"/' 
 
 II
 
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 a 
 
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 ai E> RAR.Y 
 
 OF THE 
 UN IVLRSITY 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
 .^\EDfNBURCH>
 
 '^^u£t^ 
 
 ^Cav^!L
 
 THE FORTUNES 
 
 OF 
 
 THE FALCONARS. 
 
 MRS. GORDON, 
 
 AUTHORESS OF "THREE NIGHTS IN A LIFE-TmE," ETC. 
 
 ' How seldom, Friend, a Good Great Man inherits 
 Honour and wealth, with all his worth and pains ! 
 It sounds like stories from the land of spirits, 
 If any man obtain that which he merits. 
 Or any merit that which he obtains.— 
 
 Foi- shame, dear Friend ! renounce this canting strain ; 
 What wouldtit thou have a Good Great Man obtain? 
 
 Goodness and Greatness are not means, but ends. 
 
 Hath he not always treasui'es — always friends — 
 
 The Good Great Man ? Three treasui-es— Love, and Light, 
 
 And Calm Thoughts, regular as infants' breath? 
 
 And three sure friend'^,— more Kure than day and night, 
 
 Himself,— his Maker,— and tlic Angel Death ?" 
 
 S. T. COLKRICGE. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES, 
 
 VOL. L 
 
 LONDON 
 SAUNDERS AND OTLEY, CONDUIT STREET. 
 
 1844.
 
 ?;i3 
 
 J0G^^^ 
 
 1 /ir. 
 
 in 
 
 TO 
 
 MRS. SOUTHEY, 
 
 THE rOLLOWING PAGES ARE RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED, 
 
 BY ONE WHO, 
 
 THOUGH PERSONALLY UNKNOWN TO HER, 
 
 TAKES THIS METHOD OP TESTIFYING A GRATEFUL SENSE OP 
 
 MANY HOURS OP ENJOYMENT, 
 
 AND OF THAT SADNESS WHEREBY TILE HEART IS MADE BETTER, 
 
 DERIVED FROM COMMUNION WITH HER MIND, 
 
 THROUGH THE MEDIUM OF HER WRITINGS, 
 
 4
 
 THE 
 
 FORTUNES OF THE FALCOMRS, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " So soon the child a youth, the youth a man, 
 Eager to run the race his fathers ran. 
 
 And soon again shall music swell the breeze — 
 Soon issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees. 
 
 Vestures of nuptial white 
 
 . . . And once, alas ! nor in a distant hour, 
 Another voice shall come from yonder tower ; 
 When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen, 
 And weeping heard where only joy has been ; 
 When by his children borne, and from his door. 
 Slowly departing, to return no more. 
 He rests in holy earth with them that went before. 
 And such is Human Life !" 
 
 Rogers. 
 
 The beams of a glowing sunset, in tlie month of 
 September, 1801, fell upon the old house of Car- 
 garth, and tinged the rich foliage of the fine trees 
 surrounding it, as if in token of welcome to the 
 young laird, the gay and handsome Douglas Fal- 
 conar, who, on that night — amid the blazing of 
 bonfires on the neighbouring hills, the shouts of 
 exulting dependents, and the pledging of many 
 a cup of mountain dew to his health and happi- 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 ness, and that of his newly-married lady — first 
 conducted a beautiful bride to the mansion of his 
 fathers. 
 
 Could any one of the joyous actors in that 
 scene of festivity have at that moment lifted up 
 the curtain which shrouds futurity from our 
 mortal ken, and beheld through the vista of one- 
 and-twenty years, the transactions of another 
 and a coming evening, about the same season of 
 the year, with what a shock of awful conviction 
 that " all is vanity," would the dark contrast have 
 struck upon his heart ! And yet, he would have 
 seen no more than the common event which must 
 come to all; the contrast would have been no 
 greater th^n that which most periods, long sepa- 
 rated by time, present to each other, when viewed 
 by the mind in close juxtaposition, without re- 
 ference to the intervening events — the minute 
 and imperceptible degrees of shading by which 
 joy and sorrow, hope and disappointment, life 
 and death, have been gradually woven into the 
 chain of existence. It is this shading — this slow 
 unfolding of the chain — which causes us to feel 
 so little wonder, wliilst we meditate on its 
 strangely differing links. Leave some of the 
 connecting ones out of sight, and " look here 
 upon this picture, and on ^A/5," of past periods, 
 and the contrast is indeed wonderful — frequently 
 awful. So it would have been to those who, 
 perceiving nothing of what connected the two 
 events, could have cast their eyes onward from 
 the day of Douglas Falconar's wedding, to that 
 of his funeral.
 
 THE FALCONARS. 3 
 
 On tliat day, then, in tlie end of the same 
 month, September, 1822, a setting sun was sink- 
 ing, as bright and calm as when it lighted these 
 happy young hearts on the road to their future 
 home. A more enduring home had opened to 
 receive the bridegroom of that former evening; 
 and the sod of his ancient family burial-place 
 had, ere the last rays fell upon the trees which 
 bent above it, been laid down upon his breast. 
 The funeral train had long been dispersed — the 
 widow and her daughters were weeping alone — 
 and the eldest son of Douglas Falconar, a youth 
 of twenty, remained the solitary tenant of the 
 old library, where, an hour previously, he had 
 been compelled, by the painful necessity of such 
 times, to listen to the reading of his father's 
 will. 
 
 Alfred Falconar sat beside the open window, 
 looking out into the advancing twilight, in that 
 state of half-conscious bewilderment succeeding 
 any heavy calamity; especially where the ca- 
 lamity has been accompanied by a strong call 
 upon exertion. The call is generally answered 
 — always, where there is strength of character, 
 and the excitement of action sustains the phy- 
 sical force ; but when the necessity which called 
 it forth ceases to exist, the re-action, the collapse 
 of the heart and energies, the stupefaction which 
 succeed, above all in the sensitive heart of 
 youth, are terrible in proportion to the greatness 
 of the previous effort. Thus it was with him. 
 The awful duties of the day were over — there 
 were no longer any eyes upon him — ^there were 
 
 b2
 
 4 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 no further demands upon liis tliought and reso- 
 lution — and Alfred felt as if the very faculty of 
 thought had deserted him, and left him like one 
 under the spell of a painful dream, from which 
 he had no power to arouse himself. He sat, he 
 knew not how long, while memory after memory 
 swept across his mind, and images of pain, an- 
 guish, and desolation, thronged around him, with- 
 out his exercising any control over their coming. 
 There they were, ancl he could not bid them go. 
 The light faded from the sky, and the cold 
 night wind blew in at the open window, whilst 
 the darkness was only partially broken by the 
 fitful gleams of the moon, wading^ as it is called, 
 amongst heavy clouds, which at times totally 
 obscured her, as the wind hurried them along. 
 It was a chilly night; but Alfred did not feel 
 the cold. His eyes were fixed on the struggling 
 moon ; and his thoughts, so far as he could be 
 said to think, were pursuing the common train 
 — so common because so true, and coming so 
 home to the heart, which likens her career, at 
 such a time, to that of man through this stormy 
 world. 
 
 "Yet," he said, "there is a purer atmosphere 
 far behind those heavy clouds. My dear, dear 
 father ! your stormy night is over, and for you 
 the clouds Avill gather no more. I need not 
 look at that troubled moon now — and think of 
 you." 
 
 At tliis moment, the door softly opened, and 
 closed again; and a girl of nineteen, in deep 
 mourning, and whose pale face and tearful eyes
 
 THE FALCONARS. 
 
 looked almost spirit-like in tlie glimmering light, 
 glided up to her brother's side, drew a chair 
 close to his, and put her arm round his neck. 
 Alfred turned from the window, closed it, and 
 silently clasping his sister round the waist, leant 
 his burning forehead on her shoulder. 
 
 " I was in hopes, dearest," he said, after a 
 minute, *' that you had gone to-bed." 
 
 " To-bed? — oh, Alfred! could I, when I knew 
 that you were here alone? I have persuaded 
 Clara and Harry to go, at last — and poor mamma 
 has fallen asleep. I could not leave her sooner. 
 And — and " she paused, and bit her quiver- 
 ing lip. 
 
 " I wish you would go, too, dearest Eleanor," 
 said her brother. *' Consider how much watch- 
 ing you have had of late; you must be com- 
 pletely worn out !'' 
 
 " I cannot, Alfred — I cannot. My heart feels 
 sufibcating. I have restrained it all day — no 
 one sees me now. Let me cry, Alfred — let me 
 cry; it is such a relief" — and she burst into 
 that passion of tears and sobs which in youth, 
 when tears come easily, is so blessed a relief to 
 the overcharged and aching heart. . Alfred 
 clasped his sister still closer to his breast ; and, 
 the barrier of assumed firmness giving way be- 
 fore the touch of awakened and softened feeling, 
 he, too, mingled his tears with Eleanor's, and 
 felt the cold leaden weight dissolving from his 
 heart as they fell. Bitter as were those tears, 
 and heavy as was the load of grief upon their 
 youDg spirits, it is not such tears, thus shed to-
 
 6 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 gether, where love and sympathy so perfect hal- 
 low and soften them, that scorch the eyes, and 
 sear the heart like those of after life — the tears 
 which we shed alone. When the brother and 
 sister at length separated that night, it was at 
 least with humble resignation that they con- 
 templated the sorrow which had come upon them, 
 and prayed for strength to bear the burden which, 
 in early youth, the will of an all-wise Providence 
 had imposed upon their powers.
 
 THE FALCONAES, 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 " What man that sees the ever-whirling wheele 
 Of change, the which all mortal things doth sway ; 
 But that thereby doth find and plainly feel, 
 How Mutabilitie in all doth play 
 Her cruel sports, to many men's decay ?" 
 
 Spenser. 
 
 These words are still, and will be to the end of 
 the world, as full of sad and incontrovertible 
 tmth as they were in Edmund Spenser's time. 
 And such being the case, since the lapse of every 
 day brings about changes and contrasts so unex- 
 pected as we see occurring around us, what 
 wonder that the long space of one-and-twenty 
 years should have wrought the alteration in one 
 household, described in the previous chapter ; an 
 alteration, however sad, yet merely within the 
 common course of human events ! 
 
 Had there been no other change — no other 
 contrast, than the change from life to death, 
 brought about in the tenour of an uneventful ex- 
 istence, that most common contrast, awful though 
 it be, might have been scarce worth dwelling on 
 so emphatically ; but the change from the Car-
 
 8 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 garth of 1801 to that of 1822, the change from 
 its master at his wedding-day, to its master near 
 his dying-day — his outward circumstances and 
 inward sensations at these two different periods 
 — and the alteration in all things appertaining 
 to him — these things bring home to the heart a 
 moral worth dwelling on ; and not the less so 
 because it 4s the moral of no imaginary tale, but 
 of one whose details have often been, and will 
 too often be, proved too sadly true. Previously, 
 therefore, to tracing the fortunes of his children, 
 a few pages may be devoted to a sketch of the 
 early history of the parent whose loss we have 
 introduced them as lamenting. 
 
 Douglas Falconar, of Cargarth, succeeded, at 
 the age of twenty-four, to a very ancient here- 
 ditary property in one of the southern counties 
 of Scotland ; the rent roll of which, during the 
 period of the war, amounted to three thousand 
 a-year 5 but in the time of distress and difficulty, 
 which succeeded the return of peace, Cargarth, 
 like all other landed property, fell in value ; and 
 indeed at no time had its proprietor ever bene- 
 fited in his own person to the full extent of his 
 rents. His father, a jolly old laird, who loved 
 hospitality, kept open house for all his extensive 
 connexions, hunted, shot, and drank deep, ac- 
 cording to the usage of Scottish gentlemen of the 
 last century; bequeathed to his son, after an 
 usage equally common, but not quite so conve- 
 nient, a considerable weight of debt along with 
 his estate, which debt the son never found him-
 
 THE FALCONARS. 9 
 
 self ill a situation to diminish. Mr. Falconar, a 
 young man of remarkable personal attractions, 
 and whose gay good-humour, open-handed gene- 
 rosity, and engaging social qualities, rendered 
 him as great a favourite with his own sex as his 
 handsome person did with the other, was, in fact, 
 the last man in the world to free an encumbered 
 property by any exertion of his own. He inhe- 
 rited, it is true, a considerable portion of the 
 activity and enterprise for which his father had 
 been remarkable; but, unfortunately, the ba- 
 lancing force of prudence was wanting, to give 
 their due direction to those faculties ; and, with 
 all this activity, he unfortunately combined an 
 easiness of disposition, a dislike to investigating 
 his affairs, and a carelessness regarding money 
 matters, too often the accompaniments of a tem- 
 per such as his, where feeling and impulse arc 
 suffered to usurp the functions of judgment. 
 His early habits, as an only son, heir to an an- 
 cient family, and habituated to a style of living 
 more hospitable, perhaps, than prudent, all con- 
 firmed these natural tendencies. According to 
 the usual destination of the elder sons of the 
 landed gentry in Scotland, he had been educated 
 for the bar ; but previous to his father's death, 
 the young laird of Cargarth was much more con- 
 stantly to be heard of in the hunting-field, or in 
 the assembly-rooms, and the gayest private par- 
 ties of Edinburgh, than in the Parliament House. 
 And after that event took place, he gradually 
 withdrew from his profession, to which, indeed,
 
 10 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 his heart never had inclined ; and in which, it is 
 almost needless to add, he consequently met with 
 no success. 
 
 From all this it might perhaps have been con- 
 cluded that Mr. Falconar was a man of little 
 talent ; hut, on the contrary, his natural abilities 
 were great. They had been highly cultivated, 
 and his acquired information and excellent taste 
 added much to the fascination of his manners in 
 general society. The defects in his character, 
 great and alarming as they must have been to a 
 penetrating eye, were not such as shew them- 
 selves in the superficial routine of worldly inter- 
 course, or leave room to display themselves very 
 fully in the hey-day of youth and prosperity. 
 Moreover, they were not such defects as tell 
 against a man's heart, fatal as their indulgence 
 becomes to his moral habits in after life. A 
 warmer heart than Douglas Falconar's never 
 beat ; he was as kind and generous a friend as he 
 was a delightful companion, and friends and 
 companions he had in plenty, as the sagacious 
 reader will be at no loss to infer. 
 
 A man so accessible and open-hearted could 
 not be supposed insensible to the softer passions ; 
 and accordingly he had been engaged in numerous 
 flirtations, though none of a very serious nature, 
 some time before he became his own master. 
 One, however, there was, carried on for a longer 
 time, and with more apparent warmth than the 
 other, which many friends on both sides construed 
 into more than a mere flirtation. This was with 
 Emily Hay, a very lovely girl, a cousin, accord-
 
 THE FALCONARS. 11 
 
 ing to the Scottish acceptation of the word, and 
 some five or six years his own junior. They were 
 accidentally much flung together, especially during 
 a long visit in the country; and although no 
 declaration of attachment ever passed between 
 them — nothing to bind them to each other, there 
 are many ways in which a man has it in his 
 power to display his preference for a woman, ere 
 taking that final step. Of the young lady's sen- 
 timents towards an admirer in every way so at- 
 tractive, there could be little doubt ; and happy 
 had it been for Mr. Falconar, had he followed 
 what were at one period the dictates of his own 
 hearfc, and offered himself to a woman whose 
 strong mind, combined with a warm heart and 
 angelic sweetness of temper, might have been 
 the means of saving him from imprudence and 
 ruin. But there were other influences at work, 
 of that nature so peculiarly apt to beset the path 
 of a young man of family and independent for- 
 tune. 
 
 Miss Hay had not a large share of that- most 
 potent of talismans, worldly wealth ; and though 
 born of a good family, and well connected, she 
 was merely the daughter of a country gentle- 
 man, of moderate fortune, whose alliance could 
 confer no distinction. Now Mr. Falconar had a 
 maiden aunt, who, from presiding for many years 
 as mistress of Cargarth, after his father became a 
 widower, had been in the habit of exercising 
 much control and superintendence over her ne- 
 phew's destinies. Aunt Annie was proud of her 
 family — proud of its present representative, and
 
 12 THE FOETUNES OF 
 
 ambitious for him of tlie highest connexions. 
 She could not endure the idea of his " flinging 
 himself away" on an amiable woman, without 
 rank and wealth; and she was troubled by no 
 foolish sentimentalities of heart to retard her ope- 
 rations. Satisfied that no definitive entangle- 
 ment had taken place, she contrived by a series 
 of manoeuvres, unnecessary to recapitulate, to 
 detach him from Miss Hay, and to bring him 
 into contact with an heiress, of large fortune and 
 good connexions, on whom she had long set her 
 heart for her nephew. Her views, however, were 
 destined to disappointment. She had gained her 
 end of estranging him from the object of his first 
 attachment, but further her heartless policy did 
 not succeed. Douglas Falconar forgot Emily 
 Hay, — but the heiress did not succeed to the va- 
 cant place in his heart. Having, some few months 
 after, accepted an invitation to Wellwood Castle, 
 the seat of Sir Anthony Wellwood, a baronet of 
 ancient family, he there became enamoured of 
 that gentleman's daughter by a second marriage ; 
 a young lady of great beauty, and engaging soft- 
 ness of deportment, to whom he very shortly 
 ofiered himself, and was accepted. 
 
 This was a disappointment to Aunt Annie, 
 inasmuch as the estate of Wellwood, being a 
 strictly entailed one, the fortune of her nephew's 
 bride did not exceed three thousand pounds. 
 Still, the excellence of the connexion rendered 
 the match a more acceptable one than that with 
 Miss Hay would have been to her. She, there- 
 fore, did not shew much reluctance in superin-
 
 THE FALCONARS. 13 
 
 tending the improvements necessary to fitCargarth 
 for the residence of the young couple, ere retiring 
 to her own recently-purchased house in Edin- 
 burgh, whither she was accompanied by her un- 
 married niece, Elizabeth Falconar. An elder one, 
 the only other member of the family, had been 
 for some years the wife of Mr. Livingstone, a 
 gentleman of very large property in another 
 county. Aunt Annie, therefore, looked around 
 her on nothmg but prosperity, and the same pros- 
 pect continued for some years unchanged. " Yet 
 let a man remember the days of darkness, for 
 they shall be many." In such a world as this, 
 what can equal the folly of reckoning on the per- 
 manency of worldly good, save the greater folly 
 and great sin of presuming, in the self-sufficiency 
 of our finite reason, bounded by the objects of a 
 day, and blinded by our own selfish inclinations, 
 to play the part of Providence towards our fellow- 
 creatures, and dispose of their destinies, whilst 
 disregarding their feelings, according to wdiat we 
 choose to call the best for them, because it hap- 
 pens to suit our own pride and interested views ? 
 Aunt Annie lived to see, as many aunts and mo- 
 thers have done, that she would liavc acted more 
 wisely, even as regarded her nephew's w^orldly 
 interests, in leaving him to his own first choice. 
 She lived to see this ; but whether she ever ac- 
 knowledged it, even to herself, is another ques- 
 tion, and it is very probable that she never did, 
 as the doing so would have implied a degree of 
 candour foreign to a character that could delibe- 
 rately act as she had done. Yet she had her
 
 14 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 reward in tlie only way by which a worldly dis- 
 position can be reached. Her retribution came, 
 and justly came, through the pride and love of 
 consequence, which had induced her to lead an- 
 other into the guilt of trifling with pure and 
 true affection.
 
 THE FALCONAKS, 15 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 " Do you remember the days so long departed, 
 
 Ere yet the world's sorrows had stain'd our soul's first bloom, 
 
 ^Yhen we dwelt beneath our father's roof, the young and happy 
 
 hearted, 
 'Mid those whom time has sever'd now, or laid within the tomb ? 
 Our walks beneath the dim green woods at summer's falling 
 
 even. 
 Our seats within the garden bower, by that blithe burnie's side ? 
 Our rambles o'er the lonely hills, where the blessed breeze of 
 
 Heaven 
 Sweeps free do^^•n glen and mountain stream, refined and 
 
 purified ? 
 
 The days we spent together, 
 When we never dreamt of parting, and we knew no thought of 
 
 pain ; 
 TMien free unclouded sunshine was the joyous spirit's weather, 
 Those days ! how soon they ended ! they will ne'er return again* 
 Do you remember them ?" — S. G. 
 
 " Oh ! poverty is a weary thing, — 'tis full of grief and pain. 
 It keepeth down the soul of man, as with an iron chain." 
 
 IMakt Howitt. 
 
 The young wife of Mr. Falconar was, unfor- 
 tunately, through excessive indolence, little cal- 
 culated to amend his defects of character. Pro- 
 yided things gave her no trouble, she was per- 
 fectly indifferent how they went, so far as re- 
 garded their internal working ; for her refinement
 
 IG THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 of habit and disposition rendered her sensitively 
 alive to the elegances of life. She was, more- 
 over, a person who had never acted for herself; 
 had always been accustomed to dependence, and 
 to taking her own opinions from those who were 
 nearest her, and who totally wanted that native 
 energy which frequently enables those who have 
 been so situated to take a decided part when 
 called upon. By no means destitute of talent, 
 her indolence of nature left her at the mercy of 
 any dunce who might have inclination and 
 opportunity to sway her conduct ; and this fault, 
 of all others the least consonant with the buoy- 
 ant activity which we picture as the attribute of 
 youth, is the one which, above all others, grows 
 and strengthens with advancing years, and comes 
 to exert the most baleful sway over the mind 
 and temper. 
 
 But in the meanwliile, all Avas sunshine ; and 
 youth, beauty, and prosperity, will cover a mul- 
 titude of sins. Mr. Falconar's warmth of heart 
 and gaiety of temper were so great, that people 
 had no time to discover the absence of warmth 
 in his lady. They were universal favourites. 
 Passionately fond as he was of country sports, 
 and country hospitality, their house was seldom 
 unoccupied by some, often by many, of their 
 numerous friends and connexions ; and, after the 
 necessity of educating their children obliged them 
 to fix their residence during half of every year 
 in Edinburgh, their income, insignificant as it 
 would sound in London, enabled them to mingle, 
 in ease and opulence, with the best society there.
 
 THE FALCONARS. 17 
 
 But time rolled on, and gradually darker shades 
 began to steal over the picture. 
 
 Instead of diminishing, Mr. Falconar had in 
 some instances even augmented the debt upon 
 his property, by the expensive improvements in 
 which he had embarked ; the cost of which he 
 invariably found, as most people do, twice as 
 large as he reckoned on; while the return to be 
 expected from them was slow and distant. And 
 no retrenchments being made to meet the dimi- 
 nution of income caused by having the interest 
 of fresh debt to pay, the evil went on augmenting, 
 and was aggravated by the universal stagnation 
 consequent on peace. His carelessness, like all 
 bad habits, meanwhile kept increasing; and this 
 was notably apparent in the conduct of his 
 servants at Cargarth, who, during part of every 
 year, were now left in a great measure to their 
 own devices, during the absence of the family in 
 Edinburgh, whilst no very rigid examination on 
 the part of their master ever awaited them, to 
 incite them to diligence in their work. And even 
 when he was on the spot, matters were not much 
 improved. He maintained nearly twice as many 
 men about the place as ought to have sufficed to 
 keep the grounds in order ; yet somehow or 
 other, it happened that the grounds never were 
 in such trim as they might have been ; and when 
 this was remarked by his lady, she was invariably 
 answered, that the men were so busy just then, 
 that they really could not find time to attend to 
 these things, but all should be done by-and-by. 
 In what tlie business of the men consisted, was
 
 18 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 certainly a mystery known to none but them- 
 selves; but any excuse satisfied the laird, who 
 seldom looked into the depths of things. 
 
 In like manner was Mr. Falconar overreached 
 by some of his tenants, who violated the terms 
 of their leases, and withheld their rents, with 
 equal impunity. It is true that this was not 
 done without calling forth violent anger on the 
 part of their landlord, who frequently threatened 
 to take summary measures for compelling their 
 better conduct. But it was sagaciously remarked 
 that these threats came to nothing ; that " the 
 laird's bark, honest man, was waur nor his bite;" 
 that the same refractory cultivators of the soil 
 were dismissed term after term, with the same 
 wrathful words, and assurances of a speedy visit 
 from the sheriff-officers; and yet that no sheriff- 
 officers ever made their appearance, and that the 
 laird, moreover, was not a whit more energetic 
 than formerly in looking after their operations, 
 or in checking undue advantages. Consequently 
 these abuses subsisted in full force, and gained 
 ground daily. 
 
 After what has been said of Mrs. Falconar, it 
 may easily be guessed, that from no natural in- 
 clination to extravagance, but solely from her 
 dread of the very shadow of trouble, she assisted 
 in consummating her husband's difficulties. And 
 her errors were not redeemed, as in his case, by 
 extreme kindliness of heart and generosity of 
 feeling. Yet she loved him, in so far as it was 
 in her nature to love ; and had the same passive 
 tenderness for her children ; but neither of these
 
 THE FALCONARS. 19 
 
 usually strong feelings ever led her to inquire at 
 her own heart, whether or not she were fulfilling 
 her duty by either. Provided she had no trouble 
 in the matter, she was pleased that Mr. Falconar, 
 who was proud of his children's talents, should 
 procure them every advantage of education ; and 
 because it delighted him that they should excel 
 in their respective studies, she also felt impelled 
 to be very happy on such occasions; but her 
 interest and her exertions in these matters ex- 
 tended no farther. Of other and higher duties 
 towards them, it is unnecessary to say that she 
 was equally negligent. No wife and mother, de- 
 serving of the name of Christian, could have 
 yielded herself up to so grievous and so hurtful a 
 defect of character. Her children were left to 
 take their impressions of religion, beyond its 
 mere outward forms — from any source or none — 
 as it might happen. But the mercy of Provi- 
 dence did not suffer talents and dispositions like 
 theirs to run to waste for want of this restrain- 
 ing and guiding power. 
 
 The family of Mrs. Falconar consisted of the 
 eldest son and daughter already introduced to 
 the reader ; a daughter three years younger than 
 Eleanor, and another son, Henry, who at the time 
 of his father's death was only ten years of age. 
 From a seniority to her sister, which even beyond 
 first childhood seems to make so great a differ- 
 ence, Eleanor's most intimate companion and 
 playfellow, since infancy, had been her brother 
 Alfred, from whose age one year only divided 
 hers. Bearing, as they did, in person, dispo-
 
 20 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 sition, and abilities, a strong resemblance to each 
 other, they had been nearly inseparable during 
 their whole lives; and their affection for each 
 other was marked by the intensity which charac- 
 terized all the feelings of two very sensitive 
 hearts. In Edinburgh, the attendance of Eleanor 
 upon her own masters, and of Alfred upon the 
 High School, kept them somewhat more apart; 
 but even there she partook in several hours of 
 his studies under his tutor ; and in the country, 
 during his holidays, they were constantly to- 
 gether. In the time devoted to lessons, they 
 hung over the same books; she emulating his 
 progress in Latin and mathematics; wondering 
 at his daily augmenting knowledge of the higher 
 and more abstruse branches of masculine study ; 
 delighting to proceed along with him in the 
 modern languages, and whatever else they could 
 pursue together, and finding a constant develop- 
 ment of her own talents in the animating contact 
 with her brother's genius. Then, in the hours 
 of leisure, there were their walks — their long 
 rambles amongst tlie hills and glens of the soli- 
 tary pastoral country in which their father's 
 property lay ; — their rides with that kind father ; 
 — their visits to all the farm-houses and cottages 
 for miles around, in every one of which they 
 were beloved and welcome guests ; — how often, in 
 cold and bitter after years, did the remembrance 
 of that innocent and free existence return upon 
 their hearts again ! — As children they were, in- 
 deed, very happy. Their mother was kind and 
 gentle, and they were not old enough to look for
 
 THE FALCONARS. 21 
 
 more ; whilst their father, to whom, unconsciously, 
 their hearts clung the most devotedly, was the 
 fondest of parents ; — there was no prim governess 
 to school nature and trim down talent ; or to 
 read lectures on the impropriety of young ladies 
 rambling about the country with their brothers, 
 and enlarge upon the virtue of dry gravel-walks 
 and stated hours of exercise ; but instead, there 
 was a kind and clever tutor, often the companion 
 of those walks, who not only cultivated their 
 natural tastes for literature, and their enthusiastic 
 love of nature ; but, true to his sacred profession, 
 sedulously instilled into their young hearts the 
 love of that God who formed nature and made 
 her so beautiful ; and strove to render religion 
 not a mere poetical impulse, but a reigning and 
 practical principle of conduct. The seed sown 
 by this good man, watered by the dews of sorrow, 
 was destined to bear blessed fruit, and bring with 
 it that consolation for the hour of trial, whicli 
 nothing else can bestow. And in themselves 
 the brother and sister were eminently endowed 
 with that ardour of temperament, and that in- 
 stinctive perception of the pure and the lofty, 
 which form the best human safeguards against 
 folly and misconduct ; and which, if they expose 
 their possessor to frequent disappointment, do at 
 least furnish him with many exquisite and inno- 
 cent sources of enjoyment. Thus formed and 
 thus educated together, it is not wonderful that 
 although at one period of their lives they had 
 many friends and companions, each should have 
 felt that there was something in the aiFection of 
 the other not to be met with elsewhere.
 
