more favoured lover, though one whom 
 her friends will not deem a good match for her. 
 She has liked him from the first, and I have 
 deceived myself." 
 
 This reflection stung him to the quick, for 
 Sir Charles really loved Miss Courtenay, if 
 that can be called love which had no perspec- 
 tive regard for her happiness or misery. Such 
 as it was, it was heightened, although he would 
 not acknowledge it, by pique, uncertainty, and 
 jealousy ; and instigated by these, he resolved 
 in his own mind to take ample revenge upon 
 the fair cause of his vexation. She, on the 
 other hand, was considerably surprised at his 
 change of manner, and it threw her out in her 
 plan of action. For she could have found it 
 easy, she thought, to retire from his usual at-
 
 236 CONSTANCE. 
 
 tendons, and to shew him, without deviating 
 from the gentleness of her sex, that they were 
 no longer agreeable to her. But she knew not 
 how to deal with a man who gave her no oppor- 
 tunity of repulsing him, and who made her look 
 like the forsaken one. Besides, a young lady, 
 much accustomed to attention, and from one 
 particular person especially, is naturally de- 
 pressed by neglect, and is awkward, not only 
 from wounded vanity, but from being placed in 
 a situation new to her. Those who have stu- 
 died the feminine character, will acknowledge, 
 that the young beauty, in the zenith of her 
 career, has a far less need of strength of mind 
 wlien receiving the incense that has become 
 habitual to her, than when that incense is cause- 
 lessly withdrawn, even if it be not offered to 
 another. 
 
 Constance had, however, what is commonly 
 called a good spirit. Unaccustomed to seek, or 
 to receive advice, her dependence on herself 
 had taught her to discriminate quickly, and to 
 adopt courageously the part which her unas- 
 sisted reason led her to think best. '' I have 
 no one to support or succour me," was her con-
 
 CONSTANCE. 237 
 
 stant conviction. '' Whom have in heaven but 
 Thee, and I have none on earth that I desire in 
 comparison of Thee?" were words which came 
 home to lier heart, in a peculiarly strong, and 
 affecting sense. 
 
 In the present instance, she felt the conduct 
 of Sir Charles to be the more unjustifiable, as 
 he knew her to be unfriended, except by the old 
 and almost imbecile persons whom the law 
 called her guardians. Yet her indignation 
 yielded to a bitter pang of disappointed affec- 
 tion, when the idea struck her that his changed 
 manner was a confirmation of what Lady Dart- 
 more had told her. Till then, she had che- 
 rished a faint hope — for love will hope, when 
 reason would despair — that the intelligence 
 might be false. Now she thoufjht otherwise. 
 " Lady Dartmore has told him that I know all, 
 and he is now prepared to show me, by his 
 altered manner, that he confirms her intelli- 
 gence." 
 
 " Of course you will stay and dine with us," 
 said Mr. Tribe to Sir Charles. 
 
 " O, of course you will," echoed Mrs. Tribe, 
 or, as her husband called her, Mrs. T. ;
 
 238 
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 ",0f course you will," sounded from all the 
 Tribe family in succession. Of course. Sir 
 Charles was persuaded to do so. To Constance, 
 during the whole of a long and gloomy Sunday, 
 he showed a studied neglect ; yet he had too 
 much good taste to evince his pique against her 
 by a well-acted flirtation with Lady Dartmore, 
 who would fain have enticed him to this species 
 of revenge, and who was only restrained by his 
 unflinching opposition to her schemes, from 
 making a complete party against Miss Courte- 
 nay. As it was, she paid but little attention to 
 Constance, or indeed to any one except the 
 young Baronet, at whom she looked, with whom 
 she laughed and talked, until Miss Powis look- 
 ed grave, and even Mrs. Cattell raised her head 
 from her celebrated soporific, *■' Hervey'*s Medi- 
 tations,'' and gave a suspicious glance at the 
 fair manoeuvrer. Sir Charles was, however, 
 polite to all, and Constance, as she sometimes 
 raised her eyes from her book to look at him, 
 thought she had never seen him appear to so 
 much advantage. The large party, who were 
 partaking of Mr. Tribe's hospitality, were 
 mostly constrained to remain in the house, and
 
 CONSTANCE. 239 
 
 formed little groups in various parts of the 
 room. ]Mr. Puzzleby was expatiating to the 
 elder Miss Tribe upon a case of breach of pro- 
 mise of marriage, which he had defended ; Mr. 
 Saunders was muttering soft unmeaning things 
 to Miss Matilda. The consequence of both 
 these gentlemen had sunk greatly since the ap- 
 pearance of Sir Charles; for Lady Dartmore 
 had dismissed them entirely from her little cote- 
 rie. She gaped at Mr. Puzzleby's stories, and 
 gave a look of cold surprise when Mr. Saunders 
 opened that narrow aperture in his face, called 
 a mouth. As for Captain Powis, she could 
 make nothing of him from the first ; but to the 
 young squire she was occasionally civil from the 
 hopes of being invited to wile away some part 
 of the winter months at Powis Court. At one 
 period of the afternoon, she was endeavouring 
 to hold Sir Charles engaged in one of those half 
 whispers which she thought herself privileged 
 to make. This he resisted, and persevered in 
 maintaining a conversation audible enough for 
 the rest of the company to join, if they 
 pleased. These two occupied a sofa near the 
 fire. On the settee opposite, wrapt in a thick
 
 240 CONSTANCE. 
 
 shawl, sat Lady Augusta Tarell, having beside 
 her her only child, who had come in the world 
 when Lady Augusta had ceased to be young, 
 or to expect such a blessing. Like a rose, blow^- 
 ing in the autumn, this little plant was of 
 course an object of the utmost solicitude, and 
 a victim to all the tortures of over-tuition, over 
 dosing, and over-dressing ; she perched, rather 
 than sat, upon a little stool, with her feet in the 
 first position, holding in her stick-like little 
 fingers one of those good Sunday books 
 which are dull enough to make children hate 
 the name of the Sabbath. With this beloved 
 object Lady Augusta was far too nuich occu- 
 pied to see, or think of any one else in the 
 room. Mrs. Cattell and Mrs. Powis were each 
 and severally in a large easy chair, looking as if 
 they had been created only to embody the essence 
 of dulness visibly to our faculties. Their mode 
 of rest was however different : Mrs. Cattell 
 was a lady of the poking description ; her 
 head, despite her utmost endeavours to rouse 
 herself, nodded till it nearly touched the pious 
 work from which she had hoped to inhale some 
 Sunday virtue. Mrs. Powis, on the contrary,
 
 CONSTANCE. 24] 
 
 having been an apt scholar in the ancient school 
 of manners, was never known to bend her body 
 forward for an instant : she even dozed in as up- 
 right a position as if her back-bone were made of 
 cast iron. Her position was fixed, and the large 
 Psalter on her knee stuck there as if it had 
 been nailed. 
 
 At a Pembroke table near these venerable 
 ladies, were assembled Mr. Tom, and Mr. James 
 Tribe, Captain and Mr. Powis. This group 
 had before them county maps, plans of new in- 
 closures, newspapers, and Echard's Historv of 
 England, with prints ; for the days of Histo- 
 rical Memoirs, of Blackwood, and of the New 
 Monthly, of the Age, and John Bull, were not 
 then arrived. Of this party Mr. Powis was the 
 most consequential, Mr. Tom and Mr. James 
 the most loquacious, and the Captain the most 
 abstracted. He appeared sometimes, indeed, to 
 be listening to his kinsman's dissertations upon 
 rabbit-warrens and ring fences, new^ roads and 
 old roads, " my property, and my inclo- 
 sures ;"' at other times he seemed to be scan- 
 ning the last gazetted promotions at the Horse 
 Guards ; but his eyes often rested with an ex- 
 
 V( L. I. M
 
 242 CONSTANCE. 
 
 pression of sorrowful reproach upon Constance, 
 who sat near the window reading, or endeavour- 
 ing to read, one of the few books which Mr. 
 Tribe's library furnished. Captain Powis might 
 or might not be aware that the direction of his 
 glances was from time to time watched by Sir 
 Charles Marchmont, who, being seated with 
 his back to Constance, envied every look which 
 his rival gave in that quarter. But Constance 
 saw not, on this occasion, the gaze of her re- 
 jected admirer. She had, indeed, wondered at 
 his pertinaciously remaining not only in the 
 same house with her, but always as near to her 
 as he could : but she knew not the determined 
 character of the bashful soldier, nor was she 
 aware that he had guessed the object of her se- 
 cret preference, and had resolved to stay, and 
 warn her against an indulgence of this early at- 
 tachment. Perhaps, too, some degree of hope 
 still lingered in his bosom. At any rate, he was 
 resolved not to yield the object of contention to 
 Sir Charles Marchmont, without a struggle. 
 
 Time passed away heavily in this manner till 
 the half-hour dinner bell rung. At this signal. 
 Lady Dart more was the only person who kept
 
 CONSTANCE. 243 
 
 her seat ; and Constance, happy to be released, 
 was, among the rest, hurrying to her own room, 
 when Lady Augusta Tarell, who had all along 
 shown her a marked attention, said to her, 
 
 " Miss Courtenay, my little Georgiana has 
 taken such a fancy to you, that she wants to go 
 with you, and to say her hymn to you," 
 
 Constance smiled, and extending her hand to 
 the little girl, was about to take her out of the 
 room, when Sir Charles, catching hold of 
 the young treasure, said, " Come and say 
 your lesson to me. Miss Tarell, you can't think 
 what a much better instructor I shall make than 
 Miss Courtenay."" 
 
 " That you will," said Lady Dartmore, who 
 had been longing all the day for an opportunity 
 of affronting Constance, " for you won't teach 
 her to secrete herself in a library with a young 
 gentleman." 
 
 " The face of Constance was deeply crimson- 
 ed at this attack, but it seemed as if her blushes 
 were reflected on the countenance not only of 
 Captain Powis, but of Sir Charles, who felt 
 both indignant at the impertinence of this at- 
 
 M 2
 
 244 CONSTAXCE. 
 
 tack, and vexed to see that it could not be re- 
 pelled. 
 
 " Well then," said little Miss Tarell, " as 
 you won't let me go, Sir Charles, and as you 
 still liold my hand, Miss Courtenay, you must 
 both come along together, and hear me say my 
 hymn in the little parlour." 
 
 And so saying, she attempted to pull Sir 
 Charles along. 
 
 " Lady Augusta, Miss Tarell is beginning 
 in good time, she's a match-maker already," 
 cried Lady Dartmore, her rouge augmented by a 
 little natural passion. 
 
 " She does not show her discrimination,'" said 
 Sir Charles, trying to smile, but looking al- 
 most spiteful in the attempt, " for I am not the 
 happy man whose society in a separate room 
 would be selected by Miss Courtenay."" 
 
 " I do not see,'' remarked Constance, whose 
 spirit rose at what she thought an insolent and 
 unjustifiable attack, " why my preference or 
 conduct should be an object of Sir Charles's ani- 
 madversion." 
 
 " Come now," said Lady Dartmore, who en-
 
 CONSTANCE. 245 
 
 joyed this commencement of hostilities, " do 
 let me see you two friends. You really appear 
 to me to hate each other. — Sir Charles, I know 
 you'll do any thing to oblige me ; do make it 
 up with Miss Courtenay, who evidently owes 
 you a grudge. But perhaps Captain Povvis will 
 act as mediator between you, for I am not inti- 
 mate enough with Miss Courtenay to presume 
 to dictate." 
 
 " There is no occasion, madam," replied Con- 
 stance, with a grace and dignity which sprang 
 from a guileless, but proud heart ; " I am quite 
 unconscious how I have offended Sir Charles, 
 and therefore cannot atone for an offence of 
 which I am wholly ignorant."" 
 
 " Dear me !" said little Miss Tarell^ who 
 was one of those hot-bed kind of children, who, 
 from being a great deal with grown-up people, 
 hear much more than they should do, " I won- 
 der you and Sir Charles quarrel so, Miss Cour- 
 tenay, for I heard my nurse say last night that 
 she knew you were going to be married together." 
 
 " Georgiana — my dear Georgiana, I'm shock- 
 ed at you," cried Lady Augusta. 
 
 *' Well, but I don't wonder neither," said
 
 246 CONSTANCE. 
 
 the young tell-tale, wishing to atone for her re- 
 mark, " that you and Sir Charles quarrel be- 
 fore you're married ; for I've heard papa and 
 mama quarrel sometimes, and they are married, 
 you know." 
 
 " Capital '*" said Sir Charles, who could not 
 help enjoying the confusion of Constance, 
 '* you're quite a little moralist. Miss Tarell." 
 
 " My dear Miss Courtenay, pray excuse 
 her," said Lady Augusta. 
 
 " O, I've no doubt Miss Courtenay will for- 
 give her," said Lady Dartmore, rising ; " but 
 1 fancy we shall none of us be ready for din- 
 ner — this is Liberty Hall, I think." 
 
 Constance was gone before the conclusion 
 of this speech, Miss Tarell saying to her, as 
 they crossed the hall, " But are you really 
 going to be married to Sir Charles ? You're 
 very cross to him, I think." 
 
 " Miss Courtenay is very right to go to 
 her toilet first," said Lady Dartmore, " for 
 she's a person who would be nothing without 
 dress." 
 
 " She dresses beautifully," said Miss Tribe. 
 
 " I don't agree with your ladyship, in think-
 
 CONSTANCE. 24)7 
 
 ing that slie vv ould look ill in any dress, or under 
 any circumstances," said Sir Charles ; '' she is 
 one of the most beautiful girls that I ever saw : 
 her beauty is of the most lasting character, for 
 it is replete with intelligence. But I hold her 
 to be proud to a degree, and heartless."" 
 
 " You do ? — I'm charmed to find that your 
 eyes are opened at last ; but depend upon it she 
 is not aware of the opinion you have of her, but 
 thinks you admire her greatly." 
 
 " Perhaps she's right," said Sir Charles, with 
 a sigh ; and he went away, muttering to him- 
 self, " To doubt, yet doat, suspect, yet fondly 
 love.*^ 
 
 Constance entered her own apartment in a 
 state of excited feeling, which she vainly strug- 
 gled to repress. She was not one of those young 
 ladies who would sit down and indulge in a 
 good fit of crying, but she endeavoured to 
 cool down her wrath, and to mitigate lier 
 vexation, by walking up and down the room, 
 until the last moment when Mitten came to 
 dress her. 
 
