a I B R.ARY OF THE UN IVERSITY or ILLINOIS 6Z2> -i' UJ V 'Q€ < b .5 'S -X^ =^^1- < Q ?3 ANGELA A NOVEL. BY THE AUTHOR OF • EMILIA WYNDHAlSl," "TWO OLD MEN'S TALES," &c. No common object to yoUr sight displays, But what with pleasure Heaven itself surveys : — A brave heart struggling with the storms of fate. IN THREE VOLUMES. VO-L. I. • LONDON: HENRY COL BURN, PUBLISHER, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 1848. LONDON : Geobge Barclay, Castle Street, Leicester Square. M3S"S"a V.I TO A GENEROUS PUBLIC, AND TO THOSE GENEROUS CRITICS WHOSE INDULGENCE HAS LED THEM TO OVEELOOK SO MANY FAULTS, IN FAVOUR OF A FEW SIMPLE TOUCHES AND HONEST SENTIMENTS, THESE PAGES ARE, WITH MUCH EARNEST FEELING, DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR. ANGELA. CHAPTER I. The best of men have ever loved repose : They hate to mingle in the filthy fray ; Where the soul sours and gradual rancour grows, Imbitter'd more from peevish day to day. Song of the Wizard: Castle of Indolence. What a casket of treasures is this our little island ! How imperfect an idea have those vrho nierely travel upon its great roads — passing from one huge town to another, over districts every one has learned by rote — of the infinite, almost inex- haustible beauties, to be found hidden in the more secluded parts of our sweet country ! What lovely rural valleys ! what sweetly wind- VOL. I. B 2 ANGELA. ing, transparent brooks! what dark, wood-crowned hills ! what lawns and fields, and deer-parks and old gardens ! and, above all, what curious old edifices, what treasures of relics of the times gone by, lie hid in those tranquil and retired districts which neither great London roads nor great me- tropolitan railways have traversed ! People run about the Continent and visit every church, and palace, and old ruin, haunted by the memory of the past, or rich with the rare art of the wondrous middle ages, and they neglect those records of the gone-by history and the departed worthies of their own country, with which this our island teems. Less than fifty miles from London, for instance, amid the beech-woods of Buckinghamshire — those lovely romantic valleys, where the noise, and bustle, and hurry, and confusion o^ progress have not yet penetrated, but where the silent fields, the glassy brooks, the toppling hawthorn-hedges, are as when Izaac Walton sat and trolled for pike, or flung his fly for chub or perch, while the milkmaid tripped across the flowery meadow, singing as she went — even in Buckinghamshire, so near London as that, who ever thinks of making a pilgrimage to visit the residence and worship the relics of Hampden ? Of John Hampden ! ANGELA. 3 One has got into a habit of associating with the idea of patriot, that of a restless, new made, very rich (or, still oftener, very poor), man of yesterday, very much dissatisfied because it is impossible to make yesterday half-a-dozen cen- turies old ; because it is impossible to tame that wild, indomitable thing, the poetic imagination of man, so as to make him esteem the offspring of smoking steam-engines or metropolitan counting- houses in the same light that he will and must do the descendant of a line of saints and sages, or even the descendant of a long line of peers and princes, — yes, for peers and princes, even though they were not saints and sages, so they were respectable, honourable gentlemen and sol- diers, ivill lay hold of the human imagination. Now, because the man of wealth of yesterday, or the poor adventurer who has neither wealth, nor birth, nor even talent in the eyes of any one but himself, cannot wrest this his possession from the long-descended, we find him very apt to become excessively out of humour with the existing order of things, and very likely to turn patriot. An observation, you will say, as old as the hills. I believe so. It is a fact to be gathered from human society that never name has been so falsi- fied, so prostituted, so misapplied, as that most noble, venerable name of Patriot has been. 4 ANGELA. Till like the sacred cross, the emblem of all that is noble in man's destiny, or tender in his heart, which cruelty and wickedness have used as a symbol, — till goodness and piety have learned to look even upon it with feelings approaching to horror — the name of Patriot has become only a signal for suspicion, distrust, and contempt, — as a mere masquerade habit, or worse. The Patriot ! When I heard the steward at Great Hampden use the word, it seemed at once restored to the full force of its primitive meaning. Yes, there I stood in the halls of that great patriot, who dared singly to lift up his voice against the encroachments of power, but who, gifted with qualities still more valuable than the generous courage which prompted the act, had the far-seeing wisdom to discern what in that small seed — \\i?ii principle — lay undisclosed; the mighty consequences to the future destiny of a great people involved in that simple question, whether he, the lord of thousands of acres, should or should not pay a few pounds unconstitutionally demanded from him. No one can look round upon those halls, — no one, from the windows of that fine house, that house of the old English gentleman, can cast his eye over the domain, — no one can read the rent- ANGELA. roll of estates possessed before the Norman crossed the seas, and held unto this day by those of Hampden blood, — still less, no one can look upon the mild countenance of the great champion, or read the record of his domestic heart in the tribute composed by himself to the wife he loved, — no one can do this, unless indeed he be a being of no reflection at all, but must feel with a force unknown before the immensity of the sacrifice made by this man. This man, surrounded by all that wealth can bestow, living in the noble, patriarchal dignity which in those days attached to the possessor of large, ancient estates, united to a loved and revered wife, with his children rising around him, — this man, who stood forward and almost alone to affront the full force of royal indignation, in times when royal indignation was indeed, as the cant phrase is, a fact, and one of the most formidable facts with which a man could possibly bring himself in contact. The house stands upon a lofty eminence, and is seen at some distance at the head of a long strath, as it would be called in Scotland, rather than avenue, opening between the beech-woods — it may be, half a mile long. It was made, if I recollect aright, to commemorate the visit of Queen Elizabeth. The windows command the 6 ANGELA. deep valley in which stands the town of Amer- sham, some six miles lower down. The hills around are very steep and abrupt, for you are approaching the great chalk district, and they are clothed with thick woods of beech. When I was there, it was July, the most unfavourable time possible for scenery where the beech pre- vails ; but I thought it, nevertheless, a noble picture. The mansion is of various constructions, some, probably, preceding the Conquest. The more modern part, consisting of some fine apartments, was built by Sir Griffiths Hampden, in order to receive Queen Elizabeth. We think it a royal compliment now to refurnish apartments to re- ceive a sovereign ; in those days, it appears, they erected them. These halls, and saloons, and libraries, and galleries, are filled with the memorials of gran- deur gone by. Old pictures, rather curious than otherwise valuable ; old tapestried chairs, old tables, and cupboards, and wardrobes, and screens ; old china in profusion, and quaint old glass. A magnificent black-letter Bible —the family Bible of Oliver Cromwell's uncle ; Richard Crom- well, I think, was his name — among other interest- ing things, lies in the library. In the first page he ANGELA. 7 has entered the names of his nine children, their dates of birth, and the names of their godfathers and godmothers ; among these, figure that of the Lady Anne Cromwell and that of William Crompton, of that ancient and respectable Puritan family, one of whom afterwards bore his testi- mony to conscience by suffering ejectment under Charles II. from the great church of St. Wer- burgh, at Derby. A fine full-length of Crom- well is over the staircase ; a characteristic head of Thurloe, and various other interesting- portraits, which I pass over to come to the curious legend of the one of John Hampden him- self. I said. How soft was the expression of this great and determined man's countenance ! The portrait had long remained fixed in a panel of one of the walls ; there was no super- scription to it, and tradition was doubtful as to whose portrait it might be. The tomb of John Hampden, in the chancel, was opened; upon what occasion, or for what reason, I am ignorant, but the present steward was there. Upon un- covering the coffin, the great man was found lying as if he had been but just deposited there — imperishable as his renown, fresh as if he were indeed but of yesterday. The expression of the face was so perfectly preserved, that the resemblance with the un- b ANGELA. known portrait in the panel was immediately dis- cernible. The long, fair, abundant hair, was turned up over the head, bound by a black riband, under which a small red worm had begun its silent ravages ; thus proving that even the illustrious John Hampden was but dust, and must, like his mortal brethren, call the worm his sister. The proprietor of the mansion — a lineal de- scendant of John Hampden's youngest daughter — ordered the picture to be taken out of the panel, in order to its being carefully cleaned and framed. When removed, there was found written at the back of it, "John Hampden," and the name of the painter, a German ; but which the steward had forgotten. Alas, for the noblest and longest unbroken line ! Maniacs, or fools, or cowards, will, some- where or other, intrude to disgrace it. The grandson of Hampden, almost the last male de- scendant of this venerable house, has his portrait there. A gloomy, melancholy, atrabilious face it is. He was in an office of confidence under the Government — a defaulter — and died by his own hand. Who was his mother ? The world should ask and know. ANGELA. 9 Not such a woinau as the one whom her illus- trious husband, by a tablet, the inscription upon which is from his own pen, has thus com- memorated : — " To the Eternal INIemory of the truly virtuous and pious Elizabeth Hampden, wife of John Hampden, of Great Hampden, Esquj^er, sole daughter and heir of Edward Sympson of Pyrton, in the county of Oxon, Esquyer. " The tender mother of an happy offspring in 9 hopefull children. In her pilgrimage, the stale and comfort of her neighbours; the joye and glorye of a well-ordered family ; the delight and happinesse of tender parents ; a crowne and blessinge to her husbande in a wyfe. To all an eternal patterne of goodnesse and cause of joye. Whilst she was, In her Dissolution, a losse invaluable to each, yett herself blest, and they fully recompensed in her translation from a tabernacle of claye and fellowshippe with mortalls to a celestiale mansion and communion with a Deity, the 21st dale of August, 1634. "John Hampden, her sorrowfull Husband, in perpetual! memory of his conjugall love, hath dedicated this Monument." Such were the worthies of those days, and such their wives. Such was the fruit of a pious and somewhat severe education ; of dignity without luxury, economy without parsimony, strong affections without romantic sentiment, housewifely care b2 10 ANGELA. without narrowness of spirit, domestic discipline and order, piety to parents, reverence of hus- bands, a large charity, and a serious devotion to God. Such the result when life was viewed, not as a French romance, but as a grave and earnest tale, of which the catastrophe was eternal weal or woe. Of such stuff were the Puritan fathers of Eng- lish modern history made ; whom a sceptical Scotch philosopher — that late, though not too late, the world is beginning to rate at his just value — has, by his flippant and superficial ridi- cule, taught the youth of England to dislike and despise. Hume's will be ever a great name in our lite- rature ; but he is beginning to be stripped of many attributes too carelessly bestowed, and which have given him, so far, too great an in- fluence in the formation of our men. His history will, in all probability, ever remain the English history par excellence; but it is proper it should be read with a caveat. ANGELA. 11 We open with these slight allusions to our he- roic times, to contrast them with our own modern days, to which we now descend. He who sits, or rather reposes, under that wild, straggling hawthorn, where the huge twisted branches, hoary with age, have assumed almost the character* of those of a forest tree, and yet which, in spite of its extreme antiquity, is still covered with a profusion of its ever-beautiful white flowers — he who sits under that tree, his deep, serious, enthusiastic eyes gazing upon the prospect before him — he, the inhabitant of the present world, but the child of one long, long gone by — he who was born at least two centuries too late, had that within him, had it but been developed, worthy of those heroic days which the false colouring of the great historian had taught, even him — lofty, chivalric, generous, as his nature was — to misconceive and dislike. In him that strife within, common to all earnest and enthusiastic natures, was perhaps more pain- ful, more distracting, than with most others, for his imagination was peculiarly strong, his heart deeply fervent ; but the same strife and contest which he was maintaining between true, earnest, serious nature, and the frivolity and emptiness of the actual life, is, as I have said, more or less, 12 ANGELA. every day going on amid the young hearts just bursting into life around us. The teens ! that beautiful, mysterious portion of the life of man ! when he is born as it were again to a new existence ; when the sweet dream of infancy is over and all its brilliant flowers are faded ; when a sense of a higher meaning in the things of this world — a deep reaching of the spirit after the hidden life behind this varied curtain — a stretching forth of the soul towards the lofty, the generous, the heroic — those whisperings of the heart which tell of a higher destiny pre- paring, of something grand to be achieved, some great and noble end answered by this existence — this mind, this soul, now first surrendered as it were into our own hands, reveals itself. The teens ! sacred interval before the prosaic, oft-told tale has begun, while life is yet to the young clear eye that which poetry is or should be, — '* A more ample greatness, a more exact goodness, and a more absolute variety, than can be found in the nature of things." The teens ! Oh, what a gush of promise is there in that first burst of fervent life into flower! But the wind of the desert has passed over the blossoms, and where are they ? What is the summer to this spring ? ANGELA. 13 Alas ! alas ! Most deeply, deeply pathetic sight ! He was like the rest of them, dear, earnest, delightful young creatures ; only he was of a more than commonly excitable nature, and cir- cumstances had favoured — or rather, perhaps, not favoured him. The growth of these fine qualities had been more unchecked, more exu- berant, with him than with the generality, and therefore the freezing influence of actual life had been more fatal and destructive than in the average of cases. We all know what happens in vegetable life. That life which is a poetic fable, a type and fan- ciful tracery of our own. He was a tall, fine young man — not very tall, neither, for he was beautifully proportioned — a very model — the very ideal of the English youth. His eye so sweet, so ingenuous, so almost child- like in its truth and innocence, yet so deep, so thoughtful, so full of indistinct meaning and hidden melancholy; his mouth was rather full, and the soft, silken moustache just gave character to the upper lip. His hair waved carelessly about his head, and fell beautifully from his fair and finely 14 ANGELA. developed forehead : but his brow was the re- markable feature, — there was a character of thought and reflection almost in it far beyond his years. He lay— lounged, I should say — under this old, twisted hawthorn-tree, upon a bank covered with that green branching moss which is so soft and so beautiful ; and the harebell, and the lichens, and the little white starwort, were growing, with a few lingering primroses and violets, in the shaw which stretched behind and beside him. This hawthorn- tree stood out by itself a little in front of the shaw, which stretched along the field upon that side in front of a very high and thick hedge of hawthorn and maple, traveller's joy and brambles, honey- suckles and eglantine, such as our youth loved in his heart. He had wandered, it would seem, beyond the limits of his father's wide and neglected deer- park, and had got among the fields and hedge- rows of some of the outlying farms. He loved the lawns, and glades, and ferny brakes, and rough copses, and noble trees, and crouching deer, of that wild forest of a park ; but he loved the fields perhaps even still better, and the fields were now in their glory. Such a month of May it had been ! It was just now sinking into June. Such a profusion of flowers as there were this year ! And this haw- ANGELA. 15 thorn-hedge before which he was now sitting, it actually perfumed the air ! He was not too old yet to enjoy nature with that exquisite sense of completeness with which youth is privileged, before the passions have lifted up their deep voices, and told of mysteries and in- terests, beside which the mere worship of natural beauty is a blank. They were stirring within him, it is true, those strong passions ; their low and confused murmurs were making themselves heard, but it was yet but as the breath of a deep mys- terious voice in harmony with all around him. Those heavens above, this earth beneath, this wooing breeze, that voice of birds! The gentle air was softly sailing over the silky waving of the long grass, or green and billowy corn-fields ; the distant noise of the villages, and the stable clock in the castle striking one, were heard, the sound of the bell slowly swinging from among the woods which lay before him. He had a volume of classic poetry in his hand, for he was a true and enthusiastic lover of the pure classic muse; but he read German, and Italian, and French, and Spanish ; and he was deeply versed in the poetry of his own land : his memory was a rich treasure stored with the most beautiful images. He was quite alone where he sat, and he would 16 ANGELA. be quite alone when he returned home ; he would not have one single being to speak to except the steward, or maybe the old Scotch gardener, or Mrs. Penrose the housekeeper, or any little urchin or rosy little girl whom he might chance upon, and who might happen to hit his fancy : so he had plenty of time to enjoy himself, to indulge his passion for nature and for reverie, and to lounge about as suited the indolence of a most energetic temperament. Which contradiction in terms I leave to you, my most perspicacious reader, to make out the meaning of, knowing very well what I intend myself, but thinking you may perhaps consider it as an insult to your understandings if I attempt to explain. He had been at Sherington three weeks all by himself, and he had not felt one single instant of ennui. He was a singular young man ! Another contradiction — for I just now said he was very like all other young men ; or they were, or would be, rather like him, if the world would let them alone : but I ought to have explained that I meant they had faint perceptions and in- distinct intimations of those emotions, tastes, and desires which were all predominant with him. You cannot think how this young man hated fashionable assemblies, London parties, rides in ANGELA. 17 the Park, talks with young ladies a Vamazone with becoming riding-hats and veils, and sweet con- ventional smiles, and little insipid flatteries, and little soupcons of affectation — for no young ladies are really and positively affected now, — they are only just not quite simple and natural. He did not trouble himself with inquiring w^hy he disliked all this so much ; he never abused London, or said impertinent things of the young ladies ; he thought it all very tiresome, that was all. He hated flirting, he disliked waltzing, he disliked set dinners. He very seldom, except at a few pri- vileged tables, heard any thing said or talked about that interested him in the least degree ; no- body seemed to care really very much for Horace, and Homer, and Spenser, and Shakspeare, and Dante, and Goethe, but himself : though the young ladies were quite ready to talk about that, or any thing else he pleased. But then he would have liked it so much better if he had been obliged to try to please them. They were so sweet-tempered, and so obliging, and so easy, and so accessible, it is impossible to guess why he did not like it all the better; but he never asked himself even that question : he did not care enough about it even to examine his own self upon the subject, but he was delighted when he could escape ; and he had been as happy as a king, as any king of fairy tale — who 18 ANGELA. must be the king of the proverb — when he could get away. And most especially when, as now, he could get away to Sherington — dear, deserted, wild, neglected Sherington — which he loved as the apple of his eye. Neglected, indeed, it was, and had been ; the owners had not lived in it for years. His father and mother loved to live abroad : partly because that portion of their income which mortgage following mortgage in dreary succession did not quite absorb, was not nearly sufficient for the expense of living in England in their position in society, and partly because they both loved the life abroad ; the one for the artistical, imaginative, easy character of continental life, the other for reasons less excusable — the facility with which he could indulge his taste for play and idle company, without the restraints and bother of pompous, luxurious England. They were neg- ligent people, — negligent of all their serious duties, and among others of their duties to their son. They never appeared to reflect that their son was, some time or other, to be an English peer ; and that he ought to acquire English habits, and early mingle in English society ; though, it is true, he had spent a short time at Eton, and had { ANGELA. 19 dawdled away a term or two at Oxford, but his manner of life had been so desultory, and he had lived so many years without a regular home, indulging a rather peculiar and most imaginative temperament, that he was in danger of growing up a fine and beautiful, but rather useless, being — a great deal too refined and delicate for the ordinary purposes of that life and that society to which he was destined by his birth and station. And they seemed quite to forget, that to be different from the rest of the world, even though you are above it, is a very doubtful good ; and that the tanto huon die vol niente conveys quite as much sound good meaning as most pro- verbs and old saws do. 20 ANGELA. CHAPTER II. Said — shall v/e take this pathway for our guide ? Upward it winds. How much influence women exercise in society ! They need not busy and bestir themselves to in- crease it, the responsibility under which they lie is heavy enough as it is. It is a trite remark this ; but I wish that all women could be brought conscientiously to reflect, as some few of them certainly do, upon the ac- count they shall be able to render for the power they do, or might have, exercised. To say nothing of that brief, but despotic, sway which every woman possesses over the man in love with her, — a power immense, unaccount- able, incalculable ; but in general so evanescent as but to make a brilliant episode in the tale of ANGELA. 21 life — how almost immeasurable is the influence exercised by wives, sisters, friends, and, most of all, by mothers ! Uj^on the mother perhaps most of all the destiny of the man, as far as human means are to be regarded, depends. Fearful responsibility ! and by too many mothers how carelessly, how thoughtlessly, how frivolously, how almost wick- edly, is the obligation discharged ! How care- lessly at the very outset is the young child left in the nursery, abandoned to the management and training of, at best, an ignorant, inefficient nurse ; or too often far, far worse, to an unprincipled or interested one ! From these imperfect influences, to say the very best of them, at times assisted by those of the footman, groom, and other inhabit- ants of the stable-yard, to be at once handed over to the chance direction of a school — chance direction, I say, for in the very best of schools so much must necessarily depend upon chance, — upon chances of observation upon the part of the master — chance companions — chance temptations — chance impressions — that without a most serious and correct attention to the guiding influences from home, the boy is left exposed to all sorts of false directions, some of which it is almost certain he will follow. Thus he grows up to be a man, imperfect and 22 ANGELA. contradictory; his moral character unformed — his aspirations ill directed — his temper undisci- plined — his principles unsettled. He enters life an ill-trained steed ; and the best that can be hoped for him is that the severe lash of dis- appointment, contradiction, and suffering, will, during the course of his career, supply the omis- sions of his youth, and train him at last, through much enduring, to that point from which a good education would have started him. I think many parents do not sufficiently reflect when they send their boys to school upon what the purpose of a school is, and upon what a rational being ought to expect from it. The school is intended to prepare the man for his external life, to capacitate him for the world's business; for all that has to do with active communication between fellow men it deals — and it can deal only with outsides. No master, however sedulous, can know much beyond the exterior of his pupils, or can have leisure or opportunity to attend to those finer influences from within, which it is the parent's part to understand and to direct. The inner life — that which, in fact, is the man — must be drawn from those on w^hose early tenderness the physical life depended. No one but the son knows how great are the influences the mother possesses over his heart ; no one but the mother, ANGELA. 23 perhaps, perfectly knows and understands the son. The fine youth who lay under the old hawthorn- tree, looking down upon the noble domain of his forefathers, which lay stretched out upon the hills opposite to him, had been fortunate and unfortunate in his mother. His mother was a woman of an ardent, en- thusiastic temperament, and was considered by all who knew her as a person of very superior abilities ; and, certainly, she possessed some bril- liant faculties, but dashed with much vanity, much worldliness, and a good deal of selfish cal- culation beneath all. She had received a very liberal, not to say classical, education. She read Horace, and she read Homer, in their originals ; and she had studied Quintilian and Cicero ; and in her own language, Bacon, and Locke, and Hartley, and Mill : which studies ought to have strengthened and disciplined her too exuberant fancy, and rendered her as solid and as sound as she was brilliant and dazzling. But, unfortunately, instead of this, they had only rendered her natural gifts the more dangerous, as they had filled her with the persuasion that a 24 ANGELA. person who had read such very wise books must, of necessity, become very wise, and that masculine studies must produce a masculine understanding. If such ought to be their result, they did no such thing in this case: her judgment remained as unsound, her imagination as vain, her plans and principles as much the sport of enthusiasm and fancy, as ever ; and all the fruit she appeared to have reaped from her books had been only a fatal confidence in herself, which prevented that self-correction which might have arisen from a little more deference to the opinion of others. Let me not be mistaken : far be it from my intention to undervalue these severer studies, but I think I have observed many instances where, for want of an original foundation of sound good sense, they have been almost positively mis- chievous from increasing the self-confidence I have here described. The mother of this favourite youth of mine had, among other notions, taken up a violent prejudice against schools. She had read so many books upon education, and had reflected, as she thought, so much upon the subject — and she cer- tainly, it must be confessed, had observed such very imperfect characters, both as regarded morals and instruction, turned out of our great semina- ries and our universities — she really saw so ANGELA. 25 much to be regretted in some portions of their methods, and thought she saw so much more than really existed, that she resolved upon adopt- ing quite another plan in the education of this her only child and darling boy. She resolved he should be educated at home, and under her own eye ; and she devoted herself to the task with an energy and perseverance, which, had it been only directed to repairing the omissions of a more public education, instead of in substitution of it, would have produced all those results in perfection upon which she so fondly counted. As it was, however, this young man, though so highly gifted in many respects, had, in the necessary indulgence and the over-refinement of an education in great measure private, found too much occasion for yielding to a sort of sensitive fastidiousness of taste — a constitutional indolence and dislike to take any prominent part — and a secret aversion to all the common, every-day business of life — which threatened to render talents of the first order, and a temper generous, disinterested, and benevolent in the extreme, of little service to mankind ; in fact, a burden rather than a gift of inestimable value to the possessor. And there he lies under that twisted hawthorn- tree, his eyelids half closed, listening to the hum VOL. I. c 26 ANGELA. of the insects, and inhaling the breeze as it passes softly over the crimson-headed clover, the yellow kingcujDS, and the feathery grass of the field before him — when he would have been much better engaged in playing cricket, rowing a match, hunting with enthusiasm, or employed in any other energetic exercise which would have strengthened his frame, hardened his nerves, blunted his too acute sensibilities, and taught him to struggle among, and contend with, others of his age, for small objects, before engaging in the great contest for nobler ones. Hide me from day's garish eye, While the bee with honied thigh, That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring. With such concert as they keep, Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep. So sang Milton ; but Milton would never have been what he was if sterner materials had not been mingled in his composition. I beg the noble father's pardon for forgetting to mention his influence in his son's education. Perhaps you thought the mother was now a widow? To all intents and purposes, as far as her son was concerned, she was. Her husband never interfered in that in the slightest degree. He ANGELA. 27 was a man of clubs, and dinners, and race-horses. He had lived very little at home when in England; and had left every thing that concerned business to his very clever wife ; while he lounged in St. James's Street, or betted at Newmarket, Ascot, or Epsom. His book was the serious object of his life, and his training-stables left him no time to interfere in the training of his son. He gave his whole attention to his book ; but he was a stupid, fog-headed man, even in that. His horses were always beateai, though the fa- vourites ; so his book brought him in course of time to such a pass, that, though he was not abso- lutely obliged to sell any portion of his large pro- perty, his wife thought it most prudent to shut up Sherington and go abroad. Once there, there they stayed, for she delighted in art and Italy, and she felt that the poetic temperament of her son — a quality to which she attached very great value — would be best developed at this distance from all the vulgarities and conventional com- mon-places of a London life of fashion. . So for several years she and her lord had been living altogether, either at Genoa, Florence, Rome, or Naples; and her son, though he visited England once a-year, and London every spring, had found himself perfectly at liberty to indulge his con- temptuous dislike to rides in the Park, and to 28 ANGELA. elegant, flattering young ladies, dressed a Varna- zone, The bank on which he now rests commands a view of his father's domain. There is a wide valley before him, which has been filled with a fine mere of water, the result of one of those landscape-gardener arrangements by which lakes are formed of mere brooks ; the w^ater spreads wide from rising ground to rising ground, and is rendered very picturesque and beau- tiful by the undulations of the banks it laves, by the alders and willows that bend into it^ and by the magnificent sedges and reeds which in some places adorn its sides, the smooth greensward in others coming down to the very brink. The water is shallow in several parts, and there cattle and horses are standing enjoying the cool element ; while swans are sailing on the deeper portions of the lake, and a heron may be seen standing with meditative gaze upon one of the little promon- tories. From this water the lawns rise in grace- ful undulations, crowned with magnificent woods, formed of the noblest trees, which grow here in the finest perfection — oak, ash, elm, beech, sweet chestnut, all equally gigantic and grand. The house, a very palace, crowns the rising ground before him, which is covered with fine grass, and adorned with groups of deer. On the ANGELA. 29 other side, as the banks recede, the prospect becomes wihler ; you see there fern and copse- wood, foxgloves and fine purple thistles ; now and then a little heath in the deer-park beyond. The valley then opens and affords a view of a fine champagne country, which is bordered by distant blue mountains. On the side on which he lies the land is rich and productive ; the enclosures of his father's farms are behind him and around him, and the field in which he rests is one of rich grass, softly waving, as I said, while the whispering wind passes over it. He had been sitting there many hours, some- times meditating vaguely, sometimes reading by snatches, but, upon the whole, enjoying his dolce far niente exceedingly ; but at last it struck him, as his eye wandered over the beautiful but well- known landscape before him, that he was per- fectly ignorant of what might be behind him — that his excursions had never extended so far as to cross the summit of the hill upon which he lay — for it was covered with enclosures, as I said ; and there was no road, not even a bridle-road, exactly in that direction ; so that he, being no hunter, had never happened to be led in that direction. He was just then seized with a sudden desire 30 ANGELA. to see what was to be found behind this line of unexplored hills ; so he sprang up, called to a little King Charles spaniel which had been com- fortably lying upon the warm bank by his side, and jumping over a gate in the hedge behind him proceeded upon his voyage of discovery. He soon gained the top of the hill, and ex- pected to be rewarded by a view upon the other side as extensive and beautiful as that which he had quitted ; but he was disappointed, as one very often is in this sort of scenery, when, after climbing a long, tedious ascent, one calculates upon being rewarded by beholding a fine expanse beyond. The top of the hill proved to be a plain, not a ridge, and this plain so intersected with enclo- sures, tall hedges, and trees, that it was a perfect wilderness, and as unpleasing to an artist as any wilderness could be. There was not one object to excite attention or to make a picture ; green fields covered with green corn, wavy with mow- ing grass, or with cattle quietly grazing be- tween those high hedges, in which might be seen ugly, tall, lopped elms, and now and then a wil- low or a maple. The land was too high for there to be any of that rich luxuriance of vegetation which makes almost every prospect interesting, and far too well farmed to admit of any of those ANGELA. 31 features which would have constituted the ro- mantic. But the high hedges and trees effectually shut out any distant view ; and, therefore, our young friend, quite unahle to guess how far this elevated plain extended, followed a narrow footpath which led to a stile upon the opposite side of the large field he had entered, flattering himself that w'hen the tall hedge on the other side was passed, he should then find a view which would recompense him for his trouble. This field was succeeded by another field, and by another and another, sometimes gradually descending, sometiuies as gradually rising; indeed, the ground was of that undulating description which efiectually shuts out all distant prospects : upon the average, however, it tended down- wards. Our young man kept walking on. Regularly disappointed at every fresh ascent he attained, and regularly expecting that the next w^ould reward hiui, he kept following the path through the fields, his little dog trotting before him. From time to time he passed large farmhouses standing at a distance, which, with their many gable-ends, their long barns, and outhouses over- hung with walnut and damson trees, just peered 32 ANGELA. among the trees and hedges. Now and then he crossed a lane or little parish road ; but he still kept to his footpath. It was his destiny, no doubt, that was leading him on, when he thought it was only his humour. He had a certainty that this footpath must lead to something, and he determined to follow it lead where it would. And in this persuasion he had walked, I verily believe, nearly six miles. ANGELA. 33 CHAPTER III. Four acres was th' allotted space of ground, Fenc'd with a green enclosure all around, Tall thriving trees confess'd the fruitful mould, The redd'ning apple ripens here to gold. — Pope. The landscape at last began to assume a more distinct character ; the footpath carried him over the top of a somewhat steep little hill, and at his feet, amid a group of tall lime-trees, the hoar tower of a very ancient country church was to be seen rising. Wains were now heard rolling at no great distance, — the voices of children at play reached him next : it was evident he was ap- proaching a village. The footpath led him once more over a stile, and then terminated in a pretty wide road. A rather considerable pond of water, out of which some huge cart-horses, relieved from plough, were splashing ; the screams of geese, flapping their wings when thus disturbed, and flying over c2 34 ANGELA. the wide greensward that bordered the road ; an open gate leading into a large foldground; and an extensive orchard of apple, pear, and cherry-trees, shewed that he was coming upon a large farm, and he had proceeded only a few paces further when he saw the house before him. It was one of those old-fashioned farmhouses, which had evidently once been the dwelling of some considerable family, the manor-house be- longing to some large domain. The building was of timber, and the huge beams painted red, with the intervals white ; and the long roof was termi- nated at each end by immense gables, very richly ornamented with carved wood, and in which were some fine old oriel windows ; and the peaks and points of the rest of the building might be seen towering above the roof, interspersed with quaintly ornamented and twisted chimneys. There was a very handsome old porch adorning the centre of this front, and before it lay an old-fashioned garden, which reached to the road, from which it was separated by a thick and closely cut yew- hedge, ornamented at the corners and along the sides with pinnacles and other devices of topiary work. A few low walls, covered with trained fruit-trees, divided this garden at regular inter- vals, and a straight gravel -walk ran up the middle to the door, cutting these walls at right ANGELA. 35 angles, and with a flower-border on each side, filled with common but gaudy flowers, sweet peas, lupines, lychnises, roses, and so on. The garden was very gaudy, with polyanthuses, auriculas, narcissuses, tulips, and all sorts of gay spring flowers, and seemed to extend to the other side of the house, where the trees of a second orchard were discernible. There was a huge mastiff" asleep before the porch . The foldyard might be seen from the road, and all sorts of rural noises were to be heard proceeding from it, — poultry cackling, doves cooing, pigs grunting, and cattle softly lowing ; little calves were running about, and a great many men and boys busily occupied here and there : all the activity and stir of a very large farm going on. Our young friend had not much taste for agri- culture — he was not a man of action, you observe — and he cast rather a disgustful eye upon that wealth which, in the shape of monstrous heaps of manure, was gathered here together, and which was being carted away at this very time ; neither did he remark the fine, short-horn year- lings which were wandering about the fold, still less a magnificent breed of fine pigs : but he liked the aspect of the old mansion very much, 36 ANGELA. the silence and repose of the garden, with the old mastiff asleep, and not a soul to be seen ; and he was, moreover, so exceedingly thirsty after his hot walk that he resolved to step up and beg a glass of milk. So he opened the gate which led into the garden, and walked up the formal pathway, very much pleased with the quaint, antique simplicity of the old place, and not in the least troubling him- self about the huge mastiff which lay there dozing before the door. But the old mastiff was ac- customed to sleep with one eye open, and no sooner was he aware of the approach of the stranger than he started up, shook the chain which fastened him to the side of the porch, and began to utter a most loud and threatening bark. The chain was a strong one, as our friend soon saw ; so he was continuing to appixjach the steps, u) spite of the warlike demonstrations and loud hoarse barking of the faithful guardian, when he was aware of a young woman issuing in much haste out of the house, who, without noticing him, hastily ran down the steps, laid hold of the fierce animal, and, between coaxing and scolding, endeavoured to make him be quiet. ** Never mind, young woman," said our friend ; **pray don't make yourself uneasy. I see the chain is strong, and though the dog is one of the ANGELA. 37 finest and fiercest I ever saw, I am not in the least afraid of him." " Oh, sir," replied she, *'it's not for that. It's lest the noise should disturb the sick lady. Nero makes such a tremendous barking when any body comes up to the house, that we chained him in the garden here, for one reason — and for another, to keep guard lest any body should come up the garden-way. I suppose you are a stranger, sir? Be quiet, Nero! won't you? And, pray," look- ing at him rather suspiciously, ^^ what may your business be?" The young man was not dressed in a manner to command much respect or consideration from those who look to mere outsides of things. He had on a light summer morning coat, very much the worse for wear, and an old white hat. Some people would have detected the gentle- man under this disguise, or any disguise, without a moment's hesitation ; but the young woman did not seem quite capable of that. She looked as if she did not very well know what to make of him. She considered him a little while, and then said, — *' Will you please, sir, to make me acquainted with your name and business?" " I have no particular business here, I must own," said the young gentleman, now fixing 38 ANGELA. Upon her such a very pleasant pair of eyes that her hesitation and distrust began to give way. ** I have lost my way wandering among the fields, and really have not the slightest conception where I am, or what is the name of the village to which that pretty old church belongs. It is excessively hot, I am dreadfully thirsty, and I ventured to come up the garden to ask for a glass of milk, never thinking your Nero would make such a to-do about it. I am sorry I have committed a trespass in coming into the garden, but I will take myself away directly if you wish it." '•' Down, Nero!" Nero, obedient to his mis- tress, upon this lay down, with his head to the ground, but kept his red large eye fixed upon the stranger, and uttered from time to time a low, threatening growl. " Be quiet! won't you, sir?" Then, again turning to the young man, *' Oh, sir, if it had been at any other time — to be sure the garden way used to be open to all comers and goers who came to the house for misses — but now, sir, it's on account of a poor lady, that we all think is dying, that we wish to keep the place as quiet as we can." ''One of the family?" *' No; a lodger, sir." ** A lodger!" looking round somewhat sur- prised. ANGELA. 