 22 THE FORTUNES OP 
 
 Alfred Falconar was destined by his father for 
 the Scottish bar — a profession towards which the 
 bent of his own genius seemed naturally to in- 
 cline ; and full of that finer species of ambition 
 which is inseparable from a highly-constituted 
 masculine mind, his aspirations after eminence, 
 as he advanced beyond boyhood, became blended 
 with, and strengthened by, the painful conviction 
 which every day forced upon his mind, that upon 
 his own unaided exertions his advancement, and, 
 too probably, the comfort and independence of 
 his family must one day hang. Keflective and 
 thoughtful beyond his years, he had foreseen the 
 coming storm long ere it burst, and had made 
 use, in vain, of the most urgent, though respect- 
 ful entreaties, that his father would himself exa- 
 mine into his affairs. Eleanor, now nearly six- 
 teen, and whose powers of observation, like her 
 brother's, were rendered prematurely acute by 
 anxiety, had often spoken to him, with tears, of 
 all that she observed of mismanagement and want 
 of punctuality in domestic matters. She told 
 him of the bills, many of them due for years, 
 which came pouring in at Christmas, and whose 
 very anticipation made the approach of that once 
 joyous season a terror to her. She spoke of her 
 mother's increasing distress and agitation at the 
 sight of them — her helpless lamentations — yet 
 her never seeming to take any steps for their 
 payment. Her feelings of dissatisfaction, and 
 her uneasy reflections, were vented and dissipated 
 only in those weak repinings which become in- 
 tolerably provoking when no good effect is ever
 
 THE FALCONARS. 23 
 
 seen to follow their utterance, and the utterer 
 seems to consider that he has discharged a suffi- 
 cient duty in making them public. 
 
 Difficulties such as these, combined with con- 
 scious error, and want of resolution to amend it, 
 do not tend to improve the temper; and this 
 was not alone observable in Mrs. Falconar's, 
 but even in her husband's naturally gay and 
 sanguine disposition. In fact, it is often upon 
 such a mind, when forced to open its eyes to the 
 reality of misfortune, that the consequent shock 
 makes the most painful impression; especially 
 when the elasticity of youth is gone, and there is 
 no prop of resolute purpose and earnest exertion 
 left to support the spirits in its room. Depressed 
 by a vague feeling of misconduct, worried by 
 the helpless complaints of his wife, and feel- 
 ing, in a keen degree, the gradual cooling and 
 estrangement of tlie friends^ whom he had it no 
 longer in his poAver to entertain as formerly, 
 Mr. Falconar's temper became gloomy, despond- 
 ing, and tinged at times by a degree of asperity 
 very foreign to his nature; while at the same 
 time he strove, by partial and paltry savings, to 
 effect that amelioration of which a thorough exa- 
 mination into his affairs, and a determined reso- 
 lution of consistent economy, could alone have 
 afforded just hope. 
 
 Misfortune, as it often does, followed after a 
 time on the track of mismanagement. The sud- 
 den calling in of a very large loan in Mr. Fal- 
 conar's hands, and secured by an heritable bond 
 over part of his estate, occurred about the same
 
 24 THE FOETUNES OF 
 
 time that a bank credit, too recklessly drawn 
 upon, became exhausted ; and within a short 
 period of this double calamity, bills to a large 
 amount, granted by two idle and embarrassed 
 tenants in lieu of their rents, fell due, and were 
 dishonoured, both men being in a condition which 
 shortly after ended in total bankruptcy. Private 
 creditors became more pressing — the unpaid in- 
 terest of debt was largely augmenting the prin- 
 cipal ; and Mr. Falconar, in a state little short 
 of desperation, repaired to his man of business, 
 and demanded if there were any means by which 
 he could be rescued from total ruin. The only 
 possible means which this gentleman could devise, 
 was the placing of the whole estate under trust ; 
 and to this measure, after bitter reluctance and 
 delay, Mr. Falconar, chiefly moved by the en- 
 treaties of his son, at length consented to accede. 
 He signed a deed, therefore, conveying over his 
 whole property, for payment of his debts, to cer- 
 tain gentlemen therein named ; of whom one was 
 his brother-in-law, Sir Anthony Wellwood; ano- 
 ther, Mr. Peter Balmayne, a cousin-geriiian, who 
 had married the sister of Lady Wellwood, ■ and 
 was thus connected with both parties; and a 
 third, the man of business already mentioned, Mr. 
 Anstruther, an elderly gentleman of probity, and 
 considerable legal knowledge. 
 
 The allowance which these trustees were able 
 to make Mr. Falconar from his estate was very 
 small, so great and multiplied were the embarrass- 
 ments that came to light under their investiga- 
 tion ; -and upon this income it now became a ques-
 
 THE FALCONAKS. 25 
 
 tion where he should fix his future residence. 
 Sir Anthony, who had accepted the office " purely 
 to oblige poor Falconar, for he had little leisure, 
 otherwise, to bestow on any affairs but his own," 
 advised " remaining quietly in Edinburgh — or 
 rather, taking a small house in the suburbs — 
 as the boys must continue in town on account 
 of their education, and it would be a less expen- 
 sive plan for them to live in their father's house 
 than in lodgings." Peter Balmayne, a wealthy 
 partner in a great wine house, and a good-na- 
 tured man, rendered selfish by unbroken pros- 
 perity, like good ale, which grows sour in hot 
 weather, recommended the Continent ; and Aunt 
 Annie cordially seconded the suggestion, as one 
 which, if acted on, would spare lier the pain and 
 mortification of witnessing, and feeling that her 
 other friends witnessed, the poverty and obscurity 
 of the ruined head of her family. It is wonderful 
 how readily one's friends come forward with good 
 advice, in exact proportion to their unwillingness 
 to come forward with any other thing in the 
 season of adversity. But in the present instance 
 the advice was altogether flung away. Mr. Fal- 
 conar would hear of no plan but that of retiring 
 to Cargarth. " In Edinburgh," he said, " he 
 would not live as he now must live. He could 
 not abandon all tlie habits of his life, and desert 
 his sons, by going to the Continent. No; he 
 would live at Cargarth. He must live some- 
 where, and why should not they allow him to re- 
 side in the house of his fathers ? They might let 
 the home-farm — the garden — if they chose; he 
 .VOL> I, C
 
 26 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 only asked for the house ; to Cargarth he would 
 go." And to Cargarth he went accordingly ; 
 they could not persist in their denial of that re- 
 quest. Alfred and Henry remained in lodgings 
 in Edinburgh ; and Mr. Falconar, retiring to the 
 once gay and crowded, now silent and desolate, 
 mansion of his forefathers, accompanied by his 
 wife and daughters alone, proceeded to dismiss 
 every servant with whose assistance he could pos- 
 sibly dispense, and to reduce his establishment to 
 the lowest scale consistent with decency ; then, in 
 despondency and bitter remorse of heart, sat him 
 down, to brood in solitude over his fallen for- 
 tunes. 
 
 Many, when these reverses became universally 
 known, wondered at and blamed Mr. Falconar; 
 some few felt deeply for him, and more deeply 
 for his children. And, in truth, let modern 
 utilitarians smile as they will, to a mind of any 
 feeling and reflection there is something inex- 
 pressibly melancholy in tlie decay of an ancient 
 family — the gradual impoverishment and growing 
 insignificance of a once lofty line. The falling 
 away of worldly friends and intimates ; the sink- 
 ing in general estimation; the needful but hateful 
 retrenchments ; curtailment of hospitality ; dimi- 
 nution of long-established bounty; dismissal of 
 old customary attendants ; — these are sad enough ; 
 but what are these to the darker shades of the 
 picture? Debt — still augmenting — with its odious 
 train of meannesses, its debasing of the finer 
 qualities of the mind; Poverty, advancing like an 
 armed man, sinking the heart, altering the temper,
 
 X 
 
 THE FALCONARS. 27 
 
 poisoning all the uses of this life, turning the day 
 into heaviness, and the night into weariness ; and 
 all this to one unaccustomed to bear such evils — 
 unused to degrading struggles and paltry savings 
 — with a feeling of bitter shame to swell the 
 amount of all other sufferings; it is sad to see 
 this come upon the descendant of an old and 
 respected race ; and even though it may be in 
 great part the merited punishment of his own 
 imprudence, surely all kindly hearts must com- 
 passionate the fate which he has drawn down 
 upon his head. Yet, still, poverty erects a broad 
 barrier between man and his fellows ; partly, per- 
 haps, from the constitution of society, but more, 
 far more, from the selfishness and worldliness of 
 the human heart; the same old and true story 
 over which the melancholy Hamlet moralized long 
 ago. 
 
 " Why, let the stricken deer go weep, 
 The hart ungalled play." 
 
 Thus found Eleanor Falconar at sixteen ; when, 
 removed from society at an age which just begins 
 to look towards it with the eager desire after no- 
 velty belonging to fresh and ardent youth, she 
 felt her path prematurely darkened by the heavy 
 cloud whose advancing shadow had long hung 
 over and saddened her spirit. Devoted to her 
 duties, no murmur on the subject escaped her, 
 even to Alfred. She exerted herself to the ut- 
 most to assist and sustain her parents, to fill the 
 place of an attentive and careful governess to 
 Clara, and to supply the want of a tutor during 
 Harry's vacation; and these occupations, toge- 
 c2
 
 28 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 ther with her own resources, would have brought 
 their own soothing balm along with them, even 
 amid all the daily recurring and increasing causes 
 of depression around her ; had it not been for the 
 misery with which she saw, during the few and 
 hurried visits which Alfred, immersed in his 
 studies, permitted himself to make to Cargarth, 
 that the ardent and unceasing exertions with 
 which he devoted himself to those studies, com- 
 bined with the extreme anxiety of mind which 
 his father's affairs occasioned him, were gradually 
 undermining a constitution, never remarkable for 
 strength, and too evidently, spite of his efforts to 
 disguise it, preying to an alarming degree alike 
 on his health and spirits. 
 
 And under all these causes of depression, 
 Eleanor had no resource in the shape of cheerful 
 companionship. Their neighbours in the country 
 were not numerous — and, with the exception of 
 one family, beyond walking distance. Moreover, 
 they were all wealthy people, and all had their 
 own wide circles of intimates. A few formal 
 visits, therefore, v/hich Mr. Falconar's family had 
 no longer the means of returning, comprised the 
 whole of their intercourse. The only exception 
 was in the case of the near neighbours above 
 alluded to, who were likewise near relations. — Mr. 
 Balmayne, of Mosspatrick, being the elder bro- 
 ther of Peter Balmayne, and consequently cousin 
 to Mr. Falconar. This gentleman, good natured 
 as his brother had once been, had not, like him, 
 become selfish — at least, not to any inordinate 
 degree; and his visits to his cousin, and efforts
 
 THE FALC0XAR3. 29 
 
 to draw him from the state of despondency into 
 which he was fast sinking, were frequent and 
 kindly. But unhappily, it was not in Mr. Bal- 
 mayne's power to do much towards lightening 
 the melancholy hours of his young relations. He 
 was indolent from constitution and habit, and his 
 love of ease had induced him to lay down tha 
 reins of domestic goyernment, so completely, that 
 even on occasions where his better nature might 
 haye led him to desire their resumption, he had 
 neither energy nor power to enforce it. Haying 
 owed his present wealth, and freedom from the 
 necessity of tact in a profession, to his marriage 
 with Miss Morison, of Mosspatrick, a shrewd, 
 clever, managing heiress, he never had, from the 
 very first, been permitted to assume much au- 
 thority in his house ; and as it saved him a vast 
 deal of trouble, he acquiesced very good-humour- 
 edly in the doom, and contented himself, in lieu 
 of directing the home department, with taking a 
 very active share in all public and county busi- 
 ness ; and, in short, as his neighbours were wont 
 to remark, in "every sort of business but his 
 own." His lady, meanwhile, expressed great in- 
 terest in Eleanor and Clara Falconar, and told 
 every one how deeply she felt for their situation; 
 but, nevertheless, contrived to see as little of 
 them or of their elder brother, in her own house, 
 as decency would permit. The reason of this 
 must have been very plain to any one possessed 
 of much knowledge of the secret workings of the 
 heart, in the fact that Mrs. Balmayne liad 
 a son of sixteen; and that Master Tom, with
 
 30 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 brotherly politeness, only to be equalled by the 
 elegance of the expression employed, had often 
 been heard to pronounce sentence of hanging 
 upon himself, '^ If his little cousin Clara were 
 not worth ten of his sisters !" Moreover, there 
 was a daughter one year younger, and Miss Agnes 
 had repeatedly declared her conyiction that her 
 cousin Alfred was the very handsomest young 
 man she had ever seen, and so delightful !" It 
 need not be added, that care v/as thenceforward 
 taken to hinder the meetings of these dangerous 
 cousins with their quondam playfellows and 
 friends. 
 
 But time wore on, and brought with it fresh 
 accession of serious and severe trial, to obliterate 
 the very thought of these petty annoyances. 
 Difficulties thickened, and times did not improve. 
 It was found imperatively necessary to expose to 
 sale a detached portion of the estate; and this, 
 with deep and agonizing reluctance on the part 
 of the unfortunate proprietor, was at last done. 
 But even this measure did not bring with it the 
 expected relief. Matters seemed to get worse 
 instead of better ; and Mr. Anstruther, as agent 
 for the other trustees, at length arrived at Car- 
 garth, for the purpose of a personal interview 
 with Mr. Falconar ; the purport of which was, to 
 lay before him a QniJiute, or Avritten statement of 
 their proceedings ; and, in fine, to state to him 
 the conviction to which they had come, that re- 
 lief was only to be hoped for from an unreserved 
 sale of the whole property. 
 
 To imagine the feelings of Mr. Falconar on
 
 THE FALCONARS. 31 
 
 this announcement, the reader must be capable of 
 entering at once into his sentiments as a father 
 — the honourable pride belonging to his habits, 
 as representative of an ancient house, and the in- 
 tense local attachment which bound him to the 
 place of his forefathers; and which was shared 
 by all his children in a degree incomprehensible 
 to colder and more worldly natures. The idea of 
 this cherished habitation passing away from him 
 and from his son, struck him to the very heart ; 
 and the agitation of mind necessarily produced, 
 completed the work already begun by the bitter 
 remorse which preyed upon this generous and 
 kindly, though imprudent, husband and father. 
 He could not bear up against the idea of the in- 
 justice Avhich he had done his family ; and within 
 three months after the time when the sale of his- 
 estate was proposed to him, he literally died of a 
 broken heart. His dying words to his son dwelt 
 upon the theme which had haunted him till it 
 brought him to the grave. 
 
 ^' Alfred, my dearest boy," he said, " I have 
 left you a ravelled'* pirn to wind. God forgive 
 me for the cruel wrong I have done you, my good 
 boy. But oh ! Alfred ! keep the old acres toge- 
 ther if you can, for the sake of langsyne." 
 
 Thus died Douglas Falconar, at the age of 
 forty-seven. The devoted and exemplary atten- 
 tion of his children soothed his bed of death. It 
 did more — it taught consolation to beam even 
 upon the last moments of one who in his days of 
 prosperity had lived with his God so little in all his 
 
 * Entangled.
 
 32 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 tlioughts. But if that redeeming God reject not 
 the cry of the penitent who seek him, even at 
 the eleventh hour, in tliat way through which 
 alone he may be found ; and if that word be true, 
 which proclaimed the joy in heaven over one sin- 
 ner that repenteth, then were the humble faith 
 and confidence not felt in vain, which tempered 
 with soothing balm the bitter tears of those chil- 
 dren over their kind father's grave.
 
 THE FALCONARS. 33 
 
 CIIAPTEK IV. 
 
 What's any nightmare worth? 
 
 Some are like (for why should I conceal 
 
 The fact ?) — our friends, ■^\-ho ride us in the dark, 
 
 And spur us through the day with some remark." 
 
 Barry Cornwall. 
 
 A TWELVEMONTH liacl passed since tlie death of 
 Mr. Falconar, and " Time, the consoler," had 
 taken off the first sharp edge of sorrow, and re- 
 moved the memory of tlie departed parent into 
 the depths of his children's hearts, leaving the 
 outward surface calm and still. A change, mean- 
 while, had passed over the melancholy mansion 
 which witnessed the closing scene ; and once again 
 it was tlie seat of mirth and gaiety, but under 
 the auspices of strangers. All proceedings rela- 
 tive to the sale of the estate were stopped, as a 
 matter of course, by the death of the owner ; and 
 until the trustees could have a distinct view of 
 the manner in which affairs would proceed, under 
 the altered circumstances of the case, they re- 
 frained from any ultimate decision on the subject. 
 But as it was out of the question for Mrs. Fal- 
 c3
 
 34 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 collar to remain at Cargarth, even had she wished 
 it, she had within half a year after her husband's 
 death removed to Edinburgh ; and the place was 
 shortly after let to Mr. Oswald, a very wealthy 
 East Indian, lately returned to his native country, 
 whose only son, a gay young Oxonian, had assem- 
 bled a large party of friends around him at this 
 season of country hospitality. 
 
 It was on a beautiful sunny afternoon, towards 
 the end of September, that Eleanor Falconar sat 
 in the drawing-room of her mother's house ; one 
 of those smaller sized ones in Lynedoch-place,' 
 which command so splendid a view of the Firth 
 of Forth, looking in the direction across where 
 the Dean bridge now stands, but did not stand 
 at the period of this tale. Possessed of a remark- 
 able talent for painting, she was at this moment 
 engaged in taking a miniature likeness of her 
 elder brother, whom she had with some difficulty 
 prevailed on to spare an hour from his studies, to 
 give her a sitting ; and the group they presented, 
 while thus occupied, would have afforded a beau- 
 tiful study to another artist, had such been of 
 the party ; as perhaps there are few more inter- 
 esting to a portrait-painter than those pre- 
 sented by strong family resemblance, varied by 
 varied expression, yet remarkable through all 
 such diversities. Eleanor's countenance, without 
 being regularly beautiful, was singularly at- 
 tractive. Her features were soft and delicate, 
 and the paleness of her complexion was of that 
 clear tint over which the animation of excited 
 thought, or of conversation, brings at times so
 
 THE FALCONARS. 35 
 
 bright a glow. The expression of her mouth 
 was peculiarly sweet, yet arch; and in this, and 
 in her large dark hazel eyes, and pencilled eye- 
 brows, consisted her strongest resemblance to her 
 brother. Her high open forehead was also the 
 counterpart of his; and as she bent over her 
 painting, it was shaded by long rich ringlets, of 
 the darkest brown hair, wliich fell in heavy masses 
 almost upon the ivory ; and was gathered up in a 
 knot behind, displaying the graceful turn of a 
 beautifully formed neck. Her figure, rather be- 
 neath than above the middle height, was slender 
 and gi'acefully proportioned. Alfred, on the 
 contrary, was very tall ; elegantly made, but with 
 that slight degree of hollowness in the chest, 
 which gives an impression of growth too rapid 
 for the bodily strength ; and this impression was 
 still farther confii'med by his deep, yet varying 
 colour, and the remarkable brilliancy of his eyes, 
 which were singularly fine, and which wore an 
 expression of deep thought; almost, at times, a 
 shade of hauteur, relieved, however, by that of 
 his mouth, which, like his sister's, was l3eautiful. 
 His complexion was darker than hers, and his 
 rich waving hair might have been called black, but 
 for the golden tinge which passed over it as he sat, 
 where one sunbeam fell across his head from the 
 partially darkened window. Altogether, a finer 
 or more animated countenance it was hardly pos- 
 sible to see, or a more striking likeness to his 
 sister. The form and face of both were eminently 
 marked with that nameless stamp which at once 
 reveals " gentle blood," and nobility of character ;
 
 36 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 and which adds so greatly to the effect of personal 
 beauty ; as the absence of it, — the expression 
 imparted by a mean, a vulgar, or even a common- 
 place mind, destroys, in the eye of taste, the 
 charm of the most exquisite features. 
 
 The pensive shade which hung upon the coun- 
 tenance of Eleanor, and imparted a cadence 
 almost mournful to the tone of a remarkably 
 sweet voice, was strongly contrasted with the 
 brilliant, animated, and sylph-like beauty of her 
 younger sister Clara, the only other inmate of 
 the apartment at this time ; who, with a volume 
 of Tasso in her hand, and a large Italian dic- 
 tionary before her, was seated in a couching, 
 child-like attitude, on a sofa, in the darkest 
 corner of the room — the other little white hand 
 bent across her forehead, as though to exclude 
 any sight which might interrupt her studies ; but 
 which position of profound meditation she inter- 
 rupted every ^yq minutes, by bounding from her 
 seat, and running across the room to peep over 
 her sister's slioulder, and address to her some 
 laughing criticism, intended, if possible, to derange 
 the gravity of her brother's countenance. Still 
 wanting some months of seventeen, Clara looked 
 at least a year younger, and her whole expression 
 and deportment were instinct v/ith that most 
 beautiful buoyancy of early youth, and a happy 
 temperament, totally unallied to levity or heart- 
 lessness — indeed, much more frequently, as in her 
 case, united with warm affections and keen feel- 
 ings; and when so united, forming one of the 
 most blessed gifts of Providence in n world of
 
 THE FALCONARS. B7 
 
 care, both to the possessor, and those within 
 his influence. The early trials, the wearing 
 anxieties, and bitter distresses which had sunk 
 upon Eleanor's heart, with a weight of sadness 
 whence the young spirit never can rise again, so 
 lightly as it did in happier years, had fallen less 
 heavily upon Clara, as not being of an age to 
 feel such sufferings so acutely ; and gifted in a 
 pre-eminent degree with that hopeful ardency 
 of mind which will scarce admit the possibility 
 of sorrow. There is much too in being a younger 
 sister; and possessing an elder one so gentle, so 
 affectionate, and so desirous, if possible, to spare 
 a young heart the full knowledge of the evil 
 which had prematurely saddened her own, as 
 Eleanor had ever been towards Clara. Tluis it 
 was that the gay and joyous disposition of the 
 latter cast a perpetual sunshine over their dwell- 
 ing. In person, Clara was like her mother's 
 family; and save in the mouth, wherein all the 
 children of Douglas Falconar resembled their 
 father and each other, there was little in her face 
 beyond the likeness which runs through all the 
 members of a family, to shew that she and 
 Eleanor were sisters. Brilliantly fair, with larggi 
 blue eyes, and a countenance whose delicate fea- 
 tiu'es, and softly rounded outline, were set off by 
 a colour like the pink of an Indian shell, she 
 was an object of much more instantaneous and 
 universal admiration than Eleanor, whose loveli- 
 ness was not of that nature which dazzles or 
 attracts, at first, any eyes save those which are on 
 the watch f<5r expression. This cherub-face, with
 
 38 THE FOETUNES OF 
 
 its sweet, arch, and joyous smile, was still further 
 embellished by her resplendent hair, of a light, 
 sunny shade of brown, which curled naturally, and 
 hung in a glittering veil of rich ringlets beneath 
 her shoulders, increasing the youthfulness of her 
 whole appearance. Her figure, suited to such a 
 face, was slender, light, and fairy -like, and her 
 height not above that of her sister. As she stood, 
 for at least the tenth time, behind her sister's 
 chair, and bent over the half-finished miniature, 
 Eleanor playfully pushed her away. 
 
 *' Eeally, Clara," said she, " I can stand this 
 no longer. Go to your Tasso, you idle thing. I 
 don't believe you have construed a stanza, since 
 you took it up." 
 
 *^ There you are mistaken, Ellen, for I have 
 read a great many, and now I have left Erminia 
 amongst the shepherds ; and whilst she is reposing 
 after her fatigue, surely so may I." 
 
 " What !" exclaimed Alfred, "has Erminia got 
 no further than the shepherds yet? I am afraid, 
 Clara, it will be many a day ere you bring her to 
 the end of her pilgrimage. But now, Ellen, 
 really / can stand this no longer. Are you not 
 yearly done with me?" 
 
 "Ellen doesn't want you to stand it," said 
 Clara; " she wants you to sity 
 
 " Well, sit or stand,'' replied Alfred, smiling, 
 *' I can bear it no longer, Ellen. My head aches, 
 my eyes ache, and I feel more than half asleep, 
 and wholly stupified. Do let me go, and I shall 
 give you a sitting to-morrow, earlier in the day. 
 It is so intolerably warm this afternoon."
 
 THE FALCONARS. 39 
 
 ^* So it is," said Clara. " Ellen, will you not 
 release the prisoner, and let him come and take a 
 walk with me?" 
 
 '' If you would hut wait till I have caught a 
 shade that I want," said Eleanor, intently 
 mixing two colours. " I shall not keep you 
 longer, Alfred ; I dare say you are tired. There, 
 now," she added, after a few minutes' pause, " you 
 may go. I can work without you now. But now, 
 are you going to walk with Clara? I hope you 
 are." 
 
 " Why," answered Alfred, as he rose from the 
 sofa on which he had been seated, '' you know, 
 love, I ought to be at my books. Think how 
 near the time approaches now — if I am, as I hope, 
 to put on the long robe in November." 
 
 "Yes — but Alfred," anxiously interrupted 
 Eleanor, " if you injui'e your own health, in the 
 meantime, you will not gain much by putting it 
 on. You have been at work since seven o'clock 
 this morning, without intermission, and I'm sure 
 if your head aches, and you look as if it did, 
 yom^ books are more to blame than your sitting 
 to me. Do go out, dearest Alfred, and take a 
 walk with that poor child, both for your own sajjp 
 and hers. You can read in the evening, to iar 
 better purpose, if you go into the fresh air now." 
 
 "Spoken like a Hieland oracle, Ellen," returned 
 her brother, pressing his lips to her forehead. 
 " Go, Clara," he added, ''and put on your bonnet. 
 Ellen, are you not going to put your own advice 
 into practice? You have not been out to-day." 
 
 " Yes, I have, for a shoii; while, two hours ago,"
 
 40 ^ THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 replied Eleanor. " And I would mucli rather 
 stay and have an uninterrupted hour's work just 
 now, for mamma is out, you know ; and she gives 
 me so little time to draw, or do anything at all, 
 when she is at home." 
 
 " Very true. And I am sure there is little 
 temptation in these hot dusty roads about Edin- 
 burgh, beautiful as they are. Oh, Ellen — for 
 one hour — only one — of the free mountain hea- 
 ther! Does not your heart sometimes sink, as 
 mine does, at the thought that our feet may never 
 tread our own wild hills again?" 
 
 Eleanor raised her eyes, filled with tears, to 
 her brother's face. He stooped over her, and 
 kissed her tenderly. " I ought to be ashamed, 
 dearest," he said, " of my own weakness, in bring- 
 ing tears into your eyes. But it is not often I 
 am so selfish. Hope, dearest — hope for the best. 
 All is not lost yet. The day tnay come, when ^ . 
 shall again inhabit the halls of our fathers. And 
 when I think how much depends on me, you 
 cannot wonder that I am loth to leave my books, 
 even forwan hour." 
 