 " YouVe looking quite poorly to-day, miss," 
 was the maid's consolatory ejaculation.
 
 248 CONSTANCE. 
 
 " Am I?" said Constance, scarcely listening 
 to what she said. 
 
 " But then," resumed Mitten, " that Lady 
 Dartmore makes every other body look sickly. 
 It''s like putting a full crimson silk to match 
 agen a pale pink. No offence, miss ; but then 
 she wears a pound of rouge on them cheeks of 
 her's, as her woman often tells nie." 
 
 " You should not encourage Lady Dartmore's 
 maid in speaking scandal of her mistress," said 
 Constance, rather sharply. 
 
 " Lord-a-mercy, ma'am ' there's no harm in 
 talking of what a lady wears, I suppose ; why, 
 you would call this here scandal, I suppose ; — 
 no offence; but as I was following her lady- 
 ship up stairs last night — you know, miss, 
 she's admired for her wondrous white neck — 
 her gownd had slipped a little off them shoul- 
 ders of her's — it's low enough at all times — 
 Well, to be sure, if her back wasn't covered 
 with pearl powder, and just where her gownd 
 had slipped was a rim of her own natural skin, 
 good enough, if her ladyship wouldn't deface 
 God's works with them paints." 
 
 " Why, Mitten, you are quite corrupted
 
 CONSTANCE. 249 
 
 since you have known Lady Dartmore's woman. 
 But dress me quickly, there's a good creature, 
 for I hear the last bell." 
 
 " Why, you knows, miss, I am not used to 
 them there artifices. My misses, bless her 
 old bones, never knew the value of a pin's point 
 of paint, and before I had the handling of you 
 I never had nothing under sixty to dress. 
 There, you're done up now, miss, and I'll war- 
 rant you'll look as well as any on 'em." 
 
 Constance endeavoured, and successfully, to 
 get as far away as possible from Sir Charles and 
 the grandees, at dinner. She saw little of them, 
 for she was buried between two fat Miss Tribes, 
 who made a sort of barricado for her. She was 
 therefore enabled to be as silent as she pleased, 
 for each of her neighbours was occupied with a 
 be;au on either side. 
 
 " Hetty," screamed the worthy Mrs. Tribe, 
 "I hope you're taking care of Miss Courtenay." 
 
 " Miss Courtenay has eaten nothing, mama." 
 
 " Nor spoken ten words either," said Mr. 
 Puzzleby, who sat opposite, in a quizzing tone, 
 intended to raise her spirits by the honour of 
 his notice. 
 
 M 5
 
 250 CONSTANCE. 
 
 " When pensive I thought of my love," 
 whispered Lady Dartmore to Sir Charles ; but 
 the witticism drew forth no smile. 
 
 The evening passed away much in the same 
 manner as the day : nevertheless, Sir Charles 
 prolonged his stay till a late hour, although he 
 scarcely ever addressed himself to Constance. 
 And in his semblance of indifference he com- 
 pletely excelled her, for he had been far more 
 practised in society than she had, his nature 
 was less ingenuous than hers, and his heart 
 less warm to those whom he loved. Before the 
 close of this painful day, Constance found her- 
 self unable to sustain the composure and indif- 
 ference which she had assumed in the morning ; 
 she was mortified, disappointed, and indig- 
 nant, and her countenance, towards the last, ex- 
 pressed so much dejection, that every one ob- 
 served it. 
 
 " Come, you're all so very sombre to-night," 
 said Lady Dartmore, " that to rouse you I will 
 indulge you with one of my new Italian songs.'" 
 She opened the piano, greatly to the surprise 
 and scandal of the elder portion of the party, 
 who would as soon have thought of turning
 
 CONSTANCE. 251 
 
 Jews, as of listening to profane music on a 
 Sunday. 
 
 " And now my song is over,'" said Lady 
 Dartmore, after executing a difficult bravura 
 in the same obstreperous, over-done style as 
 that in which all her actions were performed, 
 " who will follow my example ? Miss Cour- 
 tenay, I know you sing," (wishing to challenge 
 a comparison with herself.) 
 
 " Not to-night," said Constance, with as 
 little of the tone of superior righteousness as 
 she could help. 
 
 " Why not ? Come, just to show that you 
 owe no malice to Sir Charles and me for what 
 happened this morning. You know he's very 
 fond of music." 
 
 " Excuse me, Lady Dartmore, I cannot to- 
 night." 
 
 " What ! could you not give us something 
 that would please Captain Powis? — 'When first 
 I saw your face,' or * The Soldier's Dream.?'" 
 
 " I would rather not, my lady." 
 
 " Nay, you must not get into the habit of 
 refusing people. I have heard that your voice 
 is charming ; is it not, Sir Charles .?"
 
 252 
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 " I have never sung when Sir Charles has 
 been present," answered Constance, for she was 
 resolved not to accept of any compliment from 
 him. 
 
 " No," said Sir Charles, " I am aware that 
 you have never done me the honour to sing to 
 me. Miss Courtenay ; it was from Bouverie that 
 I knew how much you excelled in that accom- 
 plishment." 
 
 " Come now, you've no excuse," resumed 
 Lady Dartmore, taking Miss Courtenay 's hand. 
 Constance almost shrunk back. 
 
 '' If you will force me to give my reasons,'' 
 said she, " do not suppose that I mean to make 
 reflections on any one else ; but I never do sing 
 upon a Sunday, except it be sacred music." 
 
 " Pretty little well-tutored school-girl," ex- 
 claimed Lady Dartmore, scornfully. " That's 
 all cant," whispered she to Sir Charles. 
 
 " Pardon me, I do not think so ; I believe 
 Miss Courtenay to be incapable of saying any 
 thing which she does not think," said Sir 
 Charles, aloud. 
 
 Constance felt the generosity of this defence. 
 
 " Since you are fond of music, Sir Charles,
 
 co:n STANCE. 253 
 
 perhaps you will not think one of our old an- 
 thems too solemn," said she, taking off her gloves. 
 
 " By no means ; I delight in them, and am 
 only too happy that you should think me 
 worthy to listen to one of them." 
 
 " Why, that I don't know," returned Con- 
 stance, with much simplicity, shaking her head. 
 
 " It is better to be abused by you, Miss 
 Courtenay," said Sir Charles, bending down 
 to place the music-book, " than to be met 
 with that freezing coldness with which I have 
 been treated by you all day. I trust you don't 
 mean to give me a second edition of it." 
 
 " Why, that cannot be called a second edi- 
 tion which is only a continuation of the first 
 part of the work," replied Constance, trying not 
 to melt towards him, nor to meet the expressive 
 glances of his eyes. 
 
 " Tell me what I shall sing." 
 
 " Let us have ' Hear my prayer,' for that is 
 emblematical," said Sir Charles. 
 
 "Alas!" replied Constance, "that speech 
 shows how little your mind is attuned to the 
 sentiment of this song. I, too, shall not be 
 able to do it justice."
 
 254 CONSTANCE. 
 
 She got through it, however, with tolerable 
 composure until she came to that part, " O that 
 I had wings like a dove; then would I flee 
 away, and be at rest !" The thought that she 
 had been deceived by the person dearest to her 
 —even a wish that the close of a life, for which 
 no one seemed to care, might not be distant: — 
 both these ideas passed in quick succession 
 through her mind. She stopped, and turning 
 to Sir Charles, saw that his eyes were full of 
 tears. 
 
 '' Why — what's this .?" said Lady Dartmore, 
 coming forward ; " here's a dead stand."" 
 
 " I must return home," said Sir Charles, 
 hastily ; " the night is far advanced. Miss 
 Courtenay, can I have the honour of executing 
 any commands for you in London ? You have 
 a younger sister there, I think/' 
 
 " Yes ; but she is at school, and I have no 
 other friend there, or any where else," said 
 Constance, scarcely able to restrain a burst of 
 tears, for resentfully as she had felt towards Sir 
 Charles, she felt as if his departure would ren- 
 der existence almost a blank to her. 
 
 " May I hope that our unaccountable dif-
 
 COXSTANCE. 255 
 
 ferences," said the young Baronet, in a low tone, 
 his voice trembling with emotion, '' may be 
 suspended till we meet again, when all may, 
 perhaps, be explained ?" 
 
 " Captain Powis, make haste here," said 
 Lady Dartmore, "if you do not wish your fair 
 friend to be run off with. I absolutely think 
 Sir Charles will carry her away to London." 
 
 Constance gave a look of indignation. Cap- 
 tain Powis was sulky, and a dead silence for a 
 few instants prevailed in the party. 
 
 " Your horses are at the door. Sir Charles," 
 broke the spell, and then adieux, and good 
 wishes, and much bustle, ushered the Baronet 
 to the hall door. 
 
 Constance was this time happy, when she 
 found herself once more in her antiquated bed- 
 chamber ; the seclusion of Newberry seemed, 
 as it were, Paradise to her, compared to the in- 
 dignities which she had suffered at Mr. Tribe's. 
 She determined henceforward to drive Sir 
 Charles from her thoughts, to devote her time to 
 improvement, to charity, to her religious duties. 
 She resolved to seek the advice of Mr. Bouverie
 
 256 COXSTAXCE. 
 
 relative to the course which it was best for her 
 to pursue in the employment of her time. She 
 felt more than ever that it was necessary to rest 
 upon herself for happiness.
 
 constan:ce. 257 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 " On the tip of his subduing tongue, 
 All kind of arguments and questions deep, 
 All replication prompt, and reasons strong, 
 For his advantage still did wake and sleep." 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 It was on a fine, clear Sunday, about three 
 weeks after Constance had returned from Mr. 
 Tribe's, that Miss Monckton proposed to her 
 to go to afternoon service at Ditton, a village 
 about four miles from Newberry, to hear a ser- 
 mon from the reverend and celebrated Dr. Clay- 
 ton. 
 
 " You will see," said Miss Monckton, " a 
 great curiosity. You will hear a great divine, 
 you will be overpowered with a most pro- 
 digal use of fine words, and splendid compa- 
 risons, but you will come away more puzzled 
 than edified. At the same time, I will promise
 
 258 CONSTANCE. 
 
 to show jou one of the most pleasing specimens 
 of a middle-aged woman, my particular friend, 
 Mrs. Clayton ; and, if we happen to be invited 
 to stay dinner, which is the custom at Ditton 
 parsonage, after service, you will meet with a 
 whole bevy of remarkable persons." 
 
 " And why is this reverend gentleman so 
 celebrated .?'' inquired Constance. 
 
 *'For the great mass of useless literary lumber 
 of which his brain is the store-room," said Miss 
 Monckton ; " for his eloquence in society, (for 
 to call his manner of discoursing conversation, 
 would be like comparing the proverbs of Solo- 
 mon to a bon-mot,) — for his indiscreet and often 
 pernicious interference in political affairs — for 
 his unrivalled effrontery in choosing often to 
 copy the furry inhabitants of the arctic region, 
 in preference to adopting the manners of the 
 human race. Yet, with all this, the old doctor 
 is beloved." 
 
 " Nay, that surprizes me still more.'*' 
 
 " There is in him that which, in the long 
 run, ensures affection, although it often pro- 
 vokes satire — an unreserved manifestation of 
 his character to the inspection of others : you
 
 CONSTANCE. 259 
 
 see him as he really is. His vanity is egre- 
 gious, yet he never attempts to veil it by any 
 show of modesty. His animosities are violent ; 
 but he never indulges in their virulence under 
 the mask of pretended friendship. His habits 
 are gross; his conversation often indelicate; 
 but he does not, like your modern gentlemen, 
 couch his impurities under the flowery guise of 
 sentimental virtue. But come and see him, and 
 judge how you like him." 
 
 " After all," said Constance, as they stepped 
 intp their post-chaise, " I do not think you have 
 given him a single good quality in your de- 
 scription."" 
 
 " Have I not ? — then I ought ; for, though 
 he is essentially disagreeable, he is universally 
 benevolent. I do not mean that sort of univer- 
 sal benevolence, which extends itself to the West 
 Indies, but does not expand at home ; for that 
 I conceive to be nothing more than a burlesque 
 of charity: — I do love in the old doctor that 
 neighbourly, old-fashioned feeling, which can- 
 not see distress without offering present help. 
 He will scold the poor man who impru- 
 dently marries, and brings a large family to
 
 2u0 CONSTANCE. 
 
 squall and starve in the parish ; but that poor 
 man will seldom want for soup from the doc- 
 tor's table, or coals from his cellar. So eccen- 
 tric, yet so unostentatious, is his benevolence, 
 that his 'right hand knoweth not what his left 
 doeth.** And he is an excellent parish clergy- 
 man. He has the most uncouth, yet the best 
 mode of managing his tithe people that I ever 
 saw ; and whilst other ministers are plunged 
 into litigation, he is beloved in both his small 
 livings." 
 
 " And is he hospitable also ?''' said Constance. 
 
 " There now, you are thinking of your din- 
 ner ! Well, I can say, 1 think, he has the 
 spirit of hospitality within him ; but it mani- 
 fests itself outwardly in a strange manner. 
 For instance, he likes to see his table crammed 
 with guests, and, though he idolizes the rich 
 and great, he is always sure to stuff in, at his 
 ample, but inelegant board, those to whom he 
 thinks a dinner may be acceptable. The curate, 
 upon a fifty pound stipend — the schoolmaster 
 without scholars — the briefless barrister — some- 
 times even the strolling player — and not unfre- 
 quently the pragmatical dissenting minister —
 
 CONSTANCE. 261 
 
 are there to be seen in contiguity with the peer or 
 the bishop, the judge, or the great John Kemble. 
 But we are coming to the village. That is the 
 church — a pretty, ancient, well-preserved edi- 
 fice, as you see. Listen to the bells — are they 
 not melodious ? Now, you little think that 
 you are hearing in them the voices of the apos- 
 tles themselves. In imitation of monastic times, 
 the doctor has baptized them. The great, 
 deep, swinging tone belongs to St. Peter; the 
 lesser one to St. Matthew ; the next in power 
 to St. Luke ; the softer and sweet treble sound 
 appertains to St. John. What are you about ?''"' 
 
