LIBRARY 
 
 OF THL 
 
 UN IVER.SITY 
 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
 823 
 n355m
 
 MOKDAUNT HALL; 
 
 OR, 
 
 A SEPTEMBEK NIGHT. 
 
 A NOVEL. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 " TWO OLD MEN'S TALES," " EMILIA \^'YNDHAM," 
 "ANGELA," &c. 
 
 *' The self-remembering soul sweetly recovers 
 Her kindred with the stars ; nor basely hovers 
 Below — but meditates th' immortal way 
 Home to the source of light, and intellectual day.' 
 
 Cbashaw. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 HENRY COLBURN, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1849.
 
 LONDON : 
 
 George IJarclav, Castle Street, Leicester Square.
 
 15 j~:> 
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " And round about he taught llowres to groAV, 
 The rose engrained in pure scarlet die, 
 The lily fresh and \'iolet below, 
 The marygold and cheerful rosemarie." 
 
 Spensee. 
 
 Empires dissolve around us — the world that 
 was crumbles to pieces, and disappears in ashes — 
 old things are passed away, and the Prophet of 
 History prepares to sing a new song, — 
 
 A song which wisdom and goodness may 
 render in harmonious accord with that with 
 which the morning stars saluted the creation, 
 when all the sons of God shouted for joy ; or 
 which through folly, selfishness, injustice, and va- 
 nity may be lost in one groan of lamentation, 
 such as that with which our great poet gives voice 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
 <ij%
 
 Zi MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 to Nature, wlien, with a few sad drops, she moaned 
 over a long course of error, darkness, and con- 
 fusion about to begin. 
 
 I am writing this March the 25th, 1848. Be- 
 fore these pages see the light the die will, in all 
 probability, be cast ; the course, for good or evil, 
 chosen ; and the fate of the world for the next 
 century decided. 
 
 Oh, my dear, dear country! with many mis- 
 takes and errors has thy course been obstructed, 
 and much of folly and sin has found place 
 within thy beloved circle of social life ; but upon 
 the whole thy course may be likened to that 
 of a God-fearing, righteous man, based upon 
 principles of religion, humanity, and justice. 
 Deviations there have been — fallings back and 
 fallings short, but the average of conduct has 
 been in the right direction ; the blessing of Him, 
 who is not severe to mark what is done amiss, 
 where intention has been pure and endeavour 
 sincere, has blessed thy wise and righteous 
 course ; and while the world without is trem- 
 bling to its centre, there is peace within. 
 
 Poor, unfortunate France ! Severe is the dis- 
 cipline, fiery the trial, that appear prepared for 
 you : the remedy for so much irrational expecta- 
 tion — so much unjust coveting of what belongs 
 to others — so much irreligious rebellion against
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 3 
 
 the laws of societ}^ and nature ; so much open, 
 and so much secret revolt, against the Lord and 
 Master of us all — is sharp. By His blessing, may 
 it become effectual ; and may the grand principles 
 upon which alone society can in peace exist, 
 succeed to the w^ild and impossible dreams to 
 which the ardent imagination of your too sensi- 
 tive and excitable nation has for half a century 
 been stimulated by those who, misled by the 
 benevolence of their hearts or by the fiery am- 
 bition of their natures, have forgotten the terms 
 upon which good alone can exist. In pity for the 
 idle and degraded, they have forgotten the claims 
 of the industrious and the honourable — aban- 
 doning themselves to those wild and impossible 
 theories which it seems the fate of France, bv a 
 gigantic example, to disprove, as, by a gigantic 
 effort, she has attempted to realise them. 
 
 I feel all this more strongly than I can find 
 words to express, as here, under the shadow of 
 that balanced constitution, so admirably suited to 
 blend with the varied conditions of mankind — of 
 those laws, which, while they protect the pro- 
 perty of the rich, equally protect the industry of 
 the poor — of that system, under which every indi- 
 vidual household called upon to provide for its 
 own wellbeing by its own rational exertion, and 
 its own individual streno-th — labours with all the
 
 4 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 liveliness and energy wliicli the sense oi owu-ness, 
 of responsibility to be shifted upon no other alone 
 can give — feels assured of the recompense for 
 well-directed effort, and assured of the punish- 
 ment vidiich neglect, indolence, or vice, will, sooner 
 or later, entail 
 
 Here 1 sit, while all seems rushing into chaos 
 but a ^e\Y leagues away, and secure in the enjoy- 
 ment of what is my own — secure of my time, 
 my free thoughts, my free action, my free dis- 
 pensation of what I possess, and the recompense 
 of my labours; give forth, in peace untroubled 
 but by pity for the lot of a nation I must ever 
 love, in spite of all its madness and its folly, those 
 thoughts which flow unshackled to my pen. 
 
 Nature is breathing its '' peace which passeth 
 understanding" around me; the clouds and rain 
 that have deluged us for so many weeks are 
 clearing away ; the stir of pleasant industry is in 
 our fields — men, women, children, all are busy, 
 putting in the seeds (an operation which the 
 weather has delayed), in hope, by the blessing of 
 God, of a fruitful, plentiful return ; the buds are 
 swelling upon the trees, and again renewing the 
 tale of His abundant goodness, who breathes life 
 and beauty with every returning year into this 
 His lovely, lovely world. His beauty is reviving 
 in the tinting woods. His voice of tenderness —
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 5 
 
 oh, the word is used in deepest reverence! — the 
 voice of Him, before whom not even a sparrow- 
 falls unnoticed to the ground — that voice is heard 
 in all the notes of the innumerable little feathered 
 creatures which fill the air on every side, all re- 
 joicing-, happy beings, each in his own dear 
 individual little home. 
 
 At moments such as these, who but yearns to 
 join his accents to the general hymn ; and, lifting 
 up his voice, to say, — 
 
 " These are Thy glorious works, Parent of good, 
 Almightj' ! Thine this universal frame . . . 
 Thyself how wondrous then ! " 
 
 Oh, may He, whose visible sun beams upon, 
 and w^arms, and lightens to fresh and renewed 
 life, this animated world of nature, send forth the 
 rays of that better Sun, that light which purifies 
 and brightens the inner soul of man, upon his 
 darkened spirit! Oh, may He, our Lord and 
 Master, who reigns and lives — present, though 
 absent — still guiding (blessed, though unseen, 
 Shepherd !) His flock — lead us through this wil- 
 derness of confusion and despair to those green 
 fields and fountains of living water, which shall 
 indeed nourish and renew us to the true and real 
 life! Oh, mav we become Christians! all of us, 
 not in name and in word only, but in deed and
 
 6 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 in truth. Then shall the sacrifice be pleasant, as 
 of old ; and thy God shall return to thee, O 
 Jacob ! 
 
 I have related stories which have had reference 
 to the mistakes, errors, and difficulties of those 
 who, upon the whole, were well-meaning ; to the 
 evils entailed by such faults upon the innocent, 
 and the obstruction by them laid in the paths of 
 the pious and the good ; I have dealt with the 
 upper stratum, if I may use the expression, of 
 human errors, without diving into the deeper and 
 darker mysteries which lie beneath — the mysteries 
 of Sin. 
 
 You have had patience with my many imper- 
 fections, and have sympathised most generously 
 and kindly with me where I have succeeded in 
 my representations, whilst I endeavoured to deal 
 with what I thought some of the most hurtful 
 defects of our common nature, and have selected 
 those histories calculated, as I thought, to expose 
 them ; to-day a darker spirit comes over me : 
 will you enter the cloud with me, and, without 
 murmuring or revolting at the gloom which 
 covers vou, behold the results of Vice?
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 7 
 
 Shall we reflect together upon the misery to 
 which it exposes its victims, and the long train of 
 evil consequences which it entails upon the inno- 
 cent who come into connexion with it? But let 
 us do this in sadness, not in despair, convinced 
 that there is a Pow^r at work yet stronger than 
 that of evil. 
 
 There is a small town in that mountainous 
 district which forms part of Cumberland, \yest- 
 moreland, and the West Riding of Yorkshire, 
 which I, for convenience sake, will call Kettle- 
 well. It consists of one long street, composed of 
 stone houses, roofed with slate, runnins: alono- a 
 kind of ravine between mountains covered with 
 heather. It is a wild, romantic little place; and 
 though the mountains on each side are bare, pre- 
 cipitous, and frowning, not without beauty, as 
 well as a certain sublimity. 
 
 It is very grand to see the black, threatening 
 clouds on a stormy day, rolling round the rugged 
 fronts of these frovv'ning mountains ; and to 
 hear the thunder rattlino* and cracklino- amid the
 
 8 JNIORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 echoing rocks. And it is a lovely walk, which- 
 ever way you take it, np the little valley j for a 
 rushing and sparkling strea.m rolls down it; and 
 small meadows, rich with the deposits of ages — 
 with grass, green as emerald, and literally ena- 
 melled with flowers, are upon each side. Willows 
 and alders hang over the banks of the brook ; and 
 copses of oak, mountain-ash, and hazel creep up 
 the sides, and linger among the precipitous nooks 
 of the mountains ; sheep and small black cattle 
 are to be seen in plenty upon every side; thrushes 
 and blackbirds ai-e heard singing, and cuckoos 
 calling; — while the soft misty air gives that 
 tender bine to a serene and cloudless sky, which 
 I have heard no mean judges prefer to all the deep 
 azure of Italy. 
 
 All small towns in England are, or used to be, 
 constituted umch upon the same pattern. There 
 was a pretty considerable inn in the good old 
 posting-time ; and this town, though so out of the 
 way in most respects, lay upon one of the great 
 posting-roads. There was an apothecary, surgeon, 
 or general practitioner, all in one; whose little 
 shop, small as it appeared, was one of the most con- 
 siderable of the place ; and whose profession, in 
 spite of the sound of pestle and mortar to be heard 
 from within, constituted the owner a gentleman. 
 There was the attornev, who, being at the same
 
 MORDAL^'T HALL. 9 
 
 time ao-ent to several estates in the neio:hl)oiir- 
 hood, was a man of considerable substance; he 
 possessed a sash-windowed and rather handsome- 
 fronted house, with garden of extent behind, and 
 brass knocker at tlie door. There was the little 
 church, with its lowlv tower, nestlinsr amons; 
 some very ancient fir-trees ; and the tiny par- 
 sonage, about twenty yards from the churchyard 
 wall. There was the little modest Independent 
 chapel, at one end of the town ; and there were a 
 few shops of respectable appearance, belonging to 
 the linendraper, the ironmonger, and the saddler 
 of the -pVdce. 
 
 One or two liouses, moreover, that vied vrith 
 the mansion of the attorney, were inhabited by 
 various inferior branches of the country families 
 around — chiefly of the female sex, be it said, who 
 employed their evenings in card-parties and tea- 
 drinkings, and their mornings in working for 
 and visiting the poor ; for the little old clergy- 
 man was very weak in health and his salarv ex- 
 cessively small, and without these good Tabithas, 
 who thus went singly about endeavouring to 
 make themselves useful, and to please God in 
 their humble way, things would have gone on 
 among the poor but ill. As they managed it, 
 however, things upon the whole went on very 
 comfortably at Kettlewell.
 
 10 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 The little society lived very much to itself, and 
 certainly events were few, and excitement a rare 
 pleasure : but excitement was little wanted, and 
 everybody seemed contented, except, it may be, a 
 few pretty girls and a few anxious mothers, who 
 wondered where husbands were to be got, unless 
 they came down from the clouds. 
 
 Now we will walk to the end of the principal 
 street, called the Hospital Street, fi'om a very 
 ancient hospital for decayed tradesmen at one 
 end of it, and thence into the country. We shall 
 soon come into the open heathy regions beyond ; 
 and about a mile out of the town, nestling among 
 some trees in a sort of nook among the hills, w^e 
 shall see a lowly white cottage lying there, like a 
 lodge in the wilderness. It is surrounded by a 
 srarden of considerable dimensions, which indus- 
 try has rescued from the waste, and which is 
 enclosed by a low mound surmounted by a hedge 
 of quickset, maple, and wild roses. 
 
 Nothins: could be more humble than the little 
 abode, but it was fanciful and pretty. Upon the 
 thatch grew the stonecrop and the houseleek, 
 and the honeysuckle and sweetbrier hung about 
 the tiny windows. The smoke rose from the 
 little dowdy chimney, cheerfully winding its 
 white columns tlirougli the clear air, and told 
 of warmth and comfort within ; whilst the door.
 
 5I0RDAUNT HALL. 11 
 
 ever open to the calls of affection or the asking 
 voice of charity, ^vas a type of the hearts of the 
 inhabitants. 
 
 The garden was cut into numerous fanciful 
 shapes, borders, and patterns, and laid out in a 
 quaint manner. The walks were composed of 
 many -coloured pebbles, collected among the 
 hills ; the beds were surrounded with box, or 
 thrift, or double daisies : but the useful and the 
 beautiful had been combined by the persevering 
 artist to whom its existence was owing. Straw- 
 berries and currants blushed in the neisrhbour- 
 hood of pinks and gillyflowers; gooseberries and 
 moss-roses grew together in excellent amity ; 
 apple and pear-trees, plum and cherry, judas 
 and double -flowering peach, guelder-rose and 
 lilac, laburnum and bladder-senna, blended ia 
 most admired confusion. 
 
 Wherever there was room for slip, or sucker, 
 or graft, were it of flowering shrub or new and 
 excellent tree, the place was speedily occupied ; 
 for the gardener who cultivated this little para- 
 dise with his own hands, ever ready to impart 
 to others, was not shy of begging himself: he, 
 unlike too many brothers of his craft, never 
 could be made to understand how the value of 
 a specimen should depend upon its scarceness. 
 Beauty and excellence were all he valued in
 
 12 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 fruit or flower; and his heart was too unbound- 
 edly generous not to take deb'ght in their 
 diffusion. 
 
 He was, indeed, a most loveable old man — 
 simple in his wisdom, childish in his confidence, 
 shrewd in his observations, cheerful in his tem- 
 per, gentle, generous, and loving in his heart. 
 He had once, I have been told, been a Christian 
 pastor to a small, very small and very exclusive, 
 congregation ; but his congregation had forsaken 
 him, and he had never endeavoured to establish 
 himself in any other. To tell the truth, he had 
 lived through a time when scepticism reigned 
 throughout society — when every thing was called 
 into cjuestion, — the existence of virtue, the nature 
 of right and duty, the high promises of the Gos- 
 pel, the very being of God ; and men are, after 
 all, in great measure the creatures of their day. 
 What the peculiar opinions of this man actually 
 were, I never have been able quite to discover. 
 That he worshipped the Author of his being — 
 the Father of the creation in which he so cheer- 
 fully rejoiced — is certain, and with the pure 
 incense of a heart which was purity itself. Free 
 from all bitterness and malice, covetousness 
 and uncharitableness of every description — nay, 
 made up of love he was — so that his whole cha- 
 racter was in harmony with the teaching of the
 
 MORDAUXT HALL. 13 
 
 blessed Jesus of Nazareth ; but how far the 
 prevailing opinions of his time liad obscured the 
 true light, which by that Lord and Master 
 was dispensed to mankind — how far doubtings, 
 and questionings, and endeavours to reason upon 
 the nature of transcendental truths, had per- 
 plexed and distorted his faith, I will not pretend 
 to decide. 
 
 That he had thought much and deeply upon 
 these things while engaged at his peaceful occu- 
 pation amid his fruit and flowers, cannot be 
 doubted ; but to what degree of assurance he 
 had attained will never be known. As was the 
 practice with many at that time, he maintained 
 the greatest reserve upon the subject of his 
 religious opinions ; and though, whenever he al- 
 luded to the Christian religion — a thing, indeed, 
 which he rarely did — it was in terms of deep and 
 lowly reverence : this was rather the reverence 
 paid to some sublime and dark mystery than the 
 cheerful, hearty love, of a faithful believer. 
 
 I hope none of my readers, in their earnest 
 and devout conviction of the immense value of 
 Christianity, will mistake my meaning in this 
 delineation ; or, because I here represent so sweet 
 and lovely a temper as belonging to one in this 
 peculiar state of mind, think that / underrate 
 that blessed light — that true guide — which will
 
 14 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 alone, in my opinion, be ever found effectual to 
 rescue men from their follies and their crimes. 
 But, as I hold narrowness and exclusiveness of 
 spirit to be one of the greatest blemishes which 
 can obscure the faithful Christian's character, 
 I am not sorry that the course of my story 
 obliges me to the delineation of a character — for 
 such unquestionably may be found — to whom 
 God had dispensed these sweet influences of the 
 heart, though it had pleased Him to withhold 
 the full perception of that true light which His 
 mercy has sent into the world. 
 
 The garden is entered by a little narrow wicket, 
 and as soon as you are within the enclosure you 
 are almost as if in a scene from a fairy tale. In 
 spring time, such double- violets scenting the air! 
 — such primroses, daffodils, narcissuses, hyacinths, 
 and auriculas! — and all the fruit-trees in full 
 blossom too ! Such a wilderness of beauty and 
 sweetness ! 
 
 In summer there were roses, red, yellow, purple, 
 white ! — such larkspurs, convolvoluses, sweet- 
 williams, and carnations ! — such beds of mig- 
 nonette ! — such currants, red and white ! — such 
 gooseberries, raspberries, cherries, and straw- 
 berries ! 
 
 In autumn, such a rich profusion of apples, 
 pears, and plums, red, yellow, and purple, hang-
 
 MOR DAUNT HALL. 15 
 
 ing amid the leaves ! Such beds of china-asters ! 
 such marigolds, and chrysanthemums ! 
 
 There you may see the author of this living 
 poem — a small, thiu man, "with delicate attenu- 
 ated features, a complexion pale, and step slow 
 and somewhat dawdlins:, walkins: or rather 
 creeping about, with his pruning -knife or his 
 trowel in his hand, employed at his usual recrea- 
 tion — recreation I must call it — for gardening 
 was not his sole employment ; this man was a 
 man of deep science, of great powers of abstrac- 
 tion, and immense of calculation — he was one of 
 the first scientific men of his day. His time was 
 divided between the most abstruse speculations 
 and painful exertions of intellect, and the delight 
 of cultivating his garden. To these two objects 
 his peaceful life was entirely devoted, with two 
 exceptions. One being the attention to his sick 
 or sorrowing neighbours, upon whom he bestowed 
 his advice when asked, or with whom he shared 
 his little purse when needed : the other was his 
 one, only, daughter. 
 
 He had married, somewhat late in life, a young 
 woman, who had brought him a little money, 
 upon which he now subsisted ; she had died early, 
 and left him with one little girl. 
 
 Never was a sweeter treasure bestowed upon a 
 father, and never did father more devotedly, more
 
 J6 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 ardently, cherish the gift. She had heen a heaii- 
 tiful child ; she was at this time a very heautiful 
 young woman — if young woman she might be 
 called, being not quite twenty. She was the idol 
 of her father's heart, and the delight of his eyes. 
 
 A rare and precious creature, certainly, as 
 formed by nature ; and the wild unchecked 
 developement of that nature rendered her singu- 
 larly attractive to the imagination. No gover- 
 ness, no school, no systematic education had 
 interfered, with the free and lovely growth of 
 her singularly fine faculties ; but, alas ! no 
 mother's hand had been there to contribute tlie 
 precious guidance of the female heart and female 
 mind ; to soften, to subdue, to direct, to instil 
 into that infant bosom those lessons, the im- 
 pressions from which, like the original linea- 
 ments of the characters, are found in after life 
 indelible influences, without which a certain 
 consistency, stability — solidity rather, will be 
 found almost invariably to be wanting. 
 
 Her father, singular as he was, had been in 
 many respects better fitted to perform the diffi- 
 cult task of rearing a daughter without a mo- 
 ther's assistance than men usually are. He was 
 of a very tender and feeling temper ; of a calm 
 and gentle disposition ; had much love of home, 
 a most affectionate heart, and whilst a pene-
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 17 
 
 trating observer of character, and weigher of 
 things, possessed the greatest simplicity and 
 purity of life and manners. The father and 
 daughter had been inseparable companions — that 
 is, they had scarcely, during their mutual lives, 
 been parted for a day ; and yet of those days, 
 how many hours were passed in solitary thought 
 and occupation ; how many hours of every week, 
 v/hich this philosopher and man of science passed 
 in abstracted thought, was Miriam left to employ 
 herself as she would, doing exactly what she 
 pleased, without being called to account by any 
 living creature ! 
 
 Her father had very peculiar opinions with 
 respect to many things besides the grand and 
 important subject of religion. He had singular 
 ideas as regarded female education — one of the 
 subjects upon which the world w^as at that time 
 undergoing as great a revolution as upon politics 
 and I'eligion. Days of revolution might be 
 almost defined Days of experiment. Everv 
 thing has to be tried and put to proof over 
 again ; mafxims long established are brought 
 to the test, as well as new and unpractised 
 theories ; every individual mind is left to its 
 own choice and guidance ; the exaggerations 
 and eccentricities are many, and the really 
 sound and good directions few. 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 Women had lived contented, useful, and 
 happy, ere Mary Wolstoncroft proclaimed their 
 rights, but, with all her nonsense and exagge- 
 ration, even Mary Wolstoncroft had her mission, 
 and did good. Women have been still more 
 contented, for they have been still more useful, 
 and much more happy, since their eyes were 
 opened to the value of their own powers ; since 
 they cultivated and improved their intellects, 
 strengthened and corrected their characters, 
 and enlarged their sphere of action and enjoy- 
 ment. 
 
 The corrections of experience have abated in 
 2:reat measure the wild exa2:2:erations and mis- 
 taken views of the early champion of woman- 
 hood — the attempt to rival man is, in great mea- 
 sure, abandoned ; and to perfect themselves as 
 ■women, has become the wise ambition of the sex. 
 The best of them are perfectly contented to dwell 
 in, and administer in that department of this 
 world's business for which their Creator has so 
 eminently endowed them, and to fulfil the lovely 
 — one might almost say heavenly p!irt allotted 
 them to perform : but in those early days the 
 discriminating lines in this, as in other things, 
 had not been drawn. Suddenly emancipated 
 from the restraints which for so many ages past 
 fettered, perhaps we ought to say guided, society,
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 19 
 
 men rushed into all the extravagancies of Utopian 
 and impossible schemes as regarded politics, and 
 into the most unbounded license as reo-arded re- 
 ligion ; and woman — no longer to be considered 
 as the mere household subordinate of man, and 
 released from the narrow, fantastical social laws 
 which had rendered her dependent and feeble — 
 could find at first no better use to make of her 
 liberty than to endeavour to emancipate herself 
 from the wholesome restraints of her sex, which 
 it was the fashion of that day to call prejudices. 
 
 Many men at the time gave into the delusion ; 
 and our recluse, whose mind had gone too far 
 upon almost every subject then in discussion, was 
 not likely to shew more moderation upon that 
 of woman's education. 
 
 One of the maxims then in vogue was to leave 
 every thing to Nature. Nature, it was argued, 
 must develope herself in a far more perfect man- 
 ner than any art could attain. They pointed to 
 the statues of the Grecian nymphs in contrast 
 with the whalebone-constricted beauties of the 
 days of Louis Quinze, and they asked triumph- 
 antly, which was the most beautiful ? 
 
 So they threw away the whalebone, and 
 strove to adopt the Grecian garb. But they for- 
 got tw^o things — that girls died of consumption 
 in a climate like this when arraj^ed in such grace-
 
 20 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 ful draperies, and that unassisted Nature pro- 
 duces squaws and bushwomen as well as the 
 exquisite forms of Grecian beauty (if, indeed, 
 such beauty was the production of mere un- 
 assisted Nature, "vvhich remains to be proved). 
 Because dress and the exterior graces, clean 
 houses and good tables, had been almost the 
 exclusive study of the female mind in England 
 during the middle of the last century, they 
 ran into the other extreme ; and a great many 
 pretty slatterns, disagreeable hoydens, careless 
 housekeepers, and ill-kept houses, were the re- 
 sult : the spirit of thrift and good housewifery 
 expired for the time, — and, I fear, it has as yet 
 but faintly revived among the lower classes, to 
 whom the fashions and wavs of thinkincc current 
 among their betters inevitably descend. But our 
 young ladies of the present day seem to me very 
 much corrected of this error, and are taking the 
 medium line most charmingly, I think. 
 
 I could almost believe I could not be so '* old" 
 as I profess to be, for I want one of the marks 
 of old age — the preference of past days to the 
 present. Much as I grumble at some changes 
 which I see around me, I think the progress 
 made since I was a child quite astonishing ; and 
 in nothing more encouraging than in the present 
 rising crop of young people, men and ^wornen ;
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 2t 
 
 there seems to me among them almost every- 
 thing that is promising and delightful. 
 
 Miriam — for it is time to return to her — had 
 been, in fact, brought up more like a little boy 
 than a girl. She had been taught to delight in 
 manly sports and exercises, to aspire to manly 
 virtues, and to claim manly freedom from re- 
 straint. A beautiful little tom-boy of a child she 
 undoubtedly had been ; and as she accompanied 
 her father in his rambles, scrambling over hedge 
 and ditch, tearing frocks, and with her bonnet 
 every conceivable form but the right one — as her 
 beautiful little face was tanned brown as that of 
 a gipsy, and her arms, which might have served 
 for an artist to model, took the colour of a ruddy 
 apple, her father compared her in pride and ex- 
 ultation of heart with the little timid girls he saw 
 around him, and rejoiced in the health and vigour 
 thus acquired. 
 
 It was a pity that he could not keep all this 
 pride and exultation to himself, but that the little 
 one was early taught to look upon female deli- 
 cacy, and good, orderly, well-behaved, timid little 
 girls, with something of the contempt that he did. 
 
 As regarded lessons, more properly so called, 
 he taught her himself. He had the most un- 
 mitigated contempt for governesses and schools, 
 and most of the laughable aversion to drawing
 
 22 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 and dancing-masters, fine manners, and the 
 graces, which may be detected in many of the 
 popular children's stories of his day. This, as 
 far as the outer semblance was concerned, proved 
 of little ill consequence. Miriam grew up only too 
 graceful, and with a form like a Grecian nymph 
 indeed, so perfect were its outline and symmetry. 
 Her mind, too, as far as acquirements went, was 
 not one whit the worse for only receiving the in- 
 structions of her father ; but alas, alas, how 
 much besides was still left wanting ! 
 
 He taught her Latin and Greek, algebra and 
 geometry. She read with him history and meta- 
 physics ; she read romances and poetry by her- 
 self. But the Bible lay covered with dust upon 
 the shelf, and the Prayer-book was seldom 
 opened — he had all, and more than all, the so- 
 phistical notions of hi^ day connected with both ; 
 and though, as I believe is universal with every 
 parent in the world, he would not — could not 
 have endured the idea of directly imparting his 
 own sceptical opinions to his daughter, he left 
 the matter to chance. Her nurse had taught 
 her to say her prayers, and, when she was a little 
 one, had taken her on a Sunday to church, be- 
 cause she could not conveniently leave her be- 
 hind ; but, as Miriam grew up, this important 
 habit of joining her fellow-creatures in worship
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 23 
 
 almost altogether died away. Her father and she 
 used to speak of the Deity with reverence and 
 awe when of that great Being they spoke at all, 
 — for he seemed to fancy this distant awe and 
 reverence the only oftering meet for the myste- 
 rious Immensity — but, under the influence of such 
 motives, all the childlike relations — all the com- 
 munion of love and hope — of prayer, and trust, 
 and obedience, to the Father of men, which open 
 upon the soul of the Christian, were lost to him 
 altogether, and they were but as faint, dreamy 
 impulses with her. 
 
 The inhabitants of the town were either Church 
 people or Wesleyan IMethodists. They were or- 
 dinary people too, for the most part — and ordi- 
 nary minds, when really in earnest in their reli- 
 gious profession, are very apt to think they prove 
 this earnestness best by their censure and con- 
 tempt for those who do not think and feel upon 
 the subject with the warmth that they do. They, 
 in short, are too often prone to look upon their 
 religious feelings as matters of personal merit, of 
 which they have a right to be proud, rather than 
 as high and undeserved blessings and privileges 
 for which they are to render an account; and 
 instead of the sympathising pity with which those 
 so favoured with light ought to look upon their 
 darkened fellow- creatures, they endeavour, and
 
 24 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 too often succeed, in rendering that darkness more 
 utterly dark by the severance they endeavour to 
 maintain, and the condemnations they utter. 
 
 Nobody could personally dislike either Miriam 
 or her father, he was so gentle and benevolent, 
 and she so frank and endearing ; but they rarely, 
 almost never, appeared at church or chapel, and 
 this was unaccountable and wrong, — nay, threw a 
 sort of unholy mystery about them, which alien- 
 ated the hearts of their neighbours more than it is 
 very easy to calculate. Unfortunately, when the 
 recluse discovered this to be the case, his attend- 
 ance at public worship ceased altogether. He 
 had maintained the custom of going there, from 
 time to time, out of a sort of philosophical respect 
 for the arrangements of society, but wiien his 
 opinions became matters of personal blame, he 
 felt it to be an hypocrisy to endeavour to disguise 
 them — to frequent church in order to avoid cen- 
 sure, and secure the good opinion of his neigh- 
 bours, seemed to him, as it were, to practise a 
 delusion upon them ; from this his soul revolted, 
 and he went no more. 
 
 Gradually almost all communication with the 
 little society of the town ceased. When Miriam 
 now and then went in to visit the shops and 
 make a few purchases, common civilities were 
 exchanged between her and any of the young
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 25 
 
 girls of her own age whom she chanced to meet ; 
 but she was never invited to their houses, never 
 asked to make one in their little pic-nic summer 
 parties. It was impossible to lead a more se- 
 cluded life than for the last two or three years 
 she had done. 
 
 Neither father nor daughter appeared to care 
 for these things much ; their love for each other 
 was perfectly devoted. They had too many in- 
 tellectual resources, and too much active occupa- 
 tion in their garden and those walking excursions 
 in which they visited all the nooks and corners of 
 the country, to need excitement of any kind. 
 The gentlemen of the town, — the surgeon, the 
 solicitor, and so on, — used to drop in from time 
 to time to visit the garden, this afforded some 
 slight change of ideas now and then. 
 
 When any of these gentlemen would return 
 home from their visits, they would usually excite 
 a little mite of envy and vexation in the bosoms 
 of their good wives and good little daughters 
 by declaring that Miriam was growing up the 
 most perfect beauty that ever was seen.
 
 26 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " Duty, like a strict preceptor, 
 
 Sometimes frowns, or seems to frown ; 
 Choose her thistle for thy sceptre 
 
 "While thy brow youth's roses crown. 
 Grasp it." Wordsworth. 
 
 I SAID they took long rambles. 
 
 Not only did they visit every secluded valley 
 and hidden nook of those surrounding mountains, 
 not only was every rippling rill and gleaming 
 peak well known to them, not only did they 
 revel in the glad sunshine, and exult in battling 
 with the terrors of the mountain-storms, but at 
 times they would set out together and undertake 
 pedestrian expeditions of several days. 
 
 Hand in hand, the thin, delicate-looking father 
 and the fine stout little girl might be seen wan- 
 dering along. They would rest for the night at 
 any humble house of entertainment they might 
 chance to find, sitting down and chatting with
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 27 
 
 the chance visitants of the little inn ; and thus 
 Miriam grew acquainted with human nature in 
 its simpler forms. Her heart expanded under 
 these influences to a most prevailing love of 
 every body ; but her ideas acquired no delicacy, 
 and her principles no correctness. 
 
 The cottage in which the two lived was quite 
 a little treasure in itself. They had both taken 
 the o-reatest deligjht in adorninsr it. It was a 
 real cottage, no pretence to one ; but larger in 
 extent than cottages usually are, and with four 
 rooms on each floor, but all huddled together, 
 however ; the windows of the upper story being 
 almost buried in the thick roof of thatch and 
 moss combined, which told of the accumulations 
 literally of ages, and the lower rooms being very 
 low and darkened by the trees that hung around, 
 and by the plants that climbed all about them. 
 
 A kitchen, a parlour, her father's study, and 
 Miriam^s own little room, occupied the ground- 
 floor. 
 
 The studv was lined with books, and the table 
 covered with mathematical and scientific instru- 
 ments. An electric machine, with its necessary 
 appendages of jars, &c., stood in the centre, with 
 quadrants, globes, and a magnificent reflecting 
 telescope. Floor, couch, shelves, chairs, window- 
 seat, were filled with books, which lay littering
 
 28 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 about upon every side. There remained only one 
 old arm-chair unoccupied, where the philosopher 
 could sit down, and one little low stool near it, 
 upon -which his daughter placed herself w hen she 
 came to visit his domicile. 
 
 But Miriam's own room, in spite of her being 
 the sad sloven I have hinted at, was really quite 
 pretty. She had adorned it with the various 
 specimens of mosses, pebbles, shells, and other 
 natural curiosities, which she had collected in her 
 many ramblings. She had also an art of arranging 
 the beautiful colours of feathers so as to make 
 sundry gay and pretty ornaments. There was a 
 practice then of representing birds by this ar- 
 rangement of feathers. She liked the plan, and 
 had some choice specimens of this simple art 
 hanging against her walls. She had a few shelves, 
 with a few books, — of which more anon ; a few 
 painted cane chairs, and a table or two ; and 
 there was always a large beaupot, as the style 
 was then, upon the chimney-piece. A bullfinch 
 in a bright golden cage, a tiny green paroquet 
 in another, were her pets and companions ; 
 and when the casement was open, and the sun 
 glinted upon the leaves and flowers in the garden 
 beyond, and tlie fresh wind from the heathy 
 regions around shook the garlands of passion- 
 flower that hung over it, you would have said
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 29 
 
 this little closet was a temple not unworthy to 
 enshrine the nymph, with slight, elastic form, 
 rich, abundant hair, and most lovel}^, embrowned 
 face, that was to be seen engaged therein. 
 
 I spoke of her books, and I told you I should 
 say something more upon that subject. 
 
 There were books upon those little shelves 
 most rarely eloquent, most dangerously seductive 
 to the imasrination and the heart. The Anoel of 
 Evil had in those days indeed assumed the 
 semblance of an Angel of Light; he had decked 
 his insinuating tongue with all the beauty which 
 imagination can lend to the seductions of pas- 
 sion ; he had adorned his teachings with all the 
 loveliness of tenderness, and exalted every virtue 
 which can exist where due control over the 
 tender passions exists not: he had named himself 
 llousseau. 
 
 Never had gifts been more noble ; never had 
 pen been ruore endowed with that delightful 
 power which charms mankind to love and virtue; 
 and never was there a more si2:nal instance of the 
 errors — shall I say crimes? — into which mistakes 
 with regard to right principles may lead. 
 
 She knew well what her father thought of 
 Rousseau ; and while he read his " Contrat So- 
 claV and his "Botanv," her attention was rivetted 
 upon the pages of the ''Nouvelle Hclo'ise.'' Rous-
 
 30 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 seau lias passed bis own sentence upon this his 
 favourite book. It is lamentable to what false 
 views of duty, virtue, and true generosity of 
 heart, this — the German works of the day— and 
 the study of Mary Wolstoncroft, led this ardent- 
 minded girl ; and the misfortune of all was, that, 
 ovvins: to the extreme seclusion in which she 
 lived, not only were her ideas totally uncorrected 
 by communication with the actual world, but 
 they mostly lay entirely concealed within her 
 own breast. Not even her father had the slightest 
 idea of the true state of her mind, — of the extent 
 to which, in the simplicity of her heart, she car- 
 ried out, or the perfect sincerity with which she 
 adhered to, the opinions she had adopted. Men 
 are often astonished when they see women, in the 
 generous honesty of their nature, prepared to act 
 upon, and to carry to their extremest conse- 
 cjuences, the notions and theories they have them- 
 selves too carelessly suffered them to imbibe. 
 
 Mrs. Opie's two beautiful stories of the "Father 
 and Daughtei" and the '^ Mother and Daughter,'' 
 may serve to shew what was the tendency of the 
 female mind in those days, and to warrant me in 
 saying, that though Miriam carried out her opi- 
 nions to their very utmost extent, hers was not 
 an individual case of mistaken and misdirected 
 enthusiasm.
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 31 
 
 I love to trace effects to their causes. To 
 analyse human principles of action, and to de- 
 tail the effect of circumstances and ideas upon 
 the forniing character; but the results are often 
 deeply painful, and on some occasions repulsive. 
 I shall pass rather hurriedly from scene to scene 
 of this part to what it is necessary to the purport 
 of my tale that I should tell. 
 
 There was at this time, resident in a small vil- 
 lage, about three miles on the opposite side of 
 Kettlewell, an extremely learned man, an excellent 
 classic, and so forth, and so far mentally accom- 
 plished in every way. He had been curate of the 
 place, and he took pupils — that is, he read \vith 
 young gentlemen of more fortune than industry, 
 who wanted to be stuffed for the University, or to 
 be crammed to take a deo-ree. 
 
 Raw young gentlemen they mostly were who 
 came down into the mountains to profit by his 
 assistance ; but sometimes he had inmates of a 
 superior order and riper age. 
 
 Men, who had disdained or neglected to profit 
 by the means of education afforded them in their 
 boyhood and early youth, and who, when called 
 upon to figure in some eminent position in life —
 
 32 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 forced forward by circumstances and tlieir own 
 abilities, had discovered their wants before it was 
 quite too late, and had hastily seized upon the 
 opportunity to complete their education afforded 
 by the assistance of a mind so accomplished in 
 matters of this description as was that of Mr. Abel. 
 
 The summer in which Miriam completed her 
 nineteenth year brought a person of this descrip- 
 tion to As*kridge. 
 
 Those were bad times in many res23ects — I 
 hope and I believe very different from those we 
 now live in ; neither public schools nor uni- 
 Tersities are yet what they ought to be, but the 
 progress made has still, I trust, been ver}'- con- 
 siderable indeed. 
 
 This young man, of whom I speak, w'as now 
 between six and seven- and-t wen ty ; he was the 
 son of a man of very large landed property, 
 which had descended to him I know not how, 
 and have never inquired; all I know is, — and it is 
 necessary to mention it, because I think this was 
 one of the many circumstances which exercised a 
 sinister effect upon the sou, — that the father 
 was what in vul^'ar lano-uao-e would be called the 
 first gentleman of the family : in other words, he 
 had been brought up in obscurity, with very 
 slender expectations, and had been engaged in 
 some ordinary occupation or profession, I never
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 33 
 
 heard what ; when suddenly he mherited this 
 large landed property — became possessor of a 
 very fine house and park, of stables and horses, 
 pictures and gardens, and sent his son to Harrow 
 and to Cambridge. 
 
 To go to Harrow and to Cambridge was then 
 no such undistino'uishino; distinction as it is now. 
 People in the middle class of life were at that 
 time very proud indeed of such things ; and 
 people very ignorant of the world, and naturally 
 vain and fond of display, were delighted to have 
 their sons associating with the sons of noblemen 
 or the genuine old gentry of the country. 
 
 And it was grievous to observe at what very 
 o-reat sacrifices they were sometimes content to 
 obtain such distinction; or how little they seemed 
 to care in what the time was really spent, pro- 
 vided it was passed in such unquestionably high 
 company. 
 
 At that time of day, the young leaders of so- 
 ciety had very different habits of thought from 
 what prevail among them, I believe and hope, 
 now. The distinction of personal merit, or of 
 individual acquirements, was not only uncoveted, 
 but, worse, the attempt to acquire mental accom- 
 plishments by study was regarded with a sort of 
 contemptuous indifference. Nay, there was with 
 the majority actually a prejudice against such 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 efforts, wlien associated with persons of rank and 
 fashion, which, to those whose memories extend 
 not so far, will happily appear incredible . To 
 drive carriages fitted up like stage-coaches, tan- 
 dems and randoms ; to drink to the greatest 
 excess, and to defy all the principles of pure 
 morality; were esteemed the true marks of a man 
 of spirit. Conduct more regular was stigmatised 
 as a proof of cowardice of mind or feebleness of 
 constitution ; and to this false standard of excel- 
 lence numbers were sacrificed from amons: the 
 emulous, the ardent, and the daring, who, had 
 their aims been but well directed, might have 
 aspired to the highest things. 
 
 Ridley was born with strong passions, a hot, 
 indocile temper, and '^ the imagination of fire ;" 
 but to this, unhappily, he added " the heart of ice." 
 By the time he was five-and-twenty, profligacy of 
 life, selfish indulgence, the misdirected pride of 
 his parents, and his own mistaken ambition, had 
 produced one of those beings, born, if they 
 achieve greatness, to be a snare and a terror; 
 if they are insignificant, to be hated and despised. 
 
 He was a remarkably handsome, and an ex- 
 tremely clever young man. His spirits were 
 lively to wildness, his manners charmingly easy 
 and polished, his wit poignant, his tenderness 
 "when he assumed, or in the various changes of his
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 35 
 
 temperament felt the influence, most seductive. 
 He was admired, flattered, and courted, wherever 
 he went. 
 
 His father thought no expense too lavish for 
 such a son; his mother only counselled him to 
 outdo, as his fortune privileged him, all his 
 companions in expense ; and upon no account 
 whatsoever to suffer any one, whatever might 
 be his claims, to outshine him in this respect. 
 "When at home, every sentiment and opinion was 
 regarded as the voice of an oracle — for he knew 
 the world, and his parents certainly did not. 
 Everything around him was only arranged and 
 regulated as might best accord with his taste ; 
 not a wish he could form that it was possible to 
 gratify was left ungratified ; the comforts, desires, 
 or wants of no human creature, were suffered to 
 come in competition with his. 
 
 In the little world of home, indeed, he was the 
 sole object of every one ; he was accustomed to 
 regard the slightest inconvenience to which he 
 might be subjected, as an evil the most to be 
 deprecated by all the world. His most trifling 
 indisposition was a matter of the most serious 
 importance. His word was law, and his happi- 
 ness and welfare the aim, and almost the sole 
 aim, of every creature that surrounded him.
 
 36 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 His heart, not naturally insensible, g-rew as 
 hard as the nether millstone. 
 
 Some generous natures there are which ac- 
 tually expand into gratitude, and warm, heartfelt 
 affection, under this terrific trial of unrestrained 
 indulgence and unchecked prosperity ; but rare 
 and exceptional are such cases, and where the 
 reverse occurs the result is frightful. 
 
 He ran his career at school and college, not 
 bad enough to be hated, but far too clever to be 
 despised ; brilliant in his follies, seductive in his 
 vices, admired where he was not esteemed, 
 courted where he could not be loved. He was 
 not so much worse than others as to alarm 
 either himself or his friends ; he only went as 
 far out of the course as the wildest of the young 
 men about him did, and he never was known to 
 express regret for any thing he might have 
 done. 
 
 He had no relentings of remorse or pity for the 
 victims that had strewed his path ; lie had no 
 standard of excellence within by which to com- 
 pare his grievous fallings from rectitude ; he 
 seemed to have no just ideas of responsibility ; 
 his time, his fortune, his talents, his gifts — 
 he looked upon as exclusively his own, — pos- 
 sessions which he had a right to dispense as
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 37 
 
 seemed him best — and his best was what he liked 
 best. 
 
 A final account — a Master invisible — law — 
 duty, "were to him vain words — words never even 
 thought of: humanity, pity, remorse, regret for 
 suffering frailty abused, or evil actions committed, 
 were equally strangers to his bosom. 
 
 By the time he was twenty-five years of age, 
 beautiful, gay, brilliant, pleasant, sensible, well- 
 bred, and attractive as he was, if he had been 
 justly weighed and valued, he would have been 
 called a very bad man. At this age, one of those 
 sudden changes in parties and politics, which 
 deaths or vacancies occasion among some of the 
 leaders of the world, had brought him, who 
 had been now a couple of years in parliament, 
 suddenly into notice. A brilliant speech, just at 
 some most opportune moment, disclosed his abi- 
 lities and his value, and Ridley found himself at 
 once elevated to a lofty and most distinguished 
 position. He was utterly, hopelessly, blind to 
 his own moral, but he was far too sagacious to be 
 insensible to his intellectual wants. He felt that 
 he wanted the required knowledge, the sound 
 acquirements, the reading, which is necessary to 
 make a leading man in these latter days, how- 
 ever great be the natural powers. He made his 
 inquiries, and the result was that during the
 
 38 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 recess lie came down to read with Mr. Abel, at 
 Askridge. 
 
 Mr. Abel was a long-, lean, ungraceful man, 
 slow in his speech, yet fond of speaking, which 
 peculiarities render a man not exactly an agree- 
 able companion ; and he was not in the least in 
 the habit of doins: violence to his own somewhat 
 peculiar ways, in order to lighten the dulness of 
 Askridge to those who lived with him as his 
 pupils. He took an immensity of pains with 
 them in his study ; was the most invaluable, 
 persevering, and conscientious of instructors ; 
 but the readings terminated, and the study door 
 closed behind them, he never exerted himself in 
 the slightest degree, either to rescue the young 
 men confided to his care from the tedium of life 
 in this retired place, to watch over their con- 
 duct, or improve their principles. 
 
 The consequence was, that the gay unchecked 
 spirits of youth, the hunger for excitement com- 
 mon to its years, and the want of amusement in 
 any legitimate form, became a great snare to 
 these pupils ; and for want of something better 
 to do the hours of recreation were very apt to 
 become hours of mischief. 
 
 The morality of the little town was not bene- 
 fited by the neighbourhood of Mr. Abel ; who, 
 a good and a well-meaning man himself, was
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 39 
 
 nevertheless the occasion of innumerable evils 
 by the license wliich sprung from his easy and 
 indolent temper. 
 
 The arrival, however, of a man of Mr. Ridley's 
 age and abilities aroused him in some degree. 
 The conversation with one so accomplished was 
 a pleasure to which he could not be indifferent, 
 and instead of allowing him to follow his own 
 devices when the hours of study were over — 
 perfectly careless whether he was amused or not 
 — he exerted himself to bear him company, 
 invited himself to a share in the walks which 
 Ridley, during the genial weather of a most 
 lovely summer, amused himself, by taking in 
 the mountains — pointed out to him every lovely 
 spot which lay nestling in these fastnesses, and 
 every towering peak from which a prospect 
 more than commonly beautiful might be com- 
 manded. Ridlev had far too much ffood taste 
 and good sense not to profit by Mr. Abel's in- 
 clination to be sociable. The speech of the good 
 man was tedious, but wanted not meaning, and 
 he was not altogether without a wit, or more 
 properly, humour of his own ; his love, also, for 
 the picturesque amounted to enthusiasm ; and 
 thus, though at times Ridley, accustomed to 
 more exciting pleasures, thought his sojourn in
 
 40 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 the mountains but " slow work," upon the whole 
 he got along', as he thought, very well, made 
 rapid advances in knowledge, and learned 
 almost as much in these sociable rambles among 
 the hills as in Mr. Abel's study.
 
 MORDAUXT HALL. 41 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " A crowd of hopes .... 
 Fluttered about my senses and my soul; 
 .... And all kinds of thought, 
 That verged upon them sweeter than the dream 
 Dreamt by a happy man." Tekntsox. 
 
 The master and the pupil came clambering 
 down the steepest of these hills, their dress a good 
 deal soiled, and their knees stained with the dust 
 of the rugged places through which they had been 
 scramblino'. Mr. Abel, who was awkward in the 
 extreme, had had sundry falls ; and Ridley, laugh- 
 ing within himself in a peculiar silent way -which 
 he had when amused, had as often picked him 
 up and set him on his legs again. 
 
 But, to tell truth, he was beginning at last to 
 get a little weary of his walks with Mr. Abel, 
 and, as variety was the very element upon which 
 he existed, to wish for the chano-e and liberty of 
 wandering quite alone, and extending his excur-
 
 42 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 sions as far as he pleased, unfettered by any 
 companion. 
 
 He had dragged poor Mr. Abel this day much 
 farther than it was his wont to go, indifferent, 
 according to custom, to the comfort of others 
 when his own inclinations were concerned ; 
 but he now, like other selfish people, began to 
 regret his thoughtless disregard of other men's 
 comfort when the consequences became inconve- 
 nient to himself; and poor Mr. Abel, with his 
 dusty coat and stained knees — tottering along, 
 sliding down steep places, tumbling into holes, 
 and at length utterly wearied out and almost 
 unable to get along, and little inclined to lighten 
 the way by his conversation — was felt as a great 
 hindrance, burden, or Lore (as the phrase was), 
 and Ridley heartily wished to be rid of him. 
 
 The way they had taken led them to the brow 
 of the hills, or rather mountains, which I have 
 described. The wide, breezy common opened 
 suddenly before them, now covered with purple 
 ling and large straggling bushes of golden gorse 
 and broom ; and the cottage of the Recluse, 
 with its trim garden-hedge, its parterres gay 
 with a full flush of roses and other summer- 
 flowers, lay, like a little island of the blest, 
 under their feet. 
 