 " No, Alfred," she replied, '^ I cannot wonder. 
 ftut do — do be more careful of your health than 
 you are. Such incessant study can be good for 
 no one. And — oh !" exclaimed Eleanor, ■ sud- 
 denly interrupting herself, as her eye glanced 
 towards the vdndow, " there is aunt Elizabeth !" 
 
 "What! coming here?" hastily asked Alfred. 
 "Where is Clara? I shall run up stairs, and inter- 
 cept her progress hither. Good-bye, Ellen. It is 
 hardly fair, though, to leave you alone."
 
 THE FALCONARS. 41 
 
 " Never mind," returned Eleanor, smiling, as 
 lie left the room, wliich, in a few minutes after, 
 was entered by Aunt Elizabeth, a little active- 
 looking personage, of a certain age, who had once 
 been very pretty, and still retained a considerable 
 portion of good looks, though somewhat marred 
 by a shrewish expression. 
 
 "How do you do, Eleanor?" said she, as her 
 niece rose to receive her. " How can you bear 
 to sit in such a dark room, child? I declare I 
 can hardly see your face. I am sure you can't 
 see to do anything in such darkness visible." 
 
 " There is such a glare on the streets, Aunt 
 Elizabeth," replied Eleanor, hastening to pull up 
 one of the Venetian blinds, " that it dazzles one's 
 eyes coming into shade. I can see quite well 
 here ; and really in these warm days, we are glad 
 to darken the room as much as possible." 
 
 I am sure you have none of the forenoon 
 sun, child. It is very trying to the eyes, to vv^ork 
 with so little light. But I suspect there is not 
 much ivork done in this room." 
 
 " Indeed, Aunt Elizabeth," said Eleanor, good 
 humouredly, " I work a great deal, I assure you. 
 And have you seen the pretty muslin pelerine^ 
 that Clara has been embroidering?" 
 
 " No — not I," returned Aunt Elizabeth, con- 
 temptuously laying down Clara's Tasso, which she 
 had just lifted from the table, to examine its title : 
 " but I can tell yoit^ Eleanor, though I believe it 
 is of no use for me to speak of such things to you, 
 that I cannot help advising you, for your own 
 sake, to endeavour to conform your mind to your
 
 42 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 circumstances, and turn 3^0111 attention more to 
 needle-work. You would find it of more use to you 
 than drawing :" (looking spitefully, as she spoke, 
 towards the window, where Eleanor's painting 
 apparatus stood.) 
 
 " Eeally," interposed Eleanor, " I am not con- 
 scious of over-indulging in anything of the sort; 
 and " 
 
 " Look at your cousins, the Livingstones," 
 pursued Aunt Elizabeth, warming with her sub- 
 ject, and not listening to her niece — " I am sure 
 they, with their sj)lendid fortune, and beauty, and 
 expectations, set an example that you and Clara 
 would do well to follow. See how neat-handed they 
 are, and how much they work for themselves. Those 
 scarfs they have lately embroidered ! I believe 
 such work was never seen before, out of a convent." 
 
 '' But do you know. Aunt Elizabeth,'^ said 
 Eleanor, " I could not aiford to do such work 
 as that; the materials are ruinously expensive. 
 I do all the work that I can, I am sure ; and I 
 think," she added, with a smile, ^' that I have more 
 merit in it, because I confess I am not naturally 
 so fond of it as of many other pursuits." 
 . " No, no — I daresay not. Learning Latin 
 with a tutor was more to your taste; or sitting 
 all day daubing on a bit of ivory. And, by 
 the way, miniature painting, Eleanor, is an 
 amusement that both your Aunt Annie and I 
 consider not quite suitable to your circumstances. 
 Ivories cannot be bought for nothing — and mi- 
 niatures cannot be set for nothing, either. We 
 both think, and so I can tell you do many of your
 
 THE FALCONARS. 43 
 
 friends, that you might have better use for the 
 little money you can have to spare." 
 
 " My friends are very considerate," said Eleanor, 
 — a flash of Alfred's spirit glancing in her eyes as 
 she spoke. ^' But, Aunt Elizabeth," she added, 
 subduing her emotion of anger, " You are mis- 
 taken, believe me, in thinking that I spend much 
 money in this favourite pursuit. I have known 
 too long and too well, better than any of my 
 friends do, what the real ivant of money was, to 
 be guilty of misspending what I now have. I 
 paint very little on ivory, I assure you." She 
 paused, perceiving that Aunt Elizabeth had re- 
 laxed her attention, and was gazing intently, 
 through her eye-glass, on a version-book of Clara's, 
 which lay open on the table. 
 
 "What an illegible hand Clara writes!" she 
 exclaimed. " And scribbling versions at her age ! 
 Many a girl has come out at her time of life." 
 
 " Think how many disadvantages poor Clara 
 has had," said Eleanor, gently; "living in the 
 country entirely, without masters, or any one but 
 me to teach her, since she was under thirteen ; 
 the very age when a girl begins to wish to im- 
 prove most. She works very diligently now." 
 
 " Much need," returned Aunt Elizabeth. " I 
 fancy there is plenty of money spent on her 
 music, and French, and Italian. Your mother 
 must feel herself a very wealthy woman, judg- 
 ing from appearances. And what is Harry about? 
 Has he any holiday tasks from the Academy ? It 
 is an age since we have seen him. 
 
 "No wonder," thought Eleanor; but just as
 
 41 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 she was about to satisfy lier aunt on the subject 
 of Harry's studies, tlie catechism, to her infinite 
 relief, was interrupted by the entrance of another 
 visitor. 
 
 *' My dear Miss Hay !" exclaimed Eleanor, 
 starting up, and throwing her arms round the 
 neck of the lady who now came in. " How de- 
 lighted I anl to see you. When did you return?" 
 
 *' Only two days ago, my love," answered Miss 
 Hay, affectionately kissing her young friend ; and 
 advancing towards Aunt Elizabeth, who came 
 with extended hand, and a " How do you do, 
 Emily?" to meet her. The new visitor was a 
 gentle and interesting woman, seemingly about 
 eight or nine-and-thirty, but who might perhaps 
 number a year or two more, and whose counte- 
 nance still bore traces of no slight degree of 
 beauty. A shade of pensiveness mingled with, 
 and enhanced the feminine grace of her manner 
 and deportment. Seating herself on the sofa 
 which Alfred had lately occupied. Miss Hay, after 
 replying to various questions from Aunt Eliza- 
 beth, relative to the welfare of some friends whom 
 she had lately been visiting in the country, 
 glanced her eye towards the miniature which had 
 called forth that lady's spleen ; and moved from 
 her seat to look at it. 
 
 '' Oh, Ellen !" she exclaimed, *' what progress 
 you have made since I saw it last ! How beau- 
 tifully painted ; and how very, very like ! What 
 an enviable talent yours is ! Is it not a striking 
 likeness?" she added, appealing to Aunt Eliza- 
 beth.
 
 THE FALCONARS. 45 
 
 '*I really have hardly looked at it," replied 
 that lady, coming towards the window as she 
 spoke ; then glancing at the picture, — " Yes — 
 yes — it certainly is like Ah^red — but flattered, I 
 think." 
 
 "Flattered! Aunt Elizabeth!" exclaimed 
 Eleanor. "Excuse me, but I don't think that 
 is possible." 
 
 " I agree with you, Eleanor," said Miss Hay; 
 " I hardly think it is. There is an expression 
 about your brother's countenance which, on the 
 contrary, I could scarce fancy any portrait catch- 
 ing correctly. But you have done so, better, per- 
 haps, than any one could who had not lived con- 
 stantly with him. The mouth I particularly 
 admire ; and that is the most difficult feature in 
 a portrait. Seriously, Elizabeth," turning to her 
 cousin, " you cannot mean to say that this pic- 
 ture is flattered ?" 
 
 " Indeed, I think so," replied Aunt Elizabeth, 
 re-seating herself, and beginning to turn over the 
 contents of a small portefeuille, which chanced to 
 lie open on the table near her. " But I am no 
 great admirer of the expression of Alfred's face at 
 times. I must own, I do not consider him quite 
 so perfect as Eleanor does. And that sort of 
 complexion does not suit my ideas of beauty. 
 George Livingstone, nov,^, approaches much more 
 nearly mj/ delinition of a handsome man." 
 
 " Bardon me, Elizabeth," returned Miss Hay, 
 with a smile, " but I must own, I tliink your 
 taste is a very peculiar one. There is something 
 so stiff and self-complacent in George Living-
 
 46 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 stone, that it ^YOuld destroy the eflfect of the finest 
 features in the world; fine as, I own, his are. He 
 is a very uninteresting man — to me at least.'' 
 
 *' Luckily," responded Aunt Elizabeth, colour- 
 ing somewhat fiercely — " every one does not think 
 so. Lady Susan Malcolm was not of your opinion, 
 Emily." 
 
 '' I am very glad of it, and I hope their mar- 
 riage may be as happy as you can all wish," re- 
 plied Miss Hay; "but with all deference to Lady 
 Susan's good taste, I must be permitted to retain 
 my own opinion of her husband's attractions. 
 She is beautiful enough, at any rate. Have you 
 seen her, Ellen?" 
 
 " No," returned Eleanor; '* it is four years, at 
 least, since I have seen any of the Livingstones. 
 We have never met since we left Edinburgh. 
 And we did not come to town just now in time 
 to see them. They always go to Eerneylee before 
 May." 
 
 " They have been very gay since George's 
 marriage," said Aunt Elizabeth. " Indeed, they 
 always have their house very full, especially at 
 this season. And— r-what drawing is this?" she 
 added, interrupting herself, and holding up one 
 which she had taken from amongst the miscella- 
 neous contents of her niece's portefeuille ; a beau- 
 tiful and spirited sketch, in sepia, of a very 
 fine old castle, surrounded by venerable trees. 
 
 " I don't know this place at all. Whose initials 
 are these?" continued she, taking up her glass, 
 and narrowly examining one corner of the paper. 
 
 " That," answered Eleanor, blushing deeply,
 
 THE FALCONARS. 47 
 
 "is done by Alfred's friend, Mr. Clifton; it is a 
 sketch of his uncle's, Lord Clifton de Pevenley's 
 seat, in Warwickshire, I believe. Alfred only gave 
 it to me yesterday." 
 
 "il/r. Clifton r said Aunt Elizabeth, in a 
 musing tone, and still curiously examining the 
 initials, " G. D. C. Who " 
 
 " Guy Clifton," exclaimed Miss Hay, her eyes 
 fixed on the countenance of her young friend. 
 " I didn't think you knew him, Eleanor ?" 
 
 " Nor do I," replied Eleanor, " I never saw 
 him. You know Alfred and he only became ac- 
 quainted after we left Edinburgh, but Alfred cor- 
 responds with him constantly ; and so, somehow 
 or other," and Eleanor's blushes deepened, " I 
 always fancy I know him. All Alfred's friends, 
 and mine, seem to be in common, you know." 
 
 " So I see," observed Aunt Elizabeth, hunting, 
 as she spoke, after another paper which had caught 
 her eye, in the unlucky portefeuille, and, after 
 some search, drawing it forth. Here are some 
 verses, with the same initials to them. I per- 
 ceive that Alfred is at a loss where to keep his 
 friend's communications, so he is obliged to have 
 recourse to your assistance." 
 
 " He did not suspect, I suppose," said Eleanor, 
 " that they would be less private here than in his 
 own bureau." 
 
 " And pray who is Mr. Clifton ?" pursued Aunt 
 Elizabeth, regardless of the hint. " I don't re- 
 collect him." 
 
 '' Oh, yes, you must, Elizabeth," said Miss Hay ; 
 " nobody could ever forget Guy Clifton, who had
 
 48 THE FOUTUNES OF 
 
 once seen him, I think. And he has often been 
 at our house, with Alfred, four years ago — that 
 winter when he was at college here. I am sure 
 he must have suited your ideas of beauty." 
 
 "What!" exclaimed Eleanor, "is Mr. Clifton 
 like George Livingstone?" 
 
 " Not in the very least," replied Miss Hay, 
 smiling. " Only as your aunt does not admire 
 a dark complexion in a man, I thought Guy Clif- 
 ton's must have pleased her taste. In any other 
 respect I don't know to whom I could compare 
 him ; he was a very original, as well as a very 
 fascinating young man, when I knew him, and I 
 should not think he was one whom the world 
 would spoil." 
 
 " I have no doubt he is a phoenix," said Aunt 
 Elizabeth; "but, nevertheless, I do not happen 
 to recollect him. Where is your mother, Eleanor ? 
 I want to talk to her about a housemaid who has 
 just applied for our place, and who was once with 
 you, in your poor father's time." 
 
 " Mamma is out," replied Eleanor, stifling a 
 sigh, " but I rather think she talked of paying 
 Aunt Annie a visit this afternoon." 
 
 " In that case," returned' Aunt Elizabeth, care- 
 lessly tossing aside the verses already men- 
 tioned, and which she had been for the last 
 few minutes twisting in her hand — "in that 
 case, I shall bid you good-bye, and see if I can't 
 meet her, or perhaps find her there. There are 
 various points which I always like to ascertain 
 myself, in engaging a new servant. Good-bye, 
 Emily ; I hope we shall see you soon ! Eleanor,
 
 THE FALCONARS. 49 
 
 I beseech you, tell Harry to wipe liis shoes on 
 the door-mat, next time he comes to see us. 
 He ahvays brings up a pound of dirt on each shoe, 
 and it fidgets my aunt so ! Indeed there is nothing 
 more annoying than inattention to these little 
 proprieties. Mrs. Livingstone used to be so 
 particular in enforcing everything of that sort, 
 when her boys were young ; if it be not done then, 
 it is of little use in after life." And, talking all 
 the way to the bottom of the stairs, Aunt Eliza- 
 beth took her departure. 
 
 YOh. I,
 
 50 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 CHAPTETl V. 
 
 " 'Tis a sound of enchantment — what ails her ? She sees 
 A mountain ascending — a vision of trees ; 
 Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, 
 And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside." 
 
 "Wordsworth. 
 
 " Your Aunt Elizabeth takes a most active charge 
 of you all, Eleanor," smilingly remarked Miss 
 Hay, as her young friend closed the door behind 
 the visitor, and returned to her seat, with a look 
 of infinite relief. " Eeally, she is very torment- 
 ing. I admire your patience." 
 
 "Why, when I am alone with her," replied 
 Eleanor, " it is no such great effort to endure her 
 animadversions, innumerable as they are; but I 
 own it is a trial to me to see Alfred persecuted 
 as she delights in doing — for he does not take it 
 by any means patiently ; indeed I don't see how 
 he could. And the worst of it is, the unkind way 
 in which both Aunt Annie and she comment, to 
 mamma, on everything that any of us can say or do. 
 They are not aware, I am sure, of the mischief it 
 does, or the influence which that sort of interfer- 
 ence exercises over her mind. Everything, down
 
 THE FALCONARS. 51 
 
 to tlie veriest trifle, is made the subject of harsh 
 or sneering remarks — it seems as if they had a 
 real pleasure in finding faults in us. It was not 
 always so," added Eleanor, with a sigh; "but 
 it is wonderful how the loss of Svorld's gear' 
 changes the opinions of one's friends sometimes, as 
 well as their conduct." 
 
 " Alas, my dear child !" exclaimed Miss Hay — 
 " you are too young to have made that discovery, 
 did knowledge of mankind always go by one's 
 years? But we are sometimes forced on a pre- 
 mature experience of them, and it is a sore 
 experience to the warm heart of youth. But 
 now that we have time to talk, Ellen, tell me — 
 for you know I do not ask out of idle curiosity — 
 have your guardians and Alfred been able to come 
 to any an-angement yet, relative to Car-garth?" 
 
 " None," replied Eleanor, sadly. " Indeed, I 
 believe they will not for a while be able to settle 
 anything definitively. Sir Anthony has not been 
 in town for several months, and they are waiting 
 to have a meeting with him ; he does not, you 
 know, put himself much out of his own way fot* 
 any one. But it preys sadly on Alfred's mind, 
 and keeps him in a perpetual fever of anxiety ; . 
 and he is reading so hard just now, at any rate, 
 preparatory to passing Advocate in November, 
 that I really often tremble for his health." 
 
 " I am sure you must," returned Miss Hay. 
 " He does not look strong at any time, and that 
 sort of ardent excitable temperament always tells 
 upon the bodily frame." 
 
 " Yes," said Eleanor, " and it is so easy to say 
 d2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
 
 52 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 that people should not worry themselves, and bid 
 them take things more coolly ; but when ' things' 
 involve the objects of a man's anxious wishes, and 
 around which his dearest associations are entwined, 
 and when, moreover, he thinks, as Alfred does, 
 that perhaps by his own efforts he may be enabled 
 to surmount his difficulties, it is not so light a 
 task to restrain his exertions within the limits 
 of prudence." 
 
 Whilst Eleanor spoke, she was occupied in 
 smoothing the creases and folds, which the uncere- 
 monious treatment of Aunt Elizabeth had inflicted 
 on the sheet of paper containing Mr. Clifton's 
 verses. Miss Hay again took up the drawing, 
 still lying on the table, and examined it more 
 attentively. " It is very masterly," she observed; 
 "those few bold touches that bring out the subject 
 so much more fully than a diousand laboured 
 strokes. That boy — for when \ knew him he was 
 little more — succeeded in every thing.he attempted. 
 He used to read himself to death, too. Often 
 have I lectured him and Alfred on the subject." 
 
 " I fancy he is not in the least improved in 
 that respect," said Eleanor, smiling. '* Alfred 
 tells me that his health had suffered a good deal 
 from over-study before he left Oxford, which he 
 did this summer. I wish he would come to 
 Edinburgh again ; there is no person in the world 
 whom I have such a curiosity to sec. But it is 
 very unlikely, for I believe he intends going to 
 the English bar." 
 
 " You would lose your lieart if you knew him," 
 returned Miss Hay; "• so it is just as well he does
 
 THE I'ALCONARS. 53 
 
 not come, for I don't think Aunt Elizabeth Avoukl 
 consider him a good match. And now I must 
 run away; so good bye, Ellen, love. Let us see 
 you as soon as you can." 
 
 Miss Hay, the Emily to whom had been de- 
 voted, for a time at least, the fii'st aftections of 
 Eleanor's father, was, notwithstanding the dif- 
 ference in their ages, the only really intimate 
 female friend of his daughter ; and one to whom her 
 heart had always instinctively clung, since the 
 period wlien the death of Mr. Hay, eight years 
 previously, and the subsequent removal of his 
 widow and daughter to Edinburgh, had brought 
 the two families once more into contact. Without 
 guessing at the secret, but unforgotten feelings, 
 which gave depth and intensity to Miss Hay's 
 affection for her young relative, Eleanor had al- 
 ways felt able to talk more confidentially, and with 
 a far greater certainty of sympathy, to her, than 
 to anyone else save her brother; and there was a 
 charm in her womanly gentleness, and in the 
 whole tone of a disposition refined and purified — 
 not soured, by past suffering — calculated at once 
 to find its way to a young and loving heart. 
 Rejoiced at her return to Edinburgh permitting 
 a renewal of their intercourse, Eleanor once more 
 resumed her painting, and had worked quietly at 
 the back-ground of the miniature for nearly an 
 hour, when Clara and Alfred returned from their 
 walk. The latter retired at once to his own little 
 study ; the former, bonnet in hand, entered the 
 drawing-room, and seated herself on the sofa. 
 
 " How very hot it is !" she exclaimed. " I
 
 54 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 am sure I wish winter would come, for Edinburgh 
 is unbearable just now — isn't it, Ellen?'' 
 
 " It is not very pleasant, to those unaccustomed 
 to it, at this time of the year," replied Eleanor. 
 " We feel out of our element in a town, during 
 such lovely weather. But Edinburgh has great 
 advantages in the beautiful walks one can have 
 near it. I dare say it is better than most towns 
 for a summer residence." 
 
 " I don't know," said Clara. " I don't like 
 towns ; and to-day I have been seized with such a 
 longing for our own hills, Ellen — I have seen 
 some one who reminded me of home, and I cannot 
 get Cargarth woods, and the hills, and the moun- 
 tain burns, out of my head again." 
 
 " Who was it ?" eagerly asked Eleanor. " Any 
 of our own people ? How I should like to see any 
 of them again, were it but for five minutes !" 
 
 She was interrupted by the ringing of the 
 door-bell. *^ I dare say," said Clara, "• that is 
 the very person. No, Ellen, it is no one we care 
 very much for ; only the sight of his face brought 
 back all these old thoughts. Only Mr. Bal- 
 mayne." 
 
 And accordingly the door opened, and Mr. 
 Balmayne was announced — a tall, stout, and 
 comely country gentleman, who greeted his young 
 friends with much unaffected cordiality. 
 
 " I dare say you are surprised to see me in 
 town, Eleanor, at this season," he said, as he 
 seated himself beside her; " and in truth I have 
 very little time to spare — I must be back for the 
 Michaelmas head-court, you know, next week;
 
 THE FALCONARS. 55' 
 
 and there is to be a meeting of the Eoad-trustees 
 even sooner, that I mnst hurry back for to- 
 morrow; they can't get on without me. But I 
 couldn't be in town without seeing you." 
 
 *' You are very kind, Mr. Balmayne," replied 
 Eleanor; " Ave should have been sorry indeed 
 not to have had that pleasure. Clara was just 
 telling me, as you came in, that she had met you 
 in the street.'' 
 
 " Yes, I saw her and Alfred ; and they told 
 me I should likely find Mrs. Falconar and you at 
 home." 
 
 " I am very sorry to say mamma has not yet 
 come in. She will regret it so much if she does 
 not return before you go ! She went to sit awhile 
 with Aunt Annie." 
 
 " I am glad," said Mr. Balmayne, " that she 
 is able to make the exertion of going out. It is 
 good for her spirits ; and I hope, by and by, that 
 she will be able to go about, and see her friends a 
 little. Moping in the house is a bad thing for 
 old or young. For my part, that is the great 
 reason why I hate a town ; it is such a confine- 
 ment, compared to the country ; but I am sorry 
 to say there is some chance of our being in 
 Edinburgh next winter." 
 
 "Indeed!" exclaimed Eleanor. " I am glad, 
 I must confess, to think that we shall once more 
 be neighbours." 
 
 " Thank you; so am I, I am sure, and so will 
 Mrs. Balmayne; but it will be a great change of 
 habits to me. Indeed, I expect to be quite as 
 much at Mosspatrick as in Edinburgh; for there
 
 56 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 are a thousand things that will require my super- 
 intendence. Mrs. Balmayne, you see, was very 
 anxious to come to town this winter; she thinks 
 it is high time Agnes should see a little of the 
 world ; she was eighteen last birth-day, and she 
 wants Fanny and Mary to have, God knows how 
 many masters ! And then there is Patrick at 
 the Academy, and George just going. Tltey are 
 coming to town with their tutor the beginning of 
 October, to be in lodgings till we arrive; and 
 Tom is to go into my brother Peter's counting- 
 house in winter : indeed, that was the business 
 that brought me to town just now." 
 
 " That must be very satisfactory to you, I 
 should think," observed Eleanor — " it seems such 
 a flourishing concern." 
 
 " Yery much so, indeed. Highly satisfactory. 
 Great surprise to me, between ourselves; for I 
 thought Mrs. Peter would have wished my bro- 
 ther rather to take her nephew — your cousin, 
 Ellen — Eichard Wellwood. And so she did; but 
 it seems the young gentleman turned up his nose 
 at the idea of being a wine-merchant, as I dare 
 say you know already." *' 
 
 ^' No, indeed, I do not," replied Eleanor, 
 smiling; " but I dare say it is very likely. We 
 have seen so little of the Wellwoods — any of 
 them, except my uncle — for a long time, and not 
 much even of him." 
 
 '' Well, it is all the better for Tom. Dick 
 Wellwood would not hear of^t ; though I believe 
 Sir Anthony would have been very glad of the 
 opening. Well he might, too! An entailed
 
 THE FALCONARS. 57 
 
 estate — and Dick the youngest son ! They live 
 at such an expense, too. However, Master Dick 
 will do nothing but study the law; he thinks it 
 is the only gentlemanly profession he can take 
 to, as John is intended for the English church, 
 and Anthony is in the army. I doubt if there 
 will be much studying in the case. But, as I 
 was going to tell you, on finding out all this, Mrs. 
 Balmayne wrote to Peter directly on Tom's be- 
 half; and they had it all settled between them 
 before I came back from Carixarth, where I had 
 been for three days trying to talk over old Sir 
 John Cochrane, who was there too, about that 
 new cut of road that we are planning, which will 
 interfere with some of his plantations, and the 
 Trustees find him as obstinate as a mule about it. 
 I flatter myself /did some good, though!" 
 
 "At Cargarth, were you?" said Eleanor; 
 " and — and how is everything looking?" 
 
 *' Oil, beautiful ! How are you, Alfred?" as 
 Alfred just then entered the room. " As I was 
 just telling your sisters, everything is looking so 
 well at Cargarth. Mr. Oswald is so fond of the 
 place — takes such pains in keeping it up; and 
 he has the sinews of war, you know — rolling in 
 wealth. He intends to buy land, Alfred; and, 
 upon my soul, I believe that he would give you a 
 far better price for Cargarth than any other pur- 
 chaser, /have put in a good word for it, when- 
 ever I could, in a quiet way." 
 
 " Thank you, Mr, Balmayne," said Alfred, 
 colouring deeply. " I am sure your kind inten- 
 tions never fail ; but — but I have not quite made 
 d3
 
 58 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 up my mind to that yet. At least, I have no 
 power myself; but I hope my trustees will give 
 me some time, at least, ere resolving on a sale. I 
 am loth to fling away my last chance of pre- 
 serving the place. It is a very painful subject 
 of thought." 
 
 " No doubt of it, my dear fellow — no doubt of 
 it. Only if it should prove to be necessary, in my 
 opinion Mr. Oswald is your man. He is a pleasant 
 neighbour, Eleanor — a little pompous or so, but 
 friendly and hospitable — takes a great interest in 
 county matters, which confirms my opinion that 
 he would like to become a proprietor in our 
 quarter. They keep a very gay house. His son, 
 Marmaduke, is a fine young fellow. You saw 
 him just now, Alfred, at the corner of Melville- 
 street." 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Balmayne," eagerly exclaimed Clara, 
 " was that tall young man, who was standing talk- 
 ing to you, Mr. Oswald?" 
 
 " That was he ; and what do you think he said, 
 Clara, just as you came up? Ha! ha! I wont 
 tell you; it would make you too vain: but it 
 made me turn my head, and then I saw you and 
 Alfred, and so bade him good day." 
 
 " Is he in town at this season?" asked Alfred, 
 with some surprise. 
 
 *' Only for a day, on some business or other, he 
 told me. He and I agreed to go out together in 
 the mail, to-morrow. He has left a house- 
 full of friends. I rather think Richard Wellwood 
 is there, Eleanor ; at least, Mrs. Peter told me she 
 believed he was going,"
 
 THE FALCONAKS. 69 
 
 " It is many a day since lie has been at Car- 
 gartli before," said Eleanor, with a sigh. 
 
 " Well," observed Mr. Balmayne, pulling out 
 a hunting-watch, " it is time I were off; for I must 
 pay my respects to Aunt Annie before dinner, 
 and I have barely time. I shall perhaps find 
 your mother there. Alfred, my dear fellow, the 
 
 new line of road to is really to be set a 
 
 going very soon. I was telling Eleanor before 
 you came in what trouble I had had in talking 
 old Sir John over about part of it. Now you do 
 not perhaps know that it must go through a field 
 of yours, down at Blackhope !" 
 
 '' No, I was not aware of it," replied Alfred. 
 ''It is long since it has been in my power to pay 
 much attention to these things. Besides, you 
 know that I do not at present exercise any con- 
 trol over my estate. It is the trustees who look 
 after everything. But I am sure the road could 
 not be in more efficient hands than yours, Mr. 
 Balmayne." 
 