 " Oh ! I do wish to walk along that pretty 
 path to the church," said Constance. " I love 
 a corn-field approach to a church; so pray stop 
 the driver, that I may get out." 
 
 " By no means ; the doctor likes to see car- 
 riages drive up to the door. It reminds him of 
 former times, when the great men of his gene- 
 ration paid him the compliment to crowd his 
 afternoon service. But now I consider him as 
 somewhat on the decline. He has been over- 
 rated, and sooner or later that is an evil which 
 rectifies itself. But we are early : let us take
 
 262 * COXSTAXCE. 
 
 a look into the church before the congregation 
 assembles." 
 
 It was now that hour of the winter's day, 
 when nature, and the objects of art by which 
 she is defaced or embellished, are revealed to 
 us in a softened light. Already the cottage 
 fires blazed with a brightened flame in the 
 village, as the careful housewife replenished 
 the grate preparatory to her early tea. When 
 the two ladies entered Ditton church, a partial 
 gloom obscured its narrow aisles, although the 
 rich streams of the setting sun glanced athwart 
 the chancel, emblazoning, but with a transitory 
 radiance, the painted window, rescued during 
 the French Revolution from the reliques of a 
 chapel belonging to the Orleans family. Of 
 this splendid, but somewhat patched and mu- 
 tilated specimen of ancient art, the doctor was 
 notoriously proud, although a rigid Protestant 
 might deem its portraitures, if strictly inves- 
 tigated, to have been misplaced in a church 
 erected since the Reformation ; for the bishops, 
 and dukes, and princes, and pious princesses, who 
 had graced the illustrious line whom the paint- 
 ing was destined to honour, were intermingled
 
 CONSTANCE. 263 
 
 with St. Laurences, St. Martins, St. Catherines, 
 St. Genevieves, St. Rosalies, and Holy Virgins, 
 with a profusion which, to say the truth, some- 
 what obscured the individuality of these sacred 
 personages. On each side of the altar were 
 figures of St. Mark and St. Luke, standing, it 
 may be presumed, in guardianship of its purity. 
 A small side window, with a beautiful paint- 
 ing on it of the pensive and benevolent coun- 
 tenance of C ran mer, might seem also intended to 
 reassert the supremacy of the reformed church, 
 had it not been placed opposite to the portrait 
 of Thomas Aquinas, in whom, when his cum- 
 brous learning, his knotty metaphysics, and 
 jargonous language are considered, the doctor 
 might find a congenial spirit. On the whole, 
 the church resembled a papistical chapel far 
 more than the resort of the simple Protestant 
 congregation of Ditton. Independent of his 
 own taste, which led to decoration and clerical 
 display, the doctor was of opinion that too 
 many of the catch-traps to devotion, so sedu- 
 lously preserved in the Romish church, have 
 been abandoned in our present worship ; and 
 held it good to sacrifice something to the weak-
 
 264 
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 nesses of human nature, on a point whereon, 
 alas ! it is of all others prone to be weak. 
 
 Two marble tablets, on either side of the 
 altar, were consecrated to 'the memory of the 
 doctor's only children — two daughters, who 
 had died, one in early youth, the other in 
 the maturity of a weary existence, after she 
 had become a wife and mother. Their epi- 
 taphs, though written with much pedantry, and 
 with some parental exaggeration of their at- 
 tractions and virtues, were affecting ; for what 
 monumental tribute from a bereaved father to 
 his children would not be affecting ? And be- 
 sides, these blossoms of his existence, early 
 culled by inscrutable decree, had displayed 
 much that could engage a parent's love, and 
 justify his pride; and when I say that they 
 were extolled in too pompous terms, I mean to 
 imply that few human beings could merit the 
 high-sounding epithets which the doctor be- 
 stowed upon the victims of his praise — for as 
 victims, the objects of injudicious praise may be 
 considered. 
 
 The bells ceased ; and ^liss ]\Ionckton and 
 Constance were shown into a high-backed, well-
 
 CONSTANCE. 265 
 
 lined pew — the doctor's own dormitory, when 
 others preached or prayed. In a short time, 
 the beadle poured in upon them, from an adja- 
 cent repository, bibles and prayer-books almost 
 as large as themselves. Anon entered the good 
 doctor himself ; and Constance, as the service 
 had not begun, had time to contemplate this 
 extraordinary personage. 
 
 He was a bulky man, of about sixty years of 
 age, but in the full vigour of a constitution 
 which neither his habits of profound thought, 
 nor of immoderate eating, had as yet, in any 
 great degree, impaired. Perhaps this might 
 be in some measure owing to his constant early 
 rising, and to his residence in pure air, and 
 among people of simple manners. Nothing of 
 age was as yet visible in the dark grey lustre 
 of his eye, which, whether it brightened with 
 benevolence, or flashed with anger, or softened 
 with the influence of reflection, or melted with 
 the recollections of former days, conveyed to all, 
 the impression that he, whose most expressive 
 feature thus varied, was, indeed, no common 
 man. His eyes were shaded by eyebrows of 
 great magnitude, and a nose, vast in proportion, 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 266 CONSTANCE. 
 
 rose above cheeks, swelled out by self-indulgence, 
 and the contentment of a disposition naturally 
 blithe and jovial. The mouth was remarkably 
 compressed, and the upper lip somewhat reced- 
 ing; the expression of the dogmatist, the un- 
 flinching disputant, the demolisher of all inferior 
 wits — in short, of the petted lion of society, 
 being strongly conveyed by the marked feature 
 of this organ. A complexion usually of a greyish 
 tinge, was this afternoon heightened by the ex- 
 ertion of bustling up the aisle in full canonicals, 
 of which none displayed a more ample, and 
 spurious collection on his own person, than the 
 reverend Dr. Clayton. Denied the mitre by 
 adverse fate, he yet chose to assume the cas- 
 sock, and, v/ith his standing-out, well-powdered 
 wig, containing hair enough to stuff a moderate 
 sized pillow, he looked in the eyes of his simple 
 parishioners, of far more importance than any 
 bishop they had ever seen. Constance, how- 
 ever, observed, that the wags of country bump- 
 kins, winked, and laughed together slily, as the 
 Doctor, with much pomposity, passed them, and 
 mounted the reading-desk ; nor could she, with- 
 out difficulty, keep her own gravity, when a
 
 CONSTANCE. 267 
 
 message came to Miss Monckton during the abso- 
 lution, importing that " there was a good round 
 of boiled beef at the rectory, and he hoped that 
 she and her young friend would stay and dine 
 there." A general irreverent titter shook the 
 whole congregation, when the doctor, after the 
 first lesson, exhorted them all, with much so- 
 lemnity, as they valued his safety, not to kill 
 their pigs after the usual mode on the high- 
 way, as his horse had been startled by the 
 squeaking of one of these Christmas victims, and 
 recommended the dismissal of these animals 
 from the world by the Yorkshire method, namely, 
 " knocking them on the head." Yet the inha- 
 bitants of Ditton were accustomed to exhorta- 
 tions equally misplaced, for few clergymen have 
 been known to take such liberties with divine 
 service, as the learned Dr. Clayton. 
 
 His reading was most remarkable ; saving 
 a lisp, which he could control at pleasure, 
 his voice was fine, and his ear acute to the 
 niceties of modulation. Some passages, how- 
 ever, of the service he galloped over with a ra- 
 pidity which defied attention ; others he gave, 
 with a startling emphasis, which was either fine, 
 
 n2
 
 268 CONSTANCE. 
 
 or ludicrous, according to the state of mind of the 
 hearer, but which was generally offensive to hira 
 who " went to pray," and wished not to " remain 
 to scoff." It was his custom also to interlard 
 the lessons with such phrases as these : " That's 
 wrong."' " The original runs thus."" " My bre- 
 thren, this text was introduced by such and 
 such prelates, for such and such controversial 
 purposes."" Thus unsettling the minds of his 
 usually humble readers, without, in all pro- 
 bability, succeeding in setting them right 
 again. 
 
 After a learned yet desultory, heavy yet at 
 times, eloquent, unintelligible sermon in the 
 Doctor's best lisp. Miss Monckton and Con- 
 stance, ushered forth by Sam, major-domo of 
 the church and rectory, proceeded to pay their 
 respects to Mrs. Clayton, who had been desired 
 by the Doctor to '' stay at home and mind 
 the dinner." They were, however, overtaken 
 by the divine, and Constance duly introduced 
 to his portly holiness. 
 
 " Miss Courtenay, did you say ? Miss 
 Courtenay — one of the Courtenay s of Devon .? "* 
 asked the doctor, who loved any one with a
 
 CONSTANCE. 269 
 
 tolerable pedigree, ten times as well as one with- 
 out produceable ancestry. 
 
 " No, sir, I believe of Norfolk." 
 
 " A very good family that," said the Doctor, 
 " though neither so ancient nor so high in blood 
 as the other. You will soon part with your name, 
 I will venture to prophesy ; but mind you tell 
 your father, or brother, or cousin, or whoever is 
 the ostensible head of your respectable line — 
 tell them, I say, not to disgrace so ancient, so 
 gentle, and so honourable a name !" 
 
 Constance was almost frightened. 
 
 " I grieve, sir, to say, I must apply your 
 advice to myself, for I am almost the last who 
 bears my name." 
 
 " Then, madam, since the branches of the 
 tree are lopped off, I advise you to graft your- 
 self upon a new stock forthwith.— But where is 
 that rascal Jack ?'' said he, looking back im- 
 periously towards a fat, slovenly-looking man, 
 who walked submissively behind him. "Jack!" 
 said the doctor, in a voice which might have 
 charged a regiment, *' make up to Miss Cour- 
 tenay — make yourself agreeable to her, man. 
 Don't wait till you're fifty before you put the
 
 270 CONSTANCE. 
 
 final question. For, Miss Courtenay," said he, 
 in solemn tone, " Jack is a most benevolent 
 man — Jack is a most learned man — Jack was a 
 very handsome man — Jack has been a most 
 loveable man — but Jack is a shy man, and cannot 
 tell a lady his mind. Jack, I command you to 
 marry." 
 
 Jack, as he was called, had too long been a 
 boon companion, a satellite, though not a pa- 
 rasite of the doctor, to remonstrate against the 
 unwarrantable liberty taken with one of his age 
 and profession, for he was a clergyman. The 
 comforts of a profitable benefice, and the indul- 
 gence of a disposition naturally indolent, and 
 habitually, from his initiation into a college 
 fellowship, luxurious, had obscured the real 
 powers and attainments of the reverend John, 
 or, as he was commonly called. Jack Bamford. 
 Still there were gleams of native intelligence, 
 and indications of former study, even in a coun- 
 tenance every line of which was embedded in 
 right good ecclesiastical fat. He was almost 
 the only gratuitous and disinterested friend that 
 the Doctor possessed ; for, by the great. Doctor 
 Clayton was courted as a necessary appendage
 
 CONSTANCE. 271 
 
 to their literary acquaintance; by the learned, 
 much for the same reason that a cook prizes a 
 receipt book, to refer to ; by persons of his own 
 rank, too often for what they could get out of 
 him either in the way of patronage, or influ- 
 ence, or by the more direct mode of his own 
 ready munificence. But honest John, or Jack, 
 really loved him : was blind to his outrageous 
 defects, in love with his virtues, revered his 
 learning, and in short, " honoured the shadow of 
 his shoe-tie.'" 
 
 " There now," said Miss Monckton, as Con- 
 stance and she waited a few minutes in the hall 
 to take off their bonnets, '' you are destined for 
 a clergyman's wife. All Newberry gives you 
 to Mr. Bouverie, and Dr. Clayton fixes on 
 Mr. Bamford for you." 
 
 " Mr. Bouverie I will never have, and Mr. 
 Bamford is much more suited to you than to 
 me," said Constance. 
 
 " So I think; but she who marries Mr. Bam- 
 ford must marry Dr. Clayton also. Must have 
 him ordering his own dinner, and fixing his 
 own party, smoking his pipe in your drawing- 
 room, and scolding his friend's wife, a privilege
 
 272 CONSTANCE. 
 
 with which, I think, husbands should never 
 part." 
 
 " And what made your friend Mrs. Clayton 
 marry the very head and front of all this of- 
 fending?"" asked Constance. 
 
 " Hush — why," (in a whisper,) " I cannot 
 exactly tell you. Too probably, for a home : for 
 Mary Stapleton, at the age of forty-five, was pro- 
 bably sick, like many other single maidens, of 
 visiting her friends — of having to condole with 
 one, to nurse the other, to keep a third in good 
 humour. To see children spoiled without the 
 luxury of whipping them, to find servants im- 
 pertinent without the power of discharging 
 them. It is, in short, living by deputy. But 
 come, you will see now what she has got in ex- 
 change for her former lot.'* So saying they 
 entered the sitting-room.
 
 CONSTANCK. 
 
 273 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Heaven rest his saul, wliare'er he be ! 
 Is the wish o' mony mae than me : 
 He had twa fauts, or may be three, 
 
 Yet what remead ? 
 A social, honest man want we. 
 
 Burns. 
 
 DiTTON Rectory was a large, staring, red brick 
 house, without the smallest attempt at elegance 
 or decoration without. A small palisaded gar- 
 den in front separated it from the road. To 
 the right, conspicuous enough, was the doctor's 
 summer-house, where he studied, and wrote, 
 and dogmatized to Jack, and oftener smoked 
 through the long day, when not interrupted by 
 visitors. It was when emerging from this re- 
 treat to receive two bishops, who paid him the 
 homage of a visit, that a mischievous pupil of 
 his, an inmate, had stuck into the protuberance 
 of his unconscious wig two turkey feathers, 
 
 N 5
 
 274 CONSTANCE. 
 
 which, as he bowed and bowed, with many set 
 and courtly phrases, overpowered the decorum 
 and gravity of the right reverend prelates, one of 
 whom, being a wag, afterwards compared the 
 learned doctor to a turkey coming forth from 
 a hen-roost. Having surmounted the recollec- 
 tion of this joke, the doctor to his dying day 
 was wont to pour forth volumes of smoke, and 
 to indite volumes of equally subtle fabrication 
 in this beloved sanctum, where, indeed, alone 
 he was emperor. 
 