39 ** Yes, sir. This is a very large house, — it once belonged, as I've been told, to the ancient family of Willoughby, who have the fine place near Bindon — Bindon Priory, sir." The young man nodded ; he knew the place and family well enough. " And this was once the manor-house, sir, they say ; but Down, Nero! Pray walk in, sir, for a moment, for I see the dog won't be quiet, and I'll take you out through the back- way, that we mayn't have to pass him again." "But I hope I shall not disturb the sick lady?" *' Oh no, sir, no fear of that ; she's now lying on her couch in the orchard. So you can pass through. I'm only afraid of the noise the dog makes disturbing her. Pray step in, and I'll fetch you a glass of milk in a minute ; and bring your pretty little dog in with you. He won't bark, will he, sir?" " I'll take care of that," said our friend, taking up his little companion in his arms. He ascended the steps, and entered by the low, richly ornamented porch, over which, carved in stone, the coat of arms of the ancient family of the Willoughbys was yet visible. He came first into a long, low, and very narrow passage, which ended in a spacious room, or rather antechamber, 40 ANGELA. with casement windows, now all standing wide open, and which looked upon the verdant grass and large trees of the orchard, the branches of which cast a most agreeably cool and green shade into the room. This apartment, as is the case in many old houses, was the only means of commu- nication between the entrance-passage and a few small rooms opening out of it, and the rest of the house ; so that the young woman was obliged to usher her guest into it, though it was plain that it was in use now as a sitting-room. It was a large, low room, lighted by three tall and wide casement-windows, all of which were now open ; and in front of which, and at a little distance, grew two majestic walnut- trees, which, their huge lateral branches spread- ing far around, and covered with heavy masses of foliage of the brightest green, cast their deep shadows upon the grass. The trunks of these trees rose so loftily before the giant branches came oif, that the w^hole formed a sort of elevated canopy, under which the rest of the garden might be seen, and glimpses of distant groves and fields were displayed. The beauty of this picture being greatly enhanced by the presence of a huge ca- talpa — a perfect pyramid of flowers, of marble whiteness, which, rising eight or ten feet from the ground, was now just bursting into bloom, and ANGELA. 41 stood there, like a fair pinnacle of Parian stone, amid the dark green of forest-trees of all descrip- tions which surrounded it. **Stay here, sir," said the young woman, "if you please, and I'll fetch you tlie milk. There's no danger of disturbing the poor lady" (observ- ing that he hesitated) ; "I see they're all quiet, as I said, in the garden. And, hark ! Miss Angela is reading aloud." The murmur of a low voice, as if reading, was now heard ; but he could not discern the person to whom it belonged. The young woman now disappeared to fetch the milk, leaving our friend standing alone in the room. Nothing could be more simple than was the furniture of the apartment. There was a lofty chimneypiece on one side, rising almost to the ceiling ; it was of carved oak, almost black with age, its sombre hue being unrelieved by any or- nament of any description. The grate, however, below, was filled with greens and branches of hawthorn in flower. A Scotch carpet, of the cheapest kind and very small dimensions, was in the middle of the floor, covering, it might be, about one-third of the room ; the uncovered part of the boards being of oak, black as that of the mantel- piece ; and a wainscot, of the same gloomy mate- 42 ANGELA. rial, of an height to reach to the elbow, ran round the apartment ; above which was an old, dingy- looking paper. The room looked desolate, dreary, unfinished, and uncomfortable. A round oak- table in the middle ; a few old-fashioned, very heavy, and very ugly-looking mahogany chairs, with horsehair seats; a little sort of sideboard with drawers ; a walnut-tree chest and secrttoire ; an old, worm-eaten screen, covered with old prints, completed the furniture of the apartment : to which must be added, a large, and some- what comfortable -looking sofa, provided with abundance of cushions, which, as well as the sofa, were all covered with patchwork, rather elegant than otherwise in its effect, from the form of the pattern, and the extreme nicety and exactness with which it was stitched and finished. There was a tall, antique, Rhenish wine-glass upon the table, with two or three sprigs of honey- suckle in it; a large, well-farnished workbox open beside it ; and upon the little sideboard, in- stead of plate, a row of books in old bindings. I forgot to say that a small square pianoforte stood under one of the windows ; and that, over the sideboard, hung a well-executed por- trait of a remarkably handsome young man in uniform. Our young gentleman — he could not exactly ANGELA. 43 tell himself why — took a more than common in- terest ill examining all these things in detail ; and while he was employed in noting these little evidences of self-denial and poverty, the low murmur of the reader's voice kept sounding in his ears, seeming to his fancy to have something most particularly sweet and attractive in the tones of it. The maidservant now returned, carrying a small waiter, and upon it a glass of the richest and most delicious milk ; and being naturally of a communicative, good-natured disposition, and in the present instance, moreover, very much pleased with the gentle manners and very fine eyes of the young stranger; and, above all, being one who loved in her heart to have a portion in any romantic history, and, moreover, most warmly interested in those he was thinking of, — she, seeing him looking with some attention at the portrait, began, — *' Yes, sir, very handsome, most certainly, he must have been once ; but he was a very different sort of a person to look upon when he came here, poor, poor gentleman ! such a thin, wasted ske- leton, and with such a cough!" A hollow cough, the fatal, not-to-be-mistaken signal of pulmonary consumption, at this moment sounded from the garden. 44 ' ANGELA. The young man started, and prepared to leave the room immediately, saying, — " Is that his cough? I may disturb them." *' Alas, poor gentleman ! you'll never disturb him," said the maid, in a compassionate voice ; *' he's been lying in the churchyard, it's ten months or more ago ; but he's left his cough as a legacy, we are all much afraid, to his poor young widow : the only legacy that he'd got to leave her, some say," she added, in a low voice. He stopped at this, and, with his hand still upon the lock of the door, turned, and said, — " And the one you call Miss Angela, who is she r ** His daughter, sir ; his eldest daughter. Don't be afraid, sir," as he was about to open the door, and quit the room, ^' they're hidden by that strawberry-tree there ; they can't possibly see into the room, and they never leave the garden till much later in the evening, — the sick lady loves so to be in the air. Miss Angela will call me to help shift her couch before she moves, so you'll have plenty time, sir, to get away. If you would like to stay a bit longer, pray do. I'd ask you into the other part of the house, bat misses stepped out just now, and has taken the key of the parlour door with her, because the whitewashers are busy about the place ; and the kitchen is all in a ANGELA. 45 mess, and not fit to take any gentleman into. So pray sit clown and rest, if you please, for a quarter of an hour : you won't disturb any one, indeed." " Thank you," said he, irresistibly impelled to inquire more ; and sitting down in a chair by the door, far removed from the garden, — " That gen- tleman was an officer, I see ; pray can you tell me of what regiment ?" " I can't justly say, sir : he belonged to the foot-regiment, I believe ; and he was only a cap- tain, sir, and on half-pay, they say. I don't un- derstand what that is ; half his wages, perhaps, because he was so sick. But, sir, I can't help thinking it's rather a pity her gracious majesty don't do more for them officers in her regiments as be gentlemen, and sinking with sickness, and very poor. It's a hard struggle, sir, when a gen- tleman, a real gentleman — and that he was — is very poor." The young man shook his head with an air of sympathy, which encouraged his companion, in a low voice, to proceed, — the murmur of the reading voice still continuing. *' They've been here, sir, about eighteen months ; for this is a quiet place, and misses lets her lodgings very cheap : for in this big old house there are more rooms than she can well away with, and it's not very easy to get any one to come 46 ANGELA. to such a dull, out-of-the-way part of the world. It's not very smartly furnished neither, sir, you see ; but they don't seem much to mind that, so they can but be quiet, and have a garden to turn out into ; and that, to be sure, they have, and a very pretty one, too. That sofa there, misses lets them have it, though it's not belonging to the room, because the poor gentleman was so weak he could not sit up, and no easy chair for him, poor soul ! It was a sad tattered thing, too ; but Miss Angela contrived to mend the holes, and stuff it with feathers and horsehair, and what she could get ; and she covered it with that pretty patchwork cover, made with her own white hands. It's now as soft and comfortable as can be, sir ; only try it " "Was she the captain's only daughter?" " Of the first family, sir; but the captain was married twice, and there are three little children of the second marriage, and a stepmother, too. Some think that was hard upon Miss Angela." " Does she think so herself?" " No, not the least bit in the world ; she and her stepmother love each other more like sisters than any thing else; and Miss Angela's just like an own mother to the little ones since the poor lady has been taken so sick like." " She fall ill, too ? This is very sad !" ANGELA. 47 " Sad enough, sir! for, as I have heard the doctor say, it's all come of nursing the captain day and night, poor lady, as she did, and taking on so sorely after his death, which has brought her to the brink of the grave ; and that, I believe, is what Miss Angela thinks too, that it's all along of the love the poor widow that now is bore her father that she's brought to this sad pass ; and so she seems to think nothing that she can do too much for lier. — She's a very, very sweet young lady, that Miss Angela is. Wouldn't you like to have just one peep at her, sir?" ** Very much, indeed ; only I would not, for the universe, seem intrusive ; and I do not like to stay here any longer upon that account." Again rising, and going to the door. *' No, sir, neither shall you. Please step this way," opening the door for him herself. *' You shall see her without there being the least danger in the world of her seeing you." 48 ANGELA. CHAPTER IV. So, glorious mirror of celestial grace, And soverain moniment of mortal Vows, How shall frail pen descrive her heavenly face, For fear, through want of skill, her beauty to disgrace ? Spenser. The door opened into another low narrow l^assage, which seemed to communicate with the other part of the house ; about the middle of it there was a recess, which ran into what formed a considerable projection upon the outside. It was terminated by a narrow slip of a window of small- paned glass, all mantled over and almost hidden from observation by honeysuckles, sweet briar, and virgin's bower, which hung round it. A little casement, nearly at the top, and which was no bigger than an ordinary sized window-pane, stood open, and through the branches which hung over the lower part a view of the orchard might be obtained, without it being possible for any from without to see a person standing at it. ANGELA. 49 There the good-natured girl placed her new acquaintance, whispering, as she peeped out of the window first, — ** There they are, you can see them quite well ; that 's the sick lady lying upon the couch there, and that 's Miss Angela sitting by her, with her side-face turned this way ; but you need not be afraid, she can't possibly see you ; and besides, she 's so busy reading." The little group was placed upon the grass under the shade of one of the huge walnut-trees, which flung its magnificent branches far above their heads ; the masses of green cutting sharp against the clear blue sky, and intercepting the bright beams of the sun, which yet softly pene- trated in some degree, and the beautiful trans- parent green of the leaves mitigated with a peculiar mellowness the deep shadows which fell upon the rich grass beneath. Upon a small, narrow, and inconvenient-look- ing little couch, but so carefully propped and supported by a chair and numerous pillows as evidently to repose in an attitude of considerable ease and comfort, lay the sick lady, and upon a small stool by her side the young reader was sitting. The pale, attenuated, but yet most delicately beautiful face of the invalid, was shaded by the VOL. I. D 50 ANGELA. curls and tresses of her still bright and beautiful hair, which had escaped from the small white cap which she wore. She was dressed in a loose white dressing-gown, delicately clean, and over her was thrown a white cashmere shawl. A hectic flush upon her cheek gave additional love- liness to her most lovely face, her eyes were closed, and long, curling, dark eyelashes, rested upon her cheek. Her breathing was evidently oppressed and dif- ficult, and now and then her short hollow cough was heard. Then the young lady beside her would interrupt her reading, would turn her face towards her, move the shawl, gently touch the pale, thin, delicate hand which lay upon it, gaze upon the countenance before her with a look of angelic compassion and interest, sigh softly, and again, in tones still lower and, if possible, still sweeter, would resume her reading. She was a young girl of about nineteen years of age, dressed in a plain cotton gown, but which, fitting close, displayed the extraordinary beauty of her slender and graceful figure. Her small head, her long delicate throat, the pure outline of her countenance thus turned in profile to the gazer, the sweetness of the mouth, the dovelike innocence of the expression, as she sat there, her eyes bent downwards upon her book, ANGELA. 51 the angelic kindness of her look when she turned to the sufferer — an air which it is vain to attempt in words to describe, and which the finest pencil would be powerless to represent — an air of purity, simplicity, softness, and a most singular expression of calmness and strength mingled together, — all these charms united ren- dered this young creature, as there unconsciously she sat, one of the most lovely and interesting beings in the eyes of the young gentleman that he had ever in his life beheld, or could think it possible to imagine. She was far from regularly handsome — a nice critic might have found fault with every feature — but he who stood looking at her there, fixed as if in a dream of enchantment, was never formed by nature to pick out minute faults. Fastidious he might be, but he was not critical. Few things pleased him indeed, but, once pleased, he overlooked all minor blemishes. Gently waved the pendent branches of the mag- nificent walnut-tree, and the soft cool air came softly playing over the face of the sufferer ; and as the soft wind blew over her she seemed to breathe with somewhat less difficulty, and at length to sink into a comfortable slumber. Then her young friend laid down the book she held, rose from her seat, laid a cambric handker- iRpaRY 52 ANGELA. chief softly over the head of %e sleeper, and bending over, her eyes fixed upon her face, kept looking at her with an expression of sadness, pity, tenderness; and anxiety, mingled, which contrasted in the most affecting manner with her youthful figure and countenance. In moving she had turned her full face towards him, so that as he stood at the little window he saw it perfectly. Never had he beheld any thing so charming — he could not take his eyes away — he forgot where he was — he forgot every other consideration — he could only stand there behold- ing that countenance which had at the first glance exercised that unaccountable attraction, excited one of those sudden sympathies which often prove as indelible as they are unexpected. Enthusiastic as he was by temperament, strange to say, he had never felt the force of such an in- fluence till then ; imaginative as he was, he had never been in love, nor even fancied himself in love before. I do not know how long he stood there, or how long the young lady, having returned to her seat, had sat there, her hands crossed in a desponding attitude, watching the sick lady with that air of compassion, sorrow, and anxiety. He was aroused at last from the deep reverie into which he had fallen by the maid coming up ANGELA. 53 to him again, a%d asking him whether he would please to go on now, as it was milking time, and she must be at her duty in the dairy. He turned round, as one awlakened suddenly from a profound sleep, and seemed for the mo- ment in so much confusion of thought that he did not know exactly where he was ; but he left the window immediately and followed her, obedient to her request, yet being scarcely aware of what he was about, while she led the way through various other narrow passages, till they entered the busy house-place of the farm, and through that went out into the foldyard. There all the cheerful evening bustle of a very large farm was going on, and contrasted strangely with the silent scene of sorrow which he had left behind him. The foldyard was surrounded with the usual buildings upon an extensive scale. A very large and lofty barn with giant doors, where a threshing- machine was still at work ; long lines of cattle- sheds filled with magnificent oxen ; a large cow- house, stables, piggeries, &c. The buildings, how- ever, with some few exceptions, being all very ancient, and, consequently, very picturesque in their appearance. In fact the kitchens, cellars, and various apartments once filled by the de- pendants and retainers of the noble family of 54 ANGELA. Willoughby, who formerly occupied this great manor-house, were now appropriated to these humbler purposes; and where stores of wines and provisions had been provided to furnish forth the splendid hospitality of the old days, where knights had caroused round the board, and squires and pages laughed and gambolled — now no sound was to be heard but the champing of the animals ranged at their food. The gentle low of the cows as they entered and recognised their young ones ; the occasional stamps of the hoofs and the ringing of the halter-chains of horses now stabled in what had once been a low hall ; the voices of the carter-boys as they dressed their steeds ; or the cry at intervals addressed by the milkers to the mute and quiet animals they attended, had succeeded. The poultry-girl was calling together her feathered family ; fowls of every description came trooping round her — noble cocks, mottled hens, ducks, turkeys, guinea- fowls. The whole was a scene of rural wealth and abundance most cheerful and animating. The master of the place w^as to be seen walking about in his yard directing his different servants. Some were just coming in with their wearied teams, others collecting the corn from the threshing-ma- chine, which kept up its regular monotonous beat, others busy sweeping the footways in front of the ANGELA. 55 outhouses, others carrying forage to the animals. Nothing could be more cheerfully alive than it all was. It was a perfect picture of agricultural life ; but yet there was wanting a certain neatness, order, and economy, which prevails in really well- ordered farms of the present day, managed by men themselves improved by modern culture. Every thing was abundant, it is true, and it was plain that things were profitably managed upon the whole ; but there was none of that exactness or arrangement which marks system and thought. However, to one a poet by nature, or a landscape- painter by nature, both of which, perhaps, our young man might be esteemed, the picture was not the less agreeable for its character of rich disorder, which might have afforded the very subject matter for one of Morland or Gainsborough's incomparable sketches ; but if he had found it necessary to address the master of the scene, he might not have been altogether so well pleased with him. One or two horses of a very different descrip- tion from waggon-horses, and some capital guns in the farmer's own parlour, might have told of pur- suits not exactly in accordance with a strict atten- tion to agriculture, on the part of some of the family at least ; and the decided and somewhat 56 ANGELA. forbidding countenance whicli belonged to the mistress of the mansion, was in very disagreeable contrast with that expression of spirit, activity, and benignity united, which usually may be seen to characterise a good genuine English farmer's wife. Mrs. Whitwell, for that was her name, sur- rounded by her maidens, was at this moment, however, in the full tide of business, and was receiving the milk into a very large handsome dairy, which was certainly kept with a scrupulous attention to neatness, whatever other places might be. The flowing pails were rapidly coming in from the cowsheds, and the long lines of milk- pans were receiving their rich treasures ; this was not, therefore, exactly the most auspicious time for any one to address her, and so our young man found reason to perceive. The dairy was separated from the foldyard by a little narrow garden paled round, and filled with sweet herbs and flowers — marigold and rosemary, sage and marjoram, rue and thyme; and the latticed door was now open, the pails of milk being carried in and retained. Theie she stood, the busy mistress of the place, close by a weighing-machine which was fixed at the door, and was occupied in weighing the milk as it was brought in, and was delivered to her busy hand- ANGELA. 57 maidens, among whom might be seen, the most active of the set, the very young woman our friend had first made acquaintance with upon his entrance into the garden, and who was conse- quently at present no longer to be spoken with. To go away without learning something more of those who had interested him so much was not to be thought of. The mistress of the house was evidently the right person to apply to ; and our friend, whose rank and importance in the world had accustomed him to expect and to meet with respectful attention from whomsoever he had honoured by addressing, hesitated not to inter- rupt even these absorbing avocations: so he crossed the little garden, and taking off his hat ap- proached the stout rosy-faced woman he saw before him, and saluting her, made some observa- tion upon the beauty of the evening. She had her eyes fixed upon the milk she was weighing, but lifted her face hastily up at this address, and eyeing the speaker with some sur- prise and no great cordiality, said, " Yes," and continued her business. " You seem to have a very fine dairy here," he went on, not knowing exactly what to say next. " Pretty fair. Were you wanting to speak to Mr. Whitwell, young man? — he's there in the foldyard, I reckon. We're busy here." d2 58 ANGELA. " No, I don't want to speak to Mr. Whitwell, thank you. I wanted to ask a few questions from yourself." '* You might have chosen your hour better, me- thinks, than just at milking time. — Questions ! what about ? They'll keep, maybe, till I've done. Please to stand out of Jem's way, will you," as a big rough lad came up carrying an enormous milk- pail upon his head. " Step into the foldyard, will you, and you may ask your questions by and by when a body has time to listen." He tried to persist, but Mrs. Whitwell did not even condescend to look at, far less answer him again ; so in his own defence he was forced to retreat into the foldyard, where sitting down upon a bench against the wall he waited patiently, amusing himself by witnessing the various opera- tions that were going on. At length the dairy business being finished and the door locked, Mrs. Whitwell stepped across the little garden, and after shutting and carefully locking the gate con- descended to attend to the young man; and, com- ing up and addressing him, bade him follow her. She then led him through the house-place, and into her own parlour, when turning round with- out inviting him to sit down, or shewing him any civility, she inquired, roughly enough, what his business with her might chance to be. ANGELA. 59 The parlour was low like the rest of the rooms, and the heavy beams which crossed the ceil- ing gave it a very gloomy look, though the wainscot was painted white, and the walls green, and several gaudy vulgar prints hung round them. An oval mahogany table in the middle of the room, another large handsome mahogany table against the side, large handsome chairs ranged symmetrically to the wainscot ; a corner cupboard open, with a very handsome display of silver spoons, flagons, and old china; some very curious old glass and china on the chimneypiece ; a huge nosegay of hawthorn and Portugal laurel in the fireplace, composed the furniture of the apart- ment. Every thing was, however, as bright and as clean, and as good and as handsome, as such things could possibly be. At the window a piping bullfinch was singing away in a very handsome cage ; and the casement was standing wide open, but, to the young man's disappointment, it looked quite away into the fields, and commanded a view neither of garden nor orchard. " You have a sick lady lodging in the house, I believe?" he began, hesitating, stammering, and colouring a little ; for the manner and demeanour of Mrs. Whitwell was so bluff and determined that it quite put him out of countenance. 60 ANGELA. '* Perhaps we have," was the reply; " what business may that be of yours ?" ** It is no particular business of mine; — but I have just seen them," and their appearance, and the circumstances in which they seem to be, have interested me very much, and — and " ** Just seen them ! How came you just to have seen them, without knowing any thing about them? Oh ! it's you, maybe, that Polly said she saw coming up by the garden -gate, and that Kitty was fool enough to bring in by that door — afraid of the dog making a noise, as she says. Kitty's always so busy meddling and making — if I've told her once, I've told her five hundred time?, I would not have any one let in by that way. That girl's the plague of my life with her nonsense." " She was afraid the dog might bark and dis- turb the sick lady." " Stuff and nonsense ! — as if the bark of a dog half a mile off could disturb anybody! And pray, what's the use of the dog but to bark, and keep that side of the house from beggars and vaga- bonds ? for it's lone enough, to be sure, and so far from all the servants, that it's not quite safe, in my opinion, when all the lads are in the fields — for there's many a rough traveller and wandering beggar and gipsy comes up the road — so I put the ANGELA. 61 dog there, for lie's quite a terror to all that sort of cattle. But what brought you up there, I wonder, young gentleman ? " Mrs. Whitwell had by this time found oppor- tunity to examine the person before her well, and to feel satisfied that, whatever else he might be, he certainly was, in manners and appearance, a gentleman ; and, in spite of the simplicity of his dress, no idle vagabond, as she had at first felt inclined to think him, and her manner increased in civility accordingly. " I had lost my way in the fields," said he, in reply; "and I came up that way to the house, only intending to beg the favour of a glass of milk ; and Kitty — I believe it was — was so good as to let me in immediately ; and I chanced to see the sick lady and the other young lady in the orchard as I passed by." " Well and good ;— but I'll trounce Miss Kitty, see if I don't ; and if this is all you have to say, young gentleman, I think T may as well wish you a good evening. But before you go, if /ou'd like a glass of milk, or a glass of wine and a slice of bread-and-butter, as you seem tired enough, pray sit down and you shall have it. You've lost your way, you say. Did you come up through the village?" " No : I came across the hills and over the 62 ANGELA. fields at the back of the house there, and so by the stile into the lane just above." *' I don't wonder you lost your way, then. It's a perfect wilderness of fields and high hedges up there. But what could bring you this way at all? — and, if it isn't impertinent, what may be your name and calling?" *' My name is Carteret," said the young man, after a moment taken for consideration ; " and my employment that of a landscape-painter." " Well, young man," said Mrs.Whitwell, look- ing something disappointed at this announcement, "every one's best judge of their own business; but I believe them idle vagabond callings to be the very worst any young man can follow. And once we had a landscape-painter down here, last midsummer was twelve months, come to draw our old church, as he said; and he must needs draw this farmhouse too, as if there was any thing worth drawing in the tumble-down rickety old ruin ; — but he was a poor hand at it ; never- theless he cockered up Mr. Whitwell, and con- trived to creep up his sleeve, and at last he ended •by borrowing five pounds from him ; and after that, good morning to my young gentleman : — from that time to this, we have never set eyes on him. But he was very much in want, I fancy; and, indeed, it's our luck, I think, to be bothered ANGELA. 63 with the very-much-in-want. Vagabonds come to us as wasps do to honey. Some have the luck of it — there's these lodgers of ours," added she, grumbling to herself; "every time I go in to ask for rent I've a feel that it will be the last time they'll be able to pay it : but, to be sure, the poor lady has her widow's pension." ** They are very poor, then, you suppose?" This conversation had been going on while Mrs. Whitwell — who was, after all, no inhospi- table person, and who, on further acquaintance, had taken rather a fancy to the appearance of the young man — was busy going to and fro to her corner cupboard, taking out first a decanter half full of port wine, then a piece of home-made cake, with plate, knife, wineglass, &;c. ; and setting it upon the table, desired Mr. Carteret to sit down and help himself to what he liked." To give himself a countenance, as the French would say, he accepted of her hospitality ; and, sitting down, poured himself out a glass of wine. — " Poor enough ! — bless me ! that's what I fear they are, to be sure. But what's a man to expect, after all, who, not content with one wife and child, must take it into his head to marry another, and have three little children, when, bless you, he'd nothing in the born world, as I verily be- lieve, but his pay, and that half-pay, to buy them 64 ANGELA. a bit of bread with— and what's that ? Half-pay ! — people are so mad in these days. But as they brew, so they must bake. I don't see what busi- ness it is of mine or anybody's else, so long as their rent's paid." " I can't agree with you there," said he who called himself Mr. Carteret. " It seems to me to be very much everybody's business." '' Everybody's business to take care of them- selves, perhaps, you mean ; and look out and not to let lodgings without good security : but some way mine had stood empty such a long time — it's such an out-of-the-way place, this — that I thought I never should let them at all ; and he looked quite the gentleman, to be sure ; and, at all events, thinks I, they will keep the rooms aired; so 1 let them come in ; — and the worst of it is, though I'd be glad enough to get them out again, somehow I can't quite make the face to do it ; for the lady's very ill, that's certain — and I don't know well what they would do if I turned them out. — That's the worst of having to do with people who have neither money nor friends." To this, Carteret made no reply. Mrs. Whitwell seemed only to have been talk- ing on while he finished his little meal, for she did not, it would appear, in spite of her liking to his face, choose to leave her open corner-cupboard ANGELA. 65 and her unknown guest alone together ; and now that he had done, she looked restless, as if it was time he should be taking himself away ; so, there seeming to be no help for it, he got up, bade her a good evening, and slowly walked out through the foldyard. 66 ANGELA. CHAPTER V. That turret's frame most admirable was, Like highest heaven compassed around, And lifted high above this earthly mass, Which it surview'd, as hills doen lower ground. Spenser. '^ Those who have neither money nor friends V* It rang in his ears, while before his eyes, vivid as if actually present, was the picture of the beau- tiful waxen face and hands of the dying invalid, and of the young girl, with a countenance like an angel of pity, hanging over her. Scarcely could he, in imagination, refrain from clothing this last figure in long flowing garments of dazzling white, and large swan-like wings. He could picture to himself no face of a seraphic messenger more holy and pure, more full of gentle tenderness, of heartfelt pity, all blended with a calm force and ANGELA. 67 strength, in so young a creature, quite remark- able. It was lucky that there was a well-marked foot- path through this wilderness of fields, which his little dog followed instinctively, he as instinctively following his dog, or he might have spent the night wandering among the hedges ; as it was, however, he safely reached the height where he had lain musing in the morning, descended it, crossed the stone bridge which spanned that clear wide brook which fed the mere ; and through noble avenues and verdant shrubberies, through handsome lodges, with iron gates between pillars, supporting the arms of his family, and amid all the appendages of rank and grandeur, reached at last his home : he cared not by which way, and the little dog led him straight up to the grand entrance. Very grand it was — a splendid Grecian portico, elevated upon magnificent Doric pillars, standing upon a base of the finest stone ; the wings of this palace stretching out upon each side, the rich woods, and lawns, and deei-park, sur- rounding the whole. The place, however, splendid as it was, had a melancholy and deserted air, and the stone base upon which the pillars were supported had begun to be discoloured and tinted green. It was seldom 68 ANGELA. that any one went in now by the front door, but he was so absorbed by his own thoughts, that he, in an absent manner, went up to it and rang the bell. The sound echoed loudly through the deserted mansion, and a footman, evidently much sur- prised, answered the summons. He opened one of the lines of fine carved oak, and ushered his young master into the entrance-hall. The hall rose magnificent and lofty to the roof; it had been built in the richest taste of James the First's time ; a highly ornamented dome, galleries running round, with arches and gilded balustrades, a floor of coloured marbles, pictures in magnificent frames, busts and statues, horns of animals, coats of armour; scarlet and blue, and crimson and white, and gold ; all min- gled harmoniously, and all very, very grand. " They have neither money nor friends T The footman opened a door at the other end of the hall, his footsteps echoing among the vaults and arches as he passed towards it. It opened upon an antechamber lined with carved maple-wood, and panelled with portraits, or with lovely rural pictures, of cupids and nymphs, amid garlands of leaves and flowers — all gay and delightful. This antechamber led to Carteret's own sitting-room, which was fitted up with dark- ANGELA. 69 green damask and gold, and lined on one side with books, being upon the others covered all over with choice pictui'es. Over the chimney piece was a glorious " Holy Family," by Raphael, a very precious picture. The divine beauty of the Virgin mother, set off by the deep blue and crimson of her garments ; and the child, whose face seemed to beam with a sacred light, which in itself illuminated the picture, relieved by the grave and sombre colouring of the. hoary foster-father; and of the brown child with his little goat-skin coat, repi*esented kneel- ing with clasped hands, in all the energy of inspired adoration, before his Saviour. Small pictures, all treasures in theirway, covered the walls ; among the most remarkable of which was a " Summer Evening," by Claude, where the yellow rays stream upon the sweetest of Italian landscapes, and upon two huge trees which over- spread the centre (he thought they looked very like walnut-trees) ; while the flocks and herds were led there to water. And another of a hea- venly Seraph, by some unknown painter — a small picture, but of exquisite beauty. The original of that picture it was which he thought he had seen that day in the garden. Beyond this sitting-room, and opening out of it, 70 ANGELA. there was a bedchamber, furnished by his fond mother with all the elaborate luxury of these our too luxurious times, but which I need not here detail. The windows of all these rooms looked upon a beautiful French garden, framed as it were by a thick shrubbery, which shut it out from every eye ; it was cut into all sorts of fantastical shapes and patterns, and a perfect mosaic work at this moment of the gayest flowers; in the centre played a small fountain, which, springing from the nostrils of two marble dolphins, fell with a pleasant splash into a marble basin — the basin being enchased as it were in green mossy turf, and in it abundance of gold and silver fish were gliding about. A beautiful pair of Balearic cranes, two or three of those loveliest tiny American pigeons which may be seen in the Zoological Gardens, and a sweet little sea-gull, with its soft grey feathers, its downy breast, clear large eye, and scarlet legs and bill, were the only denizens of their tiny paradise. A rich marquetry table stood in the middle of the sitting-room. He went up to it ; it was, as usual after post-time, covered over with letters, cards, and packets of various sorts and sizes, ANGELA. 71 which had been brought in during his absence. He opened them one after another with an air of impatience and indifference, and tossed them carelessly away as he scanned them over. They were from his young men friends, and mostly full of invitations from various quarters, and to various scenes of gaiety or splendour — to races or tournaments, country-house parties, balls, and festivities. ^^ They have neither money nor friends T kept ringing in his ears. He looked round, but his fancy reverted to the old sofa covered with patchwork, and contrasted it with his luxurious couch, loaded with cushions of rich damask ; he stepped to the window, but the rich mosaic of the flowers disappeared, the splashing fountain, and the graceful birds that wandered amid the beautiful plants. He saw only the solemn shade of the large walnut-trees hang- ing over the greensward, and the lowly couch, and the pillars and the chairs, and she who had risen from her seat, and who bending so kindly over the sufferer, her face turned towards him, had regarded her with that eye of compassion so feelingly, yet with such a divine serenity. " And they have neither money nor friends P^ He looked round, and his heart froze as it were together. 72 ANGELA. Serrement de conur ! Why is there no English term for that which so many in this country are destined to feel? it is the only expression which can render the intensely painful sensation he at that moment experienced. *' Shall it be this way? Let me put it this way — try it, dear Margaret: you will breathe better. — No ! — will not that do ? — Let me put my arm under it then — lay your head upon my shoulder — is that better 1 Dear Margaret ! dear mother ! dear friend ! the Father of Mercies be your support." " He is — he does," whispered the sufferer in a faint voice. " His comforts are ineffable. Nay, dearest Angela," as one or two large round drops fell, like the dewdrop rolling over a blush-rose leaf, upon a cheek, which sickness it is true had not yet touched, but which care and sorrow, alas ! little suited to her years, had ANGELA. 73 already slightly invaded, — " Nay, dearest Angela, do not weep for me. Those whispers from within, which have consoled many a silent sufferer upon her neglected couch, visit me, and with them I have in His mercy the inexpressible comfort of a friend, a child, a saint, and angel, all in one. Ah, my Angela, do not weep for me ! " Short coughs, pan tings for breath, the painful symptoms of consumption in its last stages, inter- rupted this speech. *' All I fear, my dearest girl, is, that your ten- der care of me may injure yourself. Why can I not — why do I not — forbid you to come near me?" " Because you know, dear Margaret, that it would be quite in vain to contest that point. I feel as certain as one's own internal feelings can make one, that I am not in the slightest danger of suffering by nursing you ; and if I did not I should still do it, — so say not one word upon that old dispute, Margaret, it only tires you and wor- ries me. Dearest friend," kissing her hand so tenderly, for she dared not stoop down to kiss her face, — that Margaret positively forbade, — "how can I ever repay one thousandth part of what I owe to you? How can I ever shew the feeling, almost of adoration, with which you fill my whole heart?" VOL. I. E 74 ANGELA. She was interrupted by the appearance of three little children, who now came into the garden through the house-door. They were a boy of three and a girl of about five years old, and a young infant still in arms, carried by a nurse-girl of about twelve or fourteen years of age. The little creatures were dressed with the utmost simplicity, as was their young attendant, but every thing about the whole party was whole- some and carefully arranged ; and cleanliness the most delicate, — that most difficult luxury to attain in poverty, and only to be attained by much exertion and virtuous effort, but which, when at- tained, nearly robs poverty of its most odious features, — a delicate cleanliness was observable in a remarkable degree, not only in the children but in their little maid. The young lady they called Angela let go her friend's hand and stepped forward to meet the children, who, hand in hand, and with the other chubby hands and their bosoms filled with cows- lips and violets, rushed joyfully towards her, — without noise, however, for the little creatures had been well instructed to preserve the utmost quietness when near their suffering mother. *' See! see, Angy!" and with their voices whispering, but their eyes sparkling with plea- sure, and their rosy cheeks glowing with health ANGELA. 75 and animation, they ran towards her with all that confidence of childhood when certain of meeting with sympathy in its little joys; a confidence which is the lovely attribute of young creatures who have been kindly and tenderly treated. *'See! see, Angy! what beautiful flowers ! all for mamma and you. Smell, — smell! — arn't they sweet, the cowslips and violets ?" '^ Biddy took us into a quite, quite new field, to- day ; and there was a field behind it, oh, so full of flowers ! But she daren't take us there, because it was an ugly stile, and she was afraid to let us get over, and couldn't help us because of the baby ; he was naughty, and icouldnt be put down. But she said, if we'd be good, she'd ask you to come with us some day soon ; and we were venj good, and so you'll come." "Oh!" took up the little boy, '* there's such, flowers in tliat field! such honeysuckle (red clover) ! such buttercups ! and long, long, purple and white flowers ! You'll come, won't you, Angy? There's a good Angy, do promise !" '^ Oh yes, my little man, I'll promise : you know I'll do anything for my own man when he's good." Stooping down and kissing first one and then the other affectionately. " And so I will for my dear little Lucinda, too ,• for she's always good, I think." 76 ANGELA. The answer of the little girl was to squeeze her sweet joung face against her sister's gown, but to say nothing. The sick mother had turned her pale face towards the children as they entered the garden, and she lay without moving, her eyes fixed upon the group ; those eyes were moist, but it was with a sweet emotion of gratitude and admira- tion. " And how's my sweetest baby ? " said the young girl, going up to the infant and taking it in her arms, the little thing crowing with plea- sure, and patting her cheeks with infant fondness as she did so. *' I'll take care of baby, Biddy : go in and get mistress's tea, and don't make a noise, for Nurse is asleep; she has had a bad night and a hard day, take care not to disturb her." " Now baby shall come and see mamma." *' Look, dearest Margaret, don't they look well ? — Pretty things ! How baby grows ! doesn't he ? And Tommy and Lucy have got such a quan- tity of flowers for you." The mother strove to rally, poor thing, and to raise herself a little and smile, and look cheer- fully at her little children ; but she coughed and gasped for breath, and every time that hollow cough sounded it struck like a death-toll upon the heart of Angela. ANGELA. 