 " I shall see that every justice is done to all 
 parties, no doubt," returned Mr. Balmayne, with 
 a look of conscious merit; "but still I should like 
 very much indeed, Alfred, that you saw the plan 
 yourself. I should like you to ride over the ground 
 with me, that I might explain the whole thing 
 distinctly to you, because your representations 
 would, of course, have great weight with your 
 trustees, if they were inclined to object. I want 
 to make you sensible of the real advantage it will 
 be to your property ; so, my dear fellow, I wish 
 you would make a run out to Mosspatrick for a
 
 60 TfiE FOKtUi!^ES OF 
 
 few days. Do; it would give us the greatest 
 pleasure, and " 
 
 " I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Bal- 
 mayiie," replied Alfred, not in a very steady 
 voice; "but I am sorry to say I must decline 
 your kind invitation. Every moment is of such 
 consequence in my law studies just now, that I 
 cannot think of leaving them. And besides, to 
 tell you the honest truth, I do not feel courageous 
 enough to visit that neighbourhood at present. 
 I really could not bear to do it." 
 
 Mr. Balmayne continued, for a few minutes, to 
 press his invitation, for, independently of his 
 anxiety to discharge aright the onerous functions 
 of a road-trustee, he had a very cordial regard for 
 the son of his deceased cousin, and felt as keen 
 an interest in liis aifairs as he could do in any- 
 thing not connected with county matters; but 
 finding Alfred persist in firmly declining it, he at 
 length took his leave, with many expressions of 
 his hope for a visit from him at some future 
 period.
 
 THE i'ALCONARS. 61 
 
 CHAPTEK YI. 
 
 " Kever have I found a better friend than my brothers." 
 
 Lettek or Columbus to his Son Diego. 
 
 "I AM surprised you did not meet Mr. Balm ay ne, 
 to-day, mamma, in returning from Aunt Annie's, 
 for he left this with the intention of going 
 thither," observed Eleanor, breaking a very long 
 silence, as she sat down to make tea. 
 
 " Thank Heaven!" exclaimed Mrs. Falconar, 
 who was reclining in a deep arm-chair Avith a 
 book in her hand, " I escaped that infliction." 
 
 " I don't know, mamma," said Eleanor, in a 
 deprecating tone ; "he may sometimes be a little 
 tiresome, but I must say I like Mr. Balmayne 
 better than many more brilliant people. There 
 is something so very kind and friendly about 
 him — when he is away from home especially. He 
 does not shine there. But I felt my heart quite 
 warm to him to-day — it is so long since I have 
 seen any one who reminded me of home. And 
 he was so very sorry that he missed you." 
 
 " The regret is not reciprocal," Mrs. Falconar 
 replied, in a cold and languid tone. " I should 
 
 *
 
 62 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 certainly have denied myself to him had I been 
 in the house. If your nerves or your feelings, 
 Eleanor, are strong enough to endure hearing 
 him talk of your home, I can only say mine are 
 not. But it is very fortunate for you. Keen 
 sensibility is not to be envied ; it is a gift as little 
 comfortable for the possessor as it is capable of 
 being appreciated by others. Harry, what dis- 
 agreeable noise is that you are making ? Do be 
 quiet. I must send you to your own room if you 
 scratch your slate so.'' 
 
 '' I was only casting up a long sum, mamma," 
 replied Harry, a rosy, curly-headed little fellow, 
 who with his slate and pencil was kneeling before 
 a chair at the bottom of the room. " Eleanor, 
 will you see if it is right now?" and he rose and 
 brought it to his sister. 
 
 " There is one figure wrong, Harry," said 
 Eleanor, looking over it. "See, here; ^^^ and 
 eleven make" 
 
 " Come," interrupted Mrs. Falconar ; " I really 
 cannot stand your arithmetic lessons at present. 
 You must keep them for another time and place." 
 
 " Take it to Alfred, love," whispered Eleanor, 
 kissing the forehead that was turned up to her — 
 " he will shew you what is wrong. And tell him 
 tea is ready, Hal." 
 
 " How he slams the door after him !" exclaimed 
 Mrs. Falconar, as Harry ran out of the room. 
 " Eleanor, it is very strange that you never take 
 any pains to cure Harry of that odious trick. 
 Your Aunt Annie complains exceedingly, I 
 must tell you, of his want of good manners \ but,
 
 THE FALCONARS. 63 
 
 as I told lier to-day, it is in vain to address 
 these complaints to me. Nothing that I say- 
 meets with the slightest attention. And Clara, 
 
 too " 
 
 " TVhat about Clara, mamma?" inquired the 
 laughing voice of her youngest daughter, as she 
 emerged from a recess, containing a small table, 
 some book shelves, and a sofa, and opening from 
 the drawing-room. " What has poor Clara done 
 now to displease Aunt Annie ?" 
 
 " What have you been about there, Clara?" 
 inquired Mrs. Falconar, looking round to see 
 whence her daughter came. 
 
 " I was reading the ' Midsummer Night's 
 Dream,' mamma. I finished all my lessons and 
 practising before dinner, and " 
 
 " And so you considered yourself privileged 
 to waste the evening in idle reading? Had you 
 no better employment, Eleanor, to prescribe for 
 your sister? Is there no needle- work on which 
 she might be more usefully occupied, than in fill- 
 ing her head with nonsensical plays?" 
 
 '' Dear mamma," gently expostulated Eleanor, 
 as Clara seated herself at the tea-table, " you 
 know Clara and I always work after tea ; but the 
 hour between dinner and tea is a privileged one 
 for reading. She was working this morning, 
 too; and she has been very diligent at her les- 
 sons all day." 
 
 " Her lessons /" exclaimed Mrs. Falconar, in 
 a sneering tone. " As your Aunt Elizabeth was 
 saying to-day, when she returned from calling 
 here, it is high time that Clara were done with
 
 64 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 lessons. It is not of lessons I am talking; but 
 of the neglect of useful occupations; the con- 
 tempt manifested by both of you for everything 
 rendered necessary by your altered circum- 
 stances, which your aunts, and other people too, 
 I assure you, witness with so much pain and 
 regret." 
 
 " Really," interposed Clara, with sparkling 
 eyes, " I think Aunt Annie and Aunt Elizabeth 
 must have very little occupation themselves; 
 otherwise they would not have leisure to find 
 so many faults with us. It is too bad, mamma! 
 Cross, ill-natured " 
 
 " Husli, you little vixen !" exclaimed Alfred, 
 just then entering the room, with two letters in 
 his hand, and thereby creating a diversion in 
 his sister's favour, whicli saved poor Clara from 
 a severe reprimand. " How dare you give way 
 to your temper in sucli a manner?" and he play- 
 fully tapped her cheek as he passed on to his 
 mother's seat. " The post came in this moment, 
 mother, and brought this note for you." 
 
 " From Mrs. Peter Balmayne, I see," said 
 Mrs. Falconar, carelessly opening it. "I think 
 she might have called upon me herself, quite as 
 easily as have written by the penny post. It is 
 a montli since she has been here." 
 
 " And may, perhaps, be another ere she 
 comes," observed Alfred, handing his mother her 
 tea. " However, you know she only returned 
 from Wellwood Castle, last week." 
 
 ^' Yes; and therefore ought to have called 
 before this time, to give me tidings of my bro-
 
 THE FALCONARS. 65 
 
 ther,'^ said Mrs. Falconar, with dignity; " in- 
 stead of merely Avriting me all she has to tell a 
 week after lier return, with some nonsense about 
 the heat of the weather, and her not being able 
 to w^alk so far." 
 
 "It is a mighty distance, to be sure, from 
 Heriot Eow to Lynedoch Place,'' said Alfred, 
 smiling. " But, Ellen, my correspondent is 
 better worth attending to. Here is a long letter 
 from Clifton." 
 
 "From Mr. Clifton, Alfred! Is it, indeed? 
 I am so glad to hear it. Where does he write 
 from? It is so long since you have heard from 
 him." 
 
 " So it is: much longer than usual; and he 
 does not write in such good spirits as formerly ; 
 I don't exactly know wliy. He is not at reven- 
 ley, where I supposed he would have been by 
 this time, but at the Lakes. This letter is dated 
 from the Wliite Lion, at Bowness. And just 
 look at tliis little pen-and-ink sketch at the top 
 of the first page, of the view from tlie platform 
 on which he says his apartments open. Did you 
 ever see anything more spirited?" 
 
 " Admirable, indeed!" exclaimed Eleanor. 
 " And all done in so few touches ! How I wish 
 I could " 
 
 " When you have done poring over this pre- 
 cious letter, Eleanor," said Mrs. Falconar, " I shall 
 trouble you for some more tea." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, mother," exclaimed 
 Alfred, starting up to receive her cup. 
 
 " Next time you choose the tea-table for read-
 
 66 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 ing Mr. Clifton's letters, Eleanor," added Mrs. 
 Falconar, " you had better depute Clara to take 
 your duties upon her." 
 
 " Pray put away the letter, Alfred," said 
 Eleanor, in a low voice. " I was not reading it, 
 mamma, of course ; only looking at a very pretty 
 sketch. I always feel inclined to envy that 
 talent of sketching so rapidly and correctly; 
 and " 
 
 " It is fortunate," interrupted Mrs. Falconar, 
 " that you have the advantage of plenty of good 
 studies. I understand from your aunt that you 
 treasure up various performances of Mr. Clifton's 
 in your portfolio, and consider them so precious 
 that you will hardly allow any one to look at 
 them. 1 was certainly not aware of their being 
 in your possession ; but that, as I told her, is no 
 novelty." 
 
 " My dear mother!" exclaimed Alfred, his 
 eyes flashing fire, as Eleanor turned and looked 
 at him, colouring till the tears started, " it is a 
 pity, since my aunt seems to visit us for no other 
 purpose than to find fault with everything she 
 sees, that she does not at least stick to the exact 
 truth. The only performances of Clifton's that 
 Eleanor has in her possession are two which I 
 myself put into her portfolio yesterday. There 
 is no mystery about them that I know of; and, 
 as I see the portfolio lying on that table, I pre- 
 sume anybody who chooses may look at them. 
 If Ellen wanted to keep them to herself, she was 
 very unwise to leave them there, knowing, as she 
 does, that Aunt Elizabeth never enters a room
 
 THE FALCONARS. 67 
 
 without lifting up and examining everytliing 
 upon every table in it." 
 
 " Youj' aunt, Alfred, is naturally anxious to see 
 your sisters, and all of you, wliat she could wish ; 
 but I fear her anxiety, like that of many other 
 friends, is very much flung away. Harry, pray give 
 me that book from the table beside you." And 
 Mrs. Falconar, having thrown an effectual damp on 
 the conversation of her children, and rendered 
 them all thoroughly uncomfortable," proceeded, 
 with much self-complacency, to apply herself to 
 her studies. 
 
 Alfred, who had retired to his study directly 
 after tea, having occasion to return after the 
 lapse of an hour, to look for a book in the 
 drawing-room, found his sisters in tears; and 
 Harry standing by Clara's side, his countenance 
 glowing with indignation. Mrs. Falconar had 
 left the apartment; and in answer to Alfred's 
 anxious and affectionate inquiries into the cause of 
 their distress, Eleanor informed him that their 
 mother had just announced it as her determina- 
 tion not to permit Clara, during the approaching 
 winter, to resume her studies with Signor Bugni, 
 and Mr. Finlay Dun, her Italian and singing 
 masters. To this resolution, it appeared she had 
 been brought by Aimt Annie's representations of 
 the folly and extravagance of any such expendi- 
 ture; and the superior necessity of saving any 
 money that there might be to spare, to enable her 
 daughters to make such an outward appearance in 
 the world as should not " discredit their family." 
 
 " It is so very hard," continued Eleanor,
 
 68 THE FOUTUKES OF 
 
 ^' after all poor Clara's early disadvantages, and 
 when, with the few lessons she had after we came 
 to town this summer, she made such very rapid 
 progress. She is so anxious to improve, poor 
 child ! it is too had in my aunt 1" 
 
 " Did you ever ?" sobbed poor Clara. 
 
 " Ay," resumed Harry, " did you ever hear of 
 such a crabbed, girnigo, mischief-making body as 
 Aunt Annie ? Whenever mamma's been there, or 
 Aunt Annie's been here, or Aunt Elizabeth 
 either, we can't get peace of our lives the whole 
 day after ! " 
 
 "Hush, Harry!" said Alfred; "go to my 
 room, and look over your holiday task till I come, 
 and then I shall hear you read it before you go 
 to bed. Dry your eyes, Clara," he added, as 
 Harry left the room — drawing her towards him, 
 and tenderly kissing the fair flushed forehead ; 
 " dry your eyes, my little Peri, and don't say 
 another word about it to my mother. I shall talk 
 to her after awhile, and find some means to cir- 
 cumvent Aunt Annie, depend upon it ; only just 
 be quiet till the impression is a little effaced." 
 
 " Thank you, Alfred — you are such a dar- 
 ling:" throwing her arms round his neck, and 
 kissing him as she spoke. " What would Ellen 
 and I do without you ?" 
 
 " What, indeed?" exclaimed Eleanor, as Clara 
 ran from the room to wash the traces of tears 
 from her eyes, fearful of still farther exciting her 
 mother's displeasure by the sight of them. " Oh, 
 Alfred, this is sad work !" 
 
 " Sad work!" said Alfred, sitting down by his
 
 THE FALCONARS. G9 
 
 sister, and passing his arm round her waist. ^' It 
 is had work, and makes me sick of mankind. 
 The impertinence of tliese meddling old women, 
 and my mother's weak submission to it, are 
 enough to drive one distracted !" 
 
 " Yes," sighed Eleanor, "it is so hard; loving 
 mamma, and wishing to please her as we do. 
 We w^ere not always looked upon w^ith such in- 
 vidious eyes by my aunts." 
 
 " Ay, Ellen, we were not always poor. No- 
 thing could inflict a deeper wound on Aunt 
 Annie's pride than the embarrassments of ' the 
 head of the family,' as she is pleased to call me. 
 ' Take any shape but that,' Ellen. Be insolent 
 and overbearing, be idle and dissipated, be vain, 
 be silly, be anything but poor, and you will find 
 partizans enough in this world." 
 
 " Alas, Alfred, we are young to have learned 
 such severity in judging the world ! '' 
 
 " So we are, Ellen. Yes ; these vulgar an- 
 noyances, liow they do wear down and fret the 
 spirit formed for purer air, as Clifton would say. 
 And now, dearest, I heard my mother's door 
 open, and I must, at any rate, begone to my 
 room. Harry is waiting for me, too." 
 
 " But, I trust you do not intend to sit up 
 late reading to-night, Alfred. Y'^ou look so tired 
 — pray don't." 
 
 "I am very tired," said Alfred; "I don't 
 think I could read to any purpose to-night. I 
 shall take a holiday for once, and write to Clif- 
 ton, and be in bed by twelve o'clock. Will that 
 content you, Ellen?"
 
 70 THE foutunes of 
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 Delightful hours, 
 
 That gave mysterious pleasure ; made me know 
 All the recesses of my wayward heart ; 
 Taught me to cherish, with devoutest care. 
 Its strange unworldly feelings — taught me, too, 
 The best of lessons — to respect myself'' 
 
 SouTHEY : Hymn to the Penates. 
 
 " Suffice it then, thou money-god, quoth he, 
 That all thine ydle offers I refuse ; 
 All that I need I have. What needeth me 
 To covet more than I have cause to use." 
 
 Faery Queene. 
 
 Harry's task was repeated, and he had left his 
 brother's apartment. Alfred sat alone by the 
 table, covered with musty tomes of law, notes 
 of lectures, and manuscripts of various descrip- 
 tions. A huge volume of Erskine's Institutes 
 lay open before him; and on it, as his head 
 leant on his hand, his eyes were fixed, but with- 
 out taking in a syllable of its contents. The 
 eyes of his mind were resting on a very different 
 scene. The narrow confines of that little study 
 existed not for them. There was a sweet remem- 
 bered sound in his ears — the joyous rushing of
 
 THE FALCONARS. 71 
 
 his own free mountain river; and a vision was 
 arrayed before him of dancing water flashing in 
 the sunbeams, the waving of green sunny boughs 
 above, and the fresh soft sward beneath, where 
 he had been wont to lie stretched out by the 
 river-side, indulging in day-dreams more fair 
 and bright than were ever destined to visit his 
 thoughts again. How long this reverie had 
 lasted he scarcely knew ; but, at last, he aroused 
 himself from it with a deep sigh, pushed back 
 Erskine to leave room for his writing materials, 
 and proceeded, ere replying to the letter of Guy 
 Clifton, to reperuse it more attentively than he 
 had been able to do in the drawing-room. 
 
 GUY CLIFTON TO ALFRED FALCONAR. 
 
 " White Lion, Bowness, September, 1823. 
 
 " What an age it is since I have heard from 
 you, my dearest Falconar ! I believe I ought to 
 begin by confessing the fault to be my own, only 
 that the days of ceremony, if they ever existed, 
 have long passed away for both of us ; and we 
 never di^eam of waiting for answers to our letters 
 ere we write more. Perhaps you thought I was 
 at Pevenley ; but if you have sent a letter there 
 it will be forwarded to me. I am getting very 
 anxious for some tidings of you and your affairs, 
 whose painful and perplexing state, I fear, is the 
 cause of your silence. But though there are sor- 
 rows in which the soothings of participation and 
 sympathy are applied in vain, and into which no 
 true friend would therefore seek to intrude, yet I
 
 72 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 cannot believe that you consider tliese of the 
 number ; and we have been too long in the habit 
 of interchanging our thoughts and feelings for 
 you to need reminding how deeply interesting to 
 me is everything whatever that relates to you. 
 I shall not dare to inflict so much egotism on 
 you unless you send me a requital in kind. 
 
 " How I wish you were here with me, Fal- 
 conar. Your company — the free exchange of 
 ideas and sentiments which I never fully enjoyed 
 hut with you — is the only thing wanting to 
 complete the Elysian feeling — the soothing, 
 dream-like pause from the ordinary turmoil of 
 existence, which steals over the heart whilst con- 
 templating this lovely land. The slight sketch 
 at the top of this page may give you an idea of 
 the view which I have only to step from my 
 sitting-room on a platform of turf before it, to 
 enjoy. * * * * 
 
 Could you but share these pleasures along with 
 me! Glad, indeed, should I be at this moment 
 — the first rainy afternoon which has occurred 
 since my arrival — to be able to look up and see 
 you sitting opposite to me, as I so many a time 
 have seen you, Avhen we used to sit together in 
 your dear old lodgings at Edinburgh, transcrib- 
 ing our notes from the college lectures. Time 
 has been when I did not miss companionship. 
 My solitary education rendered me as much a 
 lonely, as I have ever been a passionate, wor- 
 shipper of Nature ; and I could fly to her bosom, 
 there to vent unchecked the dreams and aspira- 
 tions of my heart, and ask no other participator
 
 THE FALCOXARS. 73 
 
 of my feelings. But since I knew you, and 
 learned tlie added delight Avliich the presence of 
 a kindred spirit can impart to the sublimest 
 scene, I feel that although there is not one man 
 in a thousand whom I would -willingly have for 
 a companion amongst these lakes and mountains, 
 yet, were that one man by my side, it would 
 greatly enhance the enjoyment, which at times 
 almost amounts to pain, from being unexpressed ; 
 and then, too, Falconar, I could say so much to 
 you, that I have not spirits to write. I could 
 tell you what it was that made me leave Peven- 
 ley just now, after having informed you that, 
 on my return from visiting my old friends in 
 Germany, I should be there till the beginning of 
 winter. It is a long story, but its painful im- 
 i:)ression is still too recent ; besides that, I scarce 
 feel a right to commit it to paper ; but it would 
 be a comfort to tell you what has inflicted upon 
 me as severe pain as I ever endured. I declare 
 to you that, as far as that may be possi])le at 
 twenty-two, I fled to this solitude from utter 
 weariness of the world, — sick of its heartlessness 
 — its false estimate of happiness — of the baleful 
 influence it exercises over what once appeared 
 the flnest natures. 
 
 " They are very gay at Pevenley. I left an 
 immense ^ party in the house, and I believe my 
 uncle was not a little astonished at my defalca- 
 tion ; but, you know, he has always considered me 
 somewhat of a tete exaltet% so it passed as 
 * Guy's way;' and really the excuse I alleged 
 was not a false one — that, namely, of want of 
 
 VOL. I. • E
 
 74 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 liealth — inasmiicli as I have paid the common 
 penalty for hard reading at Oxford, in the shape 
 of nearly constant suffering from severe headaches 
 ever since I left it. Thus, you see, there were 
 thorns mingled with the laurels on which you so 
 warmly congratulated me. How long I may 
 remain here I have not yet decided, it depends 
 on so many circumstances connected with my 
 future studies, .which I have now resolved to 
 direct to the English bar. Before I left Oxford 
 my uncle urged me greatly to enter the church, 
 on finding that my cousin and fellow-student, 
 Augustus, for whom a rich family living was 
 destined, shewed a decided aversion to it. I 
 could not help, I confess, confirming Gus, so far 
 as my influence extended, in this feeling; for, 
 although a very good fellow in many respects, 
 he is totally unfit for so sacred and responsible a 
 profession ; and the same sentiments impelled me 
 to resist my uncle's wishes, though I do not 
 mean to say that Gus and I are very much alike. 
 I felt no decided vocation to the church, and the 
 horror I have at the idea of mixing any secular 
 motive whatever with so solemn an act as the 
 dedication of life, time, and thoughts to the ser- 
 vice of the Almighty, or of engaging in it with 
 a divided spirit, prevented my pausing for a 
 moment on Lord Clifton's offers, kindly inten- 
 tioned as they Avere. You know I had the mis- 
 fortune to offer a similar offence three years ago 
 to my uncle, Mr. Elliot, by declining his offer 
 of taking me into his counting-house, with a 
 future prospect of becoming a partner in his
 
 THE FALCONARS. 75 
 
 immense mercantile concern ; for wliicli nnlieard- 
 of folly, as he terms it, he has never entirely 
 forgiven me. Many people, I dare say, would 
 agree with him in thinking me exceedingly 
 wrong-headed; but, as your charming friend. 
 Miss Hay, used often to tell me, I shall never be 
 a man of this world, I fear — so far as money- 
 making is concerned. I have no very particular 
 partiality for the law ; only, as I must choose 
 some profession, it seems to me the one most 
 compatible with the literary pursuits that form 
 my great happiness, and which must, of neces- 
 sity, have been abandoned, had I entered into 
 the never-ending toils of London business. And, 
 after all, Falconar, does there not seem some- 
 thing strangely incompatible with the one great 
 end of our Immortal Being, and with the use of 
 many talents which certainly were intended to 
 be used, in that unceasing devotion to business — 
 the first of London virtues, to which health and 
 life itself are sometimes sacrificed? Such, at 
 least, is my feeling; nor could I endure it for 
 the sake of the brightest prospects such a life 
 could open up of that wealth which, beyond any 
 other thing in this world, may justly be styled 
 power. I think I can ' scorn delights and live 
 laborious days,' but not for the sake of money. 
 That is not the 'spur' to raise my 'clear 
 spirit.' 
 
 " I left my letter unfinished, dearest Falconar, 
 
 tempted by a glorious burst of evening sunshine 
 
 from behind the weeping clouds, to row down the 
 
 lake (my college practice in rowing happily ex- 
 
 E 2
 
 76 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 empting me from the society of a boatman) as 
 far as a little solitary island considerably beyond 
 Storrs' Point, Avliich I often visit in that way, 
 with a volume of Wordsworth for my only com- 
 panion. Do you remember how instantaneously 
 you and I became, as it were, united in heart 
 when we first discovered that each shared the ad- 
 miration of the other for that mightiest of living 
 poets? Mine goes on strengthening with every 
 year of my life — with every fresh accession to my 
 own knowledge of existence, enabling me thus 
 more and more to feel his wondrous power of 
 reading the mysterious analogies existing between 
 the world within and the world without us. 
 Here, amid his own mountains, one seems to 
 enter with redoubled zest into the spirit of his 
 poetry. I recollect your telling me how beauti- 
 fully your sister read Wordsworth. How I long 
 to know her, Falconar ! Dreamer, as you know 
 me to be, you would almost smile were I to tell 
 you how constantly my idea of lier is mingled 
 with my dreams, or how often I have lamented 
 the strange fatality that has hindered my acquaint- 
 ance with the sister of my dearest friend. You 
 never write me all I want to know of her. Does 
 she resemble you in person? That is a question 
 I have asked you often before, and Avhich you 
 constantly forget to answer. Severe as have 
 been the early trials and difficulties which you 
 have encountered, I often feel inclined to envy 
 your superior happiness in one respect — tlie pos- 
 session, namely, of such a companion. The con- 
 stant presence of such a being, uniting all the
 
 THE FALCONARS. 77 
 
 qualities of a friend, a comforter, an adviser, 
 with that peculiar softness and tenderness of the 
 other sex, which impart so much added purity 
 and sweetness to the ties of natural affection, ex- 
 isting between a brother and a sister, is in itself 
 a sufficient compensation for many sorrows. Per- 
 haps it may arise from my own unconnected state, 
 as regards the nearest ties of existence, that the 
 loves of domestic life appear to me so unutter- 
 ably holy and beautiful^ — so much more to be de- 
 sired than any earthly blessings whatsoever. What 
 would I not give to possess a sister ! There is 
 something in female companionship and female 
 sympathy, after which I have all my life expe- 
 rienced such an eager longing, the more eager 
 and irrepressible, that it is a happiness I never 
 knew. The ' necessity of loving' which I feel, is 
 not a sentiment that has been spent and frittered 
 away upon a thousand objects; it has, on the 
 contrary, remained in all the inviolateness of 
 one which not every object had the power to 
 satisfy, but which has gained added strength 
 and intensity from that very circumstance. How 
 happy are you, who need not quit the circle of 
 your own fire-side, in search of a true and loving 
 heart, on which to repose ! If, as I think, it be 
 the domestic affections which constitute a home, 
 
 ' Ah, think what cares must ache within his hreast, 
 Who loathes the lingering road, yet has no home of rest !' 
 
 " Now I am sure I have left you without an 
 apology, if you do not reply to me by as full, true, 
 and particular an account of yourself and your
 
 78 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 concerns, as I have favoured you withal. Write 
 to me, dearest Falconar, and write speedily. I 
 think I may, in all probability, pay a visit to 
 Edinburgh before winter. I long to see it again ; 
 but at all events, I shall still remain here for 
 some time ere arranging my future plans. Yale, 
 sis memor mei ! 
 
 *^ Ever your most affectionate, 
 
 *' Guy Dacre Clifton.'' 
 
 ALFRED FALCONAR TO GUY CLIFTON. ' 
 
 "Lynedoch Place, Sept. 1823. 
 
 ^'My dearest Clifton, — You will perceive 
 that I have lost no time in replying to your very 
 welcome letter ; but I don't exactly know whether 
 you will expect much edification from my reply, 
 when I tell you that I have chosen that occupa- 
 tion in order to cure a fit of low spirits, com- 
 pounded of bodily and mental weariness. Yet, 
 were we once more together, as in old days, we 
 should desire no better comfort in any trouble, 
 than the privilege of having an hour's uninter- 
 rupted conversation; and as your own letter, I 
 regret to perceive, is not written under any very 
 overflowing sensations of bodily or mental health, 
 you will have the less need to find fault with the 
 dulness of mine. I do very clearly see, Clifton, 
 how much benefited you would be by having a 
 sister to admonish you as Eleanor does me, on the 
 folly and mischief of your devotion to the mid- 
 night lamp ; which, seriously, I am truly grieved
 
 THE FALCONAES. 79 
 
 to hear has had effects from which you still suffer. 
 Yet I hope you may, ere long, be able to say — 
 ' The glory dies not, and the grief is past.' It 
 was worth while, since better might not be, to 
 endure a three months' headache for the sake of 
 quitting Oxford with such renown. But the al- 
 lusion to Eleanor, reminds me of your very un- 
 just accusation — namely, that I never write so 
 much of her as you want to hear. Your wishes 
 must be strangely unreasonable if you think I 
 do not ; for were I writing to any one else than a 
 friend like you, I should be apt to fear that I en- 
 larged too much on a theme so closely connected 
 with myself. Yes, Guy, I own you mai/ envy 
 me such a sister — sisters I may say, for both are 
 lovely, and kind, and innocent — and I may ex- 
 tend the limitation to my young brother, who 
 used to be such a dear friend of yours in Edin- 
 bui'gh. But, certainly, there is something in 
 Eleanor that renders her more peculiarly dear to 
 me. So near in age, and such constant compa- 
 nions from infancy, we have grown up entwined 
 together by every fibre of our heart-strings ; and 
 there is a degree of protecting care mingled with 
 the love of an elder brother for a sister, that 
 serves, if possible, to enhance its ardour. I feel 
 that it is not easy for me to convey to you, by 
 description, any idea of all that Eleanor is to me. 
 ^Ye love each other with an affection so entire 
 and perfect — we have all our thoughts, our. feel- 
 ings, so completely in common, it would be such 
 misery to either of us to have aught that we 
 must conceal, to do aught that might lower one
 
 80 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 ill the eyes of the other, that this sentiment has 
 often appeared to me our best earthly safeguard 
 against error. And she is such a creature of 
 talent and feeling ! with a heart so warm and so 
 pure. I do, indeed, wish that you knew her, 
 Clifton. As to the question which you say I 
 always forget to answer — whether she resembles 
 me ? I rather think she does — mutatis mutandis^ 
 you understand — Avith a difference, as we say in 
 heraldry. When we were children, we were con- 
 sidered very much alike ; and, indeed, it cannot be 
 but that two persons who think so much in the 
 same way, should resemble each other. Now, 
 will this content you? If not, I can do no more; 
 you must really come and judge for yourself, as 
 you half promise, by visiting Auld Keekie once 
 more. Do come, dearest Clifton, were it but for 
 olie ^week. The luxury of your companionship, 
 even for so short a time, would be a compensation 
 for many of the evils and anxieties that beset my 
 path. 
 