 The doctor had been twice married, as our 
 reader may have already inferred, and he had 
 only very recently, by a second nuptial, relin- 
 quished the glory of being talked of for many 
 ladies, both high and low. His first wife was a 
 termagant, little less clever than himself — 
 equally eloquent, and quite as fond of talking. 
 As they never happened to agree, except in 
 hating each other, disputes from the top and 
 bottom of the dinner-table often ran high ; but 
 the doctor was usually compelled to give in. Of 
 course, he resolved to revenge himself for this 
 domestic usurpation on his second consort ; and 
 having been long usher of the black rod at one
 
 CONSTANCE. 275 
 
 of the most celebrated of our public schools, he 
 had sufficient of the leaven of tyranny in his 
 composition within him to brow-beat any woman 
 — except his first wife. 
 
 Notwithstanding his early grievances, he 
 never failed, publicly and privately, and espe- 
 cially in the presence of the second Mrs. Clay- 
 ton, to extol the memory of her predecessor; 
 and Constance found him expatiating in a high 
 tone upon her many virtues, and describing 
 her as the "first of women" to a visitor, to 
 whom he was showing her picture, wherein 
 there seemed to common eyes to be developed 
 as much of the shrew, in as upright a position, 
 and as fierce a dress, as could be. The ve- 
 ritable Mrs. Clayton sat in a retired part of the 
 room, with the utmost meekness depicted on a 
 face still lovely, for scarcely a wrinkle, in these 
 early days of her marriage, defaced the clear- 
 ness of her fine skin, and her light hair was yet 
 unchanged by time. She was a gentlewoman 
 in every sense of the word, at least in the sense 
 of people of that day, for the notions of a 
 gentlewoman are changed since then. Forgetful 
 of self, deferential to the old, benevolent and
 
 276 CONSTANCE. 
 
 even playful with the young, dignified yet not 
 repulsive to the other sex, kind to her servants, 
 dutiful to her husband, devout to her God ; — 
 few persons could view Mrs. Clayton, even in 
 these early days of her marriage, without lament- 
 ing that her " lines had not fallen in pleasant 
 places.*" She soon found out that her influence 
 with the Doctor was at zero— her controul over 
 his servants just a shadow of authority — her 
 hopes of domestic comfort a dream. Having 
 been shackled all her life by kind, interfering 
 friends and well-meaning relations, who gene- 
 rally plague single women out of their lives, she 
 now, when she had hoped for emancipation, 
 found herself a very slave indeed. Nevertheless, 
 she resolved not to murmur, made the best of 
 every thing, endeavoured to persuade herself 
 that it was only the doctor's way, and was 
 eventually rewarded by the felicity — of surviv- 
 ing him. 
 
 Constance directly took a fancy to this en- 
 gaging woman, and the favourable impression 
 was mutual ; for Mrs. Clayton had seen a great 
 deal of good society, and had thence acquired 
 that intuitive discrimination which those who
 
 CONSTANCE. 277 
 
 can profit by experience, obtain. She looked at 
 Miss Courtenay with lively admiration, re- 
 gretted in her own mind that so fair a flower 
 should blossom that day at Ditton, where the 
 dinner party accidentally assembled afforded, as 
 she, in secret, thought, but little interest, unless 
 the spirit of Grotius, or that of Duns Scotus, 
 had been allowed to descend, and enjoy society 
 congenial only to such souls as theirs. 
 
 Dinner was very soon announced, for the 
 Doctor seemed to writhe with impatience until 
 that blessed moment. He then led Miss 
 Monckton into an ample, square apartment, 
 which served the double purposes of library 
 and dining-room. It was literally crammed 
 with books, each of which owned a binding of 
 moth-eaten aspect. Incalculable produce of 
 human learning reposed upon these shelves, but 
 little did the public, little did the literati, little 
 did the Doctor's friends, suspect, that upon the 
 marginal pages of his favourite classics he had 
 inscribed the names and designated the cha- 
 racters of those who often unconsciously sat at 
 his table, whilst they were handed down to pos- 
 terity, sometimes in very dark colours, above.
 
 278 CONSTANCE. 
 
 The party assembled consisted, including the 
 two stranger ladies, of ten persons. To the 
 right of the doctor sat a thin, tall, sarcastic 
 looking man, who appeared as if encased in an 
 armour of his own self-esteem, which kept him 
 from the contact of inferior beings. To him 
 the Doctor chiefly addressed his conversation, 
 and Constance soon made out that he was head 
 master of a celebrated school — a man of emi- 
 nent learning, and of the highest character in 
 other respects. What was her surprise to find 
 that the discourse of the two sapient Doctors, to 
 whom she at first chiefly directed her attention, 
 turned upon eating ! Opposite to this gentle- 
 man sat the doctor's stipendiary toad-eater, the 
 reverend but not revered Mr. Collins, and to 
 this man Miss Courtenay took an instant and 
 decided aversion. She afterwards learned that 
 he had but recently been relieved from an eccle- 
 siastical suspension, for some gross clerical mis- 
 demeanour. He looked, indeed, as if he had 
 sneaked into society, and was fearful of being 
 kicked out again. For this reason he dealt all 
 sorts of compliments and civility around him 
 with unremitting perseverance, notwithstanding
 
 CONSTANCE. 279 
 
 the total indifference which he met with from 
 all, and the contempt of some. To the Doctor 
 he furnished a constant butt, on which to shoot 
 the arrows of his wit, or the stings of his 
 ill-humour. To call him " fool," " ass," 
 " dunce," seemed to the Doctor as natural as to 
 speak to him by his proper name, yet it was re- 
 markable that even in his most unguarded and 
 irritated moments he never, in the most distant 
 terms, alluded to the calamity from which Mr. 
 Collins had been recently emancipated, or to 
 the poverty which had partly been the result of 
 that mishap. This might be faint praise in 
 others; but in Doctor Clayton it was an instance 
 of uncommon forbearance. Opposite to her 
 father sat Miss Collins, his daughter — a dark- 
 haired, fair, and rather plump, and pretty young 
 person, of about two-and-twenty. The black 
 and sparkling eyes of this damsel expressed 
 considerable shrewdness, but betrayed a jealous, 
 and restless tenacity of the jokes and civil in- 
 sults constantly played off upon her father, 
 towards whom, whilst she never spoke to him 
 \vithout a sort of corrective sharpness, she 
 evinced an affection, whicli was the only gentle
 
 280 CONSTANCE. 
 
 part of her character. This young lady had 
 had, what was then an uncommon advantage, a 
 classical education, having been educated with 
 her brothers ; and had acquired sufficient Latin 
 and Greek to make her formidable to her own 
 sex, and an object of ridicule to Dr. Clayton; 
 for in those days, and perhaps in these, the 
 greater the learning of the tyrant of the domestic 
 board, the stronger his aversion to his woman- 
 kind knowing more than how to sew a seam, 
 or manufacture a pudding. 
 
 The acquirements of Miss Collins were, 
 therefore, a source of constant raillery to the 
 Doctor, who considered himself privileged to 
 banter the whole family in virtue of their fa- 
 ther's submission to his sway ; but he found in 
 the spirited girl a stout resistance to his indig- 
 nities. Hence he partly disliked, partly feared 
 her, and it was only when he was very much 
 out of humour, that he plagued her by bringing 
 forward to public notice the learning of which 
 Miss Collins was so much ashamed. Beside 
 Agnes Collins, sat a gentleman considerably 
 younger than the rest of the company, which 
 circumstance authorized him, as he thought, to
 
 CONSTANCE. 281 
 
 flirt with Miss Collins, and to stare at Miss 
 Courtenay. The dark and wicked eyes of this 
 person, his arched, marked eyebrows, quizzical 
 turned-up nose, and satirical mouth, gave Con- 
 stance the impression that he was a lawyer. 
 But, alas ! he was a clergyman also. And he was 
 a living instance of one of those crying sins, which, 
 of all others, contributed perhaps most to the in- 
 difference to religion which peculiarly prevailed 
 towards the close of the eigthteenth century. 
 He was forced, against his inclination and his 
 conscience, to take orders from what, to his 
 father, was an all-convincing reason, the cer- 
 tainty of obtaining a good living, — a calculation 
 made without taking eternity into account. The 
 result of such unprincipled conduct is too fre- 
 quent to require much comment. Young 
 Wakley professed, and felt, reluctance to be 
 " dubbed a saint," and went through the re- 
 quisite ordeal with some pangs of conscience : 
 but, having accomplished all necessary forms, 
 he declared his resolution to play a part no 
 longer. Accordingly he gave himself licence to 
 what Shakspeare has mis-named the " pleasant 
 vices," and practised every sin but that of hy-
 
 282 CONSTANCE. 
 
 pocrisy. To his Curate and his Sexton he 
 devolved all weekly concerns, contented with 
 mouthing out, on each revolving Sunday, a 
 piece of oratory justly his own, because he 
 had paid for it ; but which had no other 
 effect on the minds of his hearers than to call 
 their attention to the wild career of the in- 
 dividual who addressed them, and to act as a 
 flourish of trumpets before his deeds of the next 
 week. With all this, Mr. Wakley was, unfor- 
 tunately, of a character not to be disliked by 
 the vulgar judges of his merits. He was good- 
 natured, profuse in his hospitality and dona- 
 tions, and remarkably easy to the sins of others; 
 and he had an ofF-hand way of alluding to, and 
 half confessing his faults, which many people mis- 
 took for candour — whilst it was only impudence. 
 Such was the man, who by some general 
 acquirements, by a degree of ready wit, by 
 much obsequiousness, and by persevering good 
 humour, had recommended himself to the fa- 
 vour of the learned Dr. Clayton. As Constance 
 had never seen any of these persons before, she 
 had the pleasing occupation of finding out their 
 characters ; and, although not very experienced
 
 CONSTANCE. 283 
 
 in such studies, she soon became disgusted with 
 Mr. Collins and Mr. Wakley, though for dif- 
 ferent reasons, and in different degrees. She 
 considered herself fortunate in being- seated 
 beside Mr. Bamford, who, though by no means 
 insensible to the charms of an animated and art- 
 less girl, thought Miss Courtenay too much his 
 junior to treat her with any of those tender 
 advances which the Doctor had recommended, 
 but behaved to her much the sa,me as if she had 
 just come from the nursery; helped her to the 
 nicest things, answered her in a caressing, en- 
 couraging sort of tone, and saw that she was 
 properly attended to by the servants. In truth, 
 this was no easy matter at Ditton Rectory, 
 where a species of actual republican govern- 
 ment prevailed, for Doctor Clayton was only 
 the nominal monarch. The chief members of 
 the legislature were the man-servant and the 
 cook ; the man had for many years held the 
 multifarious offices of groom, valet, master of 
 the robes, inspector of the wigs, coachman, 
 gardener, butler, brewer, footman, and keeper 
 to the old Doctor, who could neither ride, 
 smoke, dress, preach, visit, receive visitors, nor
 
 284 CONSTANCE. 
 
 travel, without "Sam" at his elbow. Although 
 we must acknowledge that Sam's merits were 
 great, we may, without detraction to that in- 
 fluential personage, remark that, like many 
 other ministerial characters, ancient and mo- 
 dern, he had come to the pass of thinking that 
 the world could scarcely go round without him. 
 Whether mounted on the coach-box, or attend- 
 ant to his master on horseback, or bustling in 
 with the dinner-things, or frizzing the doctor's 
 wigs, or combating his whims, there was on 
 Sam's features that look of unalterable self-com- 
 placency which is, perhaps, the supreme point 
 of fehcity. By force of habit, and of a little 
 common sense, he had, indeed, acquired a degree 
 of control over his gifted master, without which, 
 or upon the slightest abatement, Sam was ready, 
 like ministers, to relinquish his post instantly. 
 
 The other member of the administration 
 was visible only in the watery soup, hard 
 potatoes, half-boiled fish, and over-roasted 
 mutton which she sent to table, and on which 
 points neither Mrs. Clayton nor the doctor 
 dared to offer a word. For, as it is said, was 
 the case with a recently deceased gastronome.
 
 CONSTANCE. 285 
 
 the Doctor'*s table, despite his genuine love of 
 its real pleasures, was execrably managed. A 
 profusion, indeed, prevailed, but it was a pro- 
 fusion which his guests would gladly have ex- 
 changed for one well-dressed, wholesome dish : 
 and the only sense which the doctor showed 
 of what was really good in an epicurean 
 sense, was in choosing what was acknowledged 
 by all to be, and what was actually the best 
 dish, for his own peculiar eating. But the age 
 of refined criticism in such matters, had not yet 
 arrived. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Clayton sat at the head of her 
 table, with a painful perception of the errors of 
 the whole concern painted on her face, and 
 sometimes, but hopelessly, endeavoured to arrest 
 the torrent of blunders. 
 
 " Sam, you had better leave the fish a little 
 longer,'" said she, in accents as gentle as those 
 of a seraph. Sam carried it away. 
 
 ^' Sam, bring me that sweet-bread."" 
 
 " The Doctor has the sweet-bread, ma'am, it 
 can't be moved." 
 
 " Sam, ask for some more potatoes." No 
 answer.
 
 286 CONSTANCE. 
 
 " Sam, we want some more port wine/' 
 
 " There\s enough port decantered ma'am." 
 
 " Sam, do not take the cloth off just yet."" 
 Sam cleared it off without deigning to give a 
 reason. 
 
 If the Doctor liked any one lady at table, in 
 particular, it was Miss Monckton ; in the first 
 place, she was well born, and then she had a 
 ready, authoritative way of answering him 
 which kept him in trim, and which he really 
 liked in women ; and it is questionable whe- 
 ther he ever had any real regard for the regi- 
 ment of sycophants who relieved guard at his 
 table. As a mark of his peculiar favour, he 
 always addressed her b}' her christian name. 
 
 "Jane Monckton," he said, "does thy weak 
 head remember that I met that clever girl, 
 Maria Edgeworth, lately.?"" 
 
 " Remember it ! Why you only told me last 
 week. Doctor."*"* 
 
 " And did I tell thee, thou saucy jade, the 
 speech which the pert lass made to me, and the 
 answer which I gave her ? Ay ! it was well 
 done.'' 
 
 " Then let us hear what it was, Doctor."
 