 Mr. Abel had just before been declaring that
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 43 
 
 he did not exactly know where he was, and that 
 he must sit down and rest himself before pro- 
 ceeding further, when, as they turned round the 
 prominence of rock which hid this landscape 
 from their sight, the cottage stood revealed to 
 them, and he uttered a loud holla of joy, ex- 
 claiming, — 
 
 " Only to think of our being here, after all !" 
 
 He seemed inspired with fresh vigour, and 
 began to stumble down the mountain at a rapid 
 pace. 
 
 He did not take the trouble even to turn his 
 head, or explain his intentions to his companion. 
 He was one of those who, once possessed with 
 an idea, seem to believe in a magnetic power of 
 communication without signs. But Ridley was 
 content, so that he did but get along a little 
 more swiftly than usual, and followed him as 
 well as he could at his own pace, every now and 
 then, however, stopping to look about him. 
 
 It was an evening — an evening for a poet, — 
 
 " Oh, 't was an unimaginable sight ! 
 Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks, and emerald turf; 
 Clouds of all tmcture, rocks, and sapphire sky, 
 Confused, commingled, mutually inflamed, 
 Molten together and composing thus, 
 Each lost in each — a marvellous array ! . . . . 
 In fleecy folds voluminous enwrapt .... 
 Such as by Hebrew prophets was beheld in vision," &c.
 
 44 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 Snatches of this gorgeous description, taken 
 from the second hook of that wondrously beau- 
 tiful poem, Wordsworth's " Excursion," which 
 Ridley had been just reading, and which his mar- 
 vellous memory retained without difficulty, were 
 the words in which he, with some slight altera- 
 tions, endeavoured to arrange the impressions 
 received from the scene before him. 
 
 It was a plain which lay extended there, round 
 which the mountains in giant heights rose in a 
 grand semicircle, the purple heath stretching 
 towards the horizon, with the picturesque low- 
 roofed cottao-e beneath his feet. Above him the 
 sky, sapphire overhead ; but the heavy clouds 
 of a late thunderstorm were still rolling in thick 
 volumes towards the distance, inundated at this 
 moment with bright dazzling lights from the sun, 
 now sinking in a bed of crimson and gold. 
 
 His imagination was inflammable as his heart 
 was hard ; and an imagination excited by natural 
 beauty will for the moment give a glow of most 
 honest pleasure to the countenance, and a fervid 
 expression to the eyes ; and Ridley, who had 
 fascination at will, never looked more fascinating 
 than when, without any ideas of being fascinating 
 or any thing else of the sort in his head, he 
 presented himself with Mr. Abel at the little 
 wicket of the garden.
 
 MORDALTNT HALL. 45 
 
 As Mr. Abel was silent, he would not question 
 him, and following him without speaking into 
 the charming little enclosure, walked after him 
 np the gravel walk, eyeing, with eyes of desire, 
 the fine strawberries that peeped from under their 
 leaves, and the strings (as Wordsworth has it) of 
 ripe red and white currants that hung from the 
 trees, not overlooking the low bushes covered 
 with roses of every shade, from the deepest 
 crimson to the palest blush, and all the abund- 
 ance of stocks, rockets, and lilies intermingled. 
 
 A dog behind the cottage barked, and the 
 handsomest gipsy, as Ridley thought, that he 
 had ever seen, thus summoned, came to the door, 
 and spying Mr. Abel, hastened down the walk 
 and gave him a most friendly and cordial greeting. 
 
 " My father is out, but will be at home soon. 
 Pray come in, dear Mr. Abel ! — it is months since 
 we have had a sight of you. My father will be 
 so glad to see you ! " 
 
 There were few forms observed among these 
 good people. Mr. Abel in his absence of mind, 
 looking about him at all the pretty things around, 
 forgot to present his companion, who, however, 
 as he saw his tutor about to enter the house with- 
 out taking any notice of him, quietly said, — 
 
 *' May I come in too?" 
 
 '* Oh, I vow I quite forgot you!" said Abel,
 
 46 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 turning- abruptly round. " Miss Miriam, tliis is 
 Mr. Ridley, a gentleman now staying to read with 
 me.'* 
 
 '^ Pray walk in, sir," said Miriam, " and rest 
 yourself. My father will be home soon." 
 
 So they walked into the parlour and sat down 
 by the window, and Miriam said she would get 
 them some fruit if they pleased. So for this 
 purpose she left them to themselves to look about 
 them, and Ridley to make his own observations 
 and remarks. 
 
 ** I declare, Abel," was the first thing he said, 
 *^ you are the strangest fellow in the world to 
 bring me up here, without note of preparation, 
 into the prettiest garden of the houris that ever 
 fancy of man formed, and to startle me with the 
 sight of the handsomest gipsy that ever "^^as 
 tanned by a summer sun ! Who is she, and what 
 is she?" 
 
 " Why, I don't know why I should tell you, 
 when I wanted breath to speak. There is nothing 
 very extraordinary in calling upon a friend to sit 
 down and rest one's self when one finds one's self, 
 after a long tiresome walk, coming plump upon 
 his cottage. That young girl is his daughter : 
 she 's a very good girl, I believe, and he 's very 
 fond of her. I never observed she was particu- 
 larly handsome."
 
 MORDAU^T HALL. 4/ 
 
 " Didn't you ? yet I suppose slie must be 
 reckoned so by the whole county?" 
 
 *' Can't say, I'm sure; yet I may have heard 
 them talk about it, though I don't think I ever 
 did. But her father 's a curious fellow. They 
 don't go much about among the people here, I 
 believe ; he's a very clever man is her father — 
 quite above the common in every way." 
 
 "And w^ho's her mother?" asked Ridley, as 
 people do who are accustomed to take note of 
 alliances. 
 
 ^' She's got none." 
 
 " But I suppose she had one?" 
 
 " I believe so, but she was dead long before I 
 got the living and came down here. She lives 
 with her father alone here, and really seems a 
 very good girl. I never come here but she offers 
 me fruit, or cake, or wine, or some little thing. 
 She 's a hospitable, kind, open-hearted creature, 
 as ever lived." 
 
 ** She's excessively handsome," persisted Ridley. 
 
 *'Well, I dare say she may be, but I never 
 thought about it. I know she's good, and I've 
 heard her father say she's very clever — as good 
 a little classic as you would wish to see, and fond 
 of reading all his big books : but I've no very 
 particular liking for scholars in petticoats. Why, 
 sir, when they've done their best, a schoolboy in
 
 48 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 the fourth form will beat them hollow ; and it 
 only makes the frivolous things pert and con- 
 ceited : though I must own Miriam's as free from 
 conceit — as free-hearted, frank, and charming a 
 girl, as need be." 
 
 Ridley had been examining a little book which 
 lay half-open, tossed upon the window-seat, as if 
 she had been readhig it when interrupted by the 
 dog. 
 
 He smiled in a sarcastic manner as he turned 
 over half-a-dozen of the pages ; then laid down 
 the book, and leaned his full length out of the 
 open window, gazing into the garden, where 
 birds were tripping about in perfect security 
 amid the plants and flowers ; bees were humming 
 amid the waxen flower cups, and butterflies flaunt- 
 ing about in the sun ; and he felt in a delicious 
 sort of dream as he watched the slight figure of 
 Miriam among the trees at the bottom of the 
 garden, with a basket in her hand, gathering 
 currants and strawberries. 
 
 He watched the fair figure, and he mused upon 
 the book, and the clever sarcastic smile peculiar to 
 his expressive and handsome face was upon it now. 
 
 When she re-entered the house, he drew him- 
 self again into the room, and stood with his back 
 to the window, observing every thing that went 
 on.
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 49 
 
 She came in with her basket in her hand, look- 
 ing still more handsome from the glow that was 
 upon her cheek, and she set down the basket 
 before Mr. Abel, invited the stranger to take a 
 share, which he civilly accepted, going up to the 
 table and helping himself with his hand ; but he 
 refused to sit down, and resumed his position of 
 observer at the window. So she, without taking 
 further notice of him, sat down by Mr. Abel, and 
 began to talk to him in as free and unconcerned a 
 manner as if there had been no other pei'son in 
 the room. 
 
 She seemed to have no feelins: of such a thino; 
 as timidity or shyness — like the birds of the wil- 
 derness which fear not the face of men — but her 
 ease was so perfectly natural, her manner so 
 entirely guileless and unaffected, her look so 
 girlish and simple, that any suspicion of undue 
 forwardness or boldness never entered the 
 beholder's thouo'hts. 
 
 She evidently talked to Mr. Abel with much 
 pleasure, and her conversation, neither trifling 
 nor conventional, soon took an earnest and 
 serious turn, as they picked currants together, 
 and talked of — 
 
 " Hobbes, Malbranche, and Locke." 
 Perhaps not literally of these great metaphysi- 
 cians' works, but something very much akin to it. 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 60 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 Ridley stood with his back to the window, gaz- 
 ins: and listenins; — hstenins; and «;azin2: ; and the 
 peculiar smile passed often over his features, as 
 he heard the sentiments expressed by the young 
 and animated speaker, who *' spoke like a sage," 
 but evidently "felt like a man," — or rather 
 woman. 
 
 If she had not been so beautiful a girl, Ridley 
 would have set her down for the veriest pedant 
 that ever inked her fingers ; and looked upon her 
 as a thing equally unnatural and odious. But 
 beauty redeems every defect in the eyes of such a 
 man as he was ; and he be2:an to Ion 2: to break a 
 lance "with the young pliilosop//(?5s himself. 
 
 The opportunity was soon afforded ; the wicket 
 again opened, and her father — the Recluse him- 
 self — came slowly and pensively up the garden. 
 Ridley had turned round upon hearing the latch 
 raised, and he watched the figure of the remark- 
 able-looking man as he approached. 
 
 Lines of deep, earnest thought had marked 
 one of the finest faces he thought he had ever 
 seen ; and the habit of manual labour and close 
 reading united had slightl}- bent the figure ; the 
 step was slow, but it was not languid ; the air 
 gentle, almost might be called lounging ; but 
 there was an appearance of radical strength, if I 
 may so express myself, of tone— of sensibility — of
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 51 
 
 vehement passion, if aroused — which in spite of 
 all was impressed upon the observer — he could 
 scarcely tell why. 
 
 Perhaps these last perceptions arose as Ridley 
 knew him better; but the deeply-curved and 
 thoughtful expression of the countenance struck 
 him from the first. 
 
 He came slowly up the walk, stopping* from 
 time to time to look at and handle some of his 
 flowers, taking out his garden-knife and giving a 
 pruning touch here and there; but looking up 
 towards the house, and seeing a gentleman stand- 
 ing at the window^ he started, and with a brisk 
 step and an air of friendly greeting, approached 
 the cottage. 
 
 '^Abel! Right glad to see you," was his ad- 
 dress, holding out his hand, and approaching the 
 table, whence Abel reared with toil his mighty 
 limbs, and wdth the iron grasp of a giant clutched 
 the fair white hand presented to him. 
 
 " Right glad to see you also, friend, and the 
 fair Miss Miriam here, looking as well as ever. 
 We are devouring your currants and strawberries 
 you see ; but it's hugely hot, and I am as tired as 
 if I had ascended Mont Blanc. Yes — yes, that's 
 my friend Mr. Ridley, — Mr. Feversham — Mr. 
 Ridley — a gentleman who is come down to spend 
 a little time with me, I must hardly call him
 
 52 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 pupil, I believe — for he can teach me a vast deal 
 more of the world I don't know, than I can teach 
 him of the world I do know." 
 
 Upon this introduction the Recluse turned to 
 Mr. Ridley, and addressing him with a manner 
 which shewed him, though retired from, yet no 
 stranger to the habits of the great woi'ld — they 
 soon fell into a general conversation, in wliicli 
 Miriam joined, with what may be called a sort of 
 artless assurance, for she was perfectly at her 
 ease, and spoke her opinions upon every subject 
 with the most unaffected freshness. She seemed 
 original and odd, but certainly there was nothing 
 in the least repulsive or unpleasant in this open- 
 ness ; she was so perfectly free from vanity, so 
 evidently without any idea of making a display, 
 her whole deportment so characterised by the 
 most limpid single-heartedness and simplicity. 
 
 She stood by her father, and she held his hand 
 while he talked, and while the others talked ; 
 while she put in her word with her speaking eyes 
 full of earnest expression and interest. 
 
 Mr. Feversham seemed pleased with his new 
 acquaintance. It was seldom that in his retire- 
 ment he met with such a com^^anion. The four 
 men I have enumerated — the surgeon, the lawyer, 
 the vicar, and Mr. Abel — were the only people in 
 Kettlewell, Askridu*e, or its immediate neii^li-
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 53 
 
 bourliood, that could make the slightest preten- 
 sion to the possession of minds able to excite or 
 interest his. The young pupils who came to Mr. 
 Abel's from time to time were merely raw boys, 
 but here was a formed and very clever man — a 
 man who had just quitted the great world of 
 science, literature, and politics — and who was, 
 moreover, one of the cleverest persons he had 
 ever met with. 
 
 They soon strolled out into the garden. Miriam 
 still held her father's hand, — it was thus they 
 might always be seen together ; but Miriam talked 
 no longer herself. Her eyes were soon busily 
 engaged in gazing, now at the stranger, then at 
 her father, as they severally spoke — her ears in 
 drinking in everything that was said — and she 
 gradually sank into perfect silence. 
 
 Her eyes were but too earnestly employed. She 
 knew she had never seen — in her dreams of per- 
 fection and perfectibility she thouglit she had 
 never even imagined, a being so perfect as the one 
 before her. He became to her the realisation, 
 but with a something yet exceeding in excellence, 
 the ideal of that St. Preux — that Emile, — over 
 whom her fancy had brooded. His conversation 
 was this day particularly clever and animated, 
 and he kept glancing at the fine giri who now 
 silently walked there, holding her father's hand.
 
 54 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 as if lie asked her approbation, and relied upon 
 her comprehension of what he said, and her sym- 
 pathy in it. 
 
 She felt gratified and flattered in a way she had 
 never done before. They had at first sauntered 
 lip and down the middle walk of the garden — 
 now they deviated into the narrower paths that 
 ran round it, where the hedge upon one side was 
 high and filled with wild roses and sweet-briers 
 scenting the air, and the path was bordered upon 
 the other with ancient apple-trees loaded with 
 fruit, that spread their hoary branches overhead, 
 and pear-trees cut in pinnacles between them, — 
 also loaded with fruit, and giving a pleasant 
 quaintness to the scene. 
 
 Here the party was obliged to walk two by 
 two. Mr. Abel and Mr. Feversham walked toge- 
 ther in advance, absorbed in the discussion of 
 some subject or other, and Ridley and Miriam fol- 
 lowed side by side. 
 
 She had never felt any thing the least approach- 
 ing to the feelings with which she found herself 
 now agitated, — 
 
 A timidity to which, till then, she had been a 
 perfect stranger — a feeling, till then unknown, of 
 admiration and pleasure — a sense of gratified self- 
 love never felt before — a delight in the perception 
 that she possessed the power to please, which had
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 55 
 
 never, until no^Y, in one single instance been 
 excited. 
 
 All those feelings, in short, which belong to a 
 heart most pure and unsophisticated, whose affec- 
 tions have never been stirred by any thing in the 
 least approaching to passion, and yet whose ima- 
 gination, filled with images of perfection, is but 
 too ready to lend its delusions to the actual when 
 it appears. 
 
 Too well read in the dangerous subject she was, 
 and yet, such was the perfect innocence of her 
 heart, that she had not the remotest idea of what 
 was reallv taking: birth within — for she was far 
 too simple-hearted to think much about herself, 
 and she had never been taug^ht to call herself 
 to account. She was, at least, free from egotism, 
 if she wanted self-correction ; she had, what all 
 have not — the virtues of her faults. 
 
 Ridley was very much better aware than she 
 was of the impression he was making; he was of 
 course flattered, and he was, moreover, very much 
 attracted. He certainly had never met with any 
 one the least resembling Miriam before. He 
 thought her gipsy complexion, and her earnest, 
 expressive, serious eyes, at once most singular and 
 most interesting. He did his best to be as inte- 
 resting upon his side, and was as charming as he 
 could be for his life. He succeeded but too well.
 
 56 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 The father turned round and looked back now 
 and then ; and, under the hoary branches of those 
 apple-trees, and the pinnacled avenue of those 
 pear-trees, and that sweet-brier and Avild-rose 
 hedge, he saw them walking. He, bending his 
 head towards her, looking most handsome and 
 animated ; and she, turning up those glorious eyes 
 of hers to his face, and answering in tones too 
 low and sweet to reach far. 
 
 And Mr. Feversham said to Abel, — 
 
 "Tell me something more about that young 
 man — he seems a clever person — a remarkable 
 man he will be in time, if I mistake not." 
 
 And Abel answered, — 
 
 " He is a very clever man, and is expected to 
 take a very leading part in politics — premier, in 
 course of time, some say. But he wants reading 
 — he wants reading ; without reading, the clever- 
 est man upon earth is but half a man after all." 
 
 " I am surprised at what you tell me ; boys of 
 ability usually love reading so well that they edu- 
 cate themselves in this respect, nobody exactly 
 knows how." 
 
 ** So it is not, however, in this case ; though, of 
 course, he has got a good deal of stuff into his 
 head altogether, some way or other : but he has 
 wasted his time — wasted his time. It is impossi- 
 ble a man who had not wasted time, having been
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 57 
 
 at a public school and at Cambridge, could else 
 have done so little." 
 
 The Recluse shook his head. He thought very 
 little of a university education : he was of those 
 who are seeking perfection at the expense of all 
 existinsr thino-s. You must excuse him — lie lived 
 in the ideas of his day. 
 
 A doubt as to the value of a university education 
 always made Abel, who was an excellent classic 
 and mathematician, angry. He knew, by what 
 he had gained himself, what was to be gained in 
 those seats of learning by those willing to profit 
 by such advantages. So he said, — 
 
 " Those who learn nothing where so much 
 may be learned, are, I repeat it, either idle or 
 worse." 
 
 The father again turned round, and looked 
 back. They were further off than before, and 
 more earnestly engaged in talk than ever. 
 
 " Worse ! — vicious, do you mean ? Has that 
 been the case with this young man V 
 
 " Not that I know of, I am sure," said the 
 good-natured and most short-sighted Abel, — 
 " no ; he seems as good and well-behaved a young- 
 fellow as ever I saw in my life. He has been 
 most assiduous at his books since he came to 
 me. By what he lets out in his talk, too fond of 
 tandem-driving, maybe, while at the university,
 
 58 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 and of suppers with other young fellows ; natural 
 enough — natural enough! — wasted his time! — 
 they all do — they all do! — wants a reform — 
 wants a reform !" 
 
 *' Do you know any thing of his parents?" 
 
 " People of good fortune, but nothing very 
 great, I believe, in other ways. Good sort of 
 foolish people, I fancy, who let the young man do 
 much as he pleases. It accounts for it all — it ac- 
 counts for it all." 
 
 And by this time, for they had stood still as 
 this was said, the young people joined them ; and 
 then the parties changed — Abel and Miriam 
 walked forwards first, and the father and Ridley 
 followed. 
 
 This time, voluntarily or involuntarily, he took 
 more than ordinary pains to render himself agree- 
 able. He charmed Mr. Feversham by his agree- 
 able powers, he excited his admiration by the 
 brilliance and solidity of his remarks, and he 
 flattered him, in the most seductive manner, by 
 his accordance with most of his peculiar opinions. 
 He spoke too so justly and so well upon points of 
 morals — alas! who cannot? — that by the time 
 they sat down to tea, for they were much too well 
 pleased with each other to part before it was ab- 
 solutely necessary, Ridley had managed to win 
 for himself as high a place in the opinion of the
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 59 
 
 father as in the admiration of the daughter ; and 
 this sort of agreeable consciousness, as thev sat 
 round the table, added, if it were possible to add, 
 to the pleasing fascination of his manners. 
 
 Miriam made tea, and the kettle had to be 
 fetched up and down from the kitchen. She used to 
 do this for herself — nothing could be m.ore simple 
 than their mode of life — they always waited upon 
 themselves; Peggy, the maid, had plenty to do 
 without attending upon them. She set tea as 
 usual, and then she took herself to her other em- 
 ployments, so Ridley attended to fetch the kettle 
 first, and then insisted upon carrying it, and then 
 upon going up and down to fetch it, and all in 
 such a pleasant, easy way, that, in spite of the 
 fashionable air of his dress, Mr. Feversham took 
 him for as great a despiser of luxury and pa- 
 rade as himself. 
 
 Then the sun set in glory, and then the moon 
 rose in hers, " leaning against the mountains' 
 breast," and then the stars came forth from out 
 the depths of heaven, and then the missel-thrush 
 and the reed-bird began their evening-song, and 
 then all was still and exquisitely calm. And the 
 party walked together out at the wicket, for Abel 
 had asked them whether they would not accom- 
 pany him and his friend part of the way home 
 that fine night — but as they gazed upon the
 
 60 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 glittering stars, who among them worshipped 
 Him of whom " the heavens declare the glory ?" 
 
 Mr. Abel and his friend were soon perfectly ab- 
 sorbed in a dispute concerning the calculation of 
 the times of the expected comet, and Ridley 
 walked again behind with Miriam, and his voice 
 was very low and sweet. True, he said nothing 
 that had meaning, if the words merely were re- 
 peated, but her heart began to flutter at the 
 tones. Then they came to the dark shadowy en- 
 trance of that mountain-gorge, through which 
 the path of the two visitors lay, and there they 
 parted. 
 
 Abel and Mr. Feversham, hesitating and re- 
 turning, and still saying more last words to each 
 other, before they could resolve to separate ; and 
 Ridley — for she had given him her hand in artless 
 confidence — again and again, as they came back 
 for " more last words," taking that hand, and re- 
 peating his farewells and his assurances, that, if 
 pei'mitted, he should speedily renew the delights 
 of this, the most charming evening of his life. 
 
 The father and daughter walked back in si- 
 lence : he absorbed in the endeavour to repeat in 
 his head, without the aid of figures, the calcula-
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 61 
 
 tions upon which his reasonings had been 
 founded, and, as usual with him upon such oc- 
 casions, almost entirely insensible to the presence 
 of his daughter ; and she, no longer holding his 
 hand according to almost unbroken custom, lin- 
 gering behind him, now gazing at the glorious 
 empyrean a,bove, now at the sleeping landscape 
 around, in a sweet confusion of delightful sensa- 
 tions, which she neither attempted to analyse nor 
 to understand. 
 
 Had the severance of the holy tie which 
 united them already begun ?
 
 62 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " Ecco io n'cliino le braccia, et' appresento 
 Seiiza difesa il petto — or che iiol fiedi ? 
 Vuoi ch' agevoli 1 'opra ? — I' son contento." 
 
 Tasso. 
 
 The pure love of a guileless heart is a lovely 
 picture, worthy to be displayed before the eye of 
 God and man — an emanation from the beneficent 
 source of all good — a holy law of this our fleet- 
 ing being, knitting together, in ties indissoluble 
 as strong, two hearts, two souls, in one. 
 
 Its birth is lovely, its progress most interesting 
 — its fate, be it for weal or for woe, the source of 
 the deepest pathos or most rapturous joy. IN'ot so 
 with love unholy and vicious. Let its progress 
 be shrouded in darkness, for from the powers of 
 darkness it takes rise, and to darkness it shall re- 
 turn. Offspring of evil, with evil let it perish.
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 63 
 
 I am not here to trace its progress. 
 
 With the bitter, bitter consequences of mis- 
 directed passion, I have once had before to do, 
 and I now have to do again. Then it was of 
 heai-ts betrayed by their own unguarded tender- 
 ness, and the picture might be viewed, at least, 
 without disgust — now it is far worse. 
 
 Unsuspecting enthusiasm, innocence unguided 
 and inexperienced, a most loving heart, a most 
 frank and confiding temper, is exposed to the 
 fascinations of a most profligate, unprincipled, yet 
 most clever man, full of imagination, exhibiting 
 fits of the most seductive tenderness — a tender- 
 ness which he almost for the moment believed he 
 felt — yet with an utter contempt for the sex, 
 despising all principle in relation to them, and 
 far — far too heartless to reflect upon the bitter, 
 irretrievable misery and ruin, which his footsteps, 
 in such courses, might leave behind. Execrable 
 selfishness! odious, barbarous cruelty! wicked, 
 dishonourable abuse of confidence and weak- 
 ness ! Oh, for a blasting pen ! — for words that 
 blighted as they fell! — to stigmatise the base 
 seducer of a woman's innocence ! — the miser- 
 able betrayer of those who have trusted! — the 
 wretched author of sorrows, endless as they are 
 bitter ! 
 
 Miriam learned to love with a depth, a force,
 
 64 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 an enthusiasm, a passion, and a purity, which 
 justified to herself, alas ! all the fatal errors into 
 which her passion led her. 
 
 She, poor thing ! had been reared in all 
 that freedom and security which her life with 
 Nature, her simple enjoyments and her simple 
 affections, had inspired : but her imagination 
 Avas unchastened, her enthusiasm undirected, 
 and unrestrained by severe laws of duty — of 
 woman's more especial duty. With no principles 
 of religion that were not as fleeting, varying, and 
 evanescent as the other dreams of her ima2:in- 
 ation ; no awful standard of purity — no moral 
 law imposing its irrevocable boundaries to the 
 wild exaggerations of the passions — she stood 
 there without defence, against this wily, practised 
 man of a bad and vicious world. 
 
 He came there very often — he came there more 
 and more often. 
 
 Her father became uneasy. 
 
 There are occasions upon which he, whose 
 opinions have run into the greatest eccentricity, 
 returns to the standard of ordinary men. What- 
 ever his theories might be, no man upon earth 
 was more susceptible upon the point of female 
 honour than was Feversham. It was some time 
 before, absorbed and abstracted as he too often 
 was, he suspected the approach of danger ; but
 
 M9RDAUNT HALL, 65 
 
 when once suspicion had entered his mind, it was 
 enough. 
 
 After a shght explanation with Ridley, he for- 
 bade him his house. He was unfortunate even 
 in this, apparently indispensable, measure. He 
 who would confide in the rectitude of his chil- 
 dren, had need to rear them in higher principles 
 than those vague generalisations of which Fever- 
 sham was so fond ; he must humble his own 
 pride of intellect, and bend before One whose 
 laws are not as men's laws — who addresses and 
 regulates the inner heart — who speaks to the 
 wild waves of passion, and " there is a great 
 calm" — whose voice is ever present, whispering 
 to those who will listen — whose obligations are 
 stringent, and His denunciations awful. 
 
 It was easy for a man like Ridley to plead, 
 what all men, even the best of them, are perhaps 
 too apt to plead, even when pursuing an honest 
 passion, the superiority^ of the rights of love over 
 all other rights — its obligations above all other 
 duties — to exalt its equivocal sacrifices into the 
 most generous of sacrifices — and to represent its 
 breach of all other obligations — its treachery to 
 holy affections — its oblivion of other claims, as 
 proofs of the most generous devotion and calls 
 upon the most unbounded gratitude. 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 66 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 Men, in their cooler moments, think and feel 
 like the old senator in " Othello," — 
 
 " Look to her, !Moor ! . . . . 
 She has deceived her father, and may thee." 
 
 But their lano:ua2:e is too often as false as their 
 pleadings are sophistical, and woe to the woman 
 who builds her claims upon her lover's good faith 
 and constancy, by the extent of those duties she 
 has sacrificed in his favour ! 
 
 The first step in wrong to which Miriam was 
 persuaded, was that of deceiving her father. 
 
 It was easy for Ridley to arrange one of those 
 tales which have deluded so many generous and 
 devoted hearts — to represent the impossibility of 
 yielding to her father's expectations of an open 
 and immediate marriao;e without offending^ his 
 own parents past forgiveness, and ruining the 
 bright prospects opening before him. He talked 
 of a private marriage, which he owned it was 
 vain to propose to her father, "whose opinions 
 upon the subject were more conventional than he 
 should have expected from one of so enlarged 
 and liberal a way of thinking.'* He persuaded
 
 MOEDAUNT HALL. 67 
 
 her by professions of the most ardent devotion — 
 by all those sophistical arguments which such 
 men use, and such inexperienced and generous girls 
 believe — of the disinterestedness of his passion, 
 and the violence of his despair at the idea of a 
 final separation. And many an evening saw that 
 once faithful and ingenuous girl gliding, with 
 beating heart, along the garden-hedge, to the 
 place where he hid his letters ; reading them 
 with all the intense interest of a first love, 
 ready to cast her own fate at once, without 
 regard to self, a sacrifice to the interests of 
 her lover. It was not difficult to persuade her 
 that her father, in spite of his apparent obstinacy 
 upon the point, could not but regard the hide- 
 feasible rights of love in the same light that so 
 many enthusiasts of his day affected to — or without 
 affectation did regard them — that, in short, under 
 that sacred name all would, as all ought to be, 
 forgiven. 
 
 " Had not her father himself put Mary Wol- 
 stoncroft's ' Letters from Norway' into her 
 hands, and eulogised them as the expression 
 of the purest and most devoted tenderness?'* 
 Miriam, it is true, had never been made aware 
 by him of the circumstances under which those 
 letters had been written, and to whom ; but Ridley 
 enlightened her upon that matter, and did not
 
 68 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 neglect to draw liis own inferences from the 
 circumstance. 
 
 He talked of a private marriage ; but he had 
 not the slighest intention of linking himself in 
 the transient enthusiasm of the moment — how 
 transient such enthusiasm his own experience had 
 but too well taught him — to one in rank and 
 fortune so inferior to himself. To entangle himself, 
 as yet, in any marriage at all, was contrary to all 
 liis plans and wishes ; but to fetter himself with 
 such a chain, unless as the means of securing for 
 himself important worldly advantages, he would 
 have thought the very climax of absurdity and 
 folly. Yet he really did love this interesting 
 creature, as much as it was possible for one so 
 world-hardened to love. 
 
 And in the heart-breaking scene of their part- 
 Ixig — when she, abandoned to all the agonies of 
 grief, yet, generous and self-devoted, insisted upon 
 his obedience to his father's commands, and 
 proved herself resolved to encounter any suffering 
 rather than be an impediment in the brilliant 
 career of glory and prosperity opening to him — 
 when he saw her dashing away the tears that 
 kept crowding up into her eyes, almost con- 
 vulsed with the effort to keep down her sobs 
 and her shrieks; yet assuring him, *' that it was 
 ail right— that she should be able to keep up
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 69 
 
 very well — that she would and could live upon 
 those precious letters which every evening, as 
 the busy day of his course came to a close, he pro- 
 mised, and intended^ to write to her." 
 
 In that heart-rending scene, when, after in- 
 numerable last adieus, they at length parted, 
 and, turning back, he saw her, when she thought 
 herself alone, fling herself down upon the grass, 
 her arms stretched out in all the agou}^ of 
 that despair which she had so generously en- 
 deavoured to conceal from him, — yes, in that 
 moment he softened too — softened, as he thought, 
 almost as much as she did ; and as he tore himself 
 away, he vowed to his own soul that Miriam 
 should not be wronged ; that the time should 
 come when that heart, more pure than tried 
 gold, should find the recompense of its ardent 
 and generous devotion : that he w^ould soon find 
 means to visit her again, and restore the sweet 
 sunshine to that honest affectionate countenance ; 
 and that, sooner or later, she should occupy with 
 him the place in society of which he so well 
 understood, but which, in her enthusiasm and 
 simplicity, she so little comprehended, the value. 
 
 From the point where he turned to look back 
 he watched her ; he felt as if he could not tear him- 
 self thus away : he returned a few steps ; he heard 
 her groan — such a groan! — such utter anguish
 
 70 MORDAU^'T HALL. 
 
 in that groan ! His better angel — all men have 
 their better angel ; long lingers the celestial 
 visitant before it finally takes flight — his better 
 aneel urcred him to come back, to catch that 
 forlorn and betrayed one, that generous, affec- 
 tionate, loving heart to his, and to ratify before 
 God and society those hallowed bonds which 
 united them to each other. 
 
 It was the turning-point of his destiny. 
 
 The choice which, in holy mystery, legend, or 
 fable, since the world began, has been pictured 
 to man. 
 
 But the evil counsellor within triumphed : the 
 tempter whispered of ridicule, obstruction, em- 
 barrassment — of a career too lofty to be inter- 
 rupted by considerations so insignificant, in com- 
 parison with higher aspirations — o{ another time, 
 when justice might be done. And he turned 
 awav and pursued the path which led to where 
 the mail from Carlisle to London passed. 
 
 He pursued his journey ; and as time and 
 distance separated him from the scene where this 
 romantic episode of his life had taken place, the 
 passion of regret and remorse with which he 
 had looked upon her, as there she lay prone upon 
 the earth, in that agony of utter misery — she, 
 whom he had once seen the picture of happiness 
 and serenity — was forgotten : other thoughts.
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 71 
 
 plans, wishes, began to occupy his mind ; and 
 before the mail rattled over the stones of London, 
 Ridley might be called himself again. 
 
 Still Memory would have her revenge at times. 
 
 In many a still hour of the night, in many a 
 moment of pause amidst the busy and interesting 
 occupations of his daily life, those moments 
 when the spirits sink, the imagination clouds, 
 the heart of man grows sick within him, and the 
 utter worthlessness of this mere world presses 
 upon the immortal soul — that image would recur. 
 The memory of that trusting, honest love, so 
 wickedly betrayed, would haunt him; and that 
 face of repressed agony, and that last groan, 
 rise up to his fancy, till the image and the sound 
 seemed real. 
 
 A few detached scenes shall put you in pos- 
 session of as much of this part of my story as I 
 think it necessary or choose to dwell upon. 
 
 To relate the ultimate consequences of this 
 tragic tale of guilt and error has been my chief 
 intention ; so that this portion is to be looked 
 upon rather in the way of a sort of prelude or 
 introduction to the rest, than as the story itself.
 
 72 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 . ..." He above the rest, 
 In shape and gesture proudly eminent, 
 Stood like a tower." JVIilton. 
 
 A VERY full house, and a very important 
 question before the house. 
 
 The times were times of strife, agitation, and 
 revolution; when society was shaking* to its 
 foundations ; when the first principles of religion, 
 every tradition of manners, every axiom of go- 
 vernment, every right, privilege, prescription, 
 possession, was called in question. 
 
 When a strong man at the helm, with clear, 
 absolute, determined views, stood there, almost 
 alone, in defence of what icas — of what time had 
 hallowed, experience justified, and religion sanc- 
 tified — against the brightest genuises of the age 
 in which he lived, arraved in the cause of what 
 they esteemed more hallowed than antiquity,
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 73 
 
 more wise than experience, more saintly than 
 religion. 
 
 There had this night been a desperate battle, 
 and in vain the minister had called forth his 
 eloquence as a flood : he stood alone. He was 
 accustomed to stand alone — as some noble watch- 
 tower, rising towards the heavens, looming in the 
 threatening storm, and displaying its unquench- 
 able light, to warn and guide the bewildered 
 wayfarers around — a cynosure to which, in their 
 blindness and their distractions, thev fled. But 
 he was more accustomed to overwhelm than to 
 convince, to enlist the prejudices and the ima- 
 ginations of men upon his side, than to defend 
 his position by the powers of reason or the argu- 
 ments of wisdom. Perhaps, at that time he was 
 not even himself aware how much of wisdom 
 there was in his opinions, how much of both in 
 his anticipations. 
 
 He was accustomed, as I have said, to stand 
 almost alone in that house, unsupported except 
 by the votes of his adherents, which never failed 
 him ; but this night, exhausted with fatigue, his 
 spirits ebbing and his nerves failing, he looked 
 round as he sat down, contemplated the array of 
 talent upon the benches opposite — sighed — 
 and wished that he too had a supporter. 
 
 A young man, who had been sometimes, though
 
 74 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 rarely, heard before, and that in brief and unim- 
 portant speeches, — a young man of most prepos- 
 sessing appearance, handsome, gentlemanlike, 
 with eagle eye and most energetic gesture, rose 
 and made a speech in defence of the minister's 
 measure, and in explanation of his views, which 
 at once electrified the whole audience — that 
 audience the hardest to satisfy, the most glo- 
 rious to please, of any, that man, since the world 
 began, has addressed. 
 
 There stands Ridley, surrounded by congratulat- 
 ing friends, in the full blush of his triumphs. He 
 has electrified the world. His speech will form 
 an era in history, — he is already a great and 
 powerful man, — a few hours, and he has reached 
 the highest round of ambition's ladder. 
 
 He accepts a place of honour and eminence 
 under the minister whose views lie has so ad- 
 mirably illustrated and defended ; henceforward 
 he is to take a prominent part amid the pha- 
 lanx which defends the constitution and the 
 throne. 
 
 We need not follow him in this career. 
 
 We have all read of one who, after a political 
 victory over her enemies, mounted her chariot to
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 75 
 
 return home .... Her father's dead body lay- 
 in the way. 
 
 Ridley returned home that evening-, and a letter 
 lay upon the writing-table with others. He knew 
 the handwriting but too well ; it was a month 
 since he had written one word in answer to these 
 heart-rending epistles — these letters, where the 
 struo^ojle to conceal the ansruish of the writer 
 seemed but more faithfully to display the misery 
 which could not be hidden. 
 
 He had taken already such measures as he 
 thought her present position demanded ; he could 
 be liberal enough of his money — and he was be- 
 coming weary of the subject, after having satisfied 
 himself that he had done all which a man under 
 his circumstances could be expected to do. 
 
 When nations were contending in the death- 
 stru2:2:le, and worlds rushins; into confusion, what 
 was a broken heart, more or less, in a remote 
 corner of the kingdom ? 
 
 He glanced over the letter, and flung it into 
 the fire. 
 
 The next day there was a grand political din- 
 ner, and a splendid entertainment in the evening, 
 given by one of the reigning sovereigns of the 
 world of fashion and politics united.
 
 76 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 Ridley was the principal person at the dinner, 
 and the star of the evening. 
 
 The long suite of apartments is blazing with 
 innumerable lights, the pictorial walls are gar- 
 landed with wreaths of the most beautiful flowers, 
 and hung with the richest silks, and corniced with 
 gold. The music of the fine military bands is 
 sounding through these lofty halls, and the steps 
 of the gay dancers is heard. 
 
 It is a royal feast, and royalty is there. 
 
 And beautiful women — beautiful as angels — 
 with their floating aerial drapery, their wreaths of 
 flowers, their dazzling eyes like stars, and their 
 most enchanting smiles. 
 
 And others gifted by fortune, yet not forgotten 
 by nature — endowed with wealth that is fabulous 
 — and with the best blood of England in their 
 veins. 
 
 And he, Ridley, is the star of the evening. 
 
 It was enough to turn the steadiest head, but 
 it did not turn his. Poor Miriam, could she 
 have seen the unconcern with which, in this 
 moment of triumph, he turned from the flashing 
 eyes and dimpled smiles that greeted him, might 
 have felt secure from the pangs of jealousy at 
 least. 
 
 But follow him with your eye, as he walks 
 with that air of simple dignity, and serene uncon-
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 77 
 
 cern, up the room, and look at the image before 
 which he is about to fall down. He had received 
 a hint upon the subject in some mysterious way. 
 
 It had been suggested that the immense for- 
 tune, and lofty station, and hlue blood of the 
 Lady Angelina would, added to his unquestion- 
 able talents, furnish all that could be wanting to 
 render him one of the most powerful and influen- 
 tial men in the three kin2:doms. 
 
 The Lady Angelina, whom time will make a 
 countess in her own right, sat by her mother's 
 side, with her fan in her hand, high amid the 
 most exclusive — the crtme de la crane of that 
 aristocratic assemblao'e — with that air of callous 
 indifference to all passing around which is by 
 some assumed, either in pride or real apathy and 
 coldness, as the best exjDression of unquestioned 
 grandeur. But as Ridley approached the fan 
 quivered, and those cold calm eyes fell, and a 
 colour — rare visitant upon that face ! — slowly de- 
 fined itself like a lamp within an alabaster vase 
 upon the pale wax of that cheek. 
 
 Her mother sat beside her — a noble, haughty- 
 looking dame, of splendid figure and fine hand- 
 some face, and covered with diamonds that an 
 emperor might have envied ; but the daughter 
 was slender, not to say thin, and her face, though 
 faultless in point of feature, was devoid of ani-
 
 78 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 Illation, and possessed little power of capti- 
 vating. 
 
 Of course tlie Lady Angelina had had hosts 
 of suitors, hut she had remained insensible until 
 now. 
 
 Now, however, the star ascendant of Ridley 
 triumphed over a heart cold and hard as ada- 
 mant ; and he found himself, not only elevated to 
 the highest position in the political world, but the 
 envy of the world of ton, through the reputation 
 of having achieved this unequalled conquest. 
 
 Ambition — vanity — nay, that sort of gratitude 
 which any man must feel for a heart bestowed 
 under such circumstances, for the moment almost 
 intoxicated him. 
 
 The Lady Angelina had been well educated ; 
 her manners were of exquisite polish, and she 
 was not devoid of talents. He danced with her, 
 he sat by her, he talked w^ith her ; her arm rested 
 upon his as he led her to her mother's carriage : 
 it was the most entrancing evening he had ever 
 passed in his life. 
 
 He flung himself upon his bed wearied with 
 excitement, and dreamed of splendours to come. 
 
 It was a cold evening in the country, though
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 79 
 
 the chilliness was not such as to be felt in Lon- 
 don ; where the blaze of lights, the glow of fires, 
 and the passage from one scene to another in well- 
 closed carriages, render the variation of seasons, 
 except in their extremes, imperceptible. 
 
 It had rained, a cold misty rain, and the air 
 was raw and ungenial ; the trees were lightly 
 tinted with green, but the sun was hidden, and 
 the sky was lowering. It was an evening upon 
 which we love to shut out the lingering light, to 
 draw the curtains an hour too soon, make a good 
 fire, and sit down comfortably by its side. 
 
 Miriam could not bear the house. The rain 
 had kept her in all day ; but her father had been 
 busy as usual, and she had been spared the effort, 
 daily and hourly becoming more insupportable, of 
 endeavouring to amuse him by her conversation, 
 as in better, happier days, and to appear before 
 him as usual. 
 
 The little cabin which she called her own, and 
 in which she had been so contented and so 
 happy, seemed now to suffocate her ; the low 
 ceiling to press upon her brain ; and the nar- 
 row space between the walls afforded no relief 
 as she paced it up and down, for she could not 
 sit still. The rain kept pattering upon the win- 
 dow, and she walked the little cell with the dull,
 
 so MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 irksome, restless uneasiness, of some denizen of 
 the forest imprisoned in his cage. 
 
 Her handkerchief was in her hand — it was ah- 
 solutely soaked, hut her eyes were quite dry now; 
 and from time to time she kept going to her little 
 washing-stand, and wetting the towel and bathing 
 the lids ; and then she would walk to the window 
 and look out, despairing and impatient, at the 
 leaden sky, and wring her hands, and walk up 
 and down that little chamber once more. 
 
 At last, with a timorous, anxious, half-guilty 
 look, she opened her door and listened. 
 
 Her father seemed still busy in his study. She 
 stepped back again, looked into her glass, drew 
 her hair over her eyes and over her faded fea- 
 tures ; again passed the towel over her face, to 
 obliterate the traces of her tears, looking round 
 from time to time with a heart trembling with 
 impatience, and in terror of she knew not what. 
 
 Alas ! where was all her proud and courageous 
 spirit fled ? 
 
 She took down her bonnet and her cloak, and 
 hurriedly put them on. The sun had set — there 
 w^ould be time yet to hurry to the post-office, and 
 ask for the letters. It would be dusk before she 
 got into the town — the post-office was in a back 
 street — nobody would observe her.
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 81 
 
 Tliey had not many correspondents you may 
 suppose, this secluded pair, and they had not the 
 luxury of a letter-carrier; the letters lay till they 
 fetched them themselves. It was but within 
 these last few months that delay had become in- 
 tolerable, and that Miriam contrived, when she 
 expected a letter from Ridley, to steal out of the 
 garden by the back way, hurry to the town, and 
 fetch it herself. 
 
 Alas ! to how many deceptions and subterfuges, 
 even from the first, had her deviation from recti- 
 tude at the persuasion of Ridley led her! The 
 secrecy he had induced her to practise with 
 respect to her father — how had it embittered 
 every moment of her life ! — how had it poisoned 
 with the cruellest self-reproach those moments — 
 even the happiest — devoted to her lover ! She 
 knew she had done wrong ; all the delusions of 
 passion, as urged by her lover or by her own 
 deceiving heart, could not hide from her con- 
 science the ingratitude of which this breach in 
 her obedience and integrity rendered her guilty : 
 but she hoped every day to be released from the 
 promises Ridley had exacted, and at her father's 
 knees confessing all she had done, to be raised 
 to his arms and forgiven. 
 
 Alas! she little knew into what a depth of 
 misery this deviation from duty had plunged her, 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 82 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 As yet to liave practised deceit upon her father 
 had heen the most painful of her regrets ; but tlie 
 increasing coldness of Ridley's letters, and the 
 length of time which now elapsed between each, 
 was what had occasioned the dreadful irritation 
 and suffering in which we find her. 
 
 But this night there must be a letter. 
 
 At last, her fingers tingling, her cheeks dyed 
 with blushes, she had written to him whom she 
 considered as her husband, to confess that secret 
 so dear to a loved and acknowledged wife — so 
 dreadful — so agonising in circumstances such as 
 hers. She had written to Ridley, and had in- 
 sinuated, rather than told, the real circumstances 
 in which she stood; and conjuring him, as he 
 valued her peace and honour, to allow her to 
 reveal all that had passed to her father. 
 
 " Only to my father, dear Ridley, — and under 
 the seal of that strictest secrecy which, until per- 
 mitted by you, I will never — never break. I am 
 yours — yours alone. My whole heart and soul, 
 and life, are yours, to direct as you think best for 
 yourself. Content, nay blest, in your affection, 
 the thought that you are prosperous and happy 
 makes absence even from you endurable. Shame, 
 disgrace, anything for your sake, so long as 
 your interests require the secret between us to be 
 kept, you know^ I will gladly, courageously.
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 83 
 
 endure. What is the world to me ? I never knew 
 it — never wanted it. I had but one affection on 
 earth till I saw you, and that was for my father. 
 Oh, Ridley! when I think what I have done — 
 that I have betrayed his confidence, and dis- 
 obeyed his injunctions .... But then you tell 
 me there is a mis-htier oblio:ation even than this 
 
 — that love to the chosen of one's heart 
 
 is a stronger tie. Alas ! alas ! I feel it true. 
 You say that we do not choose our parents — that 
 we have chosen each other. Alas! alas! Rid- 
 ley — my own Ridley — why do I begin to repeat 
 these things ? Husband ! — lover ! — I acknow- 
 ledge your power. I am here on earth only to 
 be ruled by your will. Do with me — order me 
 as is best — don't let my happiness — don't let 
 any thought of me, interfere with your progress 
 and your happiness. Is it for a little insignificant 
 cloud to darken the sun in his course ? But let 
 me make reparation to my father. Ah, Ridley ! — 
 think — a father ! — Ridley, dear Ridley — can 
 you not already. . . . Ah, dear! — when I think — 
 on my knees — Ridley, let me tell my father" . . . 
 
 Such had been her earnest pleadings. 
 
 She begged humbly, from the man she had 
 elected as her master, this one indulgence in 
 return for so many sacrifices. Trembling, shud- 
 dering, fluttering — at moments agitated with new
 
 84 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 and exquisite feelings of joy and hope, at others 
 bowed down with remorse and anxiet}' — thus had 
 she w-ritten, and to-day the answer would arrive. 
 
 It began to rain, and the wind blew cold and 
 whistled among- the trees, as she hurried out of 
 the little gate, and the blast rushed wildly past 
 her as she crossed the common ; and then, with 
 her hood drawn over her head, she might be 
 seen creeping up by the side of the wall, and 
 with trembling lingers knocking at the postman's 
 window, — 
 
 *' Any letters for C. A., Post-office, Kettlewell?" 
 
 He sorted over the letters in his usual cool, 
 indifferent way. 
 
 " No, 1 don't think there is." 
 
 She was turning away, her heart dying within 
 her. 
 
 " Stay, stay! — yes, yes, there's one." 
 
 The white, thin, impatient, trembling hand, 
 snatched at it through the window\ 
 
 *' Eightpence to pay." 
 