 "You ask me to tell you about my concerns — the 
 subject is not a very agreeable one — but there is 
 always a comfort in sympathy like yours to a 
 proud heart like mine, that would shrink from 
 its expression by most people. Whether or not 
 I shall be able to retain even a portion of the 
 inheritance which has too early devolved on me, 
 remains yet a matter of the utmost uncertainty. 
 You know I am now of age, but from the circum- 
 stance of the estate being under trust, have no 
 voice in my own affairs ; and the trustees ap- 
 pointed by my poor father have much complicated
 
 THE FALCONARS. 81 
 
 business to unravel. There is a sad load of debt 
 upon the property. My mother's jointure of four 
 hundred a year is of course secure ; and there is 
 a provision for the younger children, to the 
 amount of five thousand pounds, of which she at 
 present receives the interest; but, by my poor 
 father's will, an additional annuity of a hundred 
 a year was to be paid my sisters wdiilst they re- 
 mained unmarried ; and this the trustees cannot 
 do, as it was not secured to them by any bond 
 over the property, and the amount of debt swal- 
 lows up all their spare funds. This is very 
 painful to me, and still more so is it to find 
 myself very nearly dependent upon my mother, 
 whose income, compared with what she has been 
 accustomed to, is now so limited. It is this 
 which impels me to constant exertion, and makes 
 me feel every instant spared from my studies 
 almost as a crime. Under such circumstances, 
 most people would consider my even dreaming 
 of being able to retain my estate chimerical and 
 vain ; nay, would W'Onder at my wishing to do so. 
 But you^ Clifton, will understand it. I can tell 
 you, without fear of misconception or ridicule, of 
 the intense local attachment which binds me to 
 Cargarth ; the passionate clinging of my heart to 
 that beloved home, and of the force with wOiich 
 my poor father's dying injunctions to ' keep the 
 old acres together if I could,' fell upon my heart. 
 Could I but hope, at some distant day, to call it 
 my own again — for at present, in the hands of 
 strangers, it scarce seems my own— I should 
 E 3
 
 82 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 deem no personal sacrifice too severe. Sucli are 
 the difficulties of tlie case, that unless the trustees 
 had a higher offer for it than they at present see 
 much chance of receiving, the probable relief 
 would scarce justify them in selling it ; and it is 
 to this I cling, as to a hope. Matters may con- 
 tinue thus, until some prospect open to me, that 
 may render it reasonable in me to entreat for 
 delay. In short, Clifton, I must hope ; for I will 
 not, whilst I can help it, chill my heart, and 
 palsy my exertions, by contemplating the reverse 
 of the picture. The death of my beloved father 
 sank upon my spirits with a weight of sadness from 
 which nothing but so strong a motive as following 
 his dying injunctions could, I believe, have roused 
 me. You, Clifton, Avho have known the same 
 loss, can well sympathize with mine. I was de- 
 voted to my father— I would have toiled night 
 and day to save his life. I did labour hard, in 
 the hope that at a future time I might alleviate 
 at once his difficulties and the self-reproach which 
 he constantly expressed to me ; and when I saw 
 him^ who had an open hand and an open heart for 
 all, meeting, as I could not but feel, with but 
 little of sympathy in his hour of need, even from 
 his nearest kindred, — when I saw him, at last, die, 
 broken-spirited, crushed to the earth by sorrow 
 for the injustice he thought he had done me^ — 
 but for some strong feeling like this to stimulate 
 me, I think I could gladly have lain down in the 
 grave beside him. His death has, indeed, left a 
 woful blank amongst us — but on that subject I
 
 THE FALCONARS. 83 
 
 do not feel able to write, even to you. It is one 
 of the mournful pleasm^es that Eleanor and I 
 enjoy, when alone, to talk together of our father. 
 "VYe can only do it when alone, as my mother 
 cannot bear to hear any allusion made, in her 
 presence, to those who are departed. But I must 
 bring this long letter to a conclusion. The com- 
 fort of expressing my thoughts to you, dearest 
 Clifton, with a certainty of being understood, has 
 rendered it a long one. How cordially do I join in 
 your wish, that I were with you, in your present 
 retreat ! The delight of turning, for a few hours, 
 from cold, harassing, worldly cares, to the sweet 
 and soothing influences of nature, in the society of 
 a friend so completely a part of myself, would, 
 indeed, be great ; but I must not, and cannot, at 
 present, think of it. The next best thing will 
 be, that you should fulfil your intention of coming 
 to Scotland, and that I entreat you to do. Let 
 us once more read Wordsworth together; and ere 
 advancing further on the toilsome paths awaiting 
 manhood, linger yet awhile amongst the sweet 
 dreams of our youth, which, to one of us, at 
 least, have too early been exchanged for the 
 sordid cares, and wearing anxieties, belonging to 
 maturer years. I do not know how you Avill like 
 the study of law : I do. I have a natural bent 
 that way, I think; but I never knew you set 
 yourself to study anything, that you did not 
 master it. I need not say how much I honour 
 your conscientious motives for refusing to enter 
 the church, or how entirely I agree with you
 
 84 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 on that subject. As to tliinking of you in a 
 counting-house, Clifton, I could as soon fancy 
 a deer in a dray-cart! With this appropriate 
 and original simile, I shall hid you good- 
 night. 
 
 ^^ Most affectionately yours, 
 
 '' Alfred Falconar."
 
 THE FALCONARS. 85 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 " I gaed a waefu' gait yestreen, 
 
 A gait, I fear, I'll dearly rue ;^ 
 I gat my death frae twa sweet e'en, 
 
 Twa lovely e'en o' bonny blue." 
 
 " We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, 
 
 Frae mornin' sun till dine : 
 But seas atween us braid hae roar'd. 
 
 Sin' Auld lang syne. 
 
 Then gie's a hand, my trusty fere, 
 
 And here's a hand o' mine ; 
 And we'll tak' a right gude willie waught, 
 
 For Auld lang syne." 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 A BRIGHT and beautiful autumn morning shone 
 
 upon the progress of the mail, as it rolled 
 
 rapidly out of Edinburgh, on its southward road. 
 The inside passengers were only two in number; 
 our friend Mr. Balmayne, to wit, and a gentleman- 
 like young man, of a very prepossessing, though 
 by no means handsome countenance, and manners 
 singularly lively and agreeable. 
 
 This last-named personage, however, had not 
 proceeded far on his journey, ere he began to 
 manifest symptoms of extreme weariness, and not 
 a little impatience; circumstances easily to be 
 explained by the fact, that his fellow-traveller 
 held in his hand a printed parliamentary bill, 
 relating to the formation of a new road, and had
 
 SQ THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 two others, witli a large bundle of miscellaneous 
 papers on the same or similar interesting sub- 
 jects, laid on the spare seat before him. On the 
 contents of these Sybilline leaves, Mr. Balmayne 
 had not ceased to descant since he took his place 
 in the mail. 
 
 " Yes, I understand it perfectly," said the 
 younger gentleman, at the close of a long extract 
 from the aforesaid bill, '^ nothing could be clearer. 
 Now, Mr. Balmayne, do tell me " 
 
 '' My dear Mr. Marmaduke," interrupted Mr. 
 Balmayne, " I am most particularly interested in 
 this point, because it happens to be the very one 
 at issue between Sir John Cochrane and the road 
 trustees ; and I, as Convener of the district " 
 
 '' Yes, yes, I know that. You may rely upon 
 it, that I shall represent all you have said to Sir 
 John, and tell him that the cut will pass on the 
 left side of the Birkinshaw wood. Now, pray 
 tell me who " 
 
 " My dear sir," exclaimed Mr. Balmayne, in 
 an accent- of despair and amazement, "I was 
 sure you had not understood me. It is on the 
 right side of the Birkinshaw wood, not the 
 left, that the proposed cut is to pass, and that is 
 the very point that has made all this difficulty. 
 Sir John is so deaf, that when he once takes a 
 notion into his head, there is no driving it out 
 again ; and though I flattered myself that I had 
 persuaded him of this fact, yet I find by a letter 
 I received last night from the Clerk to the road 
 trustees, that he has begun to raise the same ob- 
 jections as ever J and we are just where we were
 
 THE FALCONARS. ST 
 
 again. It is a terrible business, having to do with 
 people who are so obstinate, and so blind to the 
 public welfare. Now, if you would take the 
 trouble to glance over this report — " and he pro- 
 ceeded to disengage a paper of portentous length 
 from the bundle before him. 
 
 " Not I, Mr. Balmayne," coolly replied Mar- 
 maduke Oswald, ** I shall take your word for it. 
 As to reading that long-winded report in this 
 jolting coach, I could as soon fly. You may de- 
 pend upon my good offices with Sir John. Now, 
 I beseech you, tell me the name of " 
 
 " Well, but Mr. Marmaduke," interposed Mr. 
 Balmayne, " there is another thing I want to talk 
 to you about, now that we have such a good op- 
 portunity for a little quiet conversation." Mar- 
 maduke uttered an involuntary groan, which fell 
 unheeded on the ears of his tormentor, who 
 was busily engaged in tying up the despised 
 report. " It is," pursued Mr. Balmayne, as he 
 completed the operation, " on the subject of that 
 confounded trick the people have in our part of 
 the country of pasturing cows, and horses, and 
 cuddies^ on the road-side !" 
 
 " Poor creatures !" burst forth the young man, 
 "why shouldn't they? It may sometimes be a 
 little inconvenient when one is riding or driving, 
 to be sure, but I couldn't find it in my heart to 
 deny a poor half-starved cow a bite of grass by the 
 road-side." 
 
 "Mj dear Mr. Marmaduke," gravely responded 
 Mr. Balmayne, " you are, perhaps, not aware that 
 it is a statutable offence, and liable to a fine.
 
 88 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 Not to mention tlie nuisance, it is contrary to 
 Act of Parliament, and it therefore becomes the 
 duty of every resident proprietor or tenant, to 
 see that it is as much as possible put down in his 
 vicinity. I am most anxious to get your father 
 to co-operate with me in this particular; for I 
 regret to see a great deal of supineness and indif- 
 ference on the subject, amongst too many of our 
 neighbours. To the utmost of my power I have 
 exerted myself to put a stop to the practice ; 
 but really, on many of the neighbouring lands, 
 and in none more than Cargarth, in my poor 
 cousin Falconar's time, there have been people 
 who have established a prescriptive right, as it 
 were, to feed all sorts of beasts along the high- 
 way ; and it is a subject on which I have long 
 wished to speak to your father, as I think he will 
 agree with me, that no time ought to be lost in 
 enforcing the law that forbids it." 
 
 '^ Well, Mr. Balmayne," said Marmaduke — ^4 
 think he will understand your statement of the 
 matter better than mine ; and I dare say, if you 
 speak to him, he will do his best to satisfy your 
 desire. But now, for pity's sake, tell me the 
 name of that lovely girl whom you left me so 
 abruptly to speak to yesterday?" 
 
 *'Her name?— ha, ha!" laughed Mr. Bal- 
 iiiayne — " that is very good ! She asked me your 
 name, too." 
 
 " Did she?" eagerly exclaimed his young friend. 
 " Well, her name, Mr. Balmayne — her name?" 
 
 "Her name? — Why, she is Look there, 
 
 jiQ^v ! — was ever anything so abominable ? — How
 
 THE FALCONARS. 89 
 
 can sucli things be permitted ?" And Mr. Bal- 
 majne interrupted himself, to stretch half v.ay 
 out of the coach window, as his eye was caught 
 by the offensive spectacle of a tinker's cart stand- 
 ing by the road-side, the donkey whose office it 
 was to di'aw it, being freed from the shaft, and 
 enjoying a nibble at the grass which grew there, 
 beneath a hedge. " Close to the lodge-gate at 
 Glen-Easton 1" pursued the zealous road trustee; 
 '' it is most amazing to me, how any proprietor 
 can countenance such infringements of the law !" 
 
 Marmaduke Oswald cast up his eyes in silent 
 despair. " Two mortal hours," tliought he, " have 
 I been labouring in vain to extort an answer to 
 one question ! AVould he but give me an answer, 
 I could get up outside, and leave him alone 
 with his road-bills. Mr. Balmayne !" he conti- 
 nued aloud — " have mercy on my curiosity. I 
 beseech you tell me the young lady's name !" 
 
 ^' Why, didn't I tell you this moment, Mr. 
 Marmaduke?" said Mr. Balmayne, re-seating him- 
 self. " No, by the way, I was just going to do 
 it, when the sight of that cursed cuddy, (that I 
 should say so !) put it out of my head. Eeally 
 I do not know a more provoking thing than to 
 see such liberties permitted." 
 
 " Mr. Balmayne, I implore you," remonstrated 
 jMarmaduke — but his further expostulations 
 were suddenly cut short by the stopping of the 
 mail, which Avas hailed by a gentleman's ser- 
 vant at' the lodge to which Mr. Balmayne had 
 just alluded. A large portmanteau and well-filled 
 carpet bag were hastily handed up, a gentleman
 
 90 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 standing Iby the gate shook hands with another 
 in a shooting -jacket, armed with a spud, and 
 attended by three rosy boys, a Newfoundland dog, 
 and two terriers. 
 
 " Good-bye, Sam — pleasant journey to you.'' 
 "• Good-bye, uncle," exclaimed the members of 
 this party. 
 
 "Fare you well, old fellow! — Fare you well, 
 boys!" was the response, and the fii'st-named 
 gentleman sprang into the coach. The door was 
 closed ; the servant, who had a cockade in his hat, 
 mounted aloft — " All right !" cried the guard, 
 and off whirled the mail. 
 
 The new passenger was a tall military-looking 
 man, about five and forty, on whose open, good- 
 looking countenance a warmer sun than that of 
 Britain had left a dark impression, but who wore 
 the appearance of florid and vigorous health. 
 He occupied himself for some time in a silent but 
 eager survey, through the window, of the country 
 along which their road lay ; whilst Marmaduke, 
 now reduced to utter despair of ever receiving 
 the information he so eagerly coveted, leant back 
 with folded arms in his own corner of the coach, 
 and Mr. Balmayne addressed himself to the task 
 of perusing a letter taken from the oft-mentioned 
 bundle of papers. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir," he at last said to the 
 stranger, "but I think one of my papers has 
 fallen amongst your feet. Will you allow me " 
 
 " Here it is, sir," replied the gentleman ad- 
 dressed, promptly stooping to recover it. '' Why, 
 bless my soul ! I can't be mistaken, surely.
 
 THE FALCONARS. 91 
 
 No — yes — it is my old schoolfellow, Jock Bal- 
 mayne !" 
 
 ''Sam Eicliardson !" exclaimed tlie other, in 
 an accent of delight and astonishment. I thought 
 I knew the face — getting in at Glen Easton, too, 
 — how could I be so stupid?" 
 
 " Give me your hand, man," said his new 
 friend, stretching out his own. ''Jock, Jock! 
 'tis many a long day since you and I parted. Who 
 would have thought of lighting on an old ' kent 
 face' like yours, to-day?" 
 
 And hereupon the two friends commenced an 
 animated discussion of many events connecting 
 the intervening time sincS they last had met ; and 
 Marmaduke Oswald, at length, on the mention of 
 whose name the gentleman looked eagerly round, 
 was introduced to him, and recognised as the son 
 of another acquaintance — his father and Colonel 
 Eichardson (for such was the stranger's name) 
 having been very intimate, at one period, in 
 Bengal. 
 
 "And when did you come home, Sam?" in- 
 quired Mr. Balmayne. " I heard you were ex- 
 pected ; but not being personally acquainted with 
 your brother, I have never been much in the way 
 of learning what you were about, and never knew 
 whether you vv^ere arrived or not." 
 
 " I've been betwixt three or four months at 
 home," replied the Colonel, " but not more than 
 a month in Scotland. You see. we landed at 
 Plymouth, and after transacting all my busi- 
 ness in London, we travelled — my wife and I —
 
 92 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 straight to lier father's place, in Cumberland, 
 where our boys were." 
 
 " What family have you?" 
 
 " Just two boys. The eldest is fourteen. They 
 were sent home to their grandfather's care, and 
 have been at school at Houghton-le- Spring till 
 this summer. I am thinking of putting them 
 now to the New Academy at Edinburgh — I hear 
 so much in its praise — and that will enable us to 
 have them under our own roof, for we mean to 
 take a honse there next winter. So I left my 
 wife and them at Dingleby Hall in the meantime, 
 and came down alone to see my brother there, at 
 Glen Easton." 
 
 *' And have you been at Edinburgh?" 
 
 ^' Just for a week, on business; and everybody 
 being out of town, I did not see one of my old 
 friends but Mrs. Hay, who has been left a widow 
 since I was at home." 
 
 " Faith, Sam ! there has been plenty of time for 
 maids to be wives, and wives to be widows, since 
 you were at home." 
 
 " You may say that, Jock. Five and twenty 
 years last month since I sailed for Bengal. You 
 know I did not even take my furlough ; for I lost 
 a good deal of money by a confounded failure at 
 Calcutta, just about the time when I might have 
 done so, and could not afford it. My wife and I 
 were engaged before I left home, and she came 
 out to me as soon as we could afford to marry. I 
 have never had a break, except one year at the 
 Cape, for her health ; the only time she ever suf-
 
 THE FALCONARS. 93 
 
 fered from the climate. Your father, Mr. Oswald, 
 was longer out still, though ; but he took his fiu'- 
 lough, I think." 
 
 *' He did," replied Marmaduke, " at the time 
 he and my mother brought me home ; but they 
 only remained about a year and a half in this 
 country." 
 
 "Ah, well ! I hope to see him one of these 
 days, and find if he has stood the climate as well 
 as I did." 
 
 " Indeed," said Marmaduke, " I am sure no- 
 thing will give him greater pleasure ; and I dare 
 say you will think him a wonderfully robust per- 
 son for an old Indian. But you do not appear 
 to have suffered at all ; and yet your military life 
 must have been much more trying than a civilian's, 
 like his." 
 
 " Pretty well, indeed. I have had some hard 
 work in my day," replied the Colonel; " but, 
 thank Heaven, I have returned home with as 
 sound a constitution as I took away, though with 
 a good many grey hairs on my head ! Ay, ay, 
 there is many a head grown grey here, too, that I 
 left as brown as yours, Mr. Oswald." 
 
 " Your brother is grown an old-looking man, 
 Sam, for his age," observed Mr. Balmayne. 
 
 " Indeed is he, Jock. I think I wear as well 
 as he does. His wife and I were old friends, and 
 I left her a slim, bonny lass, and found her a fat, 
 elderly-looking matron ; but the heart is as warm 
 as ever. ' Yes, there are many changes ; and some 
 are gone whom I little thought, when I took my 
 leave, that I should never see again — my good
 
 94 THE FOUTUNES OF 
 
 old mother amongst tlie rest ; but, upon the whole, 
 as Will and I were just saying this morning, I 
 have great cause for thankfulness. Yery few, I 
 dare say, have ever been so long absent from home 
 and found their family circle when they came 
 back so little broken by death or distance. And 
 my wife, after eighteen years' absence, has found 
 both her parents alive on her return ; and only 
 one brother dead out of a family of six." 
 
 <>(■ Very comfortable, indeed," said Mr. Bal- 
 mayne. ^' And you must see a great improve- 
 ment in the face of the country, Sam, I am sure ; 
 in nothing more, for instance, than the roads. 
 Just look at the difference between this road and 
 the old line that I dare say you remember. Great 
 exertions have been made in that respect, and " 
 
 " Yes," interrupted the Colonel, ^' I daresay 
 it is a far better road, Jock; but I was just 
 thinking this moment how much I missed the old 
 one — missed the objects alongside of it, I mean. 
 This is all strange to me. Oh, man, Jock ! you 
 who have lived at home all the days of your life 
 can have very little notion of the rapture it is to 
 a poor devil who has been toiling amongst heathens 
 in a foreign land, for many a long year, to come 
 home and look once more upon the objects con- 
 nected, in his mind, with the memory of auld lang 
 syne ! When I got down to Glen-East on, though 
 Will has done a great deal, I must say, to improve 
 it, and I enjoyed seeing all he had done, yet nothing 
 caine so near to my heart as the old spots where he 
 and I had played together when we were boys. I 
 wouldn't have given the old foggy trees in the
 
 THE FALCONARS. 95 
 
 orcliard, where we used to risk neck and limb to 
 climb for sour apples and hard pears, for all the 
 fine new ones he has got now on his garden wall ; 
 and though lie has really a pretty flower garden, 
 laid out near where the court of offices used to 
 be, and built a capital new one further off, I de- 
 clare to you, that when I saw it first, I couldn't 
 help being vexed, for it was just on the very spot 
 that my poor father used to make his stack-yard, 
 and where in the moonlight October nights we 
 used to run out to play at bogle about tlie 
 stacks." 
 
 " Well, but Sam," interposed Mr. Balmayne, 
 " though you may be sorry to miss the old road, 
 you must own that this is a far better one." 
 
 " I quite agree with Colonel Richardson," said 
 Marmaduke, not in the least sorry to be revenged 
 on Mr. Balmayne by levelling a hit at his pet 
 subject. " I abominate these new roads, with 
 their uninteresting levels : regularly going through 
 the ugliest parts of the country, in order to avoid 
 the hills. Give me the picturesque diversity of 
 an old-fashioned road, and I shall gladly submit 
 to travelling a little more slowly on it." 
 
 " That's right, Mr. Oswald," exclaimed the 
 Colonel. " Everything must be new^ now-a-days; 
 but commend me to what is old, and speaks to a 
 man's heart of old times. Thank goodness ! they 
 may change what they like in Scotland, but they 
 can't well change our hills. I declare to you, sir, 
 when I get out upon the moors at Glen-Easton 
 again with my gun and a pointer — the grandson 
 of the very old dog that went out with me when
 
 96 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 I fired my first shot tliere ; and felt tlie very same 
 heather under my feet, and the same caller breeze 
 blowing in my face once more, I could have 
 thought the five-and-twenty years a dream, and 
 that I was a boy again, bringing down my first 
 blackcock. There was no change there, to remind 
 me of all the weary time between." 
 
 " It is almost worth while," said Marmaduke, 
 " to have passed that weary time, for the sake of 
 reviving old feelings with such delightful fresh- 
 ness. Do you mean to shoot any more on the 
 moors this autumn, Colonel?" 
 
 " I rather think not, sir. At least I think Mr. 
 Ainslie, with whom I am going to stay a few 
 days, on my way south, has no moors ; and after 
 tliat, I go straiglit on by Carlisle to Dingleby, 
 where there is no game but partridges and phea- 
 sants." 
 
 " Are you going to Tom Ainslie's, Sam, at 
 Woodlee?" asked Mr. Balmayne. 
 
 " Yes; Lucy Hay's husband, you know. By 
 the way, how astonished I was, Jock, that your 
 cousin Douglas Falconar and her sister Emily 
 did not make a match of it ! I never doubted 
 they would when I saw them last." 
 
 '' Neither did anybody else," replied Mr. Bal- 
 mayne; " but it went ofi" — nobody exactly knew 
 how or why. Emily has never married." 
 
 " So I understand. I was greatly disappointed 
 at not seeing her when I was in Edinburgh. She 
 was then at Woodlee. Well, I am sure remaining 
 single must have been her own doing ; for many 
 a man might liave been glad to get Emily Hay.
 
 THE FALCONAPvS. 97 
 
 Slie was a dear, sweet, bonny lassie. And Fal- 
 conar, Jock ! — what a capital fellow Falconar was ! 
 By Jove, that was a man to bewitch any woman. 
 When I look back on the merry days we have 
 had together at Cargarth — that hospitable old 
 house that always stood open to every friend who 
 chose to come ! — ay, ay ! there has been a 
 change there, too. How shocked I was to read 
 Falconar's death in the Edinburgh newspaper, 
 just before I left India. He was not above three 
 years my senior ; and who would ever have 
 thought of death and him together ? he looked so 
 like health and long life !" 
 
 " Poor fellow 1" said Mr. Balmayne, in a tone 
 of real sorrow ; ^' he was a wofully altered man 
 before he died !" 
 
 " Was he, indeed ? Poor Falconar ! We were 
 old friends and companions, as you know, Jock ; 
 and it was a sore heart to me when I came home, 
 to think that I should never hear his cheerful 
 voice nor his hearty laugh again. He walked 
 down to the pier of Leith with me, the day I 
 sailed for London on my way to India; and I 
 think I see him now, as we shook hands beside 
 the gangway of the smack, before I went on 
 board. Two light young hearts we were, and 
 many a plan we laid for the time when we should 
 meet again. I little thought, when I watched 
 him standing looking after the vessel till I could 
 see him no longer, that I had taken my last look 
 of Falconar !" 
 
 The warm-hearted colonel twinkled away a 
 tear, and cleared his voice several times. iVfter 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 98 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 a few minutes' pause, he recurred to the sub- 
 ject. 
 
 " Did he leave a son — and does the family still 
 live at Cargarth ? I must make acquaintance 
 with his children." 
 
 *^ At Cargarth, Sam? No, no : I doubt if any of 
 his children will ever live there again. Did you 
 not know that Mr. Oswald had taken Cargarth?" 
 
 " Taken it? Is the place let? I never heard 
 a word about it. What is the reason of that ?" 
 
 *^ It is a sad story, Sam." And Mr. Balmayne 
 proceeded to give his friend a sketch of the par- 
 ticulars, already related, of Mr. Falconar's em- 
 barrassments and subsequent death ; dwelling, 
 in a kindly spirit that did him honour, and with 
 wonderfully few digressions, on the subject of 
 county business, upon the mournful closing scene 
 of one whose joyous youth had held out such a 
 different promise. The tale was heard with deep 
 attention by both his auditors ; for Marmaduke 
 was scarcely less interested and moved than the 
 colonel. The worthy old soldier next proceeded 
 to inquire respecting the children of his departed 
 friend, and his widow. Of Mrs. Falconar, Mr. 
 Balmayne did not speak much, but he was almost 
 eloquent in praise of the young people ; and 
 finished his eulogiums with an assurance, that 
 although they were all handsome, the youngest 
 daughter was most particularly so. " And my 
 friend, Mr. Marmaduke," quoth Mr. Balmayne, 
 endeavouring to look very arch, " will, I am sure, 
 fully corroborate my account of her." 
 
 " Eureka !" exclaimed Marmaduke. " I have
 
 THE FALCONARS. 99 
 
 it! At last, Mr. Balmayne, after beating about 
 the bush this whole morning, you have con- 
 descended to tell me the name of that bright- 
 haired angel. Is she, indeed, one of the Miss 
 Falconars?" 
 