 CONSTANCE. 287 
 
 "The prattling puss! — he, he, he, he!" 
 The doctor's laugh was indescribable then : 
 now we might compare it to the steam es- 
 caping from a boiler : — it was between a hiss 
 and a cry. " 'Doctor,' said she, as we sat down 
 to table, ' I know you dislike me vastly.' Now 
 I thought she wanted discretion in challenging 
 me. Dr. Clayton, to single combat, and doubt- 
 less she displayed a great want of Christian 
 charity in attacking me before dinner, and 
 before such a dinner ; and, therefore, I replied 
 to her thus : — ' Madam ! I never contradict a 
 lady ?' " 
 
 A burst of laughter from Mr. Collins fol- 
 lowed the relation of this piece of incivility ; 
 but Miss Monckton coolly answered, 
 
 " Indeed I think it was a great pity that she 
 did challenge you, Doctor, since you didn't 
 know how to behave yourself." 
 
 " Jane Monckton, thou shalt rue this,'' 
 thought the Doctor ; but not caring to vent his 
 spleen upon one who answered him so fearlessly, 
 he indulged his ill-humour upon poor Miss 
 Collins. The gentleman whom we first des-
 
 288 CONSTANCE. 
 
 cribed, having quoted Juvenal, thought proper 
 to apologize to the ladies for it. " I confess 
 myself guilty," said he, pragmatically, " of 
 a literary misdemeanour : I submit to the 
 decision of the fair : any thing but banishment 
 from their presence, even if I be doomed to 
 lock up Horace for the space of six months, or 
 if sentence of transportation be passed upon 
 Ovid for a year V 
 
 " How now," said the Doctor. " How are 
 we to get out of this dilemma ?''^ looking towards 
 Miss Collins, who immediately drew back, and 
 half concealed herself between the two gentle- 
 men, her neighbours. "" Come forth, Agnes 
 Collins;" said he, " the sentence is nullified if 
 there be one lady in company who can translate 
 Juvenal ; and you, a well-instructed, diligent, 
 docile pupil of your gifted father — you, the 
 Miss Carter of our intellectual county — you, a 
 most accomplished, most learned lady, you can 
 rescue my enlightened friend, this elegant 
 scholar, and pious divine, from the heavy 
 trammels under which he incautiously has placed 
 himself." A pause ensued. " Agnes Collins,
 
 CONSTANCE. *289 
 
 translate V said the Doctor, who was waxing 
 warm, that his capricious commands were not 
 obe^^ed. 
 
 All those who possessed any feeling, were 
 distressed for the poor girl who was thus 
 rendered conspicuous upon a score respecting 
 which her feelings were needlessly tender. In 
 this emergency Mr. Wakley gallantly stepped 
 forth to lake the ridicule of the company upon 
 himself. He made a hasty translation, in which 
 there was some error, trivial, and perhaps scarcely 
 obvious to common people, but of vast magni- 
 tude with critics. The doctor burst into a passion 
 of laughter which can only be faintly described 
 by comparing it to the whirring of a bottle of 
 soda water, when the cork is violently extracted. 
 His laughter, for many reasons, was generally 
 contagious ; and when a calm succeeded, it was 
 employed in verbal criticisms and discussions, 
 provoked by Mr. Wakley^s error, and these 
 lasted until the ladies withdrew. 
 
 The Doctor's friends always went away early 
 from the rectory, and Constance, and her 
 friend, found themselves on the road to New- 
 berry soon after eight o'clock. It was a fine 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 290 CONSTANCE. 
 
 starry night, and they amused themselves, 
 during a great part of the way, as most people 
 do, in talking over the peculiarities of the com- 
 pany whom they had left. At length. Miss 
 Monckton suddenly changed the conversation, 
 and said, in her abrupt way ; "I wonder 
 what has become of Sir Charles Marchmont ; I 
 think he has deserted Newberry." 
 
 " Perhaps," said Constance, trusting to the 
 darkness of the night to conceal her counte- 
 nance, '' he is gone to see Miss Herbert." 
 
 " Oh, you believe that story," said Miss 
 Monckton ; " for my part, I do not. I am 
 sure Sir Charles's heart is free, or was free, a 
 few months ago. I have no faith in early en- 
 gagements, or early attachments in these days. 
 But who told you this fine history .?" 
 
 " It was Lady Dartmore." 
 
 " Then it is sure not to be true — she has 
 no notion of truth at all— she is a walking 
 falsehood. I don't believe a word of it," said 
 Miss Monckton, three or four times over, and 
 not without irritation, for she secretly wished, 
 and earnestly believed that Sir Charles was in 
 love with Miss Courtenay.
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 291 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Beamless is the eye, and closed in night, which looked se- 
 renity, and sweetness, and love. The face that was to us 
 as the face of an angel, is mangled and deformed ; the 
 heart that glowed with the purest lire, and beat with 
 the best affections, is now become, a clod of the valley. 
 
 Logan's Sermons. 
 
 Constance had often regretted the change 
 which had been, during some weeks, apparent 
 in the conduct of Mr. Bouverie towards her. 
 Since the interference of the Newberry coteries, 
 he had seemed rather to shun, than to seek her. 
 It was true, that his manners to her were ever 
 respectful, polite, and even benevolent: and 
 there was no appearance of the pique and play- 
 ful malice which had appeared in Sir Charles's 
 behaviour to her when under Mr. Tribe's roof. 
 Sometimes, indeed, it occurred to Constance, 
 that Mr. Bouverie felt an interest in her, which 
 was at variance with his studied avoidance of all 
 
 o2
 
 292 CONSTANCE. 
 
 intimate converse : but this thought she pre- 
 sently discarded as a symptom of vanity, of 
 which the recent desertion of Sir Charles ought 
 to have cured her. Touching that gentleman, 
 sundry reports prevailed. One was, that he was 
 really married, and was spending the honey-moon 
 at Bath. Another, that he had gone abroad to 
 seek out his mother's place of interment, in 
 order that he might sell the old Priory, and 
 leave Newberry for ever. All the good people 
 there were mortified at his absence ; and Mrs. 
 De (Jourcy in particular was disconsolate — but 
 finding it convenient to pay a long deferred visit 
 to London, at this time, she set off for the me- 
 tropolis, a speculation of lier's which served to 
 pass away the long evenings which Miss Pear- 
 son and the Miss Seagraves would otherwise 
 have found gloomy and insipid. As none of 
 these ladies had ever been in London, they spoke 
 of it just as they would of Newberry. " Well, 
 now, I wonder if Mrs. De Courcy has met Sir 
 Charles to-day. I have no doubt but that they 
 have been walking together. I should suppose 
 they go to the same church — and I will make 
 bold to say, before now, he has seen her in that
 
 CONSTAT! CE. 293 
 
 new yellow dress, and admired her more than 
 enough." 
 
 But alas ! after a month's visitation in a dull, 
 cold, inhospitable house in Guildford Street, 
 and after a full experience of the dirt, self-denial, 
 and semi-darkness, to which London people, 
 are, in many instances, subjected, Mrs. De Cour- 
 cy returned to Newberry without once having 
 seen Sir Charles, or heard any thing more of 
 him than the name of the street in which he had 
 been living. Still, he was an object of incessant 
 discussion. It is impossible to deny that Con- 
 stance did also sometimes think of him, for 
 young ladies are apt to think on subjects which 
 their better judgment bids them to forget. It 
 is likewise true that she loved to saunter through 
 the Priory Park, and that she sometimes looked 
 up at the windows of his now deserted house 
 with melancholy retrospection. 
 
 "But why should I even remember him at 
 all ?" said she to herself. "Our acquaintance 
 has been as fleeting as a dream, and as fallacious 
 also. By this time he has forgotten it, and 
 surely it is worse than folly in me ever to give 
 it a thought."
 
 294 CONSTANCE. 
 
 Spring was now fast disclosing the many va- 
 ried hues of the mantle with which she invests 
 all Nature. Constance had not, during the 
 months of winter, forgotten the comforts of old 
 Rose. Her cottage had been warmed by the 
 lavish gifts of Miss Courtenay, her bed had been 
 replenished by her bounty. The old woman 
 acknowledged these considerate presents with the 
 more pleasure, that the hand which bestowed 
 them had, in its mode of giving, nothing of the 
 ostentatious Benevolent' society-like manner 
 which, whilst it extracts a gratitude which is with 
 ffidiculty squeezed out, is often succeeded by a 
 sort of moral nausea in the mind of the person 
 obliged. Constance Avas amply repaid for her 
 exertions to benefit her aged charge, not only 
 by the delightful consciousness of having 
 smoothed the rugged path of age and poverty, 
 but in the interest which she took in Rose's 
 long stories, and the instruction even which she 
 derived in gleaning from her some of the expe- 
 rience of a life of vicissitude. Often did she 
 afterwards look back on her walks to Bird- 
 brook, and the hours she had passed in Rose's 
 cottage, as those, if not the happiest, at least
 
 CONSTANCE. 295 
 
 the most unmixed with sorrow in her early 
 life. 
 
 One afternoon, however, their conversation ran 
 upon a theme of much melancholy interest — it 
 was the death of poor Susan. There was 
 nothing remarkable in the story — it is perhaps 
 one of too frequent occurrence, but it was the 
 effect of certain circumstances upon the mind of 
 the humble heroine of the tale, that was, consi- 
 dering her lowly sphere, somewhat uncommon. 
 She was the lovely and only daughter of poor 
 Rose, and had been nurtured with infinite care, 
 although with much simplicity, in the village 
 where she had first seen the light. Susan was 
 the pride and beauty of the family, and when 
 her mother consented to her taking charge of 
 the infant of a lady of high birth, a cousin of 
 Sir Charles Marchmont, she felt that she was 
 sacrificing to the supposed good of her child, 
 her own last comfort. She went — the young 
 and innocent girl — elate with hope, happy in a 
 guileless heart, blooming with health, and just 
 with enough knowledge of religious matters to 
 know that she must fear God, and trust in Him. 
 A foreboding shook the poor mother's frame as
 
 296 CONSTANCE. 
 
 she parted from the darling of her desolate old 
 age, and saw her cross the threshold for the last 
 time. But she went, and old Rose was left 
 alone, to sit and think in her cottage of many 
 summer and winter days of happiness with this 
 her last stay, of fond and anxious gazings upon 
 the cherub face of her Susan's infancy, of the 
 felicity of returned affection in the more ma- 
 tured season of her child's life. Alas ! what 
 mother cannot perfect the picture of hope and 
 love, love amounting to rapture, which her own 
 feelings may supply ? After a year or more of 
 wistful thoughts of the absent, of eager watch- 
 ings for the po&t-boy, of delight at the casual in- 
 telligence of travellers, the letters from Susan be- 
 came first short and sad, — then rare, — then ceas- 
 ed altogether. The mother tried to bear delays, 
 to hope, to be resigned to the neglect of her 
 darling, if she were happy, reproached her not, 
 and endeavoured to wile away the languor of 
 an existence without that object to cheer it 
 which it once had possessed. 
 
 At last a letter arrived. Susan was coming 
 home; yet the announcement of her journey 
 sounded strange in Rose's ear.
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 297 
 
 " Mother," she wrote, " take me home again; 
 I will work for you, obey you, attend you more 
 than ever, till I die." 
 
 She came, and her mother had her treasure 
 back ascain: but was it Susan — was it the 
 laughing, bounding girl, whose fleetness defied 
 that of her young competitors in the dance and 
 the race, whose dark blue eye, restless from the 
 overflowings of a happy heart, only varied in 
 its expression of felicity from the calmness of 
 contentment to the sparkling gleams of joy ? 
 An emaciated, drooping creature, her frame at 
 times shaken by a short, but hard and mer- 
 ciless cough, her pallid lips scarcely forming 
 themselves into a forced smile, her eyes cast 
 down with shame or hopeless grief, or raised in 
 agony to her mother^s face; — these were the 
 indications of a spirit wounded by guilt, or sor- 
 row, or perhaps both. 
 
 It was vain that her mother strove to restore 
 her to health, or to raise her from dejection and 
 despair. For a time, indeed, kindness and her 
 native air seemed to check the ravages of cor- 
 roding grief, and to delay the progress of that 
 fatal disease which often bereaves the happy of a 
 
 o5
 
 298 CONSTANCE. 
 
 sunny life, but which was in Susan the conse- 
 quence of a broken heart. Medicine seemed but 
 to add new sufferings to the consuming fire which 
 wasted slowly, but unceasingly, the vigour of 
 her young frame. The minister of a religious 
 sect came; he spoke of condemnation to one 
 who refused to betray the cause of her anguish, 
 and the silent sorrows of the poor girl were 
 exchanged for delirium and paroxysms of men- 
 tal agony. At last Mr. Bouverie visited her, 
 and to him eventually she imparted her story. 
 It is told in a few words. She had been led 
 astray by one who ought to have protected, 
 warned her, one who was virtually the guardian 
 of his young and ignorant inmates— in short, 
 by the gentleman in whose family she lived. 
 This individual taught her first to love him, and 
 she did really love him, for her's was no vulgar 
 mind, — and then took every advantage of that 
 unfortunate attachment, which the profligate 
 know so well how to take. 
 
 To the severe in judgment it may appear 
 some aggravation of his guilt that the person 
 whom he corrupted was one whom he had de- 
 puted to watch over the health, and safety, and
 
 CONSTANCE. 299 
 
 character of his young child ! — that even with 
 the innocent infant sleeping on her arm, he 
 could dare to cherish an impure passion for 
 her, whose image was associated in his mind 
 with that of a father's dearest treasure. But 
 the kind, indulgent, candid world judges not so 
 harshly of an " indiscretion ;'" the poor victim 
 is " base,'' " abominable," and must be dis- 
 missed, no matter whither ; but " all men are 
 alike, and they will do these things ; and if it 
 had not been known, it would not have signi- 
 fied." May God forgive them! 
 
 The affair was not discovered, but Susan 
 " pined in thought." For a very short time 
 only did she wrestle with her own conscience, 
 and endeavour to reconcile herself with the 
 thought that "others had done as she had." 
 Consumption, arising from the united effects of 
 a wounded conscience, and of a total indiffer- 
 ence to the preservation of her own bodily 
 health, soon made its appearance, and furnished 
 for her a plea to leave the scene of her first 
 and last sorrow — a sorrow which ceased only 
 with her dying breath. 
 