 The other hand pushes in the ready prepared 
 pence, and with a heart wildly beating with 
 ecstasy, and her nerves restored at once to elas- 
 ticity, the colour glowing in her cheeks, and her 
 eyes wet with grateful tears, she hurries away. 
 
 There was yet liglit enough to read by when 
 she got upon the common.
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 85 
 
 She could not wait till she got home. She sat 
 down in a well-known secluded nook, upon a 
 great mossy stone that had so often served them 
 for a seat together. She pressed the letter over 
 and over again to her lips ; she prolonged the 
 ecstasy of the moment for a few seconds, and 
 then she broke open the seal and read.
 
 86 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 " 'Twas a hard change, an evil time was come, 
 We had no hope, and no relief could gain." 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 Kidley to Miriam, 
 
 " I COME in late, and find your letter. The 
 post is just going out, but I will not lose one. 
 Are you mad? Tell your father! — what can you 
 be thinking of? It would ruin us both — you, in 
 the first place ; for I vow to Heaven if you were 
 capable — if I could think you for one instant 
 capable of such folly, weakness, and treachery — 
 come what come would of it, I would never see 
 you more! You do not know the immensity of 
 the embarrassment into which you would plunge 
 me. For heaven's sake, keep your secret more 
 closely than ever ! As to what you insinuate, I 
 hope to heaven you are mistaken! but if the 
 worst should be true, only have a little patience : 
 I will look to it when necessary. He's come for
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 87 
 
 the letters. Only time to repeat, that as you 
 value my regard, or dread my deepest, unmiti- 
 gable displeasure, you will not breathe even to 
 the four walls of your own chamber a suspicion 
 of what has passed between us." — G. R. 
 
 He is in full dress and in high spirits just at 
 this moment, stepping into his carriage for the 
 Speaker's dinner. 
 
 And she — the letter clenched in her palsied 
 hands, indifferent to the rain which is streaming 
 down from her bonnet and hair, and to the wind, 
 which chills her limbs, but cannot add chill to a 
 heart already cold as a stone — sits there, looking 
 up and down in an intensity of misery, which 
 only women are born to feel or men to inflict. 
 
 She sat there, wildly rocking herself to and 
 fro, she knew not for how long ; then suddenly 
 she remembered that her absence mi^ht excite 
 suspicion — that her father might miss her — that 
 something might betray her — that Ridley would 
 be very, very angry — that he would never forgive 
 her. 
 
 She got up in a confused, hurried manner, and, 
 drenched with rain, but with her eyes quite tear- 
 less, struggled on towards the house. The terror 
 of offending Ridley mastered every other feeling. 
 She gathered up strength and composure as she
 
 88 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 reached the kitchen-door, and, tellinsj Peo:o:v she 
 had heen caught in a shower, was wet through, 
 and must go to hed, contrived to get up stairs and 
 lock her door. 
 
 She hurried ofFIier thing?, that she might get 
 into bed, and thus escape her fatlier. She was 
 but just in time. Peggy had already told him in 
 what a state Miss Miriam had come in, and his 
 step might be heard ascending the stair. 
 
 He knocked at the door, and in his usual kind, 
 tender tone, said, — 
 
 "My child, may I come in? You are wet, 
 they say. Such a night, my love, to go out! — 
 and you must take care of yourself, Miriam ;" — 
 for he had opened the door as she pulled the 
 bolt. " I have not thought you looking so well, 
 my darling, lately. Let me feel your pulse — 
 very much hurried, but, thank God, no fever! 
 I will fetch you a little draught which will do 
 you good. Dear child, don't be so imprudent 
 again, for your poor old father's sake !" 
 
 It was well he was going away to fetch the 
 medicine as he said this. 
 
 She turned her face to the w^all, and groaned. 
 
 Then she hastily rubbed her handkerchief over 
 her eyes ; and when he came back, with his mild 
 fatherly face so full of anxiety and love, and 
 looked at her so tenderly, those large eyes of
 
 mordaujS't hall. 89 
 
 hers for a moment were fixed upon his face, and 
 then instantly withdrawn ; but the expression was 
 such, that, bending- down over her, he said in a 
 serious tone, — 
 
 " Something is the matter, Miriam — I am sure 
 of it! Tell your poor father, child ! — sure you 
 have no secrets from me!" 
 
 "Oh, nothing: — nothino; at all is the matter! 
 I was only thinking how kind you are — -so very, 
 very kind — and how little — how little " 
 
 But there she stopped. 
 
 *' How little what, love? — how little what, 
 love?" 
 
 *' How little I can do in return'' — blushins: at 
 the evasion. 
 
 " Is that all — is that all you mean?" 
 
 He looked at her for one moment — a slight, 
 indistinct doubt of her sincerity, that, for the first 
 time in her life, she had concealed some part of 
 her meaning, just flashed for a moment across his 
 mind ; but he was a stranger to jealousy or sus- 
 picion : he had felt it but for a moment, and even 
 for that moment he blamed himself — it was 
 wrono'ino: his Miriam. 
 
 "Foolish child!" he said, gently patting her 
 cheek, " thou art hurried and nervous. Go to 
 sleep — go to sleep, and never think but that thy 
 duty and affection would richly reward a far
 
 90 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 better father than ever it has been in my power 
 to prove myself." 
 
 And he stooped down and kissed her cheek 
 and went away, persuaded that her wet, hurried 
 walk through the rain, had been too much for 
 her. So he went down and made his tea, poor 
 man ! alone ; and as the wind howled around the 
 casement, and the rain, pattered sharp against the 
 glass, and as he stirred up the little fire he had 
 made, and boiled the kettle carefully to make 
 some hot tea for Miriam, how lost and forlorn he 
 felt without his beautiful child to chat to him, 
 and cut his bread and butter, and talk over the 
 adventures of the day. 
 
 Lately, it is true, she had done this in a some- 
 what different manner from what she had been 
 used to do. There was a softness, almost a lan- 
 guor, in her expression and gestures, that was 
 new ; but the change had come on insensibly ; 
 and then, in these moods, she looked so like her 
 mother, that he loved her almost better so ; and 
 then, at times, there was a fulness of content and 
 happiness in her expression (this was when she 
 had got an encouraging letter from RidlejO? which 
 persuaded him that nothing was really amiss, and 
 that she was as happy in her seclusion with him 
 as she had ever been. 
 
 So he would comfort himself with the assurance
 
 ]VIORDAUNT HALL. 91 
 
 that all was as it should be, and would go to his 
 books and his calculations again — things which, 
 unfortunately, had so completely absorbed him 
 during the last many months, that he had found 
 time and attention for little else. 
 
 These long calculations, as it is well known, 
 occupy a very considerable time, which insensibly 
 slips away in a species of abstraction that sepa- 
 rates a man from the world around him almost 
 as entirely as if he were physically absent from it. 
 The meals with Miriam were his onlv recreation, 
 and even at these he was often absorbed in his 
 own thoughts ; so that, to conceal the silence into 
 which she often sank, and the variableness of her 
 spirits, she found a task more within her power 
 than otherwise would have been the case. 
 
 That became possible which would else have 
 been impossible. 
 
 AVhilst her father had been in Miriam's room, 
 as related above, the effort to conceal her feelings 
 had in some degree diverted their force ; but who, 
 under the influence of a dreadful sorrow, has not 
 experienced the horrible reaction after some tem- 
 porary diversion of this sort ? 
 
 She rolled upon her bed, her poor hands
 
 92 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 clenched, her hair all falling- in heavy locks 
 dishevelled about her. Tiie words of the cruel 
 letter seemed burnt in upon her heart, and a 
 painful sense of bodily agony was added to the 
 anguish of her mind. 
 
 Then she turned, hid her face in her pillow, 
 and longed for tears ; but her eyes were still dry 
 as stones. 
 
 Then she again heard her father's step coming 
 up the stairs — gathered up her hair, scuttled on 
 her little nightcap, turned her face to the wall, 
 and pretended to be asleep. 
 
 She heard him listen at the door, open it cau- 
 tiously ; she felt that he was approaching the 
 bed, and then that he was standing gazing at her. 
 But she still feigned sleep ; she dared not look 
 up. Then she heard him put the teacup he held 
 softly down upon her little table, move the little 
 table with much precaution close to her bed, and 
 then with stealthy steps — in the smothered sounds 
 of which so much love and carefulness might be 
 read — go down stairs again. 
 
 And then she learned to know that there is a 
 love that passeth show, and which all the vehe- 
 mence of passion is powerless to rival — and to 
 imagine the full value of a parent's heart ; and 
 then she blessed him in her inmost soul, vowing 
 to repair her one breach of confidence and duty
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 93 
 
 bv the most devoted affection, and never to rest 
 until she had obtained leave to confess her secret 
 to her best and truest friend. Then nature 
 stirred within her, and her heart melted to think 
 that she too was destined to feel a parent's 
 love — that a being would spring to light who 
 would claim from her a parent's dearest care; — 
 that the imaoe of PLidlev would be renewed — 
 a second Ridley aj^pear, to be cherished for the 
 sake of his father and herself, and to be her 
 glory and her pride, when the day should arrive 
 that she should be acknowled2:ed a wife. 
 
 And then came a brigrht vision of the future, 
 and the cruelty of the present was excused or 
 forgotten. '* He had been hurried, no doubt, 
 and his situation was a very perplexing one ;" 
 and she gazed upon a ring of rich gold- work, 
 with a small cameo in the centre, which, upon a 
 never-to-be-forgotten day, he had j^laced upon 
 her finger, and she kissed it, and thought of past 
 happy moments, and of happier still to come ; and 
 the sweet woman's confidence returned, and she 
 fell asleep. 
 
 And in all this you will observe poor Miriam 
 was entirely self-dependent. She suffered and 
 was consoled, she erred and repented, as nature 
 undirected, and a most generous and feeling dis- 
 position prompted ; but she had not been taught,
 
 94 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 and it was a liabit utterly foreign to her mind, to 
 rest upon a better strength — a higher sentiment 
 — a more serious regard to the principles of right 
 or wrong. She was under her own guidance, 
 poor young thing ! and a delusive guide her sim- 
 ple heart had proved. 
 
 Her fathei" sat by his fire in his loneliness, self- 
 dependent too. His calculations, his habits of 
 abstracted thought, had served till now to pre- 
 serve the health of his mind and the equilibrium 
 of his feelings, and he was far — far from imagin- 
 ino^, how much miG:ht be wanted besides. So 
 gentle as was his temper, and so just his heart, 
 he seemed to need less self-correction than most 
 other men. He had never felt the force of the 
 passions, the perilous strength of temptation, nor 
 even the dark depths of an overwhelming grief. 
 He had never experienced that hollowness and 
 emptiness of the things seen, which drives man 
 in his own despite to take refuge among the 
 things unseen. 
 
 The solitary dulness of this evening was, after 
 all, of far too quiet a character to awaken any 
 thino- like a feeling: of these higher necessities, if 
 I may so call them, within his breast. 
 
 But he found it impossible to take refuge 
 in his usual employment. His mind was too 
 much confused and absorbed, and the picture
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 95 
 
 of Miriam, and that look in her eve, which he 
 could not understand, a something unintelligible 
 about her deportment which he could not quite 
 settle with himself, whether he saw or fancied he 
 saw — prevented his thoughts composing, as 
 ■when ruffled they usually did upon reflection. 
 He sat there, stirring his little fire, and laying on 
 fresh wood from time to time ; and then he 
 opened the casement, and looked out upon the 
 blowing, blustering night, with not a star to be 
 seen. And then he crept — crept — stealthily, up 
 to his daughter's room, and opened the door cau- 
 tiously, and looked in. 
 
 Her face was now turned towards him, and he 
 saw, by the gentle heaving of the counterpane, 
 that she was in a sweet sleep. Her dark eye- 
 lashes lay upon her cheek, w^hich was flushed 
 with a colour more lovely than the dawn of day ; 
 and her rich bright hair had escaped from her 
 little cap, and fell rolling round her face. And 
 there was in that face an expression of heavenly 
 <ialm, as when the clouds of sorrow have passed 
 by. The father looked upon his treasure as 
 only a father upon a precious daughter looks, 
 and the blessino-s of his lovino- heart rained down 
 upon her, and she seemed to smile in her sleep 
 as if the precious influence had penetrated.
 
 96 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 Then he stole away, and went to his little 
 pallet, and laid himself down and felt comforted. 
 
 They met at breakfast the next morning. 
 
 Miriam had read her letter over again upon first 
 opening her eyes, and the impression it made 
 upon her, thus coolly considered, was more pain- 
 ful even than the first shock — it had completely 
 dispelled the fond visions with which she had 
 composed herself to rest the night before. The 
 coldness, the cruelty — the egotism and self- 
 ishness displayed in every line, could not entirely 
 be overlooked, even by her blind afiection. She 
 thought Ridley very unkind to write in so harsh 
 a manner to her, who had sacrificed so much for 
 him, and tried to persuade herself that it was 
 through the insensibility natural to his sex, and 
 not through peculiar unkindness or coldhearted- 
 ness upon his part, that there was not one word 
 of comfort or tenderness to be found in the whole 
 letter — not one cheering syllable of encouragement 
 for her, under her trying circumstances. She 
 tried to recollect what she had read, or might 
 have heard, of men appearing hard towards wo- 
 men, because utterly incapable of understanding
 
 MORDAUKT HALL. 97 
 
 the tenderness and sensibility of their feelings ; 
 but then her romances would come into her head, 
 and the exquisite sensibility there painted would 
 rise to her recollection in painful contrast. And 
 then she thought of her fault — her great — her 
 heavy fault, and cast a wild despairing sort of 
 look around upon her prospects. 
 
 What was she to expect ? — what was she to do ? 
 
 That secret, which Ridley seemed so unwilling 
 to believe, was indeed a truth, at the conviction 
 of which every vein tingled. Now her face was 
 dyed with crimson, from a mingled feeling of 
 confusion, hope, and sweetness ; then terror, 
 and shame, and a dreary anticipation of horror, 
 succeeded; the colour faded upon her cheek, and 
 she became deadly pale. 
 
 In this contention of different feelings she 
 heard her father calling upon her to come to 
 breakfast, and after a2;ain endeavourins; to steady 
 her trembling nerves with all the effort she was 
 capable of, again consulting the glass to see whe- 
 ther she had obliterated the trace of her tears, 
 she crept down the little staircase, and entered 
 the room. 
 
 The morning was cold, and, as she opened the 
 door, the first thing she saw was her father upon 
 his knees, fanning up the fire, and endeavouring 
 to make obstinate, damp wood burn, and an ob- 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 stinate kettle boil. He turned round and rose 
 up as she came in exclaiming, — 
 
 " Oh, sir ! let me do that. Tliat is my busi- 
 ness — to wait upon you." 
 
 " Yes, my darling, it has been thy business," 
 coming up to her, laying his white, thin liand 
 upon her head, and stroking fondly down the 
 beautiful auburn hair; "but something is the 
 matter with my Miriam. Nay, child, as she 
 turned away her head, but made no answer, for 
 her heart was too full for her to venture to speak, 
 " something is the matter ! But sit down now 
 by the iire, for your poor little hands are as cold 
 as stones. And now the kettle boils — I shall 
 have a hot cup of coffee ready for you in a 
 moment, and then, my love, we will talk a little 
 together, as friends should, Miriam, — as the best 
 and most faithful friends, a trusting father and a 
 pious daughter should, my child. Nay — nay, sit 
 down ! " 
 
 And he gently forced her to sit down in his 
 own peculiar arm-chair, which he had placed 
 ready for her by the fire, and busied himself pre- 
 paring the coffee for her. 
 
 How happy had they been in their simple life 
 fill lately ! — he sitting in that chair, with his 
 book upon the desk by his side, watching her 
 tjimple operations, as light of heart, as light of
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 99 
 
 foot, she busied herself in getting his breakfast 
 for him. What had fallen between tlieni ? 
 — what dark and blighting shadow, reversing 
 their whole position, and changing ever}'- feeling 
 of cheerful affection into bitterness and anxiety? 
 Oh ! how her lip trembled when she tried to 
 speak, and how her hand shook as she lifted her 
 cup to her lips ! 
 
 He sat down upon her own little chair, and af- 
 fected to be busy with his own breakfast, but now 
 and then he cast an uneasy glance at her; and 
 every time he looked the conviction strengthened, 
 that something really was the matter — that mere 
 fatigue and a little alteration in her health 
 would not account for the internal asritation which 
 she vainly attempted to conceal. 
 
 An apprehension that all w^as not right — that 
 there w^as a secret — that there was a concealment, 
 began to dawn upon his mind — and wdiat secret 
 could a young girl of her age have but one ? She 
 felt that her father's kind, anxious eye was fixed 
 upon her, with a deeper scrutiny than she had 
 ever known in it before, and dreading lest he 
 should demand an explanation, which she dared 
 not give, so soon as she had finished her cup of 
 coffee she rose up, as if in haste, and seemed 
 about to hurry out of the room ; but he laid
 
 100 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 his hand upon her arm, and gently pressed lier 
 into her chair again. 
 
 *' Don't go away just now, Miriam," he said, 
 — "spare your father a quarter of an hour. It 
 has lately •" 
 
 *' I only v/anted to fetch something — my work 
 — speak to Peggy," said she, hesitating and co- 
 louring, but sitting down again, for, indeed, she 
 could not help it. 
 
 He kept holding her arm, which fixed her, as 
 it were, in her place ; and while she, with her 
 eyes cast down, her heart evidently beating fast^ 
 and the colours changing rapidly in her cheek, 
 sat there before him, he perused her face some 
 time in silence, with a sad, anxious expression, 
 which grew more sad and more anxious every 
 moment, till loosing her arm, and falling a little 
 back, but with his eyes still fixed — oh! so 
 mournfully, tenderly, and compassionately upon 
 her, he said, — 
 
 *' There is a secret hid from thy father, but 
 thou must tell me all, my child." 
 
 She looked up with a hasty, startled glance, 
 then dropped her eyes again, and was silent; a 
 sigh, almost a sob, seemed struggling to get 
 vent, but was repressed with determination. 
 
 " Miriam," said he, in a tone of gravity and
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 101 
 
 authority, which she had never heard him assume 
 before, " there is a secret — I am satisfied of it — 
 you must tell it me at once." 
 
 Still silent, but her hand kept twitching with 
 slight convulsions as it lay upon her lap. 
 
 He said no more at present, but sat watching 
 her with increasing and most painful anxiety. 
 
 She, meantime, sat there, endeavouring to re- 
 call to recollection all those arguments which 
 Ridley had used to confound her sense of duty, 
 darken her conscience, and harden her heart, in 
 the course of deception to which he had persuaded 
 her. The words of his letter, — " If I could even 
 think you capable of such folly, baseness, and 
 treachery, come what would of it, I would dis- 
 card you from my heart, and never see you more," 
 were still ringing in her memory ; and with that 
 rapid change of aspect under which the same sen- 
 timent will often appear to a mind unsteadied by 
 principle and reflection, the words, thus separated 
 from the rest of that cruel letter, seemed to pos- 
 sess a force altogether new, and she began to be- 
 lieve that it would be, as he said, folly, baseness, 
 and the worst of treachery, to betray his secret to 
 her father. 
 
 Love ill-placed and ill-regulated, love indulged 
 and unconfessed, thus vitiates the best and ten-
 
 102 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 derest feelings, and corrupts the most truthful 
 and ingenuous characters. 
 
 The more her father pressed her, and still more 
 as his tones of tenderness hegan to be exchanged 
 for those of authority, the more her heart seemed 
 to close and harden. 
 
 As he watched her, a new expression seemed 
 to rise upon that countenance, so true a reflex of 
 every impression. Gradually the varied colours 
 died away into a kind of stony, ashy paleness, 
 and her eye, as she lifted it up, was cold and 
 hardened. 
 
 She met an eye, on his part, as changed as her 
 own. The exceeding tenderness had yielded to 
 sorrow, but to a sorrow blended with an almost 
 stern determination, as he said, — 
 
 '* Miriam, that I have been negligent, ab- 
 stracted, too confiding, perhaps, I own. You 
 have had no mother, poor child ;" but at that his 
 eye softened again, and he said, with a tone al- 
 most of entreaty, " tell me your secret, for I 
 must, nay, I vrill know it !" 
 
 Still silent, and her head turned away, she 
 fixed her eyes upon the fire. 
 
 He thought he saw something dogged and ob- 
 stinate in her look, which began to arouse the 
 man within him. There is something implanted
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 103 
 
 in the very nature of the father which rises 
 against the rebellion of the child. 
 
 *' Miriam," he said, " this is the fourth time I 
 have spoken, and yet have had no answer. I 
 insist upon an end being put to this extraordinary 
 silence. Miriarn, there is a secret between you 
 and me — I command you to tell it me !" 
 
 And as he spoke, he rose with an air of dig- 
 nity and authority from his chair, and stood be- 
 fore her as some culm and immovable judge, pre- 
 pared to receive the confession of a criminal. 
 
 But she did not speak; she cast up an eye in 
 which a strange mixture of expressions might be 
 read ; there v/as surprise — the surprise of a child 
 first found fault with, — there was fear, awe, but 
 there was unflinching determination. 
 
 The more of manly resolution there appeared 
 in her father's behaviour, the more she felt as if 
 beginning to understand the reasons for Ridley's 
 injunctions that she should keep his secret from 
 him ; and the more she began to fear that some 
 rash step upon Mr. Feversham's part might per- 
 plex and embarrass him under circumstances 
 about which he had talked so much. Vaguely, 
 indeed, so that she had no distinct idea of the 
 mischief she might do him — but this very obscu- 
 rity seemed to magnify the danger in her eyes. 
 The more energy her father displayed, the more
 
 104 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 she felt her resolution to obey her lover's injunc- 
 tions to the letter strengthen. 
 
 He said no more as yet, hut kept eyeing he\\ as 
 if waiting a reply, with that air of determination 
 which extorts an answer. 
 
 At last it came, in a low but unhesitating 
 voice, — 
 
 '* 1 told you I was not very well — that is all.'' 
 
 '* Miriam, don't turn your head away — look 
 up into your father's face. Child, I have brought 
 you up in a sacred regard for truth — it is the first 
 obligation between man and man. I speak not 
 
 of father and child " his voice faltered at that 
 
 last sentence ; — he stopped a few minutes to 
 recover his self command, then — " Look up, Mi- 
 riam, your eyes were once the mirror of sincerity 
 and honour .... but I read only defiance in them 
 now," he added, in a broken voice, as he looked 
 at her and turned away. 
 
 " No, no," said she, in a low hoarse voice, 
 which she endeavoured in vain to make like her 
 usual one — " don't — don't — not defiance — no, 
 no " 
 
 " What is it, then?" coming up to her again. 
 *' What is it, then, my Miriam?" in the kindest 
 tone, softened by the change which had come over 
 her — for she had dropped upon her knees, had 
 laid hold of his hand, and had pressed her lips to
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 105 
 
 it — " My darling, I was impatient with you — 
 my pretty one, tell me " 
 
 " Nothing, nothing," she muttered. 
 
 He drew his hand away from her again disap- 
 pointed, and walking to the window stood look- 
 ing into his garden. 
 
 She got up and was again endeavouring to 
 glide out of the room, but he turned round when 
 he heard her move, — 
 
 " Stay where you arc for the present," he said. 
 
 He stood at the window reflecting; and the 
 more he reflected the more his perplexity in- 
 creased. His suspicions would have rested upon 
 Ridley, but it was now nearly five months since 
 Ridley's departure. Nothing had occurred at the 
 time he had quitted Mr. Abel's to awaken the 
 least suspicion that Miriam's affections had been 
 disturbed. She had evidently liked Ridley's com- 
 pany at first, but the precaution which her father 
 had taken, and the tranquillity with which she 
 had endured the separation he had commanded, 
 had set his mind quite at rest upon the subject; 
 to which, indeed, nothing had led him to advert 
 again. He had been obliged to take a little 
 journey alone to visit a friend in distress, and 
 since his return had been particularly engaged 
 with some of his scientific inquiries. When they 
 met she had seemed cheerful, and as usual. The
 
 106 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 poor father's most extravagant suspicions never 
 approached the truth in the slightest degree. The 
 idea of being betrayed by his daughter — of a 
 clandestine intercourse carried on — far, far less, 
 of the extent, the hoi'rible extent, to which the 
 treachery of Ridley had been carried, never once 
 crossed his remotest thought. That she had given 
 her heart away, and concealed it from him, 
 perhaps, but to whom he could not guess, — that 
 was the extent of the secret he imagined with- 
 held ; and as he stood reflecting there he began 
 to say to himself that he was but a father after 
 all, and that it was natural that a young girl 
 should dislike to entrust such secrets to him, a 
 man — that though he had tried to be father and 
 mother in one to her, and had done all he could 
 by tenderness and indulgence to make up for the 
 loss of her mother, still his best efforts must pro- 
 duce but an imoerfect result — that there were 
 histories of the young life that only could natu- 
 rally be disclosed to a mother; and then his 
 heart smote him, poor man — he thought he had 
 been harsh and unkind, and had naturally 
 aroused by that harshness the spirit of rebellion 
 which had hurt him so much. 
 
 He had lost his temper — how cruel to that 
 poor motherless child ! 
 
 His heart smote him. He stood yet a little
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 107 
 
 while at the window to compose himself, and 
 then he came and sat down again upon the little 
 chair, and said with an air of angelic affection 
 and gentleness, — 
 
 " My poor motherless Miriam, your father 
 was too harsh with you — if you don't like to tell 
 him, don't. Only be happy, child. I did not 
 intend to be harsh with you — forgive me, Mi- 
 riam." 
 
 But with that she sank down at his feet, buried 
 her head upon his knees, and burst into an agony 
 of tears. 
 
 He stroked her head, and tenderly soothed 
 her — he read, and so far rightly, in this little 
 scene all a good child's contrition for a fault. 
 He felt reassured by the little explanation he had 
 made to himself, simple enough as it was ; in his 
 anxiety to soothe her and make her stop crying, 
 he almost forgot those latent suspicions which 
 had given rise to the conversation, whilst with 
 his usual extreme kindness and gentleness he 
 strove to reassure her and comfort her. 
 
 He little knew that every kind word he said 
 was planting, to use the commonplace phrase, 
 daggers in her bosom — but it seemed to her 
 feelino;s literally so. 
 
 She, however, kept her face hidden between 
 her hands till she found it possible to recover, in
 
 108 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 some degree, her accustomed composure, and 
 then fondly kissing her father's hands, she rose 
 from her knees, pressed another most affectionate 
 kiss upon his forehead, and quite subdued in 
 spirit, resolved to write immediately to Ridley, 
 and insist upon being permitted to take her 
 father into their confidence. She rose up, left 
 the room, and went straight to her own little 
 parlour in search of her writing-desk. 
 
 He walked away to his study, and took up his 
 paper of calculations ; but again he found it 
 impossible to abstract his mind and divert his 
 imeasiness by attention to them. He glanced 
 over the long array of figures, but tliey seemed 
 to dance before his eyes — his head seemed to' 
 have lost the faculty of abstraction. 
 
 He sighed and laid the papers down again ; 
 and then taking his old rusty hat from oft* the 
 nail upon which it hung, pressed it firmly over 
 his brows, and without calling his daughter, as 
 was his invariable custom, to join him in his 
 walk, he too in his turn hurried away through 
 the garden. He looked neither to the right hand 
 nor to the left at all his pretty shrubs and flowers, 
 now fast covering with sheets of blossom, but, 
 opening the little gate, hastened across the open 
 common, as if in dread of meeting any one, and, 
 entering a narrow path, was soon lost amid the
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 109 
 
 most desolate and savage tracts of the moun- 
 tain. 
 
 Here he passed the whole of that long April 
 day, gloomily and sorrowfully. 
 
 They had been as one. The affection and 
 sweet confidence they had enjoyed had been 
 unbroken until now. How tenderly he had che- 
 rished and tended this precious treasure ever 
 since the day when, a poor motherless infant, she 
 was placed moaning in his arms ! 
 
 He thought of the many sleepless nights he 
 had passed in a sort of nervous anxiety ; going 
 every now and then to the little nursery door to 
 listen whether his baby was quiet and asleep — 
 of those eyes of dawning intelligence that had 
 brightened into such a lovely light when he 
 approached — of the little chubby hands that had 
 patted his cheek. 
 
 He thought of the dear and clever little girl to 
 whose amusement and education be had devoted 
 so much of his time — stolen from those pursuits 
 to him so dear, but bestowed upon that which 
 was dearer still — of their walks hand in hand — 
 of their lessons over the winter fire — of his busy 
 and clever little housevfife making his tea, so 
 proud and happy to be of use to him — and, last 
 of all, of the full fruition of this fair promise in 
 his darling, darling, beautiful, blooming daughter
 
 ]10 3I0RDAUNT HALL. 
 
 — of his pride, his glory in lier — and of the love 
 which had repaid all the long and silent devotion 
 of his soul. 
 
 And then the good and generous parent hegan 
 to say to himself that this could not last — that 
 such joys were not intended to last — that the cry 
 of universal nature proclaimed the truth, and 
 that the undivided affection, to him so precious, 
 it was selfish in him even to icish to retain — that 
 tlie strong and individual tie that knit them so 
 closelv t02,'ether must now be broken. 
 
 That he might, must retain, all the intensity of 
 his father's love ; but that he must not expect — it 
 was not possible so to be — that the child should 
 return it with the whole of hers; and that she, 
 in her turn, was asking for a happiness intenser 
 still than that they had enjoyed together. 
 
 The more he reflected upon what he had 
 observed, the more he felt certain that some 
 attachment was the cause of the change he had 
 lamented, and he resolved to endeavour to secure 
 her happiness at all events. 
 
 To ensure this, the first step was to learn her 
 secret; and then if it were in his power, at any 
 sacrifice, to make her happy, it should be done. 
 
 He cast one glance backward at all the hap- 
 piness he had enjoyed in lier affections ; one 
 other forward to that dreary old age, upon the
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. Ill 
 
 confines of which he felt himself already stand- 
 
 One vague, uncertain glance throughout this 
 universe, in which he felt himself so utterlyalone — 
 one vague aspiration towards something change- 
 less and sublime, in whose communion was nei- 
 ther disappointment nor decay. 
 
 It was as a vague and beautifully transient gleam 
 which just beamed upon his prospects, but the 
 clouds gathered again over it, and it was gone.
 
 112 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 " Oh, happy garden ! whose seclusion deep 
 Hath been so friendly to industrious hours ; 
 And to soft slumbers that did gently steep 
 Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers." 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 Miriam sat in her little chamber writing to 
 her lover. The window was open, and the clouds 
 had rolled away ; the sun was shining, and the 
 blossoms were all out; the garden was a sheet 
 of flowers and leaves. Birds were peering about 
 among the apple and pear blossoms, and calling, 
 and singing, and chattering to one another; and a 
 couple of squirrels in an old cherry-tree gam- 
 bolled there, busy biting off the blossoms and 
 strewing them upon the ground. 
 
 The peace of nature gave serenity and courage 
 to her heart — fresh confidence revived in her 
 lover's truth and affection^ as thus she wrote : —
 
 MOKDAUNT HALL. 113 
 
 Miriam to Ridley. 
 
 " My Ridley, — I was very unjust, 1 fear — I 
 have become wayward and unjust — I am so un- 
 happy sometimes — this long, long*, wearisome, 
 absence ! Tell me a little in your next that yoii^ 
 too, feel it wearisome at times, when you are 
 tired of success and the incense of praise, and 
 long for quiet, and — and — may I hope it, for 
 your poor Miriam ? It is such a heavenly day to 
 day, and last evening it was so rainy and cold, 
 and I am like the little woman in our weather- 
 teller: I answer, I believe, to the weather. Last 
 iiio;ht — oh, how miserable I was! I thouaht 
 your letter so cold — so unkind, dare I 5=ay — but 
 I am sure you wrote it in a hurry, and quite in 
 a fright, too, I see, lest I should betray you — 
 which, indeed — indeed, Ridley, I never, never, 
 will till you give me leave. I remember what 
 passed upon that evening when those words were 
 spoken which made me yours for ever ; and did 
 I not, what have I in the world dearer than 
 you, Ridley ? But you should not write me such 
 letters, indeed you should not. I opened it in 
 such an ecstasy of joy — and then I read it — and 
 oh, Ridley ! how I sat and cried after I had read 
 it. I felt as if my heart was all but broken. 
 
 VOL. 1. I
 
 114 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 Don't cliide me — but you must not write me 
 such letters again, indeed you must not. A word 
 from you, is it not enough ? More than enough ? 
 
 — for am I not devoted life and soul to you ? 
 and your least wishes, are they not to me as the 
 most sacred of commands ? 
 
 "But it rained very hard last night; and I 
 was so silly, I kept crying so, I could not go 
 home. Indeed, I never thought of or felt the 
 rain ; and it was unlucky, for my father, when I 
 came in so wet, was anxious and came to my 
 room, and I was so quite, quite done for, Ridley, 
 — really I could not help it — he found out I was 
 unhappy. I can hide my happiness, but this 
 great, great unhappiness it is very difficult. I 
 did my best — indeed I did — but he is such a 
 father — has been such a father. We used to be 
 like one heart ; never child and father lived for 
 each other as we did, till there came a spoiler — 
 a too dangerous spoiler, and stole poor Miriam's 
 heart from her father. He would forgive me that, 
 too, I could not help it ; but this deceit ! 
 
 ** Ridley, we had such a conversation after 
 breakfast. He questioned me straitly ; he was 
 grave and serious. I thought of you, and was 
 firm as iron — iron-hearted, Ridley ; think of that 
 
 — and to such a father ! But I will be so no 
 more. I fell at his feet and begged his pardon
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 115 
 
 for keeping a secret from liim, not aloud, but to 
 myself; and then I vowed I would put an end to 
 this hateful deception. He will forgive me, I 
 am sure he will, and perhaps love — perhaps — 
 perhaps be able to esteem me again. He will be 
 indulgent to the faults of a tenderness like mine ; 
 but whatever the consequences to me — and, oh, 
 how I tremble at the idea of meeting his eye — 
 his changed eye, Ridley ! Confess all to him I 
 will. 
 
 " I therefore bes: of vou to 2,ive me leave to 
 do it. I am sure my father will never betray 
 you; and in short — for this letter runs on — I 
 seem hurried beyond myself. I can and will 
 deceive my father no longer ; and I am sure, if 
 you are the Ridley I so tenderly loved — the 
 Ridley I honoured as much as I adored, you 
 will relent, you will recollect that my duties must 
 be considered in their turn. And, oh, how I 
 write ! I seem to be almost dictating — preaching 
 you would call it. You will hate me if I do. 
 Don't hate me altogether, husband ! lover ! idol ! 
 for the sake of a future v/hich it stirs my inmost 
 heart to think of. 
 
 " It is true:'
 
 116 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 Ridley received this letter as he was preparing 
 to mount liis horse and join a party to ride in 
 the Park, and walk, as was the fashion at that 
 time, in Kensington Gardens, with the Lady 
 Angelina. 
 
 He was not alone urged by ambition and the 
 love of money, yet, though not avaricious, money 
 was precious to him as a 'power ; but in addition 
 to these motives he was beginning to be really 
 attracted, to a considerable degree, by the Lady 
 Angelina. 
 
 Love is the child of the imagination, perhaps 
 quite as much as of the heart; perhaps I might say, 
 the offspring of pride quite as often as of tenderness. 
 People of more fancy tlian feeling are captivated 
 by the idea of superiority in rank and station ; 
 they love to place their affections high. This is 
 more especially the case with women ; nay, the 
 sentiment had given strength even to IMiriam's 
 attachment to Ridley, pure and tender as it was ; 
 and it now exercised an influence over him, fatal 
 to all her happiness. When men are led by this 
 feeling, I think it has a more pernicious effect upon 
 them than it has upon v.omen, whose andjition 
 in love is usually of a noble and lofty character : 
 but be that as it may, certain it is, that as Rid- 
 ley's heart — rather say, his thoughts — becan;e oc-
 
 MORDAUKT HALL. 117 
 
 cupied with his new attachment, the harder and 
 the colder he grew in every other respect. 
 
 He certainly was gratified in the extreme by 
 the Lady Angelina's attachment, which, without 
 doubt, was flattering to the highest degree. He 
 was proud of the conquest of one esteemed in- 
 vincible, and he chose to dignify his feelings by 
 dwelling upon the generous disinterestedness of 
 that heart, which had thus singled him out 
 among admirers w^ealthier and of far higher sta- 
 tion in society than himself. 
 
 And yet the Lady Angelina was incapable of 
 any very hisfh or generous sentiment. She was 
 only influenced partly by caprice, and partly by 
 a spirit of contradiction. She was qutte incap- 
 able of that self-sacrifice which is true generosity ; 
 and a woman who yields to a whim of this na- 
 ture, is not one whit the less selfish because she 
 condescends somewhat in her afiections. The 
 object of her prepossession, however, can scarcely 
 help considering it in this high light ; and 
 Ridley, though as ready to cast ridicule upon 
 these sort of girlish preferences in the case of 
 others as any man about town, chose, as I said, 
 to consider the prepossession of the Lady Ange- 
 lina in his favour as the highest proof of disinte- 
 restedness and excellence. 
 
 He chose, too, in his wickedness and his stony-
 
 118 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 heartedness, to contrast it with the humble, de- 
 voted love of the poor girl he had forsaken, and 
 he dared to blaspheme against a noble heart so 
 far, as to accuse her of selfishness in aspiring so 
 high in her affections, as to have attempted to 
 have entangled him in a marriage so derogatory 
 to his fortunes. He dared to be false to liimself, 
 to say to himself that which he knew to be most 
 wickedly untrue, and to accuse poor Miriam of 
 sordid ambition, and a want of pure generosity in 
 her affection, because he had not been able to 
 teach her to despise those laws which the 
 woman's instinct, in spite of all her vague ideas 
 upon the subject, forbade her to hold cheap. 
 
 Her ideas, nevertheless, as I have said, were 
 very confused upon this, as upon many other 
 subjects, then discussed with a license which in 
 our happier times it is difficult to understand ; 
 and he had easily persuaded her that the form of 
 the ceremony binding upon the other side of the 
 border must be equally binding upon this. He 
 had talked a good deal of the usual jargon about 
 Virtue being an affair of country, of latitude ; of 
 one ceremony, where, after all, the whole thing 
 was a mere matter of ceremony, being as good as 
 another ; and she forgot, what he took care not 
 to point out, that it is not how we ourselves 
 regard the form employed, but how the society
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 119 
 
 around us regards it, which renders any cere- 
 mony irrevocably binding, and therefore sacred, 
 and therefore a marriage. 
 
 At the time this apology for a marriage cere- 
 mony had passed between them, he was very 
 considerably in love, and I believe, to do him 
 justice — a poor extenuation enough — contemplated 
 at some time or other adding all those legal 
 sanctions to the union which he was perfectly 
 well aware were wanting, and without which all 
 that had passed was mere idle breath ; but before 
 long such intentions gradually died away, as 
 generous or just intentions, not immediately 
 carried into eflfect, are apt to do with all ; and 
 he had not been in London a month, separated 
 from her, and exposed to all the diversion of the 
 thoughts and affections incident to the great 
 world, before he ceased to think of this repara- 
 tion as due. He was too well practised in vice, 
 his heart too much hardened by dissipation, to 
 think much of the one victim more thus added to 
 his list; he flattered himself that Miriam would 
 keep her own secret for her own sake, and all 
 the consequences of her imprudence and his 
 treacherv end here. 
 
 He was a good deal annoyed when he got her 
 letter announcing the impossibility of ultimate 
 concealment, but he made up his mind that all
 
 120 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 that was now due was to be very liberal as 
 far as expense was concerned, and he hoped 
 much from her own high-wrought feelings, and 
 the vague princijDles of her father, trusting, as 
 men do, that, some way or other, the thing would 
 be hushed up. They were a long way off; he would 
 never visit that part of the world again ; and, 
 after all, her fears and fancies might have de- 
 ceived her. One thing, however, was certain, it 
 was of the utmost consequence that the secret 
 should in no ways get wind before his marriage 
 with Lady Angelina was concluded. The worst 
 that could then happen would be a domestic 
 storm ; angry and jealous tears, kissed and flat- 
 tered away ; a handsome provision made for his 
 victims, and so on. 
 
 In this humour he had written his first hastv 
 letter, now he opened Miriam's second. 
 
 He saw that she had still not the slightest idea 
 of the deception put upon her, and that she 
 claimed all the privileges, and felt all the secu- 
 rity, of a wife. She had deceived her father, that 
 was all. Little did she imagine how she had 
 been herself deceived. 
 
 He read the artless letter, and his heart smote 
 him ; and as a sudden vision, the picture of 
 Miriam in all her loveliness, as he had seen her 
 ftrst, in the bloom of her almost childish beautv.
 
 MORDAITNT HALL. 121 
 
 with that eye of generous energy, that lio-ht 
 elastic step, that something so peculiarly attrac- 
 tive, as he had once thought it, passed before 
 him, contrasting with the cold, languid, fine lady, 
 who was, or ought to he, mistress at present of 
 his heart. For a moment — it was but for one 
 brief moment — the poet, the romancer, the man 
 of strong feeling, was too potent for the man of 
 the world : it was but for a moment. 
 
 He laid the letter aside; — his horses are waiting 
 at the door ; — he went out and shut the door ; — 
 then he went back again and read the letter once 
 more, and went and locked it up in his scrutoire; 
 and then he mounted his horse and rode slowly 
 into the Park. 
 
 The Lady Angelina was lolling negligently 
 back in her open carriage, dressed in a profu- 
 sion of soft white lace, with which her bonnet, 
 her cloak, were covered, and decked with pale 
 pink ribands, which set off the delicacy of her 
 complexion — like the colour of an half-opened 
 china-rose — to the o-reatest advantasfe. She 
 lay back with her beautiful eyes half closed 
 in a soft, sleepy, indolent manner, as if not one 
 of all those gay cavaliers she passed were worthy 
 to attract a moment's attention, till Ridley ap- 
 peared, and then those sleepy lids were raised 
 with one glance of bright intelligence ; and the
 
 122 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 sweetest smile in the world, as he thought, wel- 
 comed him. The vision of the wild, dark, beau- 
 tiful girl of the mountains faded away. 
 
 How much he and the fair creature to whom 
 he was now paying his addresses in all due form 
 found to say ; how charming he thought her, and 
 how much flattered — nay, intoxicated with grati- 
 fied self-love — he returned home, it is needless 
 to dwell upon. By that time poor Miriam had 
 acrain become onlv a vexatious obstruction in his 
 path, and perplexity and mortification (those 
 fatal foes to love), had taken possession of his 
 mind when he thought of her. 
 
 But he had not time to think much of her, and 
 this earnest, this imploring letter, lay unanswered 
 for that day. 
 
 And the next day, and the next. 
 
 Not forgotten — he could not entirely drive the 
 subject from his mind, but postponed it as a thing 
 too disagreeable to give his attention to. 
 
 Every evening Miriam stole forth across the 
 common, as soon as it was dark, and down the 
 little street to the post-office ; each evening to 
 return to her little room with a heart chilled by 
 disappointment, to sit there and cry. 
 
 Every hour her situation became more and 
 more insupportable. Her father, it is true, ceased 
 to question her further, but his anxious, and as
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 123 
 
 she thought, reproachful eyes, followed her about 
 till she could scarcely hear them. 
 
 But no letter came. 
 
 She wrote again. 
 
 Miriam to Ridley, 
 
 " Indeed, Ridlev, vour silence is killins^ me — 
 you have no idea — alas ! how should you ? — of 
 all I suffer. My father seems w^ounded deeply by 
 my want of confidence — and who knows but the 
 most painful, nay, injurious, suspicions may be 
 rising in his mind ; suspicions it would kill me 
 to deserve. One line, to tell me I may console 
 my poor solitary heart by confessing all to my 
 best and oldest friend. Dear Ridley, allow me 
 to do this — or, indeed — indeed — in spite of my- 
 self, I must end this cruel state of secrecy and 
 deception." 
 
 The answer to this letter was written off in an 
 instant.
 
 124 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 Ridley to Miriam. 
 
 '^ For heaven's sake keep quiet — don't breathe 
 a word of what has passed between us I charge 
 you, if you have the slightest vahie for me left — 
 I could not, and would not, forgive you. Only 
 have patience. I little thought you were of such 
 a strange, selfish, impatient nature — would to 
 Heaven I had never known you ! " 
 
 He had made his proposals in due form just a 
 quarter of an hour before poor Miriam's letter 
 came. 
 
 *' Miriam," said the father, after a long, long- 
 silence had been between them, broken onlv by 
 his heavy sighs — it was in the twilight that he 
 spoke thus ; they were sitting after their tea was 
 over ; the casement was open, and the soft night 
 air, now filled with the sweet scent of spring- 
 flowers from their little garden, blew softly into 
 the room : but they, neither of them, seemed to 
 enjoy it. The stars stole out, one by one, twink- 
 ling dimly in the gray light, and the reed-spar- 
 row sang in a lilac-bush hard by ; but neither of 
 them gazed at the fair stars as they stole forth.
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 125 
 
 or listened to tlie sweet notes of the little warbler: 
 each seemed absorbed in their own thoughts ; she 
 leaning partly out of the window, but evidently 
 noticing nothing; and he, thrown back in his 
 arm-chair, his eyes fixed upon her, and evidently 
 insensible and indifferent to all other objects. 
 
 They had used to love to sit so in their days of 
 happiness ; but lately he had called for candles as 
 soon as the twilight set in, and had gone into his 
 own room to distract his painful feelings by occu- 
 pation ; leaving her usually employed at her nee- 
 dle, drawing thread after thread languidly through. 
 
 But when he was gone, and she heard the 
 door of his little study shut after him, she would 
 open the windov/, rest her face upon the palm of 
 her hands, and sit there in a sort of stupid de- 
 spondency for hours, till the servant w^ould come 
 in to shut up, and it v\'as time to go to bed. 
 
 Then she would knock at her father's door, 
 and say, "Good night!" Sometimes he would 
 rise, open it, and give her a kiss upon the fore- 
 head ; sometimes he would only speak in answer. 
 
 But this night he did not call for candles, but 
 stayed in the room ; and she, without her work, 
 and in a sort of reckless disdain of further con- 
 cealment, had sat there, leaning out of the w^in- 
 dow, and the tears trickling down between her 
 iinofers.
 
 126 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 He had sighed heavily several times; and every 
 heavy sigh had gone to her heart ; at last he 
 broke silence — 
 
 *' Miriam," he said, *^ my dear child, I can 
 hear this no longer; I have been hurt at you, 
 Miriam. In the bitterness of my disappointment 
 about you, I had made a resolution that my pa- 
 tience should at least equal your reserve. I 
 would not force your confidence — but you are 
 crying, child, my dear girl : your tears are ter- 
 rible things to me ; will you never trust your 
 poor father, child?" 
 
 " Yes," said she, turning round as if she had 
 taken a sudden resolution, " I will ; and he 
 will forgive me all I have done. — I am married, 
 sir. 
 
 *' Married ! — good heavens! — what can she be 
 meaning?" cried he, rising in great agitation, and 
 coming up to her; "married, child! what are 
 you saying?" 
 
 She turned herself from the window, rose up, 
 threw herself upon his breast, and whispered, — 
 
 <' Forgive me, dear, dear papa." 
 
 '* Forgive you, my child!" said he, kissing her 
 forehead tenderly; *' forgive you — I don't know 
 why I should not forgive you. Indeed, I am 
 so astounded at what you tell me, my own 
 love, that I know not M'hat I sav. Married! —
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 127 
 
 you — Miriam I — child ! — when ? — how ? — who? — 
 when? — and why this concealment from me?" 
 
 "Can you not guess who?" said she, and a 
 smile of mingled satisfaction and pride gave 
 for an instant the old bricrhtness to her counte- 
 nance ; " there could he but one." 
 
 ** Nay," said he, anxiously, " I hope not ; and 
 yet, who else indeed? — Oh!" he cried, suddenly 
 clasping his hands over his face, and falling 
 back upon his chair; " God forbid it should be 
 him — not Ridley, child — and yet who else — who 
 else?" 
 
 *' Not Kidley ! And w^hy not Ridley, papa? 
 Did you not admire him so greatly? Did you 
 not think him the cleverest person you ever saw ? 
 Why not Ridley, dear father ?" 
 
 " Married to him ! Vv hy, he is a man of rank 
 and fortune far above our sphere, child." 
 
 *' Yes," said she, colouring with pleasure ; " I 
 know that very well." 
 
 ** And he is not a man — believe me, child — 
 he has excellent gifts — but he is not a man to 
 forget the value of such things, Miriam." 
 