77 ** Come along-, my little ones," she said, " poor mamma's but poorly to-day," as Margaret turned still paler and sunk back, closing her eyes. " Come to the house," she added, anxious to be relieved from the baby and to return to her patient. *' Come along, that's good children." The baby was a fine heavy boy, and as she held him in her arms the weight evidently pressed too much upon that slender pliant figure, and bent her all on one side ; the two other little children holding her dress, and dragging upon her : but she did not try to shake them off, she was only anxious to get them all into the house and to return to Margaret. And thus she was tottering and struggling along, when the glass- door once more opened and a new figure pre- sented itself. It was that of an elderly woman, short and thin, and precise to stiffness in her attire, and with a somewhat forbidding coun- tenance. She looked cross, but she looked sen- sible, and what we English call " thoroughly respectable." A peculiar characteristic which our nation holds particularly in reverence. She was evidently a dependant, but she came up with all the authority of an old servant who has the advantage by some twenty or thirty years of the other members of the family in point of age, and who has lived so long among them that 78 ANGELA. she considers herself quite a part and portion of its circle, makes its interests her own, and serves with a zeal and fidelity which are inde- fatigable, only requiring in return that all her fancies, whims, tempers, and wishes, shall be implicitly respected, and that nobody in the household but herself shall have a will of their own. There was too much sense, too much spirit, in Angela — there had been in the days of their health too much vigour and spirit upon the part of the Captain and his Margaret — to allow this tendency to tyranny on the part of Nurse (for Nurse it was) to remain unresisted : it had been therefore kept till now in tolerable bounds ; but Nurse was of too much importance, and she felt it. She was far too valuable a person to be parted with ; indeed, in spite of her temper, all sides loved each other too truly ever to think of a separation. Gradually and gradually such tem- pers always encroach upon the gentleness and forbearance of others ; and it becomes more diffi- cult every day to preserve peace, and at the same time maintain a proper independence of will. The sickness which had visited the little house- hold had aggravated these evils ; Nurse had be- come more necessary, and she had been called upon to endure immense fatigues, and Nurse's ANGELA. 79 heart was grieved to the very core by the sorrow she saw ; and, filled with care and anxiety for the fate of those she loved, she fretted inwardly, and grew crosser and crosser, and more and more tyrannical, every day. And this embittered still farther the lot, and added still further to the difficulties, of those in whose service she would cheerfully have perilled her life, — in whose cause, indeed, she was every day making exertions and sacrifices almost greater than the sacrifice of life. And now she comes hurrying down the steps, looking extremely cross, and saying, — " Give me the baby, this instant, Miss Angela ! I tell you I wont have you carrying that big heavy child about. I tell you, it's enough to throw you all awry. Did you ever see any thing so crooked as you were walking just now ? — Give me the baby this instant, I say! If I qatch Biddy a letting you have it and carrying it about in this way, I'll give it her well, that I will." '^It was all my fault, Nurse — don't scold poor Biddy — I told her to give me the baby while she went to get tea. I can't think why you got out of your bed yourself, Nurse : I am sure you are so tired you don't know what to do. / think it's very naughty of you J* 80 ANGELA. " Stuff and nonsense ! Give me the baby, I say ! And you, children, let alone pulling off your sister's gown in that manner ! Can't you walk alone both of you? — I'll teach you !" "Goodness, Nurse! pray let the little things be. And why mayn't I carry baby ? I have not had him five minutes, and if it would hurt me, it must be much worse for poor Biddy, who is four or five years younger than I am, and you let her lug baby about all day long." " To hear how people will talk !" was Nurse's reply, in a very angry tone. " Miss Angela, I'm ashamed to hear such contrary nonsense fall from your lips ! You and Biddy, indeed ! when she's as stout and as square as the horseblock, and you are as lithe and as slender as yon willow-tree. Every thing will bend and crook you, and nothing, take my word for it, will ever crook her. But do it, if you like — it's no business of mine ; you may be as crooked as the little hunchback in the story, if you choose — what do I care ? it's no busi- ness of mine. You never mind what anybody says, — no, not if they're years and years wiser than yourself, — not you. But see if I don't speak to your mamma about your carrying of that baby ; for it's a shame and a sin to see a young child like your- self a put upon in all ways, and if nobody won't speak to misses about it, / will. Come along, ANGELA. 81 you little naughty things, get into the house to your tea ; I never saw such children before in my life ! Come along to your tea ; and don't you set up your pipes a-crying, master Tommy, and a disturbing of your mamma, or see if you don't get a good smack for it." It was vain to interfere ; an altercation would only have increased Nurse's ill- humour and the disturbance, which was now beginning to reach the ears of the invalid. As in most little scenes of this kind, there was nothing left for it but to submit. Nurse re-entered the house with the three children, and Angela returned to the couch of her second mother and friend. Margaret had again half raised herself, and was lying with her eyes open watching them ; — it was plain she had heard what had passed. *^ Nurse says but what is too true, my child," said she, as Angela came to her ; and taking her hand, she pressed it with her hot and wasted fingers. " It is too, too hard upon you — in your loveliness and your fragility — in your sweet, tender youth — thus to be cumbered with my child- ren, — with myself, — sweet and generous being! But Nurse is right, it is not enough cared for." '* Don't talk so, Margaret ; I love you, and I love those little ones dearly. But if I did not, e2 82 ANGELA. what do I not owe you, and how can I ever, ever repay it to you and yours ? You have been a true, a faithful mother to me ; I should be a wretch, indeed, if I did not strive hard to play the part of a daughter to you. Why will that cross old woman ever recall the hateful thought that we are not as near in nature as we are in heart ? Dear, dear children ! — my own little brothers and sister ! I have been more than your own child to you, Margaret, — generous, judi- cious Margaret ! and while I live your children shall find in me what I have found in you." The wasted fingers again pressed the hand, and the bright, beautiful, large eyes were fixed upon her face. Then they were turned upwards, — there was a moment of mental thanksgiving and prayer, — " He who has raised up this lovely girl, and given her in her youth that force and firmness, that ability and goodness, which is as a tower of strength to me, will preserve her in the course of her wondrous self-devotion and piety." *'My love," she said, "again and again I thank you — I trust to you — I cannot help it. In my weakness and my utter destitution — in the impossibility for me to do any thing for these poor little babes myself, where else can I turn ? But then when Nurse comes, and, with her ANGELA. 83 harsh, unwelcome truths, sets the selfishness of my conduct before me, I feel ashamed, and like one who, drowning herself, is dragging the friend who is struggling to save her into the abyss. But one's children, Angela! — forgive me, dear, generous Angela, — but what can I do with my children?" " Margaret — again, and again, and again! — why will you talk in this way ? Mother ! you are, indeed, my mother ! My own mother is to me but as a lovely and sacred vision of things I never really knew, but you have been a true mother to me : you have loved, tended, fondled, indulged me, as never mother did before ; — you have taught, tended, watched over, guided me, as never parent did before ! The Almighty, when he gave such an incomparable friend as you have been to me, did not bestow the inesti- mable blessing upon an ungrateful heart. He never intended that, receiving all, when my turn came I should refuse to repay. Say no more of it, Margaret, if you would not half break my heart. Let old Nurse grumble and scold, — she only means kindly by us both after all, good woman ; but let you and I understand each other, and let not these vain and almost wicked hesitations trouble the true faithful love and friendship we bear each other. Your children, mother, are my brothers and sister ; Jet us have 84 ANGELA. no division of thought among us : accept for them what you would and must accept if you were indeed my mother ; for more — for more than mother have you been to me." She spoke but the truth. Margaret had indeed performed these duties of perhaps the most diffi- cult part in life that any one is called upon to play with a fidelity and rectitude of purpose in accordance with her firm, uncompromising sense of duty, and with a gentleness, tenderness, and generosity of feeling, which had made an indelible impression upon the heart of her husband's child. The sincerest affection and friendship had been the reward of this faithful performance of their several obligations, in a position so often embit- tered by mistaken views and want of mutual indulgence. Angela felt deeply how much gratitude a part so played deserves, and Margaret received her dutiful filial observance with the same feelinsfs. She had, indeed, proved of signal advantage to Angela, who, much neglected in her youth, and de- prived by circumstances of most of the ordinary means of improvement, found in her new mother not only the kindest and most indulgent of rela- tions, but a very intelligent and accomplished companion. Margaret was a young woman of ANGELA. 85 very rare talents and acquirements. She pos- sessed, moreover, that exquisite taste in the arts which seems the gift of some happily constituted natures ; and, well aware of the precarious na- ture of Angela's prospects, she had laboured as assiduously as any professor who has to gain his bread in imparting the accomplishments she had acquired to her daughter. The talents of the pupil seemed to rival those of the preceptress, and the success was as gratifying as it was remarkable. Until sickness and sorrow had invaded their dwelling, that little pianoforte, under the fingers of these two young women, had given forth tones the beauty of which will be credited by those who have observed how far in music the dictates of a happy nature supersede all the teachings of ex- perience ; and the extraordinary facility with which some gifted beings acquire what surpasses in the highest degree all the results of the most laborious and persevering application. Very immoral this, I am afraid; — a very bad lesson for you, my young friends. But mind, I am speaking only of the arts, and this is a fact for which every one in life must prepare himself, and to which the patient toiler must submit as unrepiningly as to the other partialities of the great mother; consoling himself, if he can, with 86 ANGELA. the reflection, that while some can effect every thing by the mere force of a happy temperament, others can advance only by strenuous application, — that some must toil while others sleep, and that it is worse than useless to grumble about it. ANGELA. 87 CHAPTER VI. The darts of anguish fix not where the seat Of suffering hath been thoroughly fortified By acquiescence in the will supreme. Wordsworth. Angela had thus become an excellent mu- sician. She was passionately fond of music, and had the highest possible pleasure in giving ex- pression to her thoughts and feelings through this medium. She played wonderfully, and sang de- lightfully. But the soul of music had for some time died in the little family, and the small pianoforte long been silent, Margaret, too, sketched with extraordinary boldness and facility, — these two accomplish- ments are, I think, often found united in the same person; and Angela very nearly equalled 88 ANGELA. her in this, too : but their portfolios now lay side by side, unopened and forgotten. While Mar- garet struggled with suffering, and Angela read and prayed by her side. She was obliged, also, to ply her needle industriously, and to devote herself to assist Nurse in all her schemes of domestic economy. Nurse, as every one in the least ac- quainted with these sort of characters will expect to hear, was the most skilful and uncompromising of economists, and under her management the little income had produced twice the comfort it could otherwise have done. But Nurse was now very much engaged in at- tending to Margaret, whom she waited upon by day, and in whose room she slept at night; for both she and the good young mother were re- solute in forbidding Angela to share in this latter duty. Nurse was often cross and irritable when her sleep was disturbed, or any thing vexed her and put her out of humour ; all which Margaret bore with the most uncomplaining sweetness, her only care being to conceal these little acts of un- kindness from her daughter. Angela, however, in consequence of Nurse being so much engaged by other things, and generally obliged to rest in the day, was compelled to devote herself to the housekeeping, wjiich she did, endeavouring, with ANGELA. 89 her best skill, to carry out all Nurse's plans for the general prosperity. In the midst of all this anxiety, sorrow, pri- vation, and exertion, no wonder that the little pianoforte continued closed, and the portfolios lay idly side by side. But the habits Angela was thus attaining were worth all the accomplishments in the world. Self-command, activity, temper, prudence, a ready and cheerful performance of the duties of the day, united to a piety which some might have called, perhaps, enthusiastic, but which was as the wine of life to her, — a perennial source of refreshment, encouragement, and happiness, — a living fountain springing up to eternal life. One word more before this sketch, which does so little justice to its subject, is finished. Never was piety more free from all the dangers which attend upon an enthusiastic temper like hers. Serious, deeply serious she was, yet free from all that moroseness of spirit which renders some forms of seriousness so repulsive. There was no arrogance, no self-righteousness, no com- parison with or condemnation of others ; there was little profession, and no display. In the sweet serenity of that fair young crea- ture's brow, in the cheerful alacrity with which each duty was performed, and the calm uncom- 90 * ANGELA. plaining submission with which every evil was en- dured, you alone beheld the demonstration of the spirit which was ruling within. How differently the lots among men are cast ! What strange contradictions do we meet with upon every side ! A tangled web, an inexplicable confusion, does life appear as we look upon it in the mass; but, perhaps, were each individual story read by itself,' there would be found throughout all these seem- ing anomalies the most wonderful scheme of moral education going on, — opportunities for im- provement which, though some have perverted, resisted, and thrown away, have not the less been offered in their several degrees to every man. It seems something sad and pitiable, for in- stance, to reflect, that while one of these young creatures to whom I have introduced you was evidently being taxed beyond her powers, the other should appear to be deprived of every wholesome stimulant which could invite him to developement and exertion. That while she was summoned to the daily. ANGELA. 91 hourly struggle with a hard and stern necessity, he should be so completely left to himself that he seemed to have neither an obligation to fulfil nor a duty to perform. All the duties incident to his position in life, unfortunate circumstances had permitted him to evade ; and that fastidious delicacy, that sort of moral disgust, which was at once the ornament and the besetting temptation of his nature, in- clined him but too readily to profit by circum- stances which allowed him to abstract himself from the business and companionship of his fellow men without any of that obvious neglect of duty which would have alarmed and awakened his conscience. The day after his little adventure at the farm- house was spent within doors. It was rather a showery, chilly day. A new box of books had arrived from town ; he had tossed them over carelessly and listlessly, thinking of the far more real interests, of the sorrow and sickness at the farmhouse ; but tossing them over, his eye had caught the title of one which tempted him. He opened it, began to read, was soon lost in its contents ; and flung upon his sofa, his feet upon the opposite end raised almost to a level with his head which was half buried in cushions, he read and read, throwing away one 92 ANGELA. volume and snatching up another, till, hour suc- ceeding to hour, his servant came in at last and announced his dinner. He had, as every chapter finished, resolved that at the next he would close the book, and set forward upon a walk to inquire again after those for whom he had felt so much interest the night before ; but one chapter was succeeded by an- other of equal interest, the delights of slothful indulgence — of that most bewitching form of slothful indolence, idle reading — prevailed, the call to active exertion was forgotten, and when the servant entered, he, starting up, was astonished to find it wanted only one quarter to eight o'clock. Too late, certainly, to think of going out now. So, if you supposed he was in danger of falling in love with the young lady in the garden, you find you were mistaken. Had he returned to the farmhouse, or could his fancy, which during his solitary meal was almost constantly dwelling there — could his fancy have penetrated into what was actually going on in those remote chambers — remote from, and, as it ANGELA. 93 would appear, deserted by all the world, he'would have seen reason to contrast, and with a bitter sympathy, the situation of those engaged in the real, pressing, daily struggle with want, and his own position of easy self-indulgence. At this very hour — it was now approaching to nine o'clock — while he sat with the wine un- tasted before him, the large windows of the small dining-room he occupied being thrown open so as to admit a view of the shrubberies, garden, and woods behind, over which the pale moon, in calm splendour, was now slowly rising, while the last rays of the evening sun were fading in the west, — meditating in a sort of pleasing though melancholy dream upon what he had seen the day before, yet quite unconscious, from his inex- perience of such things, of the real sufferings such a scene represented, — while he lay there, thinking more of the sweet countenance and lovely figure of Angela as she bent over her friend's couch, than of the strus:o;le with disease and death in which the poor Margaret was engaged, far was he from realising the troubled thoughts with which at this very moment the poor young crea- ture was filled. She had attended Margaret to her room, but not further ; for Nurse, as I have said, jealous, apprehensive, and despotic, absolutely forbade her entrance into that sleeping-chamber, which 94 ANGELA. she considered indeed as filled with the miasma of disease. She could not find words to express her ideas, that stern Tvoman — unlettered, though far from ignorant ; but during a long life she had kept her eyes well open, had treasured up the results of her experience, and her conclusions were usually just and sound : fortunately for all that it was so, for they were maintained with the most invincible obstinacy. It being impossible under the circumstances to separate Angela and Margaret entirely — a mea- sure the old woman would have insisted upon had there been the slightest chance of submis- sion — all she could do was to prevent her being exposed to more danger than was absolutely unavoidable. In the open air she suffered the friends to be together without opposition ; in the large sitting- room she grumbled, and submitted with an ill grace ; but into the small sleeping-room occupied by Margaret she allowed no one to enter but herself. It is needless to say that the generous Margaret seconded Nurse in all her efforts to carry out these regulations. Margaret and Nurse had retired ; with the assistance of Biddy, Angela had put the little ones to bed, and now, wearied and exhausted, she had retired to her own little room. She was healthy, but she was not strong ; her I ANGELA. 95 firm self-discipline, tlie serenity of a mind upheld by the silent presence of the Almighty within, and by the calmness which arises from an un- flinching devotion to duty, had at present pre- served her from those weaknesses — uncertainties — those falterings and failings of the heart and nerves, which too often attend upon those young and susceptible as she was : but how long the morale would thus support the physique re- mained to be proved. Firm in her faith, she felt no undue anxiety upon the subject ; to-day was all in all with her. Like others who have been sorely taxed, she strove only with the claims and sufferings of to-day ; she let the morrow take charge of itself : sufficient unto the day was, in truth, the evil thereof. And yet there were moments when thoughts of the morrow would force themselves upon her, and the future — a dark and clouded vision of inextricable perplexity — would suddenly, as it were, unroll itself before her, filling that young but constant heart with a thrill of terror. And so it had been this night. She was very, very much tired ; the day had been particularly oppressive to her ; she had been reading aloud longer than usual ; afterwards the children had been cross, wearisome, and naughty, as little children cannot help being when they are them- selves weary, and still more so when they are 96 ANGELA. themselves hungry ; and the bread for supper had this night actually fallen short : there had not been enough for them all. She had been forced to put the poor little things to bed with half a supper, and she had tasted scarcely any thing herself. Biddy had been despatched to beg the loan of a little bread from Mrs. Whitwell, the mistress of the farm- house ; but there was only sour-leavened bread to be got, which the children absolutely refused to eat, which she herself swallowed with difficulty, and over which Biddy openly pouted and mur- mured. Altogether it had worried and ex- hausted her. Her head ached, and, retiring to her own little room, she had sat down by the open window, and leaning her elbow upon the window -seat and her aching head upon her hand, had sat some time looking out upon the night. But the night, so calm, so holy — the night which fills the soul with thoughts ineffable, lead- ing it to plunge, as it were, at once into the infi- nite, and to stand collected and still, as if in the very presence of the Almighty — the composing influence of night was powerless this evening for her. Night is the mother of calm and holy thoughts, but night is also the witching time of terror; when the nerves have once given way, ANGELA. 97 the darkness and the stillness only lend strength to those fearful phantoms which the excited ima- gination calls up. They had been crying that night for bread ! Those children, dear to her as her own soul, had been crying for their suppers, and she had not bread. It was the first time this had happened to her. The supply had this week fallen short — but a little short, it is true ; the baker would call with the usual portion to-morrow : but the cry had, for the first time, been heard in that house, and she almost shook with terror when she asked herself, ^vould it be the last ? Their little income — a widow's pension of a captain in a foot regiment — was every thing they possessed in the world. How had this happened? Was Margaret utterly destitute ? had Angela's mother been penniless ? had the captain literally nothing but his commission ? — almost literally nothing. In these times of ours, it is, happily, rare that such destitution can or does occur; every body has their little fortune of some sort or other pro- vided by their parents ; there is an aunt or an uncle, or a settlement, or a something — every body is so well off now. But horrible cases of VOL. I. F 98 ANGELA. suffering and destitution do occur, nevertheless, and those classes of society which belong to the professions of church and arms are more especi- ally exposed to them ; and this was a case in point. Margaret's father had been a brave soldier of fortune. He was in the king's army, but on service in India. Possessing little or nothing but his commission, he had expended all his little savings not long before in purchasing his rank as lieutenant-colonel, intending after this to insure his life, and secure something to his only daugh- ter. He fell, storming a fort, at the head of his men, in one of those gallant and daring feats of arms which, glorious as they are, are soon forgot- ten in the hurry and din of war, and remembered only by a few sympathising and admiring com- panions. He fell bravely in the performance of his military duty, and his hardly-earned com- mission became the property of the crown, and was given to a more fortunate man. The insurance had not been completed, the ne- cessary letters being on their way to Europe, when this good and gallant officer fell. He left no widow to receive a pension ; the small pittance allowed to the child was her only resource. The captain and she had loved and been be- trothed before. He would not listen to her re- monstrances; he married, and took her home to ANGELA. 99 his Angela. A small private fortune which he possessed he had been tempted, by the advice of a friend, to invest in some flattering- speculation, hoping to improve it and maintain his increasing family in comfort. He had lost it all. Margaret had never ceased to reproach herself for the ungenerous facility, as she thought it, with which she had yielded to the solicitations of the man, so fondly and deeply beloved. She always looked upon herself as the injurer of his daughter, and she had endeavoured to com- pensate to her by taking all the pains that were possible in improving her and completing her education. Angela, on her side, was far from viewing the matter in this light ; she sincerely valued and very tenderly loved the kind and most precious friend which, by her father's mar- riage, she had obtained ; and while Margaret performed her duties with a care and devotedness rare even among real mothers, Angela repaid it with a mixture of affection, respect, and doci- lity, not common even among real daughters. Since her husband's death, indeed, Margaret's scruples and remorses had been, in some degree, relieved, for the pension upon which they all sub- sisted could alone be claimed by her in the cha- racter of the widow. Had the marriage never taken place, Angela would have been nearly destitute. 100 ANGELA. This is tlie brief history of what had brought these inhabitants of the retired farmhouse into their present situation and relations. ANGELA. 101 CHAPTER VII. E mirando la vergine gagliarda Esporre il petto per Tamate mura. Tasso. It was a contrast certainly, and a strong one. There sat, or half lay, the man, extended in a most comfortable arm-chair, after a delicate repast — slight enough, it is true, for certainly he was no epicure — listening to the warbling of the night- ingales in the woods, gazing upon the beautiful effect of the full moon as she rose upon the horizon, and thinking of that lovely young crea- ture he had seen the day before — fancying her gliding among the beautiful lights and fleeting shadows formed by the moon gleaming amid the branches of the shrubbery — and of the walk he would take the next day to reconnoitre the farm- house again. 102 ANGELA. All with him vague, imaginative, easy, pleasant. She — was now holding a little faded purse in her hand, and slowly counting and dividing its contents. She had supped, or endeavoured to sup, upon that sour-leavened bread. She was occupied in calculating how she should provide bread enough of any kind for those she had to feed. The rent ! First, she laid aside the money — the sacred sum devoted to the rent ; then what would be necessary to pay the baker's bill upon the next day. Alas, how little was left ! Could she afford to buy more? — it was impossible. Could she diminish her household ? — equally so. To part with Nurse could not be thought of for a moment. What was Margaret to do without her? Besides, Nurse was part of themselves; she was one of the family. Biddy ! could she part with Biddy ? Biddy had a tremendous appetite. Alas ! to what consi- derations are the very poor, those poorest of the poor — those who cannot labour with their hands, and dig and delve — obliged to submit. Biddy was a fine, healthy girl, and when she had been out walking with the children, there seemed no end to the bread and cheese she could devour. It was Biddy's appetite which had drawn too heavily upon the little store, and made it run ANGELA. 103 short. Biddy, too, had principles of her own. She worked like a horse, she thought, and had a right to her food, at least ; and she was hungry, and did not spare the loaf; and she had never eat sour, unleavened bread at her father's, and didn't see why she should do it now. Such were her principles, yet she was far from being an ungenerous girl ; she loved the baby to idolatry, was a little tyrannical, or so inclined, to the other children, as girls of her age generally are, but a good girl upon the whole. But to part with Biddy was as impossible as it appeared to be to get bread to feed her. At the age of the baby, it absolutely required constant attendance. Nurse was almost wholly engaged with her mistress, and with the rest her own age and delicate health required ; and for Angela to take charge of an infant of that age, — too large for her to carry, and too little to walk itself, was out of the question. There was no help for it ; difficulties presented themselves upon every side. Where should she get bread ? A little sum had been set aside to the purchase of comforts for her invalid : could she appropriate this? How sorrowfully did she sit there, counting and recounting her money — vainly hoping to find it a little more than she thought it. 104 ANGELA. The cost of his one little meal would have supported them all for a fortnight. Her head ached so ! She was obliged to put the money in the purse again, and to lie down, but she could not sleep. She lay long awake, revolving all the possible means to get a little money. There was only her needle ; all other occupations in this remote place were out of the question. She would ask Mrs. Whitwell to give her some sewing. Why had she never thought of this before ? There was comfort in this thought ; and as the cocks in the farmyard began to lift up their voices and salute the dawn, Angela fell asleep. Cheerily and pleasantly rose the sun. A delightful early summer morning it was. The dew lay heavy on the grass, bending down the rich heads of purple clover, clothing every bud and blade with pearls ; the whole air was filled with freshness and sweetness, and the birds were singing in chorus among the bushes and hedges. He was up early, had put on his old coat and hat again, and with his sketch-book in his hand, and his case of pencils in his pocket, had, after a night of sweet and happy sleep, set ANGELA. 105 forward with cheerful alacrity, and was crossing the fields, leaping over stiles and gates, and pursuing the path which led to Mr. Whitwell's farm. He thought he knew his way perfectly, and was certain that Rover, at least, would ; but Rover had business of his own that mornino^ ; he amused himself as he went along in hunting larks, and putting up leverets ; and so busy was he, that he was any thing but a guide, and so he and his master lost their way, and got into a set of fields different from those they had crossed before. They came at last to a prodigiously high hedge. It was of mingled hawthorn and hornbeam, and filled with tall hedge-row trees ; and it was hung with brambles and wild roses, so as to be perfectly impervious : the path led to a little rail-stile in the middle of it. This hedge and another, if possible, still higher and still thicker, surrounded a pretty consi- derable, oblong field, filled with high grass ; the pathway led through it to another narrow stile of the same sort, through the opening made by which, what seemed a large pasture, now oc- cupied by cattle, might just be descried. The first stile, which he w^as now approaching, in- tending to cross it, was overhung by such a remarkably beautiful bush of maple and wild briar mingled, and looked so picturesque in the p2 106 ANGELA. light, that he stopped, unfolded his sketch-book, and seated himself to sketch. He had been thus employed some little time, when he was suddenly aroused by the tremendous roar and screaming of a bull, and the shrieks of women and children, issuing from the field beyond. To fling down his portfolio, seize his stick, spring over the stile, cross the intervening field, and enter the other, was the work of scarcely two seconds. The field he came into was large ; on the other side, and exactly opposite to him, a girl with an infant in her arms, and two little children following her, all screaming and crying in the utmost agony of terror, were endeavouring to make their escape from an enormous bull, who, his tail erect, his crest bristling with rage, was standing tearing up the ground, and tossing the fragments over his head, and bellowing and screaming aloud. He was not running forward, for before him stood courageously in his path, with her large, distended eye fixed upon him, a young, slender girl, of about nineteen, facing him resolutely. The animal appeared to be worked up almost to a frenzy of rage by this unexpected opposition, and yet, subdued by the steady gaze of the daunt- less young creature — magnetised, as it were, and ANGELA. 107 unable to advance — was spending his fury in tearing up the turf beneath his feet with loud cries. The girl looked deadly pale as, her eye fixed steadily upon his, she slowly retreated, step by step, backwards. She thus gave the other girl and the children opportunity to escape, which they lost no time in doing, perfectly wild with terror, and never once looking behind them. He took in the whole scene with one glance, and he hurried instantly to the rescue, as, setting his little dog upon the heels of the bull, he thus diverted the rage of the animal. " llun, run for it !" he cried, as the bull turned fiercely, and catching the poor little dog upon his horns, first tossed him high in the air, and then, bending down his head, rushed furiously upon his new antagonist. With extraordinary presence of mind and agility Carteret avoided the blow, and springing at the bushes of a wide-spreading oak which most fortunately stood near, at one bound swung him- self up into the tree, and thus escaped the fury of his enemy in a dexterous, rather than in a very heroic, manner, it may be thought ; but heroic or not, there he sat in perfect safety, and viewed at his leisure the field of battle. He saw that the nurse and little children had already scrambled over the opposite stile, and still 108 ANGELA. screaming and crying with all their might, were running through the field beyond. But the young girl who had so courageously risked her own life to save theirs, having retreated to the stile, stood there, watching the issue of the com- bat, as if she found it impossible to forsake her rescuer, and, a stone in each hand, which she had stooped and picked up, appeared waiting, ready prepared to assist him, if necessary. When she saw the young gentleman, however, safely ensconced in his tree, which the bull kept pacing round and round, and pawing the ground, and bellowing at intervals with all his might, seeming resolved upon watching there till he could have vengeance upon his adversary, she sprang over the stile, and signing to him that she was going to call assistance, disappeared. In a quarter of an hour or less she returned with two or three stout men armed with pitch- forks, who, attacking the bull, the huge animal, sullenly grumbling, and his suppressed roar soundino; like the distant murmurs of a retirina: thunder-cloud, was driven from the field, which the young lady then entered, and came up to thank her preserver and inquire after his little dog. The poor animal had suffered terribly — almost every bone in his body seemed broken : he was stunned, and at first appeared to have been killed ; ANGELA. 109 but as his master tenderly raised him from the grass in his arms, the poor little creature opened his eyes, looked up in his face with patient and grateful affection, and began to lick his hand. *' He is not quite dead," said Angela, tenderly. " Poor little thing! will you let me carry him? I think I can lay him in my shawl more comfort- ably than in your arms. Oh, sir, how very, very much we are all obliged to you !" " You look pale still. Were you not horridly frightened?" *' Dreadfully ! It seems to me as if I never in my life knew what terror was before." " How could you find resolution to stand it — how could you help running away with the rest? I never saw such a noble instance of courage in my life ! " he said, looking at her with eyes in which the most lively admiration was painted. " I don't know ; I had read of such a thing being done. It flashed into my mind at the moment, as the only chance of saving those poor little children." " Wonderful ! And so young and delicate as you are, too !" " It seems to me all like a dream, now it is over," she said with perfect simplicity, and as if she were quite unconscious of having per- formed an act of extraordinary heroism; *' but 110 ANGELA. I do not know what would have become of me if you had not so very, very generously exposed your life to save mine. And your poor little dog ! how he moans! — yet so softly ! What a good, good little thing he is ! Will you not carry him to Mr. Whitwell's farm? — the men there may know how to treat him. And if you will give me leave, I will keep him and take care of him till he is better ; and then some of the boys will, I am sure, bring him home to you, if you will tell us where you live." "You will let me go with you to Mr. Whit- well's, won't you?" said he; "for I cannot be easy without knowing what to think of the poor little fellow's case. And besides, you do tremble so ! Will you not take my arm ? Nay, nay, don't faint." She was very near doing it at last, however. She had made unparalleled efforts to keep her spirits from failing her, but her nerves at last gave way. She began to tremble in every limb, and could hardly keep herself from falling. "Thank you, I will sit down a little, if you please, upon the stile. I shall be better in a moment ; I can't think what it is." He was obliged to put his arm round her, and almost carry her towards the stile. He sup- ported her against the bank, and ran to fetch some water in his hat from a little pond near. ANGELA. Ill He felt a strange and unwonted sensation coming over him, as his arms supported her : he thought he had never seen any thing so lovely as were her half-closing eyes ; and were ever cheeks so very beautiful in their paleness ? — and that soft brown hair, and her long throat bending like a flower-stem ? — Till the water which he threw over her face revived her, and the colour began to come again, and those sweet eyes to open, and to look up at him with such beautiful thankfulness in them — and that was more beautiful still ! — he could have almost wished she might never be able to move; he could have stood hanging there over her for ever ! But she was not one accustomed to faint away, and lie there looking helpless and interesting; she soon recovered herself, and rose up : but she could not, however, stand very well, and she was forced — with or against her will, who shall say ? — to rest upon his arm ; and so, she resting upon his arm, and he carrying the little dog wrapped in her shawl, they slowly approached Mr. Whit- well's house, and entered the orchard, passing through the garden gate. There was no one there. Margaret had not yet left her room; the children had rushed in through the foldyard ; but just as the two 112 ANGELA. entered the orchard, Nurse was seen at the glass- door, rushing through and looking furious. " Where is she? Where is she? Left to her- self, all alone, the blessed one ! Oh ! Biddy ! Biddy! If you'd only been tossed by the bull yourself! but there was the baby. Oh ! those children ! those children ! they'll be the death of her, a generous angel ! Oh, you're there, are you, Miss Angela? all safe and sound, I declare ; and such a fright as you've given my poor heart ! I vow I think I never shall get over it. And you will take those walks to please the children, you vjill, in spite of all I can say ! You're the pro- vokingest girl in the world ! I'm sure you de- served to be tossed by the bull a hundred thou- sand times ! Well, well, you're not hurt, t see ; and don't tell Mrs. Nevil, pray, for the fright, though it's all over, will half kill her. And as for the children, they're out of their senses with terror ; I think they'll never have done scream- ing ; I'd half a mind to whip 'em all round, and so I told 'em." ^'Poor little things!" said Angela, dropjoing the arm of her companion and hastening for- ward, " let me go and comfort them, poor little fellows ! " *' Are you the gentleman as saved her life?" said Nurse, now approaching Mr. Carteret; " and ANGELA. 113 as the men drove the bull from under the tree for?" "Yes," said he; " and here is this poor little animal, the only one of the party really hurt, I hope. Good woman, help me to somebody who will tell me what can be done for him." " He*s badly hurt, poor beast, sure enough. We'll step into the back-kitchen and see what can be done," said Nurse, eyeing the handsome young man with a somewhat suspicious air, as Mrs. Whitwell had done before. He made, it is true, a sufficiently questionable appearance at that moment, with his old white hat and his old whitybrown coat, the one battered to pieces, and the other torn in several places — the natural con- sequences of his sudden ascent into the tree. The men in the back-kitchen were refreshing themselves after the encounter with the bull, and, after the manner of their kind, making them- selves sufficiently merry at the expense of the young gentleman who had thus managed to escape danger. " He looked, stuck up there, for all the world like a scarecrow in a cherry-tree," said one. " And old Tom watching him as a cat watches a bird," put in another; "only he was roaring and foaming all like a mad thing ; but only to make fun, it's my belief, and put the young one up there in a tremble : for he turned before our ] 14 ANGELA. pitchforks at the first moment, and went away grumbling home as quiet as a cosset lamb." " The lad, all the time, up there, quaking like a water-wagtail. I'll be sworn he'll not be over- ready to attack a good short-horn again. Our Tom's a rare one for teaching these Lonnoners to look about them ; and he's one, I'll engage, by the cut of his coat, never seed a bull before, but a mad un driven to Smithfield Market, mayhap." " Shocking bad hat," &c. &;c. " My good fellows," began the young noble- man, entering the kitchen, and addressing the countrymen with that air of unquestioned au- thority which seems habitual to those of his rank and station, *'this poor little dog of mine has got sadly hurt by the bull. Do you, any of you, know any thing of bone-setting ? It seems to me that both his legs are broken." The men eyed him a few seconds in a doubtful sort of manner; the air he assumed and his dress being so sadly at variance. One of them, however, at last got up from his seat, though somewhat sulkily, and said, — (The English countryman is as surly and sulky as his namesake, the short-horn, if he thinks he is treated with the least undue want of respect.) " Yes, I've seen a little of dog-doctoring in my time ; so hand him over to me, man," looking significantly at his companions, with his tongue ANGELA. 115 in his clieek. " Poor fellow, he's badly hurt ! A dog can't climb trees like a cat, you see, and that's wherefore he got tossed. Heave him up to the light, young man. Yes, I see both his legs are broke." *'Can you set them for me? But don't say that you can, if you can't, though, and make the poor fellow a cripple for life. I dare say there is some farrier or dog-doctor near at hand ; and if one of you will fetch him I will reward him hand- somely." The men exchanged grins and glances again. ** Our Jem can set a bone as well as any of 'em," said one, " I'll be sworn ; but," rising lazily, " if nothing but a reg'lar dog-doctor will serve your turn, why, then, old Jenks down i'th' village is a fine hand at bone-setting." *' Fetch him then, my good fellow, and here's half-a-crown for your trouble." It is astonishing how the young man rose in public opinion at this. John Bull has a sad pre- judice in favour of those who do things handsome, as he calls it. " And," continued Carteret, *'I believe you are the same men who rescued me from my perch in the oak tree, aren't you? There's a couple of sovereigns for you — to drink my health, I sup- pose I ought to say ; but I am somewhat of a 116 ANGELA. temperance man, and I wish you would spend it in some other way." " Thank your honour." And locks were twitched according to the old fashion of rural salutes. '^ As you're a temperance man, we'll see what can be done — though a pot of ale 's a dish for a king, to my mind, and ever will be." " In moderation, perhaps ; but good ale has made more beggars than kings, after all," said Carteret, carelessly : he was not, however, given to preaching or enforcing of doctrine in any way ; he was too indolent, and had really too little faith in mankind for that. And, besides, he wanted to get his dog doc- tored, and to return to the apartment at the other end of the house, for he had a scheme in his head. ANGELA. 