 The man who virtually murdered her re-
 
 300 CONSTANCE. 
 
 mained prosperous, gay, and courted by a world 
 wilfully ignorant of the sins of the rich and the 
 agreeable. It is doubtful whether he would 
 even have remembered this one victim, had it 
 not been for a circumstance which occurred 
 after her death. When he accidentally heard 
 of that event, he sent poor Rose fifty pounds, 
 "from his sense of the services which Susan 
 had rendered to his child." It was returned 
 with disdain. " And tell him," said poor Rose, 
 as she got Mr. Bouverie to pen the few lines 
 which accompanied the returned gift, " that a 
 mother's curse should rest upon him, were it not 
 that she bade me to forgive him." 
 
 The expenses of the poor girl's last illness, 
 and of her funeral, were unostentatiously dis- 
 charged by Mr. Bouverie ; and that the be- 
 reaved mother might not feel that her child was 
 ignominiously laid among the nameless dead, 
 he placed a stone, with the simple inscription 
 before noticed, over her grave. He knew 
 also that the rustic monument would be a. sort 
 of rallying point whereon the wretched survivor 
 might vent the sorrows of her heart : besides,, 
 to ignorant, and consequently prejudiced minds,
 
 CONSTAXCE. 301 
 
 a tombstone, however lowly, affords a tangible, 
 and therefore consolatory memento of that 
 which we have lost. We are comforted that 
 one earthly fabric is still devoted to the de- 
 parted object of fondness. 
 
 When Constance returned through the 
 churchyard, after this conversation, she could 
 not help pausing and ruminating some time 
 upon the story, and wondering if the moral con- 
 veyed in the history of that simple tombstone 
 would touch the heart of selfish and designing 
 man. But she stopped not long, for Miss 
 Monckton, who had promised to meet her on 
 her return, now stepped forward to greet her. 
 
 " What shall you say," cried she, as they met, 
 " if I have made an arrangement for you to go 
 with me to Bath next week ? I have some very 
 worthy friends there, to whom I wrote that, in- 
 stead of my maid, I should bring with me, for 
 a fortnight, a very ornamental young lady, of 
 whose company I have grown fond, without 
 knowing why or wherefore. I have already 
 obtained the consent of your guardian, who 
 thinks as highly of me as Solomon did of the 
 Queen of Sheba. I give you no longer notice.
 
 302 CONSTANCE. 
 
 because you can replenish your wardrobe much 
 better at Bath than at Newberry." 
 
 *' O, delightful! and how very kind of you!" 
 said Constance. 
 
 " O, you know old maids have nothing else 
 to do but to be kind, and the fancy I have 
 taken for you is unaccountable ; and yet, some- 
 how or other, many people seem to have the 
 same foible."" 
 
 We pass over the adieux of Mr. and Mrs. 
 Cattell, and even those of Mitten. Constance, as 
 she quitted her sleeping-room, seemed to leave all 
 dullness and care along with it. There was but 
 one person whom she was sorry to leave, and 
 that individual was Mr. Bouverie. She met 
 him, the night before her departure, at one of 
 the Newberry parties, at which his attendance 
 had of late been very rare, and she was resolved 
 to take leave of him, in a manner as cordial as 
 her friendship for him dictated, and to seek 
 every opportunity of speaking to him during 
 the course of the evening. He appeared less 
 to avoid her than formerly, and she was excited 
 to more than her usual openness by this unex- 
 pected return to their former friendly converse.
 
 CONSTANCE. 303 
 
 " Do you know," said she to liim, " how 
 very kind Miss Monckton is to me ? she is 
 ffointj to take me to Bath to-morrow." 
 
 " To Bath ?''^ exclaimed he, an air of deep 
 vexation overclouding his countenance. 
 
 " Yes ; and it is so very, very good of her ; 
 for whom have I to take me any where, or to 
 give me any pleasure, but such friends as I may 
 chance to obtain ? And I am most grateful to 
 any who feel an interest in me." 
 
 " There are many who must do so. Miss 
 Courtenay," he said, in a low voice. 
 
 " Will you tell me — will you advise me,"' 
 said Constance, encouraged by his soft and yet 
 pensive manner, " what books to procure at 
 Bath ? I would rely on your judgment sooner 
 far than that of any one whom I know ; per- 
 haps it will be too much trouble for you, to 
 make me out a little list of such as you would 
 recommend ?'''' 
 
 This was most persevering ; yet Mr. Bou- 
 verie did not feel flattered by it. He was not, 
 in this instance, particularly gratified by being 
 treated only as the staid monitor and wise ad- 
 viser, whilst all the warmth and interest were
 
 304 CONSTANCE. 
 
 reserved for another. For a few minutes, he 
 made no reply. 
 
 " I shall be writing to Sir Charles March- 
 mont, and will take the liberty of enclosing a 
 list of such books as may suit you." 
 
 " Sir Charles Marchmont ! is he in Bath ?" 
 cried Constance, her colour mounting to her 
 face and neck. 
 
 Mr. Bouverie's face was somewhat reddened 
 also. He answered her gravely, and almost, as 
 she thought, reprovingly, " He has been there 
 some time." 
 
 " But it is very likely that we may not see 
 him," said she, " and therefore you had better 
 send it direct to Miss Monckton, or to me." 
 
 *' Whichever you please, Miss Courtenay ; 
 but you are sure to see Sir Charles, I think.''' 
 
 " Ah," thought Constance, " if I had suf- 
 fered Mr. Bouverie to send me this list through 
 him, I should have been sure to have seen him. 
 Why was I so foolish ? But why should I," 
 again she reflected, "seek to draw forth the 
 attentions of Sir Charles, or of any one ? Am 
 I not degrading myself in the very wish ?"
 
 CONSTANCE. 305 
 
 " You are more serious and thoughtful. Miss 
 Courtenay, than young ladies are wont to be, 
 when on the eve of expected enjoyment," said 
 Mr. Bouverie, after a pause. " I hope that no 
 misgivings as to the reality of the happiness 
 which you anticipate, have crossed your mind."" 
 
 Constance looked at him surprised. " You 
 read my thoughts," she replied. 
 
 " God grant," said he, with earnestness, 
 " that my misgivings concerning you may be 
 visionary; that — — ." He checked himself 
 suddenly. 
 
 *' Tell me what you fear for me," said Con- 
 stance, eagerly. 
 
 " O, my fears are perhaps mere delusions of 
 my own fancy," he answered, with a faint 
 smile; ''I can never anticipate that any real 
 harm can happen to one so guileless and so 
 candid as yourself." 
 
 " Besides, I have an excellent adviser in Miss 
 Monckton .^" said Constance. 
 
 Mr. Bouverie was silent ; he looked down, 
 until Constance again urged her question. 
 
 " No one can appreciate more highly than I 
 do," he answered, " Miss Monckton's excellent
 
 306 
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 qualities, both of the heart and of the head ; but 
 she, too, may sometimes be deceived by appear- 
 ances. Pardon me, I have perhaps said too much ; 
 you led to it yourself, by alluding to what you 
 called your friendless condition. Friendless it 
 can never be whilst you continue what you are," 
 he added, his eyes resting upon her with an ex- 
 pression which, however grave, had somewhat 
 of tenderness in it. 
 
 " You are afraid, I see," said Constance, 
 playfully, " that I shall be corrupted by the 
 vanities of the world at Bath." 
 
 " No ; you have too much sensibility to be 
 immoderately vain ; vanity implies, or rather, 
 perhaps, produces selfishness ; that is its worst 
 consequence. You feel too much for others to 
 become selfish : it is not that I dread your be- 
 coming indifferent to the happiness of others ; 
 I tremble lest you should lose your own — but, 
 indeed, I am wrong to say so much." 
 
 " What are you two talking so much about?" 
 said the elder Miss Seagrave, her lack-lustre 
 grey eyes acquiring the same sort of significancy 
 as those of her domestic companion, the cat. 
 
 " They have been full twenty minutes in con-
 
 CONSTANCE. 307 
 
 versation." whispered Miss Pearson, to Mrs. 
 Crawford . 
 
 " Miss Courtenay's such a very engrossing 
 young lady," drawled out the latter, with a 
 sweet smile. 
 
 " Miss Courtenay, I shall write a billet doux 
 to Sir Charles, and tell him to look after you 
 at Bath/' said Mrs. De Courcy, her dark eyes 
 brightening at the happiness of finding an ex- 
 cuse to mention his name ; " he must report 
 progress of your flirtations to Mr. Bouverie." 
 
 " And of his own, to Mrs. De Courcy," said 
 Miss Monckton. 
 
 " O you wicked creature, how you do quiz 
 me about Sir Charles,"" cried Mrs. De Courcy, 
 quite pleased, since she had not the reality, to 
 have at least the credit of a flirtation with him. 
 
 " She had better run after him to Bath," 
 said Miss Pearson, aside to Mrs. Crawfurd, 
 " 'tis not so far as to London." 
 
 " Come, Miss Courtenay, make your adieux," 
 said Miss Monckton to her, " for we must rise 
 at six to-morrow. — Farewell, ladies ; good bye, 
 Mrs. De Courcy, we shall bring Sir Charles 
 back with us."
 
 308 CONSTANCE. 
 
 " O, Miss Monckton, how can that con- 
 cern me ?" 
 
 ^' Adieu, Miss Pearson, don''t trouble your- 
 self to get up in the morning to see how many 
 packages we have ; I will tell you now — j ust 
 thirteen. Adieu, Mrs. Crawfurd, you are 
 always so amiable, that I am sure you will be 
 grieved to the soul if you hear we are over- 
 turned.'^ 
 
 " I hope, indeed, you'll not fall out by the 
 way," said the placid widow, with a grim smile 
 at the wit of her double meaning. 
 
 " Miss Seagraves, I hope to see one and all 
 of you as blooming and cheerful as you are 
 now, when 1 come back," said Miss Monckton 
 to three very haggard looking old maids. " And 
 now, Mr. Bouverie, God bless you, and don't 
 be too apprehensive for IMiss Courtenay and 
 me," said she, with a warm shake of the hand. 
 " We shall do very well, and return as heart- 
 whole, as we go — come, Constance." 
 
 " You will allow me to walk home with you," 
 said Mr. Bouverie, hurriedly, for he dared 
 not trust himself before so many strangers, to 
 bid adieu to Miss Courtenay. Permission to
 
 CONSTANCE. 309 
 
 accompany them was readily granted. The 
 darkness of the night concealed his agitation, 
 as they proceeded down the quiet streets of the 
 town, preceded by Mrs. CattelFs boy, holding 
 a little lanthorn. It was necessary first to de- 
 posit Miss Monckton, and then Constance and 
 Mr. Bouverie were left alone together. He 
 took but little advantage of this circumstance, 
 however, and scarcely spoke, until they reached 
 Mr. CattelPs door, where pressing her hand 
 fervently, he bade her farewell. 
 
 Mean time, the coterie which they had left 
 assembled, continued together for a little while 
 longer, in order to criticize the conduct of those 
 from whom they had just parted. 
 
 " How strange Miss Monckton is !" said the 
 elder Miss Seagrave, in a deep growling 
 voice. 
 
 " And how she spoils that Miss Courtenay !" 
 added the second, in a strong provincial accent. 
 
 " Miss Monckton having never been married, 
 has no notion of the way in which young people 
 should be managed,"* observed Mrs. Hemming, 
 one of those ladies who are virtual representa- 
 tives of the multiplication table, she having
 
 310 CONSTANCE. 
 
 on an average, been blessed or afflicted with two 
 children in three years, during the foregoing- 
 fifteen. 
 
 " I wonder how Miss Courtenay will look at 
 Bath," said Mrs. De Courcy, wistfully. 
 
 ''Oh, she'll be quite in the dolefuls," ob- 
 served Miss Pearson, " without Mr. Bouverie."" 
 
 " ril lay my life that he follows her there,'' 
 cried one of the Miss Seagraves, maliciously. 
 
 " There will be no occasion," replied Mrs. 
 Crawfurd, with her angelic smile, " for she's 
 sure to comeback to him.^'
 
 C0NSTAN(3K. 311 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 A solemn, antique gentleman of rhyme, 
 
 Who having angled all his life for fame, 
 
 And getting but a nibble at a time, 
 
 Still fussily keeps fishing on, the same 
 
 Small '* Triton of the minnows," the sublime 
 
 Of mediocrity, the furious same, 
 
 The echo's echo, usher of the school 
 
 Of female wits, boy bards. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 In the course of the second day after their de- 
 parture from Newberry, Constance and Miss 
 Monckton found themselves in Bath. The for- 
 mer had been prepared by her friend to form 
 some notion of the characters of the lady and 
 gentleman whom she was going to visit. Ac- 
 cordingly, when she entered the drawing-room 
 of Mr. and Mrs. Kilderby, she was not sur- 
 prised, though there was no human being in the 
 room, to find it tenanted ; for four fine large 
 
 white cats, with silver collars, ran out from 
 
 under the sofa to greet them.
 
 312 CONSTANCE. 
 
 " These will be, in part, your companions," 
 whispered Miss Monckton ; "for Mrs. Kil- 
 derby can think and talk of nothing but her 
 family. Allow me to introduce you— Miss 
 Daphne, Miss Chloe, Mr. Apollo, and Mrs. 
 Frisk." 
 
 A maid servant, neat to the last degree, with 
 a curtsy such as Constance thought could 
 hardly have been elucidated from a Bath ser- 
 vant, showed them to their several apartments ; 
 for Mrs. Kilderby was at her toilet, preparatory 
 to dinner. 
 