 *' No," said she, " I believe not — but he has 
 forgotten them for his Miriam." 
 
 " And why, if so," said the father, now taking 
 her hand and sittins; down in his chair, as she
 
 128 MORDA.UNT HALL. 
 
 stood before liim ; " why, my dauohter, was I 
 to be left out of this confidence?" 
 
 '' Oh, I don't know ! Indeed, I was very 
 wrong, I know I was ; it has cost me — oh, such 
 pain! But he told me he was sure your ideas 
 were too enkirged to adopt the prejudices of 
 ordinary mankind, and that you woukl under- 
 stand and appreciate .... Oh, dear!" said she, 
 passing her other hand over her forehead, *' I 
 can't remember — I don't know what he said 
 exactly. But he told me it was of the utmost 
 importance to him that the profoundest secrecy 
 should be maintained, even from you, because 
 you might not consent, or allow of a marriage 
 of that sort ; and that it would place you in an 
 awkward position with respect to Ms friends, 
 if you knew it; and — and — he called me so 
 generous and confiding, to make him happy at 
 the sacrifice of so many of my dearest prejudices, 
 he called them — he might have said feelings ; for, 
 oh papa! papa! what bitter, bitter feelings I 
 have had in thinking I was deceiving you !" 
 
 '* And how long has this deception been main- 
 tained l How many months have my child and 
 her father been as strangers ? — And then," he 
 said, looking very pale and anxious, " when and 
 how did this marriage take place?"
 
 mordau:nt hall. 129 
 
 " Do you remember," she said, ^' your going 
 into tlie Highlands last November, when poor 
 Mr. Frost's only daughter died? You were very 
 sorry for him. And you would not take me with 
 you, the travelling was so bad. You asked me 
 whether I thought I could bear it, and I said I 
 <!Ould not." 
 
 " I remember it all very well," he said, quietly. 
 *' Yes, I suppose that was the first" 
 
 " Deception?" asked she, colouring, and in a 
 low voice ; '^ no, not the first." 
 
 ^' I had forbidden him the house. I believed 
 you never met again .... And she was deceiv- 
 ino* me all this time!" 
 
 He strove to suppress his groans. 
 
 '' But, papa, papa!" said she, '' it's all over 
 now. I did not think it would vex you so much 
 when it all came out. One thinks it so natural 
 to hide some feelings ; and he persuaded me so. 
 You know it's what Julie did ; but dear, dear 
 papa ! if I had known it would have vexed you 
 so, I would not have done it for all the world. 
 He said you'd foro-ive me readilv enouo-h when 
 you did^wow. And so, indeed, indeed, I thought 
 you would." 
 
 *' I do forgive you! I do forgive you!" said 
 he, hastily ; " say no more about it, say no more 
 about it." 
 
 VCL. I. K
 
 130 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 He could not bear, so dear was her happiness 
 to him, that she should be even aware of the 
 cruel wound she had inflicted. She looked so 
 dismayed and unhappy at the expression of 
 anguish in his face, that he tried, poor father! 
 to cheer up, and to hide his sufferings ; and, 
 endeavouring to assume a cheerful tone of voice, 
 he said, " Well, then, take your low stool, and 
 sit down by me, and let me hear this romantic 
 story from beginning to end." 
 
 She sat down as he bade her, and laid her 
 hand upon his knee, and turned her head away, 
 blushed, and smiled, and hesitated. She forgot, 
 for the moment, Ridley's silence and unkindness 
 — she was lost in the recollection of those hours 
 of devoted passion which had been as heaven to 
 her. 
 
 She was recalling all his vows, and oaths, and 
 promises, and those eyes so full of meaning which 
 had spoken such volumes to her heart. 
 
 She tried to speak, but for some little time she 
 could not. 
 
 He understood her confusion, and, stroking 
 her head very kindly, said, — 
 
 *' Don't, then; only tell me how and when 
 you were married, for that, my dear Miriam," 
 he added, gravely, *' it concerns me, in all its 
 details, to know."
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 131 
 
 '^ It was one evenins; " she besfan. 
 
 " An evening I" 
 
 " In that quiet glen, behind the Red-Cross Hill 
 that " 
 
 " There is no church in that neighbourhood,'* 
 cried her father. 
 
 *' No," she said; ^' we should have been dis- 
 covered if we had gone to a church, we are both 
 so well known about here : but that did not 
 surely signify ?" 
 
 " Go on," he faltered ; '^ who married you ?" 
 
 " I don't know : I never thou2:ht to ask him." 
 
 The father's cheek was by this time becoming 
 deadly pale, and his breath seemed failing him, 
 as he stammered, — 
 
 " xAnd — was — this — all? Did the man give 
 you no paper — no certificate?" 
 
 " I don't know what a certificate means : he 
 did not give me any paper. It's what they do 
 in Scotland, Ridley told me ; and surely, he said, 
 one marriage was as good as another. What 
 could a few miles more or less of mountain have 
 to do with an affair of this kind ? He knew I 
 despised ceremonies and forms. Had you not, 
 dear father, ever taught me to despise them ?" 
 
 The father spoke not. 
 
 She turned round and looked in his face.
 
 132 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 His eyes were fixed, his jaw fallen : he sat 
 there upright in his chair, but as if turned to 
 stone. 
 
 She started up and shrieked aloud, — 
 
 "Papa — papa! don't look so! AVhat's the 
 matter? What's the matter ?" 
 
 He made a slow motion with his head, and 
 gasped as if he were trying to speak. 
 
 She ran and fetched some water. 
 
 " Dear papa!" the tears now running down 
 her cheeks ; " what's the matter with you? You 
 seemed quite well just a moment ago. Do speak 
 to me, for pity's sake." 
 
 His features now seemed slowly to relax from 
 their tension, and the jaw remained no longer 
 fixed ; but he articulated with great difficulty, as 
 he said, — 
 
 " Tell them to come and fetch me to my bed." 
 
 She ran for Peocry, who came hurrvinfj; in, and 
 was dreadfully terrified when she saw the state 
 her master was in. 
 
 *' He's got a stroke of palsy, sure as I'm alive ; 
 bless you, how are we to get him to bed? Run, 
 Miss Miriam, child, for your life, across the com- 
 mon, and beg farmer Jenkins, for the love of 
 heaven, to come and help us ; and Jack or Tom 
 to ride for life and fetch the doctor."
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 133 
 
 Stunned and confounded by what had passed, 
 utterly unsuspicious of the shock he had sus- 
 tained, she started from where she had been 
 standing, looked at him in silent dismay, and 
 rushing out, ran across the common to the good 
 farmer's, whom she found just going to bed. He 
 was evidently exceedingly alarmed and con- 
 cerned at the hurried account she gave of her 
 father's seizure ; and despatching his eldest son 
 to town in search of medical assistance, he hur- 
 ried, with Miriam, back to the cottage. They 
 found Mr. Feversham already recovering; from 
 the attack, though his power of speech was yet 
 but imperfectly restored. xA.s they prepared to 
 move him upstairs, his daughter flew to support 
 his head, and, bending tenderly over him, looked 
 into his face with her loving, anxious eyes, as if 
 endeavourino* to discover the cause of his illness. 
 
 Such a look met hers ! 
 
 To her it was quite inexplicable, in its profound 
 expression of compassion and despair. 
 
 She felt sure that nothing which could have 
 passed between them, not even her confession of 
 the deception she had practised, which seemed to 
 have grounded him so deeply, could have occa- 
 sioned this. Not the slightest idea of the real 
 cause crossed her mind, as, turning away his eyes, 
 he again uttered a low groan.
 
 134 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 Tliey laid him upon his bed, without his 
 speaking; and when there, he just asked them 
 to draw the curtains and leave him to himself. 
 He wished to be alone.
 
 MORDAUNT BALL. 135 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 " What, have his daughters brought him to this pass ?" 
 
 Lear. 
 
 The miserable father never once closed his eyes 
 that night. He lay stretched almost helpless upon 
 his bed ; for, though not actually deprived of 
 motion, the shock he had sustained had acted 
 fearfully upon his delicate nervous system, and 
 had produced that sudden depression of strength 
 which incapacitated him from all exertion, at the 
 very moment when he felt in need of all his 
 energy and courage. To rush forward to assert 
 his daughter's claims, and, if possible, rescue her 
 from disgrace and desertion, was the first impulse 
 of his mind. He lay there in a hurried confusion 
 of distracting thoughts, which it was impossible for 
 him to compose into anything like reflection : it
 
 136 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 was as if a tliick darkness bad come over his soul, 
 and all the cheerful harmony of thought and feel- 
 ing was lost in one dreadful storm of warring 
 passions. Rage, indignation — all the bitter vio- 
 lence of an honourable man's rage, when threat- 
 ened with irremediable disorace — all those con- 
 flicting emotions that insatiable thirst for retribu- 
 tion and revenge, v/hich seem the natural resource 
 of outraged honour, unless quelled by a stern 
 sense of Christian principles — principles to which, 
 alas ! he was a stranger : intense pity for the 
 young and innocent creature so wickedly be- 
 trayed — love, which not all her faults could 
 abate ; intense, as only parents know : sad re- 
 turns upon himself — mournful, regretful visions 
 of that happiness so long enjoyed — cruel irri- 
 tation against circumstance — bitter self- question- 
 ing, and bitter regret. . . . 
 
 The chaos within ! the strife against the inevit- 
 able ! the war against the arrangement of things ! 
 that searching in a wide and dreary prospect, 
 where no spirit dwelt, where no eye divine of 
 love and pity penetrated, where no hope of better 
 and fairer — of a future where innocence should 
 be manifested and crime punished — all that at- 
 tends upon a mind reflecting, penetrating, weigh- 
 ing, as his — upon a heart formed by nature for 
 everything that was lofty, spiritual, loving, and
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 137 
 
 tender, thus deserted. Such was the state of his 
 mind, struo-o-lino- amid this storm of the world's 
 worst sorrows, without one o^uidins; lioht to Doint 
 to a haven of rest. 
 
 Sometimes he started up as one despairing, 
 and looking round his shadowy chamber, over 
 which the moon now o-leamins: through his case- 
 
 o Q O 
 
 ment shed a spectral light, he clasped his hands, 
 or beat his brow in a paroxysm of rage so vio- 
 lent, that it rent a frame formed only for the 
 gentlest and tenderest emotions almost to pieces. 
 Then the vision of his sweet and innocent child 
 arose as it were before him, just as she threw 
 herself upon his breast to ask a pardon — too 
 readilv o-ranted — and blushed in her io-norance, 
 with pride and pleasure, at the thought of what 
 had been done. 
 
 But at that thought he threw himself back upon 
 his pillow, and bathed it with a flood of agonizing- 
 tears. 
 
 He had dismissed his daughter, for, indeed, 
 her presence at this moment was more than he 
 found it possible to bear ; and when she had 
 returned upon tiptoe to watch whether he was 
 asleep, he had sufficient command over himself 
 to answer her cheerfully that he felt much better, 
 and should be quite well when he had got a little 
 rest.
 
 138 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 He had liearJ her step repeatedly during the 
 night-time coming to his door; had listened as 
 the latch turned softly. Sometimes he had 
 spoken to assure her that he was going on well ; 
 sometimes he had feigned sleep to escape her 
 inquiries. He could not bear to make her un- 
 happy by the slightest suspicion of what he was 
 suffering, — to pollute her thoughts by the slightest 
 allusion to his agonizing suspicions would have 
 been worse than death to him. 
 
 At last Miriam, reassured, came no more. 
 
 She was weary and very sleepy : she felt re- 
 lieved from a heavy load by the confession she 
 had made, and consoled by the assurance of her 
 father's forgiveness ; and she began to feel satis- 
 fied that this sudden seizure had nothing to do 
 with her confession. Old Peggy talked of his 
 stomach and cold in his feet, and that master 
 never would take care to change his shoes when 
 he came in ; and Miriam was but too glad to 
 think that so it was. 
 
 Indeed, she was so entirely without the least 
 suspicion of the circumstances in which she ac- 
 tually stood, that she had not the slightest clue to 
 his feelings ; and even if she had understood her 
 position, her ideas upon many subjects w^ere so 
 confused, and her principles so unsettled, that I 
 think she would have felt almost surprised that
 
 3I0RDAUNT HALL. 139 
 
 her father should so intensely suffer from a state 
 of things, which some of her favourite heroines 
 had taken so lightly. 
 
 So the child lay down and slumbered, com- 
 forted that all mystery between herself and her 
 father was at an end — filled, too, with a sort of inde- 
 finite hope that, now her father was in the secret, 
 all further concealment would — she did not ex- 
 actly ask herself why — have an end too ; that 
 Ridley would be restored to her, and that she 
 should soon go and live with him as other happy 
 wives did with their husbands. And then she 
 planned how comfortably her father should be 
 established in her home, wherever it might be ; 
 and as the confusion of approaching slumber 
 gathered over her thoughts, vision upon vision, 
 soft and most delightful, succeeded each other, 
 till she fell fast asleep — the sweet confiding 
 sleep of nineteen — while her father tossed in 
 anguish upon a pillow covered with thorns for 
 her sake. 
 
 The morning dawned most sweet and lovely — 
 the pale clear light diffused itself through his 
 chamber — he rose from his restless bed of pain, 
 opened the casement, and looked out.
 
 • 
 
 % 
 
 140 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 The sweet, tender, green boughs were swaying in 
 the morning breeze; the birds were all alive, piping 
 and whistling among the shrubs and flowers ; the 
 dew hung upon the columbines and daisies, the 
 pansies and windflowers, of the pretty garden, 
 opening their sleepy eyes, and expanding to the 
 rising sun. 
 
 What an exquisite sense he had once had of 
 these things ! How bright and beautiful had this 
 w^orld been to him! If he had not been blessed 
 with those hopes which rest upon a better, 
 great had been his enjoyment of this ; and his 
 heart, formed for gratitude and devotion, had 
 not failed to offer its incense of thanks to that 
 Deity — that unknown, undefined Power — which 
 had manifested itself to him thus through His 
 works. 
 
 But now the glad sun, the soft swaying branches, 
 the busy birds, the cheerful humming bees, the 
 flowers awaking to new life, and spreading forth 
 their beauty to the sun, seemed to him as a hateful 
 mockerv ; for his heart v/as full of bitterness. 
 Deo:radation — shame — irremediable deiiradation 
 — ineffaceable shame — sorrow, incurable and 
 limitless — were hanging, he knew it well, over 
 the head of his innocent, too unsuspicious child. 
 He loathed the light — he closed his little case- 
 ment again ; he drew round him the russet cur-
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 141 
 
 tains of his humble bed ; he wanted to be iu 
 darkness once more. 
 
 His pain was more tolerable in darkness. 
 
 When the house began to stir, he again heard 
 the light footstep of his Miriam approaching his 
 door; she knocked cautiously. 
 
 '* J am awake," he said. 
 
 *' May I come in?" 
 
 " No — not just yet, dear. Go down and get 
 breakfast ; I shall soon be ready. Have you slept, 
 my love ? " 
 
 " Oh, quite well. And you, dearest papa ?" 
 
 "So-so; but I am better this morning. Go 
 and get breakfast, that's my dear." 
 
 He was surprised and shocked, when he endea- 
 voured to dress himself, to find his hands trem- 
 bling like those of a very old man, and his knees 
 knocking together so that he could with difficulty 
 get about : however, he managed to put on his 
 clothes without assistance ; but he was obliged to 
 take his stick in order to walk down stairs. 
 
 He opened the breakfast-room door and came, 
 the spectre of what he had been some ten hours 
 before, into the room. As the trembling, shaking, 
 pallid, bowed-down old man appeared — twenty 
 years older than the father of yesterday, Miriam ut- 
 tered a cry, and starting up, flew to him, caught him 
 in her arms, and burst into tears, exclaiming, —
 
 142 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 ** Papa ! papa ! is that you ? How changed — 
 how ill! Surely, surely," looking anxiously, al- 
 most imploringly into his face, "it can't have 
 been my doing, wretched creature that I am ! 
 Papa, it's not about me — it's not because I — 
 
 I 01), papa! papa! my fault I see was 
 
 great ; but, dearest father, it's all over now — 
 all's right now ! Ridley will only try to be 
 angry with me — he can't really ; it was so na- 
 tural — so impossible to go on longer. Papa! 
 papa! sit down in your chair — let me give 
 you your hot coffee. How you tremble! Oh, 
 father!" 
 
 He had sat down in his chair while all this 
 was pouring forth like a torrent, which he could 
 not, he would not interrupt. He looked at her 
 so lovingl}^ and tried to smile; but there was 
 a leaden weight upon his heart : it was as when 
 death has entered the house — there may be sub- 
 mission and patience, but consolation there can- 
 not be. 
 
 " Rachel, weeping for her children, cannot be 
 comforted." 
 
 " It's a sweet morning," said he, trying for 
 something to say, and endeavouring in vain to 
 swallow the coffee she presented. 
 
 " Lovely !" she said, and went and pushed the 
 casement a little further open, and the hum of
 
 MOJRDAUNT HALL. 143 
 
 bees and the whisper of the wind, just flutteiino: 
 among the bushes, was heard, and the sweet 
 fresh air came blowing in through the woodbine 
 and sweet-brier that mantled round the window- 
 frame. 
 
 He turned his face to the fresh air ; his heart 
 seemed as if it with difficulty beat — the wheel 
 at the cistern was broken, and the golden bowl 
 from that day shattered : but he felt there 
 was much to be done, and to be done without 
 delav, and as she took her seat ao-ain at the 
 table he said, — 
 
 '' Do you know where Mr. Ridley is now ? 
 I must write to him to-day." 
 
 "Oh dear, yes!" and she smiled: "I have 
 his direction." 
 
 ** You write to one another, then, still?" 
 
 "Still! to be sure we do. Can the time ev^er 
 come when we shall not ? Dear papa, what are 
 you thinking of?" 
 
 "He writes, then, frequently and kindly?" 
 said he, looking up more cheerfully, and the 
 colour faintly rising upon his sallow cheek, and 
 he took a sip at his coffee, and he uttered a sigli 
 of relief, and said, — 
 
 " And his letters are as kind as ever, are they ?" 
 
 But she recollected the last two letters, and 
 her head drooped, and she muttered, —
 
 144 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 " Almost." 
 
 '^ Almost! and has there heen a perceptible 
 change, then?" 
 
 " He is only busy and bothered, papa, and 
 has not time. You know we have seen his fine 
 speeches reported in the newspapers." 
 
 '* Yes — yes. You would not like me to see 
 one of his letters?" 
 
 " No," said she, blushing crimson ; " dear, dear 
 papa, I couldn't — I couldn't indeed do it I" 
 
 " He calls you his wife in his letters ?" 
 
 " No; he hates that name — he never uses it. 
 Dear papa, why should he?" 
 
 " Go and fetch me his direction." 
 
 And rising from the little table, and pushing his 
 coffee and his untasted bread and butter away, 
 he left the room. 
 
 She would rather have written instead of her 
 father ; but something in his manner made her 
 afraid to say so. 
 
 She wrote down his address, 27 St. Alban's 
 Street, and determined, as her father chose to 
 write, that she would send a letter at the same 
 time, explaining how things had happened, and 
 imploring his forgiveness for what she had done. 
 
 Her father wrote thus : —
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 145 
 
 Mr. FeversTiam to Ridley. 
 
 *' It is a strange tale this tiiat my daughter 
 has at last confided to me, and Mr. Ridley knows 
 as well as I do that the circumstances under 
 t which her marriage has taken place cannot be 
 satisfactory to her father. The whole appears to 
 have been concluded in a very irregular manner, 
 and it is due to all parties that these irregularities 
 should he immediately set right, and any defect 
 in form rectified. The best and simplest pro- 
 ceeding in such a case, and which will settle all 
 difliculties, will be by the immediate celebration 
 of a marriage according to the established forms 
 of society ; and as ~SIy. Ridley owes every com- 
 pensation in his power to the young lady in- 
 terested, for the risk her reputation has incurred 
 through him, her father trusts that he will in- 
 stantly procure a special license, and hurry down 
 with all possible speed into Cumberland — thus 
 putting an end to a most humiliating and distress- 
 ing position, without the unnecessary loss of one 
 moment of time." 
 
 Miriam wrote, — 
 
 ** Dearest, best-loved Ridley, — I cast myself at 
 your feet ! Forgrive me if I have done amiss. 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 Aly father was so kind, so intensely tender^ — I 
 told you if you made me unhappy it would all 
 come out. You should not indeed, indeed, 
 Ridley, make any one who loves yon so truly 
 as I do, so very, very unhappy as you made me : 
 but it's over now ; don't vex yourself about me, 
 I am quite happy again at last. My father was i 
 taken very ill the night I spoke to him, and it 
 was a sort of fit, Peggy says ; he can't walk or 
 stand scarcely ; he's got a shock, and is bent 
 like an old man. If I thought it was his grief 
 that I had deceived him I think it would kill 
 me witli remorse ; but it couldn't be that, for 
 lie did not seem angry the least after the first 
 moment. He was shocked, I saw, then — disap- 
 pointed in me ; but it was soon over, and he 
 was kinder than ever : but guess what I felt 
 when I looked up and saw him speechless. Yes, 
 he was speechless, Ridley, when I had been 
 telling him about that evening, when — when — 
 I was the happiest of brides in that little lovely 
 valley, and you called yourself the happiest of 
 men. He writes by to-day's post, but he has 
 not shewn me his letter. Please, dear Ridley, 
 write differently to him from what you do to me. 
 You are in a hurry, and I don't mind your being 
 
 a little — a little I don't know just what 
 
 to call it, but it pains me ; but if I couldn't bear
 
 MOllDAUKT HALL. 147 
 
 a little palii for your sake Avhat should I be 
 worth, indeed ! But my father is so poorly ; and 
 you know he is your father now, dearest Ridley, 
 because he is mine. You must love him for his 
 own sake, too, I am sure. So, whatever he has 
 written, please take it as it is meant, which I am 
 sure is kindly, and please write an answer that 
 will set his heart at rest. No one in the world 
 can write such sweet, such comforting letters as 
 you dO; when you have time ; but never mind me, 
 only do pray find time to write a nice letter to 
 my poor father — my dear, dear, dear father!" 
 
 Mr. Abel liad heard of IMr. Feversham's ill- 
 ness, and in the afternoon he had walked up to 
 inquire after him, to pay him a visit if visible, 
 and offer his sernces if wanted. 
 
 He found his friend sitting in his arm-chair 
 upon the little grass-plot in front of the house, 
 the apple-trees in full blossom were hanging over 
 his head, his gillyflowers — a favourite flower — - 
 rich and double, of which he was very proud, 
 filled a little border near him. 
 
 All his usual delights surrounded him, upon 
 which he used to dwell with never-fadino- in- 
 terest ; but now he was sitting: in his easv 
 study-chair, his hands hanging sadly down, his 
 eyes bent upon the grass, absorbed in his own
 
 148 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 thouglits, and insensible to every thing around 
 l)im. 
 
 Mr. Abel had opened the little wicket and 
 introduced himself, as his custom was ; he came 
 up to Mr. Feversham unperceived, and watched 
 him a few moments as there he sat, much 
 shocked and equally astonished at the change in 
 his appearance. It was but three or four days 
 since he had seen him. 
 
 He did not stand there looking long, but went 
 up to him, and as he heard his footsteps the 
 suffering man turned hastily round, but, per- 
 ceiving who it was, he started, roused himself, 
 sat up, seemed trying to dispel the gloom which 
 had gathered over his face, and endeavoured to 
 rise. He could not readily do that, but he 
 stretched out his hand and contrived to smile. 
 
 His smile told more of the wretchedness within 
 than any gravity could have done. 
 
 " I heard you were ill, old friend," said Abel, 
 *'and I walked up to inquire about you. — Why, 
 what's been the matter? I never saw a man so 
 chan2:ed!" 
 
 Mr. Feversham looked a little hurried at this, 
 and said, — 
 
 " I had an odd sort of attack last nisfht I 
 believe — that's all. Think no more about it — it's 
 over!
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 149 
 
 *' I wish it may be," said the plain-spoken Abel, 
 who was a man not easily to be repulsed by an 
 evasion, slow to discover when he was a bore, 
 and ever blundering on in the good intention of 
 his honest heart. 
 
 "But you look very badly, Feversham — no 
 bad news, I hope — nothing going amiss any way! 
 You look like one more afflicted in mind than 
 body, friend," he said, wdth increasing anxiety 
 and increasing kindness. " Tell me, is there 
 nothing in which I can be of service to you?" 
 
 " No, no, don't think about it — it's all over! 
 Something had vexed me — it was only for a, mo- 
 ment. Don't let us think any more of it ; let us 
 speak of something else." 
 
 " Where's IMiriam? I wonder to see you sitting 
 by yourself, without your pretty attendant genius," 
 said Abel. 
 
 " In the house — in the garden — I don't know 
 — w^riting letters, I believe." 
 
 "You are a courageous man to trust pretty 
 Miriam so much to herself," said Abel, bantering. 
 *' We shall some of us be running away with her 
 some of these fine days, if you don^t look sharp 
 .... What's the matter?" rising, and going up 
 and looking anxiously in his face. 
 
 *' A pain, a pain — nothing, nothing ! "
 
 150 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 " Dear me, I was only joking ! You don't 
 really think I fear any indiscretion upon the part 
 of Miriam?" 
 
 "Oh, no, I am sure! but some subjects are 
 scarcely joking matters." 
 
 " Why, one always jokes about pretty girls, 
 and running away with them, you know," said 
 Abel ; '' and really I have been quite afraid lately 
 of bringing any of my pupils in this direction, for 
 Miriam is so very pretty, and there's something 
 about a girl in a garden takes those young chaps 
 so ! I thought Ridley 'd have gone mad about 
 her, as, indeed, I told you; and — no offence — 
 what would have become of us all if he'd done 
 any thing imprudent? His parents would have 
 been ready to have killed me, in the first place 
 — made a burnt-offering of the poor pedagogue 
 to the Moloch of their pride ; and as for you 
 
 and Miriam but, thank goodness, that 
 
 danger's over! and I believe, though you never 
 owned it, I may thank you for being more 
 prudent than I was. After that visit to you by 
 himself, when I suspect" — trying to look archly 
 in his face — "you were asked, and gave my 
 young gentleman his answer — after that evening 
 when he came back, looking mightily affronted 
 and mightily out of humour, he told me very
 
 MORDAU^•T HALL. 151 
 
 abruptly that he thought he must return fortli- 
 with to London, and I wasn't sorry to see him 
 oflf." 
 
 " He went away so soon, I never heard that," 
 said Feversham ; and he rose up from his recum- 
 bent posture in the chair, and seemed to breathe ; 
 but then a thouo;ht smote him — it was as the 
 recollection of death — of the irreversible decree 
 being passed, suddenly striking down the rally- 
 ing spirits, and he sank backwards, and said no 
 more. 
 
 '^Why you went away yourself a few days 
 after, to poor Frost's ; and I suppose you and 
 Miriam, when you met again, had other things to 
 talk about than the choppings and changes of 
 my scholastic arrangements." 
 
 There was no answer to this. Abel kept talk- 
 ing on : — 
 
 " He made a fine speech upon the R 
 
 question, however. You read it?" 
 
 " No, I seldom read the debates." 
 
 " You ouo:ht to have read that — it's one of the 
 finest this parliament. I wrote to Mr. Ridley, 
 the father, to conoratulate him : it reallv was a 
 subject for it. He thanked me for my letter, and 
 told me there was cause for rejoicing in various 
 ways : his son was to be married in due course of
 
 152 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 time, ill a most satisfactory manner to them all ; 
 
 a prodigious heiress, a " 
 
 He was interrupted by Mr. Feversham starting 
 suddenly up with a faint cry, as if shot, and as 
 suddenly falling into his chair again. 
 
 ** Hey-day, my old friend ! " cried Abel, 
 "what's the matter now?" 
 
 Feversham made a violent effort with himself 
 — one of those desperate struggles which seem to 
 exhaust life, in one short five minutes, more than 
 in the uniform lapse of as many years. His 
 white, quivering lips, were firmly pressed toge- 
 ther; his trembling limbs commanded to be still; 
 his distended eye to resume, as far as possible, its 
 usual expression, as he said carelessly, — 
 
 '* An odd feeling about my heart — merely 
 nervous — not quite well, you know! You were 
 saying something about your quondam pupil 
 being married?" 
 
 '^ Yes. You don't suppose I care much about 
 the marriages of these young fellows when they 
 cut away from me ; but really I had been in the 
 tremors lest we should get into a scrape about 
 your pretty Miriam. And so, you see, I thought 
 you'd perhaps not be sorry to hear it ; for, to tell 
 truth, in that gossiping town of ours they'd got 
 something of an inkling, and made up a cock-
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 153 
 
 and-a-buU story about Ridley and Miriam. I 
 didn't care to vex you about it, but one usually 
 gets a suspicion of things that concern one's self; 
 so I thought perhaps you had : and I thought 
 you'd not be sorry, as I wasn't, to hear a report 
 that the chap was going to be married. I've 
 taken care to tell it all over the town before I 
 came here." 
 
 It is impossible to describe the varying expres- 
 sion of the poor father's face. One stretched 
 upon the rack, and resolved to suffer no one cry 
 of pain to escape, might have shewn such a 
 countenance, the distress of which increased as 
 Abel, suddenly stopping in his discourse, looked 
 up and said, — 
 
 " What can make you look so very uncomfort- 
 able? I thought you'd be pleased. I'm sure if 
 you are a wise man you ought to be." 
 
 It was impossible to answer this. 
 
 Poor Feversham was a stranger to falsehood ; 
 he could find nothing to say. 
 
 Abel went on: — 
 
 " I am sure, my old friend, if you had any 
 hopes for Miriam at one time — which I hardly 
 suppose you had — you have reason to be glad, 
 for her sake, that things have come to this ter- 
 mination. One doesn't like to speak ill of one's 
 pupils," he added, in a low and more serious
 
 154 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 tone, " but in spite of his great talents, of which 
 I and all his friends are justly proud, I believe a 
 more hard-hearted, selfish egotist, than Ridley 
 does not exist ; and he has habits of profligacy 
 that, in such a character, are more than usually 
 — are utterly disgusting." 
 
 At this Mr. Feversham laid a hand, cold as 
 stone and almost as rigid, upon Mr. Abel's arm, 
 and saying, " You really must excuse me — I feel 
 so ill I do not know what to do with myself — 
 pray call somebody, or help me to the house," 
 he made a great effort to rise; and as Abel, 
 with all his usual busy goodnature, and more 
 than his usual awkward flurry, helped him 
 as well as he could, he struggled towards the 
 door, saying at intervals, as he made his way in, 
 and at last reached a chair, — 
 
 " Don't alarm Miriam — it's nothing ! Get me 
 into my study. No, no, don't think of staying ! 
 Give me the bell-pull — I'll ring for Peggy if I 
 want her. I shall be better alone — let me be 
 alone ! Don't, don't, dear, good Abel ! Go 
 away, that's a good fellow, lest you should meet 
 Miriam!" 
 
 At last he persuaded the goodnatured/rtc/iez/.r 
 to leave him.
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 155 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " Oh, let not thus thy mind be overwhelmed — 
 True, thy path is perplex'd, and difficulty 
 Shadows thee round — and trembling spirits shake 
 Thy fixing soul — and darkness terrible, 
 The darkness of the mind, clouds over thee ! " 
 
 A>'ox. 
 
 Oh, vice is a hideous thing! — 
 
 A hideous, dark mystery — the mystery of ini- 
 quity! Its secret springs are hidden from our 
 view, but its more obvious causes and conse- 
 quences are palpable and demonstrable ; and it 
 is with its consequences, in our narrow circle of 
 knowledge, that v»e alone should attempt to 
 deal. 
 
 Many subtle and questioning intellects perplex 
 themselves with the inquiry, Whence the remote, 
 original cause, of the sin and evil around us, and 
 "why? — a question it is not given to any man, 
 under the conditions of our present existence, to 
 answer; — but scarcely any one sufficiently fixes
 
 156 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 his attention upon that wliich it is our main 
 business to know, and wliich we can know, — the 
 efficient causes, and more especially the conse- 
 quences, of sin. 
 
 Oh, if we steadily kept our minds alive to this 
 most important subject of thought — if men, before 
 they did evil, would only remember its inevitable 
 results — if all the wide-extended sufferings, the 
 sorrows, the pains, the tears, inevitably following 
 upon wrong, were but present to the wrong-doer 
 at the moment of his crime, it is scarcely possible 
 that heart of flesh could resist the piteous pic- 
 ture — that heart of man but must tui'u appalled 
 from the criminal course upon v.'hich he was 
 about to enter. 
 
 But we are selfish, careless, unreflecting, 
 blinded by inclination and passion, or by that 
 darkness worse than death which attends upon 
 the slothful indifference to questions of right and 
 wrong. Men pass from day to day, yielding to 
 the temptations of covetousness or pleasure, 
 thoughtless of consequences to themselves in 
 many cases, almost utterly insensible as regards 
 the results to others. 
 
 The true moral painter's part it is to hold up a 
 faithful picture to the heart of the long succession 
 of evils which from one crime spring. 
 
 The crime of which Ridley had been guilty.
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 157 
 
 he, like many of his sex, regarded very liglitlv — 
 it was but a silly girl betrayed. He did not 
 estimate — how should such a heart as his esti- 
 mate? — the vast sum of misery included in that 
 small sentence. 
 
 The long agonies of a woman's heart, whose 
 affections have been disappointed by the careless- 
 ness with which men in ordinary society give rise 
 by their attentions to feelings which are the 
 legitim.ate and natural return of such attentions, 
 is a very serious breach of the law of doing as we 
 would desire to be done by — a breach upon which 
 they most of them never reflect at all: but light 
 is this indeed to the crime here perpetrated. 
 
 A man should be forced to look steadily into 
 the gulf of despair — or far, far, far worse — of 
 degradation and moral ruin into which, for the 
 gratification of the idlest vanity or licentious 
 passion, he ])lunges a young, innocent, trusting 
 creature, whose only error^ it may be, was to love 
 him too well. Men, if they would reflect, must 
 and would shudder and turn aghast from the 
 horrid, horrid spectacle ! 
 
 But they will not reflect, they will not learn to 
 shudder ; the subject is painful, and they pass it 
 from their mind, with a few wicked common- 
 places, at which they are but too ready. Ridley's 
 treachery was double-dyed in wickedness ; but
 
 158 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 liad he not carried his deceit so far — had his vic- 
 tim been a more easy prey, would her fate have 
 been less cruel? As for the fathers, mothers, 
 sisters, brothers, of those thus led to folly, no one, 
 of course, thinks oi them. No man, the slave of 
 his own vices, can be expected to cast a thought 
 upon them; the sum of their misery is never 
 even calculated — the figures are not even set 
 dow^n. 
 
 And the children ! 
 
 Reflect upon that ; varnish it over as you may, 
 provide for them handsomely if you wdll, one 
 reflection, at least, make, — what are to be the 
 moral impressions of a child whose being sprang 
 from a parent's sin 1 I ask you only to think of 
 the dark confusion of affections and principles, 
 on the hardness and indifference, or both, which 
 must be the result. Did Ridley, intelligent, re- 
 flecting, a weigher of things, a deep searcher into 
 metaphysical and moral truths, a man with, at 
 least, all the intellectual elements which ought to 
 form a great man — did Ridley ever trouble him- 
 self once to consider these thin2:s, tliino-s so nearlv 
 connected w^th his own and with another's soul? 
 No — certainly. 
 
 His was an imagination; — ah, were mine as 
 bright ! — that might have painted to him, in living 
 images, all the consequences of his criminal self-
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 159 
 
 indulgence and most wicked treachery. His mind 
 had power, had it possessed the will, to draw 
 with the pencil of Dante, the appalling picture of 
 that inner hell to which he had condemned the 
 being he pretended to love — once Jiad loved. 
 And the poor father! — the agonies of the gentle, 
 unoifendins: man, who had welcomed him so hos- 
 pitably under his lowly roof; whose heart was so 
 full of kind affections, so free from guile, or jea- 
 lousy, or pride ! Yes, Ridley possessed power to 
 have pictured in a way my feeble hand vainly 
 attempts to do, the long death of the soul, the 
 awful dark despair, of a father wounded in a 
 daughter's honour. 
 
 A parent disgraced in his own loving, innocent 
 child. He shall render a heavier account for all 
 this, because he is great, and gifted, and wise, 
 and powerful, and fitted to guide a state and rule 
 the interests of a nation — he shall be the less for- 
 given, because in the plenitude of his powers he 
 has chosen to step aside to crush a poor little 
 insect in its humble path — he shall be the less 
 forgiven, because the wider the knowledge, and 
 the higher the intellect, and the larger the observ- 
 ation, so much the greater is the power of esti- 
 mating the claims and appreciating the sufferings 
 of whatever breathes ; and that the thoughtless
 
 160 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 cruelty which we lament and pardon in the untu- 
 tored child, is odious, is execrable in the man ! 
 
 Ridley read Mr. Feversham's letter with feel- 
 ings of vexation and anger, but with not one 
 spark either of sympathy or pity. He was exces- 
 sively annoyed at the revelation having been 
 made to her father by Miriam — that is a matter 
 of course ; but the tone of the letter irritated 
 him exceedingly. His pride, of which he had an 
 immense portion, was aroused by the plain terms 
 of equality assumed by the lowly man of worth 
 towards the exalted doer of wrong; upon the eve 
 of a most splendid marriage, there was something 
 to him ridiculous in thus putting forward the 
 humble, and as he knew, utterly valueless claims 
 of Miriam. 
 
 Tlie ceremony which she had looked upon as 
 so sacred and binding, he had scarcely regarded 
 from the first as anything but a farce to satisfy 
 scruples which, after all, were rather inconsistent 
 with the principles she professed. The confusion 
 of her ideas upon the subject of the marriage 
 relation had, perhaps, encouraged in him the 
 hope that it might altogether be dispensed with ;
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 161 
 
 but when lie found that poor Miriam, In spite of 
 her high-flown notions, was, after all, too much of 
 a real English girl to act upon them, he yielded 
 to her wishes. At the moment — for few are deli- 
 berately wicked — he, as I have hinted, perhaps 
 intended it as a marriage that might, if he 
 pleased, be confirmed at some future time ; but, 
 whatever the feelings under which the base de- 
 ception was had recourse to, in a very short time, 
 as every one in the least acquainted with the hu- 
 man heart will feel sure, he got into the habit of 
 regarding the whole business as a mere passing- 
 affair, and not in the slightest degree as giving 
 ^liriam any claim upon his future — unless, in- 
 deed, so far as some pecuniary compensation 
 mio-ht be concerned. 
 
 He had for the last few weeks become pecu- 
 liarly anxious to disentangle himself from the 
 connexion ; and it was certainly not less in con- 
 tempt than anger that he read, his lip curling 
 with a sarcastic and scornful smile, the demand 
 made by Feversham of a special license, and an 
 immediate and more regular repetition of the 
 marriage ceremony. 
 
 Miriam's note he then opened, but threw it 
 hastily aside at the first two sentences, w^ith an 
 impatient **Pish!" Then sitting down at his 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 162 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 writing-table, he hastily took up a pen, and wrote 
 his answer to the father, thus : — 
 
 *' Sir, 
 *' I have the honour of your communication, 
 and am sorry I cannot agree with you in your 
 views of its subject-matter. I regret that it is 
 entirely out of my power to comply with your re- 
 quest — I might better call it demand — but I beg 
 to say at once, that any other compensation for 
 the injury done to your family I shall be happy 
 to make. We shall not find it necessary, I am 
 sure, to appeal to the decision of others with re- 
 spect to the extent of such compensation. I be- 
 lieve you to be just and moderate in your views. 
 My means, thank God, of satisfying them, are 
 pretty considerable ; you have only to name what 
 you require, and a cheque upon my banker shall 
 satisfy, as far as such things can be satisfied, 
 every claim you may imagine your family pos- 
 sesses against me. 
 
 *' I have the honour to be, <&:c. &:c., 
 ** George Ridley." 
 
 To Miriam, not a word.
 
 MOR DAUNT HALL. 163 
 
 " My dearest father, you don't eat a morsel — 
 you were gone to bed when I came in last night ; 
 and you were gone out before breakfast this 
 morning. You shoukl not do so, papa ; you look 
 so ill — do try to taste something. You had no 
 breakfast before you went out — do try." 
 
 *' No, my child — don't ask me ; I would rather 
 not, indeed." 
 
 ** Papa, papa, you frighten me very much. 
 
 You are very ill, or else is your letter come? 
 
 and, oh ! was it unkind ? He couldn't — he 
 wouldn't write so to you; I am sure he would 
 not." 
 
 " Eat your dinner, child, and don't think about 
 me. Nay, eat your dinner, Miriam." 
 
 " How can I, when vou look so ill?" 
 
 There were tears in his eyes ; his eyes were 
 full of tears as he looked at her. 
 
 He had walked to the town the evenino* before, 
 scarcely expecting a letter by return of post ; but 
 a letter was put into his hand. He had, during 
 the last eight-and-forty hours, in some way buoyed 
 himself up with the hope, that to an appeal so 
 direct there could be but one answer ; and how- 
 ever much he might deplore the jeopardy in 
 which his daughter had placed her happiness, 
 that her honour would at least be safe. 
 
 The Grecian painter drew a veil over the coun-
 
 164 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 tenance of the father in the well-known story — I 
 find myself utterly incapable of describing the 
 storm that passed over the father's heart, when he 
 read the insolent and unfeeling letter. 
 
 But his strongest impulse, after the first agonies 
 of his feelings had subsided, was to conceal this 
 barbarous cruelty from his daughter. Bitter as 
 were his own feelings, and raging as his mind, 
 still he could consider how far more bitter must 
 be her anguish, her indignation how far more 
 cruel ! 
 
 He did not come back home, but hurried into 
 the mountains behind, seeking the most savage 
 and secluded glen ; and there, among the bare 
 and blackened rocks, he paced to and fro, endea- 
 vouring to quiet the storm within, and to meet 
 his child without betraying himself. The stars 
 came out and glittered over his head ; the cres- 
 cent moon cast faint shadows amid the rocks ; 
 but he could not cast up an appealing glance to 
 that sky, which, with all its starry phalanxes, was 
 without speech for him : he had but his own 
 manly spirit — he had but his own susceptible, 
 loving, sincere, honest heart, to battle with this 
 cruel spectre of evil which had encountered him. 
 
 This world lay a ruined chaos of hopes and 
 afi'ections shattered, and there was nothing better 
 to turn to.
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 165 
 
 It was a long and fatal struggle; resentment 
 and indignation were such strangers to liis gentle 
 nature, that the violent passion of rage, the hun- 
 gry cry for vengeance and redress that filled his 
 heart, seemed tearing up the very foundations of 
 his being. How long these hot and fiery feelings 
 lasted, I know not ; they were drowned at last by 
 floods of tears, as he thought of his daughter's 
 fate. 
 
 These tears, cruel as they were, in some degree 
 calmed the violence of his agitation ; but, quite un- 
 equal to meet her that evening, he had stolen in 
 through the kitchen, had told Peggy not to forget 
 to take her young mistress her supper, telling her 
 he was sorely tired with a long walk, and wished 
 to go to bed and not to be disturbed ; and he once 
 more had crept up stairs, thrown himself, dressed 
 as he was, upon his mattrass, and again spent the 
 night without closing his eyes. 
 
 His thoughts that night might be called rather 
 a hurried succession of horrible spectres than any- 
 thing approaching to reflection or consideration. 
 As the morning dawned, he rose, and utterly un- 
 able to meet his child, and almost to speak to 
 living being, stole forth a second time, and buried 
 himself among the mountains. 
 
 In the same hurried, almost delirious species of 
 misery, he spent that morning ; but as his bodily
 
 166 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 Strength began to be exhausted, and to sink under 
 the tremendous excitement he had undergone, his 
 spii'it flagged with it, and he longed to go home, 
 and seek support and comfort from the presence 
 of some one. 
 
 So he had come slowly home, creeping among 
 the mountain clefts ; and he had entered the gar- 
 den just as Peggy, for the fiftieth time, as she 
 thought, presented herself at the door to look 
 whether *' Master was coming, for the steak was 
 quite spoiled." 
 
 He had only time to take off his hat and enter 
 the dining-room, where Miriam met him, looking 
 ill and hurried too ; and, without exchanging a 
 word, they sat down together. 
 
 He was not a man of tears. Miriam had never 
 seen her father weep; but now his eyes were 
 swimming as he looked at her. He thought how 
 pale and ill, poor thing ! she looked ; and his 
 heart was bleeding as he gazed. 
 • He seemed so anxious that she should eat, that 
 she tried ; and besides, Nature was young in her, 
 and called for sustenance : but though he endea- 
 voured to do the same to oblige her, it was utterly 
 impossible ; he played with his knife and fork, 
 and then laid them down. 
 
 Suddenly, as she moved, a thought seemed to 
 strike him. He struck his forehead with both
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 167 
 
 liis clenched hands — rose from his seat in a tran- 
 sport of emotion, and hurrying out of the room 
 went quickly up stairs, entered his bed-chamber, 
 and locked and double-locked the door. 
 
 Miriam sat a moment in speechless dismay. 
 
 Then a terrible, terrible thought, came over her, 
 — and burying her face in her hands, she fell down 
 upon her knees before her father's chair. 
 
 Stupid — miserable — confused — her thoughts 
 all in disorder, she could not pray — she did not 
 know how — she was stunned and stupid. She 
 thought herself stony and insensible. 
 
 It was tea-time when they met again. 
 
 Meals went on in regular succession, as they 
 always do ; the clock of life keeps its monotonous 
 course, scarcely ever affected by the agitation, 
 around. 
 
 She heard him coming down stairs with a step 
 more composed and measured than had lately 
 been his, and he came in looking much more 
 calm than he had done for many days. 
 
 He came up to her and kissed her gravely. 
 
 And then, sitting down in his usual place, he 
 said, — 
 
 " ]\Iy dear, will you put up a few things in my 
 portmanteau, — I intend to set off for London to- 
 morrow." 
 
 " My dear papa! — you cannot be fit for the
 
 ]()8 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 journey — you are not well enough. It is a ter- 
 rible — terrible long way. You will fall ill upon 
 the road — indeed you must not think of setting 
 out till you are better." 
 
 He shook his head, and smiled in a gently sor- 
 rowful manner. 
 
 He did not say that which he felt and knew ; 
 that he should not ever be better. 
 
 He took Miriam's hand gravely, and said, in 
 answer to her hurried and agitated remonstrances, 
 
 '^ Sit down, child, and be calm. You must not 
 agitate yourself in this way. Miriam, we must 
 have strength and fortitude. You must endea- 
 vour to be patient, and courageous as you were 
 when you were a little girl. I have had an un- 
 comfortable letter from Mr. Ridley. You thought 
 I could not have got it till this evening, but I got 
 it yesterday ; he wrote by return of post ; you 
 must have miscalculated the time." 
 
 " I never got a letter so soon," said she 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 *' No," thought he ; " the time was already past 
 to write to her by return of post." 
 
 His only wish at present, his most strenuous 
 efforts, were directed to spare her feelings — he 
 never thought of his own — far less did he once 
 remember that to her duplicity, to her breach of 
 filial confidence, of daughterly affection and re-
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 169 
 
 liaiice, this misery was owing. The shadow of a 
 reproach had never clouded his heart ; he felt 
 only the tenderest pity. 
 
 To spare her every unnecessary pain was his 
 most anxious care as he went on. 
 
 She was too little aware of the position in which 
 she really stood, to have any very great anxiety as 
 to the subject-matter of the letter ; she was only 
 anxious about the manner in which Ridley might 
 have written. Her father was most earnestly de- 
 sirous to conceal from her as long as possible the 
 cruel truth — the degrading truth — which he felt 
 would crush her to the earth at once, and degrade 
 her in her own eyes for ever. 
 
 Among his other thoughts, sometimes he hoped 
 that she might die before the cruel secret must be 
 disclosed — before shame had dyed that face with 
 its deep crimson. 
 
 He felt in moments of excitement as if — like 
 Virginius — he too could by his own hand have 
 cut the thread of life, to save her from disgrace. 
 As he saw her full of innocent confidence, her fair 
 face yet unstained with the deep tincture, her heart 
 yet unbowed to degradation, he felt that so to pre- 
 serve her, he or she would have died well. 
 
 " The letter is in some respects not altogether 
 satisfactory, my dear," he continued, still holding 
 her hand. " I think it is better there should be
 
 170 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 a personal interview — such things are best not 
 delayed. I mean to set out by the Penrith coach 
 to-morrow, my dear; it passes through Askridge 
 at seven o'clock." 
 