117 CHAPTER VIII. Fervent in doing well, with every nerve Still pressing on, forgetful of the past. Thomson. The (log-doctor soon appeared — a little, dry, withered, sagacious-looking old man he was — the child of his own practice and experience, shrewd, observing, knowing, and obstinate — a character which used to be common in rural villages, but which the universal diffusion of light is now rapidly clearing away. This cunning old leech had his own recipes and secrets ; and the cures he performed upon man and beast were certainly wonderful. And no sooner had Carteret seen him, than the plan he had already secretly set his heart upon, but did not exactly know how to accomplish, began to take form, and to become capable of execution. 118 ANGELA. This important scheme was no less than that of contriving to render it necessary, under some pretence or other, to accept the young lady's offer to leave his dog in her charge, in order to give himself a pretence of calling again, and thus keeping up an acquaintance so auspiciously begun. To keep up the acquaintance being what his heart was set upon, chiefly to his credit be it said, from a sentiment of the sincerest compas- sion, and the most disinterested desire to be of service, if possible, to those so poor, so suffering, and so friendless ; but likewise because a ro- mantic scheme, such as has been known in actual life to enter upon occasions into a young man's head — dimly and vaguely, it is true, but yet did begin to take a certain form to his fancy. He was very much charmed with the young lady ; there can be no doubt of that. His heart was entirely at liberty, though himself, perhaps, not altogether so. This latter circumstance he chose to overlook. There was a sort of something in the air be- tween him and a certain cousin of his ; but he had never pledged himself exactly to it, and he had long chosen to believe, that as he certainly cared not for his cousin the least in the world, so she returned the compliment by not caring the least in the world for him : and thus he con- ANGELA. 119 sidered himself at liberty to please his own taste, and, moreover, had been all along resolved so to do. Indeed, the sort of vague idea of how much he should like to be loved merely upon his own ac- count, without reference to his fortune or station (one of those aspirations of sincere and delicate minds), had long possessed him — and how op- portune was this occasion for gratifying his romance for winning a heart, instead of obtain- ing merely a hand, if he chose to make use of it — this, perhaps, was at present as far as his thoughts went. But he was upon the precincts, it is plain, if not actually already crossing the boundary of the Armidan garden of love — that paradise of the soul — as figured forth by the poet, who had known these dear delusions but too well : — In lieto aspetto il bel giardin s'asperse Acque stagnant!, mobili cristalli, Fior vari, e varie piante, herbe diverse, Apriche collinette, ombrose valli L'aura non ch' altro e de la maga efFetto : L'aura, che rende gli alberi fioriti. How far he would wander amid these magical mazes, how far be led away, — Fra melodie si tenera e fra tante Vaghezzi, allettatrici, e lusinghieri, he never troubled himself to inquire. 120 ANGELA. It was enough that the first aspect was sa enchanting. He had not been sufficiently accustomed seri- ously to weigh the consequences of his actions. His former life, vague and imaginative — a poet's dream, rather than the rational prose of daily life — disposed him but too well for the romantic story he was now about to begin. Now he is at the door of the large apartment so often mentioned, carrying his little dog, with his two poor tiny legs carefully bound up in bands of linen, in his arms ; and he knocks with his knee, and, being told to enter, pushes the open door, and does as he is bid. Margaret was now dressed, and was lying upon the sofa. Angela was sitting at the table cutting out what seemed a cliild's frock. The two little children were playing together upon the steps, and Biddy and the baby were walking about in the garden. The two huge walnut-trees threw their green shadows upon the casement windows, which were both open, pleasantly shading the light which the sun, now pretty high, threw into the room ; and a cool and pleasant obscurity pervaded the apart- ment, aided by the vines and eglantines which, ANGELA. 121 trained against the wall, hung over the windows, and filled the air with a faint but sweet odour. The day was perfectly still ; not a sound was heard from the garden ; every bird was reposing and silent in the mid-day sun ; Nero slumbering and quiet : he raised his head once, it is true, upon seeing the young man enter, but with a low growl laid it down again. The quick breathing of the invalid alone dis- turbed the general silence^ giving a tragic interest to this scene of seclusion and tranquillity — a scene which, otherwise, might have seemed as one rather belonging to some pastoral romance than to this world of sin and trouble. " Shall I disturb you?" said he, as he entered, in such a sweet voice. One of those voices so penetrating, so full of charm— a voice which, in itself, is a pledge of refinement, delicacy, and feeling. And he had such an interesting countenance and manner! In spite of his many faults, he was really such a very, very delightful young man. "Shall I disturb you? Pray do not let me disturb you, or I must run away." " Indeed you will not disturb me," said Mar- garet, who had by this time learned the whole history of the morning's adventure, and who had been lying there impatient to see and thank the preserver of Angela and her little ones. VOL. I. G 122 ANGELA. *' Indeed you will not disturb me. I have been only afraid you might have left the farm without giving me an opportunity of thanking you for your generous interference ; to which, under God, I owe the preservation of my dear Angela and of my poor little children." " Miss Angela had, by her extraordinary cou- rage, left me little to do — nothing at all for them, and but little for herself." And as he spoke, the bright vision flashed upon his imagination, the picture of that fair and slender creature, standing confronting the ter- rible animal, and taming and subduing brute violence by her courage — he thought of Una and her lion — he thought of virgin saints and martyrs. He was lost, in short, in his own thoughts for a moment ; and, instead of saying more, he turned to look at her. She was there at the table, her pretty head and neck bent down to her work, busy cutting out the child's frock. He thought her, and he felt her to be, while thus engaged in simple domestic occupation, if possible, still more interesting than in her ecstasy of heroic courage — "An angel, yet a woman still." Dearer still as the woman than as the angel. Angela's heart was beating, it must be con- ANGELA. 1*23 fessed, a little quicker than perhaps it ought to have done, for a young lady of so much discre- tion as she was ; and a colour, delicate as that of the blush rose, would come into her cheeks — she could not help it ; and that was the reason, per- haps, that she was, at that moment, so particu- larly intent upon the little child's frock. *' Dear Angela," said Margaret, "how was this? you never told me this! " *' I thought it would only frighten you, Mar- garet ; and, indeed, it all passed so rapidly, that I hardly know how it was, except that this gen- tleman by his courage saved us all, and that this poor little dog was sadly hurt in helping him to turn the bull." And as she said this, she rose from her seat and went up to him. '^ Poor little thing ! I am afraid he is very much hurt." '* Very much ; but in the best of causes, my poor little Rover," he said, looking down affec- tionately at him. "And, I am sure, if he could speak, so he would say for himself, Miss Angela. But if he could speak ," hesitating a little, but impatient to come to the point, " he would, I be- lieve, ask you to do him a very great favour." " And that, I am sure, I >vould not refuse him," said she, passing her hand over his pretty smooth black head and long curly ears. " Poor little dog! what shall I do for him?" 124 ANGELA. ** Will you let him stay with you for a few days ? I am ashamed to give you so much trouble, and feel as if it were a great presumption in me to ask such a favour from you ; but it is plain he suffers very much in being moved, and I have a long way to go home : if it would not be too great a favour to ask " said he, persua- sively ; for there was a kind of hesitation and perplexity in her eyes. Far was he from divining what narrow, grind- ing poverty, occasioned it : the little dog's bread and milk was an expense at which she felt alarmed, that it would be a consideration. "■^ My dear Angela!" cried Margaret, looking at her with some surprise. Margaret attributed this reluctance to a sort of shyness — a girlish shyness — which she thought sadly out of place at this moment, and to the man who had just saved her life. *' Undoubtedly, sir, you will do us a great favour by leaving the little dog with us. We shall be but too glad to have an opportunity of shewing our gratitude to him. The two invalids will do very well together. Lay him upon my cushion, Angela. There, take care, little thing." He deposited the animal in Angela's arms, who soon laid him where he was at ease, and fell asleep. Angela was as glad to keep him as, I believe. ANGELA. 125 Carteret could possibly be to leave him, if the real truth were told. They had been standing till now. " Will you not sit down, sir?" said Margaret, looking at a chair. He was as much struck and pleased by the ease and politeness of Margaret's manner, as by the simplicity and loveliness of Angela. He was very glad to be asked to sit down, and took a seat by Margaret's couch immediately. The invalid fixed her bright blue eyes upon him, with a curiosity not quite unmingled with a cer- tain anxiety. He understood their meaning, and, in reply, said, — " Before I accepted your invitation to sit down, I think, as there is no one else to do it for me, I should have had the grace to introduce myself. My name is Carteret, and I call myself an artist.*' Margaret's eyes asked for something more. " My father and mother are both living, and are now in Italy. My father's circumstances are not what they once were, quite. I am fond of drawing, and make it my study. Whether my pictures will ever afford me a maintenance, is more than doubtful ; but if an hereditary passion for art will help me, I shall do something." The story was confirmed by the entrance of Kitty, who brought in her hand the portfolio he 126 ANGELA. had dropped in the field when attacking the bull. She gave it him, saying, — ^' I believe this is yours, sir ? " " Yes, it is," said he ; "I must have dropped it when I sprang into the tree. Thank you." And another half-crown. Kitty smiled, and retired, Angela could almost have wished she could have been the fortunate finder of the portfolio, and could thus have earned an unexpected half- crown. Margaret's eyes were now fixed upon the book, " Perhaps you may be good enough to like to look at some of my attempts 1 " said he. " I was once very fond of drawing, myself," said Margaret; " and it is a very great pleasure to me still to see good drawings." " I am afraid mine will not deserve to come into that category," he replied, untying the sketch-book, or portfolio, but somewhat anxiously hiding the first page, saying, — " Oh, that's nothing ! I should be ashamed to shew you that." He began to display his sketches. They were sj)lendidly done. The hand of true genius — of a master in his art — was visible in every line. " Beautiful ! " said Margaret, looking up at ANGELA. 127 Angela, who stood over her. ** How different from what you or I have ever done ! This is art, indeed ! " *' Does Miss Angela draw?" turning to her with a look of interest, though evidently indif- ferent to the praise he himself received. " A very little," said she, in the usual depreci- ating phrase; sincere enough in her at the moment, for she thought how very, very poor, her per- formances were in comparison with his. It really was too charmingly like a romance — a real, printed romance — to find so much love- liness, such manners, and such accomplishments, all buried in this lone farmhouse ! As Sterne says of his adventures, " Such things never happen but to sentimental travel- lers." " Perhaps, now I have shewn you my rough scrawls, you will let me see something of yours ? I am so passionately fond of drawing," he said, shutting his portfolio. She hesitated. " Do, Angela, my dear," said Margaret. Now Margaret was at once and completely taken in. It never entered into her head to doubt the young man's story, every syllable of which, be it observed, though equivocal, was in fact true. There was a simplicity in his manner, and a something so truly polished and refined 128 ANGELA. in his address, that she felt convinced he was a gentleman and a man of education. No swindler, no impostor, no man of degraded con- nexions or mean associations, she felt assured, could have united so much manner with such a perfect simplicity and freedom from art or aflPect- ation. His masterly drawings convinced her that he was, as he implied, a professor ; for Mar- garet had studied in Italy herself, had a very high conception of true art, and no very high opinion of amateur performers in general. She had lived out of the world of late years, and was not aware that drawing had lately be- gun to make 23art of a gentleman's education. In the many meditations which occupied the mind of the good Margaret, as she lay helpless upon her sick couch, as to the future fate of Angela and her little ones, she had dwelt with considerable satisfaction upon the talents her eldest daughter possessed, which had been so much improved by her own care and instruction ; and she trusted that they might afford the means of obtaining a livelihood to herself at least, and perhaps the opportunity, in some way or other, of providing for her destitute little brothers and sister. It now struck Margaret, that the criticisms of this young artist might be of essential service to Angela. She thought it probable — nay, certain — ANGELA, 129 that lie would call again. Artists sometimes take an interest in directing the efforts of those pos- sessed of genius and energy, who are less advanced than themselves ; perhaps this young man might give a few hints, and perhaps almost lessons, which she felt might prove invaluable. Those who are very poor, who are struggling day by day against the most pressing wants of existence, have little attention to bestow upon those delicate refinements which obstruct in some degree the direct course of life. They look straight forwards — they are forced to look straight forwards — to the main object. Margaret, intent upon the hope to increase her daughter's proficiency in these accomplish- ments — a proficiency of such vital importance to herfuture independence — quite forgot what ayoung engaging man she was anxious to secure as an instructor. Besides, Margaret had been bred in that sphere of life which effectually separates the pupil from the instructor; and it would never have entered into her head that any well-educated girl would think of falling in love with her drawing- master. Intent upon her object, she never thought of regarding Mr. Carteret in any other light. She sunk the man altogether in the artist, as many have done before her ; and her thoughts never g2 130 ANGELA. travelled towards Armida Gardens, or any ideas of that nature. *^ Fetch your portfolio, my dear Angela," said she: ''it is quite true our attempts will appear poor indeed by the side of this gentleman's ; but I think, considering the little instruction you have had, there is some merit in your drawings, I should be glad to hear the criticisms of a less partial judge than myself." Angela now left the room to fetch her port- folio ; and when she was gone Margaret said, — *' Will you excuse my asking you one ques- tion ? Did I understand you rightly when you said you meant to make art your profession — your — your maintenance V " That was certainly what I intended to imply." " For great talents like yours, I doubt not, it affords a full and sufficient independence." She went on, — " Excuse me, sir, the subject is of the greatest importance to me ; but does your experience in these things enable you to tell me what prospect it might hold out for a young girl like Angela, unprotected and unsupported as she soon must be ? Would she be likely, think you, to find an opportunity of turning her talents to account, and securing to herself a livelihood?'' He hesitated. ANGELA. 131 *' True," said she, thinking she understood the cause of his hesitation perfectly ; " you should see her drawings first." Angela returned with her portfolio. The drawings were full of genius ; but, as might have been expected, equally full of faults. The genius delighted him, the faults interested him. To the other sources of the interest which she had excited was at once added that peculiar in- terest which a true artist takes in the develope- ment of a fine but unassisted talent. He laid the portfolio upon the table, pushing away without any ceremony all the pieces of mus- lin, the threadreels and needlebooks, and other evidences of her industry, which were scattered upon it. One thing was taken out after another and examined with great attention. "Your lights are confused here, you see — this composition is defective — these colours want har- mony. Ah ! what is this ? This is really beau- tiful ! How greatly you have improved as you went on ! But even here, do you perceive, there is a want of art in " And so on. The examination and the criti- cisms seemed as if they would never come to an end. " If it were not too presumptuous to make such a proposal, how I should like to give you a few lessons!" said he, at last, turning his charming 132 ANGELA. eyes full upon her. " My occasions will detain me in these parts some weeks longer. If you would let me call now and then, I think I could help you. I really think I could," turning to Margaret, — '* there is such a wonderful aptitude; but it does want a little cultivation — a little help. I am but a poor artist myself, but I have had excellent lessons abroad. I really think I could be of some use. Will you let me try ? May I call again the day after to-morrow 1 I will bring my colours, and some copies I have by me. I really think I could help you." The cheeks of Angela were now tingling with pleasure — an artist's true pleasure — from the hope of receiving instruction, of enjoying that delight- ful developement of the ideas which good instruc- tion affords to real talent ; and there was — but she did not once think of that — something more than a mere artist's pleasure, as her eyes followed his earnest, enthusiastic, kindly countenance, as he turned to Margaret. A faint gleam of joy spread over poor Mar- garet's countenance, and a throb of happiness once more visited her forlorn heart as the offer was made. She, too, felt bewitched by this young man, and she was gratified beyond expression at receiving this offer so in accordamce with her secret wishes. "You are only too good," said she; "and ANGELA. 133 nothing but tlie fear of encroaching upon your time can prevent me from accepting your offer. But— but " Angela's eyes fell to the ground, and she coloured crimson, for she guessed what Margaret was about to say ; she knew it ought to be said, however disagreeable : if Margaret had wanted courage to say it, she must have done it herself. '^ But — but — you must not let us encroach much upon your time. I have always thought" — (with considerable effort at last it burst forth) — '^ that frankness in cases like ours is the best — nay, the only course. I ought to tell you at once, that we cannot afford to indulge ourselves with instruction." He coloured as deeply as either of them had done at this, and began to stammer and hesitate very much, as he said, — " Oh, no such thing ! Pray do not mistake me. t have no occupation that could the least interfere . . . my time is entirely my own ... I assure you there is not the slightest real ne- cessity ... I hope you understand my meaning . . . I am ashamed not to have made myself understood at first." " I thought I did understand you," said Mar- garet, ^' but J could not be sure ; at all events, it is right that we should perfectly understand each other now. I did not mean to hurt you (seeing 134 ANGELA. his distress and confusion). I beg your pardon ; pray excuse me." He could not immediately recover his composure; he was quite thrown into disorder. He had not expected the part he had intended to play would be carried out so literally into all its conse- quences. He called himself a too-foolish fellow to be so disturbed by it. The very thing he ought to have wished. But to be looked upon as a regular paid drawing-master ! Had he pitched his assumed character too low ? '' It may be pride in me," said he, at length ; and he certainly felt proud enough while saying it: " but you mistook me. I do not mean to make the giving lessons to be a part of my profession." *' I did mistake you," said Margaret, gently. " I beg your pardon ; 1 ought to have guessed as much by the — the . But when so many accom- plished artists do oblige the world with their lessons " " You think it would not be beneath me. Per- haps not. Nay, I am sure not — only I don't do it ; so, pray make no scruple about my time . Nothing could interest me, or indeed inspire me, so much as being allowed to guide a pencil like Miss Angela's. You will let me call again the day after to-morrow, will you not? Pray do." *' We shall, indeed, be most happy to see you, and very greatly obliged to you," said Margaret. ANGELA. 135 He staid nearly an hour after this, but it was then getting late, and it was positively time to return home. So he bent down and kissed his little dog, who lay nestling on the pillow by Margaret — took the hand of both ladies, gently pressed them — went out by the garden door — turned — cast a glance once more round the room he was quitting, and was gone. 136 ANGJILA. CHAPTER IX. Much did she suffer ; but if any Friend Beholding her condition, at the sight Gave way to words of pity or complaint, She stilled them He who afflicts me knows what I can bear. Wordsworth. When life is reduced to its simplest elements ; when luxury is impossible, and pleasures few ; when every day brings its pressing and imperious duties, to be rewarded every night by that recom- pense alone which attends upon their due per- formance — a conscience at peace and sweet repose; a very small additional source of enjoyment suf- fices to produce a very great increase of hap- piness. Angela sat down by her stepmother and friend when he was gone, a glow of hope and expecta- tion upon her cheek, and in her eye a something of the spirit and gaiety of temper which had lately ANGELA. 137 literally been quenched in anxiety ; while Mar- garet's countenance assumed a calm serenity : the weight which pressed . so heavily upon the springs of life seemed for the moment removed from her chest. She brgiathed more freely, her very cough became less irritable. Such is the power of mental relief. True, it was not much ; he was but a young artist, accidentally thrown into communication with them. Poor, it would seem, as themselves ; dependent upon his talents for his subsistence. But ah ! that "poor as themselves," what infinite comfort was in that thought ! And let it not be attributed to the base mean- ness of jealousy against those in better circum- stances, or to the equally great meanness of a too susceptible pride, that this equality is so consoling to the heart. Wealth is so insolent — almost invo- luntarily so, perhaps ; and the superiority merely founded upon wealth is one against which the human heart must, and ever will, revolt, and feel it a degradation to submit. These two things have always struck me as something remarkable in human nature : the almost irresistible propensity, even in the best and the wisest, to assume something upon their wealth ; and the invariable revolt of the heart, even of the humblest and least tenacious, against it. These feelings, except in the rarest instances, 138 ANGELA. give a something false and unsatisfactory to the relations, which abates considerably from the comfort and pleasure of communication under such circumstances ; and, therefore, without the slightest imputation upon either of my two fa- vourites, I must admit that the idea that Mr. Carteret was as poor as themselves added very much to the pleasure of that day's incident. They had for the last eighteen months led such an utterly secluded life, that to meet a new face was a pleasure in itself; and his was such a face ! So they sat talking over and discussing their new friend, and recapitulating the different events of this exciting morning, with an interest that re- animated them both. *' And then," remarked Margaret, *^ think of the immense value that a few good lessons in drawing may be to you, my Angela ! for, my child and friend — my more than child, my more than friend," said she, taking her hand and pressing it tenderly, — "I am grieved to be for ever clouding that clear brow with my sad anticipations of the future : but it is useless to delay the consideration of that which must and will shortly come. We must not be anxious about an unrevealed to- morrow, but we must prepare ourselves for that which we do see. My dear love, there cannot be a doubt as to my true condition." The eyes of Angela were again filled with that ANGELA. 139 serious and mournful expression which rendered them so interesting. ** No," she said, " Margaret, I forgot myself in the pleasure of the moment ; but I believe I know what is before me." '* Death," said Margaret, '* seems such an awful, dreadful, overwhelming event to those high in health and youth like you, my child, that you feel — I see it — a kind of horror in the contemplation of it, as associated with your poor friend ; your whole nature is darkened over at the idea that your Margaret must actually die. But to me it is so different. Sickness and sorrow bring us to a very altered view of things. The world becomes to the sick — it has already become to me; but I hope it will be many, many years, before you can ever understand the feeling — the world has become a mere empty and unsubstantial vision. As far as I myself am concerned, I could almost pant for the moment of release ; for that moment of blessed emancipation from this suffering body, and this clouded, lan- guid mind ; for the moment which, through the mercy above, opens to us the blessed light of that better world, and reunites us to those we have loved. You know who is gone there before me, my child ; so do not grieve on my account. Nay, nay, no tears, my sweet girl ;" and she wiped off those that fell upon her cheek. 140 ANGELA. *' They are selfish tears," said Angela. " Now when I die," continued Margaret, '* my widow's pension dies with me ; and, except a few hmidred pounds, you and these little children will be left utterly destitute." '' Don't afflict yourself about that, Margaret — your children are my children ; and the Lord who hears the young ravens cry will provide for us. When I shed tears, it is because I must lose you : say what they will, it is a hard, hard matter, to live separated, entirely separated, by this terrible veil of death, from those we love. But I shall bear it as every body bears it; I have a stout young heart, as you well know. And don't let anxiety about our livelihood disturb you ; I feel strong, and of a great courage ; we shall get on very well : it's a difficult world, I dare say, but I shall manage to get along in it." " What do you propose to do, my love ?" " Give lessons, to be sure ; that is the only thing a girl like me can do. I am no great profi- cient in any thing, but there must be thousands who know still less than me. I am sure, in what little I have happened to see of people, I have been only surprised to find how few there were who did any thing very well. Not all Mr. Carteret's teach- ing will ever make me a first-rate artist, I know ; any more than all your pains, dear Margaret, have made me a first-rate musician. But I shall ANGELA. 141 be at the very head of my profession as a nurserj' governess ; and in that line I intend to start." She spoke with a sort of energetic cheerful- ness — she always did so when the conversation turned upon her own future plans and prospects. She was a brave, high-spirited girl ; and the idea of a contest with life, and of the necessity of getting her own living, was animating rather than depressing to her. It was only through her heart and affections that Angela could be wounded ; evils from any other source seemed to her as nothing in com- parison. If Margaret had been in good health, she would have laughed at the ills of poverty ; she would have toiled and sung light of heart ; enjoyed the white bread of life when it was to be had, and been quite merry and contented when there was only the brown. She was young and inexperienced, and she was little aware of all the struggles of poverty in a world such as ours, but she was not altogether mistaken in her self-re- liance ; she had that true spirit of independence and cheerfulness which is the best shield to op- pose against these evils. There was only one form in which poverty at present put on its terrors — the dread of finding it impossible to furnish the means of providing the necessary comforts for her sick friend. The pressing anxieties upon the subject of fur- 142 ANGELA. nishino: bread sufficient for the children had been already relieved. Mrs. Whitwell had received her application for some sewing with great satisfaction ; for she was evidently very much pleased to find this fine young lady, as she thought her, inclined to be useful and industrious. " Yes, to be sure, Miss Nevil," said she; " I can find plenty of sewing for you to do. The linen is just come home from the bleacher's, and has to be made into sheets for the ploughboys and table- cloths for our house-place dinner; there are shirts, too, will soon be wanting for some of the lads. Never fear but I will find work — only maybe your dainty fingers may be above handling such coarse stuff." *' Never mind my dainty fingers," said Angela, but too happy at the prospect of finding employ- ment. '* I am only quite ashamed that I have let them be idle so long." The conversation between the stepmother and daughter thus proceeded : — " I insured my life for a few hundreds," Mar- garet said, "as soon as I got my pension : it has gone hard with us to save enough to pay the pre- mium, you know, but we have managed it till now ; and if we starve, my child, we must con- tinue to do it. I shall die in comparative peace if I have but the conviction that you have at least ANGELA. 143 a few hundreds to begin the world with when I am gone." Such were the prospects, such the best hopes, of these unfortunates ! Carteret had been greatly moved with what he had seen. He had, like most young men of his age, as yet learned little of what composes the actual life of thousands of his fellow-creatures. He had been accustomed from his cradle to every species of comfort and luxury, and had never reflected how much those things might be out of the com- mon course to others. In truth, he had dwelt so little in the actual, and so much in the ideal, that he was apt to pass over with little notice whatever was not forced upon his attention by some strik- ing circumstance or other. He had never been called upon to witness any scene of great and real distress. Of sickness he was ignorant; and ac- tual poverty was but as a myth to him. Strange as it may seem, this was true. He had heard men call themselves very poor at college when they wanted a hundred pounds ; he had also seen poor ragged children in the streets : but he had gone along, as too many do, never realising these last things to his own heart. Now he beheld painful sickness and approach- ing death displayed before his eyes, aggravated 144 ANGELA. by the severe privations of great poverty ; but even yet he little guessed how great was the poverty, how severe the privation, which under these external demonstrations actually existed. As he walked home over the fields, unaccompa- nied by his little favourite, the pale and beautiful face of the dying Margaret, and the equally pale but earnest face of Angela, were incessantly before him ; and as he recalled this last, with generous courage exposing her life for the defence of the children ; and as he pictured to himself the dying sufferer rapidly approaching the grave, appa- rently forgetful of herself, and only intent upon the interests of those she must leave behind her ; as he thought upon the mother and the friend — the true mother and the true friend thus united, and under such circumstances — his heart swelled, and thoughts more grave and serious than had perhaps ever before occupied him began to fill his mind. The difference in his and their fate — their o^reat worth and his comparative extreme un worthiness — the abundance which surrounded him — young, healthy, vigorous, well able to contend with any difficulty, and struggle against Any hardships — contrasted with the privations aaid the wants of that frail and feeble creature, with wasted trans- parent hands, and complexion faded by disease, with faltering voice and failing breath. And when he thought of her lying upon that hard couch, ANGELA. 145 and of his cushions of down, a feeling of shame, almost of remorse, came over him. Luxury he had ever despised ; vanity and os- tentation were strangers to his heart ; but, like other young men of his age, he had carelessly lavished the money that passed through his hands, without asking himself whether he could make the means he possessed of service to others, and with little reflection upon the account he must one day render for the talent intrusted to his keeping. He did not even now consider the subject ex- actly in this light. His thoughts, little trained to this species of general retrospection, travelled not further than the present object; but he did think with something akin to remorse, or rather to disgust I should say, perhaps, upon the comforts that awaited his return. In his present humour, I believe he could have wished himself to have been, in fact, that which he had represented him- self to be — a poor artist, not much better off than themselves. Then vague dreams of benevolence succeeded, like the dreams of those who live, alas ! in thought, and understand' nothing of the persevering la- bour, the painful effort, required from all who would, indeed, do good ; and he thought with pleasure that the day but one after that of this VOL. I. H 146 ANGELA. great adventure of his, he would be allowed to present himself again at the farmhouse. He arrived at home, and again sat down to his elegant and luxurious little meal ; but the viands were distasteful. He could not eat. He felt as if his dinner would have choked him ; so he told the man who waited to take it all away, and began to walk up and down the room, still meditating upon the contrasts which struck upon him so painfully. Assist them he must. But how 1 # # ^ # ^ V5» Vj* # # * # # * # Carteret now standing, as it were, upon the threshold of a new field of action, had the first experience of that which presents itself to all really in earnest upon the subject, namely, the difficulty there often is in doing good. As regards sufferers in their position of life, a difficulty almost insurmountable. Their ideas ANGELA. 147 and feelings render it impossible to offer assist- ance in the ordinary manner ; it must be done in tlie most hidden and delicate way. Such ways are not easy to find out. Ah! how many of these there are who, hidden from every eye, in their obscurity and privation, suffer more than the very pauper who takes re- fuge in the workhouse! for them there is no refuge, and they sink after a series of privations, mental and bodily, not easy to describe. What we usually call the poor man — the man born to labour with his hands, belongs at least to a cordial, hearty, and merry society. His per- ceptions, never over-refined by habits of delicacy and elegance, his nerves unrelaxed by the ef- fects of mental excitement, surrounded by friends and acquaintance — in the society of his fel- lows (a rich consolation this, almost denied to the poor among the more educated classes), life is to him, even at the worst, a source of continual excitement and often of amusement. The simple life of nature is the compensation for his lot, with all its cheerful joys, and free at least from morbid sorrows. The Father of all has not forgotten His labour- ing children, but has afforded them, of His good blessings, their share. But the poor of the class I am now speaking of are deprived of such alleviations. Hard la- 148 ANGELA. bour, which sends the frame accustomed to it to enjoy the elysium of unbroken slumber, though perhaps in a sordid bed, there leaves them op- pressed with toil — faint, fevered with unusual exertion, weary, exhausted, nervous — to seek the hard couch of poverty, when upon a bed of down scarcely would they have found rest. A sense of humiliation, which it requires almost heroic constancy to overcome, robs society of all its pleasant charms ; if, indeed, they do not find themselves actually banished from those circles where once they were admired and honoured. Then the difficulty of getting employment ! Sad, when the day-labourer wants it ! Mournful, pitiable state for him when it occurs ! — though the difficulty is more easily conquered. But, in the case of those more finely nurtured, women, more especially — poor wandering stars ! fallen from their sphere, it often proves nearly in- vincible. I will not enlarge upon this subject : I leave it to the suggestions of your own kind hearts. I will go on to tell you what my young man was thinking and doing. How should he help them ? Money it was impossible to offer — that was totally out of the question. Any thing that would appear like money's- worth — almost equally so. ANGELA. ~ 149 There was a brace of trout brought up for his dinner, and some hothouse strawberries and peaches appeared for his dessert. That was the thing. " Oh!" thought he, " that all these delicacies, reared with so much cost and labour for those in health, could only find their way to the sick! Ah ! blessed were luxury, if such its destination ! " He was most impatient for the hour when he might at least carry such little trifling comforts to his new friends. I do not very well know how he passed the whole of the next day. Wandering about the woods and gardens, I believe, too much pre-occupied, and too listless, to take one of his long walks. He looked up his drawing materials, however, and selected some sketches by those who had taught him, and a book or two upon the subject of art, which he thought might prove useful. His thoughts and his time were entirely filled with one object. He felt no shyness at the idea of presenting such little offerings. The charge he had per- suaded them to undertake of his little dog would 150 ANGELA. furnish him, he thought, with an excuse for bringing a little basket with him. He was in the habit, as you know, of walking about at home with the most slovenly disregard to his dress. Of dress, indeed, he never trou- bled himself to think — he left all that care to his valet ; who, like too many other valets and ser- vants in such circumstances, took advantage of his confidence and want of care, and made a very dishonest fortune out of his master's easiness, much to the injury of his own soul, and to the danger of that of every one who happened to be intimately acquainted with him. But now it was almost laughable to see the hesitation he was in, as to what he should put on, when nothing would have been easier than to choose ; as, in fact, no difference really existed between the costume of a young nobleman and that of an artist ; but he was so afraid of being found out, that he thought he could not go too shabby ; and so afraid of not appearing to ad- vantage, that he could not be too nice. At last he settled this important affair to his satisfaction ; and then he began to pack his little basket, which he would not suffer to be done by any but his own hands. He seemed to have such pleasure in performing any of those little offices which seemed to bring him into the sphere occupied by his two friends ; ANGELA. 151 and, moreover, he took extreme delight in doing any thing for them himself. The eventful morning has arrived, and there he is very busy. He has a basket upon the table of his sitting- room — indifferent as to the spoiling of a rich carpet of striped velvet with which it is covered — and he has a dish of fine trout by the side of his little basket, and a quantity of green damp grass lying about. Another china dish is full of peaches and nectarines ; and a plate of very fine strawberries is there too ; and he is busy arranging all his things, so that one basket shall contain every thing. There is likewise, I forgot to say, an immense bouquet of hothouse flowers before him. A young man, with all these pretty things about him, packing a basket for his mistress, would not have made an ugly picture, I assure you. And he looked so busy and so happy ! — so like a child ! One does so love, sometimes, to see a young- man look like a child! He takes up the beautiful, silvery, crimson- spot- ted fish, and admires them ; and looks round upon the rich fruit and flowers scattered in profusion around him with much satisfaction. He is an artist as well as a lover, and cannot help being delighted with the beauty of this inartificial col- lection of forms and colours. 152 ANGELA. He has, moreover, so much pleasure in asso- ciating the beautiful with Margaret and Angela. Now he lays the trout at the bottom of his basket, and covers them with abundance of his nice cool green grass. Then he places a layer of peaches and nectarines most carefully, every one wrapped in vine leaves. A small basket placed in the centre contains his strawberries — much more precious in his eyes than all the rest. Then he covers the whole over with more leaves, and lays his beautiful bouquet of flowers at the top. He was quite alone while he was doing all this. Now he walks round the table, and looks at his basket. Now he lifts up the flowers and leaves, and takes a peep at the rich blushing fruit ; and gives a touch here, or secures a peach better there. At last he is quite satisfied. He puts on his hat, gives himself a glance in the glass, and arranges his hair a little. Does'nt think he looks very bad ! Then he takes up his basket and walks out through the window. Quite assured, foolish fellow! that he will be observed by no one ; and little aware of all the servant-hall prattle to which his proceedings would give rise. He walks cheerfully away over fields and over stiles : the sun is very hot — but little cares he, ANGELA. 153 for the grass is greener, and the sky more blue, and the khigcups and clover more dazzling and more sweet than ever he saw them before. All Nature is in her holiday dress that day for him. H 2 154 ANGELA. CHAPTER X. Mine be a cot beside a hill, A bee-hive's hum shall soothe mine ear, A willowy brook that turns a mill, With many a fall, shall linger near. Rogers. He looked in at the garden gate. Nero happened not to be upon guard at the moment, so he opened it, and, letting himself in, walked up the middle walk, turned the corner of the house, entered the orchard, and there he found them as before. Only that Angela was not reading, but was engaged in needlework, and Margaret had a book open, which, upon his approach, she laid down, and, looking up, saluted him cheerfully; while Angela rose, looked a little shy, coloured, but accepted his offered hand. He was looking charmingly, it must be con- fessed ; his walk over the hills, — his satisfaction in the employment of the morning, — his hope of ANGELA. 155 giving pleasure by his little present, had animated him. What was at times wanting to make his appearance perfectly agreeable was now there in perfection. He had lost that listless air, that almost slouching gait, which expressed too much indo- lence and indifference to things in general ; and the courtly softness of his demeanour, and polite- ness of his manners, were still more observable now than they had been before. "How are you to-day?" said he, approaching Margaret and Angela. *' Thank you very much for your inquiries, much the same to-day," said she. She spoke very languidly. He thought she looked paler than before. " And you, — you have suffered no ill conse- quence from the fright of last Thursday, I hope?" " None in the least, thank you," offering her chair, and taking her place at Margaret's feet upon the sofa. He thought Angela looked more grave and sad than she had done the last time. He took her chair thus offered, and, sitting down by her, put his basket upon the table. '' Your little dog is doing nicely," began Angela, lifting up a shawl, and displaying the little creature nestling by Margaret's side ; who, upon this, raised his head, and saluted his master with a whine of joy. The poor little creature 156 ANGELA. would have sprung up to receive him, but Mar- garet laid her thin, fair hand upon him; he obeyed the gentle pressure, and was quiet. "Poor little Rover! poor little fellow!" and so on. A few first minute's attention, in such circum- stances, every young man will, and would, give to his dog. Let no young woman be jealous of that. He soon sat down again, and began : — " The weather is so hot, that I have taken the liberty of bringing you a little fruit, which I have procured," addressing Margaret ; "and for you. Miss Angela, a few flowers." " Fruit ! " exclaimed the wasted and thirsty invalid, her eyes almost sparkling with a feverish pleasure. " Fruit !" cried Angela, her countenance beam- ing with gratitude and delight. "Fruit! and at this time of the year ! Oh! thank you, thank you, a thousand, thousand times." " There are a few strawberries, and two or three peaches," said he, beginning to open his basket, and putting the nosegay upon Angela's lap, who bent her head over it, and hid her face a moment among the flowers. I believe she kissed them. He took out the little basket of strawberries, and handed them to Margaret. I believe he never in his life afterwards forgot ANGELA. 