 " Am I in Bath ?'' said Constance to 
 herself; for, from the precise, papered-up, 
 well-blinded, undisturbed look of the rooms 
 through which she passed, she almost feared 
 that she was going to her dull apartment at 
 Mr. CattelFs again. But she soon found that 
 she was in a very different atmosphere. What- 
 ever Mrs. Kilderby might be, the genius of 
 literature had visited her husband, and bestowed 
 some of her gifts upon him ; but she had be- 
 stowed such only as constituted the torment, 
 rather than the glory of the poor good man ; 
 having given him the desire of distinction,
 
 CONSTAKCE. 313 
 
 without the power of obtaining it. If the itch 
 of writing eternal epigrams without point, 
 and impromptus without spirit, be poetic fire, 
 Mr. Kilderby was a poet. If the practice of 
 depositing on every lady's table some effusion 
 of his brain — if labouring to get his name in 
 the newspapers — scribbling vapid verses in the 
 magazines — leaving bon-mots gratuitously in 
 every grotto, arbour, summer-house, bathing- 
 machine, on every inn window, remarkable 
 stone, or prodigious tree, with the initials 
 W. K. inscribed under each effort of his travel- 
 ling muse, — if these and other exertions could 
 have provoked public curiosity, and made a 
 name, Mr. Kilderby would have been deemed 
 by the time he arrived at his fiftieth year, 
 little inferior to the voluminous Pope, or the 
 indefatigable Dryden. But, by that time, his 
 muse had become a public nuisance, defacing 
 all common-place books, by covering good 
 paper with bad verse. His acquaintances were 
 as much alarmed when he talked of " Rhythm," 
 as if he had proposed a duel ; and one old 
 gentleman who had borne his whims, for old 
 acquaintance"* sake, with great patience, was at 
 
 OL. I. P
 
 314 ^ CONSTANCE. 
 
 length heard to declare that he would rather 
 Mr. Kilderby would ask him to lend him a 
 thousand pounds, than bother him with one of 
 his impromptus. To close this digression, the 
 present aim of Mr. Kilderby was to get a pub- 
 lisher and puffer for a poem of his, in ten 
 cantos, written in imitation of the " New Bath 
 Guide," but as little to be compared in its exe- 
 cution to that successful production, as a deli- 
 cately seasoned French dish is to a Scotch 
 haggis. Unhappily for the world, but most 
 unhappily for Constance, Lord Nelson had died 
 just before she paid her visit to Bath, and 
 Mr. Kilderby was " at him" for ever. No form 
 of Monody, Elegy, " Lines on a recent event," 
 '' Reflections on Trafalgar," were unemployed, 
 to vary, if possible, dull thoughts under new 
 aspects, and to disguise old ones with fresh 
 names. 
 
 Mrs. Kilderby was just the reverse of her 
 husband ; her character was the antidote to his. 
 She was to him what the alkali in a saline 
 draught is to the acid. She was one of those 
 hard-headed women of the old school, who con- 
 sidered imagination and feeling as pernicious
 
 CONSTANCE. 315 
 
 weeds, to be exterminated, if possible, from 
 the fertile soil of the human mind. Her edu- 
 cation had begun with working a sampler, 
 and had been considered finished when she 
 could master six columns of spelling at a 
 breath, and could play the "Fall of Paris" 
 without stopping. Reading, she deemed to be 
 the worst species of idleness, an expensive and 
 conceited sort of amusement. Wit, she con- 
 founded with profaneness, sentiment with licen- 
 tiousness, and talent of all kinds, except for 
 cookery and needle-work, she regarded as im- 
 pertinence. With all this, it was astonishing 
 what a nice sort of woman she really was. She 
 had a natural shrewdness, which had been much 
 improved by a long intercourse with the world, 
 and which her husband's follies had called into 
 play. She had a kind heart and a generous 
 disposition, but a bad temper; but this her 
 friend, Miss Monckton, was wont to excuse 
 on this head— that a certain portion of the 
 vixen in a woman's composition is to be ac- 
 counted a sort of merit ; it is the princi- 
 ple which keeps her servants in order, and 
 makes her friends look up to her. Accord- 
 
 p2
 
 316 
 
 CONSTANCE. 
 
 ing to Miss Monckton, ill-tempered people 
 are always much better used than good-na- 
 tured ones ; every one gives way to them for 
 the sake of peace, and those who are inclined 
 to trample will always find a camomile plant 
 somewhere or other. It might have been al- 
 leged with more propriety, that Mrs. Kilderby 
 had much to irritate her, if seeing her husband 
 ridiculous, and knowing him to be a most 
 fitting representative of the word "bore,'' be 
 not enough to vex a woman who is not blessed 
 with forbearance. It is true that she had one 
 foible — a love for her cats ; but this resulted in 
 a great measure both from her not having en- 
 joyed the precarious blessing of children, and 
 from the utter departure of her affection from 
 that other natural channel, her husband; for 
 whilst her duty forbade her to hate, she 
 knew of no human or divine regulation which 
 prohibited her despising him. 
 
 Such were the couple with whom Miss 
 Monckton and her young friend were destined 
 to pass the period of their residence in Bath. 
 Mr. Kilderby had been catering about the 
 Pump-room for several days previous to their
 
 CONSTANCE. 317 
 
 arrival, for a suitable addition to their first 
 day's dinner circle; for as he always wished 
 particularly to shine in Miss Monck ton's eyes, 
 he was anxious not only to enhance her plea- 
 sure, but to invite such persons as were likely 
 to impress her with a notion of his superior at- 
 tainments. Next to his wife, he dreaded Miss 
 Monckton more than any one living ; and this 
 dread was accompanied, not by dislike, for that 
 was too harsh a sentiment for his gentle nature 
 to cherish, but by a vast regard for her opinion, 
 and tenaciousness about her approbation. 
 
 Mr. Kilderby could succeed in bringing in 
 no other coadjutors to his weak party in his 
 own house, but Doctor Creamly, a young" 
 physician recently established at Bath, a man 
 of acknowledged polite breeding, of senti- 
 ment not unvaried by wit ; and of extensive 
 knowledge on every subject, except his pro- 
 fession. What Dr. Creamly wanted in me- 
 dical skill, he made up for by his cleverness in 
 the art of pleasing. He adapted himself to 
 every person's temper and fancies — to the 
 grave, the gay, the loose, and the severe. 
 Like the vane on a church steeple, he veered
 
 318 CONSTANCE. 
 
 round to every point of the compass, and yet 
 retained his own station and opinion. 
 
 " He has the highest views of human na- 
 ture," whispered Mr. Kilderby to Miss Monck- 
 ton ; " the most elevated moral sentiments of 
 any man I ever met with. He is all purity of 
 mind and religious feeling." 
 
 " Hum,'' said Miss Monckton. 
 
 " Do you know, he says he thinks my little 
 stanzas on Amanda equal to Goldsmith ? Have 
 you read them ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " What ! did I not send them to you ? I 
 thought I had. Then you shall have them," 
 — in a tone of kind consideration. 
 
 " You are very good ; but you have written 
 me out so many of your things, that I cannot 
 think of troubling you any more." 
 
 " I shall have the greatest pleasure in pre- 
 senting you with a copy of it ; and if you like 
 to give it to Smith, the editor of the Newberry 
 Advertiser, I shall have no objection." 
 
 " Indeed ! that is too liberal," said Miss 
 Monckton, her thin face without one smile of 
 encouragement in it.
 
 ' CONSTANCE. 319 
 
 " Though he doesn't deserve it, for I sent 
 him my ode on the king's recovery, and lines 
 on Emma, and he never inserted either of them. 
 It's all jealousy — pique — private pique. Don't 
 you think so, Miss Courtenay ?" for he ven- 
 tured not to address this question to Miss 
 Monckton. 
 
 " It is very unamiable, if it is," said Con- 
 stance. 
 
 " Nothing," said Dr. Creamly, " can exceed 
 the illiberality of the publishers of the daily 
 press ; they have no generosity of sentiment, no 
 philosophical or extended views, no philanthro- 
 pic desires for the moral improvement of our 
 nature." 
 
 " They don't choose to put in things that 
 don't answer, I suppose," said Mrs. Kilderby, 
 sharply. 
 
 '' True," said Dr. Creamly. 
 " They have behaved very ill to me," said 
 Mr. Kilderby, emboldened by the presence of 
 his aide-de-camp. Dr. Creamly, to venture upon 
 the story of his wrongs. 
 
 " They have," said Dr. Creamly. 
 
 " How, pray .?" said Constance, who felt in-
 
 320 CONSTANCE. 
 
 clined to take Mr. Kilderby's part among the 
 Philistines, both domestic and foreign. 
 
 " It is a long story,"' said Mrs. Kilderby, her 
 sharp hooked nose looking sharper than ever. 
 " And pray, Mr. Kilderby, do let us enter- 
 tain Miss Monckton and Miss Courtenay with 
 something better than that.'^ 
 
 There was a dead silence for a few minutes. 
 
 " How are the theatres attended now. Doctor 
 Creamly?" said Miss Monckton. 
 
 " Very well, I believe,'* answered the physi- 
 cian, hesitatingly. " Very well, I believe." 
 
 " Theatres don't suit Dr. Creamly," said 
 Mrs. Kilderby ; " he's better away from them ; 
 might be sent for, you know." 
 
 "•' Of the stage, as a vehicle for moral senti- 
 ment, I think highly," said Dr. Creamly; "but 
 I confess, the sock and buskin are so profaned 
 by buffoonery and impropriety now, that I sel- 
 dom go, unless it be to sigh over the recollection 
 of Shakspeare, or to endeavour to recal the ge- 
 nius of Massinger." 
 
 " The dra-a-ma," said Mr. Kilderby, " is at 
 a low ebb; don't you think so. Miss Courte- 
 nay ? Ah, well a day ! They rejected my poor
 
 COXSTANCK. 321 
 
 Clorintha ! and I declare if I don't think she 
 would have made as good a figure as any of 
 them ; don'*t you think so, Dr. Creamly ?" 
 
 The announcement of dinner waved the dif- 
 ficulty of an answer to this question. The 
 snares which Mr. Kilderby was always laying 
 to entrap the compliments of his friends were 
 only, however, suspended. Constance felt truly 
 sorry for him ; for much as she loved Miss 
 Monckton, she pitied any one who came under 
 her lash, especially when the whipcord of her 
 satire was intertwined with the brambles of 
 Mrs. Kilderby's temper. 
 
 "Poor Mr. Kilderby!" thought she. "At 
 any rate, he has not a grovelling mind. He has 
 a desire of fame, which might do credit to 
 Burns or Cowper, and it is not his fault if Na- 
 ture have given him the wish to rise, without 
 the wings to fly.'' 
 
 But soon, she ceased to feel compassion for 
 one whose vanity was a perpetual feast to him, 
 and who was, therefore, no object of lamentation. 
 The neatly served and well cooked dinner was 
 scarcely disarranged by the devastations of the 
 carving-knife, when a thundering knock at the 
 
 p 5
 
 322 CONSTANCE. 
 
 door was heard. Mr. Kilderby, who was no great 
 adept at carving, was working away upon a 
 goose, his elbow lifted considerably above the 
 altitude of his bald and shining head, and was 
 meekly, but unprofitably enduring the instruc- 
 tions of his more skilful wife, when the servant 
 announced — " Sir Charles Marchmont in the 
 drawing room/' 
 
 " Sir Charles who ?" cried Mrs. Kilderby, 
 " why does he call at this hour, Mr. Kilderby .^" 
 But Mr. Kilderby had vanished without wait- 
 ing for the prohibition to move, which he ex- 
 pected. 
 
 ^' I didn't know that Mr. Kilderby was ac- 
 quainted with Sir Charles Marchmont," said 
 Miss Monckton to her hostess. 
 
 " Nor I either, Miss Monckton ; but he's 
 always picking up some one or other at the 
 pump-room. Lord ! what makes the man call 
 at this hour? why it's four o'clock. Well, 
 there he's gone now, I hear the door shut. 
 Miss Courtenay wants her dinner — she looks 
 pale, I think." 
 
 " She looked red enough just now," thought 
 Miss Monckton ; " I see how it is, in spite of
 
 CONSTANCE. 323 
 
 all her bravery. Well, Mr. Kilderby, and how 
 is ray friend Sir Charles F^ 
 
 " Remarkably charming ! He's a fine crea- 
 ture," returned Mr. Kilderby, with a smile, 
 denoting extreme self-satisfaction. " Do you 
 know, Mrs. K., that as I was standing with 
 Captain Perry to-day. Sir Charles March- 
 mont, hearing that I was the author of Clorintha, 
 a Tragedy, and other Poems" 
 
 " Come now, Mr. Kilderby, do get on with 
 that goose." 
 
 " Says I to Captain Perry — a wing, Miss 
 Courtenay ? Come, now, if the wing had a 
 quill in it, it would be no bad thing — a poet's 
 gray goose-quill, you know." 
 
 " Mr. Kilderby, help me to a slice off the 
 breast," screamed his wife, her small dark eyes 
 glistening with inspiration, but not of a poetical 
 kind. 
 
 " You were telling us about Sir Charles 
 Marchmont," said Miss Monckton. Mr. Kil- 
 derby again laid down his knife and fork. 
 
 "Do you know, Miss Monckton — do you 
 know, I find it absolutely inconvenient and 
 overpowering to go to the rooms. The number
 
 324 CONSTANCE. 
 
 of people that ask to be introduced to one at 
 Bath, so glad, you know, to catch hold of a 
 literary person, a bit of a poet, like me — only 
 a bit of a one " — looking at Dr. Creamly to be 
 contradicted ; but Dr. Creamly was under the 
 shadow of Mrs. Kilderby's presence, and dared 
 not lend his assistance at this juncture. 
 
 " I never heard that Sir Charles was parti- 
 cularly of a literary turn, did you ?" said Miss 
 Monckton, appealing to Constance. 
 
 ''• I never heard — I am no judge," replied 
 the latter. 
 
 " Pardon me, but I think you have a sweet 
 taste,"' said Mr. Kilderby, " and I shall see 
 how you like my sonnet to a Blue Bell, after 
 dinner." 
 
 " I thought you had put that in the fire long 
 ago, Mr. Kilderby," said his wife. 
 
 "And as I was saying to Sir Charles, I 
 understood from my clever friend here. Miss 
 Monckton, that you were highly accomplished." 
 
 *' How came you to speak of her ? Tell us 
 the whole history of your meeting with Sir 
 Charles," cried Miss Monckton, upon whom a 
 new light now broke.
 
 CONSTANCE. 325 
 
 " Why, as I was saying, Sir Charles, I 
 know, knew me to be the author of Clorintha, 
 and was eyeing me all over ; but that we 
 literary men are used to, you know, at Bath, 
 Dr. Creamly;' 
 
 '* Everywhere, everywhere, sir, society ral- 
 lies around talent.*" 
 
 " Mr. Kilderby, do send away that goose," 
 cried Mrs. Kilderby, — and the goose was at 
 length dismissed. 
 
 " He has left one of his flock behind him," 
 thought Miss Monckton. 
 
 "Alas!" said Constance to herself, "shall 
 we never come back to Sir Charles .?" 
 