 " I hope — I hope — what can it be, dear papa? 
 What can there be amiss, that a letter would not 
 set right ?" she began anxiousl}^ 
 
 ** Things, my dear, that it is needless to ex- 
 plain — matters of form. My love, don't make 
 yourself uneasy; keep quiet and rest yourself 
 while I am away, Miriam. Remember how pre- 
 cious is health to all, and don't be in the least 
 uneasy about me. I feel that this journey will set 
 thinofs riofht." 
 
 " Ah, papa ! " 
 
 " Mind what I say, my dear, pray do. Try to 
 compose your spirits while I am away, and you 
 will be left to yourself, love, and not have your 
 poor father to worry you ! " 
 
 He looked so tenderly as he spoke. 
 
 "Ah, papa! — jiapa!" and a feeling more 
 nearly akin to remorse than she had yet felt 
 smote upon her heart as she looked at him. 
 
 But she was not even yet alive to a full sense of 
 the ingi-atitudc of which she had been guilty.
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 171 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 " And weep the more because I weep in vain ! " 
 
 It was a lovely morning. 
 
 He opened his window at six, and looked out 
 upon his peaceful little domain. 
 
 Spring had passed away, and Summer in all her 
 English beauty had set in — summer, which in 
 this country is a season so exquisitely tempered 
 to loveliness and to perfect enjoyment. 
 
 His garden was in one glow with its profusion 
 of flowers of every hue, vieing with each other in 
 the gayest exuberance ; and amid those flowers 
 the fruit-trees, his pear-trees, his espaliered 
 apples, his gooseberries and currants, now just 
 beginning to glow under their green leaves, 
 once more presented that picture which had 
 charmed Ridley so much upon his first visit, 
 about twelve months ago.
 
 172 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 What ruin had entered the little Eden since the 
 iiend overleapt the wall ! 
 
 He stood there ready dressed for his journey, 
 and looked down upon the scene. 
 
 The garden spread before him ; then came the 
 common, now gay with gorse in all its golden 
 glow ; and further on, the mountains rose in their 
 sublimity around. 
 
 The newly risen sun was beaming upon their 
 breast, and gently dispelling the morning veil of 
 mist which rolled up softly upon their moistened 
 sides. 
 
 The distant sounds of beginning labour might 
 be heard ; the distant call of voices, the cheer- 
 ful crowing of chanticleer, the yelps of dogs, 
 the rumble of the slow wheel, all mingled 
 together with that soft awakening charm which 
 makes the opening day so bright and cheerful. 
 
 How often had he stood at that same window, 
 and gazed in the fulness of an overflowing content 
 upon this scene of all his innocent delights, drink- 
 ing in with an intensity of sensibility — which only 
 those exquisitely tempered as he was know — all 
 the delicious impressions that surrounded him ! 
 
 Now the whole was covered as with a funereal 
 veil. 
 
 He looked upon that garden which he had 
 loved as a companion — almost as a friend — down
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 173 
 
 upon those plants lie had tended with so much 
 care and pleasure, and he sighed. 
 
 The dreariest desert upon earth could not have 
 possessed less power of exciting in him the sense 
 of pleasure than did that lovely scene now. 
 
 The man within was paralysed — was dead. 
 
 He would not quit his room till the time of his 
 departure approached, he thought — he did not 
 wish to be too long with his Miriam. He was 
 wretched when in her presence, from the appre- 
 hension that by some inadvertence he might 
 betray his secret, and inflict the misery he wished 
 to bear alone. 
 
 The idea of her even remotelv surmisino; the 
 real situation in which she stood was more dread- 
 ful to him than all the rest ; he dared not cast his 
 eyes that way ; he was forced to hope something 
 would occur, and that this she would be spared. 
 
 It was possible that his presence and remon- 
 strances mioht have greater weight than his 
 letter. Sometimes he thought it could not be in 
 man to resist words, such as an injured father 
 alone could speak. At others he thought she 
 would die. It might be of disappointed affec- 
 tion ; but he trusted not to see her heart broken 
 with shame. 
 
 At a quarter to seven he came down stairs, and
 
 174 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 found her, as he expected, waiting for him. She 
 looked very pale and ill. 
 
 She had passed the most miserable night she 
 had yet known — for it was a night of remorse and 
 self-reproach. 
 
 About to become a parent herself, things had 
 struck her in a new light. Perhaps no one, till 
 they in their turn are parents, can by possibility 
 appreciate what they owe as a child, or the force 
 of that affection, or the amount of its tenderness 
 and care. No child on earth can understand this 
 fully till they lavish upon another's infancy all the 
 watchful anxiety which has guarded their own. 
 Even the best child often feels something ap- 
 proaching to remorse when reflecting upon this. 
 What must be the misery of a heart naturally 
 good, when some great breach of duty has been 
 committed, and the heart betrayed and agonised 
 that doated with such disinterested affection ? 
 
 Thoughts such as these had haunted her 
 throughout that sleepless night. How barbarous 
 her insensibility had been to her father's feelings, 
 in favour of one — a stranger — though a lover ! 
 How bitter — ah! worse than serpent's tooth — to 
 have a thankless child ! She was worse — a de- 
 ceiving, treacherous, false, unnatural child ! How 
 they had lived together ! How tender and kind
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 175 
 
 he had been ! Her memory, too faithful monitor 
 now, recalled all those unnumbered evidences of his 
 gentle affections — from tbe time when, a little one, 
 she sat upon his knee, prattling and playing with 
 his face as he smiled upon her — or caught up 
 crying in his arms, after some infant misfortune, 
 had been hushed to sleep upon his bosom. 
 
 His patient lessons, his unwearied endeavours 
 rightly to direct her thoughts ; his anxiety and 
 care for her when ill ; his pride and pleasure in 
 her health and gaiety ! and then she asked her- 
 self — for now she begian in some deo-ree to under- 
 stand how these thino^s must be — what must have 
 been the misery of his feelino-s when he first dis- 
 covered the unworthy return she had made ? 
 
 No wonder he looked ill. His pallid face began 
 to haunt her like a spectre : began ^ I say — it was 
 a spectre never afterwards to be laid. 
 
 He came into the room looking still more 
 feeble, still more pallid, still more ill, than she 
 had yet seen him. 
 
 She went up to him, looked at him a few mo- 
 ments in silent sorrow, and then she said in a low, 
 faltering, hurried voice, — 
 
 " Papa, before you go away I must just speak 
 one word. It is only to tell you, that, at last, I 
 see what I have done — how very wickedly and 
 ungratefully I have behaved ; but, papa, you must
 
 176 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 forgive me, if you can. — With the duty of a whole 
 life — with the earnest devotion of my whole future 
 life," she added, passionately, ** I will try to make 
 amends." 
 
 He stooped down and kissed her, his eye glis- 
 ten in 2:. 
 
 He had not uttered the slightest reproach or 
 complaint, but this spontaneous return upon 
 herself evidently touched and gratified him very 
 much. 
 
 " Good, dear child !" he said, fondly, " thank 
 you for saying this just before I set out — it com- 
 forts me very much, my dear. It was too late to 
 point out your error, and I felt that now it would 
 only give you useless pain ; but I believe that we 
 are all the better and the more comfortable, when 
 we have been wrong and given a friend pain, for 
 confessing and asking forgiveness. My darling, 
 darlins: o-irl J don't hang; vour head and cry so 
 bitterly ! Kiss me, my darling love — my dear, dear 
 child! — yoQ have done your poor father's heart 
 good, love, by saying what you did. Don't cry 
 any more. Nay — nay, it was not so much — girls 
 will be foolish sometimes. Kiss me, my love — 
 it's all made amends for now. Let us think no 
 more of that, my dear, dear child." 
 
 Do you think such words could stop a child's 
 tears? Hers flowed freely, plentifully, but it
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 177 
 
 ■was a blessed — a refreshino* sliower to both. 
 Under the influence of that heaven's dew, which 
 flows from a broken and contrite heart, — under 
 the influence of that gentle glow, which a true 
 reconciliation diffuses amid the deepest sorrow, 
 they embraced and parted. 
 
 The father took his staff, and sallied forth to 
 meet the coach, and the daughter dried those 
 abundant tears, which his tender forgiveness had 
 sweetened. 
 
 How Miriam passed the time of his absence it 
 seems almost useless to relate. 
 
 She dwelt with her own thoughts almost en- 
 tirely, for, except a visit or two from Mr. Abel, who 
 called in now and then to see how she was going 
 on during his friend's absence, she saw no one. 
 She began to dislike appearing in the town, and 
 she no more stole after sunset to the post-office for 
 her letters ; indeed, now that the necessity for 
 concealment was over, as the days were long, and 
 she could not till very late take advantage of the 
 dusk, she had abandoned that little excursion 
 altogether, and contented herself with sending 
 Peggy. She might have spared herself the trou- 
 ble of doing even this, for no letters came. 
 
 VOL. I. ^'
 
 178 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 She would hear from her father upon his ar- 
 rival in London, but it would be five days before 
 that letter could arrive ; but every post must, as 
 she thought, bring an answer from llidley. There 
 is no more sickening, harassing feeling, than the 
 daily disappointment of an excited hope ; and to 
 this was now added the bitter sense, which daily 
 and hourly became bitterer, of her ungrateful, 
 undutiful conduct to her father. Her imagina- 
 tion now taking a cruel revenge in its reaction, 
 for the very errors into which, by its delusions, 
 she had been betrayed, painted him with bar- 
 barous fidelity and truth, with that suffering face, 
 those feeble knees and shakins; hands, vet still 
 with that ineffable expression of gentleness and 
 love upon his face with which he looked at her. 
 She pictured him travelling in an uneasy public 
 vehicle, or rather upon the roof of it, exposed to 
 all the changes of the weather, — the heat by day, 
 which happened at this time to be terrific, and 
 the cold dews of night which succeeded. 
 
 His goodness, his care, his exertions in her 
 cause — her deception, her ingratitude, even the 
 infidelity of her affection, which had led her 
 to prefer the new and too interesting stranger to 
 the old and well-tried friend, — a sentiment which 
 most good children feel when first, in the course 
 of nature, that severance is made, and leaving
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 179 
 
 father and mother they cleave to that love which 
 is henceforward to be stronger than all, — even 
 this natural and softly-melancholy feeling, aggra- 
 vated by her remorse, assumed a form of strange, 
 exaoojerated wrong;. She had never been accus- 
 tomed to weigh her relative duties justly — indeed, 
 duty was a word with which she had as yet but 
 little acquaintance ; her affections flowing in their 
 natural course, had prompted her warm and loving 
 heart to the performance of all those acts of filial 
 observance and piety which are due from a child 
 to a parent such as hers. She had never found 
 her duties and her inclinations in contradiction 
 before ; it was her first temptation, and inclina- 
 tion had triumphed. 
 
 We pray not to enter into temptation. 
 
 Do we very well reflect upon the full force of 
 the prayer 1 
 
 Not to enter into temptation ! 
 
 No one who has been in the habit of observins: 
 his own heart well, and has discovered how little 
 in the moment of temptation, when once the evil 
 influence has laid hold of us, we are capable of 
 calling to mind, in the midst of excited passions, 
 the resolutions, the principles, the honest pur- 
 poses, of cooler hours, but will pray, and pray 
 fervently, to be preserved from entering into 
 temptation. Once entered in — once involved in
 
 180 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 the mysterious labyrinth of evil, the foregone con- 
 clusions seem to vanish from the mind, and we 
 are hurried on, as by some power beyond our 
 strength, to awaken when the wrong, whatever it 
 may be, has been committed, to a full sense of 
 our misery and our infirmity. 
 
 Her love for Ridley had been strong, generous, 
 devoted, as was her nature, but equally blind 
 and passionate, and under its influence she had 
 lived in a sort of delusive dream, which had ob- 
 scured the sense of all other and less vehement 
 feelings. She had forgotten, like many another 
 child, in her j^assionate attachment to her lover, 
 the claims of that being who had fostered her 
 from her birth. But the Nemesis, though she 
 may delay, never proves unfaithful to her awful 
 task ; sooner or later, the cry of the avenging 
 deity is heard in the heart — sooner or later, the 
 wrongful doer meets his sentence. 
 
 These feelings acted u^^on a frame already so 
 much excited and disordered with a strange, irri- 
 tating, and oppressive force, as, abandoned to 
 her own reflections — now shedding tears over the 
 cruel neglect of Ridley — now stung by her own 
 self-reproaches — walking, now slowly, now 
 hastily up and down that little gravel-walk be- 
 tween the trees, sometimes haunted by the pale 
 vision of her father, sometimes by the aspect of
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 181 
 
 that form for ever dear — that face so fall of pas- 
 sionate devotion, those eyes which fascinated her 
 very heart as they fell upon her, — she again 
 seemed to drink in those magic sentences which 
 had caused her so much misery and wrong. 
 
 What she suffered in the unbroken solitude in 
 which she lived was, as it will easily be believed, 
 almost more than she could support, and the 
 daily diminution of her strength — the daily in- 
 creasing hurry of her spirits and confusion of her 
 thoughts, would have alarmed any friend who 
 had observed her; but she had only one friend, 
 poor thing ! and he was far away. 
 
 The fifth day brought a letter from her father. 
 The letter was brief and hurried. He attributed 
 both to his anxiety to save the post ; but the al- 
 most illegible manner in which the letter was 
 written, the crooked lines, and half-formed let- 
 ters, betrayed the shaking, nervous hand which 
 had penned it. 
 
 He said he had arrived safe, but had not yet 
 seen Ridley ; that he had put up at the New 
 Hummums, Covent Garden, and begged her to 
 write to him there. He mentioned nothing of his 
 health, or of his hopes.
 
 182 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 " Till Hope deserted, long in vain his breath 
 Implores the dreadful, untried sleep of death." 
 
 WORDSV.ORTH. 
 
 Mr. Feversham, the morning after his arrival 
 in town, which he reached about eight o'clock in 
 the evening, had presented himself at Ridley's 
 door. That gentleman occupied a house in the, 
 at that time, fashionable St. Alban's Street, where 
 he kept up a handsome bachelor's establishment. 
 It was about ten o'clock in the forenoon when 
 Mr. Feversham presented himself at the door, 
 and Ridley was, of course, at breakfast. 
 
 '^ A strange gentleman wishes to speak a few 
 moments with you, sir," said his footman. 
 
 " Shew him up," said Ridley, who was sitting 
 at his breakfast-table, in his luxurious and com- 
 fortable arm-chair. He had the newspaper in
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 183 
 
 his hand, and had been just running over tlie 
 report of his own speech in the last night's debate 
 with considerable satisfaction ; for he was already 
 become one of those of whose harangues reporters 
 think it worth while to take accurate and elabo- 
 rate notes: he afterwards had been lookins: over 
 the list of those present at the Tuesday night's 
 opera, and dwelling, with a sort of foolish plea- 
 sure, upon the name of the Lady Angelina. 
 
 " Shew him up," without taking his eyes from 
 the paper, which, however, he cast aside as the 
 door opened, and rising up, to his astonishment 
 confronted Mr. Feversham. He started involun- 
 tarily, but he lost not his presence of mind. 
 
 *' Shut the door, Johnson," said he, to his ser- 
 vant, "and bring a fresh cup and saucer; this 
 gentleman has probably not breakfasted." 
 
 *' Don't take that trouble, sir," said Mr. Fever- 
 sham, turning to the servant, T\ho was leaving 
 the room ; " I have breakfasted — I shall not 
 take anything more." 
 
 He remained standing where he was till the 
 servant had left the room and closed the door, 
 though Ridley, who, without saying more, had 
 pointed to a chair, had by this time resumed his 
 seat. Then he came up, and confronted him with 
 a stern and steady countenance, and his eye fixed, 
 upon his in a manner which seemed to force the
 
 184 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 criminal before him to drop his eyelids. He 
 said, — 
 
 *' I am come to demand justice, and not hos- 
 pitality." 
 
 ** You shall have it," said Ridley, raising his 
 eyes, and endeavouring to assume a manner as 
 firm and composed as his own. But it would not 
 do ; his colour changed rapidly, and his voice 
 was unsteady. 
 
 " I hoped so," was Mr. Feversham's reply, 
 after a moment's pause, still fixing his clear blue 
 eye upon Ridley's face ; but the severity of his 
 countenance slowly relaxing, — '* I hoped so — 
 I trusted that a personal appeal to your honour 
 and feelings would not be without avail. I am 
 glad to find it so." 
 
 And then he sat down opposite to Ridley, and 
 went on. 
 
 That pallid, attenuated shadow of the man 
 Ridley had first seen, sat down before him, and, 
 in a calm, steady voice, but hollow as that of one 
 who had been within the shadow^ of death, laying 
 his arm upon the table, as if to support a frame 
 which, feeble as it evidently was, neither blenched 
 nor trembled, he repeated the sentence, — 
 
 " I trusted, and not in vain — I am glad to find 
 it so." 
 
 Ridley moved in his chair uneasily.
 
 MORDAUXT HALL. 185 
 
 He perfectly well understood what was implied 
 by Mr. Feversham's speech, but as he had not the 
 slightest idea of justifying any expectations of this 
 kind, it was necessary to be explicit ; but there was 
 something in the appearance of the father — his 
 grave severity, his calm air of superiority, that im- 
 posed even upon the world-practised and hardened 
 Ridley, and he felt excessively nervous and un- 
 comfortable, as he stammered, rather than said, — 
 
 " I am here to answer — to satisfy any demands 
 that you — that the young lady, may imagine she 
 has upon me." 
 
 '^ Imagine she has upon you !" echoed I\Ir. Fe- 
 versham, rising from his chair and approaching 
 him, — " imagine !" 
 
 "Nay — nay," said Ridley, trying to assume a 
 look of defiance, which, unnaturally excited as 
 were his feelings, became, without his intending 
 it, one of insolence ; *^ nay — nay, sir, don't be 
 impetuous. The young lady must understand 
 very well our relative situations, and she cannot 
 suppose, nor have led you to suppose, that a man 
 can do more than I have offered to do, and will 
 be ready and proud to do, to atone for the idle 
 indiscretion of an hour." 
 
 " Sir," said Feversham, his whole face crimson- 
 ing with passion, coming close up to Ridley, *' re- 
 peat that, and if I were to die for it upon the spot
 
 186 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 I would strangle you ! I come here," he said, rais- 
 ing liis eyes, as if to invoke the powers of justice 
 and retribution, — " I come to demand reparation 
 for a dauirhter's wounded honour — I come to de- 
 mand that the pledges made before God should 
 be redeemed before man. Far rather than thus 
 bestowed would I, if so it had pleased God, have 
 seen her coffined at my feet; but other remedy 
 now there is none." 
 
 Ridley had started up from his seat at the fiery 
 threat and passionate gesture of rage which had 
 accompanied it ; but mastering his own rising- 
 passion, for one glance at Mr. Feversham's feebly 
 frame made him ashamed of indulging it, he sat 
 down again, and looking as cool and composed as 
 he could, said, — 
 
 " I was not intending to affront you ; you had 
 better sit down, I think, if you have any thing 
 further to say. I can forgive much from a man 
 feeling as you must necessarily do. I am very 
 sorry that my desire to make compensation should 
 have excited vou so much : but what can I do 
 now ? 
 
 *' I wish to Heaven," he went on, seeing Fever- 
 sham made no answer, for indeed he was too 
 much overcome by rage and indignation to be 
 able to articulate ; " I wish to Heaven she and 
 I had never met. I grieve very sincerely over
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 187 
 
 what has occurred — believe me I do — nay, I am 
 free to confess that I did very wrong — but who 
 would have imagined a girl like IMiriam would 
 have been imposed upon by so stale a pretence, 
 if she had not herself wished to be deceived ? ^' 
 
 " Don't dare mention her name !" interrupted 
 Feversham, fiercely; then making a dreadful 
 effort to command himself, he said, " There is 
 but one thino- which a man with the sligflitest 
 principle of honour in his breast could think 
 of proposing to do upon such an occasion, and 
 this I am come to demand. And 1 insist upon 
 my demand being complied witli. Farther than 
 this," he went on, *' I ask and will accept nothing 
 — I shall, and wish to keep my daughter — all 
 I claim is, that the breach in her honour — or 
 rather yours, I might say, shall be repaired ; and 
 that this be done without a moment's unnecessary 
 delay. I shall be ready to quit London with you 
 at six o'clock this evenins;." 
 
 " Then my only answer is," said Ridley, who 
 had now quite recovered his coolness and self- 
 possession, " that this demand I shall not comply 
 with ; I have made up my mind upon the subject, 
 and it is better to say so at once. The young 
 lady, whatever her charms and accomplishments, 
 — and who more sensible to them than 1 1 — is not 
 one exactly whom I should wish to present to my
 
 188 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 mother as my wife; the circumstances under 
 which I stood must be my excuse for the trans- 
 gression into wliicli a foolish passion has hurried 
 me; but I have ever held it a weakness, un- 
 worthy any man of sense, to sacrifice a life to 
 atone for the follies of a day. Upon the other 
 subject — just compensation — I am open, as I 
 have repeatedly said, to any application she or 
 you may choose to make ;" and then rising 
 proudly and insolently, he said, *' As I have 
 engagements that cannot wait, you must excuse 
 me bidding you a very good morning. Any 
 further communication to me I think, after what 
 has just passed, will be more agreeably conveyed 
 in writing." 
 
 And before Mr. Feversham could answer, he 
 had passed him and left the room. He went 
 hastily down stairs, and telling the servant who 
 waited in the hall, upon no consideration what- 
 soever to let that gentleman enter his house 
 again, he took his hat and went out, and the 
 door shut after him. 
 
 He had not, however, cruel and insolent as 
 was his conduct, quite sufficient heartlessness to 
 keep his appointment ; he felt excessively an- 
 noyed and uncomfortable ; so he went down to 
 his stables, called for his horse, and, unaccom- 
 panied by his groom, rode out of town, and
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 189 
 
 among the lanes about Edgeware spent that 
 day. Neither was he at his place in the house 
 that night ; the next evening, however, he was 
 to be found there, and everything henceforward 
 seemed to go on with him as if nothing pai'ticular 
 had happened. 
 
 He had seen the father's whitening lips and 
 look of bitterness — that expression of impotent 
 rage and unutterable despair, which belongs to 
 the feeble and defenceless, crushed to the earth 
 beneath the iron heel of the oppressor, but in it 
 ■was no appeal to a Power whose avenging eye 
 follows the criminal, who is the righter of those 
 Tvho have no one to assert their cause. 
 
 The expression of the father's face as he 
 quitted the room, it took Ridley two days and 
 one night to get over ; and as he felt so long 
 upon the subject, I suppose we must not con- 
 sider him as an utterly unfeeling man. 
 
 It is certain he did not think himself so, 
 and believed — and that mioht be true enouoh — 
 that he had given more to past memories than 
 a great many men in his circumstances would 
 have done. 
 
 It was his daughter's honour wliich was 
 concerned.
 
 190 MORDAUKT HALL. 
 
 Bitter it is to sue, even under the most favour- 
 able circumstances — bitter, inexpressibly bitter, 
 when the heart is burning with resentment, and 
 the sense of unexampled injustice and injury : 
 but he would not be discouraged ; day after day 
 might the poor, attenuated, broken form of the 
 father, be seen slov/ly coming up St. Alban's 
 Street, and again and again requesting to see 
 Mr. Ridley. 
 
 Mr. Ridley, call when he would, was never 
 at home. 
 
 He wrote. 
 
 The first note was returned with a few words 
 at the bottom of the page, to say, that to any 
 proposal, such as he could listen to, Mr. Ridley 
 would send an answer. 
 
 Every other note was returned, opened, but 
 without the least word of remonstrance or 
 reply. 
 
 Parliament sat late, the summer was exces- 
 sively hot ; the Parks were burned to sandy 
 deserts ; the air in the streets was stifling. In 
 his little hot lodging-room sat the wj-etched 
 father, fast wasting under the influence of his 
 misery and his indignation — an indignation 
 which kept alive all the acutest sense of his 
 misery, and prevented the cooling balm of 
 patience from soothing his agonies.
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 191 
 
 AVhat he suffered during the fortnight he stayed 
 in town, it exceeds my powers of description to 
 relate. 
 
 At last his money was hecoming exhausted — 
 he wanted the means to supply himself with 
 more — the heartbroken man prepared to return 
 home. 
 
 He was now become so weak that he found 
 it difficult to walk, sometimes even to stand — 
 he felt that life was fast ebbing from him. 
 A sinking despondency had succeeded to his 
 agonies of indignation and despair — a hopeless 
 and melancholy patience to the first tumults of 
 his soul — those spoke of life and energies still 
 in their vigour, these of a broken heart and 
 dving^ frame. 
 
 He wraited to o'et home to his daua-hter — 
 he longed, with the intense longing of the dying, 
 to behold her once again, lay his head upon 
 her bosom, forgive her and die. To live seemed 
 impossible — to jive to witness her disgrace ! He 
 did not — for he wanted streno'th even for that — 
 he did not think much of what would become 
 of her when he was gone ; he did not wish 
 to live a little longer for her sake ; he felt so 
 utterly languid, helpless and useless, so shaken 
 at the heart's core, that all idea of protecting 
 or assisting her was at an end — a profitless
 
 192 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 burden upon her hands, a useless, helpless weight 
 upon the world, he felt himself to be. All his 
 fine talents, all his ardent aspirations after the 
 progress of science, his search after truth, were 
 at an end ; the light of his life, which had 
 given animation and interest to all these things, 
 was withdrawn : it was as if the sun were 
 turned into sackcloth of hair, and all was a 
 mornino'less nig-ht. 
 
 You should have seen him stepping into the 
 coach, wan, feeble, shrunk, and bent forward, 
 as if with extreme old age; he managed with 
 much suffering to bear the motion of the car- 
 riage, and the constrained and cramped posture 
 
 for some time, but at the town of B , where 
 
 the coach stopped, as the phrase went, to sup, 
 they were forced to lift him out of the carriage ; 
 he fainted away as he entered the house, and 
 they carried him in this state up to bed. 
 
 It was impossible he should proceed further. 
 
 He lay all that night in a sort of dreamy, 
 half delirious sleep ; in the morning, the land- 
 lady came in to inquire how he felt himself, 
 and what she could do for him. 
 
 He opened his heavy eyes, and thanked her, 
 but s:iid, he only wanted one thing; some one 
 to write to his daughter. He had a daughter, 
 he said, who would be anxiously expecting him.
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 193 
 
 The landlady was a kind-hearted widow ; not 
 bonny, fat, merry, and fair, full of smiles, and 
 radiant with health and joyous with liberty 
 newly acquired, but an aged woman, whose 
 wrinkled brow and faded cheek told of present 
 cares and sorrows past. She had known what 
 it was to suffer — for death had been busy in 
 her household, and the best loved of her heart 
 were slumbering in the grave. A childless 
 mother — a widow indeed — widow of one she 
 had loved from her youth, she still kept on the 
 inn, and employed herself unremittingly in the 
 business incident to that anxious and fati2:uino: 
 life, for the sake of two nephews of her husband 
 — all that was left of him. She knew when his 
 own children were buried one after the other, 
 till his household hearth was void and desert, 
 that he had desired these youths should succeed 
 him. 
 
 The excellent Mrs. Pavne was one amona: 
 many instances, to shew that it is not the part 
 we have to play, but the spirit in which we 
 perform it, which makes the difference l^etween 
 man and man. The life of an innkeeper, so 
 full of temptations to irregularity and disorder, 
 to thoughts engrossed with worldly cares, and 
 time entirely devoted to matters of the passing 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 194 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 day, was powerless to impair that pious and 
 devoted spirit — affectionate to those she loved, — 
 strict in duty, filled witli piety to God ; so she 
 had begun, and so she remained. 
 
 And now she stood by his bedside in that 
 little coach-inn ; his small chamber, with its 
 walls of plank, and little low window towards 
 the street, looking comfortable from the exces- 
 sive neatness and good order which pervaded it. 
 Dressed in her widow's mourning and widow's 
 cap, with a tumbler of lemonade in her hand, 
 begging of him to drink and cool his parched 
 lips, and to tell her whom she should send to, 
 and what she could do for him. 
 
 '■' For, indeed, sir, I am afraid, by your looks, 
 that you are very ill, and will not be able to 
 move yet awhile ; and I hope you will let me 
 vt^rite to your friends." 
 
 And he had answered : — 
 
 That he felt himself quite incapable of taking 
 anything; and that he had only one friend in 
 the world, his daughter, who would be uneasy 
 about him. He wanted to see her, he said, before 
 he departed upon that last journey, which, sooner 
 or later, we must all take ; only he feared the 
 fatigue of the journey for her. 
 
 " I think," he said, raising his head upon his
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 195 
 
 hand from his pillow; "that I might be able, 
 perhaps, to go on to-night — how far are we from 
 Kettlewell?" 
 
 " Sixty miles, sir ; and indeed," said the good 
 widow, '^ after the state in which you came in 
 last night, I do not think you could move, or 
 ought to attempt it at present. If this house is 
 noisy, which I fear it is," she added, '* there is 
 a neat, comfortable lodging not far off, where 
 you could be carried, and where you and the 
 young lady could be, as if you were at home 
 together ; for indeed, sir," she continued, looking 
 with compassionate interest npon his pale, ex- 
 hausted face, " unless your daughter is very ill 
 indeed, I am sure she ought to be sent for." 
 
 '• Do you think so?" said he feebly; his arm 
 sinking, and his head with it, again upon the 
 pillow ; " perhaps you are right, lend me pen 
 and ink, if you please." 
 
 He tried to write a few words, but his eyes 
 dazzled, the paper swam before him, and his 
 fingers refused to m.ove. He sighed, relin- 
 quished the attempt, and said with a gentle 
 patience : — 
 
 *' I believe I must give it up ; will you write 
 for me ? '' 
 
 " Oh yes, sir, certainly ; what would you please 
 to have said ^ "
 
 ]96 mordaunt hall. 
 
 *' My dear Ceiild, 
 " Your father is not quite well enough to 
 write, but he is well enough to dictate these 
 lines; don't frighten and hurry yourself, my 
 darling ; things when at the worst are about to 
 mend. I will write again in a few days, and if 
 I am worse you shall come to me, but don*t 
 think of setting out yet." 
 
 To this the landlady added of herself these 
 lines : — 
 
 " My dear Miss, 
 *' I think it my duty to tell you that the 
 poor gentleman is very ill; and I am sure his 
 daughter, or some friend, ought to be with him 
 immediately."
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 197 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 " So close the ground — and round his shade 
 Black curtains draw." 
 
 Dr. King. 
 
 The letter found the poor girl as miserable, 
 perhaps, though as yet not so ill, as her father. 
 
 The terrible irritation produced by his letters, 
 which, carefully as he endeavoured to hide the 
 truth from her, could not but fill her with the 
 most dreadful uneasiness, added to the anguish 
 of disappointment with which every succeeding 
 day was filled, as each succeeding day brought 
 no letter from Ridley — the perfect loneliness of 
 her life — the unhealthy sultriness of the weather, 
 were producing the most fearful efiects upon her 
 spirits, though the power of life seemed preserved 
 by that mysterious life within her, which be- 
 longed to another.
 
 198 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 She did not seem to lose much actual strength, 
 but she wasted fearfully every day : her eyes 
 were sunk, her cheek hollow, her once beauti- 
 ful figure lean and attenuated, whilst a kind 
 of unnatural fire might now and then be seen 
 burning up upon her cheek, and lending a 
 strange and fearful wildness to her eyes. 
 
 At last the letter arrived announcing her 
 father's intention of returning home ; and while 
 she anticipated his return with a mixture of 
 hope and terror which kept her upon the rack 
 of expectation, the letter from the good land- 
 lady was put into her hands. 
 
 She wanted but this addition to a cup already 
 full. 
 
 But we find sometimes a new strength in 
 extremity. The distress of her mind seemed 
 almost relieved by being diverted from the sub- 
 ject of her almost morbid contemplations; there 
 was still something left to be done — some one 
 else to devote herself to — some one else for 
 whom to tremble. A new misfortune seemed, in 
 some degree, to alleviate the horrible sufferings 
 which arose from constantly brooding over the 
 other, and a power and energy to which she 
 had long been a stranger seemed to revive, as, 
 starting up, the letter in her hand, she told 
 Peggy immediately to prepare for her departure,
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 199 
 
 saying, that she should leave her to take care 
 of the house while she herself flew to attend 
 upon her father. 
 
 The little preparations were soon made : in a 
 few hours she was in the coach, and the following 
 day, as the evening closed, she entered the little 
 town of B , and alighted at the inn. 
 
 *' I am very glad to see you, miss," said Mrs. 
 Payne, '' for I fear the poor gentleman is no 
 better ; I think he wearies and longs for you, — 
 he will be easier now. I am very glad you are 
 arrived.'^ 
 
 She only answered by begging to be shewn 
 up stairs ; and Mrs. Payne, ascending the old- 
 fashioned flight, opened a black door in the little 
 passage of the first floor, and she was admitted 
 into the room. 
 
 The first meeting, so anxiously desired, seemed 
 an equal shock to both. The tears started into 
 Miriam's eyes as she beheld the ravages which 
 disease and anxiety had made upon her father ; 
 and he looked in her face, turned away his head, 
 and o^roaned. 
 
 The groan smote upon her heart, — already 
 contrite, humbled, and penitent : and now it 
 fluttered, and now it hurried, as, going up to 
 his bedside, and bending tenderly over him, she 
 said, —
 
 200 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 ** Ah, papa ! papa ! how ill you are!" 
 
 "My darling!" he said, "you look very ill 
 yourself. Why did you come here ? " 
 
 " Ah, dearest papa ! do you think your Miriam, 
 in spite of all her wicked ingratitude to you, 
 so utterly changed that she would stay away 
 from you when you were ill ? I got your letter 
 in the middle of yesterday, so I could not have 
 been here before. Don't think of me, dear, 
 dear papa ! think of yourself. Have you had a 
 doctor? have you had advice?" 
 
 *' Advice, my poor darling ! no. It would be 
 a wise doctor, dear girl," — taking her hand 
 affectionately, but 50 gently, — " a strangely wise 
 doctor that could do good to me. But I am 
 glad you are come, if it has not tired you very 
 much," said he, looking at her mournfully ; 
 ** for we have not much time to spare to be 
 together, I am afraid." 
 
 "Don't say so, — don't say so, — dear, dear 
 papa!" the tears running down her cheeks, as 
 she sank on her knees by the bed ; then she 
 took his head in her arms, as she had often 
 done in play when a child, and putting her 
 lips close to his cheek, whispered, — 
 
 "Papa, I have been a wretched girl, — but 
 never mind me — never mind me. I had for- 
 gotten my love for you in my love for one who
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 201 
 
 has been very cruel to me ; but I have been 
 thinking about it all the time while you have 
 been away, and I don't mean to make you un- 
 happy about me any more. Only get well, papa, 
 and it shall be as it used to be before he came 
 among us. I won't be unhappy any more, only 
 get well, papa." 
 
 He opened his eyes as she said all this, and 
 looked up at her, but he said nothing. He tried 
 not to groan, but a faint, low groan would 
 escape. 
 
 She had yet such confused ideas upon the 
 subject of her marriage, that she had not a 
 suspicion of the cause of his excessive depres- 
 sion ; she attributed it to his sympathy with 
 her desertion — she had no comprehension of the 
 real cause of this agony. 
 
 In her childlike confidence in his affection, she 
 believed that all that was wantins; to restore his 
 former serenity was to see her happy ; and while 
 she poured forth these few hurried sentences, 
 in her endeavour to console him, her heart, full 
 of remorse for her past conduct, was resolving 
 to conquer every feeling that could interfere 
 with his comfort ; and she believed what she 
 said, that she would for his sake forget all, and 
 again be happy. 
 
 *' Yes, dear papa, only look up — cheer up your
 
 202 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 spirits — get well, and we will be as if all this 
 fearful dream of sorrow had never been," said 
 she, kissing him. 
 
 It was in vain, there was no answer to her 
 caresses. His secret lay like lead upon his 
 breast: he could not — it was impossible for him 
 — to relieve himself of a burden, the weight of 
 which was killing him. 
 
 *' My dear," he said, and it was all he could 
 say, " I thank you for saying all this. My dear 
 Miriam, you are very good to say this : but, my 
 dear, it is too late for us both — the decree has 
 gone forth : it is vain to attempt to deceive you 
 — we shall soon be parted, Miriam." 
 
 The words struck with a sudden shock upon 
 her heart ; she drew back from where she was 
 kneeling, hanging over and caressing him. Her 
 face became livid. 
 
 Yes, she saw it at last — she had killed her 
 father ! 
 
 She said no more, but rising up from her 
 knees, sat down in a chair by the bedside, and 
 kept looking at him with a sort of stupid despair. 
 He had again closed his eyes, the effort to speak 
 seemed too much for him. 
 
 So there she sat watching him, and as she 
 watched fearful thouo:hts besian to rise. 
 
 She had killed him — he was going to die I
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 203 
 
 Her father! that kind, generous, devoted father! 
 Was it real? was it possible? Had her conduct 
 produced such an effect as this ? 
 And yet, what had she done ? 
 Alas ! alas ! the answer to that was written 
 upon her heart in characters of fire. She had 
 been ungrateful, and her ingratitude had broken 
 his heart. The very extent of the suffering 
 consequent upon her deceit seemed to aggravate 
 the crime in her eyes, till she began to look upon 
 herself as a monster. 
 
 At last she said, half aloud, — 
 '* I see how it is — he cannot forgive me." 
 At this he turned his head slowly and lan- 
 guidly round, for he was lying with his face to 
 the wall, and said, — 
 
 *' What is that you say, my poor child? / 
 forgive you ! What have I to forgive ? You 
 don't think I am thinking of that^ poor little 
 girl ! if you were happy I should die content. 
 What else has the poor husk to do when the 
 fruit is disclosed, but fall to the earth and perish? 
 
 But " 
 
 ''But what, papa? Never mind the rest — I 
 will not care — I don't care — let us be as we 
 were. Nay," said she, colouring like crimson, 
 and putting her face close to his, *' only have 
 patience, we may be still happier."
 
 204 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 He turned from her, clenclied his two hands 
 fiercely, and a curse passed his lips. 
 
 She could not understand it, she was astonished 
 at his vehemence, so unlike his usual gentleness 
 and forbearance : and she said, — 
 
 " Dear papa, there is something grieves you 
 very much, which you are trying to hide from 
 me. I believe I know what it is. That some- 
 thing has made me very, very wretched for a long 
 time. I wished to hide that from you, — it was 
 the consequence of my fault, and I thought I 
 ought to bear it uncomplainingly : you think 
 Ridley has become unkind?" 
 
 " My dear," he said, turning round and fixing 
 his melancholy, serious eyes upon her face, 
 "you have been aware of this change — but 
 there is more — there is that'' — and his face be- 
 came contracted with a spasm of rage and pain, 
 " there is far worse than that to be told !" 
 
 " Tell it me all," she said, with a sort of des- 
 perate calmness, *' I am prepared to hear the 
 worst." 
 
 " The worst! Treacherous, accursed villain," 
 cried the father passionately, " he intends to deny 
 his marriage." 
 
 " That is not the worst," said Miriam, mourn- 
 fully ; " if I have lost his heart, what care I for 
 his hand?"
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 205 
 
 " Child !" said Feversham, starting up from 
 his pillow; "what is that you are saying? — 
 What incomprehensible stuff is this! — What 
 romantic nonsense you are talking ! — hearts ! — 
 hands ! — he has your honour, wretched child, in 
 his keeping, and he is about to betray it." 
 
 " Honour !" she repeated mechanically ; " alas ! 
 then it is true — he does not love me after all." 
 
 And she burst into a passion of tears. 
 
 Her father seemed irritated bevond measure at 
 these few last words, and at the tears that fol- 
 lowed them ; he seized her by the arm, he almost 
 shook it convulsively, as he exclaimed, — - 
 
 '^ Miriam ! Miriam ! unhappy creature ! what 
 do you talk of love ? Do you foi-get your honour ? 
 Are you so utterly insensible to that as to crv for 
 the love of a wretch like this, who has tarnished 
 your maiden honour?" 
 
 *' I loved him," she sobbed ; " I gave him my 
 all — I am his — and no power under heaven can 
 sever the tie which binds us — which I carrv 
 below my heart. He will not believe me, but 
 when he knows all he will acknowledge the tie. 
 But I have lost his heart — he does not love me — 
 what do I care for the rest?" 
 
 " Care for the rest, miserable girl! Care for 
 the rest!" cried the father, almost fiercely — " Oh,
 
 206 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 child ! child ! is the sense of honour utterly de- 
 stroyed within you ? Is that lost with all the 
 rest that a woman should hold dear?" 
 
 He loosed her arm, he almost flung* it from him. 
 She turned round and tried to soothe and com- 
 fort him, but it was evident that every attempt 
 at consolation on her pa;rt only increased the 
 horrible irritation of his feelings. 
 
 To find her so utterly mistaken in principle, 
 so insensible to ideas which, in spite of all his 
 theories, were so deeply engrafted in his own 
 nature — ideas which he had worshipped in his own 
 heart as the guardian landmarks of society, and 
 at once the defence and the glory of womanhood, 
 shocked him to a degree that astonished her as 
 much as it agitated him. 
 
 She strove to compose him, by speaking as she 
 felt, of her indifference to all social ties, when 
 those of the affections were broken. But he had 
 not patience to listen. 
 
 " Miserable girl! have done," he cried, '^ you 
 speak like a fool;" he added, bitterly, '* Leave 
 me to myself, I shall be better alone. Wretched 
 infatuation !" 
 
 He turned away from her in anger. 
 
 He did not understand her ; and was as much 
 astonished at her apparent indifference to what
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 207 
 
 were, in fact, results from the principles he had 
 suffered her to acquire, as she was startled and 
 amazed at his inconsistency. 
 
 She began to cry ver}^ bitterly as she stood by 
 his bedside, but she dared say no more; her 
 poor thoughts were all in confusion. She had 
 exchanged her vows with Ridley, and if he chose 
 to disallow such vows, yet she viewed them as 
 binding by all the laws of love and nature, and 
 she did not comprehend, could not understand 
 her father's bitter feelino:5. 
 
 But he, like any other father, cared not for all 
 this sophistry now. He saw his child betrayed 
 and dishonoured, and his heart was broken with 
 sorrow, and wild with indignation. In the dis- 
 traction of his anofer he was for once harsh and 
 unjust ; but the gentleness with which she met 
 this injustice and harshness disarmed him ; and, 
 turning round once more, he held out his hand, 
 saying, 
 
 " Forgive me, my poor child, kiss your poor 
 father ; I am sorry I spoke so roughly to you, 
 jNliriam. You must forgive a poor old man who 
 hardly knows what he says." 
 
 She threw her arms round him, and answered 
 him by her kisses, sobs, and tears.
 
 208 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 To tell the truth, she still clung to the idea of 
 this exchange of vows — for we can no longer call 
 it a marriage — being valid, and to the hope that 
 Ridley's affection would be restored in time. She 
 thought much of the hurry of business in which 
 he was engaged, and persuaded herself that his 
 alienation was temporary and but natural. After 
 this slight but painful explanation, if explanation 
 it can be called, the subject was dropped between 
 the father and child. She continued to attend 
 upon him with the tenderest assiduity; and he, 
 having once performed his duty, as he tliought 
 it, and laid her situation before her, could not 
 bear to disturb the fleeting moments by any 
 further recurrence to it. 
 
 He sometimes marvelled at her composure ; 
 but more often sinking with those sensations of 
 bodily exhaustion and weariness which were 
 bringing him rapidly to the grave, he lay there 
 in a state of half-insensibility, and seemed inca- 
 pable of even feeling that agonising sense of dis- 
 tress, rage, and shame, which had caused such 
 cruel ravages. 
 
 He lingered in this state for several months 
 before nature was completely exhausted, and 
 before his wearied eyelids were closed in death. 
 
 The last dim and fitful glances which his
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 209 
 
 yearning eyes cast upon her before tlie spirit 
 departed into the unknown world, shewed her 
 perfectly changed. Her face had become very 
 pale and thin, her whole appearance haggard, 
 and her eyes gloomy ; she strove to conceal this 
 by an air of assumed composure and cheerfulness 
 whenever she entered his room ; and faint and 
 drowsy as there he lay, she in some degree suc- 
 ceeded : but, as the closing hour approached, as her 
 only friend and protector lay before her rapidly 
 sinking into the grave, as all hopes of his final re- 
 covery with which she had so long buoyed herself 
 up, disappeared ; as the tender father, protector, 
 and friend — him whom she almost adored, and 
 whom she had so unfeelingly betrayed and de- 
 ceived, grew worse and worse, and the last hour 
 visibly approached, — the anguish she had so long 
 striven to conceal became impossible to repress ; 
 and, in a paroxysm of despair that mocks words, 
 the unhappy pair parted for this life. 
 
 There was no Father of the fatherless for him, 
 to whose mercy he could commit his injured 
 child. He looked forward, all was one mistv 
 scene of doubt and confusion — around him all 
 was evil. Sin had entered at his door, and crea- 
 tion became to him only one hopeless, miserable 
 blot and deformity. He knew of no region where 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 210 MOIIDAUNT HALL. 
 
 was light divine, and where were truth and holi- 
 ness, and pity for tlie erring and the miserable 
 who called for it. 
 
 He died without consolation. 
 
 And left her desolate and alone. 
 
 i
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 211 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 He holds him with his glittering eye — 
 
 The wedding-guest stood still, 
 And listens like a three-years' child/' 
 
 Coleridge. 
 
 It is a cold, rainy evening, at the end of Sep- 
 tember ; the wind howls and whistles amono: the 
 trees ; the skies are pouring down a pitiless raiu 
 without pause or intermission ; the night is dark, 
 and there is no moon. 
 
 The distracted traveller struo^o'les on. 
 
 She is on foot, and she carries an infant in her 
 arms. 
 
 The bitter, bitter cup which had been her por- 
 tion, had that morning overflowed. 
 
 In a remote village, far removed from all her 
 old connexions, — a place to which in her shame 
 and desolation she had wandered, under the lowly 
 roof of a cottage somewhat above the ordinary
 
 212 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 sort, where she had taken refuge, she had given 
 birth to her poor, disowned, and friendless baby. 
 It might be about ten days ago. — And this very 
 morning she had accidentally laid hold of an 
 old newspaper, brought up to lier room as 
 wrapper to a parcel. She had carelessly glanced 
 over its contents — but a name had suddenly 
 arrested her attention. 
 
 It was that of Ridley ! 
 
 Her eyes starting from their sockets — her 
 nerves yet delicate and disordered — her pulses 
 hurrying with a rapidity that mocks description, 
 she had read the paragraph before her. 
 
 It was the splendid description, in all its 
 details, of the marriage of the man she had loved 
 — of the marriage with another of the man, the 
 father of her son — the father of that baby who 
 lay slumbering in his dreamy dawn of life upon 
 the pillow before her. 
 
 She read the article with hurried and impas- 
 sioned vehemence; she read it again, and again, 
 and again. There seemed a greediness of misery, 
 an unnatural gluttony of the heart, which fas- 
 tened with a ravenous satisfaction upon the inci- 
 dents of her despair. 
 
 She read of the beautiful bridesmaids and more 
 lovely bride — the names of the aristocratic assem- 
 blage which honoured the splendid breakfast with
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 213 
 
 tlieir presence — of tlie various delicacies with 
 which the table was loaded, and the many toasts 
 that were drunk. She read of equipages and 
 processions — of girls in white strewing* flowers — 
 footmen with bouquets and favours ; in brief, of 
 all the pomp, pride, and circumstance of a most 
 splendid, nay, ostentatious wedding. 
 
 And after she had read it over, and over, and 
 over airain, she had cast her eves round the little 
 room, had caught up a bonnet and shawl, seized 
 upon her infant, huddled it in its little blanket, 
 and with her temples beating, her brain burning, 
 her eyes dry as hot coals, her body shaking and 
 tremblino-, but filled with a fierce unnatural 
 streno;th, had rushed down stairs, crossed a little 
 garden at the back of the house, and got out into 
 the fields behind. 
 
 She was making her way to some pond or 
 river. 
 
 The only idea which seemed to present itself 
 to her confused, hurried, darkened mind, appeared 
 to be that of ending her misery, and of the infant 
 born only for misery, at once, by seeking refuge 
 in the cool, cool bosom of some peaceful, slum- 
 bering waters, which should bury her in their 
 dark crystal waves, and close in oblivion this 
 heart-rending story. 
 