157 that moment ; the look of pleasure with which she applied them to her parched lips, — the ex- quisite gratification which this little treat — this little alleviation of her sufferings — seemed to afford her. It was a lesson to him which he remembered ; and from henceforward he knew better how to dispense his superfluities. " If we had a plate," said he, replacing the little strawberry-basket upon the table when she was satisfied, " I would take out the peaches ; there are a brace of trout below the leaves. I thought, perhaps, you might be able to fancy them ; they are quite fresh, and are, I believe, reckoned particularly well flavoured in that stream of my father's, . . . — He had quite forgotten himself; but they were so absorbed, partly in pleasure at the receipt of these most acceptable gifts, and partly by that confusion which makes delicate minds awkward and embarrassed at receiving presents from those upon whom tliey have no claim, that they did not observe his blunder. — . . . In this county," correcting himself, " that I venture upon bringing them." " You are too good," said Margaret. " You are very good," said Angela. She was, indeed, deeply grateful. She fetched a plate ; and as the beautiful 158 ANGELA. peaches, with their blushing, crimson cheeks, were piled upon it, one after the other, — had any one bestowed the mines of Peru upon her, she could hardly have felt more joy. Such a relief! That very morning she had been so sadly medi- tating again upon the impossibility of providing any thing which could gratify the diseased appetite of her poor friend, who was evidently suffering extremely from the exhaustion produced by want of nourishment, and yet could, as the phrase is, fancy nothing. And to see this treasure, as it appeared to her, of delicious fruit ! *'How good! how very good you are! Dear Margaret, will you have one of these peaches?" *' By and by, my dear," sinking back. ** No more now, thank you ; " and she closed her eyes. ^' I think she will sleep for a few minutes," whispered Angela. *' Shall we carry these things, then, into the house ?" said he, in the same tone. Delighted with the little confidence expressed by a whisper, and by that we, so pleasing to the ear of lovers. They carried the basket and the fruit into the house. And never did good old Izaac look with such delight upon a brace of fine trout of his own ANGELA, 159 catching, as did the young girl upon these beau- tiful fish, as he produced them. She did not thank him any more, but she looked at him with such grateful, affectionate eyes, that he could hardly forbear stooping down and kissing the hand which rested upon the basket. '' We will have them dressed for her dinner at one o'clock, when we always dine ; and I hope you will do us the pleasure to stay and taste them." She was quite delighted to be able to invite him, and to exercise a little hospitality. She never dreamed of the impropriety of asking him herself, as some young ladies might have done ; but she was the most artless, straightforward creature in the world. " Nothing I could possibly like so much," said he; '^ thank you, it will come in charmingly after our drawing lesson ; for you know," he added, with a smile, which she thought excessively at- tractive, " that I am to give you a few hints in that way, such as I can ; and I have brought some pencils and paper in my pocket, and a few little things which I thought might be of use," pulling a pretty considerable roll of paper and other matters out of his pocket. " If we put this table by the window, you can work and watch your friend at the same time. I see she seems still asleep." 160 ANGELA. *' Perhaps you will be so very kind as just to stand and watcli her, while I run to Nurse and give her the fish. Sometimes she wakes with such a violent cough, that she requires immediate assistance. We never leave her alone. Please ring the bell, if she wakes before I come back." And away she went, light and almost as gay as a bird. He liked her sad — he liked her heroic — he liked her in this sweet, easy, and every-day hu- mour, as he thought, better than any way. There is something certainly very engaging in life reduced to this perfectly simple form, without parade or ceremony ; but then it must be so con- trived — as it assuredly may — as to partake of the ideal. Then the shady garden, the great trees, the old house, the simple elegance of their appear- ance and manners, united to render the enchant- ment complete. I assure those who think the charm of sim- plicity consists in the absence of a certain ele- gance, refinement, and politeness, that they will find themselves very greatly mistaken; and when they have substituted mere indifference and ne- glect for attention and exertion about such little matters, will, perhaps, discover that their idea of life is both mistaken and disagreeable. People are sometimes very proud of this sort ANGELA. 161 of negligent indolence, and seem to think it very fine, and that contempt for such things argues considerable greatness of mind. I beg to assure them it is a sort of greatness of mind which nothing but great circumstances and great cha- racters can render at all valuable, and that little people, encompassed with little things, do not do at all amiss to study neatness and the graces. Little households are thus rendered amiable, and hours are passed in delightful harmony, which slo- venliness and indolence render almost intolerable. In conclusion, my dear female friends, I beg of you not to think yourselves clever women, far less good Christian women, because you are awkward, slatternly, and untidy. These little remarks by the way, the Old Man, you know, insists upon having tolerated. There is a great improvement in these things ; but a little attention may be wanted still ; and what's the use of writing novels for you, if your little faults are not to be observed upon in them? You see how it was in this case. Who knows but the fair Angela may get a lord for her hus- band, merely because she exerted herself, and took a pleasure in producing as much comfort, and beauty, and delicacy, and good order, as possible, with her narrow means ? I do not say that such success did reward her good behaviour ; but I affirm she would not have 162 ANGELA. had the slightest chance in the world if she had been of a different temper. And it's no use at all railing at young men; they will like nice, handy, clever, neatly dressed young women, who know how to appear pleasing in every situation. You may be sure our friend, as he stood at the window, looking at the swallows as they grace- fully sailed before him in their airy chase, or followed with his eye a gaudy peacock butterfly, fluttering from peony to narcissus, and from narcissus to the gillyflowers, with which the little border beneath his feet was filled, made none of the homely reflections I have been making ; but he felt the charm of these domestic virtues, though far too ignorant of the ways of men to be in the least aware of the numberless good qua- lities that must be called into action to produce the air of peace and grawous order which he saw around him. .r If he had thouglit at all upon the subject, he would have imagined, I believe, that all this was according to the common ^very-day course of things ; and I heartily wish it were. He was in a pleasant reverie. The form of Angela fleeted before him, as did the scene before his eyes, though in the vision things were a good deal altered. He saw that which certainly was not actually present. ANGELA. 163 They could not be called plans — they were not in the least like plans. Dreams — most like — idle dreams all. Now she comes into the room again, looking very animated and happy. She had arranged her little dinner* There was to be fish and potatoes. Mrs. Whit- well had given her a small cream-cheese, as she was to have company ; and there was bread and butter, and some eggs and bacon. It was the first little feast she had seen upon her table for a very long time; and, having arranged it all with much alacrity, she now came in, with a neat white apron on, and her cuffs over her sleeves, to take her drawing-lesson. Having first assured herself that Margaret still slept, they were soon busy together, placing the table in a proper light; then he unrolled his paper, and produced hisacopies and his studies, placed his little portable box of water-colours by his side, and they were soon at work. Oh, charm of domestic art! — Muse of the modern world! — more lovely than any sister of the nine before the precious domestic life was known ! Gentle, modest, benign Genius ! — with eyes in which the sacred fire shines with a holy tempered lustre — subdued in sweet humility, to take the second part — to follow in the steps of the majestic 164 ANGELA. Duty — to wait in gentle humility till all her tasks are performed, and then to carefully collect the scraps and crumbs of Time, and transform them into fairest flowers to deck her path. Oh, charm of domestic art! — what hours and hours once spent in tiresome conflict with or amid all the horrors of that fiend ennui — or worse, far worse, amid the excitements of vicious pleasure — have, under thy sweet influence, become indus- trious, innocent, and happy ! What sweet com- munion has passed with pencil in hand, or over the ivory keys ! What refinement, what harmony, what cheerfulness, have been thy gift ! Ever sweet goddess, keep thy place, ever fol- low in hasty attendance upon the footsteps of thy sister Duty; and so may the blessing of God and man descend upon thy innocent head, and hallow thy pleasant labours ! No, it is not possible to be happier than they two were. Absorbed in the employment which interested them both so much, and with that soft, mystical influence of dawning love surrounding them, which sweetens every circumstance. They were together, sitting side by side, work- ing away : he, teaching her so judiciously ; she, astonishing him by her facility — a facility, it must be confessed, which surpassed by many degrees what she had ever shewn before. ANGELA. 165 It is SO clieering for the man to guide and in- struct the woman — so delightful for the woman to be guided and instructed by the man. " Now, I think it would be better if I were to begin from the first steps, and shew you the manner in which my master used to carry on his operations ; and then you will be initiated into the true mysteries of the art, and after that we shall get along excellently well, you will see," he had said. And she was now standing over him, with one hand upon the back of his chair, watching, as castle and tree, and distant woods and groves, and mountains, lake, or waterfall, grew up be- neath his creative pencil, and were displayed under the glow of a bright setting sun. It really was a beautiful little picture that he produced in an incredibly short space of time ; and when he had done, he threw down his pencil and said, — "Now copy it, if you think it good enough. Sit down, and begin and try." So she sat down ; and it was then his turn to stand over her, his hand upon the back of her chair, and to lean down and direct her en- deavours. He was quite rew^arded when she turned up her face to ask him a question, and her pleasant 166 ANGELA. eyes were fixed with such artless confidence upon his. And all this time Margaret was asleep? No such thing. But she could from her couch see what was going on at the window. It was very plain that Angela had quite forgotten her. Did she think it very unkind and thoughtless of Angela ? She would not have heen recalled to her re- collection — she would not have interrupted her — for any consideration. Nurse, however, was less scrupulous. She came in to say that dinner was ready ; and where was it to he set, *' with all them things upon the tahle ?" "Oh, we must have the dinner in the garden, to be sure I" " And who's to carry the big table there, pray ? for Biddy can't help you, I can tell you. Those children keep up such a fashions noise to-day, I can't think what in the world's the matter with 'em ; and as for Tommy, he 's got to the tea-kettle, and been playing at cleaning it, and he 's as black as a tinker. I never saw such plagues of children in all my days ! But where will you have the table, I say ?" " In the garden, to be sure. Margaret! — oh, she 's awake ! " ANGELA. 167 "Margaret!" running to her, '*your dinner is ready. Will you not like to have it there under the walnut-tree ? I have asked Mr. Carteret — I could not help it — I could hardly help it, you know" — in a whisper — "and he accepted im- mediately ; but it has made Nurse dreadfully cross." " Why, my dear, Nurse is rather put out, as we cannot have things decently tidy, as she thinks ; but I quite agree with you in thinking it right to ask him, and I should like to dine with you very much, if it would not be too much trouble : let us have dinner set as usual, upon my little table." "Oh, you have no conception what a grand entertainment it is to be ! We must have the big table ; but I shall make our young gentle- man help to carry it, I can tell you." *' Margaret would like to dine with us, she says ; so we will set the table close by her couch. We all wait upon ourselves here, you must know. I have no good godmother to turn pump- kins into footmen for me. I am sure you will be so good as to help me to carry the t^ble." He was ready enough to be so good, you may be sure. And he soon found himself as busy as she was, laying the cloth, and arranging the plates, knives, and forks. 168 ANGELA. There is some other being, besides old fairy godmothers, who can transform things, and pro- duce footmen, as occasion requires, it would seem. Nurse soon appeared with her dish of fish, done to a nicety, her potatoes, and other deli- cacies, and the three began to eat. It would be difficult to say which of them both helped Margaret with the tenderer attention ; when she was satisfied, another plate was hastily filled, and away with it flew Angela. " There, my little darlings ! " as she entered the large, somewhat gloomy old room, which was nursery, and play-room, and school-room, in one — "there is company here to-day, and gentlemen don't like to eat with little children, you know, so you must dine up here ; but I haven't forgotten you. Nice hot potatoes and fish ! Here, Tommy, fetch your cup and plate : make yourself useful, my man ; set another, for Lucy. Oh, thou dirty little Tom ! is that a face to come to dinner with ? There, Lucy, sit down by your brother — there is some fish — wait till I have picked out all the bones. Baby! — yes, baby shall have some ! Don't cry, baby ! Come to its own Angela ! " She was really very good-natured, for she was so longing to fly back again. She felt as if the moments were so inestimable that dav, and ANGELA. 169 there seemed a sort of invincible attraction to the place where he sat. Certainly I must own that she did hurry through her duties as fast as she could ; then she kissed the children round, told them she would bring them some cream-cheese when it came, and away she flew again. " My bird ! — my love !" said Margaret fondly, as she returned, " you will be quite out of breath. Yes — yes, you have been feeding my little ones, poor things!" She did not say, but she thought, Angela looked more like an angel at that moment than a human being, with her radiant face, her flowing hair, and her light and animated figure. ** Now, my love, sit down ; Mr. Carteret would not eat till you came." *' I am so sorry to have kept you waiting." And again they were side by side. He thought he had never tasted any thing so exquisite in his life as the fare that day. To be sure he was very hungry, for he had eaten little since they had parted the day but one before. '' We have no Avine, I am sorry to say," said Angela, as she helped him to a glass of water; *' but if you like beer, I am sure Mrs. Whitwell will give you some." "Oh, no! I want nothing in the world but what I have." VOL. 1. I 170 ANGELA. And this was perfectly true. He took note of every thing. This little feast, as it evidentlywas — the sort of bustle which so small a matter seemed to occa- sion — gave him a better insight than he had before into the narrow circumstances in which his friends were placed. To help these sufferers under sickness and poverty he felt to be a duty as imperious as it was delightful. But then, again, how to set about it? Once in a way these things might be done; but could he often repeat his presents? As he walked home he kept pondering upon what he would do. At last he came to his resolution. He would confess his difficulties to Angela with frankness, which he felt would not be by her misunderstood. ANGELA. 171 CHAPTER XL The breathing wind, AVhich through the trembling leaves full gently playes. Spenser. The two friends sat looking at each other as Carteret, having taken leave, disappeared be- hind the trees. They V7ere silent some time. Margaret spoke first. *' It would please you, my sweetest Angela, if you could know how much better I feel for this little treat. It is so long since I have tasted any thing I really enjoyed ; and now, if I had but half a glass of wine I should so like it." "Then you shall have it, be sure, my dear Margaret. But if it should do you harm? — in such complaints as yours I fear " ** Fear nothing, my love. In such complaints as mine, had I all the first physicians in the 172 ANGELA. world, I know what their sentence must be — I must die. We have no physician — we could not afford the expense of one so far as it would be for him to come ; and the little village doctor is worse than useless, we have agreed. I must therefore follow Nature, and Nature at this moment begs and prays for a little wine. Get me some, dear Angela, for pity's sake." The poor invalid said this with that asking- eye of hungry desire, that irresistible urgency, with which the sick in some cases entreat indulgence for a craving. " I feel that it would almost call me back to life," she said. " You shall have it, Margaret. I can and will get you some." She left the garden, and hastened to Nurse. *' Nurse, your mistress longs for a glass of wine, and we must get it for her. Will you go yourself down to the little public-house and buy us a bottle? I have money enough — five shil- lings — I believe that will be enough." " It is almost my last," thought she, as she nearly emptied her little purse; "but I will sit up half the night to finish the work I have got to do, and then the little widow's cruise will be replenished once more." "Wine!" said Nurse, crossly; ** I never heard of such nonsense in my life! Wine in a ANGELA. 173 consumption ! who ever on earth heard of such a thing?" " I am sure I don't know ; but Margaret is longing for it, and she must have it." "But she mustn't, I tell you! Law, if I haven't seen hundreds and hundreds die of con- sumptions, and never saw a glass of wine allowed to any one of them in all my life ! It seems as if you thought one had no experience, Miss Angela, to go on as you do : talking of giving wine, and in a consumption ! But if you want it you may get it yourself — I'll never lend my hand to such a thing!" " Nay, Nurse, but you know how disagreeable it would be to me to go to a public-house and ask for a bottle of wine, and Biddy is out with the children, and Margaret wants it now — she asked for it with such longing eyes. Do dear, good Nurse, for this once! Pray, pray don't be obstinate, — pray don't ! " "Obstinate! and pray! pray! No I won't, I tell you ! Haven't I seen it over and over again ? — longing eyes for sure! Ay, ay, many and many have I seen with longing, begging, be- seeching eyes, praying for that which was pison for them, or worse ; but I never saw a doctor in my life, who was worth any thing, that would yield to such nonsense. As if that was likely to do good, just what their sick fancies are a wandering after ! " 174 ANGELA. *' But, Nurse, I have often heard Margaret say that yours is the old-fashioned way of con- sidering these things ; and I have heard her say there was great cruelty in the old plan, and that the good sense and humanity of modern days had exploded it. And I am sure, while my dear papa was so ill, and she nursing him so tenderly, she never would deny him any thing he very much wished for." "And he died, didn't he?" said the ill- tempered old woman. " Yes, I know your step- mother would have her own way in these things — she's just as obstinate and conceited in her way as you are, Miss Angela. Much she heeded any thing I could say ; and see how it was. I told her what might come of her a-hanging, and a-hanging over him, and would do every thing for him herself; but she didn't mind me then, and see what is come of it. But you shall mind me now, for I wouldn't get a drop of wine for all the world — so you must do without it." Angela's path in life was beset with many thorns, and cumbered with many obstructions. It was like the usual average of human con- ditions in this respect, and had its own great and peculiar difficulties besides. Her youth and inexperience was a great one, — her spirits were uncertain, her temper warm, her feelings susceptible, her confidence in herself ANGELA. 175 unequal, now amounting to daring, now sinking below timidity. To master herself — to discipline her own heart and temper in preparation for the tasks her generous heart undertook, was one great difficulty. Another, was the having to deal with the unmanageable and unreasonable temper of the old woman, who played so conspicuous a part in the little household. But then, be it remarked, upon the other hand, what support she received from the gentle- ness and consideration for others, and the strong- sense of Margaret, and how much her task was lightened by the heroic self-government and ex- emplary patience of her invalid. Heroic self-government, I call it. Those who are blessed with health can never know, till they in their turn are called upon to suffer, what heroic strength of spirit lies hidden under the mask of silent, uncomplaining suffering — how strong the temptations are to be unreasonable, pettish, or repining — how difficult it is to be grateful, and still more to be amiable, when the irritation of every nerve renders the most skil- ful attendance irksome, and the dearest presence importunate — when the diseased frame loathes the sunshine of a smile, and dreads the tear and the cloud — where all is pain, and weariness, and bitterness. Oh! let the healthy lay these things ever to 176 ANGELA. heart, and, while they scrupulously perform their duty, and while they reverence, and almost adore, the fortitude and patience of the gentle and re- signed, let them have pity upon many a poor and querulous sufferer ; upon their side let the sick not forget that the reverence, adoration, and love thus excited, are as the elixir of life to their often wearied and overtaxed nurses ; quickening them to exertion by the sweetest of influences, in- stead of exhausting them with the struggle to per- form an ungrateful duty. To return from this long digression, for the patient Margaret is lying there longing for the wine. And Angela's temper is getting provoked. But she masters it. She knew well it was vain to remonstrate with Nurse — she would lose no time in attempt- ing it. Two plans presented themselves : should she go at once to the public-house and buy a bottle of wine, or should she venture to ask Mrs. Whitwell to give her some ? Both were almost equally disagreeable : Mrs. Whitwell was a person she always disliked to confront, but it was the readiest way ; she should get the wine sooner, and it was but one glass that she wanted. She decided upon this proceeding. ANGELA. 177 *' Very well, Nurse," she said ; " I know it is in vain to argue the matter with you." And she turned and went away. She passed hastily through the long passages which led to the other end of the house, her heart beating with that hurried, disagreeable feeling which unnerves so many women, or rather which the being unnerved occasions ; but she had the true courage which should adorn her sex — she defied her own weak and failing nerves —she could and w^ould do what was most dis- agreeable wherever love or duty required it. To do what is disagreeable is almost the highest courage that we are called upon to exercise in the course of this easy Sybarite life of ours; She opened the door which led into the house- place, and there stood Mrs. Whitwell, directing, or rather scolding, her maids ; cheese making, and in addition bread making and pork pick- ling, were going on. This was a most inauspicious moment. " ]Mrs. Whitwell, might I speak to you for an instant ?" "Oh, it's you. Miss Angela, is it? Yes, yes, stop a minute ; I'll speak to you by and by." " It's only one minute, Mrs. Whitwell ; I have a great favour to beg of you." "Favour! oh, ay, we're coming to that at last," thought Mrs. Whitwell. " I supposed we i2 178 ANriT:-'-^ should not go on so swimmingly long, — paying our rent to a day. Beg a delay! — well, well, I wish " And, grumbling to herself, she took off her working apron and motioned Angela into her parlour. *' I suppose I know well enough what you come to ask," said she, in no very amiable tone of voice ; " and it can't be helped. To be sure, if you can't pay it, you can't ; but it's really too bad to let one's house-- " " If you mean the rent, Mrs. Whitwell, it will be ready for you to-morrow. No, no, I only come to beg, as a matter of charity, one glass of wine for my mother ; for we do not possess such a thing, and she wishes so much for it." "Wine!" said Mrs. Whitwell, going to her corner-cupboard ; " that seems an odd thing to be wishing for : but if that's what you want, here's a glass and welcome. White or red, miss ?" " White ; if you please, — I am so very much red to you." '* Oh, say no more about it; for once in a way you are quite welcome." For once in a way I The tone and manner made it quite intelligible :/or once^ but beware of trying a second time. She was happy with what she had got, how- ever ; and again repeating her thanks, she flew to administer the cordial to her friend. With ANGELA. 179 miicli caution, mixed with a little hot water and sugar, it was given ; and Margaret thanked her, and said, " This has done me good !" And so it had : she looked revived and strengthened. " I think," she said, '' I could walk a little, Angela ; " and, resting on her arm, she took two or three turns upon the grass. The sun glistened through the leaves of the trees — a light breeze whispered among the branches — busy insects hummed beneath — and birds flitted by from time to time. It was very peaceful. The two walked in silence. Margaret would have found the exertion of speaking while she moved about too much for her, and Angela was pondering upon new anxieties. She was better — Margaret was certainly better. A little delicate food, and a glass of that wine which thousands and thousands were at that moment lavishing in the most careless, not to say vicious manner, had relieved that dreadful sens- ation of sinking and faintness from which she had lately suffered so much. In spite of all Nurse could say,— in spite of all the dire prog- nostics which wait upon that fatal name con- sumption, Angela felt persuaded that, could she but find the means to persevere in this system, the precious life of Margaret might yet be saved 180 ANGELA. — prolonged, at least ; and even to prolong it, under the frightful circumstances of her children, was a blessing unspeakable, and to herself every thing. But how, alas ! were these things to be ob- tained ? Where should she find the means to purchase these little luxuries, who could hardly, with all her exertions, provide bread ? Her new friend ! Her only friend ! It was plain she had no other in the world. Mrs.Whitwell wanted even common tenderness; it would be vain, she knew well, to apply to her again. Her new fiiend — this young artist — would he help her ? Could she, in return for the pic- tures she might in future paint — could she ask him to assist her? What a thing to do! — and he so young a man, too ! — impossible ! And yet to let her Margaret perish — die of want — for to perish of want it seemed — her heart was torn at the thought, and bitter, bitter tears — heart-tears — were shed — though the eye looked dry and calm. Would he, perhaps, in his good-nature, bring another little supply the next day he came? — Probably he might. With this hope she strove to content herself for the present; but with what impatience she ANGELA. 181 waited for the morning! And, after all, would he come, or would he not come ? Poor Angela! she might have spared herself that anxiety, at least — he was certain to come. She saw him enter the orchard. Had he a basket ? — oh, yes, that he had ! She was too young and simple to disguise her feelings — her eyes sparkled with delight; he thought the stars of heaven in their brightness less beautiful. Margaret was not yet come down, so Angela was alone when he came in ; he was very much earlier this morning than he had been the day before. He sat down by the table, set his basket upon it, and began to stammer out, — " That — that as the trout of yesterday had seemed to give her friend an appetite, he had ventured to try something else — a couple of spring chickens — a few heads of asparagus — a little more fruit. Would she think it was taking too great a liberty? — He had kind friends who supplied him plentifully with little matters of this sort — he did not want them — did not know what to do with them — they were quite wasted upon him ; and — and " 182 ANGELA. He need not have blundered on so long. She stood looking at him with her clear, truth- ful eyes, and said, — "Oh, you cannot guess how very, very ac- ceptable such kindness is to me!" "Is it?" he said; "then let me speak out — I long to speak out to you. Something in you tells me that all those idle difficulties with which people hamper and embarrass themselves through life are quite needless with one of so simple and noble a disposition as yours. Why should I pretend not to see what you know I must see ? And why should I not at once say what I want to say ? Tell me what you want for her, and let me get it for you. What I have of my own you will accept as frankly as I, with extreme plea- sure, offer it; what I have not, you will let me procure for you. Nay, nay," he added, to spare her feelings of pride and delicacy, '^let there be no difficulty made ; I will keep an exact account against you, and you shall pay me when you have sold some pictures — or — or " with a sweet, half conscious smile, "any thing else puts it into your power." Her life — Margaret's life — was in question. Angela had cast her eyes down at first, but as he went on she raised them up and looked at him with a confidence which was really and in- deed beautiful. ANGELA. 183 ** I accept your offer, Mr. Carteret/' she said ; *' the life — the precious life — of a mother to three young children may be saved. Nurse says I am mistaken — I may be, but I do not think I am. I believe that nourishment such as you offer to provide might save her yet. And oh ! Mr. Car- teret, conceive the horrid, horrid thought " her eyes filling fast with tears — '' to feel this, and think it imjiossible to get what I wanted ! To see a friend — the best and noblest creature upon earth — fading away for want of a few comforts which every body in the world but herself seems to enjoy ! It was too, too dreadful ! " ''Too dreadful, indeed!" said he, with much pity. '* And are there many," thought he to him- self, ''in such a situation? — many widows and children of brave officers thus stranded, thus abandoned by their country to suffering and privations like these V He might have added, " And of poor clergy- men, too.'' But the cant — shall I call it the wicked cant? — of the present day, might have answered there, — "But what right have clergymen to have wives and children?" And the cant, the wicked cant, of the present day, might perhaps, too, have answered as unfeel- ingly with respect to those who follow the once honoured profession of arms. 184 ANGELA, He had opened his basket as before, and, as before, the flowers, the fresh fruit, and other things, were spread upon plates upon the table. Angela looked, in hopes that a bottle of wine might possibly appear with the rest. She looked in vain — there was no wine. Then she took courage, and, coming a little nearer to him, said, colouring high, — oh, what an effort it cost her to say it ! — " Yesterday, Margaret asked for wine, and I had none to give her." " How stupid of me not to think of that!'* said he. " Does she want wine?" taking his hat, and rising; ^' I will get her some directly." ** I thought to ask you to do me that favour," taking out her little purse, and handing it to him. " I believe wine is to be bought at the Rose and Crown, the little inn in the village; but Nurse would not fetch it for me, and I was so foolish, I did so dislike to go myself." " Oh, don't think of it ; the wine at such places is wretched poisonous stuff. Let me get you some good. Such wine as that would do her more harm than good ; in an hour and a-half, or SO; I will be back again, and she shall have some ANGELA. 185 very good wine. What sort will she like best? Rhine wine, burgundy, champagne, claret wines, madeira, sherry, — which ?" He seemed to possess Fortunatus's wishing-cap. But her curiosity was less awakened by this dazzling list of wines than it would have been if she had been a little less ignorant upon the subject. '* Oh, I only know the names of sherry, ma- deira, marsalla, and port; any white wine will do. Marsalla is what we used to have; I sup- pose that is the right thing. Here," again offer- ing her purse, " I would rather pay for it. if you please, at once." He took the little purse, put his fingers in, drew out half-a-crown, — " This will be enough," said he. And off he went. 186 ANGELA. CHAPTER XII. To love thee is to be tender, happy, pure. 'Tis from low passions to escape. And woo bright Virtue's fairest shape. Thomson. How soon people, in such circumstances, become acquainted ! There was nothing to prevent these two young hearts running together. He was so enthusiastic and romantic, and she so simple, and so filled with that charity which thinketh no evil ; and there was no jarring feeling upon either side to prevent it. They sat day after day at their drawing side by side ; together they carried out the table and arranged the midday-meal under the shade of the walnut-trees ; together they tended the invalid ; together they played with the children. He had been one who disliked children before, but he learned to love these. His visits were daily. At first they lasted only ANGELA. 187 a few hours ; these hours became more and more numerous : at last he did not go away till the evening'. Margaret watched what was going on with at- tention. At first her pride had been a little alarmed at the idea of Angela, the daughter of a brave officer, forming an alliance with a young unknown artist ; but when she had observed him well, and marked the gentleness and delicacy of his feelings, the refinement of his manners, and the excellence of his education, as displayed by his conversation, — his mind so full of ideas and so highly cultivated, and his principles of recti- tude so upright and so strong, — as all these good qualities, in the course of their daily intimacy, were unfolded with a simplicity not to be mis- taken, — she began to take herself seriously to task for these scruples of her pride, and to ask herself for what reason on earth she should desire to prevent Angela finding her happiness in the sta- tion which, as the wife of a young artist, she must occupy. One sigh to the memory of the father, once so proud and glorying in his beautiful child, and then she dismissed such thoughts as out of place, and wrong, teaching herself to re- gard with complacency a prospect which long- prejudice could not but lead her to consider as a species of degradation. 188 ANGELA. The cultivation of art is certainly regarded in this island (I cannot at all think why), with much less respect than it meets with among our neigh- bours on the other side of the water. As for Angela, the case was soon a clear one. It was not possible that she should see so much of so very engaging a man — enter into such fa- miliar intercourse — share with him in the details of domestic life, — find in him help, strength, sym- pathy, guidance — every thing the heart of woman most desires, and not repay it by the gift of the purest and truest affection that ever girl on earth had to offer. She asked herself no questions ; her imagina- tion dwelt not upon love and lovers : she was far too deeply engaged in the cares and anxieties of her daily life for such things. But she had found in him a brother and a friend, and as such she loved him fervently. She only wished it might be ever in her power to repay by kindness to him all the kindness he lavished upon her. She could only shew her gratitude by the care of his little dog ; that was all she could do. The little dog fared pretty well, you may be sure. He, on his side, had scarcely formed what can be called a plan. I believe men very often continue in this state till the necessity of sepa- ANGELA. 189 rating-, or coming to a final resolution, awakens them from their love-dream, and forces them into a decision. His imagination dwelt in that paradise — yclept of fools — in which we reconcile all contradiction of circumstances, and make every thing accord to our wishes. He would have liked to have made her his, and continued this life for ever; but he knew it was impossible it could last long ; and yet, to take Angela from her solitude, to detach her from that romantic life which, like the background of some fine picture, lent such charms to the principal figure, was what he could not endure the thoughts of. How did he know but that, once introduced into the great world, Angela might become much as other young ladies, as lovely as herself, every day become, — that the noble freshness, the sweet wildness of spirit, the innocence of her heart, and the warmth of her affections — all the qualities which he so dearly prized — would not be gradu- ally deadened and destroyed ? Besides, it was not herself alone that so de- lighted him ; it was this simple form of existence which suited his fancy so well : it was in har- mony with all his faults and with all his good qualities, — the simplicity of his taste as with the indolence of his temper, — his indifference to arti- 190 ANGELA. ficial show as well as his negligent contempt of human society, — his generous and affectionate disposition as well as his aversion to business or scenes of real misery, — his humanity and his fas- tidiousness, at once. He had no scruple about making himself a place in Angela's affections, should that be the result of all these drawing lessons, these walks and talks together. In that case he would think himself bound in honour to marry her, and there was nothing he would have liked better than to feel so bound : it would make an end of all hesi- tations at once. Such is man ! so does he play with his duties and his principles ; thus does he love to be cheated into a situation which he wants courage to choose himself. They used to walk in the fine summer evenings, vrhich were now come on, under the trees of the orchard ; for they never left the garden together — he would not ask that : while Margaret, gaining strength every day, would sit observing them. She would smile at herself for the astonishment with which the endless talk of these two would fill her, — these two, whom she looked upon as all but declared lovers ; and then, with a sigh, re- collect the endless nothings which from her own lost lover's lips had possessed such power to charm. ANGELA. 191 And then she would look with new pleasure upon this world to which she seemed about to be restored, as her heart expanded with the delight of seeing that dear and generous girl so happy. Happy in that best and most blessed of lives, where useful daily occupation is combined with all the sweetest ideal of passion. Ay, passion ! it was become passion at last. Sweet Angela ! your heart, so warm and true, has not been able to resist the insidious ap- proaches of that passion which in hearts so warm and true makes its abode. That hand which passed through his arm is now held fast in his ! How softly it trembles as he talks and talks, in that low and earnest voice of his, of things to which her spirit responds so deeply, — as he speaks of life, and feeling, and nature, and of the soul, and of God ! Not perhaps in those awe-struck terms, not with those clear perceptions, by which the Christ- ian enters in the inner temple of the heart, viewing the great Reality ; but with those lovely, vague dreams of divinity — those idealisms, if I may say so, of the excellent and the good, so captivating to the young and unchastened mind, which has yet to learn how necessary it is, in the hard strife of life, to have the heart anchored firm in faith against the Rock of Ages. They would sit at Margaret's feet, side by side, 192 ANGELA. reading out of the same book ; turning the page, looking up at each other as any passage struck them as peculiarly beautiful. They became as one soul. They loved as lovers should, as lovers used to do. Alas, poor Old Man ! that day is with you far, far away, melting into the faint, lovely blue of distance — all indistinct, but still most heavenl}^ fair. I leave the task to others — to the sweet Bremer — to paint the heart's first passion. The sterner tasks are mine. The lesson was finished. He had taken very great pains to make his ideas clearly understood, and to assist her in en- deavouring to work according to them. He would have deserved a large sum as a master, and such a master is probably not to be purchased for gold. U amour peintre. He did not, like the artist of Antwerp, become ANGELA. 193 a painter for love ; but he certainly became an excellent teacher of painting. And the same influence seemed to inspire his pupil. Her improvement under his instructions had been really astonishing. He had brought, as I have told you, pencils and colours, and had begun to initiate her into the secrets of the bewitching art of water-colour drawing, and lier progress had equally pleased and astonished Margaret. As for him, he did not care much about the progress. I suppose, since the world began, never did one fall in love with another for their excellence in water-colour draw- ing ; but he cared excessively for the lesson ; he took a delight in it which is not to be described, He had never been engaged in so interesting an occupation since he was born. The whole scene was one of enchantment to him. The perfect quiet around, the beauty of the garden and trees, the gentle invalid reposing under their shade, — the little children running in just now and then, merely, as it were, to make a variety, never bothering or tormenting him, for they were delicate and gentle little creatures. He, sitting by Angela, instructing her, guiding her pencil, listening to her simple and unaffected, yet animated and intelligent talk, watching her VOL. I. K 194 ANGELA. lovely countenance all the while. Gradually and insensibly sliding- into the place of friend, and receiving, in return for his kindness and almost reverential respect, the first confidences of a heart which had nothing to disguise, and which only most innocently and unconsciously betrayed, in every word and sentiment, the beauty of its high and generous nature. Do you think he was happy, or not? I have said how much he disliked the com- mon run of young ladies, to him they had always appeared so exceedingly insipid. He was so romantic, this young man. And he certainly had what must appear to many of you such strange, absurd notions. Assuredly, he did wish to spend his life in a somewhat different manner from the way in which it was passed by most about him ; and to love, and to be loved for his own sake alone, was one of his dearest dreams. He would have liked, I believe, in his present humour, to have laid down all the appendages of his rank, and become, in fact, the character he assumed, of a young artist, dependent upon his talent for his bread ; he would have liked to have had his wife and children to actually maintain, so that wife had been as charming as Angela, and the home as quiet and as pleasant as this one she occupied. He could not help grieving when he ANGELA. 