 " Literature," pursued Dr. Creamly, by 
 way of fill up, " is to our intellectual system, 
 what air is to our animal system — it refines 
 and elevates mankind. I am, myself, of opi- 
 nion, that knowledge, widely diffused, will bring 
 about, by slow and sure degrees, that universal 
 benevolence and moral elevation, which alone 
 can approximate us to perfection. What do 
 you think, my dear madam," said he to Mrs. 
 Kilderby, " of the moral perfectibility of our 
 nature .?"
 
 326 CONSTANCE. 
 
 " I think nothing of it at all," was her reply. . 
 
 " How exalted Dr. Creamly's sentiments are!" 
 whispered Mr. Kilderby to Miss Courtenay. 
 " What a fine mind he has !" 
 
 " Well, and were Sir Charles's glances at you 
 followed by no explicit declaration of his admi- 
 ration of the author of Clorintha .^'" asked Miss 
 Monckton. 
 
 " I assure you I felt much flattered, my 
 good friend, to find my poor productions so 
 much taken up by the higher classes ; for I am 
 told Sir Charles is a man of the first fashion 
 and connexions here. — But I'll tell you all 
 about it, if my good Mrs. Kilderby will let me." 
 
 " O you '11 tell it, whether or no, Mr. Kil- 
 derby, some time or another, so we had better 
 have it all out now." 
 
 "I had been asking my friend Perry to 
 dine with us to-day — he trafficks with the IMuses 
 like myself, a little — says I to him, ' We are to 
 have Hebe and Minerva to dine with us to-day.' 
 ' Nonsense,' says he, ' it's some of your freaks 
 of fancy ;' — ' But we are,' replied I, ' two very 
 
 charming ladies from shire ; one — excuse 
 
 me. Miss Monckton — has been younger ; the
 
 COXSTANCE. 327 
 
 other, they tell me, is divine as a poet's dream,' 
 bowing to Miss Courtenay. — ' And what's her 
 name ?' says the Captain — now excuse me. 
 Miss Courtenay, if I couldn't at first remember 
 it — my poor head, as Mrs. Kilderby says, is 
 full of Florimels, and Chloe's, and such like — I 
 can't just tell her name, but she's young, I'm 
 told, and beautiful as my own Clorintha, and 
 she lives at Newberry. ' Sir Charles,' says 
 Perry, turning round to the young Baronet 
 who was at a little distance, ' you know New- 
 berry, can you furnish my good friend here 
 with a nsLme?' Now when he had told him 
 that you were brought here, Miss Courtenay, by 
 Miss Monckton ; and more particularly when 
 I added that you might have been, I was told, 
 an original for my Clorintha, (a very great com- 
 pliment, let me tell you,) he said he had no 
 doubt but that it was Miss Courtenay — but 
 what he added, I must not tell you, I sup- 
 pose, or your good duenna there will be angry 
 with me." 
 
 " Please to finish your story, Mr. Kilderby,'' 
 said his wife; "James is waiting for the 
 pigeons — don't you see ?"
 
 328 CONSTANCE. 
 
 " And then, Miss Monckton, Captain Perry 
 was commissioned soon afterwards, by Sir 
 Charles, to introduce him to me. I think it a 
 singular compliment ; for though I have often 
 been in Sir Charles's company before, he has 
 never made the request. I attribute it entirely 
 to my Clorintha.*" 
 
 " Or to her resemblance,'' said Dr. Creamly, 
 in his sweetest tone. 
 
 But his host was too much elated to be asto- 
 nished at this insinuation from his aide-de-camp. 
 He even let out a secret, which he would not 
 have dared to disclose except before company, 
 to Mrs Kilderby, namely, that he had asked 
 Sir Charles to dinner. " He called, however," 
 added the poet, " with many excuses, to say 
 that he was obliged to dine at Lord Somebody's, 
 Lord Vallefort's, I think ; but that if I would 
 let him call in the evening, he should be 
 happy to be introduced to Mrs. Kilderby, and 
 to see his Newberry friends; so he'll look in 
 upon you, Mrs. K., my dear, between eight and 
 nine." 
 
 " Hell not look much at me, Mr. Kilderby, 
 I dare say.'^
 
 COJ^STANCE. 329 
 
 " Constance must be blind, if she does not see 
 through all this," thought Miss Monckton; "for 
 it is obvious to me, that all this sudden solici- 
 tude to be introduced, had a very different 
 source, than anxiety to see the author of Clo- 
 rintha : but let that pass.'' 
 
 " Doctor,"" cried Mr. Kilderby, who was in 
 great good humour, as they entered the draw- 
 ing room, " I mean to introduce you especially 
 to Sir Charles, for no doubt he may be a great 
 friend to you in your professional advancement, 
 and a word from me may do wonders, you 
 know. That is the advantage of having a little 
 fame oneself,'" said he, looking at Miss Courte- 
 nay for her support to this opinion. 
 
 " O, I am sure you are very kind — very 
 kind," said Dr. Creamly, without raising his 
 dark eyes from the ground, where they were 
 usually directed ; " but I am the worst person 
 in the world to look after my professional ad- 
 vancement, and to seek new friends and fresh 
 acquaintance. I absolutely shrink from the 
 thought of encountering a new patient.'' 
 
 " Humph," said Miss Monckton, " that's
 
 330 CONSTANCE. 
 
 " And it'*s lucky that all doctors are not of 
 the same way of thinking, otherwise we should 
 never be able to change our physician," said 
 Mrs. Kilderby sharply. 
 
 " And I am sure,'" said Constance, " I should 
 be very sorry if I were obliged always to 
 have the attendance of Dr. Stately when I 
 am ill. He prescribed for me, when I had 
 a cough last winter, and he used so many 
 technical terms, and talked so much secundum 
 artem, that if I had a dictionary of medical 
 phrases at hand, I should have enlightened my- 
 self, if possible — as it was " 
 
 But the conclusion of her speech was inter- 
 rupted by the entrance of Sir Charles March- 
 mont. It was now four months since Constance 
 had seen him, and she felt it but too probable, 
 that a total change of sentiment towards her 
 had taken place, since the happy delusive days 
 of their autumnal walks through scenes en- 
 hanced in beauty, as Moore expresses it, by 
 " seeing them reflected in looks that we love."* 
 She deemed it also likely, that the temporary 
 irritation in Sir Charles's mind towards her, 
 had also passed away with the interest which
 
 CONSTANCE. 331 
 
 had perhaps partly occasioned it : with respect 
 to his engagement with Miss Herbert, she had 
 become of late incredulous, partly from the 
 positive assertions of Miss Monckton, and partly 
 from her confidence in Sir Charles's honour and 
 single-heartedness, which would, she ignorantly 
 trusted, have prevented his paying to any 
 woman the close attentions which he had de- 
 voted to her, whilst his hand was affianced to 
 another. Impressed with these considerations, 
 she had prepared herself to receive him as an 
 acquaintance, but resolved promptly, not per- 
 haps firmly, that she would never again re- 
 new the intimacy of former days, an intimacy 
 which had caused her so much pain, had evi- 
 dently been forgotten by him, and which she 
 dared not trust her own heart again to permit. 
 Sir Charles thought himself obliged to make 
 the whole circuit of the company before he 
 spoke to Miss Courtenay, and when he did, she 
 rose, (it was then the custom for ladies to rise,) 
 and received him with a modest cordiality of 
 manner, which few well informed men will 
 misunderstand, or mistake for encouragement.
 
 332 CONSTANCE. 
 
 She had now the advantage of Sir Charles, 
 for, though much accustomed to conceal 
 his feelings, he could not, for some moments, 
 recover his composure after speaking to her. 
 
 To the disappointment of Mr. Kilderby, 
 the conversation turned entirely on general sub- 
 jects, of which literature formed but a small 
 portion ; and with all his efforts, he could only 
 quote one stanza of his lines upon Emma, and 
 get in a stave from Clorintha once. Sir Charles 
 had first a great deal to ask about Newberry, 
 but it was observable that he addressed his in- 
 quiries chiefly to Miss Monckton, although 
 Constance joined readily and artlessly in the 
 conversation. Constance was therefore left 
 chiefly to converse with Dr. CreamJy, who, 
 with the manners of a saint, had a considerable 
 portion of worldly discernment, where beauty, 
 influence, or riches were to be found, and con- 
 ciliated. Mrs. Kilderby sat on her hard sofa, 
 fretting and watching her feline family, or, as 
 they were called by the household, the " young- 
 ladies,'''' and alternately stirring the fire herself, 
 or scolding Mr. Kilderby for meddling with it ;
 
 CONSTANCE. 333 
 
 whilst her good man fidgetted about the room, 
 began anecdotes about himself to Miss Monck- 
 ton and Sir Charles, or looked into those papers 
 and magazines from which he could elicit a 
 little praise to himself. 
 
 '' His literature,""' whispered Sir Charles to 
 Miss Monckton, " is all of the Kilderberian 
 school ; and I fancy he quotes no poetry but 
 what is of the Kilderberian stanza." 
 
 " Miss Courtenay, Sir Charles is not at all 
 reformed since he was at Newberry," said Miss 
 Monckton. 
 
 " I am very sorry for it ; I thought it would 
 be otherwise." 
 
 " Did you expect to find me changed ?" said 
 Sir Charles, in a low tone, and with a manner not 
 to be misunderstood ; " if so, you are mistaken." 
 
 Constance determined to be, or if she could 
 not be, to seem insensible to this renewal of old 
 ways. " I have bartered indifference for anx- 
 iety once," said she, to herself; "but it shall 
 be so no more." She tried to fix her attention 
 to what Dr. Creamly was saying to her, but 
 found herself, despite her wishes, perpetually 
 listening to what Miss Monckton and Sir Charles
 
 334 CONSTANCE. 
 
 were talking about, opposite to her. Once or 
 twice she happened to look across when Sir 
 Charles's eyes were directed full on her, with 
 an expression so full of melancholy, so diiferent 
 to his usually sparkling glances, that she was 
 softened, notwithstanding all her resolutions. 
 Yet her natural sense of what was due to her- 
 self, still deterred her from showing her par- 
 tiality to a man, who, whilst he evidently wish- 
 ed her to believe him attached to her, forbore 
 from explicitly avowing his own sentiments. 
 Miss Monckton saw with regret the manifest 
 resolution made by her young friend to see, as 
 if she saw it not, the obvious attachment of Sir 
 Charles to her. 
 
 " He already suspects her of a preference 
 to Bouverie," thought the good old maid, " and 
 this will confirm his suspicions. I am satisfied 
 that Sir Charles will never make an offer, with- 
 out being sure of its acceptance. And yet, 
 how admirably they are suited to each other ! 
 How will her mind, and manners, and person, 
 and heart, grace his station, and again raise the 
 name of Lady March mont to honour ! And 
 how will his warm, but thoughtless heart be
 
 CONSTANCE. 335 
 
 devoted to her, and his character thus res- 
 cued from the dissipation but too incident to 
 his station. I must see what I can do."' 
 
 Thus reasoning, and with the best intentions 
 possible. Miss Monckton meditated a course of 
 proceedings as mischievous, and finally as fatal 
 to the happiness of those whom she sought to 
 serve, as the manoeuvres of those who seek to 
 interfere with Heaven's decrees usually are. 
 Since marriages are, by proverbial consent, 
 made above, it is dangerous for mortals below 
 to meddle with them. 
 
 " Sir Charles,'' said Mr. Kilderby, as the 
 young Baronet was taking leave, "allow me 
 particularly to recommend to your notice dur- 
 ing your stay in Bath, my friend, Dr. Creamly, 
 whose only fault is his too great opinion of me. 
 You'll find him a man of a thousand. And if," 
 in an audible whisper, " you can introduce him 
 to Lord Vallefort, so much the better." 
 
 " My uncle leaves Bath to-morrow, or I 
 should have been most happy," said Sir Charles. 
 
 " How strange," thought Constance, " that he 
 should hurry away from Miss Herbert the last 
 night, if things be true."
 
 336 CONSTANCE. 
 
 " Then I presume you will be going away 
 soon. Sir Charles ?" asked Miss Monckton. 
 
 " Not immediately ; it is too great a pleasure 
 for me to see so old a friend as you are, to run 
 away from you immediately, I want to assist 
 Mr. Kilderby in showing you some of the lions 
 of Bath." 
 
 " He has begun by showing you himself," 
 said Mrs. Kilderby, as she sat squeezed up in 
 h^r corner, her face puckered up with crossness 
 and fatigue, and scarcely any of her features 
 legible but her eyes. 
 
 " Then I shall venture to call about twelve 
 to-morrow, may I, Miss Monckton .?" 
 
 " You may — but you must take your chance 
 of finding us in good or bad humour; we may 
 be inclined to walk, we may be determined to 
 stay at home." 
 
 " I shall abide in Ao^je," said Sir Charles, 
 " for it is my nature to hope, despite fate and 
 fortune." 
 
 " It is the nature of all of you,'' said Mrs. 
 Kilderby, " where your own personal vanity is 
 concerned." 
 
 " Talking of hope," said her consort, *' did
 
 CONSTANCE. 337 
 
 you ever happen to notice, Sir Charles, four 
 lines of mine on that subject, in my verses on 
 the Seasons, published in the European Maga- 
 zine ?" 
 
 " I have not happened to meet with them,'' 
 said Sir Charles, who was just at the door. 
 
 " Indeed ! I am surprised, for they were in 
 every body's mouth. You have, Dr. Creamly." 
 
 Dr. Creamly was obliged to confess that he 
 had not ; " he never read the European." 
 
 " And never read the poetry in it, I dare 
 say," said Mrs. Kilderby, her eyes glaring like 
 one of her own cats. 
 
 " I should think that Dr. Creamly's studies 
 lay chiefly in Galen and the Pharmacopoeia," 
 remarked Miss Monckton, who, like many other 
 ladies, had an illiberal prejudice against me- 
 dical men who cultivated any thing but their 
 own art. 
 
 *^ My studies are few, and not worthy of ob- 
 servation," replied the Doctor, with an air of 
 profound modesty. 
 
 "He studies from nature, perhaps," said 
 Mrs. Kilderby, with an arch look at Miss 
 Courtenay. 
 
 VOL. I. Q,
 
 338 CONSTANCE. 
 
 The Doctor smiled and bowed, and looked 
 ineffably overcome by the notice which he had 
 excited ; and thus the evening closed. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
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