 Her cup had long been filling, — slowly, slowly
 
 214 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 filling', and surging to the brim — it overflowed, 
 and all was ended. 
 
 She had neither hope nor tie upon earth. And, 
 alas ! in her agony of despair it was no time to 
 begin to look beyond. Her limited horizon pre- 
 sented only one scene of hopeless, impenetrable 
 darkness — not one single ray of light gleamed 
 in the far distance, — all, all was utterly desolate 
 and bare. 
 
 There was a vision, — a sort of luring phantom 
 before her of some dark pool, shaded with trees, 
 lonely, still, and deep,— of a picture she had once 
 seen by Ruysdael. 
 
 To escape from all this misery, to sink with 
 her child into the bosom of such dark and silent 
 Avaters, was the only purpose her mind seemed 
 capable of forming. 
 
 She hurried on, crossing fields, and roads, and 
 paths, but so impetuously rushing forwards that 
 she never looked round ; no such dark and silent 
 water presented itself, overhung with sheltering 
 trees, wherein to plunge and bury herself for 
 ever; but the rain pelted overhead, and her 
 long, dark hair, which had escaped from her 
 bonnet, hung wet and limp in long* streamers 
 round her, as she wildly struggled on, with her 
 child yet warm and sleeping upon her bosom.
 
 ilORDAUNT HALL. 215 
 
 The same day there was another and a very 
 different scene going on. 
 
 One of the world's sharp contrasts. 
 
 There was another wedding feast, in a large 
 country-house, in a remote part of England, heing 
 celebrated. 
 
 Lucilla Mordaunt — the young, beautiful, lively, 
 Lucilla INIordaunt — was married that dav to Mr. 
 Chandos, and the whole family of Mordaunt Hall 
 were assembled together upon the occasion. Lucilla 
 was the youngest of five sisters, the daughters of 
 Mr. Mordaunt, and all but one celebrated the 
 county round for their beauty, gaiety, and ac- 
 complishments. The helles of every ball, the 
 toasts of every dinner, the adored, in truth or 
 in the spirit of fashion and imitation, of every 
 youno' man in the county. Some came to sio'h 
 for their beauty in the sincerity of honest feeling. 
 Some to give themselves consequence by enroll- 
 ing themselves amid the list of their admirers. 
 Some because thev were of an ancient and ho- 
 nourable family. Some for this reason, some foi- 
 that — but reasons enough there were for wooing 
 the Miss Mordaunts, of Mordaunt Hall, and 
 many were the wooers and difficult the choice. 
 The three eldest Miss Mordaunts had, however.
 
 216 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 already made their selection, and were all mar- 
 ried to men of good standing and fortune, infi- 
 nitely to their parents' satisfaction, and it was 
 now the fair Lucilla's turn. 
 
 Lucilla, the fairest where so many were fair. 
 
 Wilful and arrogant this youngest flower of 
 this favoured house had been — wilful, capricious, 
 saucy — as the spoiled youngest and the loveliest 
 of all. 
 
 Beautiful beyond description — or at least be- 
 yond what I shall attempt to describe — fantastic, 
 airy, gay, and wild, Mr. Chandos had fallen 
 deeply, blindly in love with her. 
 
 It is really provoking — very provoking — to see 
 men possessing every quality that can dignify, en- 
 noble, or give true value to human nature, just as 
 much the slaves of a pretty face, as if they were 
 the emptiest coxcombs that ever flirted at a ball. 
 
 Few things in the constitution of our worldly 
 affairs vex and perplex one more than this devo- 
 tion to beauty ; but it is vain to complain of it ; 
 the laws that regulate the kingdom of love are 
 not to be called to account — to their imperious 
 tyranny we are obliged to bow the head and 
 submit — will he, nill he. 
 
 It would have cost me much, had I been his 
 friend, to submit with tolerable patience to the 
 incomprehensible power which subjugated Mr.
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 217 
 
 Chandos to the tyranny of Lucilla INIordaunt. 
 Perhaps it was that poet's soul of his — that deep, 
 devoted love of beauty in all its forms — which not 
 only worshipped this sweetest face and form with 
 a too fond idolatry, but which, under the influence 
 of the most generous and tender of passions, lent 
 colours, drawn from his own fervid imagination 
 alone, to this young divinity, — before whom he 
 so blindly fell down and worshipped — wor- 
 shipping, like other idolaters, his own cre- 
 ation. I know not — and J. waste words to at- 
 tempt to account for a fact, such as falls within 
 our experience every day, but which, fall w^hen it 
 will, we|cannot help regarding as a fresh unac- 
 countable wonder. Certain it is, in this case, 
 that the hackneyed expression, " he was dying 
 of love" for Lucilla Mordaunt, would hardly have 
 been too strong as applied to Charles Chandos. 
 
 What he suffered under the vicissitudes of his 
 passion — from the wayward caprices of his mis- 
 tress's humour, the emotions of her pride, and 
 the indifference of her heart — you may imagine, 
 when I tell you, that under all that gay careless- 
 ness of manner, which lent so much charm to her 
 beauty, Lucilla was careless — yet not without a 
 regard to interest — capricious, and vain. 
 
 The death of his elder brother did more for 
 Mr. Chandos than all his fine understanding,
 
 218 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 his noble heart, his sweet temper, his high spirit, 
 or his charming face and manners, could have 
 done. 
 
 In a decent time after this event Lucilla 
 yielded, and the long servitude of Mr. Chandos 
 Avas at an end. 
 
 A servitude that seemed to him hut of so 
 many days, so great was his love for her. 
 
 But I doubt whether Charles Chandos could 
 have endured this long course of suffering — for 
 very long it had been — but for the support and 
 assistance of one gentle friend. 
 
 Kind, patient, ** gentle as the brooding dove, 
 when that her golden couplets are disclosed" — 
 quiet, silent, shunning observation, shrouding 
 herself, as the nightingale in the brake, when 
 she pours forth her sweetest, tenderest melody 
 — with soft blue eyes, clouded by a soft dark- 
 ening of melancholy, yet filled with compas- 
 sion and love — with pale, delicate cheek, upon 
 which the lines of ineffaceable suffering were 
 traced — with voice low and soft, that most ex- 
 cellent thing in woman — always wrapped in a 
 kind of invalid dress, which concealed the mis- 
 chiefs which disease had wrought upon a too 
 tender frame — with hand white and delicate as 
 snow — with foot that seemed to steal alono' rather 
 than to tread the floor.
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 219 
 
 Such was one figure tliat might he seen at 
 times occupying a place at Mordaunt Hall, a 
 foil to all those hrilliant heauties, glowing in all 
 the gifts of health, high spirits, and unimpaired 
 prosperity. The pale evening sinking into twi- 
 lio-lit after the rich o-low of a summer's day — 
 the soft moonlight resting upon the tufted trees, 
 and casting its deep, holy shadows upon the grass 
 — the star of evening, dim with tears, when all 
 the heavenly host is glittering over the sky. 
 Such were the confused, indistinct images with 
 which the imagination of Chandos clothed the 
 pale and spiritual vision — this tender appearance, 
 which formed so sweet a contrast to the gay 
 groups of Mordaunt Hall. 
 
 In describing which, a contrast of another kind 
 must not be forgotten, in the serene aspect of 
 the beautiful and noble mother ; that fair, large, 
 dignified woman, with the clear, serene blue eye, 
 an air of wifely, motherly, womanly, and gentle- 
 womanly, true dignity. The calm and tempe- 
 rate, the wise, the firm, the religious, and the 
 good. 
 
 Was it possible that this calm and fair woman 
 could be the mother of these blooming maidens, 
 so unlike her m every thing but her matchless 
 beauty? Even in that they differed, for their 
 cheeks were glowing with the hues of bursting
 
 220 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 roses, with hair hanging in rich nut-brown curls, 
 and with eyes of nut-brown hue ; and if she 
 was tall and fully formed, — as a noble mother 
 of the gods is imaged in pale yet living marble, 
 — they were slight and tall, buoyant and ani- 
 mated, — like the Graces of Venus, I might have 
 said, only they were something over-animated 
 for Graces, so I may as well leave them without 
 a parallel. 
 
 This serene and moonlight mother, and this 
 soft, and fragile, and dewy-starred daughter, 
 were, as by this somewhat affected phrase I am 
 endeavouring to express, like the fair large moon 
 when she rises in her calm beauty upon this 
 world, and the faint pale star which may be seen 
 dimly attending upon her path. 
 
 Calantha Mordaunt was the mortal name of 
 this pale star. 
 
 When Charles Chandos first appeared at jNIor- 
 daunt Hall, he had done as, in a large family, 
 many young men of delicacy and feeling are apt 
 to do, but which it is a great pity, and sometimes 
 a serious mischief when they do do. In that 
 shyness, susceptibility, and self-distrust, which 
 attends upon a passion so sincere and devoted 
 as his, he had rather shunned than sought the 
 object of his adoration. His voice faltering and 
 stammering, his manner agitated and constrained.
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 221 
 
 when he spoke to her, he had loved rather to 
 watch her from a distance, and delight his eves 
 in a too impassioned gazing, than directly to ad- 
 dress her, and he had sought a refuge for his 
 uneasiness in the society and friendship of one 
 whose kindness and friendship were never found 
 wanting — nay, under a common delusion, he 
 found he was making way with one sister, as, his 
 heart full of her image, he devoted his time and 
 conversation to another. 
 
 He looked at Lucilla, but he talked with Ca- 
 lantha. And if he followed Lucilla with his 
 eyes while he did so, every one looked at and 
 admired her, for she was hut just come out, and 
 that she should be the general object of attention 
 was a matter of course. 
 
 His conversation was a delightful enjoyment 
 to the unfortunate Calantha ; and it may be 
 feared that it was a cruel addition to the trials 
 of this incomparable young creature, made per- 
 fect throuo'h much sufferins; — victim from her 
 birth to a cruel malady — racked by frequent and 
 severe pain, and whose helpless, melancholy child- 
 hood had been succeeded by a too helpless and 
 suffering a youth to be exposed to its fascination. 
 
 From love she had till now been happily al- 
 together shielded by her sense of her own unfor- 
 tunate condition, aided by the general neglect
 
 222 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 she met with when in company with her attrac- 
 tive sisters. 
 
 But now a new era beiran. Charles Chandos 
 found in Calantha one that sympathised in every 
 high aspiration, and entered into every tender 
 feeling, and he delighted in her society. She 
 was the sister of the idol he worshipped in secret, 
 and he loved her with a brother's affection. It 
 was some time before the confession of the 
 true state of his heart was made, and certainly 
 time enough had elapsed for feelings to arise 
 upon the part of the sweet Calantha, which 
 never could have found birth had she from the 
 lirst suspected the existence of this passion for 
 another. 
 
 How it w^nt with her when that discovery 
 at last was made no one knew^ 
 
 Reserved, gentle, tender, as were her voice and 
 manner, if the light of those soft eyes was 
 brighter, if that sweet melancholy smile was 
 sweeter still, if that soft voice was more soft 
 when Charles Chandos sat by and talked with 
 her, the indications were far too delicate to at- 
 tract the observation of the common observer. 
 And though her good-humoured sisters laughed, 
 and bantered, and vowed that Charles Chandos, 
 who was too poor ever to think of marrying, was 
 half in love with her, and rallied her upon his
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 223 
 
 devoted friendship, if a faint colour, faint as the 
 pink upon the pearl, would just rise to her cheek, 
 and her eyelids would drop a little as they said 
 so, the idea of love and Calantha was so entirely 
 apart, and the possibility of her ever marrying 
 considered in the family so totally out of the 
 question, that these faint signals were entirely 
 overlooked except bv the watchful mother. She 
 felt some anxious doubts at times arising, doubts 
 which she did not dare to satisfy by the re- 
 motest allusion to the subject. She feared to 
 awaken feelings, perhaps yet dormant, by sym- 
 pathy — for she knew the power which a convic- 
 tion of irremediable impossibility exercises over 
 love — and she trusted that her Calantha's tran- 
 quillity, if the secret were undiscovered by her- 
 self, might yet remain undisturbed. 
 
 At length, as said above, the elder brother 
 died, Charles Cbandos became a man of large 
 estate, he declared his passion, and was accepted. 
 
 As the tender leaves of a delicate flower close 
 upon itself when the chill of the evening comes 
 on, — if true it were that they had expanded to 
 the touch of love, so closed the heart of 
 Calantha. 
 
 That the secret was her own, that no one 
 suspected, and that no one pitied her, that she 
 could retire within the chambers of her soul un-
 
 224 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 heeded by any, and lay her humble submission 
 at the feet of her Saviour and Creator, was a very 
 great consolation. 
 
 Before those sacred and reverend feet, how 
 many a humble offering of patience, resignation, 
 and unquestioning submission, had already by 
 her been laid ! If this was a more difficult sacri- 
 fice than all the rest, no one knew it. She 
 maintained the same gentle tranquillity of ap- 
 pearance, was the same serene, uncomplaining 
 sufferer, the same kind adviser and sympathiser 
 when others suffered, as she had ever been. 
 
 Her mother alone watched her closely — her 
 mother divined what was passing within — 
 her mother, high-hearted, enthusiastic, suscep- 
 tible of all that was generous and good, read, 
 in a s]i2:ht shade of tenderer melancholv, in 
 a slight modulation of a voice still softer and 
 lower than ever, and in an almost imperceptible 
 increase in the usual stillness of her manner, the 
 truth of this affecting story — but, true to her 
 principles, she said nothing. 
 
 A wedding-day in her family had always been, 
 in spite of its joyous demonstrations, a day of
 
 MORDAU^'T HALL. 225 
 
 seriousness to oMrs. Mordaunt. The mother's 
 heart clung to the unfortunate child ; she could 
 not upon these occasions help lamenting with 
 peculiar bitterness the fate of one cut off from 
 the natural happiness of her sex. No family, 
 no children, no devoted bridegroom, for her! 
 But this last wedding-day these things had been 
 felt with more peculiar force — this was the last 
 of her sisters, and now Calantha would be left 
 alone. 
 
 The carriages, one by one, drew up to the 
 hall steps ; party after party of the gaily-dressed 
 visitors had taken leave, for the bride and bride- 
 groom had been gone hours ago. The married 
 sisters had been the last of the company to set 
 out ; but they, after a late family dinner, had 
 also departed, and the diminished family were left 
 to themselves. 
 
 It rained hard now, though the morning had 
 been fine for the season of the year, and the wind 
 rushed into the hall as they all stood there toge- 
 ther, bidding farewell to the last who went away. 
 
 The butler at last closed the door, locked and 
 double-locked it for the nio;ht ; and be^an to 
 busy himself with putting out lamps and candles 
 and restoring order after the confusion of the 
 day. The mother turned round, took Calantha 
 in her arms, pressed her tenderly to her mother's 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 bosom, kissed her twice upon the forehead, and 
 then saying cheerfully, " Come, let us go and 
 get your father some tea," passed into the de- 
 serted dining-room. 
 
 Mr. Mordaunt, a rather florid, handsome, gen- 
 tlemanlike man, was already there, standing 
 over the fire, ruhbing his hands, and rejoicing 
 that the day was over. He hated trouble, though 
 he did not, perhaps, dislike display, and was far 
 from insensible to the pride and pleasure of 
 seeing his petted little one, his darling Lucilla, 
 who he always prophesied would prove the 
 beauty of the family, married to the finest 
 young man, possessing one of the first estates 
 in the country. But he now was quite ready for 
 his tea and the newspaper, w^iich in the bustle of 
 the morning had remained unopened. 
 
 It was a treat to compensate for a day of less 
 agreeable bustle, to have tea, quiet, a good fire 
 within, and pelting rain and whistling wind 
 without, all crowned by the delight of an un- 
 opened newspaper. 
 
 Mrs. Mordaunt made tea, for Calantha was 
 evidently so much exhausted that the least exer- 
 tion was out of the question ; so the kind mother 
 helped the suffering daughter to her comfortable 
 chair, and saying, " I am afraid I shall make but 
 a bad hand of it," began to open her tea-chest
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 227 
 
 and prepare to take her younger daughter's 
 place at the tea-table ; while Calantha, whose 
 spirits were quite exhausted, and to whom the 
 exhaustion of over-fatigue was a real and great 
 suffering, sank into a chair by the side of the 
 fire. 
 
 She was feeling very, very desolate. How 
 silent and deserted the house seemed ! Her 
 sisters were at last all gone, and she was left 
 alone with her parents. All her kind cares and 
 exertions, — for she had been the friend, the ad- 
 viser, the good genius, as it were, of them all, — 
 were at an end, and the future looked blank and 
 objectless. Her parents, still in the vigour of 
 health and intellect, in the full flush of un- 
 blighted prosperity, and surrounded with all the 
 means of happiness and comfort afforded by a plen- 
 tiful fortune, called little for either sympathy or 
 assistance ; but all young people have abundance 
 of troubles, even under the most favourable cir- 
 cumstances, and a sympathising friend and confi- 
 dante is ever needed. That part it had been 
 Calantha's to play, almost from her childhood, 
 for her understanding had been singularly ripe 
 for her years ; and these exertions had afforded 
 an interest to her life, and happily occupied her 
 strenuous and lovins; nature : but as resrarded her 
 mother,she had herself been accustomed to look up
 
 228 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 to her for support and comfort ; she had never 
 been called upon in that case to minister either. 
 The delicacy of her liealth forbade her to assist 
 her by assuming any part in the management of 
 the household ; and as far as moral -wants were 
 concerned, it had been for the wise, calm, and 
 well- tempered character of the mother to afford 
 support to, not demand it from, her children. 
 They had never been called upon, as many 
 daughters are, to assist in the support of failing 
 courage or declining spirits. Calantha loved her 
 mother almost to adoration, equally from a sense 
 of her many excellences, and the deep, inefface- 
 able gratitude inspired by her boundless kindness 
 to herself: but she wanted somebody to do some- 
 thing for. 
 
 Her spirit was so active, though her frame was 
 rendered helpless by disease, that to want an 
 object was as a sort of death to her ; her ener- 
 getic mind seemed imperatively to demand this 
 most necessary aliment to sustain its powers. 
 
 She was not repining — she never repined. 
 As she sat, sunk there in her chair, musing with 
 her eyes fixed upon the object before her, she 
 was not even questioning — she had long ceased 
 to question — but she felt low, and now as she sat 
 tiiere gazing upon a beautiful landscape by Ru- 
 bens, which hung opposite, — the subject was a
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 229 
 
 wide, extended, almost boundless, landscape, 
 such as that master knew so well how to re- 
 present, — Calantha thought of the limitless 
 world without, into which her sisters were 
 launched, and the narrow, confined world within 
 which she was doomed to dwell. 
 
 Her sensations were probably very much such as 
 we may imagine would be those of a thoughtful, 
 earnest character like hers, the evening upon 
 which the black veil had been assumed, and the 
 life of the active, everyday world finally ended. 
 
 A sense of vacuity, of sameness, of blankness, a 
 want of wholesome object, of wholesome interest 
 — resisrnation and submission to the will of God 
 remain ; but the Almighty has not constituted 
 His creatures in the spring of youth and first 
 glow of existence to subsist upon resignation and 
 submission, that should be the nourishment of 
 the aged or the helpless. 
 
 To Calantha, at that moment, it seemed as if 
 the very means of life, what would have been to 
 the body as air and food, were wanting to her 
 earnest spirit. 
 
 Her mother, from the tea-table, watched her as 
 she sat there unconsciously lost in this deep 
 reverie, and the grave expression of her 
 pallid face, over which insensibly a still, and a
 
 230 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 still deeper and darker character of melancholy 
 was stealing. She turned away and sighed — 
 a smothered sigh it was. She would not for 
 worlds have assisted hy her sympathy to excite 
 such thoughts and feelings as she felt per- 
 suaded at this moment possessed her hapless 
 daughter. 
 
 The storm had now abated, and the rain 
 no longer beat against the window. The wind, 
 which had howled so mournfully round the house, 
 was still. It was getting late, but they still sat 
 there. The mother had drawn her chair to the 
 fire, had taken her daughter's hand, and an affec- 
 tionate pressure had been exchanged between 
 them. Then Calantha raised her tender, gentle 
 eyes to her mother's and smiled, — that sweet, 
 patient, encouraging smile, which had so often 
 carried comfort to the mother's heart, and she 
 tried to talk cheerfully of what had passed ; but 
 it would not quite do, they all insensibly re- 
 lapsed into silence again. Mr. Mordaunt dozed 
 in his chair, the mother sat mute and abstracted, 
 the daughter had fallen back, looking very 
 weary. 
 
 The clock struck twelve. 
 
 Mrs. Mordaunt started up at the sound of the 
 clock, and, declaring she had no idea it was so
 
 MOR DAUNT HALL. 231 
 
 late, and that they should all be better in bed, 
 had just summoned the butler to j^ut out the 
 lamps and bring the bed candles, when the bell 
 at the hall door was suddenly heard to ring — 
 sudden, loud, sharp, short, as if pulled by a hasty 
 hand.
 
 232 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Hadst thou thy wits and did persuade revenge, 
 It could not move thus." 
 
 Hamlet. 
 
 Driven forward by the demon of despair, the 
 unhappy Miriam had hurried on, the frenzy 
 which possessed her giving a strength quite be- 
 yond nature. She felt no feebleness, no weai'i- 
 ness, but dashing on through desolate and 
 secluded fields, went straight forwards, as 1 said, 
 turnino- neither to the rio-ht hand nor to the 
 left. 
 
 The rain poured in torrents down ; but she held 
 on her way. II er bonnet had fallen off, and her 
 long hair fell, drenched with the water which 
 was pouring from tlie skies, and which ran in 
 streams from every lock that hung upon her 
 shoulders. Beautiful, most beautiful, poor, ruined
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 233 
 
 creature she was, in this the death agony of the 
 soul, in this passion of madness which had seized 
 her ! 
 
 She went, I know not how far, over bare anc\ 
 lonely hills, which foot of man rarely trod, — 
 through lonely pastures and through silent groves. 
 The rain pelting pitilessly upon her bare head — 
 insensible to every object, beckoned forward, as it 
 were, by that vision of the dark and sleeping 
 pool, crowned with pendent alders and willows, 
 and covered with white water-lilies. 
 
 At last she reached a very thick and extensive 
 wood. 
 
 She entered it and struo^o-led throus^h the 
 tano^led branches and briers ; and torn bv the 
 thorns, her feet lacerated and bleeding, till she 
 came to the foot of a gentle hill, covered by a 
 swelling grassy lawn, and crowned by a white 
 stone house of stately appearance. 
 
 It was by this time night, the wind had lulled, 
 and the moon had risen — a full, bi'ight moon it 
 was ; wading through the clouds, its beams fell 
 bright upon the front of the mansion. 
 
 The glittering white front seemed to attract 
 Ler attention for a moment. She looked up, but 
 then turning suddenly away, rushed once more 
 into the thicket. The waters of a lonely pool, 
 gleaming in the moonbeams, in the midst of some
 
 234 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 dark trees, had caught her eye. Like some mag- 
 netic attraction, it acted upon her imagination, 
 and she was hurrying towards it, when the feeble 
 wail of her infant caught her ear. 
 
 The rain which had fallen unceasingly upon 
 her head, had served in some degree to cool the 
 burning frenzy with which every pulse was beat- 
 ing. The little one had found its way to her 
 breast, and had sucked and sucked itself quiet 
 again unperceived ; but now it half awoke again, 
 and uttered a little low wail, and she opened the 
 blanket in which it was Avrapped, and looked 
 down upon it in a wild, impassioned manner. 
 The infant half opened its large and dreamy 
 eyes, its little hand, moulded upon that of its 
 wretched father, clasped a finger, its plaintive 
 wailings smote upon her heart; she stopped and 
 stood still. 
 
 It looked, she thought, at that instant, so like 
 its father as there it lay, that with a strange 
 and sudden alteration of feeling, the impulse to 
 claim it as her own, unite its fate with hers, and 
 bury it, clinging to her bosom, in the waters, 
 ceased. 
 
 She looked at it till she thought it scarcely 
 belonged to herself, and an unnatural sense of 
 strangeness, almost alienation, came over her. 
 This alienation of the moment saved the innocent
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 235 
 
 creature's life. She was beginning to recover 
 her recollection in some degree, though still 
 unnaturally and dreadfully excited ; she stopped, 
 and as the \Yants of the infant became exchanged 
 for the loud cries of hunger, she hushed and 
 soothed it, and allowed it to hang again at her 
 breast. 
 
 As the infant sucked, the brain of the mother 
 became more and more lucid, though still, in 
 poor Cordelia's phrase, "far wide." 
 
 The determination to bury herself in the waters 
 remained unalteied — the one fixed idea present 
 to her mind ; but the craving thus to rescue the 
 child from a world so full of sin and misery once 
 abated, the feeling of close intimate union of 
 existence once destroved — the imao-e of Ridlev 
 once intruded, the whole chain of her excited 
 ideas was broken. She felt severed from this 
 being — a horror succeeded to the passionate pa- 
 roxysm of love which had devoted him to share 
 her fate. She looked upon the little helpless 
 being thus clinging to her for life, and she could 
 not destroy him. 
 
 And now the Avind rose, and then it lulled 
 again ; the inky clouds again rolled slowly over 
 the moon, and the darkness once more fell upon 
 the lawn, but the house remained, still dimly 
 visible.
 
 236 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 There was a sort of method in her proceedings, 
 though still in a hurried delirium. 
 
 Round her neck there hung, suspended by 
 a black riband, two little golden hearts, one 
 given to her by Ridley in the days of his pas- 
 sion — 'it contained his own hair ; — the other, she 
 had begged of him to procure for her, and had 
 put in it some hair of her father's. This last 
 heart had the initials H. F. upon it; the other 
 was without initials, but a very minute star was 
 in the centre. 
 
 There had been much fond nonsense at the 
 time talked between them about that star: it 
 was to be the pole-star of her destiny — the 
 load-star of his heart. I know not — it matters 
 not why — but sh could never persuade herself 
 to part with it. Sne had, however, in one of her 
 paroxysms of indignation and despair, thrown 
 away the light gold chain, by which he had fas- 
 tened it upon her arm, and had hung both the 
 little relics round her neck by a narrow black 
 riband. 
 
 This she now took off, and threw it round the 
 infant's neck ; then she soothed him to sleep, 
 sitting rocking him in her arms under a spread- 
 ing oak-tree that stretched its huge branches into 
 the night, and sheltered her from observation : 
 the infant asleep, she rose, and still skirting the
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 237 
 
 wood, and shrubberies, and hidden by their deep 
 shadows, she had reached the hall-door of that 
 white, gleaming, stone mansion. 
 
 She laid down the sleeping child upon the 
 steps, and hastened away, and hid herself under 
 the thick branches of a beech-tree which fell to 
 the grass. 
 
 No one was heard to approach. 
 
 Then she hurried again to the door, caught up 
 her child, kissed, and hugged it to her bosom, 
 shedding, however, not one single tear ; then she 
 uncovered its face, and looked at it with a re- 
 turn of natural feeling, and all a mother's agony 
 of love ; then fresh recollection of that strong- 
 likeness seemed to start upon her heart. She 
 hurried once more to the steps, deposited her 
 burden there, pulled the bell with a strong, de- 
 termined hand, and darting av^ay, was lost to 
 sight in the dark shadows of the trees. 
 
 The black deep sleeping pool v/as furrowed by 
 a few circling waves ; the moon, with a shadowy, 
 spectral light, gleamed upon the bosom of the 
 white water-lilies. 
 
 The yielding element closed over the miserable
 
 238 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 one; and so ended the tale of the once beautiful, 
 gifted, happy, and innocent Miriam. 
 
 There is many a newspaper story unheedingly 
 read of — to use the words of a fine modern poet — 
 
 " A wintry river, broad and black, 
 That through dark archways glides along. 
 Ranged where the gaslights on it play, 
 With coiling eddies swirling strong, 
 That far below the dizzy height 
 Of the dark bridge swim through the night, — 
 A crouching form, that through the gloom 
 Paces its stones a hundred times, 
 That pausing, glancing keenly round 
 The dark high balustrade upclimbs — 
 A plunge — a shriek !" Benkett. 
 
 The dark bosom of the Thames has received 
 many and many a victim of man's perfidy and 
 woman's frailty. 
 
 Oh, that this melancholy tale might awaken 
 remorse and repentance in those who have thus 
 greatly offended; and serve as a warning to those 
 still in all the dangerous heedlessness of youth 
 who are as yet innocent of the great transgression.
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 239 
 
 " When all was wrapped in dark midnight, 
 
 And all was fast asleep, 
 In glided Margaret's grimly ghost. 
 
 And stood at William's feet ; 
 Her face was like the April moon, 
 
 Clad in a wintry cloud. 
 And clay-cold was the lily hand 
 
 Which held the sable shroud." 
 
 He never loved to have the shutters of his large, 
 lofty heclch amber closed — he was a feverish and 
 restless sleeper. Often he scarcely slept at all, 
 but rested in a drowsy, half-sleeping, half-waking 
 state, when he seemed to himself to be quite 
 awake, and could have asserted that he never 
 had once closed his eyes, though, when startled 
 from it by some sudden noise, he perceived that 
 he had not been awake. 
 •^ He often lay thus now. 
 
 The rich crimson velvet curtains of the almost 
 royal bed in which he lay were open, and so were 
 those of the large distant window at the foot — 
 that is, they were partly unclosed, so as to admit 
 a stream of light into the room, for the pale moon 
 shone against the window. 
 
 The rain had beaten, and the wind had whistled 
 loud. The night had been noisy and dreary; but 
 now the wind had lulled, heavy, funereal clouds 
 drove lazily over the sky, and the moon gleamed 
 with her wizard light between.
 
 240 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 His bride slumbered by his side; but he was 
 become ahnost a stranger to sleep; — he had 
 murdered sleep. 
 
 Do what he would, the recollection of that 
 mild, gentle old man, lashed to a wild fury in the 
 cause of his daughter, — the image of Miriam, as 
 he had last seen her, when he turned back, and 
 beheld her fallen to the earth, suffocating with 
 the suppressed sobbings of her despair ; such 
 images would come. 
 
 The pillow is a fearful reckoner with man. In 
 the half delirium of his wakeful nights these 
 images were often frightfully vivid. 
 
 So he lay that night in this visionary state ; 
 his eyes fixed upon that gleam of moonlight 
 which fell into the chamber; his thoughts filled 
 with a dreamy succession of painful pictures of 
 the past, slowly following each other in melan- 
 choly procession. More brightly than ever did a 
 too faithful memory represent her, now in tlie 
 bloom of her energy and beauty, now in the 
 agony of her tenderness, and now in the last 
 parting scene of her despair. He saw her so 
 distinctly there before him at the moment that he 
 mi2:ht almost have thought the imaQ:e a realitv, 
 had it not been followed by one more vivid still. 
 
 As he lay gazing in this strange, doubtful mood 
 into the moonlight, he thought it began slowly to
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 241 
 
 condense, as it were, into a brighter and more 
 substantial light and shadow, — to assume, by lin- 
 gering degrees, the similitude of a form. 
 
 Was it a form or a fancy ? Could it be surely 
 a real form ? 
 
 Clothed in long white garments, her dark hair 
 in loner braided tresses hanoino; down around her 
 face and shoulders, dripping with water, which 
 streamed from hair and vesture ; her face pale as 
 the water-lily ; her long black eyelashes and eye- 
 brows shading her faded cheek, with head bowed 
 down, and hands crossed over her breast, sup- 
 porting a small tender infant ; there she stood, 
 visible as reality. 
 
 He tried to rouse himself — to start up — to 
 gaze — to cry out her name — but, as if spell- 
 bound, there he la}', bound as it were by some 
 iron power to his pillow — his eyes staring — his 
 hair on end — the cold sweat bathing his limbs 
 and brows. 
 
 There she stood immovable in the moonbeam, 
 her eyes bent down upon her baby, with that air 
 so infinitely sad, that tears would have streamed 
 from all who had beheld — and yet he shed no 
 tear. 
 
 Does the shadowy form move? — Gently, as if 
 with a floating, swimming motion, it approaches 
 the foot of the bed — the dark eyelashes are 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 raised — the pale waxen lids lifted — tlie large 
 dark eyes — eyes that were like the purple violets 
 in their heauty — fixed in one long, intense, solemn 
 gaze upon him. 
 
 Her folded arms unclose — the infant, clothed 
 in shining white, is once, twice, thrice, pressed to 
 the beautiful bosom — the head drooping, as of a 
 flower dying upon its stem, bends over it — one 
 kiss upon its lips — one solemn, earnest look from 
 those starry, deathless eyes. She gently lays 
 the child at the father's feet; and the beams of 
 the moon between the heavy velvet curtains 
 shine down in their lucid clearness again. 
 
 He felt the pressure of the cold deathly hands, 
 — ice, as it were, to his very heart of hearts, as 
 the baby was deposited at his feet. He was cer- 
 tain, as of any fact he ever had experienced, that 
 he felt the actual weight and pressure of those 
 clay-cold hands. 
 
 A few seconds, and he seemed involved in a 
 strange confusion and darkness. 
 
 Then he awoke his slumbering bride by the vio- 
 lence of an ague-fit, which shook the bed. 
 
 To her hurried inquiries, as she sprang up, 
 threw on her manteau de nuit, and asked what was 
 the matter, in a very terrified tone, he strove to 
 answer with composure; but he was shaking from 
 head to foot; his face was pale — was blue — his
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 243 
 
 eyes wild and meaningless — he suddenly rose up 
 and looked in a searching, hurried way, to the 
 foot of the bed. 
 
 Then, with a suppressed *'Ah!" sank back 
 again, shivering all the time. 
 
 "Let me ring! — what's the matter? — how 
 horribl}^ you frighten me ! — good heavens, what 
 can it be? — let me ring?" 
 
 But he laid his hand upon her arm. 
 
 She tried to keep it olF; it was as the icy hand 
 of death. She almost shrieked at the excess of 
 cold. 
 
 He tried to speak ; but for some time he could 
 not articulate ; he kept pointing and fixing his 
 eyes upon the foot of the bed. 
 
 " Do vou see nothinor there?" at last he broke 
 out — " nothing — nothing there?" 
 
 "Where? — there I — oh, only the white folds of 
 my lace shawl huddled together," said she, 
 taking it up. " How careless of Lydia to leave it 
 there!" 
 
 He turned away, and saying, " I shall be better 
 now — pray don't disturb yourself or any one — I 
 am very sorry to have alarmed you "' — closed his 
 eyes, and appeared inclined to sleep. 
 
 She was sleepy and drowsy, and not troubled 
 with much sensibility as to the sufferings of others; 
 and was glad enough to obey him.
 
 244 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 He was extremely ill for several ^yeeks after 
 tbis ; the medical man called in apprehended a 
 brain fever. The young bride was first exces- 
 sively vexed, and then a good deal frightened ; 
 and then, as he grew better, vexed; and, at last, 
 deeply offended and mortified ; for the profound 
 melancholy into which he sank, when recovering 
 from his first day's extreme illness, was strangely 
 inconsistent with the position of one newly mar- 
 ried to one of the greatest heiresses and most 
 beautiful women in England. 
 
 But it seemed impossible for him to I'ecover his 
 spirits. The medical men were quite unable to 
 account for this profound melancholy ; it was not 
 like a melancholy proceeding from actual distress 
 of mind, far less from positive disease of body — 
 with either of these they might have dealt ; it 
 shewed itself in no complainings, in none of those 
 various forms by which an attack of hypochondria 
 is usually detected. A profound, unchangeable 
 gravity of aspect, gloomy eyes, and the most in- 
 vincible indifference, nay, distaste for every ex- 
 ternal object, were the chief symptoms. 
 
 His fair bride could not be persuaded to regard
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 245 
 
 this — as vainly the doctors endeavoured to per- 
 suade her to do — as the mere effect of some ob- 
 scure malady. She resented it deeply and bit- 
 terly. She could not believe but that, if Ridley 
 loved her as he ought, her presence and such 
 proofs of affection as her pride permitted her to 
 give vrould have more than sufficed to arouse 
 him from this dreary apathy, " to awake a soul 
 even from under the ribs of death ! " 
 
 She could not forgive it. 
 
 Perhaps all might yet have been right between 
 them; but as time wore away, and his melan- 
 choly gradually was dissipated, till he became 
 much as other not very cheerful men are, there 
 was no return of his old devotion to herself; the 
 adored mistress, the adulated bride, found herself 
 reduced to the condition of the mere wife, without 
 any of those gradual changes of the feelings which 
 render the mutation natural and tolerable. 
 
 He treated her with the respect and observance 
 due to her beauty and station, nay, to her galled 
 feelino-s it seemed as if he almost disdainfully 
 exaggerated upon these things ; but one word of 
 true tenderness, one look of genuine passion, 
 never blessed her more. 
 
 Disappointed and offended, she withdrew from 
 him a heart, which a love, such as she had once
 
 246 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 borne him, might have warmed to better things. 
 Her feelings, as they first began to expand, thus 
 blighted in the bud, the egotism and the coldness 
 of her former character returned, and she became 
 soon a mere selfish wife of fashion to the man 
 absorbed in politics and ambition.
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 247 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 " Within its cage the imprison'd matin bird 
 Swells the full chorus with a generous song : 
 
 He bathes no pinion in the dewy light, 
 Xo consort's bliss, no father's joy he shares ; 
 
 Yet still the rising radiance glads his sight, 
 His fellows' freedom soothes the captive's cares." 
 
 Coleridge, Sonnet to La Fayette. 
 
 The clock struck twelve. 
 
 — " Mrs. Mordaimt started at the sound, and 
 declaring she had no idea it was so late, and 
 that they should all be the better for bed, pro- 
 posed to summon the butler to put out the 
 lamps and light the bed-candles, when the bell 
 at the hall- door was suddenly heard to rino- 
 loud, sharp, and short, as if pulled by a hasty 
 hand." — 
 
 '^ Who can it possibly be at this time of night? " 
 cried Mrs. Mordaunt, startled and nervous more 
 than her wont. There w^as a sort of evil fore- 
 boding oppressing her that evening — a gloom for 
 which she could not account; it was so much
 
 '248 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 deeper than what was natural to a conjuncture 
 not usually favourable to high spirits. 
 
 She really was quite nervous and excited ; and 
 the sharp, loud ring, sounded to her in a strange, 
 alarming manner : it seemed like a summons of 
 evil. 
 
 " What can be the matter ? Who can possibly 
 be ringing at the bell at this time of night?" 
 
 The butler was heard to open the door, but all 
 was silent; the door closed again, and no fresh 
 steps were heard. 
 
 "Who is come in? What can it be?" said 
 Mrs. Mordaunt, looking at her daughter. Mr. 
 Mordaunt was fList asleep in his arm-chair. " It 
 was such a loud, passionate sort of ring!" 
 
 Calantha sat listening ; at last she said, — 
 
 " No one came in. Shall I ring the bell, 
 mamma, and ask Williams ? How very odd ! " 
 
 The drawing-room bell was rung, and Williams 
 appeared. 
 
 " Who rang at the hall-bell?" asked his mis- 
 tress. " Very strange, Williams, that you did not 
 come to tell us what it was !" 
 
 " I don't know% madam. I beg your pardon. 
 I thought perhaps it was a mistake of mine. 
 There was nobody at the door. The bell was 
 rung, to my mind, as if the wire would be 
 broken, and I made all haste to answer it, think-
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 249 
 
 ins; there must be some hasty news. It 's been a 
 rough, wild clay without, and we have been all 
 of us I don't know how after this wedding. I 
 made haste to the door, but there was not a 
 creature to be seen ; and the night was cold, so I 
 shut it again directly. I hoped you hadn't heard 
 the bell, or Miss Calantha " 
 
 "Yes, Williams, we heard the bell — there is 
 no doubt of that ; and it seemed as if it was 
 pulled by some one either in much haste or much 
 distress." 
 
 *' I don't think as how it was a livins: hand as 
 pulled it," said Williams. 
 
 '* Dear mamma," said Calantha, now speaking 
 with much earnestness, and raising herself in her 
 chair, " the bell certainly was pulled — somebody 
 in terror or distress, perhaps ill, who knows? 
 Dear, good Williams, do open the door again, 
 and let somebody 2:0 out and make a search 
 round and call. Some creature in agony rang 
 that bell." 
 
 The old man stood still, and said nothing; but 
 his hand still held the lock of the door, as if 
 unwilling and irresolute. 
 
 Mrs. Mordaunt said, — 
 
 " You are right, Calantha. Pray, Williams, go 
 out and look round : somebody must, you know, 
 of course be there, and something is the matter."
 
 250 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 « 
 
 But Williams hesitated. 
 
 " Why don't you go," asked his mistress, 
 "when I desire you?" 
 
 " The bell does not ring again, and nobody was 
 there. If it had been any body, they would soon 
 have rung again," said the old servant. 
 
 *' One would think so, certainly," replied his 
 mistress; "but it is very strange. Hush — 
 listen!" 
 
 " Nothing, madam, but the wind, though the 
 storm has fallen. It moans in a strange, sad, 
 mournful way like to-night; I could fancy I 
 heard it lamenting," said the old man, *^ and have 
 been fancying it all the evening." 
 
 ** Do, for heaven's sake, then, go out and see 
 what it is ! " cried Calantha, now rising in her 
 earnestness with less pain and difficulty than 
 usual; ** lamenting, you say? Somebody is in 
 distress, and in this fearful night!" And she took 
 up the stick she used to help her steps with, and 
 began to move towards the door. 
 
 " Nay, my dear Calantha, you will catch cold !" 
 interposed her mother. " Williams will go. Tell 
 Thomas to go with you, and make a search 
 round. Nay, Calantha, do sit down again ! " 
 
 " Dear mamma, do let me go to the door, pray, 
 pray ! " putting her hand gently aside, and whis- 
 pering, *' Poor Williams is frightened out of his
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 251 
 
 wits, and Thomas will be as bad, or worse. The 
 bell could not have been rung without hands. 
 Do let me just go to the door. Come, Williams 
 — you won't be afraid to open the door for me! 
 Suppose it should be some one in distress, Wil- 
 liams, so late at night, and we had shut the door 
 upon them, what would your good, kind heart 
 say to you to-morrow morning, Williams ? One 
 has heard of such stories, you know." 
 
 And, thus talking, she kept moving to the 
 door; and poor Williams, rather ashamed than 
 convinced, followed her. 
 
 He undid the door, and they looked out. 
 
 Most certainly there was no one to be seen. 
 
 The moonbeams fell obliquely upon the portico, 
 and the large stone pillars cast their heavy sha- 
 dows upon the stones. One side was almost 
 totally in darkness. 
 
 The wind heaved in the branches of the sur- 
 rounding trees, but the storm had subsided — 
 the clouds, like the retreating forces of a broken 
 army, were slowly clearing away, and the low 
 murmur of the sinking blast was heard over the 
 distant woods. There was a something spectral 
 and unearthly in the appearance of the night, 
 and even Calantha felt a shuddering kind of 
 doubt and terror creeping over her as she looked
 
 252 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 round and perceived that there was certainly no 
 one to be found. 
 
 "Call, Williams! "she said. 
 
 And she called herself — for the old servant 
 would not or could not. 
 
 "Is any one there? Who rang? Is any one 
 there ? " 
 
 Mrs. Mordaunt now appeared with the footman 
 whom she had summoned ; and, strengthened in 
 his courage by the presence of numbers, he ven- 
 tured forth into the portico, and, raising his 
 voice, vociferated, in imitation of his young mis- 
 tress, — 
 
 *' Holloa ! — holloa! Who rang? Is there any 
 one there ?'* 
 
 The voice of the footman did what the soft 
 tones of Calantha had failed to do. 
 
 They listened, and were answered by the wild, 
 vehement cry of a very little infant, suddenly 
 awakened. 
 
 " Good God!— good God ! what is that?" cried 
 mother and daughter at once, rushing into the 
 portico. 
 
 Directed by the sound, lying hidden under the 
 deep shadow of the thick stone pillars, at the foot 
 of which it had been laid, they found the poor 
 little deserted offspring of guilt and of despair.
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 253 
 
 The cliild was wrapped in a baby's blanket of 
 fine flannel, which, as they unrolled it, displayed 
 the infant often days old, its little face crimson 
 with the workings of its passion, and crying with 
 the inconceivable power which such helpless beings 
 possess of forcing attention. 
 
 It was dressed in a simple white dimity night- 
 gown and plain cambric caj), and round its little 
 neck hung the narrow black riband upon which 
 the two tiny golden hearts were suspended. 
 
 Calantha's arms extended eagerly at the sight, 
 as j\Irs. Mordaunt and the footman tosjether 
 stooped down and lifted up the small bundle 
 from the foot of the pillar. Her mother placed 
 the little helpless being in those kind, sheltering 
 arras; and, telling her daughter to go in and 
 take the poor little thing to the fire, hurried out, 
 accompanied by the footman, into the night. 
 
 They searched long amid the shrubberies and 
 the neighbouring woods and walks — it is needless 
 to sav, in vain. No vestis^e was to be discovered 
 of that hand which had pulled the bell with so 
 much passionate vehemence. 
 
 A mother's hand it alone could be ; of tliis 
 Mrs. Mordaunt's mother's heart made her certain. 
 But where had the wretched mother vanished, 
 whose misery or shame (what else?) had con-
 
 254 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 strained her to this unnatural step? Where was 
 she gone in her despair? 
 
 It was nearly two hours before this good and 
 spirited woman abandoned the search, and, re- 
 turning to the house, found her daughter still 
 sitting by the drawing-room fire, holding the 
 infant in her lap. 
 
 The screams of the child had proceeded from 
 terror at being suddenly awakened, and not from 
 hunger ; and^ too young yet to be sensible to 
 any external impressions but those of sound and 
 appetite, it had fallen asleep again under the 
 gentle lulling of the new and most tender hands 
 into which it had fallen. 
 
 She sat there, holding the infant in her arms, 
 now and then listening to the voices, more and 
 more distant, engaged in the search out of doors 
 — now and then looking down upon the sleeping- 
 child, upon its tiny hands, so beautifully formed, 
 its little embryo features, which the repose of 
 sleep made almost beautiful — upon its white 
 dimity dress, so plain and yet so delicate — upon 
 the black riband hanging round its neck — and 
 upon the two small hearts, one enclosing a small 
 lock of hair inclining to grey, the other black as 
 the raven's wins;. Her thouirhts were confused 
 and agitated ; yet a feeling of the most exciting
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 255 
 
 interest succeeded, not unpleasantl}^ to the gloom 
 in which she had passed the evening'. 
 
 She was meditative — far above her years, and 
 reflective, as it was natural she should be ; and 
 as she sat there she compared the fate of this 
 being, doomed to desei-tion and apparent misery 
 from his ci'adle, and her own melancholy fate ; 
 and a sympathy seemed already to arise between 
 them ; — she, poor outcast from all the joys of 
 nature, marked by the hand of the Almighty for 
 sufferins: and exclusion from even the common 
 every-day happiness which was the portion of 
 all beside ; and he, cast friendless and alone, a 
 miserable, helpless being, upon the wide world, 
 stripped of his share in the commonest and vul- 
 garest relations and affections, which seemed the 
 inheritance of every one on earth beside. 
 
 And as she thought of these things, she bent 
 down and pressed her lips upon the little red 
 hand fast closed upon itself, but which, gently 
 opening at the soft warmth of her touch, clasped 
 itself round the finger she presented, and tlien 
 was still again. 
 
 It seemed to claim her protection and support, 
 and in that claim to slumber on in peace. So 
 she fancied, and pressed her arm more tenderly 
 round it, and bent her head and gazed with a 
 mother's yearning towards this helpless creature.
 
 256 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 So Mrs. Mordaunt found her still sitting as 
 the clock struck two, and she returned wearied 
 and disappointed from her fruitless search. Her 
 first exclamation was, — 
 
 *' My dearest Calantha, not gone to bed 
 yet?" 
 
 ^' No, dear mamma, how could I ? I have 
 been waiting so anxiously for your return, it was 
 impossible to go to bed ; and besides, 1 could 
 not leave this poor little thing. See, it is sweetly 
 asleep, and has fast hold of my finger." 
 
 "Poor creature!" said Mrs. Mordaunt, look- 
 ing at it compassionately, ''it has indeed — poor 
 little thing ! What can have become of its un- 
 fortunate mother ? " 
 
 She kept looking at it considering, and speak- 
 innf her thouo-hts aloud, — 
 
 ** The child is dressed, and is no new-born 
 infant abandoned in the first paroxysm of shame 
 and despair; it is a week or more old — this has 
 been done deliberately : and yet that ring was 
 one not of deliberation, but of hasty passion. 
 Yet it must, I think, be some one we know 
 something of, or why lay the poor baby at our 
 door. Have you examined the child's dress, 
 Calantha? Is there no writing — no paper — no 
 trace of its brief history to be discovered?" 
 