195 thought that the day must come when these dis- guises must have an end, and he appear in his true shape again ; and when, if— if that if ever came to pass — he must enter with her into the old wearisome life of the world, make a fine lady of her, put her in a grand dining-room, or, worse and worse, see her perhaps dressed a Vamazonej riding a fine horse in the Park, surrounded by cavaliers — in the style his very heart abhorred — or else running about, like all the rest of the world, for four or five months of every year, from dinner to dinner, and from route to ball and break- fast ; and the other seven, occupied with a house full of company, or wasting life at a watering-place, while he, distracted with the hurry, a stranger al- most to his wife, lived the life, to him so unsatis- factory, which — all the world did. For, romantic as he was, he could not but suppose, that when he returned to the great world, it must go with him much as it went with the rest of the great world around him. To his mind, this return to ordinary life was, in idea, like a return to this working-day world after an excursion of a month or so into fairy- land. Thus did his busy and lively imagination work, and it is astonishing in what strong colours it painted all these things to him. 196 ANGELA. But why, he often said to himself, why alter the situation in v/hich he found himself so happy, and in which she seemed so happy, so long as he was at her side and want could be kept from the door ? All sorts of wild schemes began to occupy him. " Now Angela/' said he, '* the lesson is over. I have taken very great pains with you, and I have never asked for a reward. I am going to ask for it now; will you refuse it?" How they had advanced ! They were Angela and Carteret ; — but then, to be surp, his lessons had lasted now some weeks. This speech of his was not made at all in a way which warns a young lady that any thing very interesting is going to be said to her. Angela neither blushed, nor cast down her eyes, nor stammered, nor looked silly. But she looked up at him in a way peculiarly her own, and, with an expression of the most endearing confidence in him, said, — *^ I am so glad that you have at last found any thing in the world that I can do for you." ** You must let me have your picture." " My picture ! What can you be thinking of? My picture ! in this place ! and who is to take it?" *' I mean to take it myself." ANGELA. 197 " I thought you only drew trees and houses." '' Oh, yes ! I can take likenesses, I think. I want to try to take yours. I must have it with me when I go away. I must go away some time or other, I suppose." *'Ah, yes; so indeed I suppose you must!" And she shook her head ; and a sudden dark- ness as of sorrow passed over her face. " Yes, I know you must." " And when I am gone you will not forget me quite, Angela?" She smiled. The smile said plainly enough, " I am not very likely to do that." " I shall feel very lonely when I am gone away from you. I have been so happy here ; but go away I must — at least, for a short time. I should like to have your picture; it would re- mind me of these days — these tranquil, happy days. Not that I should ever be in danger of forgetting them. No, no ; you are more likely to forget me." As he went on in this way, he was busy scratching away with his pencil, and his head was bent down over the paper ; he seemed to be rather talking to himself than to her. "There are thina^s that must be done. I had 198 ANGELA. better go and set about them at once, and then it will be all plain sailing on my part. Yes, yes." " Bat I must have your picture," raising his head from the paper, and looking at her. ** I never saw such a beautiful outline in my life. There, just as you sit there. Sewing, are you? How industrious you are ! " *^ I had need be industrious, as you very well know." *' What abominable coarse work, too, you have in your fingers! What can it be?" " Neither more nor less than some coarse sheets for Mrs. Whitwell," said she. ^' Fine needle- work is not much wanted in these parts, and those who have to get their livings must take what employment they can find. I am sure, if you knew how happy I have been since I have made six or seven shillings a-week with my needle, you would reverence needlework for the rest of your life." " I cannot endure to see your hands employed about such coarse stuff. I never saw such horrid stuff." He looked at those fair, delicate hands. They were, it is true, already looking rather redder and rougher since she had begun to sew so assidu- ously. He liked labour in the ideal ; but he ANGELA. 199 could not bear even this trifling ill effect of it in actuality. He was inconsistent, like all the rest of us. He would fain enjoy the freedom of poverty, and the wholesome happiness resulting from necessary employment, and yet he could not endure its most trifling ill consequences. Ill consequences ! I am ashamed of myself for using the word. " I cannot bear to see you at this sort of work," he went on, " and for such a miserable remune- ration." " I am sorry for you," she said, plying her needle so industriously all the time that she did not even look at him ; " but a few shillings to me is more than thousands, perhaps, to many others ; and really, to tell truth, I do not care what I do so I can but earn a little money." '* Well, but I thought we were agreed you were to earn money by your talents. When I go to London, I thought you were to intrust me with some of your drawings ; I have little doubt I shall get a considerable price for some of them, and I like to think of you as employing your time upon things more suited to your genius and your station, and not upon such sordid labour as this." " If I can sell my drawings, no doubt I may 200 ANGELA. spend my time mucli more profitably ; and when you go to London, if you can help me to a pur- chaser, it will be as if I had discovered a gold mine." " Then, in the mean time, indulge me with laying down this horrid work, which is so totally unfit for you." And he took hold of it to take it from her. '^ No," said she, " don't ask me. Why should I ? Why should it be unfit for me?'' " Your position — your education — your birth — the daughter of an officer and a gentleman — such a wretched, menial employment!" " My position ! my education ! my father's station! — alas, alas! Mr. Carteret, what empty words are these ! You would not have me so very, very silly as to refuse the means of getting bread when I really want it — by any humble means? Indeed, I am very thankful to be able to do it in this way, which does not expose me to any menial office such as I really should not like. But, dear me ! as to sewing coarse cloth, I only wish good Mrs. Whitwell wanted work enough done to em- ploy me twelve hours out of the twenty-four. I don't care what I do, so that I do but get money. You have no idea of the pleasure I take in getting money. I sometimes think how lucky it is for me that I am obliged to do it ; it seems quite my ANGELA. 201 nature. I don't know what would become of me if I had happened to be a fine lady." As she spoke, she was turning the great lum- bering sheet, and beginning at the other end. He got up to help her with it. '' Only look at your finger !" said he. " I might as well use Margaret's silver guard, at least," she said — she began to care about the condition of her forefinger as soon as she saw the look almost of disgust with which he re- garded it, all disfigured with the effects of her coarse work — '' but as for the sewing, pray don't try to put me out of humour with it, it is the best resource we have as yet." She rose and fetched the guard, and put it upon her finger, but she could not work so fast with il. The elegancies of life and the demands of in- dustry will often interfere with each other ; we must take our choice. " I won't take your picture doing that," said he, rising from the table ; " I will take it when you are reading to Margaret." '* I am so sorry, Mr. Carteret," said Angela, in a somewhat more serious tone, " to see you try to give me a disgust for this work, which you know I ought cheerfully to do. You know I have my bread to earn, and not only my own k2 202 ANGELA. bread but that of others. Ought I to be above any employment, however humble, that assists me to do this ? What claims have I to be more fastidious than others ? Those whom God has placed among the poor ought to accept their condition without repining from his hands. I own it was very difficult indeed for me to submit when I did not know where to get money enough to live upon ; but now Mrs. Whitwell furnishes me with sewing, I should be a wretch and a fool if I did not gratefully — thankfully — accept it. I should be worse than a fool to vex myself about that ! Sewing coarse cloth which hurts my fingers a little — a great matter indeed! Why you are as bad as old Nurse ; what a to-do she made about it ! " ** Well, I wonder almost that you have not more sense of your own dignity than to conde- scend to such employments." ** That is not said from the heart, Mr. Car- teret," looking up at him steadily ; '^ that is no sentiment of yours, I am sure. You are only trying me now. I should indeed sink in my own opinion if I thought I could be degraded by work." *' Angela, let me draw you just as you sit there." " Ah, you have changed your mind ! I know ANGELA. 203 much must be forgiven to you artists," she said ; ** to your love of the beautiful, that foundation of all fine taste, must be pardoned much : but there is a love better than that, Mr. Carteret — there is in this world what is more precious than the mere beautiful." '* Just as you sit there — you have given me a lesson ; may I never forget it ! I will take you there, as you are stitching away at that odious piece of sail-cloth ; it will remind me of what you said — yes, there is in this world much that is more precious than the mere beautiful." " And what am I seeking in life," was the return he made upon himself, " but the mere beautiful — the mere beautiful in letters, the mere beautiful in the external world, the mere beau- tiful even in morals ? — Poor ! — this noble creature has very different objects." ** The useful, you mean ?" (aloud.) *' Yes, of course ; the poor, homely, despised useful. Oh, Mr. Carteret, if you knew Margaret as I do, you would adore the useful when you could make it useful to her." " Pray sit where you are, and let me draw you with your coarse sheet." *' That is impossible, for it is done ; and, oh, how glad I am !" cried she, springing up, *' for I am so tired of sewing ! And now my task for 204 ANGELA. the day is over, help me to fold it up, for it really is too heavy for me, and then you will for once taste the sweets of being useful." She laughed as he rose up, looking rather vexed and disappointed, to assist her to fold up her work. In such conversations he could have gone on for ever. She was so artless, so unaffected, so lively, so simple, in the expression of her opinions — had so much character and spirit in all she said and did. I give but a poor, feeble picture of her. She looked charmingly happy when her work was over. She enjoyed a little leisure after labour so intensely. It was so delightful to go out under the walnut-trees, imbibe the fresh air, to have nothing to do but to tend Margaret ; or, more dangerously enchanting, to walk round the walks of that little garden, a child in one hand, listening to that voice which was to her but too seductive. Nothing enhances the value of life like in- dustry. Cheerful industry is the true wine of ex- istence ; and blessed with such an unrepining spirit as hers, she enjoyed the fruits of her exertion in their full perfection. No false pride, no envious comparison with others, no weak sense of humiliation at the idea of her ANGELA. 205 lowly lot, ever marred her happiness for a single moment. The only thin^ that could have diminished her enjoyment in her present mode of life, and her indifference to the humility of that position to which she seemed condemned, would have been the idea that it might possibly lessen her value in the eyes of Carteret ; but in spite of the little fastidious notions to which he gave vent now and then, her heart told her — and told her truly — there was no danger of that sort to be appre- hended. To do the sex justice, I believe a very great many of them would, just as cheerfully as she did, lay down their privilege of being useless, could they but be convinced that by so doing they would not be lowered in the estimation of the men they loved. It is not the privations of poverty, but its humiliations — it is that most mortifying of humi- liations, the experience that men are really loved and valued the less for it — nay, even by those nearest and dearest to their hearts — which em- bitters its sting in this country of ours. A cer- tain consideration in the eyes of their fellows is dear to every one, and to find it thus diminished by the want of wealth, is a fearful trial of both fortitude and candour. Angela had no uncomfortable feelings of this 206 ANGELA. sort to contend with. She believed Mr. Carteret, indeed, to be nearly as .poor as herself, and as he was certainly less inclined to exertion, perhaps really poorer ; but although there was an ele- gance in his tone and manner which impressed her with an inexplicable feeling of his superiority to every person she had seen before, yet to this was united so much gentleness, so much kindness, a something so like respect, in his conduct to her and Margaret, that she felt bound to him by the most perfect admiration and confidence, unmin- gled with any of those little drawbacks which. in the world mar, or at least greatly diminish, such pleasant emotions. He looked very grave when this little con- versation had ended, as he sat watching Angela with an expression which his face had never assumed before. When she had finished folding up and laying aside her work, he had followed her into the garden. He seemed trying to shake off the gravity of his humour, and going up to Mar- garet's couch, — " I have been having a lecture, Margaret," said he — she was lying as usual under the trees — " upon the union of the useful and the beau- tiful. Angela would fain persuade me to like to see her sewing at a coarse sheet." "Those whom Angela provides by her industry ANGELA. 207 with bread may easily believe in the union of the useful and the beautiful^" said Margaret, ten- derly fixing her eyes upon Angela, who did at that moment most certainly exhibit an example of the beautiful, at least. 208 ANGELA CHAPTER XIII. Behold ! I see the haven nigh at hand, To which I mean my weary course to bend. Spenser. He walked home in deep reverie. His thoughts had never before, much as he had mused, and much as he had reflected, been di- rected into their present channel; he had not, strange it is to say, but the case is far from un- common, he had never taken this earnest, serious vievv of life before. He had been content to spend his existence in the worship of the beautiful ; that idolatry of the soul, that paganism which substitutes one attri- bute of the divine source of being for many, falls short of the perfect fulness of the great idea, and adores the part instead of the whole. He had been so accustomed, from his earliest years, to this reverence for the beautiful, that he thought he did wisely and well in the devoting of ANGELA. 209 his heart and his life to this false worship, and absorbed in the grand exterior of the mystic temple, he had forgotten the holy of holies within ; he had forgotten good in beauty. He had forgotten that life was a severe and earnest, often a sore and painful, always a serious and sublime thing, and that the soul of man was not constituted to find the fulness of its perfection in the mere cultivation of those tastes intended but to refine and bless the intervals of repose dur- ing the great moral task. He had forgotten the fate of those nations who to such cultivation had given the pre-eminent rank, the moral darkness which had gradually gathered over them, the depths of iniquity into which they had finally- sunk. He had indulged himself in that too fastidious love of elegance, refinement, and the luxury of the eye, which has such a tendency to enervate the soul ; but he awakened as from a trance at the simple example set before him by that brave and generous girl — that almost child, as he at times thought her. He admired her simple energy, her disregard of every minor object, in the noble effort to provide for the wants of others ; her magnanimous contempt of what so many would have thought degradation — engrossed as she was in that one idea, of making herself useful to those dependent upon her. 210 ANGELA. He contrasted the strength of her singleness of purpose with the vain confusion of his own pursuits and aims ; and the tender interest which her help- less situation and her loveliness had inspired, be- gan to be succeeded by a more earnest sentiment. He began to esteem her. His plans had been till now, I repeat, uncer- tain. He had never precisely asked himself, as he ought to have done, in what the romance which he had begun was to end. His conscience had been pacified with respect to his continual visits, by the recollection that the drawing-les- sons were a matter of serious importance to both, and that Margaret was evidently most anxious that Angela should profit by the advantage — that her proficiency under his care was unquestion- able, and that his presence and his little gifts had exercised a most beneficial influence upon the health of the poor mother, which indeed was every day improving. A dishonourable thought it was impossible should ever cross his mind, he dreamed, — when he dreamed upon the subject of a secret mar- riage — that dangerous delusion — he had a sort of fancy that he might make Angela his, with- out taking her from that simple life in which he loved to dwell with her. But now other thoughts began to arise in his mind. The conversation had been trifling enough, ANGELA. 211 you will think, but it had been full of signifi- cance to him. This noble independence of thought and action, this true moral force, this courageous acceptance of life with all its hardships, this devotion to others, this ready self-sacrifice ! He had seen the indications of these things daily, but they seemed never to have struck him with their full force until now. He now saw that in her, which made him finally resolve upon calling her wife. United to her, he felt that he should himself be animated to nobler purposes and higher aims than those in which he had so idly indulged. He felt within himself the capacity to take a leading, and to play a useful and honourable, part among men : the spirit, the energy, the right ambition, had been alone wanting*, but these his better angel would supply. He was lost in such ruminations, as, accom- panied by his little dog, now completely restored by her care, he crossed the fields on his return. As he came upon the ridge which commanded the fine view of Sherington, its woods, and mere, and river, and lawns, and hills, he paused and gazed upon the wide expanse of prospect which, seen from these heights, extended far into the distance, melting into the blue horizon. The sun was just setting in all his glory, and the 212 ANGELA. heavens were one blaze of crimson, gold, and pale ethereal green : ten thousand luminous clouds, bathed in the glowing light, seemed like islands of the blest floating in the depths of ether, and the noble planet slowly descending behind the hills, presented that image which has so often been repeated by poet and by sacred psalmist, of a giant course of usefulness and splendour closing in a subliaiity of rest. He stood gazing at it long. And his imagination, as so many, many imagi- nations have done, and will ever do, inter- preted those hieroglyphics in the mystic tablets of nature, which convey such moral lessons to man. " Such," thought he, *' is the end of a day spent like hers. " No portion wasted, no moment misapplied. *' Advancing steadily in the course before her, diffusing blessings upon every side. '* She is now only in her dawn of beauty, in the ascendant of her path ; but so has she risen upon the earth, beneficent and good. " And so she pursues, and will pursue, her course, simple, serene, undeviating. So will she travel onwards, and glory shall attend upon her decline. " And what have I been doing? " What a contrast is my life ! ANGELA. 213 " What have I to shew, in return for talents bestowed ? what object have I fulfilled ? what good have I effected ? " He stood and gazed long, and his heart grew stronger and better. Then twilight drew her soft dewy veil over the earth, and the nightingale began her song, and the stock-dove gently cooed, and the moon rose above the hill behind him, and threw her clear, bright, silvery light, on tree and glittering brook. And so he went onwards to his home, a wiser and a better man. The next day was Sunday. He had never ventured to visit Mrs. Whitwell's farm upon a Sunday. Wanting the excuse in the drawing lessons, he had felt that it was not quite right to come; that it might excite observation, perha}3s scandal. The Sundays thus spent at home had been excessively tedious. And it had required all the virtue he possessed to abstain from paying his usual visits ; but he did abstain. This Sunday, however, there seemed no longer any necessity to exercise so much prudence. The reflections of a sleepless night had added strength to the resolutions of the preceding even- ing. His mind was made up ; there remained 214 ANGELA. nothing but to assure himself that he possessed her heart ; that as an artist, dependent upon his own exertions for bread, he had secured the trea- sure, and that thus to the happiness of having in- spired a disinterested affection he had united the exquisite delight of elevating the vroman he loved to a station so far above the most romantic ex- pectation which she could ever by possibility have formed. He had not much doubt of her affection, to be sure. Artless and confiding as was her manner of shewing it, he could not but feel sure that he was dear to her. He had made up his mind to de- clare his passion at once. He, however, resolved to do violence to his impatience, and wait to walk over until the evening. Evening was the only portion of the day when Angela was quiet and disengaged. He should then find her and Margaret alone in the orchard, and he could enjoy one of those walks they had so often taken together, under the shade of the laro:e hedo^e-row trees. It was a sweet evening at the latter end of July. He recollected it many and many a year afterwards, and so did she. A Sunday evening in July is so delicious, with ANGELA. 215 the hedge-rows straggling about in all their wild beauty, with the fresh-cut hay perfuming the gently playing breeze, the stilly sound of distant voices in the air, as maids and youths return from church together through the fields, all enjoying this day of peace and rest, while the bells are ringing sweetly from the distant church- tower, seen peeping from among the trees. How calm were his thoughts, how full his heart, swelling with real, tender, honest, genuine love ; to which was now added, the sacred senti- ment that she he loved must soon, in fact, be- come his own. Not that he intended this day to make a positive, formal declaration of his passion; but he meant to allow himself what would be to him a great indulgence, that of permitting some indications of those feelings — which he had till then honourably concealed — to escape, and. thus to try the ground a little. He opened the garden-gate, and stealing round the corner of the house, stood a little while con- cealed by the tall shrubs in the border, looking in upon the little family in the orchard. There they all were. Margaret, as usual, upon her couch, half raised, and leaning upon her elbow, was watch- ing the group before her. Her pale face tinted with a faint crimson, her delicate hair falling round her cheeks, a small invalid cap upon her 216 ANGELA. head ; dressed in long and flowing drapery of muslin, she looked almost like some beautiful sculptured image already laid upon a marble tomb. Her eyes, bright with the consuming fire within, were fixed with a sort of mournful tender- ness upon those she loved so infinitely. Angela, too, was that day dressed in white, and her long brown tresses hung on each side of her face. She was sitting upon a low seat at a little distance from Margaret, with a small round table before her; she looked like a beautiful figure of Charity, as we sometimes see her represented ; for Margaret's baby was asleep in her arms, and the two other children — the little boy and girl — were kneeling upon each side of her lap. They were saying their prayers — or rather she was praying with them, and for them — repeating, in a low voice, those addresses to the great Father of them all, w^iich they were too young as yet to be trusted to repeat by themselves. Her soft and serious voice, — the holy awe, min- gled with love, upon her beautiful countenance — the loveliness of the two litttle children — the quiet evening — the distant church-bell — the air swaying in the green branches — it was, indeed, a charming scene I He stood drinking it all in with his eyes. Presently, the prayer was ended ; the little ones rose from their knees ; she bent down and ANGELA. 217 kissed them, leaning over the sleeping infant; and then the little Lucinda, throwing her arm round her neck, seemed to whisper some request. He could not hear what it was that the child begged for, but her words were, — *' Angela, sing us the Sicilian Mariner's Hymn now, for we have been very good to-day ; and let me sing it, too, will you?" And while the little boy, beckoned by his mo- ther, ran to her, and, her arm over his shoulder, stood there, as if, like himself, entranced with the music, Angela sang this simple and beautiful melody, followed by the clear, shrill, childish voice of the little girl. So sweet a voice, so full, so rich, so perfect in its intonation, it is not one's lot often to hear. Soft and slow, "like a rich distilled perfume," it did, indeed, rise in the still evening, '^taking Silence ere she was aware ;" while, her face lifted up, and her eyes filled with a tender seriousness, in character with that Heaven to which at that moment she seemed to belong — she sang the Vesper Hymn. He had a soul for music, — he felt he knew not how. He had observed the unclosed pianoforte, but he had never asked to have it opened. In general, he cared for young ladies' music as little as he cared for their other accomplishments. VOL. I. L 218 ANGELA. The hjann was finished ; but he stood still, hoping for more. But more came not. Margaret withdrew her slender arm from her little boy's neck. Angela rose from her seat, — the little girl ran away with her brother to play. Angela then carried the slumbering infant up to Margaret ; the poor young mother bent her head over her baby, and kissed its rosy cheek : two tears — two large tears, but no more — rolled over it. " Nay, my dear, dear Margaret," said Angela, tenderly, " do not despair ; you are better — you are so much better, you will recover ; you will live to see this little one a man." " Do you think so, love ?" was the reply, with a sweet but sad smile. " Ah, my Angela! there is something here w^hich tells me, that before these leaves are fallen under your feet, the poor mother will have closed her eyes, and lie under the turf in the churchyard. My baby! — sweet, sweet baby ! But you will be a mother to him — to them all, Angela." "Oh, Margaret, do not talk so ; you are so much better. Please God, with perseverance in our present plan, we shall see you walking about again soon. Why do you feel so sad to-day? Yesterday you were in such spirits about yourself." " I don't know," said she, stooping down, and ANGELA. 219 kissing the dimpled hand of the little infant, and then that of Angela, which supported it; "I don't know, — we cannot account for these things ; but to-day, the conviction that I must soon depart seems stronger upon me than ever. Perhaps it is this sweet, heavenly afternoon — there is some- thing in me, at such a time, that almost longs to be dissolved and die. Besides, dear as these are, you know where my treasure is, Angela." ** When I am gone," after a little while she went on, *' you will prove a mother to them, I know. Sweet maiden mother ! — sweet angel mother !" looking at her, as there she stood, with the most affectionate admiration. "Young saint! — young angel! — young St. Theresa!" he kept repeating to himself; he did not know how to express his feelings. Angela pressed the little infant to her bosom as her only reply, and the tears stood in her eyes. Whenever Margaret was desponding about her- self, Angela's spirits were depressed too. Much better her patient certainly was for the more gene- rous system of living which had been adopted ; but there were days when she seemed to retro- grade rapidly, and be just as ill again as ever: at these times she was more than usually low about herself. Though anxious to live for her children, life had lost its relish when her husband died ; and she was, as far as she herself was con- 220 ANGELA. cerned, quite indifferent about it — so indifferent, indeed, existence had become, so worthless, that this distaste of life seemed actually to weaken the resistance her constitution might otherwise have maintained against advancing disease. Carteret now came forward. Angela was startled by his unexpected appear- ance, but, colouring high with pleasure, advanced to meet him, still holding the little baby in her arms. Thus occupied, he could not take her hand in his to raise it to his lips, but he stooped down and kissed the sleeping child's face, resisting with difficulty the temptation of kissing at the same time the soft hand which supported its head. " I never saw you in the character of a young nursery-maid before, I think," said he, looking at her with a tender smile. " Nurse and Biddy are both at church. On Sunday afternoons I always take care of the baby." She looked at it softly, and bent her neck, and kissed it as she spoke. He felt in a strange confusion of sweet feelings. What would it be, when — if — this sweet saint were a real mother — a mother oi his child? " I have seen you in many characters now," said he, speaking with an air of serious tenderness which he had never allowed himself to assume ANGELA. 221 before. '^ I" thought I knew you well, but I had not seen you as you are this afternoon, Angela." In a little confusion at this, she turned away to Margaret. The words were insignificant, but his looks told that which they had never told before ; her heart began to beat quicker than usual, and a strange dizziness — a momentary darkness — troubled her sight : but she struggled to conceal her emotion, and as she turned away, in a voice as articulate as. she could make it, she said, — " How do you think Margaret looks to-day ? She is low about herself this afternoon." ^' I feel that you both look," said he, for he really could not repress his admiration, " as if you belonged to a sphere ver}^ far removed from this. I could almost feel afraid lest you were both about to spread your wings and fly away. — But, dear Mrs. Nevil," taking her hand and pres- sing it kindly, "you must not despond. I think you are even looking better to-day than usual ; — pray try to feel it is so." She shook her head, but made no answer. Again he turned to Angela. "You are tired, are you not, with carrying that little child so long ? I wish you would let me take it. I shall be a sad, awkward nurse, I fear. I never held a little thing of that sort in my arms in my life ; but I would do any thing in the world to help or be of service to you." 222 ANGELA. " No, 1 am not tired at all, thank you," was all she said, but with a glance — such a gentle, tender glance ! Her heart was, indeed, overflowing with sweetness ; the words, and still more the tone in which they were spoken, gave her such a thrill of delight : she managed to say this, but she could say no more at the moment. Her countenance said much, however ; and he read its meaning almost with ecstasy. " At least then," persisted he,." let me fetch your chair here — the low chair in which you were sitting just now. I should like to see you sitting so again. I should like to have drawn you so — but no matter," he added, in a lower voice, '^the picture is painted indelibly here.'' Then he went and fetched the low chair on which she had been sitting, and put it in the shade, at a little distance from Margaret's couch; and having seated her there with the infant still in her arms, he went and fetched another chair for himself, and sat down close by her side, seem- ingly occupied in watching the baby. *' How peacefully it sleeps !" said he, looking at it with a sort of curiosity ; '^ and how pretty it is ! I could not have thought that so young a child could have been so pretty. What little dimpled hands ! — they look as if they were moulded in wax; and that little, round, meaningless face — yet so full of meaning ! I perceive the old masters ANGELA. 223 only idealised Nature when they painted the cherub faces so full of love and innocence." He kept looking at the child — at the tiny fin- gers ; and from the tiny fingers his eye wan- dered to that beautiful and delicate hand which lay upon the little frock, clasping it ; and from thence he raised his eyes to gaze upon her face. It was bent down towards the infant, her dark eye-lashes falling upon her cheek, which was glowing with tender pleasure ; and a sweet, pen- sive smile, was upon her lips. It seemed to him as if he had never really seen her before, she looked so surpassingly lovely in the still repose of that afternoon — a repose so congenial to the deep sensibility of her nature ; a repose in which she so seldom allowed herself to indulge. There are moments when the soul seems to shine with a peculiar brightness through its earthly tenement, irradiating it with an almost supernatural beauty ; rapt devotion, and what is next to it, pure and fervent love, will, at times, work the miracle. The next thing he said, in a very low voice, so as to be heard only by herself, was, — " How you must love these little creatures!" A gentle pressure of the infant to her breast was the only answer. 224 ANGELA. "But I think you are formed to love all God's creatures." She could make no answer to this, but she turned her large, pure eyes full upon him ; her heart was indeed at that moment overflowing with love for every thing that breathed. For was he not there beside her? had he not come at an unusual hour ? were not his voice, his look, his language, such as they had never been before ? Was not that enough to overwhelm her, as it were, in one boundless ocean of bliss ? Alas! young, ignorant, she knew not, she asked not ; unconsciously she turned her eyes upon him in answer to his question, but they fell instantly under his gaze. " I saw you just now praying with them," he began again. *' Yes," she said, very softly, ^' I would teach them as early as possible to turn, poor orphans! to their kind Father." " And then I heard you sing a hymn to them — I did not know that you sang." " Sometimes I do, or rather used to do ; but our hearts have been too sad lately for singing. I thought we had almost forgotten it altogether, but little Lucy, you see, remembered it. Do you love music?" ANGELA. 225 '* Not generally, I believe : but there is some music that stirs my soul like a passion ; some tones that come over me and master me entirely. Then I am no longer myself; I am like the royal youth in the hands of ' Timotheus placed on high/ " said he, laughing a little. *' I am like the statue of Memnon, which vras roused to utter sounds when the sun-beams fell upon it. I am like any thing most fabulous and extravagant ; my soul seems then as if it were some strange instrument which responds to the touch of another, and utters a voice scarcely my own. I can believe in the old fable of Orpheus getting the stocks and stones about him, and moving the darkest abyss of hell itself by the strange pathos of his lyre. I am just inclined to feel in this way this very afternoon, Angela." " Are you talking of her singing, Mr. Carteret?" said Margaret : from the place where she lay she had overheard part of the last speech, for his voice had been a little raised as he warmed with his subject. " She has a sweet voice, I think, but I cannot often hear it now — it excites me more than is good ; but this afternoon that simple hymn was like balm pouring upon my heart. Don't think me affected for speaking in this way. When they are come back from church, and you have parted with your little charge, my Angela, you l2 226 ANGELA. shall sing us that sweet and solemn * Agnus Dei' your father loved so well, and that I have never had courage to ask you to sing since his death." " I know not how it is," said she to herself, as she sank down again upon her pillow, '* hut there seems a strange, pleasing melancholy, about me this day." They all three appeared to be in some measure under the same influence. Certainly there was a glow, and yet a some- thing peculiarly gentle and tender, almost to sad- ness, expressed in the faces of the young circle. " Will you think me unworthy to share in that sacred remembrance, Angela? Will you not sing that song which your father loved to one, who, if he had known him, would have loved him too — who, unknown, loves his memory for your sake ? Tell me, Angela," and he laid his hand upon hers, " say you will not exclude me from this companionship — say you will sing the ' Agnus Dei' to me." He felt her hand trembling under his. Again one glance from her eyes, suddenly raised and as suddenly withdrawn, was her only answer. It was impossible for her to speak. "Angel!" he said, in a deep low voice, *' I adore you." ANGELA. 227 And now the latch of the garden-gate was heard to open, and the sound of approaching footsteps coming up the gravel-walk. He drew his chair hastily a little distance away, and she involuntarily moved hers. Nurse and Biddy, as arriving from church, now entered the orchard, with their prayer-books in their hands. Biddy went straight into the house. Nurse came up to the party under the w^alnut-tree. The old woman started a little when she saw Mr. Carteret sitting there, and made a face as if she were not at all pleased. She muttered something to herself which nobody but herself could hear or understand— it was to the effect, that she wondered at the imprudence of her mistress, and that she knew no more of the world than the babe unborn ; and what would they all do if she were not there to look after them ! Then she came up to Margaret and said, crossly enough, — " I was wondering whether you'd have the sense to ask for a shawl or summut to be laid over you. But you never thought of it, I'll be bound ! And as for Miss Angela," glancing at her with no very pleasant eye, *' she's always so engaged nowadays, that she forgets every thing ! " " Nay, nurse," said Margaret, soothingly, ** don't be angry with either of us ; the evening 228 ANGELA. is so warm, that I never felt the least want of a shawl ; and as for Angela, you know she has got the baby to take care of." " Ay, ay, and something* else, too. I've known the day, when all the babies in the world wouldn't have made her forget to lay a shawl over your feet, misses. Bless me, how cold they are! Here, Miss Angela," going up to her, " give us the baby, and I'll send Biddy down with some- thing to lay over your mamma's feet : they're as cold as ice, I can tell you, while you are sitting gallivanting here." Angela's face was covered with blushes ; to hide her confusion she said, hurriedly, — " You look to Margaret, Nurse, and I will carry the baby into the house." She rose hastily to go away, but Carteret, who could with pleasure have given the old woman a box upon the ear, rose and followed her. This sudden intrusion of Nurse, as it were, into the midst of their happiness, acted like some acid — every thing seemed soured and curdled. '^ Do let me carry the little creature for you," he kept saying, as he followed her ; *^ you totter so, you can hardly walk. How easily your nerves are shaken by some things ! a-nd you so brave ! really " said he, for he could not help laughing a little at the confusion into which they had both been thrown, "it would seem as if we both ANGELA. 229 dreaded that terrible nurse of yours more than we do a mad bull ! " But she could not laugh, she could not even smile — she was in great agitation. She walked fast, as if to escape from him. He saw this; he understood it all well enough, and he resolved at once to put an end to it. So he persisted in fol- lowing her up the steps, through the glass door, and into the house. They found Biddy in the dining-room, prepar- ing the table for tea. '' Take the child, Mrs. Biddy," said Carteret, in a tone of authority, '^ and carry it up stairs." Biddy obeyed this voice, of course, as it were instinctively, and Angela suffered herself to be relieved from her burden. He followed the servant-girl to the door, shut it carefully after her, and just returned in time to catch Angela by the arm as she was about to return to the garden. "Angela," he said, "one moment: I have something to say, and you must hear me out." He drew her gently back into the room. " I have made my confession before, but I have had no answer. Can you love me, as you love these ? — Nay, speak not ; for I see you cannot speak : let me read your silence. Angela, will you be my wife?" 230 ANGELA. The blood rushed to her heart, a sudden faint- ness carae"over her ; he caught her in his arms as she was ready to fall to the ground, pressed her to his bosom, imprinted one kiss upon her fore- head as it sank upon his shoulder — and thus was the contract sealed between them. ANGELA. 23] CHAPTER XIV. Thereat she greatly was dismayed, ne wist How to direct her way in darkness wide. In the mean time Nurse had been^ in her usual manner when displeased, taking Margaret to task. " I wonder at you, mistress — I really do — let- ting this young man, of whom we none of us know nothing at all, come dangling after Miss Angela in this fashion, teaching her drawing — on week-days, well and good, as she must get her living by her parts, poor thing, one of these days, I'm much afeard — but Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, is in my opinion more than enough ; and when it comes to Sundays too, I say you ought to look to it.'* Margaret at this attack looked extremely con- 232 ANGELA. fused, hurried, and frightened, but she seemed to want strength to answer it. Nurse went on : — " I wonder what my poor master would have thought, to see his daughter hand-and-glove with a nobody knows what — a poor adventurer! artist, you call him. Mrs. Whitwell knows well enough what them artists are made of, she says. A pretty companion for Miss Angela! A mere drawing-master, I'll be bound — going wan- dering about taking likenesses at five shillings a-head, without another penny to bless himself with for any thing yon, or I, or Miss Angela — bless her, sweet lamb ! — knows. But before he's to come here Sundays, like an equal and a gentle- man, as he pretends to be Only look at his dress to-day — I wonder at his impudence ! But " " There !" turning suddenly round, " I declare if they aren't in the dining-room together now ! But I'll be after them, won't I?" What would have been poor Angela's agonies of shame if she could have known that that sacred kiss of betrothal which he impressed upon her forehead had been witnessed by another ? Nurse, in the midst of her indignation, did not ascend the steps very quietly, and on hearing her coming, Angela hastily raised her head from Car- teret's shoulder, and immediately left the room. He turned his back to the glass-door, and pre- tended to be studying the print of '' Pamela re- ANGELA. 233 eeiving her Father and Mother," which hung against the wall. Bold as she was in a good cause, there was a something about his figure and appearance that day which imposed even upon Nurse. He was dressed with more care than usual. Unintentionally, indeed, he had dressed himself, as customary with him on a Sunday morning, to go to church, and no longer wore the shabby walking costume in which he appeared upon a week-day ; and, thus attired, he had in the afternoon pro- ceeded to the farm. His very gentlemanlike appearance, when so arrayed, had not been unobserved by Margaret ; nor had it altogether escaped the notice of Angela. It had added some little of pleasure, perhaps, to what had passed ; for, say what they will, such things will make themselves felt even amid the sincerest affections. Much as she loved the young man she had before seen, there was something most particularly delightful in loving him as he now appeared. This by the way. His appearance in this dress this day was fol- lowed, however — trivial as the circumstance might appear — with some weighty consequences. Had he been in his walking, shabby suit, a thousand to one but Nurse would have ventured to attack him at once as the beggar and impostor 234 ANGELA. she suspected him of being ; but the dignity, the inborn dignity, which his disguise had hidden from her eyes, was now not to be concealed even from her. She felt uncertain, irresolute how to act, and filled with a certain awe with which she had always been accustomed to approach those whom she looked upon as real gentlemen. Besides, he had his back turned towards her, and she felt it difficult to attack him in this position. So she hesitated, muttered a few words which he did not seem to hear, and then took her departure by the inner door, grumbling and mumbling as she went along. Had she fallen upon him with all the violence and bitterness of which her tongue was capable, it is scarcely to be doubted that, though pretty well master of himself, he would have been pro- voked into a full revelation of his position and plans ; and matters would have taken quite a different turn from what they did. As it was, Nurse walked away, and he stood looking at the print — which, in some slight degree, associated itself with his own situation — considering what course he should take next. Two paths lay before him : either to disclose the truth without delay, acknowledge his rank, and, by an open declaration of his attachment before the world, at once rescue Angela and him- ANGELA. 