 ^' Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Mr. Balmayne. '' I 
 am sure, ]\Ir. Marmaduke, you are much obliged 
 to me for giving you something to think about 
 so long. Yes, that was Clara Falconar, and a 
 pretty girl she is too." 
 
 '^ Pretty, indeed!" said Marmaduke, indig- 
 nantly. '' She is ethereal, ideal, exquisite! A 
 creature to see but once in a lifetime. Pretty ! 
 You are laughing at me, -colonel; but ^ou have 
 never seen her." 
 
 " I am not laughing, sir," replied the colonel. 
 " I like to see a young man so charmed with 
 beauty. I should be very sorry to laugh at you. 
 I envy you, Mr. Oswald ; for you are at a happy 
 age : enjoy it while it lasts, and enjoy the plea- 
 sure your fresh feelings give you, in a good and 
 honourable spirit, and they will not lead you 
 astray. I hope to see, and to know, my old friend's 
 daughter ere long ; and sure I am, if she is like 
 her father, she will be as good as she is bonny. 
 Ah!" he continued, looking out of the coach- 
 window with a sigh, " I little thought to look 
 at that place, next time I saw it, with such a sad 
 heart." 
 
 He spoke of a gentleman's seat which was now 
 
 visible at no great distance. The road, passing 
 
 along the face of an eminence, commanded a view 
 
 of a deep uarrow valley, windins: between two 
 
 f2
 
 100 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 ranges of lofty hills, in some places green, in 
 others purple with heather, and diversified by- 
 glens and rocky gullies, running far into their 
 sides. Some of the lowest amongst these hills 
 were clothed with wood to the summit ; and a 
 small, but noisy river, ran wimpling down the 
 valley, having various cottages scattered along 
 its banks, and the spire of a church peeping from 
 among some trees near it, with the manse close 
 beside. About half a mile from the church stood 
 a mansion, almost surrounded by luxuriant woods, 
 and placed on an eminence overlooking the river, 
 towards which its winding approach led, crossed 
 it by means of an old-fashioned stone bridge, and 
 was then lost amongst the trees on the opposite 
 side, till the eye caught a glimpse of the lodge 
 by the side of a narrow cross-road, which ran up 
 and down the valley, communicating with the 
 highway at a point which the mail was now 
 swiftly approaching. Behind this mansion the 
 wooded ground sloped rapidly up to the hill ; but 
 immediately in front a more open space was left ; 
 and from the occasional glimpses which the eye 
 coidd catch of its structure, through the vistas of 
 the trees, it seemed an old-fashioned but comfort- 
 able dwelling, whose whitewashed gable-ends were 
 plentifully overrun by creepers, which almost 
 concealed their colour: a place, in short, that 
 shewed like the residence of some ancient and 
 long-established family, overlooking the lowly 
 roofs of its dependents, raised near it for comfort 
 and protection. 
 
 " Poor Cargarth !" exclaimed the colonel, as
 
 THE FALCOMrvS. 101 
 
 his eye ran over the scene which we have taken 
 so many words to describe. " This is, indeed, a 
 changing workl. I fear I am to lose your agree- 
 able company here, gentlemen!" he added. "Jock, 
 we have not had time for a good crack, man. 
 The mail surely goes much faster than it used to 
 do; it seems no time at all since I got in, and 
 yet how much ground we have gone over !" 
 
 " Thanks to the good road, Sam," replied Mr. 
 Balmayne, " the rate of travelling now-a-days is 
 very diiferent from the droning work it used to 
 be. But I hope we shall meet in Edinburgh, 
 Sam. We shall be there by the time you return 
 from England." 
 
 " I hope so, truly. And you, Mr. Oswald, I 
 shall be glad to improve ^/oz^r acquaintance, sir." 
 
 " Nothing will give me greater pleasure. Co- 
 lonel," replied Marmaduke, as the mail came to 
 a stop at the point already mentioned, where a 
 group of several persons was standing, as if await- 
 ing it. Mr. Balmayne gathered up his papers, 
 and thrust them into his coat-pockets ; the gen- 
 tlemen shook hands very cordially — the door was 
 opened for their egress — their luggage chucked 
 hastily down, and the mail, within three minutes' 
 w^as again rolling on its way. 
 
 " There comes Mrs. Balmayne with the 
 drosky, I see," said Mr. Balmayne, looking doAvn 
 the cross-road towards an open carriage,wdiich now 
 appeared coming on at a sober jog-trot, driven 
 by a lady in a cloak, attended by a servant. 
 
 A groom, who had been on the look-out for 
 Mr. Oswald, had in the meantime shouldered his
 
 102 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 portmanteau, and walked off with it, and two 
 3^omig men had advanced to meet him. 
 
 " How do, Oswald?" said one of them, a pale, 
 affected-looking youth, with a very slender waist. 
 " Here's Elphinstone arrived yesterday, and goes 
 off to-morrow, so it is lucky you are come." 
 
 " How are you, Wellwood? Elphinstone, my 
 dear fellow, I am delighted to see you! — Mr. 
 Balmayne, Mr. Mowbray Elphinstone." 
 
 The gentlemen exchanged bows. '^ Well, Mr. 
 Balmayne," said Marmaduke, '' I see your car- 
 riage coming, so I shall wish you good morning." 
 " My dear sir," replied Mr. Balmayne, draw- 
 ing him aside, " if you should see Sir John before 
 I do, I beg you will be kind enough to endeavour 
 to set him right about that road. The meeting 
 takes place in a few days ; and it is of so much 
 
 consequence, that " 
 
 " I will, I will, depend upon it. I shall very 
 
 likely see Sir John to-morrow. Now, good bye." 
 
 " Then could you give us the pleasure of your 
 
 company to dinner on Sunday, Mr. Marmaduke? 
 
 I expect Mr. Brisbane to-morrow night, to remain 
 
 a day or two; it would- " 
 
 *' I am very sorry, Mr. Balmayne, but I am 
 afraid it will not be in my power, we have so 
 many visitors in the house." 
 
 " We should be delighted to see Mr. Wellwood, 
 too," said Mr. Balmayne. " I wish you could 
 come, my dear sir ; it is long since we have seen 
 you." 
 
 Marmaduke, however, reiterated his apologies, 
 and with some difficulty made his escape, leaving
 
 THE FALCONARS. 103 
 
 My. Balmayne awaiting the slow arrival of the 
 clrosky. Elphinstone/' said he, as he rejoined 
 his friends, " why, in the world, do you talk of 
 going away to-morrow, my good fellow?" 
 
 "I must, Oswald," replied Mr. Elphinstone. 
 " I have an appointment to meet all my guar- 
 dians at my uncle's house ; you know I shall soon 
 be of age, and there is a great deal of business to 
 be gone through. I am very glad I did not 
 altogether miss you, as I feared I should." 
 
 *' Lucky that I came home to-day !'' exclaimed 
 Oswald. 
 
 " Lucky, indeed !" drawled Eichard Well wood. 
 " I can assure you the governor was not at all 
 best pleased when he came down to brealdast on 
 Tuesday morning, and found that you had taken 
 French leave." 
 
 " Why, you know I went off on business," re- 
 plied Marmaduke, with a very arch smile. 
 
 '' Business or not, I don't think you wiU meet 
 with a very gracious reception at home; and 
 everybody is gone away, too ; so you will have 
 nothing to come between you and the governor. 
 Lady Glendinning is not expected till to-morrow." 
 
 "Ah! is my sister expected so soon? And did 
 the Eossiewoods go yesterday?" 
 
 "Yes, allbut Lady Helen." 
 
 " All but Lady Helen f " repeated Oswald, in 
 an accent indicative of anything but pleasure; 
 sounding, in fact, like surprise mingled with 
 horror and perplexity. 
 
 "Yes," responded Eichard, coolly; "she had 
 promised to remain some days at Burlindean, at
 
 104 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 any rate ; so tliey were to leave her there on their 
 way; and Mrs. Oswald entreated her so to come 
 over to Cargarth to-morrow, to meet Lady Glen- 
 dinning, that she consented, provided Sir John 
 would part with her, to come and remain till 
 Monday." 
 
 " And did Sir John say nay?" eagerly inquired 
 Marraaduke. 
 
 " Not he. Lady Helen can turn him round 
 her little finger." 
 
 ^' Dear little soul! I don't wonder," exclaimed 
 Mr. Elphinstone. '' So unfortunate, that / must 
 go to-morrow !" 
 
 " And so much more unfortunate," said Mar- 
 maduke, solemnly, " that I should this moment 
 have formed an engagement, Wellwood, for you 
 and me to dine at Mosspatrick on Sunday." 
 
 " An engagement for me !" exclaimed Eichard, 
 somewhat roused by this intimation. " I'll be 
 shot if /go. You had no business to form en- 
 gagements for me. You may go by yourself." 
 
 '' ril be shot if I do !" retorted Marmaduke, 
 laughing. " Come, come, llichard! this wont do; 
 I've promised for you, and go you must. It is 
 absolutely necessary that I should go, as Mr. 
 Balmayne and I have some particular business to 
 talk over ; and you know I cannot, in common civi- 
 lity, go out to dinner when I have a friend in the 
 house unless he goes with me. Of course I pro- 
 mised for you, depending on your feeling this." 
 
 "It is really too bad, Oswald," remonstrated 
 Eichard, in a tone of languid reluctance. " In- 
 tolerable bore ! they don't give good feeds at all."
 
 THE FALCONARS. 106 
 
 " Pooh, pooh! nonsense!" returned Marma- 
 duke ; " you're hooked, Wellwood, so there's an 
 end of the matter, and you must make the hest 
 of it. Walk on, good people, I want to say a word 
 to Mrs. Balmayne." 
 
 " Then Oswald," exclaimed Eichard, " you 
 must tell her I can't come — I can't, upon my 
 honour." 
 
 '' I shall tell her no such thing. I onust go — 
 and I shan't without you, depend upon it. How 
 do you do, Mrs. Balmayne?" he added, falling 
 behind his companions, as the drosky came jog- 
 ging up behind him, Mrs. Balmayne still holding 
 the reins, and a servant in a pepper-and-salt 
 frock coat, reclining in the back seat, whilst ]\Ir. 
 Balmayne, placed beside his lady, was once more 
 busily engaged in looking over his beloved bundle 
 of papers. " Wellwood and I, Mr. Balmayne, 
 added Marmaduke, " have just been agreeing 
 that if you will excuse our inconsistency, we shall 
 be particularly happy to dine with you on Sun- 
 day, after all, as I hnd most of the visitors on 
 whose account I declined are gone." 
 
 It need not be added, that a gracious and 
 delighted acceptance of the proffer was returned 
 by Mrs. Balmayne, even before her lord could 
 answer ; and this arrangement happily completed, 
 Marmaduke ran after his friends, and turned with 
 them in at the lodge-gate of Cargartli, triumph- 
 ing in his successful diplomacy, and revolving 
 in his mind how best to mollify the threatened 
 displeasure of " the governor." 
 
 " Charming ' young man that!" exclaimed 
 f3
 
 106 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 Mrs. Balmayne, giving tlie fat grey cob which 
 drew the carriage a gentle hint to proceed. " It 
 is very gratifying to see him so fond of coming 
 to Mosspatrick." 
 
 a Yeiy much so, my dear," replied Mr. Bal- 
 mayne; *'I have been doing my best to make 
 him understand the point at issue between Sir 
 John and the road trustees, and he entered into 
 the subject with a zeal that was really delightful. 
 He has promised to speak to Sir John, and try 
 to drive it into his deaf noddle ; and I have no 
 doubt that he means to report progress to me on 
 Sunday." 
 
 '' I declare, Mr. Balmayne," exclaimed his lady 
 snappishly, " these roads and road-meetings run 
 between you and your wits. Do you suppose 
 there is nothing else than that to bring Marma- 
 duke Oswald to our house?" 
 
 " I don't know, Tm sure, my dear; but it is 
 a matter of more consequence than you seem to 
 think ; and, I can tell you, it is a great pleasure 
 to me to meet with any one willing to second 
 my efforts. I am sorry to say there are too few. 
 The trouble I have had with Sir John! And 
 then there is Mr. Anstruther, as trustee upon 
 Cargarth, boggling about that cut through the 
 Blackhope field, and though I pressed Alfred 
 Falconar to come out himself and pay me a 
 visit, just that he might go over the ground 
 with me " 
 
 " Good heavens, Mr. Balmayne ! you do not 
 really mean to say that you have invited Alfred 
 Falconar to Mosspatrick?"
 
 THE FALCONARS. 107 
 
 " To be sure I did, my dear; and why not? 
 It is of the greatest consequence that he should 
 see that road himself, but, I am sorry to say " 
 
 "Bless me, Mr. Balmayne! — the road — the 
 road — nothing but the road. Nothing on the 
 face of this earth do you think of but the road. 
 You ought not to ask any one at this season 
 without first consulting with me, so full as one's 
 house always is just now. It might be the most 
 inconvenient thing in the world." 
 
 " My dear," remonstrated Mr. Balmayne, in a 
 low voice, "I wish you would remember that 
 William is in the back seat, and not talk so 
 loud." 
 
 " William is asleep," returned the lady, glanc- 
 ing round, but, at the same time, lowering her 
 voice a little. " Now, j\Ii'. Balmayne, I must 
 insist upon it, that you write and tell Alfred 
 Falconar that the house is quite full just now. 
 Make as civil an excuse as you like ; I should be 
 sorry to do anything rude, but really " 
 
 " Eeally, my dear," responded her lord, some- 
 what more testily than he usually spoke, " you 
 need not put yourself into such a heat. If you 
 had not interrupted me you would have heard 
 that Alfred declined coming; though, as the 
 house is neither full, nor like to be that I know 
 of, I cannot see what harm he would have done 
 you." 
 
 "Declined coming, did he? Well, then, there 
 is no harm done; only it does not answer for 
 people to give invitations at this season without 
 consulting together. And as to Alfred, he is a
 
 lOB THE FORTUJ^ES OF 
 
 very amiable young man, and I have the greatest 
 regard for him ; but if you woukl only think a 
 little less about the roads, and more about your 
 own family, Mr. Balmayne, you would soon see 
 that it does not do, now Agnes is grown up, to 
 have so many young men about the house whom 
 one does not wish to encourage; especially just 
 now, when I observe so strong a disposition in 
 Marmaduke Oswald to cultivate our acquaint- 
 ance. I shouldn't like " 
 
 ^^ My dear, you had better not put such non- 
 sense into Agnes' head, or encourage it in your 
 own. If Oswald is thinking of anybody, it is 
 not of our lassie. I have my own reasons " 
 
 What Mr. Balmayne's reasons, or his lady's 
 response, might have been, was never known; 
 for, at tins moment, a turn of the road brought 
 the drosky in close contact with a beautiful and 
 elegantly appointed britska, drawn by a pair of 
 splendid bays, and occupied by an old gentleman 
 with an ear-trumpet in his hand, and a young 
 and very pretty girl. 
 
 "There is Sir John, by all that's lucky!'' 
 exclaimed Mr. Balmayne, starting up. " Stop, 
 my dear, I must get out for a minute to speak 
 to him. Go to the pony's head, William." 
 And, armed as before with his papers, Mr. Bal- 
 mayne scrambled down, and sped to the side of 
 the carriage at which tlie old gentleman was 
 seated ; where, shaking hands with him, and 
 bowing to his companion, he entered at once 
 upon business. 
 
 Mrs. Balmayne was not quite near enough,
 
 THE FALCONAES. 109 
 
 had she been so incliued, to catch the conversa- 
 tion; but she was witness to a very animated 
 pantomime which accompanied it — (5f significant 
 taps upon the road-bill, and triumphant appeals 
 with the fore-finger to some other paper, on Mr. 
 Balmayne's part, and no less significant move- 
 ments of impatience or incredulity, and angry 
 gesticulations with the trumpet, on Sir John's. 
 His young companion now and^then turned away 
 her head to conceal a smile, and once applied her 
 lips to the trumpet on an appealing look from 
 Mr. Balmayne. 
 
 " Mr. Balmayne says it is on the right side, 
 Uncle John." 
 
 " Don't tell me, Helen, my dear," was the 
 response; "the clerk told my Grieve it was on 
 the left side ; and that I never will consent to ; 
 so there is no use in saying more about it." 
 
 At last, the conference broke up, leaving both 
 parties exactly where it found them. Mr. Bal- 
 mayne resumed his seat by his lady's side in 
 high dudgeon, and they drove on. They were 
 now very near their own lodge, when, as the 
 carriage approached, an old woman was seen to 
 scud across the road, sending her voice before 
 her as she ran, — " Losh keep us a', Tam ! there's 
 the laird comin' ! Tak' awa' the coo', man !" and 
 a white-haired urchin, armed with a stick, flew 
 hastily to drive away a cow, which was too evi- 
 dently pasturing on the road-side, but did not 
 succeed in evading the eye of the rural dignitaryj 
 now close at hand. 
 
 "What is the meaning of this trespass again,
 
 110 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 in spite of my order?" he hallooed out as he 
 passed. "I declare, upon my conscience, I be- 
 lieve there never was such a set of people in a 
 country side ! and nobody but me to see to any- 
 thing ! Whenever I am a few days out of the 
 way, they all do just as they please. I must 
 speak to the road-surveyor about this work."
 
 THE FALCONAKS. Ill 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " 'Twere logic misapplied 
 To prove a consequence by none denied, 
 That we are bound to cast the minds of youth 
 Betimes into the mould of heavenly truth ; 
 That, taught of God, they may indeed be wise ; 
 Nor, ignorantly wand'ring, miss the skies." 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 Sunday morning dawned bright and beautiful, 
 as a fine morning towards the end of Septeniber 
 is wont to do, with all that bracing freshness 
 and blue clearness of atmosphere, which look and 
 feel so delicious as the hazy clouds roll ofi* from 
 the face of its sunny sky. It beamed brightly 
 on Edinburgh, in despite of its time-commemo- 
 rated reek; but, on such a morning, one can 
 scarce help feeling sad at being a denizen even 
 of the most beautiful of cities. We shall there- 
 fore leave the dining-room in Mrs. Falconar's 
 house, where prayers are over, and Eleanor is 
 making tea, and Alfred, the only other member 
 of the household then in the apartment, stand- 
 ing by the window, and gazing out over the 
 woods of the Dean, and the windings of the
 
 112 THE FOUTUNES OF 
 
 Water of Leitli, and the groves of Inverleitli 
 and Warriston, down to the blue Firth and the 
 hazy shores of Fife, — we shall leave this scene, 
 and transport ourselves where the sun is peeping 
 with a mottled ray through the steam of a boil- 
 ing urn, on the breakfast -table at Mosspatrick. 
 
 This retired dwelling lay amongst low green 
 hills, and was surrounded by well-grown, though 
 not extensive woods. A small lawn sloped down 
 before the house, divided by a neat park-paling 
 from some soft grassy meadows and haughs, 
 which extended along the banks of a little quiet 
 river that came winding from the hills, and 
 flowed about a mile from the house into Cargarth 
 Water, as the stream which has been described 
 in the former chapter was named. The house, 
 originally very small, had been enlarged into a 
 good size by various additions; and many out- 
 door improvements, in the shape of walks, shrub- 
 beries, and new garden walls, had given a degree 
 of consequence to what was once a very unpre- 
 tending little domicile. In a neat and cheerful 
 breakfast room, whose windows were filled with 
 plants in pots, and sliaded by creepers growing 
 outside, a large party was assembled on the pre- 
 sent occasion — Mrs. Balmayne, who had not yet 
 resigned her post to her daughter, presiding over 
 the tea- cups at the head of the table, and her 
 husband dispensing coffee at the foot. The lady 
 was fair, and plump, and comfortable in looks, 
 save for an excessive degree of activity, amount- 
 ing to fidgetiness, of deportment, and somewhat 
 of a sharp and shrewd expression about the eyes, 
 
 •■^%^.:
 
 THE FALCONAPtS. 113 
 
 wliicli took greatly from tliat repose essential to 
 a comfortable appearance. AVitli the outward 
 man of tlie gentleman we are already acquainted ; 
 and his good-humoured countenance was at pre- 
 sent more than usually florid from the effects of 
 a morning walk l3etween the house and the 
 offices. A numerous bevy of olive-branches, of 
 all ages, from nineteen downwards to six, were 
 seated — the elder ones at the breakfast table; 
 the younger, laughing and chattering at one 
 placed in a corner, over their porringers of milk, 
 and slices of bread and butter. This table was 
 under the immediate supervision of the gover- 
 ness, Miss Johnstone, a lady-like and somewhat 
 depressed-looking young person; who, neverthe- 
 less, as w^ell as Mr. Duncan the tutor, occupied 
 a seat at the principal board. The only stranger 
 present was Mr. Brisbane, a thin caustic-looking 
 personage, principally remarkable for a cold, 
 sneering laugh, and a strong disposition to turn 
 every person who came in his w^ay more or less 
 into ridicule. This gentleman was a Writer to 
 the Signet in Edinburgh, a bachelor, and one of 
 those people who, on the score of giving excel- 
 lent dinners and suppers, are entitled, by their 
 own particular friends, " devilish good fellows;" 
 w^hilst the clients whom they, at times, are prone 
 to sacrifice to the indulixence of their oro;an of 
 acquisitiveness, might be apt to echo the phrase, 
 only leaving out the middle term. Mr. Bris- 
 bane possessed some property in the county, 
 which, having no house on it, he was usually 
 invited to make Mosspatrick his home when
 
 114 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 business or pleasure brought him thither. On 
 the present occasion he sat buttering his toast, 
 and making himself agreeable to the lady of the 
 mansion, by whom he was considered a particu- 
 larly ''pleasant man/' — a term, by the way, 
 gentle reader, with which we have some early 
 associations so indelible, as to prepossess us 
 against any one to whom we hear it applied. 
 On Mr. Brisbane's other side sat Agnes Bal- 
 mayne, a fair, blooming, and rather pretty girl, 
 remarkable for nothing so much as an air of sim- 
 plicity, very nearly amounting to silliness. 
 Agnes, without exactly knowing why, did not 
 share her mamma's opinion of Mr. Brisbane's 
 "pleasant" qualities. She felt instinctively 
 afraid of him ; and, annoyed at finding herself 
 in his immediate vicinity, remained more than 
 usually silent ; whilst every one else, Miss John- 
 stone and Mr. Duncan excepted, was talking and 
 laughing. 
 
 " Who is going to church, to-day?" inquired 
 Mrs. Balmayne, in a pause of the conversation. 
 (' Fanny, my dear, what sort of a piece of bread 
 is that you are cramming into your mouth? Miss 
 Johnstone, will you make Fanny cut her bread, 
 if you please?') kiQ you going to church, Mr. 
 Balmayne?" 
 
 " Why, my dear, I don't know," responded her 
 lord. " I haven't quite made up my mind. Bris- 
 bane, what say you?" 
 
 " Eeally, sir, unless you conceive that your 
 presence is indispensably necessary to the main- 
 tenance of decorum — ha, ha ! — I confess I should
 
 THE FALCONARS. 115 
 
 prefer a walk round your improvements, this 
 beautiful day." 
 
 " Oh, fie ! Mr. Brisbane," said the lady of the 
 house, with a smile; " how can you corrupt my 
 husband in that way?" 
 
 " I am sorry, madam, to lie under such a 
 heavy accusation. What shall I do to refute 
 it?" 
 
 " Come to church, Mr. Brisbane, with the rest, 
 like a well-behaved man." 
 
 " Oh, upon my honour, that is a hard sen- 
 tence ! You should have some mercy, my dear 
 Mrs. Balmayne. Consider the fagging life we 
 poor minions of the law do lead, and the loads of 
 learned dust we swallow through the week. We 
 need a little fresh air, now and then, to clear our 
 lungs. What do 7/ou think. Miss Balmayne ?" 
 
 " I don't know, I'm sure, sir," replied that 
 young lady, fidgeting in her chair. 
 
 " I didn't think you had been so fond of the 
 country, as to care about improvements, Mr. 
 Brisbane," pursued Mrs. Balmayne. 
 
 '' I can't say, Mrs. Balmayne, that I ain a 
 very violent lover of rurality — ha, ha ! But still, 
 I own, I do prefer a fresh country walk to a 
 couple of stupid sermons in a country church." 
 
 "To be sure, J\Ir. Brisbane, and very fair 
 too," broken in Master Tom, a tall, ungainly 
 youth of nineteen, despatching an enormous slice 
 of ham down his throat ere he spoke. " I must 
 say it's very hard to work like a dragon all the 
 week, and not get a little time to oneself on 
 Sundays. / shall go and take a walk with you, 
 for one."
 
 116 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 " No, no, Tom ; we don't want you," said his 
 father. " Mr. Brisbane and I have some county 
 business to talk over." 
 
 " Tom," added his mother, " you must come 
 with us. It has a very improper appearance for 
 a young man to absent himself from church. Mr. 
 Marmaduke Oswald attends regularly every Sun- 
 day when he is at home. A most delightful 
 young man, that, Mr. Brisbane," continued the 
 prudent matron, addressing her guest; " a great 
 acquisition the Oswalds are to our society; and 
 we see a great deal of Mr. Marmaduke ; he has 
 quite a fancy for coming here, I think. He 
 offered to dine with us to-day." And Mrs. Bal- 
 mayne simpered very complacently. 
 
 Mr. Balmayne's reply, for Tom was too sulky 
 to make any, was cut short by the entrance of 
 a servant with the post-bag, towards which most 
 welcome arrival at a country breakfast-table, all 
 eyes were immediately directed. Mr. Balmayne, 
 laying hands on it, as it was placed before him, 
 proceeded to fumble in both waistcoat pockets for 
 the key ; and having at length found it, slowly 
 unlocked the bag, and slowly drew out the con- 
 tents, examining ere he dispensed them in that 
 protracted manner usually adopted on such occa- 
 sions, and which always seems to spin out the 
 operation in exact proportion to the anxiety of 
 all present to obtain their own despatches. 
 
 *' A note for you, my dear," and Mr. Balmayne 
 forwarded it. up the table. " A letter for you. Miss 
 Johnstone." The pale face of the young governess 
 was lighted with a glow of happiness, as her eye
 
 THE FALCON ARS. 117 
 
 caught the address, and she hastily put the letter 
 in her pocket, reserving the comfort of perusing 
 it for a more private occasion. 
 
 " Anything for me, Balmayne ?" inquired Mr. 
 Brisbane; somewhat out of patience with his 
 friend's tediousness. " I told my head clerk to 
 forward my letters and papers." 
 
 *' I think so, Brisbane. Yes — no — this is for 
 me — from Peter. Yes, here is a letter for you ; 
 and here are your Standard, and your Courant. 
 And here's a letter for you, Tom — that's all. 
 Who upon earth is it from?" 
 
 '' From George Jopp," replied Tom, unfolding 
 a blotted schoolboy -looking scrawl. " I asked 
 him to wi-ite to me." 
 
 " I really think he miglit have waited to send 
 it by a private opportunity!" exclaimed Mrs. 
 Balmayne. ** It is nonsense having to pay pos- 
 tage for letters like that." 
 
 " Yery hard if I mayn't get a letter as well as 
 other people," grumbled Tom, sotto voce. 
 
 " Have you got our paper there, Mr. Bal- 
 mayne?" inquired his lady. 
 
 " Yes, my dear; here it is. Mary, hand it up 
 to mamma." 
 
 " Will you look at my Courant, Mrs. Bal- 
 mayne?" coui'teously asked Mr. Brisbane, offer- 
 ing it to her, and unfurling the Standard. 
 
 ^' Oh, thank you, Mr. Brisbane ! I shall take 
 a glance at the ladies' department, you know — 
 the births, deaths, and marriages." 
 
 '' Oh, mamma, let me see tlie Saturday Post, 
 will you, wliilst you arc reading the Courant?"
 
 119 THE FORTUNES OP 
 
 eagerly asked a juvenile politician, twelve years 
 of age. 
 
 " No such thing, Patrick," replied his mother. 
 " I allow no newspaper-reading on Sundays. Mr. 
 Duncan will tell you that." 
 
 " Patrick T' said the low warning voice of Mr. 
 Duncan. 
 