 "Only this black riband, and these two small
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 257 
 
 golden hearts," said Calantha, lifting them up 
 from the baby's frock. 
 
 Mrs. Mordaunt examined them carefully. 
 
 " H. F.," said she, " upon the one containing- 
 the silvered hair — that is an old man's hair. 
 And this very minute star in the centre of the 
 other," continued she, " raven black — that is the 
 betrayer's hair. Poor little wretch ! It is the 
 child of shame, Calantha," added she, turnino- 
 from it with a certain look of repugnance. 
 
 But the dove-like eyes of the gentle girl were 
 bent upon it with an expression of unfeigned 
 pity. 
 
 She, too, though no child of shame, knew well 
 what shame undeserved was. She knew the 
 deep mortification with which a lot of exception 
 — a lot marked by degradation, though of a 
 different kind, the degradation of nature — tinges 
 the young child's cheek. She knew what it was 
 to be the mark at which unfeeling levity, or 
 barbarous unkindness, could level its shafts ; to 
 stand without defence exposed to all the bitter, 
 heart -searing feelings of a humbled child, set 
 apart from its fellows by some irrevocable sen- 
 tence of nature or of society. 
 
 Deepl}', deeply, with a sense of burning re- 
 sentment against injustice, had she, a too sus- 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 MORDAUJfT HALL. 
 
 ceptible and fervent child, felt the sufferings 
 entailed upon her personal deformities, and de- 
 fenceless and helpless situation ; sufferings from 
 which all her mother's care, watchful though 
 she was, vet busied with so inauy other interests, 
 could uever effectually shield her. 
 
 When her sisters, rosy and beautiful, full of 
 activity, health, and spirits, were revelling and 
 riotino- in all the wild freedom allowed them — 
 sporting upon the lavrn, climbing the trees, en- 
 gaged in all their joyous sports, and surrounded 
 most often by the admiring friends of the family, 
 never wearied with extolling, and applauding, 
 and amusing them, — she, at that time quite 
 unable to use her lower limbs, — a poor, sickly, 
 ricketty little one, — was being carried about by a 
 nursemaid, evidently ashamed to shew her — in 
 the more private walks at the back of the shrub- 
 beries. Melancholy and alone, while the rest 
 were sporting and laughing, — nay, susceptible 
 as she was, and with that sort of preternatural 
 developemenc of intellect which is generally the 
 fearful attendant upon these sort of disorders, — 
 the poor little girl, long before even her careful 
 mother was aware of it, had discerned that even 
 this adored mother, — this beautiful angel-mother, 
 whom she worshipped almost more than loved, —
 
 :\rORDAUNT HALL. 259 
 
 while glorying in the beauty of her sisters, was 
 secretly mortified and ashamed of the appearance 
 she herself made. 
 
 The bitter, bitter pang* with vvdiich this per- 
 ception was first received, she had never for- 
 gotten ; the memory of it lay there in her heart, 
 hidden, if possible, even from herself, too ex- 
 quisitely painful for the recollection to be re- 
 curred to : but this night, as her mother turned 
 away from this poor, doomed infant, with a 
 certain look of repugnance, natural, though un- 
 just, with which delicate minds almost instinctively 
 shrink from profligacy, even in these its melan- 
 choly results, Calantha again pressed the little 
 one more tenderlv to her bosom. 
 
 It had been a long, a painful, yet a beautiful 
 story, that of the gradual developement of Ca- 
 lantha's heart and mind. Perhaps, in the course 
 of this brief history, we mav hear her relate it 
 herself, to one whose heart and mind she strove 
 to form and temper, — as hers had been formed 
 and tem])ered in the fierce furnace of adversity. 
 
 Perhaps I may want space for this touching 
 story ; more likely, skill to relate it as I ought :
 
 260 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 for the present it must suffice to say, that the 
 struggle — the battle is a more appropriate term, 
 perhaps — which she had to maintain with her- 
 self, had been long and severe. Her mother — 
 her true, firm, and unflinching friend — had stood 
 by and done her best, done all wliich one human 
 being, be that being even a mother, can do lor 
 another in such circumstances — had directed her 
 to the right aims, and stood by her, her second in 
 the fight. 
 
 She had planted the young heroine at once 
 upon the basis of submission and faith. 
 
 The case was hopeless — no self-flattery was 
 possible, and no flattery she used. 
 
 She strove to lead the child to believe in final 
 jrood, thouo-h her existence was one of almost 
 unmixed evil ; she strove hard to raise her young 
 heart to love the Creator and Father of that 
 existence, of which her own particular portion 
 was so full of suffering. It was a long, long 
 time before tlie questioning, reasoning, acute- 
 minded child, could teach her heart to own the 
 force of her arguments ; her clear head would 
 keep asking questions, which her heart refused 
 to answer. 
 
 Was that God good who had marked her out 
 for so much misery ? 
 
 She could not believe it.
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. '261 
 
 She was indeed, theii, a wretched sufferer, fast 
 bound in misery and iron, but gradually, by the 
 blessing of God upon that patient and righteous 
 mother's endeavours— shall we dare to say, through 
 those influences of divine and more than sun- 
 beam pure of light, which do visit and stream 
 within the secret chambers of the human soul ? 
 — gradually these clouds and shadows dissipated, 
 and gradually the pure image of her being 
 emerged as some lovely and perfect creature 
 from the fire of her sufferins;. 
 
 Love — love — and faith, achieved their holy 
 triumph in her heart. 
 
 Faith in a Good supreme — love ineffable for 
 that Good descending to suffer upon earth, amid 
 the mysteries of soriow and of sin. Divine re- 
 signation ! grateful and unquestioning submission 
 to the will of the all c^'ood and wise: all the 
 glorious hopes that brighten upon those who 
 love and truly serve, — dwelling in the skirts 
 of the ineffable glory which streams fiom the 
 Most High, even upon this his earth ; — that peace 
 which passeth understanding, that joy which is 
 not of this world; — all those ineffable feelings 
 which are the portion, and the portion alone, 
 of those who in singleness of heart sincerely live 
 to God.
 
 262 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 Such tilings became her lasting portion. 
 
 The mother, who had stood by and watched 
 in anguish that slow developement of almost 
 perfect good, adored the result in the humble 
 gratitude of many, man}^ tears.
 
 MORDAUKT HALL. 263 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 "Fairest Cordelia, thou art most rich being poor, 
 Most clioice forsaken, and most loved despised." 
 
 King Lear. 
 
 Mrs. Mordaunt had turned away one mo- 
 ment as if in disgust, as I have said, but her 
 heart smote her for the uno-enerous feeling: : she 
 turned again and looked upon the little group 
 by the fire. 
 
 That dear, gentle girl, and the poor little 
 helpless infant asleep upon her lap. A few 
 moments she stood watching, unobserved, the 
 expression of tender pity and anxiety so visible 
 upon Calantha's face, w^hose eyes continued bent 
 down upon the infant — and then a new idea 
 struck the mother. She had lono- lamented that 
 want of some object — of individual interests, 
 which, — and must now more than ever since her
 
 264 MORDAUNT HALL, 
 
 sisters were gone — diminished the happiness of 
 Calantha's life ; and now it seemed as if, at the 
 critical moment, this poor little creature was 
 thrown, as it were, into lier arms to supply what 
 was so much wanted. 
 
 Voluntarily to adopt a child is to incur a 
 fearful responsibility, which few conscientious 
 minds can contemplate without terror ; but in 
 this case there was no room for clioice or hesita- 
 tion : the little being was thrown upon them, and 
 must be reared and cared for. To send him to 
 the parish was the only alternative, and imper- 
 fect as their success might be, the child would 
 certainly have the best chance with them. Plans 
 soon arrange themselves in minds so lively and 
 vigorous as vras that of Mrs. Mordaunt; the 
 gardener's wife was at this moment a nursing 
 motner, it must be seen whether she could not 
 lend her assistance in rearing this veiy young 
 child ; and he might be brought up under the 
 worthy gardener's superintendence, make one 
 among tlie many boys employed in these large 
 grounds, and be gi'adually trained to a horti- 
 culturist's pleasant and wholesome business. 
 
 The child slumbered on, and Mrs. Mordaunt 
 drew a chair, sat down by her daughter, and 
 said, —
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 265 
 
 " You seem quite to take to the little creature 
 already, dear girl." 
 
 " I am so sorry for it." 
 
 '' We must not send it away, T am thinking." 
 
 "Send it away!" clasping it more tightly; 
 '' send it away ! oh, no ! no !" 
 
 ** But what shall we do with it?" said the 
 mother ; '^how are we to rear such a little crea- 
 ture, and what are we to do with it ? It must he 
 fed, Calantha ; it will soon awaken and he 
 clamorous upon that topic, — have you thought, 
 my dear, how that is to he done?" 
 
 " I don't know, mamma ; but I have reared 
 callow-birds that have fallen out of the nest, and 
 with care and attention I shall succeed with this 
 poor little thing, fallen out of its nest — only give 
 n-e a little advice how to proceed." 
 
 The mother then mentioned her plan of bring- 
 ing up the child by hand, with such assistance as 
 the gardener^s wife could spare ; for this night 
 she proposed that the child should be carried to 
 the gardener's house, and left there till morning, 
 at least. 
 
 The gardener's house was not far distant, it 
 lay at the back of one of the walls of the large 
 gardens. 
 
 Calantha felt most unwilling to part with
 
 266 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 the cliild ; perhaps never liad she more regretted 
 her inability to walk any distance than now, 
 when she could not take the child to Mrs. 
 Penny, and herself ensure his favourable recep- 
 tion : she yielded, however, to her mother's re- 
 quest to give this matter up for to-night, and go 
 to bed without exposing herself to the night air. 
 One of the maid-servants took the child up and 
 carried it away, Calantha's eyes following, as if 
 she were robbed of a treasure. 
 
 Then all went to bed, but not all to sleep. 
 
 It was impossible for either mother or daughter 
 to close their eyes for some hours. The one lay 
 pondering upon the probable fate of the unfortu- 
 nate mother, and resolving to renew her search 
 early in the morning : the imagination of the 
 other was crowded with all sorts of a^'reeable 
 images, centering in this little creature, whom 
 she already considered as her own. 
 
 The next morning the mother and daughter 
 met early in the breakfast- room, both intent 
 upon their several objects of thought, and their 
 consequent plans.
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 267 
 
 Mrs. Mordaunt was in her walking-bonnet and 
 galoches, already prepared to again search the 
 woods with the gardener's men, and discover, 
 if possible, some trace of the fugitive mother. 
 Calantha was, also, in cloak and bonnet, ready 
 to undertake, for her, the considerable exertion 
 of a walk to the gardener's house. 
 
 Mrs. [Mordaunt looked surprised to see her 
 so early stirring after the last night's fatigue, 
 and pleased at the vivacity of her looks and 
 manner. 
 
 "My darling child, how vrell you look! you 
 scarcelv seem at all tired with all the fati«rues of 
 yesterday. But going out so soon ! I guess, 
 however, to what place you are bound. And 
 now, my dear, as you arc bound there, let us 
 settle before you go what proposal we must 
 make to Mrs. Penny. It will be better that she 
 should keep the child." 
 
 Calantha's countenance fell. 
 
 " Nay, my dear, don't look so disappointed. 
 What belter can we possibly do with him?" 
 
 " I thouoht I niio-ht have had liim mvself, 
 mamma."' 
 
 " To do what with him?" 
 
 '^ Rear him, to be sure." 
 
 " And what for?"
 
 268 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 She had not asked herself that question. Slie 
 looked blank, and hesitated. 
 
 " I don't know : I can't tell." 
 
 " But, my own girl, we must both know and 
 tell, not what iciLl happen, but what we intend 
 shall happen. This deserted cliild must be 
 brought up to provide for himself at a future 
 time, my dear." 
 
 " Oh, yes! Who would or could expect or 
 wish any thing else for him?" 
 
 '■ And in order to do this he must be edu- 
 cated." 
 
 " To be sure, dear mother." 
 
 " And as there are no funds to provide for 
 his education, he must be brought up to a trade 
 which will not require much — a trade of manual 
 labour, in short. I think, if we let him grow up 
 with the gardener's children, he will acquire the 
 habits of his station. Penny is a worthy man, 
 and an excellent gardener. We cannot do better 
 than leave him to his care." 
 
 But Calantha made no answer. 
 
 She sat silently looking down, but there was 
 so much disapi)ointmenL expressed in her face, 
 that her good mother was touched by it, and 
 said, — 
 
 " You do not seem satisfied, my dear girl."
 
 MORDAUXT HALL. 269 
 
 She looked up at her mother, with that expres- 
 sion of affectionate gratitude which v/as the nevei- 
 failing recompense of all that kind parent's care, 
 and said, — 
 
 " I dare say I am very romantic and foolish, 
 but I think that poor little baby has belonged to 
 people of quite a different sort from Penny and 
 bis wife, respectable and worthy as they are. 
 Did you observe the child's nightgown or frock, 
 I don't know which to call it, so delicately and 
 beautifully made ? And those two small golden 
 hearts?" 
 
 " My dear, I. am afraid we cannot do better 
 for the child than what I have proposed. I fear 
 your father would think me foolish and unreason- 
 able if I asked for more than this on account of 
 the poor little stranger. But we shall see, we 
 shall see." 
 
 For she could not bear to see the cloud of dis- 
 appointment that gathered over poor Calantha's 
 face. 
 
 " The infant cannot be better off, for a be- 
 ginning, than to be nursed in Penny's cottage. 
 My love, when I was a child, infants of the best 
 condition, both in England and France, were 
 thus reared, till they were eighteen months or 
 two years old. You can watch over him and
 
 '270 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 attend to hiiu so far. In the meantime some- 
 thing may turn np : we may get information 
 which may regulate our further plans." 
 
 ^' Will you give him to me, mother? I have 
 not, and never shall have, either husband or 
 child. I want something to love, dear mamma ; 
 not as I love you, but as I loved Lucilla. Let me 
 call this baby mine." 
 
 " Yes, my dear, he shall be yours ; but it must 
 be upon conditions. You must not attempt to 
 rear him for a position of life to which he does 
 not properly belong. You have no means of 
 providing for him in such a position ; for I am 
 certain, if your father were to have the least 
 idea that your plan of adopting and providing 
 for him would wroni*' vour family of any of 
 the fortune which, under ordinary circumstances, 
 at vour death would revert to them, he would 
 take care not to leave that fortune at your own 
 disposal." 
 
 " But what allowance my father is so kind as 
 to give me at present I may consider mine, to lay 
 out as I like ?" 
 
 *^ Certainly ; and so far as that will allow you 
 to go, in maintaining and educating this baby 
 boy, you are at liberty to make use of it; but 
 you will find it will not go far. As to the gar-
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 271 
 
 dener plan, I sliall help you in that, hecaiise it is 
 what I think wise and what I approve; but 
 farther than that I could not help you, because it 
 would be neither what I should think wise nor 
 could approve. But let to-day suffice for the 
 cares of to-day," she added, cheerfully; " let us 
 rear this little, precious plant first, and then it 
 will be time enough to quarrel about what we will 
 do with him. So you go the gardener's, with the 
 help of Alice's arm, and I will sally forth and 
 see whether any traces of the poor mother, which 
 might be undiscernible in the moonlight, may be 
 discoverable this bright, beautiful morning." 
 
 So saying, Mrs. Mordaunt rose and sallied 
 forth through the open, front window, while 
 Calantha, slowly and thoughtfully, and attended 
 by Alice, took her way to the garden. 
 
 A beautiful garden it was, the sun brightly 
 shining, and every thing around breathing fresh- 
 ness and sweetness. She passed through the 
 arched walk amid the thick shrubberies, which 
 led to the fine gardens of Mordaunt Hall. 
 
 The wails were lofty, and covered with fruit- 
 trees ; and the beds, laid out in fine symmetrical 
 order, were filled with rows of vegetables in pro- 
 digious abundance, growing with a luxuriance 
 and in a profusion that shewed neither pains nor
 
 272 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 expense was spared upon tlieir cultivation. The 
 area of two acres tlius occupied was traversed 
 each way by a broad gravel-walk, on either side 
 of which were beds filled with gay, but common, 
 flowers, with knots of I'oses from distance to dis- 
 tance, alternating with honeysuckles, all cut in 
 low, round bushes. The bloom of these was 
 gone, but there was no deficiency, as yet, of gay 
 colouring ; for rich tufts of china asters, purple and 
 pink convolvuluses, Africanmarigolds, sun-flowers, 
 purple phlox, and, in short, an abundance of those 
 common though autumn flowers, of which I, old 
 man as I am, find myself, from association, so 
 fond, were growing there. Opposite to the door 
 at which she entered the long line of forcing- 
 houses was glittering in the morning sun. There 
 were vines, loaded with purple and amber bunches 
 of fruit growing in inexhaustible profusion ; while 
 the crimson peaches and green and purple figs, 
 in their full ripeness, were peeping temptingly 
 amouij; their leaves. The abundance of everv 
 thing around was so great, that it was evidently 
 impossible that the family could consume one-half 
 of what was thus produced ; and, in spite of the 
 calls upon Penny's stores, resulting from the 
 recent wedding-day, over-ripe fruit strewed the 
 ground unheeded, whilst peas and beanstalks,
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 273 
 
 Still loaded, were blackeiiino; and vellovviiio- in the 
 sun ; and vegetables running- on all sides to 
 waste. 
 
 This prodigality of wealth was, however, the 
 onl}' thing that at all militated, to the judicious 
 eye, against the pleasure afforded by the spectacle 
 of these fine, well-ordered gardens. 
 
 The dew hung sparkling upon the leaves and 
 flowers, the sun shone reflected from a splashing 
 fountain, that played in the middle of a small 
 pond in the centre of the garden, where the 
 walks crossed. The sweet smell of the plants, 
 the fresh, pure air of the morning playing upon 
 her cheek, and the early birds hopping about, 
 and along the walks, saluting her with their 
 cheerful carols and chirpings, filled her with a 
 sensation of unusual delight, as Alice opened for 
 her the garden door. 
 
 It was not often that Calantha ventured so 
 far ; her walks, or rather slow strolls, had been 
 chiefly confined to the lawn and flower-garden. 
 She was very rarely, too, out of her bed-room till 
 late ; perhaps, she never in her life had been so 
 €arly out before. She thought nothing could be 
 more beautiful than this garden looked as she 
 entered it. 
 
 Penny was already at work, standing upon his 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 jniordaunt hall. 
 
 ladder nailing his trees, and the cheerful sound 
 of his hammer, and of a wheelbarrow rolling at 
 the remote end of the garden, was just enough 
 to give animation to the scene without disturbing 
 the sense of its sweet quiet. She passed under 
 an arch of passion-flower that adorned the door 
 by which she entered, and looked with delight 
 upon this, to me, I must confess, delightful 
 picture of symmetry, regularity, succession, and 
 abundance. 
 
 It really was charming, as, leaning upon Alice's 
 arm, she went along the broad gravel-walk be- 
 tween those borders of flowers, passed the foun- 
 tain, and made for the opposite door, behind which 
 the gardener's house was situated. 
 
 There was no particular beauty about the house, 
 for the back of a garden-wall is like the behind- 
 seen es of a theatre ; there were cucumber and 
 melon beds, heaps of manure and compost, — the 
 unsightly cords and pulleys which give life to the 
 beautiful scenery upon the other side of the wall. 
 
 But the sun shone bright, and the sweet morn- 
 ing air played round, and the door of the gar- 
 dener's house opened upon a sort of miniature 
 flower-garden, the creation and the delight of his 
 little children. It was laid out in tiny walks of 
 picked white pebbles, and its fairy beds were
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 275 
 
 edged lltei*ally with cockle and mussel-shells, in 
 white and purple rows, and filled with stocks, 
 and gillyflowers, and pinks. The little ones were 
 toddling in and out, and the gardener's wife, a 
 small, lively woman, with eyes as black as sloes 
 and as bright as diamonds, dressed with the 
 greatest simplicity and neatness, stood in the 
 doorway inhaling the air, and with an infant u2:)on 
 each arm — both infants asleep. 
 
 " Miss Calantha !" she exclaimed, in an under 
 voice, but looking very much pleased, for every 
 one loved Miss Calantha ; '* Miss Calantha come 
 out so far! I hope 3'ou feel better. Miss." 
 
 " Mamma sent you a poor, little, unfor- 
 tunate babe last night, Mrs. Penu}^ ; I come 
 to inquire after it. Is that it upon one arm, and 
 is the other your own ? Let me sit down, and 
 give the new one to me. It is too much for you 
 to have to hold two at once." 
 
 " No burden to me. Miss, at all," said the 
 cheerful little woman, suffering Calantha, however, 
 when she had entered the cottage and sat down, 
 to relieve her of the younger infant. 
 
 " How little, and red, and thin he looks! 
 And how pretty your soft, fat baby is I" said 
 Calantha. 
 
 " Bless your heart, Miss, mine is two months
 
 276 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 old, and that poor, little creature is onl}- about as 
 many weeks. It's a fine baby, too — a very 
 handsome baby of its age; and, by its linen, 
 must have been born for better things, jDoor little 
 lamb!" 
 
 Calantha stooped down, and again kissed the 
 little red clenched hand. Seen by the morning 
 light, she was more struck than she had been in 
 the hurry of the night before with the delicacy of 
 its dress. The black riband, emblem of mourn- 
 ing, still hung round the tiny neck. 
 
 " It's a fine boy. Miss Calantha," j)ursued 
 Mrs. Penny, looking at it compassionately ; " and 
 somebody's heart has been broke about it. Things 
 must have gone hard with a poor mother before 
 she could have parted herself from such a baby. 
 Poor thing!" 
 
 *' And what is to become of it, if it does not 
 find a mother in you, Mrs. Penny? Do you 
 know mamma wishes you to take charge of it ? 
 but it's a great trouble upon you, having one 
 already. Buc I am sure- " 
 
 "Trouble! Dear me. Miss Calantha, that 
 would be an ill word for me to use, and a wicked 
 thought for me to think, after what the Al- 
 mighty has put it into yours and your good 
 mamma's hearts to do for me and mine. It
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 277 
 
 would be a pretty return of me to refuse to take 
 one o^ His children. Law, Miss! with a little 
 new milk and help from the kitchen, which I'm 
 sure mv mistress will aive me with all her heart, 
 I'll engage to rear this baby, and do no injustice 
 to t'other little roo'ue," lookino- at her own with 
 a face full of the warmest affection. " And as 
 for trouble ! dear me, we shall get along well 
 enough, I'll be bound : never heed that, ]Miss 
 Calantha." 
 
 " Poor little one!" she said, looking at him 
 affectionately ; " and you, dear Mrs. Penny, how 
 kind of you ! I wish I were strong, that I might 
 help you to nurse him myself; but I can onl}- 
 sit and hold him. But I shall come and sit in the 
 garden with him upon my lap, and give him air, 
 while you are busy with your own concerns ; for 
 air, above all things, he must have, you know." 
 
 " You'll get so fond of him, Miss Calantha, 
 you'll be surprised ; one^s heart does so yearn 
 to a baby when one has any thing to do with 
 em. 
 
 " Well, then," said Calantha, *' mamma will 
 give you the proper allowance for your trouble, 
 and you will do a very kind and good action in 
 charging yourself, busy as you are, with the poor 
 thing."
 
 278 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 *' Thank you, Miss Calantha, but I want no 
 allowance, only a little help in milk and so on. 
 I would rather do it for the love of God. The 
 Almighty has been very kind to me," she went 
 on, " and it's little enough I can do to shew my 
 thankfulness for it. I'd rather, if you please, 
 give my trouble, as you call it, to the little one."
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 279 
 
 CHAPTER XVir. 
 
 " Larded all with sweet flowers, 
 Which bewept to the grave did go." 
 
 Hamlet, 
 
 Mrs. Mordaunt was more successful by day- 
 light than she had been the night before. Traces 
 were soon discovered as of some one who had 
 trodden through the long grass and weeds which 
 la}^ around the pool in the shrubbery below. 
 
 That dark, deep, sequestered pool, with its 
 white water-lilies, and its quiet, black, transpa- 
 rent waters ! 
 
 Drag-nets were procured, the pool was searched, 
 and the body of Miriam drawn out. 
 
 Mrs. Mordaunt stood by, watching and direct- 
 ing the operations of her servants, and shud- 
 dering, as at last they cried out with a voice 
 almost of exultation, that they had got it at last.
 
 280 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 The drowned form of the unfortunate girl was 
 brought up and laid upon the hank. 
 
 Her long, rich, and abundant hair, liad fallen 
 in profusion round her face and over lier beauti- 
 ful limbs and bosom. The exquisite symmetry of 
 her form was displayed as in some fine statue under 
 the clinging drapery of her dress ; her eyes were 
 closed, her features still and composed ; she 
 looked, as there she lay, surpassingly lovelv. 
 
 Mrs. Mordaunt stood for some time in silence, 
 gazing at her with an expression of intense 
 interest and compassion ; at last she roused her- 
 self, and told the men to make a soj't of bier 
 of poles and branches, and thus was the body 
 carried to a quiet room at the back of the house. 
 
 Here all that remained of poor Miriam was 
 . decently laid out. 
 
 Not the slightest vestige appeared by which 
 she might have been identified ; or by which an\^ 
 trace might be discovered whence she came. By 
 the appearance of her shoes, it would seem that 
 she had come a good way. Her clothes, too, 
 were very much torn ; hut their form and texture, 
 though very simple, shewed, like the dress of the 
 child, that the unhappy mother had not belonged 
 to the working classes. Indeed the extreme deli- 
 cacy of her feet and hands would have forbidden
 
 MOR DAUNT HALL. 281 
 
 such a supposition. There was no 23ro2jer wed- 
 ding-ring upon her finger ; but upon the finger 
 so called there was a ring, fashioned like such 
 as gentlemen were then in the habit of wearing ; 
 a small cameo seemed once to have been inclosed 
 in it ; but the stone, whatever it might have been, 
 had fallen out. 
 
 There was no mark upon any of her linen, not 
 a scrap of paper about her. 
 
 Advertisements were put in the principal 
 papers. The coroner sat as usual, and pro- 
 nounced the verdict of " Found drowned, being to 
 all appearance of unsound mind." So the earth 
 and sod of the little country churchyard received 
 the remains of the unhappy girl. No one made 
 the least inquiry about her ; and thus the hapless 
 story ended. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Mordaunt, unwilling to have 
 their names appear in the advertisement, merely 
 referred any one who might inquire after the 
 child to the bookseller in the next town, who 
 issued it. 
 
 But there was no one to notice this advertise- 
 ment. The obscure people in the remote villa2:e 
 where she had lodged, saw newspapers only by 
 accident; they happened to be, moreover, of that 
 dull, incurious sort, which troubles itself little
 
 282 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 with matters not attaching to their own indivi- 
 dual interests. The disappearance of Miriam and 
 her baby had been as unaccountable to them as 
 her unexpected appearance when she came one 
 evening and took their lodgings ; having ascer- 
 tained that she had left property enough behind 
 her to pay for what was due, and the claim satis- 
 fied — having conscientiously locked up her re- 
 maining clothes, lest they should ever be claimed 
 — they troubled themselves no more upon the 
 subject of her fate ; not, perhaps, upon the whole, 
 very sorry to be rid of so questionable an inmate. 
 
 One other person, whose attention might have 
 been excited by the advertisement, was at this 
 time far too ill to be allowed to see a paper ; or, 
 indeed, to be capable of understanding anything, 
 if so permitted, that he could have read in it. 
 
 The story was talked about in the neighbour- 
 hood a little, but that soon died away ; and the 
 child was left in the hands of Calantba, as utterly 
 destitute of all other earthly protection as if it 
 had, indeed, fallen from the skies. 
 
 One long, brown lock of hair, Calantba had 
 cut off' before the mother was sealed up in the 
 narrow home ; this she carefully preserved, and 
 directed, in case of her death, that it should be 
 delivered to the boy.
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 283 
 
 Thus he was ushered into life ; flun^ upon its 
 wide ocean, to be borne by its surges no one 
 knew whither; the sport of every rising or falling 
 tide of fortune. 
 
 That tide at present had borne the frail bark to 
 a favourable shore, but there was nothing of per- 
 manence even here ; the poor baby was dependent 
 upon accident for the kindness now received ; and 
 accident might deprive him of that which acci- 
 dent had bestowed. 
 
 In his unhappy destiny, indeed — separated and 
 cut off, as it were, from every one in existence — 
 without a claim, save that of the merest charity, 
 upon the care or tenderness of any human being, 
 what of permanency, what of plan or progress, 
 could there be ? Fluctuation is, indeed, the con- 
 dition of us all ; but here nothing but fluctuation 
 could be expected. The child became the sport 
 of accident ; abandoned naked to that chance 
 which Ridley, his father, believed governed the 
 world : a prey, in short, to all the measureless 
 evils, moral and physical, which attend upon 
 the hapless offspring of lawless and unhallowed 
 passion.
 
 284 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 The first rude blow that the child's affections, 
 in their development, received, occurred when 
 he had just completed his second year. 
 
 After the little glimpse I have given you of 
 good Mrs. Penny's cheerful and grateful nature, 
 you will be prepared to hear that she well ful- 
 filled the obligations of the engagement she had 
 contracted ; that she nursed the child with as 
 much affection as if it had been her own ; and 
 that the little boy found in her the tenderness 
 of the tenderest mother. The child returned this, 
 with a passionate attachment of w^hich some 
 infant hearts alone seem capable. As we ad- 
 vance beyond that age we wonder at, we are 
 almost terrified at, the invincible force with which 
 it is displayed— we are almost incapable of com- 
 prehending it. 
 
 This love, quiet and unobtrusive wiien at rest, 
 was in this case quite contented when he was 
 allowed to totter after his mammy wherever she 
 went ; but was vented in the wildest, almost fear- 
 ful outcries, when any attempt was made to 
 separate him from her. 
 
 Not even Calantha, who visited her charge 
 almost daily, and whom he certainly very much 
 loved, could ever persuade him to follow her 
 farther than the garden, unattended by his
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 285 
 
 mammy. At any proposal of the sort he 
 liurried back to her, seized her by the petti- 
 coat, hid his face in it, and screamed aloud. 
 
 He was a very beautiful child. Mrs. Penny 
 was justly proud of liim, for her own children 
 were ordinary lookino- enou2;h, and amons: them 
 the little boy appeared like an infant Hercules — 
 or rather like the young Jove, represented in 
 an antique gem as feeding from Amalthsea's 
 liorn. 
 
 A finely-formed boy he was, with noble 
 spreading chest, white as snow; tanned arms, 
 moulded with the most surpassing symmetry, 
 and little round chubby legs, brown as if stained 
 by the walnut, but beautiful as possible ; dark 
 brown curly hair ; large eyes already full of 
 soul and fire ; features of the most perfect infant 
 loveliness ; a mouth sweet as a ripe cherry, with 
 little teeth within like pearls. 
 
 Every one who saw the child admired him ; 
 and he already shewed a dauntless and daring 
 spirit of enterprise, as far as an infant of that 
 age was capable of such a thing. The little 
 fellow was the leader of his twin foster-brother 
 into all possible mischief; busy, meddling with 
 everything and about everything ; and for ever 
 disgracing himself amid the dirt behind the
 
 286 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 heaps of compost and manure. His shout of 
 infant and triumphant laughter might he heard 
 rinmno' clear ahove the rest ; as mis^ht also he 
 heard the vehement outcries of despair and pas- 
 sion "when in disgrace with, or parted from, his 
 mammy. 
 
 Mrs. Mordaunt was well pleased at this new 
 interest opened to Calantha, who spent many 
 hours of every day, fine enough to he passed out 
 of doors, in a little arhour within the garden- 
 walls, which Penny had made for her, close by 
 the door leading to his own house. He had co- 
 vered it with jessamines and moss-roses, with 
 honeysuckle and with passion-flowers ; there were 
 a seat and* a table, and here her books, her 
 writing, and her work were brought, and here 
 she felt herself happier than she had been for 
 a long time. Her heart, which had closed so 
 mournfully upon itself, expanded again to this 
 ■new interest ; in some degree only, it must be 
 owned. If the little boy withheld from her his 
 strongest affections, it was but what she did by 
 him. He was dear, but there had been vet 
 dearer, stronger, more fervent affections, in 
 the ashes of which her heart of hearts lay 
 buried. 
 
 Quietly she went on her way, patient and re-
 
 MORDAUXT HALL. 287 
 
 signed, employing hour after hour in tranquil self- 
 improvement, not only to divert her from a too 
 dangerous melancholy, but from a sense of the 
 duty and responsibility attached to time, and the 
 obligation to improve it by self-cultivation, even 
 when no immediate benefit to others as result- 
 ing from it is apparent. 
 
 She went on, persevered in her occupations, 
 sitting in that bower ; the gardener's children 
 being allowed, every now and then, to stray into 
 the garden, and peep in upon her, to be encou- 
 raged by her quiet, benevolent smile, or re- 
 pressed by her gentle, threatening hand, and 
 welcoming with her caresses and endearments 
 the glorious child, her more immediate care, 
 whenever he made his appearance. 
 
 She had nursed him daily in her arms as an 
 infant, and when he became too large and strong 
 for her feebleness, Mrs. Penny would leave him 
 to roll about upon the verdant carpet at her feet, 
 or would stand talking with him in her arms for 
 hours at a time — for Mrs. Penny did so love to 
 talk. 
 
 Calantha had stood godmother to the child, in 
 company with the good gardener and his wife's 
 brother. In her lowliness of spirit she wished to 
 associate herself as much as possible with those
 
 288 MOR DAUNT HALL. 
 
 she considered the child's really most valuable 
 friends ; for she soon learned to understand that 
 any higher views which she might have wished to 
 form for the little bov would be rendered iin- 
 possible, being condemned as romantic and ut- 
 terly absurd by her father and the whole family. 
 She therefore abandoned a plan which would 
 have afforded herself so much pleasure and in- 
 terest. She reflected that the condition to which 
 a man is born and reared is that in which he will 
 be certain, if he deserve it, to find happiness, and 
 that, in this case, the lowdiness of his lot would 
 spare him many painful feelings ; moreover, that 
 it would protect the defenceless child from that 
 worst misfortune, a fall from better expectations, 
 a thing which could alone render his position a 
 cause of discontent or miserv. She therefore for- 
 bade herself to indulo-e further in those dav- 
 dreams so pleasant to her fancy ; and associating 
 the gardener and his wife's relation with herself 
 at the solemn presentation of the infant to the 
 God and Saviour of them all, she resolved to 
 look upon these honest people as the real parents, 
 and upon herself only as a friend and protector of 
 the child. 
 
 She had called him Gideon — in part from a 
 childish association of love and admiration for the
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 289 
 
 hero of the dew-distilling fleece, of whom a very 
 good engraving happened to hang at the foot of 
 the bed on which so many of her childish hours 
 of pain had been passed. It represented the visit of 
 the Angel. Every child loves the image of the 
 Angel. It would seem as if the young crea- 
 ture — ** still trailing clouds of glory" — claims 
 a sort of kindred with these beautiful creations, 
 so dear is the Angel, with his white sailing wings, 
 to the childish heart. Underneath the picture 
 was written what she had read so often and often 
 with a feeling of encouragement and consolation, 
 in those hours of mortification and self-humilia- 
 tion from which, unperceived by others, she had 
 suffered in those days so much. 
 
 "And he said unto Him, Oh, my Lord, where- 
 with shall I save Israel ? Behold, my family is 
 poor in Manasseh, and I am the least in my 
 father's house. And the Lord said. Surely I will 
 be with thee .... And he said unto Him, If now I 
 have found grace in Thy sight, then shew me a 
 sign that Thou talkest with me." 
 
 The Angel, most beautiful in her sight — with 
 his light figure, his flowing drapery, and his 
 shining, swanlike wings — was extending his 
 staff and touching the sacrifice, which kindled 
 into fire. 
 
 VOL. I. ^
 
 290 MORDAUNT HALL. 
 
 As she grew older, this image had taken a 
 strange possession of her mind. 
 
 As those aspirations after all that was great and 
 good — as the energy within, contrasted with the 
 miserable helplessness without, pressed upon her, 
 "Oh, my Lord, wherewith shall I save Israel?" 
 would repeat itself to her mind as if uttered by an 
 inner voice. . . . But as her mother, with unre- 
 mitting efforts, endeavoured to enlighten her 
 mind as to the duty to which all men are impera- 
 tively called of serving the Lord there where 
 He has marked their place — and how and when — 
 as He will, and not as they will ; as this great 
 truth became a living impulse, prompting to, and 
 preparing her for, the offer o^ her sacrifice — the 
 sacrifice of her submission and cheerful acqui- 
 escence, — when, after many and many a hard 
 and bitter struggle, this acquiescence, this sub- 
 mission, this purest and best of sacrifices, was per- 
 fected, — then she remembered the old picture of 
 Gideon and the Angel — then it seemed to her as 
 if the staff divine had touched her sacrifice, and 
 kindled up her heart with a pure and inextin- 
 guishable fire. 
 
 Often she had in thought compared the lot of 
 the deserted child with her own ; but there was a 
 difference in the circumstances. He was indeed
 
 MORDAUNT HALL. 291 
 
 poor in Manasseh, and the least in his father's 
 house ; but every promise that such an early 
 pei'iod of life could offer was here offered that he 
 should be a being highly gifted, replete with 
 beauty and energy. And as she gazed upon him 
 her heart, nourished upon high things, fancied 
 him sent upon some special mission into the 
 world. It was but a dream, and a dream from 
 which she was speedily awakened under the in- 
 fluence of the more prosaic views of her family ; 
 but while under this impression she had named 
 him Gideon, and the name exercised an influence 
 upon the child's destiny. There is something fatal 
 in names. Calantha unconsciously associated with 
 him those ideas of angelic visions and a high mis- 
 sion which belonged to the great hero among the 
 Judges of Israel ; and, perhaps, there was not one 
 member of the family, literal as they most of them 
 were, who did not respect him more as Gideon 
 than they would have done as Dick or Tom. 
 
 That the name exercised an influence over the 
 child's own imagination is unquestionable ; but of 
 this more hereafter. 
 
 END OF VOL. I.
 
 LONDON : 
 George ILvrclay, Castle Street, Leicester Square.
 
 13, Great Marlborough Street. 
 
 MR. COLBURN'S 
 
 LIST OF ?fEW WORKS. 
 
 BURKE'S 
 
 HISTORY OF THE LANDED GENTRY; 
 
 A GENEALOGICAL DICTIONARY 
 
 OF THE UNTITLED ARISTOCRACY OF ENGLAND, 
 
 SCOTLAND, AND IRELAND: 
 
 A COMPANION TO ALL PEERAGES. 
 
 2 vols, rojal Svo. beautifully printed in double columns, 2/. 10s. bound. 
 
 The Landed Gentry of England are so closely connected witb the 
 stirring records of its eventful history, that some acquaintance with 
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 torical student, the speculator in politics, and the curious in topogra- 
 phical and antiquarian lore ; and even the very spirit of ordinary 
 curiosity will prompt to a desire to trace the origin and progress of 
 those families whose influence pervades the towns and villages of our 
 land. This work furnishes such a mass of authentic information in 
 regard to all the principal families in the kingdom as has never before 
 been brought together. It relates to the untitled families of rank, as 
 the " Peerage and Baronetage" does to the titled, and forms, in fact, 
 a peerage of the untitled aristocracy. It embraces the whole of the 
 landed interest, and is indispensable to the library of every gentleman. 
 
 " A work in which every gentleman will find a domestic interest, as 
 it contains the fullest account of every known family in the United 
 Kingdom, It is a dictionary of all names, families, and their origins, — 
 of every man's neighbour and friend, if not of his own relatives 
 and immediate connexions." — BeWs Messenger. 
 
 "A work which contains curious information nowhere else to be 
 found, and to which professional genealogists may refer with advan- 
 tage," — Quarterly Beview. 
 
 "A work of this kind is of a national value. Its utility is not merely 
 temporary, but it will exist and be ackno\7ledged as long as the fa- 
 milies whose names and genealogies are recorded in it continue to form 
 an integral portion of the English constitution. As a correct record 
 of descent, no family should be without it." — Morrdng Post,
 
 MR. colburn's new publications. 
 
 WALPOLE'S MEMOIRS 
 
 OF THE REIGN OF 
 
 KING GEORGE THE SECOND; 
 
 EDITED, WITH A PREFACE AND NOTES, 
 
 BY TPIE LATE LORD HOLLAND. 
 
 Second Edition, Revised, in 3 handsome volumes 8vo, with Portraits, 
 price only 24s. bound (originallj published in 4to, at 51. 5s.). 
 
 The manuscript of these " Memoirs of the Reign of George the 
 Second" was found at Strawberry Hill on the death of Horace VValpole, 
 along with that of the " Memoirs of the Reign of George the Third," 
 lately edited by Sir Denis Le INIarchant, in two chests, relative to 
 which the author left written directions that they were not to be 
 opened till a considerable period after his decease. That time having 
 arrived, the seals were removed, and the nobleman to whom the 
 Memoirs had been bequeathed (the Earl of Waldegrave), decided on 
 giving them to the public ; and that they might possess every possible 
 advantage, it was arranged that they should appear under the editorial 
 auspices of the late Lord Holland, whose intimate acquaintance with 
 the period illustrated, family connexion with the most celebrated indi- 
 viduals of the time, and distinguished scholarship, appeared to point him 
 out as, above all men, peculiarly fitted for the task of preparing them 
 for the press. 
 
 Known as the son of the ablest minister the age produced (Sir Robert 
 Walpole), and having many of his nearest friends and relatives members at 
 different periods either of the government or of the opposition, it is impos- 
 sible to imagine an individual more favourably circumstanced than Horace 
 Walpole to record the stirring scenes and great events that made the reign 
 of George II. so remarkable. But to these advantages must be added a 
 talent in portraying the characteristics of his contemporaries, and a viva- 
 city in describing the scenes in which they figured so conspicuously, in 
 which he is without a rival. The result is a history which, with the 
 veracity of a chronicle, affords equal entertainment with the most viva- 
 cious romance, and though sufficiently attractive iu its own merits to all 
 classes of readers, is essential to every library containing any portion of 
 the Walpole Work? and Corrt^spondence. 
 
 "We are glad to see an octavo edition of this work. The publisher has 
 conferred a boon on the public by the republication." — Britannia. 
 
 "few historical works that have appeared can equal these volumes, 
 either in amusement or instruction." — Stmdai/ Times. 
 
 " Perhaps, without exception, the liveliest piece of historical gossip in 
 any language. It is a valuable contribution to the history and philosophy 
 of human nature." — Daili/ Neics. 
 
 "A work of greater interest than has been placed before the public for 
 a considerable time. The Memoirs abound in matter which is both useful 
 and amusing. The political portions of the work are of undoubted value 
 and interest, and embody a considerable amount of very curious historical 
 information, hitherto inaccessible even to the most determined and perse- 
 vering student." — Morning Post.
 
 HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY. 
 
 LIVES OF THE QUEENS OF ENGLAND, 
 
 NOW FIRST PUBLISHED FROM OFFICIAL RECORDS, 
 AND OTHER AUTHENTIC DOCUMENTS, PRIVATE AS WELL AS PUBLIC. 
 
 BY AGNES STRICKLAND. 
 DEDICATED BY PERMISSION TO HER MAJESTY- 
 
 Complete sets of this interesting work may now be had, in 12 vols., em- 
 bellished with Portraits, and other Illustrations, elegantly boand, price 
 61 6s., and any volume may be purchased separately, price 10s. 6rf. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 " These volumes have the fascination of a romance united to the 
 integrity of history." — Times. 
 
 "Miss Strickland has made a very judicious use of many authentic 
 MS. authorities not previously collected, and the result is a most inte- 
 resting addition to our biographical library." — Quarterly Review. 
 
 " A most valuable and entertaining work. There is certainly no lady 
 of our day who has devoted her pen to so beneficial a purpose as Miss 
 Strickland. Nor is there any other whose works possess a deeper or more 
 enduring interest. Miss Strickland is to our mind the first literary lady 
 of the age." — Chronicle. 
 
 " A valuable contribution to historical Isnowledge. It contains a mass 
 of every kind of historical matter of interest, which industry and research 
 could collect. We have derived much entertainment and instruction from 
 the work." — Aihenceum. 
 
 "We must pronounce Miss Strickland beyond all comparison themosten- 
 tertaining historian in the English language. She is certainly a woman of 
 powerful and active mind, as well as of scrupulous justice and honesty of 
 purpose. And, as we before remarked, the considerable number of new 
 documents to which she has had access, and the curious nature of some of 
 these documents, impart to her production a character of which it would be 
 bard to determine whether the utility or the entertainment predominated." 
 — Morning Post. 
 
 *' This work is written by a lady of considerable learning, indefati- 
 gable industry, and careful judgment. All these qualifications for a 
 biographer and an historian she has brought to bear upon the subject 
 of her volumes, and from them has resulted a narrative interesting to 
 all, and more particularly interesting to that portion of the community 
 to whom the more refined researches of literature afford pleasure and 
 instruction. The whole work should be read, and no doubt will be 
 read, by all who are anxious for information. It is a lucid arrange- 
 ment of facts, derived from authentic sources, exhibiting a combina- 
 tion of industry, learning, judgment, and impartiality, not^ often met 
 with in biographers of crowned heads." — Times. (Third Notice.) 
 
 _— —
 
 MR. COLBURN's new PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 HISTORY OF 
 
 THE CAPTIVITY OF NAPOLEON 
 
 AT ST. HELENA. 
 
 BY GENERAL COUNT MONTHOLON, 
 
 The Emperor's Companion in Exile, and Testamentary Executor, 
 
 Now first translated and published from the author's original manuscript. 
 
 4 vols. 8vo. Vols. III. and IV. may be bad separately to complete sets. 
 
 "General Count Montbolon, Napoleon's companion in exile, and tes- 
 tamentary executor, has determined by detailed and honest statements, 
 to bring every thing connected with this important event before the 
 eyes of" civilised Europe. We have read his volumes with intense 
 interest and curiosity, and we are eager to acknowledge the general 
 good sense, right feeling, and strong desire for impartiality that have 
 signalised them. They contain innumerable passages of interest, 
 amusement, and information." — Cou7't Journal. 
 
 THE ONLY AUTHORISED ENGLISH EDITION. 
 
 Now in course of publication, embellished with portraits. The first 
 six volumes may now be had bound in three, price ols. 6d. 
 
 M. A. THIERS' HISTOEY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE CO?(SULATE AND THE EMPIRE 
 
 OF FRANCE, UNDER NAPOLEON. 
 
 A sequel to his History of the French Revolution. Translated, with 
 the sanction and approval of the Author, by D. Forbes Campbell, Esq, 
 
 Having filled at different times, the high offices of Minister of the 
 Interior, of Finance, of Foreign Affairs, and President of the Council, 
 M. Thiers has enjoyed facilities beyond the reach of every other 
 biographer of Napoleon, for procuring, from exclusive and authentic 
 sources, the choicest materials for his present work. As guardian to 
 the archives of the state, he had access to diplomatic papers and other 
 documents of the highest importance, hitherto known only to a privi- 
 leged few, and the publication of which cannot fail to produce a great 
 sensation. From private sources, M. Thiers, it appears, has also de- 
 rived much valuable information. Many interesting memoirs, diaries, 
 and letters, all hitherto unpublished, and most of them destined for 
 political reasons- to remain so, have been placed at his disposal ; while 
 all the leading characters of the empire, who were alive when the 
 author undertook the present history, have supplied him with a mass 
 of incidents and anecdotes, which have never before appeared in print, 
 and the accuracy and value of which may be inferred from the fact of 
 these parlies having been themselves eye-witnesses of, or actors in, the 
 great events of the period. 
 
 *^* To prevent disappointment, the public are requested to be par- 
 ticular in giving their orders for " Colburn's Authorised Edition, 
 
 TRANSLATED UY D. FoRBES CaMPBELL."
 
 HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY. 
 
 THE 
 
 COURT AKD TIMES OF JAMES I., 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY AUTHEXTIC AND CONTLDEyTIAL LETTERS, FR03I 
 VARIOUS PUBLIC AND PErS'ATE MANUSCRIPT COLLECTIONS. 
 
 EDITED, "WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NUMEROUS NOTES, BY THE 
 AUTHOR OF " 3IE3IOTES OF SOPHL\ DOEOTHEA." 
 