235 self from the equivocal situation in whicli they stood Or, persuading her to accept him in his cha- racter of artist, have the bans published in the little retired church belonging to the neigh- bouring village, and, thus having secured her to himself, to share with her the seclusion so dear to him, and wait the guidance of events as to his future conduct. Against the first and most obvious proceeding many arguments suggested themselves. First, it was excessively against his secret in- clinations. The idea of a formal marriage, with lawyers, settlements, breakfast, bridemaids, car- riages and four, and postilions with large white favours, was perfectly hateful to him. Yet to declare hi5 rank, appear before the public eye, and then do any thing that in the least savoured of the romantic or was out of the common course, was more abhorrent still. There was no medium to be found here : either he must remain as he was — personating the poor, unknown artist — or he must declare his whole story at once to the world. Besides, should he declare it, what would the inevitable consequences be? He must expect the most violent opposition upon the part of his father and mother, in the first place. He knew them both well, more 236 ANGELA. especially his mother ; he knew she would be outrao^eous at the bare mention of such a mes- alliance; he knew, with all her apparent romance, there was no one more really the slave of the great world and its proprieties than she was ; he knew that she would leave no means untried to prevent such a marriage — that she would be deaf to his entreaties, insensible to the merits of any one in a situation so humble ; and he dreaded, moreover, lest by at once appealing to Margaret and Angela themselves, he might arouse all that was generous and delicate in their nature, and enlist their own honest pride and dignity against him — thus defeating him by the very qualities to which he looked for justification of his choice. Moreover, he felt almost certain that, under his real designation, he should find it difficult, per- haps impossible, to overcome certain scruples which he felt sure would arise so soon as they should learn — as learn they inevitably must — that his addresses were paid without his parents' consent. To be banished from her presence until such consent was obtained, seemed an inevitable con- sequence — a consequence that he felt would be death to all his hopes and expectations. Upon the other hand — upon the romantic plan so dear to his fancy — all appeared plain-sailing. As a young artist he had been received, and ANGELA. 237 cordially received, by Margaret — as a young artist he had won the heart of Angela. It was not likely, it was not possible, that he should find the least difficulty, under their present cir- cumstances, in persuading either of them to this marriage. Utterly destitute and defenceless as they were, and abandoned by all the world, it was not pro- bable that Margaret would refuse for her daugh- ter one whom she evidently regarded with an eye of favour. He certainly regretted that he had, upon the impulse of the moment, when speaking to Mrs. Whitwell, pitched his assumed condition a little too low — that for the officer^s daughters it might be esteemed, among the gossips around, some- thing of a degradation to accept him; but then, again, his heart exulted in the secret conscious- ness of the disinterestedness of her affection, and rejoiced in the thought of the exaltation in store for one who had proved she would descend some little for his sake. To all these reasonings must be added his extreme impatience to give himself a right to call Angela his own, — to share with her, un- disturbed, the life he so much enjoyed, and to be ready and authorised to shelter and protect her and the children, in the event of poor Mar- garet's death, which, in spite of flattering appear- ances, he could not believe to be very far distant. 238 ANGELA. He concluded his cogitation by making up his mind — as I suppose most young men of his age would have done under the circumstances — that is, to indulge his romance and his passion at once, and, turning from the print, he proceeded to seek Margaret in the garden. But he met with a reception he had little reason to expect. The remonstrances of old Nurse, and, above all, the appeal to the memory of Angela's father, had filled poor Margaret with confusion and dismay. It was as if a veil had fallen from her eyes. Every thing appeared in a new light ; and her brain, excited by her hurrying pulse and agitated nerves, painted her conduct with a strange and exaggerated enormity. She was astonished at herself. How could she have been so blind, so stupid, so silly, so un- guarded ? Two forlorn women, and one of them eminently attractive, thus to have admitted an unknown, handsome young man, into their closest intimacy ; a young man who, at the best — and who did not make the best of themselves? — had represented himself only as a penniless artist, dependent upon his profession for his bread ; but whence he came — whither going — wherefore in this unaccountable manner he had visited this secluded place, had never been explained. No account had been given of the why or the ANGELA. 239 wherefore he was thus lying, as it were, hidden from the world — and at his age, too ! — so young as to be scarcely properly independent ! And to think that she had never once put these things properly together — had never reflected upon them as she ought — but, satisfied with his gentleman- like manners, his pleasing face, and conversation which shewed him unequivocally to be a man of education, had made no further inquiries, taken him at his word without examination, and suffered — nay, taken pleasure in — the evidences of that attachment which she believed to be springing up between him and her husband's daughter ! In vain she pleaded before her conscience her failing health and spirits, her helpless condition, her languor, her lassitude and decay, the inca- pacity for action, even for thought, which so often overpowered her : her conscience once awakened, her self-reproaches were only rendered more acute by the fever of her spirits. Poor Margaret, the climax of her secret wishes just attained, lay in a state of extremest wretchedness, too weak to rise from her couch, and anxiously expecting the re- appearance of the two from the house. At last she saw him descend the steps, looking so charmingly ! All perplexity removed by the resolution he had taken, he came down, his cheek yet glowing 240 ANGELA. with the past emotion, his eyes bright with victory — the brightness of a happy, assured heart, and the sweetest and most affectionate of smiles upon his hps. But his countenance of joy changed as he came nearer, and saw how ill and anxious she looked. He sat down by her side, took her hand, looked at her with great tenderness^ and said, — " Dear, dear Margaret, how sorry I am to see you look so suffering upon this the happiest day of my life ! Let me get you something," seeing her colour change from red to pale, from pale to red, and her breathing appear more difficult than ever, — " let me get you something before I speak to you; indeed, I have something to say that concerns us all much. I will be as brief as I can ; but what shall I get you before I begin? for indeed you look very ill." " No," said she, holding fast the hand he was about to withdraw, and looking at him with those gentle, sorrowful eyes; " no, don't hurry yourself or me." She began to gather a little fresh courage as she looked at him again. " No, never did such a countenance/' thought she, "cover deceit !" The influence he exercised over her mind was restored by his presence. She felt relieved from ANGELA. 241 much of her distress, self-reproach, and terror; but she resolved, nevertheless, to be upon her guard. He had risen, but he now sat down again, and, still holding her hand, went on : — " Margaret, if I have read your countenance rightly, what has just passed between me and Angela cannot be unexpected by you — that is to say, at least, as far as I myself am concerned. You must long have seen how deeply, devotedly, sincerely, I loved her — have loved her from the first moment I beheld her. I venture to hope that I am not indifferent to her. May I not hope that you, too, my friend, my dear, my gentle Margaret, will not oppose such feelings ? I love you both tenderly. Will you bestow the hand of your Angela upon me, and suffer me to devote my life to her and you? He spoke — and it was natural that he should so speak — in character with his real, rather than his apparent, position; he spoke as one who feels certain that his proposals, whether accepted or not, can be regarded in no light but as an honour. He quite forgot that he was a penniless artist. He expected, certainly, a friendly — nay, a warm and affectionate reception of his proposals upon the part of Margaret, and all that had passed justified such an expectation on his part. How was he disappointed, when, drawing away VOL. I. M 242 ANGELA. her hand, though evidently after some struggle with herself, she somewhat coldly said, — " I do not know how I ought to receive this declaration, Mr. Carteret, at least without some preliminary explanation. You cannot forget that you are a stranger to me, though, after your kind and generous " " Oh, oh!" cried he, looking very much hurt, "do not pain me in this way!" "Not for the world would I do that!" said she, feeling for a moment her former security ; then, relapsing into reserve, as distrust and doubt began to gather again round her thoughts, she went on thus : — "We both — it is vain to disguise it — feel interested in you. We both feel deeply grate- ful " " Again !^^ cried he, with an expression of severe pain. "Well, then, I will say nothing of that, but will speak briefly ; and pray do not be hurt at what I say, now matters have assumed this serious form. As Angela's mother — as her last protector and only friend — I feel that it would be unpardonable, without some further know- ledge of you, to suffer things to proceed far- ther." His countenance fell — he turned suddenly pale — he hesitated, and stammered, at last, — ANGELA.' 243 " You cannot doubt my honour?" ''No!" said she, v/ith spirit; ''if I. had the shghtest doubt of that, do you think you would be here? But tell me who you are, and whence you are ; for I feel persuaded that the slight account of yourself with which I was contented in the excitement of our first meeting, ought not to have satisfied me." " I told you," he said — for a sort of jealous suspi- cion came over his proud and susceptible heart at these words — a feeling which made him for the moment insensible to poor Margaret^s situation and to the undeniable force of the duty she was per- forming — " I told you then, what I must repeat again, that I am a lover of art — that my name is Carteret — that my father and mother are living in Italy, and, for their rank in life, are very poor — that I have no other dependence but my father and my pencil. I might have added, with truth," he said, colouring again, as he continued, with some bitterness in his tone — " that my father is a man of education and a gentleman ; but this, I had flattered myself, did not require to be told!" His manner affected her ; yet there was something in this speech that sounded to her equivocal. " Oh," said she, sadly, " could I think it but right to trust to my instinct ! And yet if I were " 244 ANGELA. " What would you do ?" cried he, eagerly. "Would you venture to give your Angela to a poor dependent artist, and trust to his spirit and activity for making her a place in the world ?" " Would I ?— Oh, if it were only that ! But— but," said she, struggling hard for courage, *'put yourself in my place, Mr. Carteret. Ask yourself, ought what I know of you, ought your simple assurance, ought it to satisfy any friend, or any parent? Is it reasonable to expect it? — is it right? Would you do it yourself?" "My simple assurance! And is that to be doubted ? " He was firing up at this. Then he recollected himself, and said more quietly, — *' I forgot — I beg your pardon ; I thought you bad perhaps felt some esteem for me as a man. But I have had little opportunity of shewing myself. I ought to have remembered that ! " he added, in a tone of despondency. *' And so I would — so I do — so we both do !" cried she, earnestly. " But why, why this mystery? I feel that there is a mystery ! Oh, why will you not satisfy me?" He looked excessively perplexed, but was silent. He was evidently, she saw, in great agitation of mind ; but he did not at once rebut the charge of a mystery, as she had hoped he would have done, by a full explanation. He sat there before her, ANGELA. 245 looking (it was impossible to look more) chagrined and uneasy. She watched his countenance anxiously. There was nothing of shame, nothing of the confusion of one detected in wrong in it, certainly — nothing of the agitation of one in danger of having some shameful secret betrayed. There was extreme perplexity, but nothing else. She felt comforted by a sort of internal certainty that there was nothing greatly wrong to be disclosed. Had it been herself, I firmly believe, such was her confidence in him in spite of all, she would have pledged her faith without hesitation ; but Angela was concerned. The words, *' Would her father, do you think ?" still rang in her ears. She forced herself to be cautious and reserved. He sat for so long a time silent — for he really could not make up his mind what to say — that at last she took courage and spoke again. *' Well, Mr. Carteret, what am I to under- stand?" " Understand nothing," said he, now raising his eyes from the ground upon which they had been fixed in deep meditation ; *' understand no- thing. Give me till to-morrow to consider what I must do ; I hope then to be able to give you all the satisfaction you can desire. After our long — 246 ANGELA. I was going' to say, but I mean short — yet, as I hoped, sincere frieiidshi})," he added, rather coldly, *' is it too much to ask that you will wait till to-morrow before you dismiss me? I have a feeling, a presentiment — I know not what," said he, putting his hand to his brow which was now burning, " that the event of to-morrow may be decisive of my life, for weal or for woe. I would fain pass this one evening here in peace. You promised me that I should hear Angela sing the 'Agnus Dei.' I feel as if I could not go away without hearing it. I want to have her memory impressed here — associated with what is sweet and soothing, not with my painful disappointment in you. 1 want consolation, Margaret. Do not, do not refase what is perhaps a last request." " I can refuse you nothing, who have been so very, very kind to me," faltered she, with tears. *' I beseech you do not be angry or hurt at me. And oh! why, why should the explanation I seek, and ought to seek — -why should it not be the herald of happiness to us all ? " "It may be — it ought to be — it will be, I hope," said he, trying to rally his spirits. But he was sorely, sorely disappointed at the turn things had taken. He would not, however, make up his mind to abandon his plan without a straggle ; so he made ANGELA. 247 up his mind so take this night for consideration, and to endeavour to hit upon a scheme which might reconcile all difficulties. But this evening with Angela, which, after the confession of his passion, he expected to have been one of such unmixed felicity, though novv so painfully clouded, he could not persuade himself to give up. He took Margaret's last speech as a permission to stay ; and then, quite unequal to bear more, he rose up, and walking to the other side of the orchard, paced slowly up and down under the hedge-row trees. " Agnus Dei, qui tollit peccata mundi." Slowly, sweetly, solemnly rose the strain. The emotion of the evening was still trembling in her voice, which was richer, sweeter, fuller than ever, and possessed that exquisite feeling — that feeling which so rarely, rarely is to be found in song ; but which, when found, electrifies the world, and thrills to the heart of even the most insensible. Such feeling as some rare artists have known how to express, while to others, though greatly excelling, it is a secret denied. 248 ANGELA. That feeling which no art can acquire, no imi- tation bestow. This Angela possessed in a supreme degree. He sat upon the steps listening, his face covered with his hands, shedding tears thick and fast. When she had done he rose from his seat, took both her hands in one of his, put his arm round her waist, and, regardless of Margaret's reproving looks, drew her on, and made her sit down upon the steps by his side. He did not say one word, but he kissed her hands several times. And his tears fell upon them, his abundant tears. Laugh not at those tears ! Wait till you can feel the influence of an honest, heartfelt passion, and then laugh at your own tears. She, still almost a child, and ignorant of what had passed with Margaret, sat there looking at him with a sort of wondering tenderness. Then he let go her hands, and passing her arm through his, said, — " You must walk with me under the trees a little, for the moon is very, very beautiful to- night." And she walked with him there. He seemed perfectly overcome with melan- choly. It was strange ; he could not account for ANGELA. 249 it himself. Why slioiild it be so? Why should he feel so full of sad forebodings ? ^ He had counted so securely uyjon making her his before his secret was disclosed, that the diffi- culties into which he was thrown came upon him quite unexpectedly. Yet he was not a man of a weak, desponding temper; he was accustomed to meet crosses and disappointments w^ith resolution. Why thus entirely overcome ? " Angela," he said, and he took a ring from his finger and placed it upon hers, " keep this for my sake. I had hoped, my love, to have made you mine in the course of a few, a very few weeks — nay, I still hope so. But I know not what ails me ; I am in low spirits this evening. This night should have been the happiest of my life. Promise me, my love, whatever happens, to remain true to me, as I will remain true to you so long as life is granted me — to abide in the faith of a heart that will never, never betray you. And now it is late — I must go away; I shall be here again early to-morrow. Farewell, sweet, sweet girl ! One kiss, my own, my betrothed, before we part." And he again pressed his lips upon her fore- head, again pressed her to his heart ; and then, slowly turning away with lingering steps, and often turning back, as if to take a last look, M 2 250 ANGELA. he at length vanished behind the trees of the garden. His last few words seem to shew a despondency with regard to the future which is scarcely to he accounted for. But he had, indeed, been bitterly disappointed. Any difficulty upon the part of Margaret^ so long as he preserved his assumed character, he had not in the slightest degree calculated upon ; and how to obviate her difficulties seemed a question im- possible to resolve, unless by the open discovery of himself. But this, which seemed such a plain, easy course at the first blush, would prove, he felt convinced the more he reflected on it, the death- blow to his hopes. The spirit and firmness which Margaret had displayed, and the courage and resolution which, young as she was, formed a part of Angela's character, satisfied him that to propose a clandestine marriage, a marriage with- out his parents' consent, would be to offend them deeply. That his parents ever would be brought to consent — though, as I said before, they might be brought to forgive — he knew was scarcely within the verge of possibility. His perplexity, his mortification at the di- lemma in which he found himself, are not to be expressed ; they could be equalled only by what ANGELA. 251 had been, as he now thought, his vain confidence in success. Of one thing, however, he was certain, of one consolation nothing could deprive him — Angela loved him, loved him for himself — truly, fondly loved liim ; and to one conclusion he at length arrived, and in that found rest — that happen wliat would, blow high, blow low, to her he would be constant ; that no persuasions^ no threats, no tears — and of these he knew there would be abundance — should have power to move him. His determination was unshaken ; he would make Angela his wife. The irrevocable words once spoken, a declara- tion made and faith exchanged, it is remarkable how much solemnity, how much substance, if I may use the expression, attaches to that love — which was a short instant before but as a sweet vision. That becomes real, sacred, the most sacred and important part of life which before seemed but some delightful, unsubstantial dream. So it was now with him. These few hours had changed the whole charac- ter of his existence ; he looked upon himself as the espoused of Angela, and as if his first duties were towards her. 252 ANGELA. CHAPTER XV. O how this spring of love resembleth The uncertain glory of an April day ! Shakspeare. He went away oppressed with a sort of melan- choly foreboding ; and he left her serious, but with a heart overflowing with happy and grateful feelings. Perfectly inexperienced in that life of the passions into which she had so suddenly been ushered, she was hardly aware of his strange melancholy; his tears and his tenderness, his broken phrases and his last embrace, appeared to her but as the natural expression of sentiments which in herself seemed to love to betray them- selves rather by a tearful softness (than which heaven itself, she thought, could offer nothing more delightful) than in exuberant spirits or exulting joy. ANGELA. 253 She had not the slightest apprehension for the future, for she had the most perfect confidence in her lover's good faith, and so simple and laborious was the life she was now leading — so difficult was the life in prospect before her, that for her all those perplexities of arrangement as to future views, which so often disturb the love engage- ments of the affluent, had no existence. With him every thing must be easier than without him. That they must both labour for their bread she knew, as she thought, well ; but to labour with him and for him, to meet the strife of life supported by his love and protected by his power, — oh, how had the scene changed ! As for those expressions of his which sometimes seemed mysterious, in truth, she had given little heed to them, and the avowal of his love was all in all to her. The new position she already held as his betrothed bride threw her into such a sweet confusion of thought that there was room for nothing else. All she knew or cared for was, that they were certainly to meet again early to- morrow. So she came in from the garden and entered the room where Margaret was still lying on her couch, though it was later than usual, for Mar- garet would not be persuaded to go up stairs till Angela came in. She entered, her head bent down but her cheek 254 ANGELA. bright and her eye glistening, her arms folded over her bosom, looking so lovely. Sweet Psyche ! I will not attempt to describe her. Margaret looked at her with much love, much tenderness, much sympathy, and all that gentle pity with which those who have tasted of these brightest joys of existence, and known how brief, how transient — more transient than the shining dew-drops of the morning — they are such — that g6ntle, tender pity, which fills the heart of those who have loved and suffered too, as they look U23on these young and trusting creatures in the first sweet ecstasy : but she did not speak. Angela was silent too, but she came up, kneeled down by Margaret, took her poor wasted hand, pressed it affectionately, and hid her face against the shawl which covered her. Margaret laid her kind hand upon that bended bead. " May the God you serve, bless you, my An- gela ! and grant you your dearest wishes — if it be His will, and if it be for your best happiness, my love.'' Angela raised her head now, pressed Margaret's hand, and looked into her face with such a sweet, blissful, confiding serenity, that Margaret felt the tears of mingled anxiety and gratitude fill her eyes. ANGELA. 255 *'Ah, my foolish, foolish Angela!" said she fondly, but with a tender sadness; ** is it so?" " Do you love him so very, very much al- ready ?" thought she to herself. ** Oh that to- morrow were but come !" Angela only bent down and kissed Margaret's hand again ; her heart was quite too full, at first, for speech. When she found words, the first she uttered were, — " And such a friend for you and the chil- dren ! '^ Yes, all her perplexities, all her anxieties, were at once dispelled ; shielded by his affection, the darkness of that threatening future which lowered so heavily before her was dispelled — the curtain had drawn up, and the prospect was all bright beyond. Voice once found, words flowed rapidly. Blushing, smiling — now hiding her face, now looking with all the bright sunshine of joy upon her countenance into Margaret's, she poured forth the feelings of her young and exquisitely happy heart. What plans for the future! what a life of simple enjoyment ! how much truthful affec- tion ! how much lively anticipation ! how much generous purpose ! how much gratitude to God 1 how much love for those loved before ! what a fresh glow of being, were poured out in sweet 256 ANGELA, disorder before the poor Margaret, who, looking upon her with her tender, anxious eyes, tried vainly to smother her sighs. Angela was so full of her own thoughts that she did not, at first, observe what Margaret strove hard to conceal ; at last, interrupting herself, she said, — " But you do not look so happy as I am, dear Margaret !" " Alas, my love ! " said the tender friend, gently, ** do not trouble yourself about me. Age and experience subdue us to quiet, even in the happiest hours. And then, my dear love, I do not know whether I ought to interrupt the hap- piness of this evening by saying it . . . ." " And yet, to see her go on in this perfect un- doubted confidence, can it be right?" asked she of herself. "Am I not adding error to error?" " My dear love, my dear Angela, those who have known how full of disappointment life is, can- not — it is impossible they can — enter into this fulness of satisfaction. And then, my dear," looking at her with a hesitating, anxious expres- sion, *' has it never, never once crossed your thoughts, how little we really know of this young man 7" *' Little we really know, Margaret! I feel as if I knew him better than any one else in the world . I cannot believe that it is so short a time ANGELA. 257 since we first met ; it seems to me as if my affec- tion for him, or his for me, knew no time. I could believe I have ever, as I shall ever, love him." Sweet Angela I and such is, in truth, the mys- terious infinity of real love ! Margaret looked at her, and sighed again. " Yes, my love, I understand you quite ; I know well that feeling, Angela; I have felt it too." '^Dear Margaret!" And she pressed the hand which she still held. '* But, my dear, I was thinking of knowing in a different view rather — knowing who he was ; what was his real condition in life, his friends, his connexions." " What does all that signify ? We know him,'' said Angela. " Perhaps we do not altogether know him. We know neither the life he has led, nor, indeed, the life he is leading ; why he is so strangely out of the way — whether any thing wrong " " Yoii may not know, Margaret," said Angela, suddenly dropping her hand, " but I do. Wrong ! No, I would pledge my life there was nothing wrong." Margaret looked at her sorrowfully, but the greater the undoubting confidence of Angela, the 258 ANGELA. more she tlionglit it imperatively her duty to en- deavour at opening her eyes. " I believe as you do, my dear," said she gently. *^ I think, however, that I do and can firmly be- lieve as you do : but my firm belief proves no- thing, and, in an affair of this importance, where all your worldly happiness is at stake, can I be too distrustful, too wary, my Angela ?" " Yes, a great, great deal. And now I under- stand some of Mr. Carteret's dark speeches, and his melancholy after he had talked with you, as if any one who knew him as we have done ought to doubt him for an instant. No wonder he was hurt ! Why, Margaret, what is there, after all, to tell? Did he represent himself as better than he is? did he not say his parents were poor, and that he was an artist? But he is evidently no common artist, no common man ; and what am I that I should require more ?" " Oh, Carteret, Carteret !" murmured she, in her inner heart, as she turned a little away, but she did not vent this in words, ''were you the poorest of human beings, fallen into the lowest condition of human life, I should be blest, be exalted, by your love." She had felt angry, but Angela was, indeed, of a temper which " carries anger as the flint bears fire ;" it was not two seconds before she had again ANGELA. 259 turned to Margaret, had again taken her hand, and had said : — ** Forgive me, kind, kind friend, but 1 feel as if I could not bear to have the slightest shadow of distrust thrown upon him : it seems to me cruel and unjust. But it is I who am unjust to your tender care for me, my more than mother. But see, how pale and faint you look ! and it is so late — eleven o'clock, I protest !" as the clock struck. " You ought to have been in bed these two hours ! How very, very selfish, I have been !" *' .Don't be uneasy about me," she added, with a sweet trusting smile, seeing the expression of perplexity and uneasiness in Margaret's counte- nance. " Don't be anxious about me. Ah, if we had no other ground for anxiety than Mr. Carteret's truth ! Don't, don't, sweet mother. — There, that's right ; you look more comfortable now." She felt so ; the confidence of Angela restored her own, and the distrusts inspired by Nurse gave way. " At all events," thought she, " we will wait till the morning." And she fell asleep, satisfied with this con- clusion, and quite impressed with a certainty that the morning explanation would justify her child^s confidence. 260 ANGELA. If I venture, in these slight fictitious pages, to bring forward the awful subject of religion, in its relations with the human character, it is not without many hesitations and scruples. To speak, in a fiction, of that dread reality- may appear irreverent and out of place — might seem even to evince something of that dreamy, imaginative view of the subject which, with many, is substituted for the intense sense of its truth — its living truth, which ought to be- long to every rational being ; but when I reflect how vital, how important, how vast a part reli- gion makes in every human soul — how much it affects every human life and influences every human character, whether as believed or even as disbelieved — for, created as we are for it, no one can altogether escape its influence — it appeared to me that to attempt as some, from the very best motives have done, to omit a reference to the subject in works of this description, was neces- sarily to present a very maimed, imperfect, and most unreal picture of human feelings — a picture equally dangerous and false : for nothing, as I believe, can be more fatal or more dangerously false, than to accustom the mind by such repre- sentations, to consider the ordinary course of ANGELA. 261 human life as a thing apart from this great sub- ject, or as what could be carried on independently of it. The actual experience of every infidel or even atheist would, I am firmly persuaded, prove the contrary ; the life of every man who retains a shadow of belief denies it. I have therefore, trusting in the mercy of the great Father of us all to forgive me if I do amiss, ventured to touch upon these great realities in describing the workings of an imaginary soul — I humbly hope for good. For woe is me if, in mingling such dread truths with visions of my fancy I strengthen, in the slightest degree, that but too common error, that most dangerous and fallacious habit of regarding these awful truths something as we regard poetic visions. Forgive this solemn preface. The Old Man is sinking into years, and life is beginning to cast off its exterior forms, its anxious cares, its vain hopes, its intense affections ; other, and deeper, and more serious, views of things succeed, and, as they succeed, a more trembling fear to do wrong, to impede any human soul in its true progress, arises with them. The young, strenuous, generous, devoted cha- i*acter whose secret workings I am attempting to display, was grounded, rooted, built up, nou- rished upon, religion. 262 ANGELA. And firmly do I believe that nothing but that strong sense of religion, that pure childlike faith, which in youth is so deeply earnest and so greatly needed, could have enabled her to meet, as meet she did, the struggle that lay be- fore her. This night behold her kneeling in her little room, her great happiness still rendered greater by the deep loving gratitude with which she is re- viewing it ; she is pouring out her heart before the great Father of all things, and rendering thanks for his goodness and his providence. She trou- bles not herself with vain metaphysical inquiries into the nature of those relations into which it is utterly impossible for man to penetrate — she troubles herself not with the how or the where — she has her Saviour's word for it, not a sparrow falls, not even one hair of the head, "without your Father." Father ! She remembers her own father — his tender care, his deep solicitude for her w^elfare, and she is allowed to call God Father ; she is invited to carry all her troubles, wants, and cares to Him ; and shall she not offer her thanks and praises for the privilege? Warm and glowing her feel- ings have been upon the occurrence of any little joyful event ; but what are they now^? — her heart seems too full to contain them. ANGELA. 263 You must realise to its full extent her forlorn and helpless situation, to imagine even faintly the rest, the repose, the relief, of feeling herself pro- tected and safe under the care of one she loved and trusted so entirely. See her now standing at her little window, her eyes wandering amid the pathless depths of heaven — amid the dazzling stars, bright and effulgent, on that calm and beautiful night — bathing her soul, as it were, in a sea of joy and thankfulness. She slept so sweetly ! She rose in the morning looking more than ever lovely. 264 ANGELA. CHAPTER XVI. Didst thou but know how pale I sat at home, My eyes still turn'd the way thou wert to come ! Vernon. It was impossible to sleep after six o'clock. She was up soon after sunrise. He would come to breakfast, she was certain : there were fruit and flowers to be gathered and arranged. You may see her there in the garden, gather- ing of the sweetest and best. Her little breakfast table is soon prepared ; there are plates of red and white currants, and red and white rasp- berries, and they are strewed all over with sweet peas, roses, and mignonette : it is fanciful, but very pretty. There is a glass jug full of milk — one of the few little elegancies Margaret possesses ; the tea-things are set out, and her chair and his, and two chairs for the children, for they must all breakfast together. He is no stranger guest now. ANGELA. 265 ** As it is to-day, so it will soon be every day," says her heart. She goes to Margaret's door to listen — all is quiet. Margaret, she fears, has had a bad night, for Nurse has not come out yet ; so she goes to help Biddy to dress the children. They must be very nice this morning. She is rather fluttered and in a hurry, poor, dear Angela ! She is sadly afraid that he may come before the children are all ready. She wants to have the children with her in the sitting- room before he comes in, for she does not know quite how she shall look if he should come before Margaret is down and find her alone. She leaves the children, and goes to her own room to put on her dress and her clean muslin apron and collar. She must go by Margaret's door, — every thing was very still there. Poor little children ! It has struck nine, and that cruel Angela has not yet given them their breakfast. They have had a little bread and milk, it is true, but now they are sitting on their little chairs ringing with their spoons against their plates, wondering when Mr. Carteret will come, and they shall have their share of milk and ripe currants. Such a treat to them, simple, little things ! "Angela! Angela! do give us some break- fast." VOL. I. N 266 ANGELA. She was standing upon the steps. " Directly, my loves." She hears the garden- gate open. " Directly, my darlings," — hurrying in, and sitting down in haste at the head of her little table ; afraid she ought not to have seemed waiting for him. She began with a shaking hand to help out the currants, and to pull them for the impatient little ones. A step approaches, and her heart beats fast, and her hands shake — and her colour will come, and the spoonful of currants is tumbled all over her neat white table-cloth. But he does not come up the steps, so she looks up. It is only an old gardener that comes in to look after the fruit-trees now and then. '* Did he say ha would come to breakfast? I thought he did," said she to herself, looking at the clock ; " but I must have mistaken him. It was all such a hurry and confusion last night. He never has come so early as this. I dare say, nay, I have heard him say it is a long walk. I should not like him to think I had waited for him." '' Make haste, my loves, and finish; I want to clear away." She drank a cup of tea, and then she hurried away the tea-things, cleared away the table her- self, and set out her drawing. But it was quite impossible to draw. ANGELA. 267 Nurse at last made her appearance. *' Oh, Nurse, how is she ? I thought you never — never woukl come clown ! I ain afraid she has had a bad night." *'She was sure to have a bad night," growled Nurse, " after sitting up till eleven o'clock, as she did ; and now she ought to lie quiet, and try to get a little doze : bat she won't do that. She's as obstinate as a mule this nioining, and insists npon getting up and coming down. It will be as good as the death of her, I tell you, Miss Angela." *' Shall I go and try to persuade her to lie still?" cried Angela, rising hastily. " What's the use of that ? I've done all I can — you'll only worry her ; and, besides, the more she sees vou the more she'll come. It's all a-eoncern- ing you, as I expect. But you'll see the conse- quences — mark my words !" Even this could not annoy Angela much at this moment. She felt the absolute necessity of Mar- garet being with her that morning — she should have double rest afterwards ; besides, she was certain that the rest of the spirit which must be hers when this day of excitement was once over, and all happily settled, would more than repay her for every extra exertion. So she said nothing more except to inquire 268 ANGELA. about Margaret's breakfast, in the preparation of which she soon busied herself. She found this little effort much more possible than the attempt at drawing ; and so she passed away another hour. It struck ten. She hoped now that he would not come till Margaret was comfortably down stairs, all the little bustle of getting her upon the sofa over, and Nurse, with her cross ways, dismissed. She was, as I said, never allowed to go into Margaret's sleeping- room ; but she watched im- patiently at the foot of the stairs, thinking she would never come down. Then she remembered luncheon. lie must have something, at all events, when he comes in ; he w^ould be so tired. The arranging a little luncheon of fruit and bread filled, happily enough, the remainder of the hour. As it struck eleven, Margaret, supported by Nurse, entered the room. Very weak, very faint, very ill she looked. Angela flew to her to support her. *' Rest your head upon my shoulder," as, in de- fiance of Nurse's angry looks, she held her in her arms, almost carried her to her couch, and hung tenderly over her. " Oh, my Margaret! this is ANGELA. 269 your worry about me. How bad your cough is ! it seems worse than ever." •' She's done nothing but cough all night," said Nurse, gruffly. ** Oh, but she'll be better soon !" said Angela, bending over her so affectionately, and looking so happy, yet so tender, that nothing could be sweeter. "You'll be better soon; won't you, Margaret? See," said she, as Nurse retreated — " see how considerate of propriety he is, dear mother — sweet, young, prudent mamma," caress- ing her. " You see he would not come till he was sure you would be down stairs. Was not that right?" But Margaret looked very ill and suffering ; nothing seemed to soothe her ; she tried to smile, but she could not. The exertion of coming down after her bad night and the excitement of the previous day, had produced so much increase of illness that not all her fortitude could support her. She sank back fainting upon the pillow. In this dreadful state of bodily exhaustion all moral power is so completely lost, that the in- terest in external things is, for the moment, quite deadened. Margaret seemed insensible to the intense interest of the morning. It was not till some cordials had been ad- 270 ANGELA. ministered, and slie had reposed for about half an hour, that she was sufficiently recovered to open her eyes, and she looked at Angela to inquire what o'clock it w^as, and whether he was come. "Half-past twelve!" said Angela with asto- nishment, looking at the clock. " I could not have conceived it possible — so late!" "When did he say he would come?" asked Margaret, after the silence of another half hour. "I don't know — I cannot quite recollect," said Angela, who was now red, now pale, and whose heart beat so fast that she felt quite sick. " Go and take a turn in the orchard, my dear," said Margaret; "you want a little air — you will not be seen from the road." But she knew that from one point in that orchard walk she could see a good way up the road herself. Angela went into the orchard. She wanted to be alone. Her heart, as on all occasions of distress and terror, was beginning to call upon God. At one o'clock the children, hungry as little hounds, came in from their walk, calling out for their dinner. The untouched luncheon of fruit stood upon ANGELA. 271 the table. She had quite forgotten their dinner. The poor little things became fretful, and began to cry with disappointment. " Be quiet, children, do ! — do be quiet!" cried Angela, more impatiently than she had ever been known to speak before. " I quite forgot how- late it was ; and Nurse is asleep, and forgot too. Do — do be good, for Heaven's sake, Tommy ! — do give over roaring ! " " I want my dinner !" Nothing can pacify the cry of hunger in a child. Happy thus far, at least, that as yet she had wherewithal to satisfy it. These children were not accustomed to luxuries. There was soon cold meat and bread set for them, and she gave them the fruit instead of pudding ; so they were more than contented. And then she went and sat down upon the steps where she had sad last night, his arm round her waist, gazing at the stars and thanking God. And there she laid her face upon her knees and listened,' as if she would penetrate the depths of silence for his step. But no step came. When the clock struck three, and not till 272 ANGELA. then, she roused herself, re-entered the room, and came to Margaret. Her face was very pale, and her eyes glazed. She said nothmg, but sat down and took hold of her friend's hand. Neither could Margaret speak. They sat in mute expectation, holding each other's hands. It struck four, and then five. And, without saying a word, Angela rose up and prepared for tea. She had quite forgotten every thing — all her little duties and employ- ments, in the expectation that every succeeding five minutes would bring him. Shocked at her forgetfulness, she now hastily rose to get Margaret's tea. " Something has delayed him," said Margaret, in a tone which endeavoured to appear cheerful. " He will either come or write you may be quite sure, Angela. I have no doubt of it." The young girl said nothing ; but she looked deathly pale. Her heart told her that something extraordinary must have happened to account for this delay. — She began to be terrified at she knew not what. She sat upon the steps, with her face bowed upon her knees — Listening. — Margaret, also, as hour after hour rolled on. ANGELA. 