 A murmured expostulation followed between 
 the restive youth and his tutor, which continued 
 some time, and was only terminated by a some- 
 what louder threat of punishment, in which the 
 words, '^ Task — learn a chapter of the Bible by 
 heart," were distinctly audible. 
 
 ^' By Jove !" ejaculated Mr. Balmayne, who was 
 reading his brother's letter. 
 
 "What is the matter?" hastily asked his lady. 
 "What a start you gave me! Nothing wrong 
 about the counting-house and Tom, I hope?" 
 
 " Oh, no, my dear ; only a piece of unexpected 
 news, that's all — the death of a man I once knew 
 very well, poor fellow ! Major Moray." 
 
 " Majoi' Moray f said Mrs. Balmayne, in an 
 inquiring tone. "Ah! here is the same an- 
 nouncement in the Courant, I see. * Died, on 
 his homeward passage, on board the H. E. I. C.'s 
 ship Othello, Major Hugh Moray, of the — th 
 Eegiment, Bengal Native Infantry.' " 
 
 " Indeed! Is that Miss "Wellwood's husband?" 
 asked Mr. Brisbane, looking up from the Standard. 
 
 "Miss Wellwood's husband?'' repeated Mrs. 
 Balmayne. " What Miss Wellwood ? " 
 
 " Why, don't you recollect, my dear," said 
 Mr. Balmayne, "just about the time that we
 
 THE FALCONARS. 118 
 
 were married, two years after poor Falconar 
 married Miss Lilias Wellwood, what a commo- 
 tion there was about her sister Jane running oif 
 with a handsome young officer in the Company's 
 service, who had come home on sick leave ? She 
 met him somewhere in Aberdeenshire, where she 
 was on a visit. There was such a riot about it 
 amongst all the connexions ; all except poor Fal- 
 conar. He always rather took her part." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! I remember now. Old Sir An- 
 thony never saw her again, I think, nor her 
 brother either. She was only his half-sister, 
 though, wasn't she?" 
 
 " Yes; he is the only one of the first marriage. 
 Mrs. Falconar and Jane were full-sisters. But 
 that is neither here nor there; they were all 
 harsh to her, I must say." 
 
 *^ Really, my dear, I cannot see that. When 
 young women marry against the wishes of their 
 friends, and run their heads into difficulties, out 
 of sheer imprudence, they cannot wonder if they 
 are left to suffer for their folly." 
 
 '' Ha, ha ! Mrs. Balmayne," laughed Mr. Bris- 
 bane; "yours is the most sensible view of the 
 case. Well, Balmayne, has the widow come 
 home, then?" 
 
 *' So Peter writes me. His wife, who is Lady 
 Wellwood's sister, you know, had just had a letter 
 from her, it seems, informing her that Mrs. 
 Moray had written to Sir Anthony, on landing 
 — the first intercourse they have had for twenty 
 years — announcing her husband's death, and 
 telling him that she is by no means in the cir-
 
 120 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 cumstances she expected, as a good deal of their 
 money was invested at Calcutta, and one of the 
 late tremendous failures there had involved them 
 terribly. Peter says that Lady Wellwood's 
 letter does not announce what Sir Anthony had 
 decided to do ; but I should think he could not 
 in decency avoid taking her by the hand, poor 
 soul !" 
 
 " Well, she is suffering for her folly now, as 
 people always do, sooner or later, when they are 
 guilty of making such marriages," observed Mrs. 
 Balmayne, finishing her tea. "Fanny, who brought 
 that dirty terrier of Tom's into the room? — and 
 why are you feeding it with ham? — I can't permit 
 such extravagance." 
 
 "It is only some bits of fat, mamma," said 
 Fanny. 
 
 " Be quiet, Fanny," whispered Miss Johnstone, 
 " and come up to the school-room to learn your 
 Sunday lessons. Come, children." — There was a 
 general move. 
 
 " Ay, take them all up stairs," said Mrs. Bal- 
 mayne. " And children, see that you learn all 
 your Sunday-lessons properly, and do as Miss 
 Johnstone bids you. And, Miss Johnstone, Kitty 
 must learn three verses to-day, as a task, besides 
 her usual lessons, because she was too late in the 
 morning. And be sure to make them get ready 
 in time for church, Miss Johnstone; and don't 
 let Jessy and Mary dirty those new frocks of 
 theirs, in the school-room. And, Mr. Duncan, 
 Patrick and George are not to put on their best 
 hats to-day. I have forbidden them to wear
 
 THE FALCONARS. 121 
 
 them, because tliey shot arrows through their caps 
 yesterday." 
 
 " Oh, mamma !" burst simultaneously from the 
 lips of the culprits ; but an impulse towards the 
 door, from the hand of Mr. Duncan, cut short 
 their remonstrances, and the room was speedily 
 cleared of the younger members of the party — 
 dismissed up stairs, to acquire the indelible asso- 
 ciation of the Bible with punishment, and of 
 Sunday with tasks and penances and restrictions, 
 which were only binding on the juvenile part of 
 the community, whilst the elders were absolved 
 from all necessity of observing them. The re- 
 mainder of the company likewise proceeded to 
 disperse — Mr. Balmayne, to visit the stable — Tom 
 to the dog-kennel — Mrs. Balmayne, to her kitclien 
 and store-room, and Agnes to the drawing-room; 
 where, seating herself in a window, she took up 
 the disput,ed newspaper, probably conceiving her- 
 self of an age sufficiently mature to warrant her 
 reading it on Sunday. Here, somewhat to her dis- 
 comfiture, she was presently joined by Mr. Bris- 
 bane, who. Standard in hand, placed himself on a 
 sofa, very near her. 
 
 " I think this is your paper, Mr. Brisbane," 
 said Agnes, blnshingiy oftering it to him. 
 
 " Oh ! thank you, Miss Balmayne — no hmiy. 
 Keep it till you have done with it. Are you a 
 great politician?" 
 
 " Oh dear, no ! I don't know anything about 
 politics. I was just reading Major j\ foray's death. 
 Then Mrs. Moray is the Falconars' aunt — isn't 
 she, Mr. Brisbane?" 
 
 YOL. I. G
 
 122 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 '' Precisely so, Miss Balmayne." 
 
 " I remember hearing my cousin Alfred talking 
 about her once to papa. I think it will be very 
 hard if Sir Anthony Wellwood doesn't forgive 
 her now. It was cruel of them to be so angry 
 with her, because her husband wasn't rich." 
 
 *'Ha! ha! ha! Miss Balmayne — are 7/ou an 
 advocate for love in a cottage? Oh, fie! — who 
 ever heard of a young lady in our days making 
 such an avowal ? Don't you know how much 
 love disagrees with an empty purse?" 
 
 " Well, I don't know," said Agnes, losing a 
 little of her shyness, through her interest in the 
 subject. " I don't know, I'm sure, but I think it 
 ivas hard. I remember Alfred said so, and he 
 ought to know." 
 
 " Alfred? my dear Miss Balmayne. Ha! ha! 
 Are you a pupil of Alfred's, in such matters ? What 
 do you think Ae knows about love in a cottage?" 
 
 " I don't know what you mean by being a pupil 
 of Alfred's, Mr. Brisbane," replied Agnes, a little 
 nettled, '' but I think Alfred is very clever indeed. 
 Everybody thinks so." 
 
 "Ha! ha! Well, Miss Balmayne, I sha'n't 
 dispute with you. But don't you suspect it is 
 because he has such a pretty face, that you think 
 him so very clever?" 
 
 " Now, Mr. Brisbane, I won't hear you call 
 Alfred's face pretty. Do you know, I think he 
 has the handsomest face and figure I ever saw in 
 my life ! Mamma says his manner is haughty, 
 but I am sure I can't see it. Now, don't you 
 think yourself he is very handsome?"
 
 THE FALCONARS. 123 
 
 "Ob, yes ! — I agree to that. He should have 
 gone into a dragoon regiment, Miss Balmayne. 
 Just think what execution his face would have 
 done with regimentals ! Much more than it will 
 ever do under a lawyer's wig." 
 
 " Tom says, the young advocates don't often 
 wear wigs now," said Agnes, beginning to hate 
 Mr. Brisbane ; and I am sure Alfred will get on 
 very well at the bar. He must get on well, he 
 is so clever. I am sure I often wish the Fal- 
 conars lived at Cargarth again ; we used to be 
 so happy together, when we were children — 
 Eleanor and Alfred were always so kind to Tom 
 and me. I hate these Oswalds. That disagree- 
 able Marmaduke Oswald, who is such a favourite 
 of mamma's. I can't bear to see him there, he 
 is so ugly! Alfred was so different from him.'' 
 
 " Ha, ha ! Miss Balmayne. I see nobody has 
 any chance of finding favour in your eyes, after 
 your cousin." 
 
 Mr. Brisbane was here interrupted by the ap- 
 pearance of Mrs. Balmayne, at the door of the 
 little back drawing-room, through which the room 
 where Agnes and he were sitting was entered. 
 Mrs. Balmayne had come into the other apart- 
 ment just in time to listen to her daughter's 
 vituperation of the wealthy heir of the Oswalds, 
 and her tender reminiscences of her dangerous 
 cousin Alfred. The prudent mother was shocked 
 at her daughter's giving utterance to such senti- 
 ments, and hastened to break up the conference. 
 " Agnes," she said, " come and put on your 
 bonnet — it is nearly church time." 
 g2
 
 124 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 The unsuspicious Agnes left the drawing-room, 
 and repaired to lier own apartment, whither she 
 was followed by her mamma, who proceeded to 
 read her a serious lecture on the impropriety of 
 which she had been guilty, in talking to Mr. 
 Brisbane in such a manner. 
 
 " Dear me, mamma!" exclaimed Agnes, " I am 
 sure I wasn't saying anything wrong — only that Mr. 
 Oswald was very ugly, and everybody knows that." 
 
 ^'Everybody knows nothing of the kind, Agnes," 
 replied Mrs. Balmayne, with solemn displeasure, 
 " No young man can be called ugly with such a 
 pleasant smile, and such beautiful teeth. But 
 that is nothing to the purpose ; such conversation 
 is extremely improper, and what I will on no 
 account permit. I desire it may not be repeated." 
 
 A little before twelve, the usual hour at which 
 Divine service commences in Scottish country 
 parishes, the household troops got into motion; 
 and shortly after, Mr. Brisbane and his host set 
 forth on the proposed walk round the improve- 
 ments. The orbit in which they revolved was a 
 wide one, but the range of topics embraced by 
 their conversation was somewhat more limited ; 
 every subject which came under discussion being 
 with wonderful ingenuity turned by Mr. Bal- 
 mayne into the everlasting channel of roads, 
 county meetings, head courts, prison bills, and 
 all the et-cetera which go to make up the sum of 
 county business, insomuch, that it appeared to 
 Mr. Brisbane that the sermons he had declined 
 listening to might have afforded him rather 
 more entertainment, had it not been for the
 
 THE FALCONARS. 125 
 
 amusement liis sarcastic spirit derived, even in 
 the midst of weariness, from any such display of 
 mental peculiarities in a friend. Meanwhile, the 
 morning wore on; the walk was concluded, the 
 church-goers had returned — a little lounging 
 about on garden chairs, or pacing the shrubbery, 
 filled up the time till the dressing-bell rung, and 
 the early hour of five found the party assembled 
 in the drawing-room ; reinforced not only by the 
 two expected visitors from Cargarth, (for Kichard 
 Well wood had found himself compelled to accom- 
 pany his peremptory friend, who would hear of 
 no denial,) but likewise by a cousin of Mrs. Bal- 
 mayne, Mr. ]\Iorison by name, an accountant in 
 Edinburgh, who with his partner, Mr. Simpson, 
 had arrived at Mosspatrick that day, in a hired gig, 
 according to the laudable practice which permits 
 a man to make the most of one day in the week, 
 seeing that it belongs not to himself, to be em- 
 ployed fur his own worldly advantage, but to his 
 Maker. These gentlemen had only come in time 
 to dress for dinner, and now stood grouped near 
 a w^indow, Avith tlieir host and Mr. Brisbane, talk- 
 ing politics and Edinburgh news. Mrs. Balmayne 
 was seated on a sofa, surrounded by her younger 
 children, who were chattering and laughing as 
 loudly as they possibly could strain their lungs. 
 Miss Johnstone and Mr. Duncan, each seated near 
 tlieir respective charges, made part of the family 
 party, playing, as in the morning, jyersomiages 
 miiefs. Tom, with his back to tlie fire, and tlie 
 skirts of his coat elegantly supported on either 
 arm, stood occasionally mingling in the conver-
 
 126 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 sation, or ratlier monologue, which Mr. Oswald 
 was addressing to his sister Agnes, on one side, 
 while just opposite, in a large fauteuil, reclined 
 Mr. Eichard Wellwood, looking with silent ma- 
 jesty, and half closed eyes of supercilious scorn, 
 on the party before him, and scarce deigning a 
 reply to the observations from time to time di- 
 rected to him by Tom, who did not understand 
 elegant languor, and was as well inclined as his 
 mamma could wish, to pay his court to the 
 baronet's son. 
 
 And now dinner was announced, and the com- 
 pany defiled through a long passage to the dining- 
 room, where some confusion ensued during the 
 process of seating themselves, Mrs. Balmayne 
 being no adept in the nicety of tact which en- 
 ables the lady of a house to arrange these matters 
 quietly and gracefully. At last, however, they 
 did all manage to find places, and proceeded to 
 the business before them. Little was said during 
 dinner, and that little chiefly confined to the 
 discussion of field-sports, on the part of the gen- 
 tlemen ; a topic on which Tom Balmayne dis- 
 played considerable erudition, Marmaduke Oswald 
 much lively enthusiasm, and even Richard Well- 
 wood some languid interest ; while Mr. Balmayne 
 enlarged, with patriotic zeal, on the evils of 
 poaching, and the steps he had taken for its sup- 
 pression in his own neighbourhood ; thence, by an 
 easy transition, digressing to the subject of the 
 crusade which he had vowed against cattle 
 found pasturing on the sides of the highway ; and 
 finally, closing with the grand public grievance of
 
 THE FALCONARS. 127 
 
 the day in those parts — the feud, namely, be- 
 tween Sir John Cochrane and the road-trustees; 
 his own particular sufferings from Sir John's 
 deafness and impracticability ; and a bitter la- 
 mentation that Marmaduke Oswald, according to 
 his own account, had been unable to obtain the 
 desired audience of the obtuse knight, which he 
 had promised Mr. Balmayne to seek. This last 
 misfortune might have been easily explained, had 
 the young gentleman considered it necessary to 
 inform his friend that he had spent the whole of 
 Saturday upon the moors, at the furthest possible 
 distance from Sir John's residence that he could 
 attain to ; so far, indeed, as to cause him to 
 arrive at Cargarth too late even for the late 
 dinner-hour there, and consequently not to spend 
 above half-an-hour of the evening in the drawing- 
 room. But all this information Mr. Oswald kept 
 to himself, as he did his motives for conduct so 
 singular. 
 
 Mrs. Balmayne's contribution to the conversa- 
 tion at dinner consisted in little more than sundry 
 exhortations to Patrick, Fanny, and Mary, who 
 were inclined to be somewhat noisy at the side- 
 table ; and in divers fidgety injunctions to the 
 butler and footboy, which those functionaries 
 would have discharged their offices much better 
 without. It so chanced that during the mis- 
 arranging of the company previous to seating 
 themselves. Miss Johnstone had been invited, or 
 shoved, into a chair next to that taken by Mar- 
 maduke Oswald. That gentleman, too good- 
 hearted and well-mannered to neglect any one,
 
 128 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 from time to time addressed some remarks to his 
 neighbour, whom no other person seemed to con- 
 sider worth the trouble of talking to ; and as he 
 found her by far the most rational female at 
 table, their conversation very soon became mu- 
 tually animated and agreeable ; a circumstance 
 which neither escaped the eye nor tended to 
 sweeten the temper of Mrs. Balmayne; already 
 somewhat ruffled by the discovery, made too late, 
 that Agnes was not seated beside Mr. Oswald, 
 but between Mr. Simpson and Richard Wellwood ; 
 the former of whom was a prosy elderly man, 
 whilst the latter, during the progress of dinner, 
 evinced no further recognition of the young lady's 
 presence than asking her to take wine near the 
 beginning of the repast, and towards the end of 
 it inquiring, in a condescending tone, whether 
 she ever rode on horseback. The signal for re- 
 tiring was therefore made as soon as possible after 
 the appearance of the dessert ; and Mrs. Balmayne, 
 her daughters, and governess, betook themselves 
 to the drawing-room. 
 
 Here they were presently joined by Mr. Duncan 
 and the younger boys ; and the children were then 
 assembled to repeat their Sunday tasks — most 
 truly so denominated, for the life-giving and 
 vivifying spirit was wanting, without which re- 
 ligious instruction becomes no more than a weari- 
 some and vapid form — a sprinkling of the' young 
 mind with arid sand, instead of the pure and holy 
 dew, beneath whose influence the good seed takes 
 root and springs up rapidly. 
 
 This ceremony over, Mr. Duncan gladly re-
 
 THE FALCONARS. 129 
 
 treated to his own apartment ; Miss Johnstone 
 accompanied the two little girls up stairs, and 
 Mrs. Balmayne, with her three elder daughters, 
 lounged over divers " Sunday books," perused in 
 a mingled spirit of weariness and conscious virtue, 
 until the arrival of tea, and of the younger gen- 
 tlemen, released them from their penance. 
 
 The remainder of the evening, however, hung 
 heavily on hand. There were sundry suppressed 
 yawns; much relief experienced from change of 
 posture — withdrawing the window-curtains, to 
 look at the moon — pausing in contemplation of a 
 picture, or turning over a few volumes of books 
 and prints which lay invitingly al)Out the tables. 
 Then came the rest of the gentlemen, and they 
 must have tea and coffee, which consumed a little 
 time. Then ensued a conversation on the subject 
 of Cargarth. Mr. Oswald's family were delighted 
 ■with Cargarth; and as to himself, he had never 
 seen a place that he liked half so wtII ; and the 
 country people were delightful to him — so primi- 
 tive — such a numlier of originals amongst them. 
 They spoke so aifectionately, too, of their young 
 laird, that it had given him quite a desire to 
 make his acquaintance. He must be a very fine 
 young fellow. Mr. Balmayne assured Mr. Oswald 
 that he ivas a very fine young fellow ; and he re- 
 gretted much that he had not been able to induce 
 him to pay a visit to IMosspatrick just then, both 
 on account of the projected road, and some diffi- 
 culties that his agent was making about it, and 
 because it would have given him the greatest 
 pleasure to make Mr. Oswald and his cousin 
 g3
 
 130 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 known to each other. At this crisis Mrs. Balmayne 
 got very red, and fidgeted in her seat, coughing 
 frequently ; and poor Agnes looked down, and 
 blushed like a peony rose ; and Mr. Brisbane, with 
 a quiet " Ha! ha!" inquired if she were not very 
 sorry to hear that her cousin Alfred did not choose 
 to pay them a visit ? Meanwhile the conversation 
 betwixt Mr. Balmayne and Mr. Oswald proceeded 
 in a bantering strain not quite intelligible to the 
 rest of the company, till it was brought to a con- 
 clusion by a declaration from the latter, that were 
 the days of chivalry to return once more, he 
 should be ready to challenge all Scotland to pro- 
 duce a more beautiful creature than Miss Clara 
 Falconar. At this astounding climax Mr. Bal- 
 mayne laughed triumphantly, evidently taking 
 merit to himself for Oswald's admiration of his 
 cousin; and Mrs. Balmayne looked, not merely 
 red, but absolutely purple and black ; and Mr. 
 Brisbane looked at the fire, and suppressed a 
 louder " Ha I ha !" than usual ; and Agnes looked 
 at a mirror which hung opposite to her seat ; and 
 Tom tucked up the skirts of his coat, and plant- 
 ing himself emphatically in a chair, declared that 
 it was a very just remark ; and Eichard Well wood, 
 stretching out his feet, the better to admire their 
 beautiful shape, languidly remarked that " little 
 Clara was a pretty girl." 
 
 All earthly things must have an end; — a moral 
 axiom, of whose truth he or she whose good for- 
 tune it has been to pass a Sunday evening so 
 spiritual, so elevating, as that which we have 
 here essayed to describe, must, throughout its
 
 THE FALCONARS. 131 
 
 " slow length," have frequently been inclined to 
 doubt. Marmaduke Oswald's increasing scepticism 
 on the subject was at length happily dissipated by 
 the sound of his stanhope turning the sweep, and 
 driving up to the door. Veiling his joy at the release 
 as discreetly as possible, he arose at the first sum- 
 mons, and dissolved the reverie of his elegant 
 friend, by claiming his company. The proper 
 adieux were uttered, the hats and great coats 
 donned, and off whirled the stanhope, followed by 
 a groom on horseback. 
 
 " Come, Agnes," said Mrs. Balmayne, " I vote 
 for going to bed." 
 
 " Indeed, I think we shall all follow your ex- 
 ample very speedily, ma'am," said Mr. Simpson. 
 
 It was but ten o'clock ; but ten, on Sunday 
 night, is, as everybody knows, equivalent to 
 midnight on Monday ; so to bed they went ac- 
 cordingly.
 
 132 THE I'OKTUNES Of 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Ah ! gentle dames, it gars me greet, 
 To think how mony counsels sweet, 
 How mony lengthen'cl sage advices, 
 The ' nephew ' frae the ' aunt ' despises ! " 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 A DAY or two after the Sunday, whose details 
 have occupied the previous chapter, the family 
 of Mrs. Falconar were surprised one morning, just 
 at the conclusion of breakfast, by the entrance of 
 their aunt, Miss Elizabeth, brimful, as it seemed, 
 of some important intelligence. So beaming 
 indeed, and so much more than usually benig- 
 nant were her looks, that Alfred was as much 
 moved by curiosity as politeness, to suspend his 
 departure from the dining-room to his own 
 apartment, and to return to his seat, and there 
 await what should ensue. 
 
 "You are early out to-day, Elizabeth," ob- 
 served Mrs. Falconar, after the usual salutations 
 had been exchanged. 
 
 " Yes, indeed, rather earlier than usual," re- 
 turned that lady, glancing her eye round the 
 room, and taking up Harry's well-thumbed Livy,
 
 HIE FALCONARS. 133 
 
 which he had just laid on the table, in order to 
 obtain from his brother a solution of some diffi- 
 culty. " Rather earlier than usual — but — why, 
 bless me ! There are the girls in deep mourning 
 again ! I thought they had taken off their bom- 
 basine, Lilias?" 
 
 " So they had," replied Mrs. Falconar, with 
 great serenity, " but I thought it as well they 
 should put it on again for a short while, on 
 account of my brother-in-law's death." 
 
 " Oh ! ah, true — Major iMoray. Poor man! 
 And have you heard from your sister?" 
 
 " Only once, a very short letter, from Ply- 
 mouth. I do not as yet know what her future 
 plans may be." 
 
 " Has she any family?" 
 
 " Just one daughter, about eighteen. She lost 
 several." 
 
 " Poor soul ! It is lucky she has no more, as 
 times go. Do you think Sir Anthony has written 
 to her?" 
 
 " I am sure, if he has not," remarked Alfred, 
 *' I don't know what he deserves." 
 
 "My dear Alfred! your uncle!" exclaimed 
 jMi's. Falconar, in horror. 
 
 *' I would not willingly, mother, think so ill of 
 my uncle as to imagine him capable of such cruel 
 neglect towards a sister in adversity. If he has 
 not written to my poor aunt by this time, I 
 should decidedly advise her not to trouble him 
 again, at any rate." 
 
 "Oh! my dear Alfred," said Aunt Elizabeth, 
 bristling up, " I can assure you these highflown
 
 134 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 notions don't do now-a-days. When people fall 
 behindhand in the world, they must not be so 
 touchy with their friends. Pride and poverty 
 won't do together. You will entertain very dif- 
 ferent sentiments a few years hence, when you 
 know a little more of the world." 
 
 " It must be a good deal, not a little of the 
 world, Aunt Elizabeth," replied the culprit, smil- 
 ing, " that will so entirely change my sentiments. 
 But come now," he added, seeing an angry re- 
 ply mustering, *' don't let us quarrel. We 
 quarrelled for an hour yesterday about the very 
 same thing, and you see it has done no good — so 
 we won't begin again. Come, let us be friends, 
 Aunt Elizabeth." And he drew his chair a little 
 nearer hers, and looked in her face with an arch 
 smile, as he held out his hand. 
 
 Nothwithstanding Aunt Elizabeth's disapproval 
 of a dark complexion, Alfred looked so very hand- 
 some as he smiled in her face, that it was not in 
 female nature to be very implacable towards him. 
 Besides, as has been hinted, she had more im- 
 portant matters to think of than the concerns of 
 Sir Anthony or Mrs. Moray. She therefore pushed 
 aside her nephew's hand with a good-humoured 
 enough " pshaw !" and drew forth from her reti- 
 cule two letters, one of which she handed to 
 Eleanor, with a smile of calm triumph. 
 
 " Here is a letter from your Aunt Livingstone, 
 Eleanor. I am already aware of the contents. 
 She very considerately enclosed it in a parcel to 
 my aunt, that you might not be at the expense 
 of postage."
 
 THE FALCONARS. 135 
 
 Alfred left liis chair, and strode to the window, 
 whither he was folloAved by Eleanor, with the let- 
 ter in her hand. He passed his arm round her 
 waist, and they read it together. 
 
 My dear Eleanor, — Feeling, as I have all 
 along done, for the painful trials and altered cir- 
 cumstances which you have all experienced, it 
 has been with extreme regret that I have hitherto 
 acquiesced in the necessity which has kept us 
 from seeing so much of you as we could have 
 wished. So long as propriety dictated your re- 
 maining at home with your family, we were 
 unavoidably hindered meeting. The sacrifice of 
 their private wishes is a tax too often imposed 
 by the claims of society, upon people who mingle 
 so much in the world as we find ourselves com- 
 pelled to do. But now, my dear girl, that your 
 friends can feel themselves justified in hoping for 
 your company, by the knowledge that in so doing 
 they are not leading you to transgress the rules 
 of duty, (since, although anything like gaiety 
 might be out of season, a quiet family party can 
 contain nothing inadmissible), Mr. Livingstone 
 and I are very desirous that you should give us 
 the pleasure of a visit from you for a few weeks 
 at Ferneylee ; and we beg you will ofier our kind 
 regards to your brother Alfred, and say that we 
 hope he will do us the favour to accompany you. 
 My aunt and sister have kindly promised to pay 
 us a visit at this time ; and as of course it is an 
 object with you to avoid unnecessary expense, we 
 hope you will be able to make it convenient to
 
 136 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 come along with them, in oiir travelling carriage, 
 which having been sent to Edinburgh for the 
 purpose of undergoing some trilling alterations, 
 they will have to come out in. 
 
 My girls have been for the last fortnight on a 
 visit at Lord Brackentower's, whither we were 
 prevented accompanying them, owing to Mr. 
 Livingstone's being threatened with an attack 
 of gout. They write me that they have been 
 very gay, as the Caledonian Hunt took place 
 at Perth last week, which the whole of the large 
 party from Brackentower attended. They go 
 in a day or two to Dinwood House, Sir James 
 Forbes Graham's seat, in Linlithgowshire, and 
 hence we expect them to return home in a week 
 or ten days, when they will be delighted to meet 
 with you again. 
 
 With best wishes to your mother and all your 
 family circle, in which I am joined by Mr. 
 Livingstone, believe me, 
 
 My dear Eleanor, 
 
 Your affectionate aunt, 
 
 Amabel Livingstone. 
 
 Ferneylee, Tuesday. 
 