 2 vols. 8vo. 28s. bound. 
 
 It may be asserted with confidence that scarcely any similar publi- 
 cation can exceed these volumes in interest, or rival them in the extent 
 and variety with which they illustrate contemporary history. They 
 contain the Confidential Correspondence of the Eeign of James I. 
 written to and from the Principal Llinisters of State, Ambassadors, 
 and other persons either connected with the court, or occupying 
 positions which afibrded them means of obtaining the most secret 
 information. Among these wOl be found, Robert Cecil, Marquis of 
 Salisbury ; Dudley Carleton, Viscount Dorchester ; Gilbert, Earl 
 of Shrewsbury ; Henry, Earl of aS^orthampton : WilUam, Earl of 
 Pembroke ; Edward, Lord Wotton ; Richard, Earl of Dorset ; George 
 Calvert, Baron Baltimore; Viscount Andover; Thomas, Earl of Arun- 
 del and Surrey; Sir Clement Edmondes ; Sir Isaac Wake; Sir Henry 
 Fanshawe ; Sir Thomas Edmondes ; Sir John Throckmorton ; and 
 various other eminent diplomatists and statesmen. 
 
 Of the innumerable subjects on which the volumes afford informa- 
 tion, it is scarcely possible to give an adequate idea, but among many 
 others may be named. The Trial of Sir Walter Raleigh and his sub- 
 sequent history — The Gunpowder Plot — The Murder of Sir Thomas 
 Overbury — The Trial of the Earl and Coimtess of Somerset — Tlie 
 Rise of ViUiers, Duke of Buckingham and his Family — The Early 
 History and Death of Henry, Prince of Wales— The Private Lives 
 of Queen Anne of Denmark and Prince Charles — The Stories of 
 Arabella Stuart and Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia — The Visits of 
 the King of Denmark and the Count Palatine of the Rhine— The 
 Proceedings of the Houses of Parliament, the Privy Council, the 
 Courts of Law, and the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge — The 
 Court Masques and Entertainments — The Revels of the Inns of Court 
 —The Theatres, &c. 
 
 In its illustrations of the Literary History of the time, the work is 
 extremely rich, abounding in anecdotes of Ben Jonson, Carew, Wither, 
 Daniel, the Killegrews, Sir Henry Saville, Sir Robert Cotton, Camden, 
 the brothers Shirley the famous travellers. Bacon, Sir Julius Caesar, 
 Dr. Donne, Sir Henry Wotton, and many scholars of note both 
 at home and abroad. Added to these interesting features the work 
 contains notices of almost every person of celebrity in the king- 
 dom, so tliat there is scarcely a family whose members have figured in 
 the history of this portion of the seventeenth century, that will not find 
 in these volumes some reference to their ancestors.
 
 ) MR. COLBURN'S new PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 DIARY AND CORRESPONDENCE 
 
 OF 
 
 JOHN EVELYN. 
 
 A NEW AND REVISED EDITION. 
 
 To be completed in .3 volumes, handsomely printed in post 8vo, witb 
 Illustrations. (Preparing for Publication.) 
 
 DIARY AND MEMOIRS OF SOPHIA 
 DOROTHEA, 
 
 CONSORT OF GEORGE I. 
 
 NOW FIRST PUBLISHED FROM THE ORIGINALS. 
 
 Cheaper Edition, in 2 vols. 8vo, with Portrait, 21s. bound. 
 
 ** A work abounding in the romance of real life." — Messenger. 
 
 " A book of marvellous revelations, establishing beyond all doubt 
 the perfect innocence of the beautiful, highly gifted, and inhumanly 
 treated Sophia Dorothea." — Naval and Military Gazette. 
 
 LETTERS OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 
 
 EDITED, WITH AN HISTORICAL INTRODUCTION AND NOTES, 
 
 By AGNES STRICKLAND. 
 
 New and Cheaper Edition with numerous Additions, uniform witb 
 Miss Strickland's "Lives of the Queens of England," in 2 vols., post 
 8vo, with Portrait, &c., 'Us. bound. 
 
 " No public or private library can be considered complete without 
 this valuable work." — Morning Post. 
 
 "The best collection of authentic memorials relative to the Queen 
 of Scots that has ever appeared." — Morning Chronicle, 
 
 MEMOIRS OF PRINCE CHARLES STUART, 
 
 COMMONLY CALLED THE " YOUNG PRETENDER," 
 
 WITH NOTICES OF THE REBELLION IN 1745. 
 
 BY C. L. KLOSE, ESQ. 
 Cheaper edition. 2 vols. 8vo, with Portrait, 2l5. bound. 
 "This work may justly claim the credit of being the fullest and 
 most authentic narrative of this great era of English history." — 
 3Iessenger, 
 
 MEMOIRS OF LADY JANE GREY. 
 
 BY SIR HARRIS NICHOLAS. 
 1 vol. 8vo, 8s. 6d. bound.
 
 HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY. 
 
 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 MADEMOISELLE DE MOXTPEXSIER; 
 
 GRAND -DAUGHTER OF HEXRI QUATRE, AND NIECE OF HENRIETTA 
 MARIA OF ENGLAND. 
 
 WEITTEN BY HERSELF. 
 
 EDITED FROM THE FRENCH. 
 
 3 vols, post 8to, with Portrait, 31s. 6d. bound. 
 
 Tliis illustrious lady, who was generally styled " La Grande INIa- 
 demoiselle," acquired a widely-spread and well-merited renown on 
 account of the extraordinary nature of the enterprises in which she 
 was so conspicuously engaged. She was related to the great Conde, 
 and took a leading part in the events of the troublous times in which 
 she lived — a part, indeed, fitted rather for a captain-general, than for 
 one of her gentle sex and high station; but in which, however, she 
 acquitted herself to admiration. 
 
 Imbued with the chivalrous spirit of the age, Mademoiselle de Mont- 
 pensier joined the League of the Fronde, and it seems difficult to 
 decide whether she or the illustrious Conde, — was the head, or as 
 it has been termed " the soul," of that famous confederacy. 13y her 
 connexion with it, she forfeited the Queenly crown of France, besides 
 involving herself in many subsequent disasters. Nothing, however 
 could deter her from pursuing what she conceived to be the line of her 
 duty, and she never once faltered in her devotion to the cause which 
 she had espoused. 
 
 After various remarkable adventures. Mademoiselle de ]\Iontpensier 
 signalized herself in an especial manner during the last terrific struggle 
 of her party — the Battle of St. Antoine. Reckless of danger, by her 
 presence in the thickest of the fight, she animated the spirits of the 
 devoted band of heroes under Conde, who so distinguished themselves 
 on that occasion; and, by her courage and address, succeeded in res- 
 cuing them from tlie dangers by which they were environed. 
 
 The subsequent career of " La Grande ]Maderaoiselle" assumes a 
 more pacific character. She was no less distinguished in love than in 
 war, having been importuned by a host of suitors, who aspired to 
 the honour of her hand; and, at one time, lier destiny seemed likely to 
 be linked to that of her great warrior-relative, Conde. After rejecting 
 the overtures of kings and princes, — among whom may be mentioned 
 Charles the Second of England, — this Sovereign Princess finally fixed 
 her affection upon the Cadet of a noble house — the Duke de Lauzun, 
 the same who rendered such good service to the Queen of James the 
 Second, and who was conspicuous alike by his birth and his courage. 
 For him no sacrifice appeared too great to be made by her — no trial of 
 strength and constancy of woman's love, too severe. Her adventures, 
 indeed, may be said to combine the charm of romance with the authen- 
 ticity of history.
 
 MR. COLBURN S NEW PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 MEMOIRS OF LADY HESTER STMHOPE, 
 
 Comprising her Opinions, and Anecdotes of the most remarkable Persons 
 
 of her Time, 
 
 Cheaper Edition, 3 vols, post 8vo, with portraits, &c., 2 Is. bound. 
 
 These memoirs must interest all classes of readers. Throughout 
 the whole of the brilliant period of the life of her uncle, Mr. Pitt, 
 Lady Hester Stanhope (who was the partner of his secret counsels) 
 was drawn into daily intercourse with the most remarkable people of 
 the age — statesmen, wits, diplomatists, men of letters and science, 
 women of fashion and celebrity, and all the members of the royal 
 family, with whom she was upon terms of familiar intimacy. 
 
 " These volumes are such as no one who takes them up can easily lay 
 down." — Quarterly JReview. 
 
 THE SEVEN TEARS' TRAVELS 
 
 OF 
 
 LADY HESTER STANHOPE, 
 
 FORMING THE COMPLETION OF HER MEMOIRS. 
 
 Cheaper Edition. 3 vols, post 8vo, with numerous Illustrations. 
 18s. bound. 
 
 *' This work is intended to complete the ' Memoirs of Lady Hester 
 Stanhope.' As the * Memoirs' embraced a period of about fifteen years, 
 in which were traced the causes which led to the * decline and fall' of 
 her Ladyship's somewhat visionary Empire in the East, the ' Travels' 
 take up her history from the time she quitted England, and, by 
 a faithful narrative of her extraordinary adventures, show the rise 
 and growth of her Oriental greatness. A distiuct line may at once be 
 drawn between this and all other books of travels in the East — for it 
 boasts of a heroine who marches at the head of Arab tribes through 
 the Syrian Desert — who calls Governors of Cities to her aid while she 
 excavates the earth in search of hidden treasures — who sends Generals 
 with their troops to carry fire and sword into tlie fearful passes of a 
 mountainous country to avenge the death of a murdered traveller — 
 and who then goes defenceless and unprotected to sit down a sojourner 
 in the midst of them." 
 
 THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON'S MAXIMS 
 AND OPINIONS: 
 
 WITH A BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Second Edition, in 8vo, with Portrait, 12s. bound. 
 *'The best book that has been published respecting the Duke of 
 Wellington." — Times.
 
 HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY. 
 
 MISS BURNEY'S DIARY. 
 
 VOLS. VI. AND VII., COMPLETING THE WORK. 
 
 THE DIAUY AND LETTERS 
 
 OF 
 
 MADAME D'ARBLAT, 
 
 AUTHOR OF " EVELINA," " CECILIA," &c. 
 Including tLe period of her residence at the Court of Queen Charlotte. 
 
 EDITED BY HER NIECE. 
 
 Critical Opijtions. 
 
 *' Madame d'Arblay lived to be a classic. Time set on her fame, 
 before elie went hence, that seal which is seldom set except on the 
 fame of tbe departed. All those whom we have been accustomed to 
 revere as intellectual patriarchs seemed children when compared with 
 her ; for Burke had sat up all night to read her writings, and Johnson 
 had pronounced her superior to Fielding, when Rogers was still a 
 schoolboy, and Souihey still in petticoats. Her Diary is written in 
 her earliest and best manner ; in true woman's English, clear, natural, 
 and lively. It ought to be consulted by every person who wishes to 
 be well acquainted with the history of our literature and our manners. 
 The account which she gives of the king's illness will, we think, be 
 more valued by the historians of a future age than any equal portions 
 of Pepys' or Evelyn's Diaries." — Edinburgh Review. 
 
 "This publication will take its place in the libraries beside Walpole 
 and Boswell." — Literary Gazette. 
 
 " In our minds, this delightful Diary has been the most agreeable 
 variety of the season. Miss Burney's first volume ought to be placed 
 beside Boswell's ' Life,' to which it forms an excellent supplement." — Times. 
 
 '* A work unequalled in literary and social value by any thing else of 
 a similar kind in the language." — Naval and Military Gazette. 
 
 '•This work may be considered a kind of supplement to Boswell's 
 Life of Johnson. It is a beautiful picture of society as it existed in 
 manners, taste, and literature, in the early period of the reign of George 
 the Third, drawn by a pencil as vivid and brilliant as that of any of 
 the celebrated persons who composed the circle." — Messenger. 
 
 "Miss Burney's Diary, sparkling with wit, teeming with lively 
 anecdote, and delectable gossip, and full of sound and discreet views 
 of persons and things, will be perused with interest by all classes of 
 readers." — Post. 
 
 "This work presents an unrivalled combination of attraction. 
 That extraoidinary man Johnson is painted far better than he is by 
 Boswell." — Court Journal. 
 
 " We know not when we have been so delighted with a book as 
 with Miss Burney's Diary. Every page teems with interest." — 
 Weekly Chronicle. 
 
 _
 
 10 MR. COLBURN'S new PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 MEMOIRS OF PRINCE ALBERT; 
 
 AND THE HOUSE OF SAXONY. 
 
 Second Edition, revised, with Additions, by Authority. 1 vol. 
 post 8vo, with a Portrait of the Prince, 8s. 6d. bound. 
 *' The best and most authentic Work on the subject of the Prince 
 Consort and his Family." — John Bull. 
 
 THE SECOND VOLUISIE OF 
 
 LORD BROUGHAM'S LIVES OF MEN OF 
 
 LETTERS AND SCIENCE, 
 
 WHO FLOURISHED DURING THE REIGN OF GEORGE III. 
 
 (With Original Letters), 
 
 Comprising Adam Smith (with an analytical view of his great work), 
 
 Lavoisier, Gibbon, Sir J. Banks, D'Alembert, and Dr. Johnson. 
 
 Royal 8vo, with Portraits, 21s. bound. 
 
 WOMAN AND HER MASTER; 
 
 OE, THE HISTORY OF THE FEMALE SEX FROM THE 
 
 EARLIEST PERIOD TO THE PRESENT DAY. 
 
 BY LADY MORGAN. 
 
 Cheaper Edition. 2 vols., post 8vo, 16s. bound. 
 "Lady Morgan has imparted to history the charm of romance. 
 We have read her series of rapid but brilliant and vigorous sketches 
 with an interest which many a Novel fails to excite." — Weekly Chronicle, 
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE 
 
 LITERARY LADIES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 BY MRS. ELWOOD. 
 Cheaper Edition. 2 vols., post 8vo, with portraits, 12s. bound. 
 "The literary ladies of England form a brilliant list, many of the most 
 beautiful and permanently useful portions of our literature being the pro- 
 ductions of female pens. A collection of memoirs of those eminent per- 
 sons was much wanted, and Mrs. Elwood's work supplies the desideratum. 
 It will furnish, especially to young readers of her own sex, much instruc- 
 tive matter in an interesting form." — Chronicle. 
 
 LIFE OF WILLLiM THE CONQUEROR, 
 
 By THOMAS ROSCOE, Esq. 
 1 vol., small Svo, with Portrait. 
 *' This life of the Conqueror is the first attempt made to do full justice 
 to his character and talents." — Britannia. 
 
 " From various sources Mr. Roscoe has drawn facts which have never 
 yet appeared in relation to the life of William the Conqueror." — Weekly 
 Chronicle.
 
 HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY. 11 
 
 MEMOIRS OF LADY SDNDON ; 
 
 AND OF THE 
 
 COURT OF QUEEN CAROLINE, CONSORT OF 
 GEORGE II. ; 
 
 Including Letters of the most Celebrated Persons of the Time, 
 now First Published from the Originals, 
 By Mrs. THOMSON, 
 Author of "Memoirs of the Court of Henry VIII.," &c. 
 2 vols., post 8vo, with Portraits, 24s. bound. 
 " We recommend this work to general circulation, not less for its 
 attractiveness as a record of Court personalities than for its historical 
 value." — Atlas. 
 
 " Lady Sundon was the Queen's Premier — at once her favourite atten- 
 dant and chief Minister. She had correspondence with the most eminent 
 and most notorious persons of her time, and hence her Memoirs become 
 veritable and amusing illustrations of the Court of George II. We con- 
 scientiously recommend the volumes." — Britannia. 
 
 LETTERS OF THE KINGS OF ENGLAND; 
 
 Now first collected from the Originals in Royal archives ^and from 
 other authentic sources, private as well as public. 
 
 Edited, with an Historical Introduction and Notes, by J. O. 
 Halliwell, Esq., F. R. S., &c. Cheaper Edition. 2 vols, post 8vo, 
 with portraits, 12^. bound. 
 
 "A valuable addition to our mass of historic materials — as valu- 
 able no doubt, as almost any other that has appeared in our time." — 
 AthencEum. 
 
 " We have here the sayings and doings of our sovereigns told by 
 themselves in a manner far more interesting than in any work we are 
 acquainted with." — Literary Gazette. 
 
 LETTERS OF ROYAL & ILLUSTRIOUS LADIES 
 
 OF GREAT BRITAIN, 
 
 ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND; 
 
 Now first published from the Originals, with Introductory Notices, 
 
 By MARY ANN EVERETT WOOD. 
 Cheaper Edition. 3 vols, post 8vo, with Facsimile Autographs, &c. 
 
 189. bound. 
 "This collection of letters is very curious and very valuable. The 
 general reader will derive great instruction from its pages, and the 
 reader of history will find it of considerable service. The editress has 
 accomplished well a remarkably laborious task. She has collected 
 together the letters of the most illustrious women of England, whose 
 lives extend over a period of four centuries and a half, and has 
 taken infinite pains to render the subject of the letters intelligible to 
 the reader by prefixing notes, varying in length as the occasion 
 requires. The work certainly deserves a wide success." — Sunday Times.
 
 12 MR. COLBURN'S new PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 BURKE'S PEERAGE AKD BAPiONETAGE, 
 
 New and Revised Edition. 
 
 Corrected throughout from the personal communications of the Nobility, 
 &c., and containing all the New Creations. In 1 vol. (comprising as 
 much matter as twenty ordinary volumes), with upwards of 1500 En- 
 gravings of Arms, &c., 385. bound. 
 
 "Mr. Burke's 'Peerage and Baronetage' is the most complete, the 
 most convenient, and the cheapest work of the kind ever ofl'ered to the 
 public." — Su7i. 
 
 " Mr. Burke's ' Peerage and Baronetage' is certainly the most perfect 
 and comprehensive encyclopaedia of personal and national history ever 
 given to the public ; combining surprising accuracy and important in- 
 formation, with the greatest brevity and clearness, and exhibiting, in a 
 condensed and lucid form, the lives and acliievements of the many 
 eminent men who have shed lustre on the rolls of our nobility, from the 
 steel-clad barons of Cressy and Agincourt, to the heroes of Blenheim 
 and Waterloo." — Globe. 
 
 BURKE'S DICTIOMRY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 EXTINCT, DORMANT, AND ABEYANT 
 
 PEERAGES OF ENGLAND, SCOTLAND, AND 
 IRELAND. 
 
 A C03IPA.NI0N TO ALL OTHER PEERAGES. 
 
 Cheaper Edition, beautifully printed, in one volume, 8vo, containing 
 800 double column pages, 21s. bound. 
 
 It should be particularly noticed that this work appertains nearly as 
 much to extant as to extinct persons of distinction; for though dignities 
 pass away, it rarely occurs that whole families do. 
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS; 
 
 Comprising the Lives of the Speakers and Eminent Statesmen, and 
 Lawyers, from the Convention Parliament of 1688-9, to the passing of the 
 Reform Bill in 1832 ; 
 
 BY WM. CHARLES TOWNSEND, ESQ., M.A. 
 
 RECORDER OF MACCLESFIELD. 
 
 Cheaper Edition. 2 vols. 8vo, 21s. bound. 
 
 *' Much useful and curious information is scattered throughout these 
 volumes." — Quarterly Review. 
 
 " I take the opportunity of acknowledging the valuable assistance which 
 I have on several occasions received from Mr. Townsend's ' History of the 
 House of Commons.' " — Loixl Campbell — Lives of the Chancellors.
 
 HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY. 13 
 
 REMINISCENCES OF 
 
 PRINCE TALLEYRAXD; 
 
 Edited from the Papers of the late M. COLMACHE, the Prince's 
 Private Secretary. 
 
 2 vols., post 8vo, 21s. bound. 
 
 LIFE AXD LETTERS OF 
 
 THE EMPRESS JOSEPHINE. 
 
 BY MADEMOISELLE DUCREST. 
 Cheaper Edition. 3 vols., smaU Svo, 18s. — The same in French. 
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE 
 
 COURT OF MARIE ANTOINETTE. 
 
 By MADA]\IE CA:^1PAX, First Lady of the Bedchamber to the 
 
 Queen. 
 
 Cheaper Edition, in 2 vols. Svo, with Portraits, 125. — The same in 
 
 French . 
 
 " We have seldom perused so entertaining a work — it is as a mirror 
 of the most splendid court of Europe, at a time when monarchy had 
 not been shorn of any of its beams, that it is particularly worthy of 
 our attention."— 3forn«;?5r Chronicle. 
 
 MEMOIRS OF THE QUEENS OF FRANCE. 
 
 BY :MRS. FORBES BUSH. 
 
 Cheaper Editioo." In 2 vols, post Svo, with Portraits, 12s. bound. 
 
 "This charming' "Work comprises a separate Memoir of every Queen 
 
 of France from the earliest of her annals to the present time. The 
 
 work of Mrs. Bush cannot fail of being a desirable acquisition to every 
 
 library in the kingdom." — Sun. 
 
 MEMOIRS OF 
 
 THE BABYLONIAN PRINCESS, 
 
 MARIA THERESA ASMAR, 
 DAUGHTER OF EMIR ABDALLAH ASMAR; 
 
 Containing a narrative of her residence in Mesopotamia, Jerusalem, 
 Mount Lebanon, Kurdistan, Ispahan, Teheran, and Shiraz, together 
 with an account of her travels in Italy, France, England, &c. 
 Dedicated, by permission, to Her Majesty the Queen Dowager. 
 2 vols, post Svo, with Portrait, 21s. bound.
 
 14 MR. COLBURN'S new PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 STORY OF THE PENINSULAR WAR, 
 
 A Companion Volume to the " Story of the Battle of Waterloo." 
 With six Portraits and Map, 7s. 6(1. bound. 
 
 It is the object of this publication to present the English Nation with 
 what has long been a desideratum— A COMPLETE HiSTORYOFTHE 
 PENINSULAR WAR, down to the peace of 1814, in the smallest pos- 
 sible compass, and at so moderate a cost, as to be accessible to all classes 
 of readers ; and it is confidently trusted that this narrative, as completed 
 by its able Editor, will satisfy all who take an interest in the glorious period 
 to which it refers, and will be regarded as a worthy and indispensable 
 companion to " The Story of the Battle of VVaterloo." 
 
 THE NEMESIS IN CHINA; 
 
 COMPRISING 
 
 A COIMPLETE HISTORY OF THE WAR IN THAT COUNTRY; 
 With a Particular Account of the Colony of Hong-Kong. 
 From Notes of Capt. W. H. HALL, R.N., and Personal Obser- 
 vations by W. D. BERNARD, Esq., AM., Oxon. 
 
 CHEAPER EDITION, with a new Introduction, 
 1 Volume, with Maps and Plates, 10s. 6d. bound. 
 
 " The most amusing and instructive voyage that has appeared since the 
 days of Anson." — Sun, 
 
 " A work which will take its place beside that of Captain Cook in the 
 annals of the maritime history of this country." — Weekly Chronicle. 
 
 " This is the most important publication that has appeared respecting 
 our late contest with China. In all that relates to tbe Nemesis espe- 
 cially, and to the naval operations of the Expedition, it is replete 
 with the most lively and stirring interest." — Naval and Military 
 Gazette. 
 
 TRAVELS IN ALGERU. 
 
 BY VISCOUNT FEILDING AND CAPTAIN KENNEDY. 
 
 2 vols., post 8vo, with lUustrations, 21s. bound. 
 
 " We feel special pleasure in recommending this interesting and en- 
 tertaining work as one which throws much light on the customs and 
 condition of a brave but unfortunate people, and atfords much valuable 
 information as to all that is remarkable in the country they inhabit." 
 — Hood's Magazine.
 
 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL. 15 
 
 REVELATIONS OF RUSSIA. 
 
 By an ENGLISH RESIDENT. 
 
 Third edition, revised by the Author, with additional Notes, and 
 brought down to the present time. 2 vols., post 8vo, with Illustra- 
 tions, 21s. bound. 
 
 '* Such books as the • Revelations of Russia' are to be had only for 
 their weight in gold ; and I know an instance where as much as 
 500 roubles (about 22/.) were paid for the loan of a copy." — Letter from 
 St. Petersburgh, in the AthencBum. 
 
 RUSSIA UNDER THE AUTOCRAT 
 NICHOLAS L 
 
 By IVAN GOLOVINE, a Russian Subject. 
 
 Cheaper Edition, 2 vols., with a full length Portrait of tbe Emperor, 
 
 16s. bound. 
 
 ''These are volumes of an extremely interesting nature, emanating 
 from the pen of a Russian, noble by birth, who has escaped beyond 
 the reach of the Czar's power. The merits of the work are very con- 
 siderable. It throws a new light on the state of the empire — its 
 aspect, political and domestic — its manners ; the employes about the 
 palace, court, and capital; its police; its spies; its depraved society, 
 &C." — Sunday Times. 
 
 REVELATIONS OF SPAIN. 
 
 By T. M. HUGHES, Esq. 
 Second Edition, revised and corrected. 2 vols, post 8vo, 21s. bound. 
 
 **A very clever book — the result of considerable experience." — Ex- 
 aminer. 
 
 " As a picture of the actual state of Spain, this work is intensely 
 interesting. We cannot too strongly recommend it to the notice of 
 the reader. There is scarcely any subject of interest connected with 
 Spain and its inhabitants that the author has not handled in detail." 
 — John Bull, 
 
 REVELATIONS OF PORTUGAL, 
 
 AND NARRATIVE OF AN OVERLAND JOURNEY 
 
 TO LISBON. 
 BY T. M. HUGHES, ESQ. 
 Secoxd Edition. 2 vols., post 8vo, 21s. bound. 
 *• Mr. Hughes' volumes are full of entertainment, and contain much 
 valuable information on the real state of the Peninsula." — Britannia,
 
 16 MR. COLBURN'S new PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 LORD CASTLEREAGffS MRRATIVE 
 
 OF HIS JOURNEY TO DAMASCUS, 
 
 THROUGH EGYPT, NUBIA, ARABIA PETRiEA, PALES- 
 TINE, AND SYRIA. 
 
 2 vols., post 8vo, with Illustrations, bound. 
 
 "These volumes are replete with new impressions, and are especially 
 characterised by great power of lively and graphic description." — New 
 Monthly. 
 
 "Lord Castlereagh's Journey includes his Lordship's voyage up the 
 Nile to the second cataract — his account of the Pyramids, Luxor, Philoe, 
 Thebes, and all the wonderful monuments of the ancient world accessible 
 to the traveller — his vic:its to Mount Sinai aud other places famous in Bib- 
 lical history — bis descriptions of Bethlehem, Jerusalem, and the sacred 
 localities of Christianity — his characteristic sketches of the modern 
 Egyptians, Arabs, Armenians, Jews, Druses, and Turks, and his personal 
 recollections of Mehemet Ali and the nobles of his Court, the great 
 Sheiks of the Desert, and the Princesses of the Lebanon. 'Jo future tour- 
 ists in the East the work will be extremely valuable." — Globe. 
 
 KAMATIVE OF AN 
 
 OVERLAND JOUllNEY ROUND THE 
 WORLD. 
 
 BY Sm GEOllGE SIMPSON, 
 
 GOVERNOR-IN-CIIIEF OF THE HUDSON'S BAY COSIPANY's TERRITORIES 
 IN NORTH AMERICA. 
 
 2 vols. 8vo, with Map, &c., 31s. 6d. bound. 
 
 " The great novelty of this expedition arises from its having been prin- 
 cipally performed Overland. The position and influence of the author, 
 his enterprise and scientific attainments, have enabled him to make exten- 
 sive additions to our limited knowledge of the various interesting portions 
 of the globe which he traversed. The contributions to the geography of 
 the great American Continent, in particular, over which he proceeded 
 from Canada to Vancouver, will be found extremely valuable, as well as 
 his notices of the various tribes of tlie aborigines with whom he came in 
 contact — his residence at Sitka, and account of the Aleutian Archipelago 
 — his descriptions of Kamsclialka and Siberia — and his journeys over 
 those vast regions of the Russian Empire, concerniug which we have 
 hitherto received such scanty information." 
 
 ** A more valuable or instructive work, or one more full of perilous 
 adventure and heroic enterprise, we have never met with." — John Bull. 
 
 " It deserves to be a standard work in all libraries, and it will become 
 so. " — -Messenger. 
 
 "The countries of which this work gives us anew knowledge are pro- 
 bably destined to act with great power on our interests, some as the rivals 
 of our commerce, some as the depots of our manufactures, and some as 
 the recipients of that overflow of population which Europe is now pour- 
 ing out from all her (ields on the open wilderness of the world." — Black" 
 vjood's Magazine.
 
 VOYAGES AND TRAVELS. 17 
 
 HOCHELAGA; 
 
 OR, ENGLAND IN THE NEW WORLD. 
 
 Edited by ELIOT WARBLTRTON, Esq., 
 
 Author of " THE CRESCENT AND THE CROSS." Third Edition. 
 2 vols., post 8vo, with illustrations, 21s. bound. 
 
 " We recommend ' Hochelaga' most heartily, in case any of our readers 
 may as yet be unacquainted with it." — Quarterly Beview. 
 
 "This work has already reached a third edition. We shall be sur- 
 prised if it do not go through many. It possesses almost every qualifica- 
 tion of a good book — grace, variety, and vigour of style — a concentrated 
 power of description, which has all the effect of elaborate painting — infor- 
 mation carefully collected and judiciously communicated — sound and en- 
 larged views of important questions — a hearty and generous love of coun- 
 try— and the whole pervaded by a refined but sometimes caustic humour, 
 which imparts a constant attraction to its pages. We can cordially recom- 
 mend it to our readers, as well for the amusement of its lighter portions, 
 the vivid brilliancy of its descriptions, and the solid information it contains 
 respecting Canada, and the position generally of England in the new 
 world."— Jo/m Bull 
 
 NARRATIVE OF THE 
 
 TEN TEARS' VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY 
 
 ROUND THE WORLD, 
 
 OF H.M.S. ADVENTURE AND BEAGLE, 
 
 UNDER THE C03IMAND OF CAPIAIXS KING AND FITZKOY. 
 
 Cheaper Edition, in 2 large Vol.«. 8vo, with Maps, Charts, and upwards of Sixty 
 Illustrations, by Landseer, and other eminent Artists, price II. lis. (id. bound. 
 
 " One of the most interesting: narratives of voyasring that it has fallen to our 
 lot to notice, and which must always occupy a distinguished space in the history 
 of scientific navigation."— Quarterli/ JReiiew. 
 
 These volumes detail the variousincidents which occurred during the examina- 
 tion of the Southern Shores of South America, and the Beagle's circumnavigation 
 of the Globe, and add considerably to our knowledge of Hydrography, Geography, 
 and Natural History, and of the Habits, <&c., of the Aborigines. There will be 
 found in them the materials of two distinct works, embracing every thing worthy 
 of notice in the expeditions during a period of nearly ten years. The first volume 
 by Captain P. P. King, F.R.S., relates to the expedition under his command, with 
 au Appendix by Major Sabine, R. A. , F.R.S, containing discussions on the mag- 
 netic observations made during the voyages. The second volume is by Captain 
 Robert Fitzroy, and relates to the second voyage, with an Appendix, giving the 
 determination of many positions and measurements of meridian distances, and 
 other nautical information. The work is beautifully illustrated witii etchings and 
 engravings on steel, by Mr. Landseer and other eminent artists, from drawings by 
 Mr. Martens and Mr. Earle ; and with Charts and Plans by Mr. Gardner and 
 Messrs. Walker : and an entirely new Map of South America, by Mr. J. Arrow- 
 smith, in which the position of places may be ascertained to within less than two 
 miles. In the volumes notices will be foand of the Cape Verd, Falkland, and other 
 Islands in the Atlantic Ocean — of the coasts of South America, from Pernambuco to 
 Guayaquil— of the Galopagos Islands — the dangerous Archipelago, or Lovr Islands 
 — Otaheite— New Zealand— Australia— The Keeling Islands— Mauritius-the Cape 
 of Good Hope, &c. 
 
 N.B. Mr. Darwin's Journal of the Geology and Natural History of the Voyage 
 may be had in a single volume, 8vo, price 18*. bound.
 
 18 MR. COLBURN'S new PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 THREE YEARS U CONSTANTINOPLE, 
 
 OR, DOMESTIC MANNERS OF THE TURKS. 
 
 BY CHARLES WHITE, Esq. 
 
 Cheaper Edition, 3 vols, post 8vo, with 34 Illustrations from Original 
 Drawings, price 21s. bound. 
 
 " Mr. White's useful work is well worthy of the attentive study of 
 all who would know Turkey as it is. It may be safely taken as a text 
 book, with respect to Turkey, its people, and its manners. Full, 
 searching, complete, it will dissipate many prejudices, dispel many 
 vague notions popularly entertained of the much maligned Turks." — 
 Morning Chronicle. 
 
 TRAYELS IN KASHMRE, 
 
 The Countries adjoining the Mountain Course of the Indus, and the 
 Himalaya, North of the Punjab. 
 
 BY G. T. VIGNE, ESQ., F.G.S. 
 
 Cheaper Edition. 
 2 vols., 8vo, with a valuable Map, engraved under the sanction of the 
 Hon. East India Company, and 22 Illustrations. 21s. bound. 
 "These volumes place their author in the foremost rank amongst 
 the adventurous travellers who have explored the jealous regions con- 
 tiguous to the British Indian Empire, in ihe condition of which we have 
 reason to feel so deep an interest." — Herald. 
 
 LETTEES 
 
 FROM THE 
 
 SHORES OF THE MEDITERRANEAN. 
 
 BY LIEUTENANT-COLONEL NAPIEE. 
 2 vols., post 8vo, with Illustrations. 21.s. bound. 
 
 TRAVELS AND TRAVELLERS. 
 
 BY MRS. TROLLOPE. 
 
 Authoress of " The Barnabys," " The Robertses," &c. 
 
 2 vols, post 8vo, 21s. bound. 
 
 A WINTER IN ITALY. 
 
 BY MRS. ASHTON YATES. 
 
 2 vols, post 8vo, 21s, bound. 
 " Mrs. Yates' Letters indicate a mind of the highest intellectual cul- 
 ture." — Quarterly Review.
 
 VOYAGES AND TRAVELS. 19 
 
 LORD lODSAY'S LETTERS O:^^ THE HOLT 
 
 LAND. 
 
 Fourth Edition, revised and corrected, one vol., post 8vo, 10s. 6d. bound. 
 " Lord Lindsay has felt and recorded what he saw with the wisdom 
 of a philosopher, and the faith of an enlightened Christian." — Quar- 
 terly/ Review. 
 
 THE CRESCENT AND THE CROSS; 
 
 OR, 
 
 ROMANCE AND REALITIES OF EASTERN TRAVEL. 
 BY ELIOT B. G. WAEBLTITOX, Esq. 
 
 Seventh edition, 2 vols., with numerous Illustrations, 21s. bound. 
 
 " Remarkable for its colouring power and play of fancy, its useful 
 and interesting information. Among its greatest and most lasting 
 charjns is its reverent and serious spirit." — Quarterhj Review, 
 
 LETTERS FROM THE EAST. 
 
 BY JOHN CARXE, ESQ. 
 
 TVritten during a Tour through Turkey, Egjnpt, Arabia, the Holy 
 
 Land, Syria, and Greece. 
 
 Cheaper Edition, 3 vols., post 8vo, 18s. 
 
 " ;Mr. Game's works are rendered peculiarly valuable by the graphic 
 
 descriptions, written on the spot, of the present actual state of the 
 
 places which have been the theatres of the great events recorded in the 
 
 Bible." — Courier. 
 
 TRAVELS IN PALESTINE, 
 
 Tlirough the countries of Bashan and Gilead,East of the River Jordan; 
 including a visit to the Cities of Geraza and Gamala, in the 
 Decapolis. 
 
 BY J. S. BUCKIXGHAM, ESQ. 
 Cheaper Edition, 2 vols., 8vo. "With numerous Engravings, 21s. 
 
 Also, by the same Author, 
 
 TRAVELS IN MESOPOTAMIA, 
 
 Including a Journey to the Ur of the Chaldees, and the Ruins of 
 
 Nineveh and Babylon. 
 
 Cheaper Edition, 2 vols., 8vo, with Thirty Engravings, 21s. 
 
 Also, by the same Author, 
 
 TRAVELS IN ASSYlilA, MEDIA, & PERSU. 
 
 2 vols., 8vo, 21s. 
 " Tliese volumes conclude the series of the author's Journeys in the 
 East, which present the reader, not only with the modern condition of 
 the interesting countries described, but the results of personal inves- 
 tigations as to their antiquities, which enables the author to throw 
 light upon ancient history ; and also upon the inspired writings."
 
 20 MR. COLBURN'S new PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 CANADA AND THE CANADIANS, 
 
 By Lieut.-Col. Sir RICHARD BONNYCASTLE. 
 
 Cheaper Edition. 2 vols., post 8vo, 12s. bound. 
 
 " There is excellent advice as well as information of a practical kind 
 which ought to be treasured up by the intending emigrant, to whom 
 we recommend a perusal of Sir Richard's book, as giving graphic views 
 of the present toil, for future independence, which all must encounter." 
 — Morning Chronicle. 
 
 PETERSBURGH AND MOSCOW; 
 
 A VISIT TO THE COURT OF THE CZAR. 
 BY RICHARD SOUTH^VELL BOURKE, ESQ. 
 
 2 vols., post 8vo, 2ls. bound. 
 
 ECHOES FROM THE BACKWOODS; 
 
 OR, SKETCHES OF TRANSATLANTIC LIFE. 
 
 By Sir R. H. LEVINGE, Bart. 
 Cheaper Edition, in 1 vol., post 8vo, with Illustrations, 10s. 6d. bound. 
 
 ADVENTURES IN GEORGIA, CIRCASSIA, 
 AND RUSSIA. 
 
 By Lieut.-Colonel G. POULETT CAMERON, C.B., K.T.S., &c. 
 
 Employed on a Special Service in Persia. 
 
 2 vols., postSvo, 21s. bound. 
 
 ADVENTURES ON THE COLUMBIA RIVER, 
 
 Comprising the Narrative of a Residence of Six Years on the Western 
 Side of the Rocky IMountains, among various tribes of Indians 
 hitherto unlaiown; together with a Journey across the jtVmerican 
 Continent. 
 
 BY ROSS COX, ESQ. 
 Cheaper Edition. 2 vols., 8vo, with Plates, 16s. 
 " During the period which Mr. Cox spent among the various tribes 
 on the banks of tlie Columbia, he ascended the river nine times, and 
 descended it eight. Dangers of the most trying kind and adventures 
 of every description, fearful and agreeable, accompanied his steps. 
 He recorded the real romance in which he took a part, and has now 
 enabled us in-dwellers of cities to participate in its extraordinary 
 interest." — Morning Herald.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 21 
 
 T A N C R E D; 
 
 OR, THE NEW CRUSADE. 
 
 By B. DISRAELI, M.P. 
 
 Author of " Coningsby," " Sybil," &c. Third Edition. 3 vols., post 
 
 8vo, 31s. 6d. 
 
 " ' Taucred' is full of charming; effects of style and fine delineations. 
 The descriptions of oriental life are only to be compared with those of 
 Anastasius or Eothen." — Edinburgh lieview. 
 
 " ' Tancred' is a brilliant book. It has entertained us more than either 
 ' Coningsby' or ' Sybil,' and we think may stand higher iu public favour." 
 — Athenaeum. 
 
 " We hold it to be impossible for the author of ' Vivian Grey' to write 
 a work of fiction which shall not be clever, brilliant, witty, and dashing. 
 ' Tancred' is all this, and something more. Its writer has borrowed for a 
 season the pencil of Roberts, and become a gorgeous painter." — Times. 
 
 ZOOLOGICAL RECREATIONS. 
 
 By W. J. BRODERIP, Esq. F.R.S. 
 
 Second Edition, ^vith Additions. 1 vol., post 8vo, 10s. 6d. bound. 
 " We believe we do not exaggerate in saying that, since the publication 
 of White's ' Natural History of Selborne,' and of the * Introduction to 
 Entomology,' by Kirby and Spence, no work in our language is better cal- 
 culated than the 'Zoological Recreations' to fulfil the avowed aim of its 
 author — to furnish a hand-book which may cherish or awaken a love for 
 natural history." — Quarterly lieview. 
 
 THE COUNTESS OF BLESSIXGTON'S 
 
 JOURNAL OF HER CONVERSATIONS WITH LORD 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 Cheaper Edition. 8vo, with a Portrait by Count D'Orsay, 7s. 
 " Beyond all comparison, the best thing that has been written on 
 Lord Byron — the truest, cleverest, and most pleasing. With all pos- 
 sible delicacy, consideration, and good nature, the true character of 
 Byron is laid open even to its inmost recesses." — Spectator. 
 
 ADVENTURES "oITtHE GORDON 
 HIGHLANDERS, 
 
 IN SPAIN, FRANCE, AND BELGIUxM. 
 
 By JAMES GRANT, Esq., late 62d Regt. 
 4 vols, bound in 2, price 21s. 
 •' The main charm of this very attractive work must ever be the 
 truthful outline it presents of the heroic devotion and dauntless daring 
 of the heroes 'in the garb of old Gaul,' during that momentous con- 
 flict ending with Wellington's last triumph on the plains of Waterloo." 
 Caledonian Mercury.
 
 22 MR. COLBURN'S new PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 THE JESUIT AT CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 BY SIR GEORGE STEPHEN. 
 
 2 vols., post 8vo, 21s. bound. 
 
 " One of the best written novels published for many years, both as 
 
 regards its excellent purpose and vigorous style. Nothing can be more 
 
 exact to truth than the author's painting of the scenes of college 
 
 life." — Messenger. 
 
 " This vigorous protest against Jesuitical growth displays consum- 
 mate literary tact, and is a production of infinite talent." — Somerset 
 Gazette. 
 
 ZENON; 
 
 AN HISTORICAL NARRATIVE. 
 
 By the Rev. RICHARD COBBOLD, M.A. 
 
 Second Edition, 3 vols., post 8vo, 21s. bound. 
 " The incidents of tliis work are at once various and striking, and 
 moral and religious truths of great importance are both simply and 
 powerfully expressed. The work has afforded us so much pleasure 
 that we can sincerely recommend it to our readers." — Messenger. 
 
 By the same Author. 
 
 THE HISTORY OF MARGARET CATCHPOIE, 
 
 A SUFFOLK GIRL. 
 
 Fifth Edition, 1 vol., with Illustrations, IDs. 6d. bound. 
 
 ** Truth is stranger than fiction. We have here a veritable history 
 with incidents more startling and extraordinary than are to be found 
 in any romance with wliich we are acquainted." — Norfolk Chronicle. 
 
 ** Compressed into the compass of one volume, this biography will 
 become a standard work." — Britannia. 
 
 THE HISTORY OF MARY ANNE WELLINGTON, 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S DAUGHTER, WIFE, & WIDOW. 
 
 DEDICATED, BY EXPRESS PERMISSION, TO HER MAJESTY THE 
 QUEEN DOWAGER. 
 
 Second Edition, 1 vol., with Illustrations, IDs. 6d. bound. 
 
 " This interesting work we have no doubt will attain a greater popu- 
 larity even than Margaret Catchpole." — Sujidai/ Times. 
 
 " In this most interesting work, avc have the stirring scenes of a 
 soldier's life, and the history' of his daughter, wife, and widow, imder the 
 various difficulties of a situation calling for all the energies of a manly 
 heart, and all the strength and relying love of a woman's unshrinking 
 spirit. The work is full of incidents, narratives of extraordinary events, 
 perils, and preservations-" — Bury Herald.
 
 POETRY. 23 
 
 KING ARTHUR. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF " THE NEW TIMON." 
 Post 8vo, 5s. 
 
 THE ^"EW TniON: 
 
 A POETICAL ROMANCE. 
 
 Fourth edition, 1 vol. post 8vo, 6s. bound. 
 
 " One of the most renaarkable poems of the present generation — re- 
 markable in a threefold degree — its conception being strictly original — 
 its language and imagery new — its tendency emineutlv moral. It has 
 beauties of no ordinary lustre; the animus of the work is essentially 
 humanising, its plot ingenious, and its effect altogether bold, harmo- 
 nious, and original. No poem of equal length has issued from the 
 English press for a number of years, with any thing approaching to 
 the ability of 'The New Tiraon,' — it augurs a resuscitation of our 
 Bardic glories." — Sioi, 
 
 POETICAL WORKS OF HORACE S3IITH, 
 
 ONE OF THE AUTHORS OF " PtEJECTED ADDRESSES." 
 Now First Collected, 2 vols., post 8vo, with Portrait, 12 s. bound. 
 
 " A host of readers we are confident will participate in our grati- 
 fication at the publication of these volumes, for Horace Smith is now 
 amongst the English classics." — Naval and Military Gazette. 
 
 " In this -work the reader will find, not only Christmas reading for 
 every day in the year, but as abundant proof of honest cheerfulness, 
 manly warmth of feeling, and genuine enjoyment of every thing enjoy- 
 able, as in any two hearty little volumes of the same size in the 
 language." — Examiner. 
 
 POETICAL 
 WORKS OF BARRY CORXWALL. 
 
 3 vols., small Svo, 21s. 
 
 " It is delightful to turn awhile from moral and political animosities 
 to the unalloyed sweets of such poetry as Mr. Cornwall's; and to 
 refresh our fancies, and strengthen and compose our good affections 
 among the images of love and beauty, and gentle sympathy and sorrow, 
 with which it everywhere presents us." — Edinburgh Beview,
 
 24 MR. COLBURN'S new PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 THE HALL AND THE HAMLET. 
 
 By WILLIAM HOWITT. 
 
 Author of " The Book of the Seasons," " Rural Life in England," &c., 
 Cheaper Edition, 2 vols., post 8vo, 12s. bound. 
 
 "This work is full of delightful sketches and sweet and enchanting 
 pictures of rural life, and Ave have no doubt will be read not only at 
 the homestead of the farmer, but at the mansion of the squire, or 
 the castle of tlie lord, ^Hth gratification and delight. In these vo- 
 lumes there is more originality, more wit, more humour, more pathos, 
 than in any of those which have already issued from the same pen." — 
 Sunday Times. 
 
 CHEAP LIBRARY OF ENTERTAINMENT. 
 
 Elegantly bound in 19 Vohimes, price only 5s. each, printed uniformly with 
 Byron and Scott, and beautifully embellished with the Portraits of the 
 Authors, and other Engravings, by the Findens and other eminent Artists, 
 
 COLBURiTS STANDARD NOVELS; 
 
 A Select CoUection of the best Works of Fiction of the most Dis- 
 tinguished Modern English Writers. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Mrs. Armytage ; or, Female Domina- Mr. Lister's Granby. 
 
 Mr. James's Richelieu. 
 Mr. Hook's Gurney Married. 
 Mr. Hooli's Sayings and Doings, 
 (First Series) ; comprising Danvers, 
 The Friend of the Family, Mer- 
 ton, &c. 
 Mr. Hook's Sayings and Doings. 
 (Second Series) ; comprising The 
 Sutherlands, The Man of Many 
 Friends, Doubts and Fears, aud 
 Passion and Principle. 
 Mr. Hook's Sayings and Doings. 
 (Thirtl Series) ; comprising Cousin 
 William and Gervase Skinner. 
 
 tion. By Mrs. Gore 
 Emilia Wyndham. By the Author of 
 
 "Two Old Men's Tales." 
 IMr. Ward's Tremaine. 
 Capt. Marryat's Frank Mildmay. 
 Mr. H. Smith's Brambletye House. 
 Mr. H. Smith's Zillah. A Tale of the 
 
 Holy City. 
 Sir E. L. Bulwer's Pelham. 
 Sir E. L. Bulwer's Disowned. 
 Sir E. L. Bulwer's Devereux. 
 Lady Morgan's O'Dounell. 
 Lady Morgan's Florence Macarthy. 
 Lady Morgan's Wild Irish Girl, 
 Mr. Gleig's Chelsea Pensioners. 
 
 " ' Colburn's Standard Novels' present a series of those works of 
 fiction that have most tended, with the writings of Sir Walter Scott, 
 to elevate this description of literature. This publication presents a 
 concentration of imaginative genius." — Globe. 
 
 " Mr. Colburn's series of Standard Novels is peculiarly select ; from it 
 are excluded all which have a mere transitory popularity ; in it are in- 
 cluded all which tend to elevate the character of the modern novel, and 
 to raise the republic of fiction to its proper elevation." — Morning Post. 
 
 " What an admirable opportunity is here presented to such as are 
 about to form a select library of fiction !" — Sim, 
 
 C. Whiting,] [Beaufort ilouse.