273 and still he did not appear — as the sun, witli a glorious golden and crimson light bursting forth from beneath a dark, threatening cloud, sank behind the distant trees — as the stars came twinkling forth — as the curfew, which still in that remote village sounded, was rung — as gra- dually the rural sounds of labour subsided, and every thing was hushed into profound still- ness. — Still as that silent chamber where she lay extended, breathing with difficulty. Margaret, also, began to feel a cold chill creep- ing over her spirits. She did not, like Angela, with a perturbed soul anticipate some strange and horrible event ; but what was, perhaps, more painful, her suspicions that all w^as not as it should be — that there was a mystery w^hich could not be explained hidden under his strange, unaccountable behaviour — that there was wrong somewhere — her conviction of this grew stronger and stronger every hour. She now recollected perfectly that he had promised to be with her early in the morning, and then to satisfy her doubts — and he had neither come nor sent. Very far off, beyond a walk at least, his lodg- ing could not possibly be situated. Surely, if any unforeseen accident had prevented him coming he might have sent. At last it struck ten. n2 274 ANGELA. Then Angela got up from her seat upon the steps, and coming up to Margaret with a look in which emotion and disappointment were strug- gling against a determination to be calm, she said, — ** My dear Margaret, I forget every thing to day — pray forgive me. You must go to bed. Sleep to-night for my sake. We shall hear of him to-morrow — lam sure we shall. It would be less painful to me to bear this uncertainty if I could see you satisfied as to him. Only believe me — I am as certain as that I stand here that Carteret is true ! " '' Heaven grant it so ! '' was all Margaret could say, bowing her head. ANGELA. 275 CHAPTER XVII. Yes, there are real mourners — I have seen a fair, sad girl, mild, suffering, and serene. — Crabbe. O Thou who hast been the guide of my youth, the strength of my early years, the rock on which I trust, forsake me not now ! Three weeks have elapsed — three weeks of a suffering almost too horrible to describe . Three weeks ! and not the slightest sign of his existence given. He has vanished from before their eyes as if he had never been ; but the light he had shed duriuo- his brief transit had rendered the sue- ceeding darkness more frightful. An Egyptian darkness, which might be felt. Not one single syllable, not one single trace by 276 ANGELA. which to follow him, or obtain the least intelli- gence of him ! He had vanished like a dream. No one about the farm had the slightest idea whence he came, or knew any thing whatever about him. Mrs. Whitwell shrugged her shoul- ders, and wondered whether he had borrowed any money from the ladies — was glad he hadn't asked her husband, though she hoped Whitwell knew better what he was about now with artists — burnt child dreads the fire — and so on. Nurse, who was of a suspicious temper, and always thought the worst of every thing and every body, began to harbour the most injurious thoughts. Margaret was in an agony of suspense, fear, and unwillino^ distrust. Angela alone had no doubts. The slightest suspicion against his sincerity and truth had not once — no, not once crossed her mind. She could as soon have doubted her own existence as his good faith. She thought she knew him better than the rest ; and she certainly had possessed better opportunities of judging him justly. She was persuaded that nothing but death could have thus suddenly and completely ter- minated their intercourse. The suspense was frightful. For some days she would be walking for hours ANGELA. 277 in the garden which overlooked the road, watching every person who went up to the farm, fancying she saw the messenger who should bring intel- ligence of some dreadful catastrophe. But no one brought any news. Nothing dreadful seemed to have happened in the neighbourhood ; there was no rumour of accident or disaster. She would wander in those fields near the house where she had met him at the time of the attack from the bull — those fields over which she knew he was accustomed to come. In vain! there was not the slightest trace of him. As her hopes of receiving intelligence by some accidental means died away, she wandered still farther and farther into the labyrinth of fields and hedges behind the house, pursuing the dif- ferent footpaths in various directions, equally in vain : they mostly terminated in distant, solitary farm-houses, or lost themselves in woods, or ended in the great high-roads. Still no trace of him. There were a few cattle ponds in these fields. Could he, the night he left her, have missed his way and have fallen into any one of these ? But was it possible that such an event could have hap- pened without the persons with whom he lodged being alarmed at his sudden disappearance, and their having made inquiries the country round for 278 ANGELA. him ; and then, his steps being traced, would not some intelligence of his fate have reached them? Was it possible that he could have visited the farm every day for three weeks, and no one where he lodged have been in the least degree aware of it ? She could not, of course, walk many miles in any direction ; and, indeed, she was so persuaded that he lived pretty near them, that she did not attempt to go beyond a certain distance. She employed herself rather in visiting and revisiting this labyrinth of fields and hedges — searching every hedge, and ditch, and pond, that lay near, endeavouring to trace his footsteps in the soft earth, than in extending her researches further, — a matter, as the circle extended, which would indeed have been a hopeless task. So she never actually reached the brow of the last hill which commanded a view of his father's castle ; and even had she, that would have been the very last place in which she would have thought of inquiring for him. The castle was indeed so far from the farm, and the little village to which the farm belonged so secluded and so insignificant a place, that its very existence was unknown at Sherington ; which accounts for there not being the slightest communication between the two places upon this occasion. ANGELA. 279 Thus these terrible three weeks of agitation, restless seai-ch, hope of the morning and despair of the night, had passed, she knew not how. At last came the awakening hour. He was gone, and she should see him never more. And she turned to God. She bent her head like the patriarch of old, this young and patient creature, and worshipped. " The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away : blessed be the name of the Lord." She had strength to say it. It was a terrible night of agony and struggle, that night upon which she finally abandoned hope, and resolved with herself to return to the duties of her daily life and forget her short vision of joy. She did indeed wrestle in prayer that night, and those who have so done alone know the force and truth of that expression. She finally prevailed. She came down that next morning firm and composed ; and from that day she men- tioned his name no more. She gave herself entirely to the task of at- tending upon Margaret, who was now getting 280 ANGELA. rapidly worse, and of providing for the wants of the children, which were now becoming terribly pressing. Her three weeks' abstraction had thrown her little affairs into great confusion. She forgave herself for this ; she alone knew how impossible it would have been to have done otherwise : but now she set herself strenuously to endeavour at repairing the evil. The disease under which poor Margaret laboured had, indeed, during this agitating interval, been making rapid advances. Deprived suddenly of all that support and nourishment which the care and assiduity of Car- teret had supplied, and her mind at the same time torn by the most agitating feelings, the im- provement which had once held forth such flat- tering hopes of ultimate recovery was at once stopped, and the disease seemed gathering strength every day. Those dreadful symptoms, which had given but too certain warning of her fate, returned with increased force, and she felt that she must shortly prepare to depart. The separation which Nurse had effected, and which she now more than ever most rigidly maintained — the exclusion of Angela from her friend^s bedchamber, hid these aggravated symp- ANGELA. 281 toms for some time from her observation : the sufferings of the night and the increased horrors of the morning were carefully concealed from her. Margaret, so full of tender sympathy for others, so patient and submissive for herself, regarded the burden already laid upon this young heart as more than sufficient for its strength, and exerted herself in every way to conceal the increased illness which she knew would occasion Angela so much distress. In the agitation, in the absorption of thought, in the energy of searching, in the alternations of hope and despair which lasted during the first three weeks, Margaret had found the task of concealment easy ; but now that Angela had made the struggle with herself — had broken, as it were, her connexion with this visionary past, and had returned to devote her whole attention and all her powers of body and mind to the task before her, it was in ^vain longer to dissemble. Two days had not elapsed before she was aware of the fatal truth. Margaret was growing rapidly weaker and weaker, her disease was ad- vancing with giant strides. It was a sore struggle, unaided as she now was, to provide the means to procure the little delica- cies and comforts more than ever necessary ; but 282 ANGELA. provided they must be. Angela had to labour night and day. Often and often at midnight she might have been seen, sitting in that large gloomy room alone, still plying her task by the light of a small tallow-candle, when all around her was perfectly still, — the chamber of the invalid long closed, the children and their little nurse fast asleep, all the busy labours of the farm suspended, every thing profoundly silent. They would have been dangerous hours tliese for a less constant heart. As the work passed through her wearied fin- gers — as her head began to grow confused with unceasing toil — as every limb was aching with fatigue — when every earthly support seemed withdrawn, and she left utterly alone to her regrets, — it was a hard trial for only nineteen. But she spent the time well. Simply — as a child might have done ; but not all the wisdom of the world could have taught her to employ it better. There is this blessing in unhappiness : we come with more undoubting confidence to our heavenly Father — the suffering and the sorrowful, the mourner and the sorely tried and tempted, cast themselves upon Him with a stronger faith. And she found it so. She had loved Him ANGELA. 283 with all her heart, with all her strength, and with all her might ; but she knew not the greatness of her trust until now. With perfect submission and patience, she had accepted tlie cup presented. She never once thought of murmuring ; she never rebelled and said it was hard. She knew w^ell, that what was offered to her would never be found too hard if met in the spirit with which it was sent. She employed those silent hours in purifying her heart and strengthening her spirit, in con- firming her faith and trust. She never allowed herself to look forwards into that dark and doubtful future which lay before her ; sufficient for the day was the evil thereof. Inestimable precept ! as so many sufferers have proved. Sufficient for the day is its own evil; and thus parted and parcelled out into portions, as it were, how much suffering may be, and is, got through ! The soul, collected in itself to meet the present, and agitated by no vain inquiries into the un- known future, possesses a strength and composure which triumphs in the severest struggles ; while the vain, and anxious, and faithless mind, dis- tracted by its own anxieties, has neither attention nor energy left to meet the actual now. 284 ANGELA.. There is no danger of the precept being mistaken. I believe it was by a simple adherence to this and such-like rules that this young creature was able to effect so much both for herself and others. w w w w The two friends had sat silently together for some time. They had now reached the beginning of Septem- ber, and the evenings had become unusually cold and chilly. Coals, in that part of the country, were ex- tremely dear, and many an additional hour had Angela plied her needle to enable her to purchase a few hundred weight. She had taught the little ones to be useful when they could, and in their daily walks a few sticks and fir-cones were collected ; with these she had just heaped up a pleasant little blazing fire. She had shut the windows and drawn the cur- tains. The equinoctial gales roared and whistled ANGELA. 285 outside tlie house ; but it was warm and tranquil within. Warm and tranquil as her own good heart. She sat by her little round work-table, busily employed in making up coarse linen into plough- men's shirts, her needle passing rapidly through her work, and the click of her scissors from time to time being the only sound that broke the deep silence, except, indeed, at intervals, the short dry cough and the painful breathings of poor Margaret : but she always felt rather stronger and better at this hour of the day. Angela thought she was dozing, she lay so still ; but she was not dozing. She was lying with her bright eyes fixed upon her step-daugh- ter, watching her as she worked. She had been wishing for some time to have a serious conversation with her ; but her rapidly increasing illness had till now prevented this. But she felt more equal to it this evening; in- deed, unusually, unaccountably well. *' I do indeed wonder at you, my Angela," at last she began. '' Do you?" said x\ngela, lifting up her face, now filled with a gentle gravity, which rendered its youth and beauty more than ever interest- ing. '^ I sometimes could wonder at myself, Margaret." *' What generous courage you have shewn. 286 ANGELA. my love ! And yet, what you must have suf- fered !" " I have suffered," said Angela, in a faltering voice ; " but the worst of that is now over." " Ah, my dear, the past, thank God, has been endured, and my precious Angela's health is still untouched ; but the future, my love — the future ! Have you ventured to look seriously forward to the future ? I fear these are but the beginnings of sorrows, my dearest girl." ** * Let the morrow take thought for the things of itself,^ Margaret. I hope, and I believe, that terrible future, which I know you are thinking of, is far, far off — may perhaps never come." " It is close at hand," said Margaret, in a hollow voice. Angela started, turned round, looked at her. Her colour and eye were bright; her breathing seemed less difficult than usual. The terror which had been excited by Margaret's words died away as she gazed. " No, no, no!" said she, rallying her spirits; " dear, dear Margaret, you will get better yet." " No," said Margaret, *' that is a delusion ; I shall never get better, and I shall soon depart. As long as I thought that hour at some dis- tance I thought like you. I did not wish to anticipate sorrow. — I thought we would live to the present ; there was nothing, indeed, else to ANGELA. 287 be done. But now, my child, the consideration of some things we must delay no longer. I must talk with you, Angela, to-night. Can you bear it? /can." Angela made no answer, bat laid down her work and came and sat down by Margaret. " We must first speak of money," said Mar- garet. " The last payment for the insurance of my life was duly sent, was it not?'^ *' Yes," and she colon led, for she recollected how hard she had been pressed to pay it — that she had borrowed a few pounds from Nurse to make up the sum, which debt yet remained un- discharged. " You will not have to pay another, my dear. This life-insurance will give you two hundred and fifty pounds ; and that, with our little clothes and furniture, is every farthing there is left for you and my children. There is, indeed, a share of the D n prize-money, to which your father is entitled ; but it is now between sixteen and seventeen years that it has remained undivided, and it will probably never come till all have perished who had need of it. Your father had earned his share with his life I But why do I revert to these harassing things ?" ** My father looked upon it as lost," said Angela; *' and he taught us to do so. He used to talk to me a good deal, the few months before 288 ANGELA. he died, when we were alone. He told me what, as an officer's daughter, 1 had to expect ; that his whole little fortune had been sunk in his com- mission, but that, as long as there was any hope of his life, he had been unwilling to part with it. If he died suddenly, before the sale was completed about which he had then begun a negotiation, he told me I should be utterly penniless ; and, even if completed, my portion would be so small, that I should be obliged to work for my living." *' ' Had I been a stock-broker, Angela,' he would say, ' I might have left you thousands ; but a poor, wounded, crippled soldier has no resource.' " *' He used to feel these things bitterly at times, I fear, my love, for our sakes, more than perhaps he ought to have done. I know not," added Margaret, sadly, ''what right we have to com- plain ; our fate is but the fate of numbers." '^ He then told me," Angela went on, '' that I must at once make up my mind to earn my bread. He used to point out the difficulties I should have to encounter, and the dangers and various temptations which I might meet with. He talked to me very openly, because he said my situation was peculiar. I do not know why it should be very peculiar either, for there are thousands of governesses working for their bread every day." ANGELA. 289 Margaret made no observation upon this, but looked at tbe beautiful and talented young* crea- ture, and well understood the poor father's anxieties. " I have not forgotten one syllable that he said. And he then told me to have good cou- rage, and look my situation bravely in the face ; and I try to do so." Margaret was silent ; she was thinking of her children. Angela understood her silence, and went on. " Though you have sometimes said, that I pique myself on never looking forward to the morrow, yet I have not been so unwise as not to lay my plans for the future, which yet — which yet Ah, Margaret !" " The time is come^ my dear," said Margaret, laying her hot and wasted hand on hers. " You would like to hear ; it will not tire you to hear my plans." *' Ah my love!" *' When — when it is all over, I shall sell all we possess here, and make as much money as I can, and then I shall pay every thing and every body : there is not much owing. Then I shall dis- charge Biddy, and, with Nurse and the children, I shall go to London. Nurse has a cousin living in London, and at her house we can get very cheap and respectable lodgings. And then I VOL. I. o 290 ANGELA. shall go out as a governess ; and with the salary I mean to get, and the interest of what little money there is left, I shall be able to maintain our children, till they can do as I do, and maintain themselves " " My child! my best, dearest, most generous child ! what can I say 1 — Alas ! what ought I to say? — All your hard-earned pittance to go to them !" And the tears now streamed down her cheeks. " Dear, dear mother, don't, don't vex yourself about that; only be thankful that I am strong and well, and able to provide for us all. As I am quite sure I shall be — I am not in the least afraid ; indeed, I feel as if I should like it. I am so fond of children, and I had much better have some- thing to do; I had, indeed, Margaret. And I should have no pleasure in toiling for myself. Who could?" ** I can never, now," she added, in a lower voice, " have any children of my own to love. I have got over it ; but I am not going to try to forget it : no, no. Then, what a blessing it is to have these dear little ones belonging to me!" Margaret could only sigh, and look at her so strong in courage, yet so earnest and serious too. She knew better than Angela what the pain and the difficulty of actual life is ; and she wanted something of her confidence and faith, and some- ANGELA. 291 tiling' of her strenuous, sanguine temper. Physical suffering had by this time wasted the power of character she once possessed ; but she had never possessed so much energy as her stepdaughter. She had never been, till of late, deprived of the support of others ; and, even thus protected, she had found the battle of life a fearful thing. But she would not have discouraged her for the universe ; she only pressed her hand in answer, lifted up her eyes with an expression of grateful, wondering admiration, and was silent. The next morning Margaret was dead* 292 ANGELA. CHAPTER XVIIL The event is now irrevocable ; it remains only to bear it. Johnson. The bell in the little church -tower tolls so- lemnly this fine, still September morning; and dov,ai the road between the green hedges, and through the little gateway, and up the path be- tween these rural graves and artless monuments of the departed, the coffin of poor Margaret is carried. Behind it walk in mourning hoods, each hold- ing one of the little children by the hand, Angela and old Nurse, their handkerchiefs to their eyes, trying not to weep aloud. She has striven to bear this, as she has borne so much before, with firmness and composure : but it is a sore struggle, as the body of her last friend sinks into the earth, and the stones rattle ANGELA. 293 upon the lid, to prevent her agony giving itself vent in cries. Margaret is laid by the side of her husband. A simple mound of turf, kept together by wicker- vrork, marks the spot. Angela had nothing to spend in memorials for the dead, nothing to spare for the fond longings of affection. The funeral over, she walked home quietly with the little children, now her own ; and, as she en- tered her deserted home, embraced and kissed them both with a mother's heart. Then she went up stairs, took of her hood, and went to fetch the baby. She took it and pressed it to her bosom, and went and walked in the garden with it slumber- ing in her arms, for the little creature was quiet and asleep ; and so she spent that evening in me- ditation and prayer. i\nd she did not feel herself deserted. Mrs. Whitwell at first shewed a good deal of kindness upon this occasion. In cases of this nature, the hardest and most indifferent hearts are touched. There is always immediate sympathy and immediate help for sufferers in such moments, and so far it is well. 294 ANGELA. Pity, sometimes, that such sjaiipathy and such kind help cannot last a little longer. Nurse, too, was neither cross nor unmanage- able at first ; and Biddy cried a great deal, most honestly and naturally. Altogether, Angela found these first days of loneliness much more tolerable than she had expected. She began, immediately that the funeral was over, to talk to Nurse of her future plans. She found her a sensible and a kind adviser. The old woman was testy, suspicious, obstinate, and provoking; and when there were two sides of a question, she was very apt to take the wrong one, and that once done, to adhere to it, as the saying is, through thick and thin, — deaf to argument, and perfectly incapable of compre- hending reasoning. But here two sides there were not. Necessity was absolute, and unquestionably bread must be provided. The widow's pension had ceased with her life, and there were three little children that must not be starved. That some means of obtaining subsistence must be found more profitable than sewing, which would not provide half the means to feed them, let her sew day and night, was plain. No place of refuge in the world had they to go to ; Angela had not a relation living to whom she ANGELA. 295 could apply ; Margaret had been equally desti- tute. To afford a chance of procuring employ- ment it was necessary to leave this solitary place, and there seemed nowhere to go but to London. Nurse's cousin was the only person they knew to whom they might apply for assistance in for- warding Angela's views, and who would afford them protection in that large, and to them awful, place. As Angela had told Margaret, she lived there, and, as it appeared, kept a small shop somewdiere in Westminster, near Westminster Bridge, and added to her means by letting her first floor. Nurse wrote that very night to ask whether they could have that first floor. This cousin had, before she married, lived as head nurse in several rich families ; and Nurse hoped that, through her means. Miss Angela might hear of some respectable situation. The next thing was to dispose of the little furniture and property they possessed. Nurse talked of a sale by auction, saying that she was sure in those remote places things were thus got rid of to great advantage, often fetching even more than their original price. There were several bits of things, as she remarked, that the neighbouring farmers' wives were sure to like ; and if you once got the spirit of bidding up 296 ANGELA. among them, there was no knowing what they might not give. But Mrs. Whitwell would hear of no such proceeding in her house. The truth was, she had set her heart upon keeping the apartments in their present state, in order to tempt future lodgers, or, possibly, with the intention of at last inhabiting them herself; for the stirring Mrs. Whit\vell was getting rich, in spite of her husband's unfortunate ten- dency to compassion. And there were several little matters connected with the ancient habits of the ladies, which, simple and inexpensive as they were, were esteemed very beautiful in this retired corner of the world. So Mrs. Whitwell positively refused to have any thing like an auction in her house ; and said they might sell their things at the village inn if they 6hose, or she would take them at a valu- ation, just as they pleased. " It was all one to her," said Mrs. Whitwell. But she knew they had no alternative. To move her little property for sale to the inn would, her adviser Nurse declared, be quite ruinous. " Them sort of things," as she justly observed, " looked very neat where they were, but went for nothing when once taken out of their places." And then she went into a rage against Mrs. ANGELA. 297 Whitwell, for her ill- nature in not allowing a sale upon the premises ; and long and loud were the altercations which thence arose. They stood quarrelling and abusing each other in Angela's presence ; while she, looking scared and disgusted, was then first initiated into that atmosphere of true vulgarity which too often surrounds the rude and ignorant — the atmosphere of that world with which she now must learn to make herself acquainted. She, gentle and refined as she was, had now to come in close contact with those ill-regulated passions, those low and sordid views, those coarse manners, and that gross language, which dis- figure that ill-educated and half-civilised portion of mankind which still, alas ! makes up so large a portion of every society — and which it has been, perhaps, too much the habit of mistaken philan- thropists in fiction lately to disregard in their manner of writing to and about them. It is well to recollect that mobs may be flat- tered as well as princes, and that a great deal of judicious — nay, stern — moral discipline, as well as great kindness, is what, in the endeavour to benefit them, is most particularly required. And that upon this principle, as one instance, was our New Poor-Law framed ; a principle which, it is to be hoped, will never be aban- doned,' — for the best of principles it surely is. o2 298 ANGELA. let some mistaken philanthropists say what they will about it. Our pleasant friend, Paddy, has been upon the verge of being ruined by such negligent indul- gence; and if people do not look carefully to it, instead of being disciplined into a good, industri- ous, merry, happy fellow, as he ought to be, he is in danger moi'e than ever of sinking into a loung- ing, idle, and worse than idle, savage. It was a great trial throughout the whole of Angela's painful course to find herself exposed to this rude, unrestrained coarseness, in so many with whom she had intimately to do. Now the Old Man is not going to sit down with the imputation that he is fond of the aristocracy, and can see no merit in any among the lower orders ; all his recitals refute the charge. Merit and goodness are of all conditions ; vulgarity and meanness may be found every where : but it would be strangely contradictory not to suppose — it would be to refuse all benefit to gentle cul- ture to deny — that the lower you descend in the scale of society, the more these faults ruust and will abound ; and that, therefore, in his dealings with these classes, measures must be taken ac- cordingly. It would be difficult to say whether poor Angela suffered more from Mrs. Whitwell's rude and selfish disregard of all her feelings and wishes, ANGELA, 299 or from Nurse's violent and abusive manner of taking her part. There was, in short, a battle royal between these two good women ; for, when once they had passed the bounds of self-restraint and propriety, the lengths to which they went were really asto- nishing. In vain Angela endeavoured to silence Nurse, and to quiet Mrs. Whitwell, who at last began threatening to turn them all out of her house, neck and heels, for their impudence. At last Nurse, fairly tired out by her own vio- lence — for we know she was old, and not very strong — seemed not sorry to make a drawn battle of it ; and upon Biddy entering and calling her away upon some business or other, she retreated, leaving Angela and Mrs. Whitwell to settle the matter as they could. Angela then gently said, that she w^as sorry Nurse had been so violent, for unquestionably Mrs. Whitwell was at perfect liberty to do what she thought best upon the subject. " Much obliged to you, miss, for the permis- sion!" was the answer, with a toss of the head. '* I suppose every body knows that, without such a clever young lady as you being found ready to learn it them. Do what I like best with my own ! I should suppose so!" 300 ANGELA. '' Well, Mrs. Whitwell, so I said." " Yes, 3^es, said I when that scold of an old woman has been blackguarding me for an hour, ind 5^ou standing by ! But I'll tell you what, Miss Nevil, or Miss Angela, I said I'd take all your paltry goods at a valuation, but I'll have nothing to do with 'em now. Carry them away with you, where you like ; and as for the when you like, the sooner the better : for your quarter is up, and I name to-morrow ! " Angela was not deficient in spirit ; she had never been cowed by ill-judged severity, or more ill-judged mortification : her character had been tempered, not broken ; true courage was her peculiar attribute, and she had resolution to with- stand ill treatment when necessary. ^' You must do as you please, ma'am," she said ; '^ but I am sure you are hurried now. Nurse is an excellent person, I need not remind you ; but she has a hasty temper, we all know : but I do not think, when you are a little cooler yourself, that you will feel inclined to increase the dif- ficulties that surround me by driving me away in this manner. As for the furniture, you said you wished to have it ; it will be better for me to part with it to you, than to move it down to the village for sale. You know of what con- sequence a little money is to me, who am so very ANGELA. 301 poor ; and I don't tliink, when you have reflected a little, you will refuse to take it at a valuation, as you almost promised, because Nurse has been rather cross and rude." Mrs. Whitwell, who was accustomed to rage at will, and never to hear a truth from any living being, except it might be now and then from an insolent servant or so, looked perfectly amazed at this speech ; coming, too, as it did from a young and delicate creature, whom she felt as if she could have blown away with a breath. " Hurried ! — cooled ! — promised !" She hesitated, she felt abashed, she did not know how to take it. Her pride refused to yield, and struggled hard for victory, but at last the more gentle and reasonable feelings prevailed. Pride, it may be observed — ill-directed pride — exercises usually a very powerful influence over the minds of the vulo;ar. Oh, what a pretender is Pride ! It thinks itself the grandest thing in the world, and it is the attribute of the basest and commonest nature — il courre les rues, literally. But gentleness, firmness, and moderation, resist and temper pride. The better part of Mrs. Whitwell — every living- being has his better part — triumphed. She was hard and selfisli, but she was not downright 302 ANGELA. bad. She at length consented to let Angela remain till the letter arrived from London, and consented to take the whole of her little furniture (which she had quite set her heart upon) at about half its real value — to oblige her, as she said; meaning to have the valuation made by a man selected by herself, and who dared not offend her by doing common justice to the other party. And now, as I am rather in a humour to preach a little to-day, and as I may have said some things which may be mistaken, let me make a remark or two upon this Pride, which every one who has had to do with the inferior ranks must have observed to be such a very influential principle among them ; and let me entreat every one who comes in contact with it to treat it with indulg^ence. It seems to me to have its root in ill-conceived notions of dignity, — a mistaken assertion of that dignity of human nature which, God forbid ! should be extinguished in any man. To people who are dependent upon others for their bread, there must, doubtless, appear some- thing generous and magnanimous in braving their paymasters and risking the loss of their sub- sistence, for the gratification of their feelings. It is, after all, a preference of the spiritual to the physical ; and of this, according to their rude and imperfect instincts in these matters, they have ANGELA. 303 an obscure perception. Their conscience, there- fore, backs them in this self-assertion; they know they have much to lose and nothing- to gain by it, and imagine they are doing, what at least in one point of view is, a noble and disinterested thing, in thus sacrificing their bread to their feelings. I, therefore, beg of all my young pupils to con- sider these things, and to treat this pride (which vents itself in forms often so rude and violent) with patience and gentle firmness ; not to endea- vour at crushing this self-assertion by severity and mortification, but to dispel it by gentleness, and to correct it by kind and patient reasoning, en- deavouring to substitute in its place that true sense of the right and the becoming which makes man respected in every station. I do not enlarge upon this subject ; your own good hearts and cultivated understandings will sufficiently point out my meaning to you when the occasion arises. Mrs. Whitwell had paid Angela thirty-two pounds, fourteen shillings, and three-halfpence, for her little possessions ; the letter had arrived from Nurse's cousin ; the lodgings were hired for one guinea a-week; and thus they were provided with what they calculated, with great economy, would 304 ANGELA. last them about a quarter of a year, during which time Angela must look out, and trusted to find some employment which would provide bread for the future. The few hundreds left by Margaret, it was agreed, should be placed in one of the great Companies; and would bring about four and a half per cent per annum — something under twenty pounds. Such were their prospects. Nurse and Angela had now no secrets for each other; and Nurse had, indeed, at once established herself upon the footing of a friend, by refusing to receive the wages of a servant. " No," she said, ''she had lived with her poor master ever since Miss Angela was born — ay, and a sweet baby you were ! and my poor little Samuel was gone to heaven : so I took you, for your poor mother was gone to the Lord two days after you saw the light, poor lamb ! And I have lived among you, and cared for you, and striven for you, as if ye were my own, ever since. And now. Miss Angela, master was never a rich man, but he was a generous master to me ; and, with bits of things from others — for love of the babies, and so on — I have some three hundred pounds, and it brings me in twelve pounds a-year, more than ever I can spend. And as for my bit of meat, I'll maybe save as much as that comes to by management; and you must have somebody to ANGELA. 305 look after the children. And so, Miss Angela, I'll share your roof, and I'll share your brown loaf; and as for the rest, when you're married to some lord, as I'm sure you will be, sooner or later, for your beauty, then you may remember me, if you please." Angela had striven hard with her feelings, and had so subdued them by resignation and piety, that she had ceased to mourn, " as one without hope," over her lost lover ; but the sentiment which united her to him was of a nature the most permanent. She believed him to be dead — that she should never see him more, but, at the same time, that nothing could ever make her inconstant to memory. He was dead : she felt convinced he must be dead. Nothing but his death, she was certain, could account for his desertion. And, once satis- fied of this, her sorrow had taken that sacred character which belongs to the last awful separa- tion. She had to suffer from none of those pain- ful feelings of outraged affection — of diminished esteem — of injured pride, which render an ordi- nary disappointment in love so full of anguish. She was patient — nay, even cheerful. She looked to another and a better place, where they should meet again. But her life, as far as this world was concerned, was, she said to herself, over. 306 ANGELA. That she should ever marry another, seemed to her as impossible as that the grave should restore the dead. She was like a very young and very devoted widow : the prospect for herself, upon this side the grave, had closed. She lived for these three little children. When Nurse talked of her marrying a lord, her heart seemed to contract, as by a momentary spasm ; then she smiled gently and sadly, and said, — «< My good, good, generous Nurse, to say that is to say that you look never to be repaid." '^ Not at all," said Nurse ; " more wonderful things have happened than that ; and beauty, after all, when it belongs to a virtuous woman, is more precious than rubies. But it's nonsense our gos- siping here, we've no time to lose. There's the rest of the things to be packed, and we're to set forward at six o'clock to-morrow. Mr. Whitwell — for I would n't ask that spiteful woman a favour if it was never so — has promised to lend us his spring-cart, to carry ourselves and our baggage to the coach. I never thought to see my master's daughter have to thank a farmer for the loan of his filthy spring-cart, — but there's no help for it ; beggars must not be choosers." The remainder of that day was spent by Angela ANGELA. 307 in completing- her little arrangements, clearing her few debts, and arranging small presents for the servants that had been kind to her, such as her slender means would afford. Biddy was to take her leave the next morning ; Nurse had already undertaken her charge. As regarded the baby, the change was certainly an improvement. Not so for the two others : they had been accus- tomed to rule Biddy as they pleased ; they found old Nurse was composed of sterner stuff. When all the arrangements were completed, and it was about five o'clock, Angela put on her shawl and bonnet, and stole out, resolved to visit her favourite haunts alone, and take leave of all those various spots rendered sacred by asso- ciations with the past. She stole through the garden, and entered the churchyard. It was a beautiful autumn evening ; the trees were still covered with their fading leaves, though a few had begun to fall upon and cover the graves. A few late birds were singing the dirge of the departing year, while the sinking sun threw long- shadows and bright yellow lights upon the grass. First she went to the little mound which covered the grave of her parents, and there — poor, lonely orphan! — she kneeled down. She kissed the earth that covered their resting-place ; then, as if in their presence, fervently renewed her vows to 308 ANGELA. protect, cherish, and, as far as in her lay, provide for and educate, their children. This done, she returned by a little solitary path, and went towards those fields where he had saved her life. There were no cattle in them now to disturb her : the long coarse grass, the scabious, and the thistle, were growing rough and harsh ; the leaves on the hawthorn hedges were withering ; the red berry hung upon the thorn ; — all seemed to her to have taken a dismal, wintry hue; and the fields were silent and deserted as was her heart. There was in this field, at no great distance from the footpath, a pond, which she knew was considered extremely deep ; it was almost covered over with water-lily leaves, and surrounded with sedges, rushes, and brambles. At a little dis- tance, it might almost have deceived the eye into the belief that no water was there. She had always been warned to keep the children from approaching it ; it was reckoned very dan- gerous. It was her firm internal conviction that in this place he had, in some mysterious manner, pe- rished. Often and often had she visited it ; anxiously had she endeavoured to trace some vestige of his footsteps amid the reeds and sedges. There were several small breaks and fractures in ANGELA. 309 the sniTounding brushwood, but they were, pro- bably, made by the cattle coming to drink at the pool, for the ground about was trampled over by their hoofs. But, at one place, the bough of a large nut-tree had been broken down, and had fallen across the water, which lay black as night, but clear as crystal beneath it. Some way or other, she had always connected this broken branch with his fate. Tlie place was somewhat changed since she had visited it last, for there had been bushes and thistles cut away on one side, — probably, to open an easier passage for the cattle. She felt a great wish to carry away some memorial from this pond, so full of melancholy mystery ; and she went to the place where the clearance had been made, resolved to try and break off a small branch from the fatal nut-tree, if she could reach it. The grass was very strong and thick at the place, but she broke through it and approached the water. As she was doing this, her foot struck against something. She looked down : it was a very, very small book, with a golden-topped pencil fastening it. She picked it up and opened it. The book was full of diminutive sketches, made by the hand of a master : groups of trees, of cattle, of children, — tiny as vignettes. In the title-page was written, "Carteret;" 310 ANGELA. below it, " Angela." The names were bound and interlaced together with the most fanciful of true- lovers' knots. Among the pages, as she turned them eagerly over, she found herself — it could not but be herself — portrayed in every possible attitude. Now she was bending over her draw- ing ; now standing with the children in her hands : most often represented with the little baby in her arms. There was a sketch, half finished, of her, as she sat the day before she lost him, with the great sheet upon the table. There the history abruptly closed. No memo- rial recalled that last day of joy. Her tears fell fast over the pages as she looked at them ; then, she gazed upon that dark, sleep- ing pool, in which the man she adored had sunk for ever. And, oh, how she longed, as many a forlorn heart has longed before her, to plunge in to join her lover, and escape this cruel life and all its sorrows! But those little children, she could not desert them, nor could she abandon the post in which her Creator had placed her. After a long, long time, she turned away home, carrying the little sketch-book with her. It was almost dark when she came in, and Nurse was very cross, and scolded her roughly. This was hard to bear under her present melancholy, but great grief is very patient. ANGELA. 311 Hers was now at its climax : there could be no doubt he lay drowned there. So many weeks had elapsed since she had lost him, that the idea which had once presented itself of endeavouring to have the pond dragged died away. The satisfaction would be a melan- choly one at the best; and, besides, in her help- less situation, how should she persuade any one to attempt it? The idea of his death was, she knew, scoffed at among the inhabitants of the farmhouse. It was the universal belief there that he, like his predecessor, was little better than a common swindler, and had taken himself off in such a hurry for no very creditable reason. In this opinion, it was plain, even Nurse joined. Angela knew it would be but vain to speak to the obstinate old woman of her own impressions, and the subject was too painful to bear discussion. She made, therefore, only one effort. She mentioned having found Mr. Carteret's pocket- book near the broken nut-tree ; but the good farmer gave little attention to her relation, merely assuring her that the tree had been broken down by the cattle long before the day Mr. Carteret had disappeared. Something she said about dragging the pool. The answer was, she might as well talk of dragging the Red Sea, for there was a hole in that pool as deep as a coalpit; and, so saying, he turned away with the air of one re- 312 ANGELA. solved to listen no longer- to nonsense. She was not, perhaps, sorry that to disturb his remains was thus rendered impossible. She rather loved to believe him lying in that dark, still pool, covered with the broad leaves and white virgin blossoms of the water-lilies. END OF VOL. I. Printed by George Barclay, Castle Street, Leicester Square.