 Casting her eyes behind her as she finished the 
 perusal of this letter, Eleanor perceived that her 
 mother and aunt were engaged in deep confabula- 
 tion at the other end of tlie room. 8he therefore 
 looked up inquiringly in Alfred's countenance; 
 which, as his eye took in the contents of the 
 epistle, certainly wore its haughtiest expression. 
 This, however, somewhat gave way to a smile, as
 
 THE FALCONARS. 137 
 
 lie met liis sister's glance. " Well, love," he said, 
 pressing liis lips to her forehead, " I suppose you 
 must go — but " 
 
 " But you are offended at the tone of the let- 
 ter, you proud spirit? Have you forgotten Aunt 
 Elizabeth's advice so soon? Seriously, dearest 
 Alfred, we must take people as we find them; 
 and my aunt does not mean anything but kind- 
 ness." 
 
 "I dare say not, my own Ellen; and as usual, 
 you are better and wiser than I am. But it was 
 not so much this letter of which I was thinking ; 
 it was the expressions of concern for your early 
 trials that suggested to me the idea, how easy it 
 would have been for our father's sister to have 
 lightened them while they lasted, by sometimes 
 removing you and Clara from your depressing 
 home into an atmosphere more congenial to youth, 
 without leading you to ' transgress the rules 'of 
 duty,' — and that no such thought ever did occur 
 to her. She left you very coolly to lie where you 
 had fallen." 
 
 " Well, dearest Alfred, all that is over. Let 
 by-gones be by-gones. You would not remember 
 any neglect of yourself so long ; don't cherish an 
 angry feeling for your sister's sake. And now 
 with regard to the present question. Do you 
 know I like the thought of going to Ferneylee? 
 I have nearly forgotten the place; and then 
 the delight of being in the country again, — 
 and " 
 
 " I dare say you do like it, dearest, and they 
 often have very agreeable society about them, so
 
 138 THE FORTUNES OP 
 
 I hope you may enjoy it. You have been too 
 much debarred from the pleasures of your age." 
 
 " But then you will go too, I trust, Alfred?" 
 
 " I — dearest ? Oh ! you know it is utterly im- 
 possible. It would never do. Every moment is 
 precious to me. You must write to my aunt 
 that I am far too deeply engaged in my studies 
 for the bar to spare time just now." 
 
 " But, oh, Alfred ! what in the world can I do 
 without you? Now, don't laugh at me. You 
 know I have never paid a visit from home since 
 I was almost a child. And to go with Aunt Annie 
 and Aunt Elizabeth, and be told every hour that 
 everything I do is wrong ! Eeally, Alfred, it is 
 no laughing matter." 
 
 " Well, dearest, I am sure if it were within the 
 compass of possibility, the pleasure of your visit 
 should not be spoiled for want of me ; though I 
 think you will find the old ladies more agreeable 
 company than you expect ; for at Eerneylee they 
 will be too much absorbed in admiration, to have 
 much leisure for discovering your enormities. 
 But, Ellen, I cannot spare so much time. I 
 would if I could. All I can do I will. You 
 must make my apologies to my aunt for the pre- 
 sent ; but say that I shall have the pleasure of 
 coming out about the 17th or 18th of October, 
 and shall remain a day or two, previous to escort- 
 ing you home. Now will that do ?" 
 
 " It must do, I suppose," sighed Eleanor. " But 
 to think of a long fortnight without you, Alfred ! 
 By the way, though, I forget all this time, per- 
 haps mamma may not let me go."
 
 the'falconars. 139 
 
 " Oh! I think she will, dearest. This is not a 
 thing, you see, for my aunts to dissuade her from, 
 as they usually do." 
 
 " Come,'' cried Aunt Elizabeth, " what are you 
 two about there in the window ? I can't sit waiting 
 here all day. Well, have you settled to go with 
 us? The carriage is to be ready on Tuesday 
 morning next, and we mean to go that day, of 
 course. We must not detain the carriage ; so I 
 hope you will contrive to be prepared by that time." 
 
 '' 1 must ask mamma, first," said Eleanor, ad- 
 vancing. 
 
 " I've been telling her all about it, child. 
 What else did you think I was doing all this 
 time ? I'm sure it is very kind in your aunt to 
 invite you, and so considerate — thinking of the 
 carriage !" 
 
 " May I go, then, mamma?" asked Eleanor. 
 
 " Oh, surely, my dear, since your aunt is so 
 kind as to wish it. No, I don't mind about read- 
 ing her letter, thank you," rejecting her daughter's 
 offer of it. *' Your Aunt Elizabeth has just been 
 telling me all about it. Eeally Elizabeth, Mrs. 
 Livingstone writes a very difficult hand. I can 
 hardly ever make it out." 
 
 " I am surprised to hear you say so, Lilias ; it 
 never struck me. I think it a remarkably dis- 
 tinct hand; and my niece, Gertrude's, which 
 everybody says is so beautiful, is very like her 
 mother's. Indeed, whilst we are upon the sub- 
 ject, I must say there are not many good hands in 
 this house. Alfred, yours is not even so legible 
 as it used to be. You wrote a note the other
 
 140 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 day to my aunt, about that copy of Blair's 
 Sermons she asked you to buy for her, and really 
 she and I could hardly make out a word of it." 
 
 "Did I?" said Alfred. "Well, Aunt Eliza- 
 beth, I shall try to amend my ways — my hand 
 at least. And now, good bye ; I must be off. I 
 have been dawdling here too long. Clara, have 
 you mended my glove ? — Thank you." 
 
 '' Off, my dear ?" cried Aunt Elizabeth. 
 "What! before you tell me whether Eleanor 
 and you are going along with us on Tuesday? 
 I want particularly to have that decided; for the 
 carriage " 
 
 " Will be quite full enough without me, I 
 warrant it, Aunt Elizabeth. Thank you, I can- 
 not possibly get away just now; I have told 
 Eleanor what to say to my aunt — and now I 
 must say. good bye, for I have an appointment at 
 present." 
 
 " Eeally," said Aunt Elizabeth, as the door 
 closed after her nephew, " I must say Alfred has 
 a very abrupt manner sometimes. It is a pity, 
 Eleanor — a very great pity. 1 say so to you, 
 because it is well known that you can do anything 
 you please with your brother; and really you 
 don't shew your regard for him by encouragnig 
 that sort of thing." 
 
 "You hear what your aunt says, I hope, 
 Eleanor?" followed up Mrs. Falconar. "It is 
 long since /have given up speaking to either of 
 you. Nothing that I can say meets with any 
 attention; but I am glad that you should hear it 
 from some one else."
 
 THE FALCONARS. 141 
 
 '' Really, mamma," said Eleanor, smiling, " I 
 think Alfred is old enough to be responsible for 
 his own misdeeds. It is too bad if I am to be 
 scolded for them ; but I don't think he could help 
 running away just now, for I know he has an 
 appointment. He gave me a message to my 
 Aunt Livingstone, and " 
 
 *' Ah! well!" interrupted Aunt Elizabeth; *' I 
 am in a hurry, and have no time to hear Alfred's 
 messages. Only, Eleanor, you had better sit 
 down directly and write to thank your aunt for 
 her kind invitation; and make the best apology 
 you can for your brother ; otherwise I can assure 
 you his refusal might be very apt to appear dis- 
 respectful and ungrateful. Then I suppose it is 
 all settled that 7/ou accompany us in the carriage?" 
 
 " I shall be very happy to do so," replied 
 Eleanor. 
 
 " Very well. See that you are ready in proper 
 time, then, on Tuesday morning. Nothing fidgets 
 my aunt more than liaving to wait for people. And 
 now, Lilias, I must say good bye. By the way, 
 my aunt wishes to see 2/oii to-clay, Eleanor; she 
 has something to say to you. 
 
 " Eleanor has to take a message for me to Mrs. 
 Peter Balmayne, this forenoon," said Mrs. Fal- 
 conar, answering for her daughter, who did not 
 hear of Aunt Annie's desire of an audience of her 
 with much joy ; " but after that she can wait 
 upon her aunt." 
 
 *' Good bye for the present, then, Lilias. We 
 shall expect you, Eleanor, before three."
 
 142 THE FOETUNES OP 
 
 CHAPTEE XI. 
 
 " I spelred for ray cusine, fa' couthy and sweet." 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 " Now, Eleanor, my note for Mrs. Balniayne is 
 ready," said Mrs. Falconar, a little after one 
 o'clock, " so put away your work. You had better 
 take Clara with you.'' 
 
 Clara joyfully laid down her volume of Gibbon, 
 and ran up stairs with her sister, to prepare for 
 their walk. 
 
 " I wonder what Aunt Annie wants to say to 
 you, Ellen," said she, as she put on her bonnet. 
 "What do you think it can be?" 
 
 " I have not the slightest idea," replied Eleanor ; 
 " I dare say it is nothing very agreeable; but it 
 is better, at any rate, that she should say it to 
 me, whatever it is, and not to mamma. Now, 
 Clara, do fasten your boot-laces better ; remember 
 how Aunt Annie scolded you because they were 
 loose, the last day we called for her — and pull out 
 the strings of your bonnet. You little untidy 
 thing ! — what will you do when I am away, for 
 want of some one to keep you in order?"
 
 THE FALCONARS. 143 
 
 ^' I don't know, I am sui^e, Ellen," said Clara, 
 in a very doleful tone — " wliat will become of me 
 when you are away. One thing to be said is, 
 that Aunt Annie and Aunt Elizabeth will be 
 away too, so there will be no one to make mis- 
 chief; and Harry and I will do our very 
 best to please mamma ; but it will be dull work. 
 I think Aunt Livingstone might have asked me, 
 too. But I am glad you are going, Ellen dar- 
 ling, and perhaps you may come back with a 
 merrier face than you have now." 
 
 Eleanor, who was employed in arranging Clara's 
 bonnet-cap, tenderly kissed her as she said this ; then 
 turning her round, to see whether there were no 
 rebellious creases in her crape pelerine, and whe- 
 ther the folds of her frock were all right at the 
 waist, she at length pronounced her lit to appear 
 before Aunt Annie; and tlie sisters went down 
 stairs together, received their credentials from 
 Mrs. Falconar, and set off for Heriot Eow. 
 
 There, in an elegantly furnished front draw- 
 ing-room, Eleanor and Clara found Mrs. Peter 
 Balmayne, a fashionable-looking woman, whose 
 appearance presented a strong contrast to that of 
 her sister-in-law ; and who considered herself, and 
 was considered by her sister. Lady Wellwood, and 
 the rest of her many fine relations, as having 
 shewn rather more than sufficient condescension, 
 in bestowing her hand upon the rich wine-mer- 
 chant, who was merely a younger brother's son, 
 and not by any means so highly connected as 
 herself. This lady had never been remarkable 
 for shewing much affection towards any of her
 
 144 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 liusband's relatives, and had always evinced a 
 desire to confine his attentions, as well as her 
 own, as much as possible to those on her own 
 side of the house — which feeling, it is almost 
 unnecessary to add, had not decreased in propor- 
 tion to the loss of worldly consequence sustained 
 by some of them — still less had it been diminished 
 by the unexpected degree of personal and mental 
 attraction which she could not fail to remark in 
 the daughters of Mrs. Falconar, when their return 
 to Edinburgh brought them once more into con- 
 tact with her. She was, however, perfectly well- 
 bred, and polished in manner, and would not for 
 the world have been guilty of the vulgarity of dis- 
 playing such feelings by her conduct, in the way in 
 which they would have manifested themselves in 
 the lady of the elder Mr. Balmayne. The note, of 
 which Eleanor was the bearer, referred to the 
 concerns of Mrs. Moray, and Mrs. Balmayne had 
 just informed her visitors that she had reason 
 to believe that Sir Anthony had noiv written 
 to his sister, but of all further particulars she 
 remained in ignorance, when a carriage was heard 
 to drive up to the door, and the sound was fol- 
 lowed by a loud ring at the bell. In a few mi- 
 nutes after, the drawing-room door was flung open, 
 and *' Miss Wellwood" was announced. 
 
 "My dearest Matilda!" exclaimed Mrs. Bal- 
 mayne, starting up, and embracing the young 
 lady who entered. " Is it possible ? I had not 
 an idea that you were in Edinburgh." 
 
 '' I am merely passing through it," replied her 
 niece, as she very coolly returned her aunt's affec-
 
 THE FALCONARS. 145 
 
 tionate salutation, and advanced towards a seat. 
 Miss Wellwood, the only daughter of Sir An- 
 thony, was a tall, line-looking girl, about the 
 same age as Eleanor, whose countenance, without 
 possessing beauty, was of that aristocratic cast 
 which perhaps attracts more attention, whilst 
 her whole air and demeanour bore that distin- 
 guished look conferred by constant intercourse 
 with the best society. Somewhat there was of 
 arrogance, and a little more of absolute assurance 
 and self-possession, than are particularly pleasing 
 to the accurate observer of youth, in her deport- 
 ment; but, upon the whole, Matilda Wellwood, 
 with all her natural advantages set forth by the 
 most costly and recherche toilet, was one who 
 could not fail, at a glance, to be singled out for 
 admiration, from many, who, perhaps, might have 
 twice her share of loveliness. It was now some 
 years since Eleanor and she had met, although in 
 early days they had been very intimate compa- 
 nions, and Eleanor recollected that they had 
 always been good friends as children; she there- 
 fore felt glad to see her cousin again. 
 
 " I dare say you have almost forgotten me, 
 Matilda," said she, rising from her seat, as Miss 
 Wellwood disengaged herself from her aunt. 
 
 " No, indeed, I have not, Eleanor," exclaimed 
 tliat young lady, warmly shaking hands with lier ; 
 " I am very glad to see you again. Is this 
 Clara? — How very much she is grown and altered 
 since I saw her last! I should hardly have 
 known her." 
 
 i\Iatilda appeared willing to have said much 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 146 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 more, but Mrs. Balmayne, who seemed to think 
 that no one but' herself had any right to her 
 niece's conversation, now interrupted her by a 
 gush of inquiries touching the welfare of all 
 living things belonging to Well wood Castle, to 
 which Matilda returned the necessary answers 
 with the least in the world of a condescending 
 air. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, liichard is on a visit to his 
 friend, Mr. Oswald. I believe papa means to 
 have him bound apprentice in an office here, in 
 November. Poor felloAv! he will not like such 
 odious work, and it is not absolutely necessary in 
 studying for the bar, so I think it is very hard 
 in papa to insist upon it. Yes ; John goes back 
 to Oxford — I shall miss him sadly. Yes ; I have 
 been riding a great deal lately. No ; I cannot 
 possibly say when mamma may come to Edin- 
 burgh ; it depends entirely on the time that 
 Lord and Lady Arthur GifFord may fix for pay- 
 ing us a visit. I have not been at home for a 
 week. Lady Herries was staying with us, and 
 she begged me to go home with her ; I don't 
 know that I should have done it, but that tire- 
 some old woman, Mrs. Maxwell, of Mirklaw, and 
 her ugly daughter, wrote to offer a visit at Well- 
 wood ; I thought they might have stayed till 
 they were asked, so I came away with Lady 
 Herries." 
 
 " And did she bring you in from Redswire 
 House this morning, Matilda?" 
 
 " No ; I came in vfith Lady Hope Lindesay, 
 who has been staying there, and I go on with her
 
 THE FALCONARS. 147 
 
 to Hazekleane to-night. She and the girls were 
 at Wellwoocl in July, you know, and I have been 
 promising them a visit ever since. I thought 
 this was a very good opportunity for paying 
 it, for really there were some exceedingly tire- 
 some people at Reds wire ; I was quite bored, 
 and glad to get away, though Lady Herries 
 would hardly let me go." 
 
 '* And how long do you remain at Hazeldeane, 
 my love ?" 
 
 " Till Wednesday next, I think, and then Sir 
 John means to escort Alicia Lindesay and me to 
 Dinwood — Sir James Forbes Graham's, you know. 
 Papa is to meet me there, and take me home in 
 time for the GifFords' visit." 
 
 " Do you happen to know, Matilda," inquired 
 Eleanor, " whether my uncle has had any recent 
 letters from Mrs. Moray?" 
 
 " Mrs. Moray .'" said Matilda, in a medita- 
 tive tone, as if she had nearly forgotten to whom 
 the name belonged. "Oh, I beg your pardon ! 
 No, Eleanor, I don't know, I am sure." 
 
 "' My dear love," said Mrs. Balmayne, in a 
 tone of very gentle remonstrance, " ought you 
 not to have put on mourning for Major Moray?" 
 
 " No, indeed. Aunt Louisa, I see not the 
 slightest necessity for anything of the sort. 
 Where is the use of wearing mourning for a man 
 whom I never saw in my life? — he had no business 
 to be the husband of any aunt of mine, and as we 
 never acknowledged him living, there can be mo 
 reason for doing so dead.'' And Matilda looked 
 at her watch. 
 
 h2
 
 148 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 ^' Oh, my love, don't take out your watch yet. 
 It is quite early, and I hope you mean to stay 
 luncheon? We have luncheon at two o'clock, 
 and then you will see the children ; it is an age 
 since you have seen them." 
 
 ^' I am sorry to say it is quite impossible, 
 ma'am. I promised Lady Lindesay to bring the 
 carriage back directly ; she is at her own house 
 in Charlotte Square, and I engaged to return by 
 luncheon time there. I must see my maid to 
 give her some directions about shopping for me, 
 and we leave Edinburgh at four o^clock." 
 
 " Really, Matilda, this is a mere apology for a 
 visit. And when shall I see you again?" 
 
 "I am sure I don't know. Aunt Louisa; I 
 suppose we shall be in Edinburgh some time next 
 spring. Not that I wish it; I never come to 
 Edinburgh when I can possibly avoid it. I hate 
 Edinburgh ; and there are some vulgar people 
 here who expect me to visit them, as if the 
 misfortune of disagreeable acquaintance were of 
 necessity hereditary, and that makes me hate it 
 still more." 
 
 "You saucy thing!" said Mrs Balmayne, with 
 a smile of approbation ; "I can't say I tliink 
 you have much annoyance in that way, Matilda." 
 
 '^ Wliy, that depends entirely on the various 
 definitions of the term vulgar, and mine is rather 
 a wide one. Now, for instance, there are those 
 old Miss Grahams, who live in Warriston Cres- 
 cent, you know, with their maid-servant opening 
 the door when one calls, and their little drawing-
 
 . THE FALCONARS. 149 
 
 room, full of old-fashioned tables and sofas 
 covered with white dimity, and " 
 
 " The Miss Grahams of Hyndshaw ! But they 
 are people of very old family, my love, and I 
 rather think distant relations of your papa's." 
 
 " Oh, exactly ! — that is always the way. Old 
 fiimily and distant relations ! If they ivill claim 
 kindred with one for a thousand generations, does 
 it follow that one must keep up an intercourse, 
 on terms of equality, with people who live in that 
 paltry manner? Whose music is this?" continued 
 Matilda, rising, and going towards the open 
 pianoforte. "Beethoven's Quintett; Eleanor, are 
 not you very musical ?" 
 
 " Not very, Matilda," replied Eleanor; " not so 
 much so as Clara. Do you still practise as much 
 as you used to do?" 
 
 " AYhy, I have been rather idle this summer. 
 We have had a great many people in the house, 
 and Lord Aylesmore — do you know him? No? 
 I am surprised at that ; I thouglit everybody had 
 known him ! Lord Aylesmore stayed a long 
 while with us, and he and I were so busy draw- 
 ing caricatures, and getting up charades and 
 tableaux, that between that and riding out with 
 the sportsmen in the morning, my music rather 
 suffered neglect for a while. When I come here 
 in winter, I must take some lessons on the guitar, 
 and in Spanish, too ; I want to read " Don 
 Quixote" in the original. You and Alfred used 
 to be great linguists, Eleanor?" 
 
 " Nothing comes amiss to you^ Matilda," ob-
 
 150 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 served Mrs. Balmayne, ere Eleanor could reply. 
 " And how does your painting get on ?" 
 
 " Oh, tolerably well ; but as I said, I have been 
 idle lately. My drawing has all: been in carica- 
 tures. Lord Aylesmore's caricatures are capital. 
 Lady Maria Melvill has such a collection of 
 them ! — but I think mine will soon eclipse it. 
 Eleanor, are you acquainted with the Duke of 
 Melvill?" 
 
 Before Eleanor could disclaim acquaintance 
 with his grace, several other visitors entered ; 
 amongst others, our friend Miss Hay, with her 
 mother, a cheerful and intelligent old lady, both 
 of whom had an acquaintance with Matilda Well- 
 wood, founded upon the claim to which she so 
 strongly objected — old and, at one time, very 
 intimate fellowship with her family. There was, 
 however, a degree of gentle dignity and self-respect 
 about both ladies, which rendered it not quite 
 easy, even for Matilda, to treat them with arro- 
 gance ; and accordingly, considering that they 
 were neither rich nor titled, she behaved re- 
 markably well to them v/hen they met. It was 
 now time for Eleanor and Clara to take leave, 
 which they did accordingly, after receiving from 
 Matilda many assurances of her pleasure in having 
 again met with them. 
 
 "What lovely girls! Mrs. Balmayne," ex- 
 claimed a lady, as they left the room. " Who are 
 they?" 
 
 "Do you think them pretty?" coldly replied 
 Mrs. Balmayne. " They are tlie Miss Falconars 
 of Cargarth. Matilda, do you think them pretty T
 
 THE falconahs. 151 
 
 " Oh, Aunt Louisa," exclaimed Matilda, who at 
 least had no meanness of jealousy in her compo- 
 sition, " Clara is quite beautiful, and Eleanor is 
 very pretty, too." 
 
 " A note for Miss Wellwood," said a servant, 
 at this moment entering the room. 
 
 " I must say good-bye, aunt Louisa !" exclaimed 
 Matilda, hastily, after reading it. Lady Lindesay 
 begs me to bring her carriage to Madame Dcvy's, 
 where she is just now. Good morning, Mrs. Hay." 
 
 "My dear girl!" exclaimed Mrs. Balmayne, 
 following her to the door, " I have a thousand 
 things to say to you. I " 
 
 " I am very sorry, ma'am, but it is impossible 
 for me to remain just now. Good-bye !" 
 
 "But Matilda! Matilda!" Mrs. Balmayne 
 pursued her niece into the lobby, " there is some- 
 tliing I must not forget. Kalkbrenner gives 
 a concert next Tuesday, and Ilazeldeane is not 
 too far off for you to come in, I think, to hear 
 him. Couldn't you stay all night here, and 
 go with us? Your uncle would drive out for 
 you." 
 
 " Thank you," replied Miss Wellwood, who 
 was half-way dowm stairs ere she finished speak- 
 ing ; " but if I do go at all to Kalkbrenner 's 
 concert, I am already engaged to accompany 
 Lady Georgina Morton, who will be at Hazel- 
 deane on Saturday. Good-bye, Aunt Louisa!" 
 She looked back for a moment as she spoke, then 
 bounding down the three last steps, was in the 
 barouche ere Mrs. Balmayne could return to the 
 drawing-room.
 
 152 TttE FORTUNES OF 
 
 CHAPTER XIL 
 
 " When he was poor, 
 Imprison VI, and in scarcity of friends, 
 I clear'd him with five talents." 
 
 TiMON OF Athens. 
 
 "I don't think Matilda can speak three sen- 
 tences without introducing some lord or lady, 
 Eleanor," said Clara, with a smile, as the sisters 
 walked away from Mr. Peter Balmayne's house. 
 
 " She is not improved," replied Eleanor. " I 
 don't think she used to be so veiy arrogant. I 
 used to like her very much long ago." 
 
 " But, Ellen, if she is so very glad to see you 
 and me again, is it not odd that we should only 
 have met by accident just now?" 
 
 "' Very true, Clara ; but we must remember 
 how soon people who are much in the gay world 
 are led to forget old friends who have been long 
 out of their sight. It is not very flattering to 
 one's vanity, or even to better feelings than 
 vanity, that such should be the case, and we 
 should be very sorry to think that we ourselves 
 could ever be equally forgetful; but I dare say 
 neither you nor I can estimate how strong a 
 temptation to it the world holds out to a character 
 like Matilda's."
 
 THE FALCONARS. l53 
 
 " But nothing in the world, Ellen, can justify 
 tlie manner in ^vhich she spoke of poor Ma^or 
 Moray. How unfeeling and unwomanly ! — wasn't 
 it, now? I really hated her when she said it." 
 
 '^ It was very sad to hear, indeed, Clara." 
 
 <' Sad ! — you are always so good-natured, 
 Ellen ! What makes me angry makes you sad." 
 
 '' It is enough to make anybody sad, Clara," 
 replied Eleanor, smiling, " to see how unbroken 
 prosperity can harden the heart. But ^ who 
 maketh thee to differ ?' remember that. We have 
 been brought up by a harder but a better school- 
 master." 
 
 " We^ Ellen? I am sure I know we have 
 plenty of faults — at least, / have plenty ; but do 
 you mean to tell me that any prosperity on eartli 
 would ever have made you or me speak in that 
 cruel manner ?'' 
 
 " Why, no, Clara," said Eleanor, " perhaps 
 not exactly ; for our temptations to different 
 faults arc as varied as our characters, but we 
 might have indulged in other errors as great in 
 the sight of Heaven. We do too often, I fear, at 
 any rate. It is not tlie influence of adversity 
 alone that will change any one's disposition ; and 
 now, Clara, we are perhaps going to make a 
 practical trial of it. Here is Aunt Annie's house ; 
 let us see how long you will keep from getting 
 into a passion if she discovers a great many faults 
 in you." 
 
 " Now, Ellen, I am sure I never do get into 
 a passion. My anger is all in private." 
 
 '^ Well, Clara," said Eleanor, laughing, '' let 
 H 3
 
 154 THE FOUTUNES OF 
 
 US see how long you will keep out of a private 
 passion, then. I can assure you it is not quite 
 so private as you think — not to me, at least ; so 
 I shall soon be able to guess at its existence." 
 
 As she spoke, they were ascending the door- 
 steps of Aunt Annie's house, in Maitland Street ; 
 and in a few minutes found themselves in the 
 small and somewhat formal drawing-room, where, 
 in a goodly arm-chair, covered, like the rest of 
 •the furniture, with a large patterned brown and 
 yellow chintz, sat that formidable personage her- 
 self, busily engaged in knitting. 
 
 The whole aspect of this room, unchanged from 
 day to day, was as deeply impressed upon the 
 memories of the young visitors, as any scene is 
 wont to be, where people have strong associations, 
 whether of pleasure or the reverse, experienced 
 within its precincts, and connected with its visible 
 accessories. As Clara, the most vivacious and 
 least patient of the two sisters, took her seat on 
 one of the brown and yellow chairs beside Aunt 
 Annie's little table, she glanced round the apart- 
 ment with a tragi-comic expression of recogni- 
 tion; each object serving to call up to her mind 
 some particulars of one or other of the many lec- 
 tures and admonitions to which she had listened, 
 with her eyes dwelling on these outward things, 
 thenceforward endowed with strange power to 
 recall them. There hung the curtains, in the 
 self-same folds ; there stood the couch between 
 the windows, and the old-fashioned settee by the 
 lire-place, in the self-same angles ; the little oddly- 
 shaped chairs, which looked as if nailed to the
 
 THE FALCONARS. 155 
 
 walls against wliich they were placed ; the china 
 jars filled with pot-pourri ; the round tea-table, 
 covered by a brown cloth edged with yellow bind- 
 ing, and ornamented in the centre by a curiously 
 japanned card and counter box ; the loo-table, 
 folded up against the wall, and covered in the 
 same manner — in the middle of which stood a 
 carved ivory tea-chest, flanked on either side by 
 two quarto volumes of *' Brown's Bible ;" the 
 antique pianoforte, deficient in two octaves of 
 the keys belonging to modern instruments ; the 
 commode at the bottom of the room — its lower 
 compartment curtained with yellow silk — its two 
 upper shelves containing a collection of sermons 
 and devotional books, some of Charlotte Smith's 
 and Mrs. Eoche's novels, Rowe's " Letters from 
 the Dead to the Living,'' " Thomson's Seasons,'' 
 '* The Sentimental Journey," '' Douglas's Baron- 
 age of Scotland," and the large illustrated copy 
 of the " Gentle Shepherd ;" the huge screens on 
 either side of the fire-place, of an oblong square 
 form, revived in our own day, worked in immense 
 bunches of roses, carnations, and nondescript blue 
 and yellow flowers, upon a ground of straw- 
 coloured silk, by the hands of Aunt Annie herself, 
 and her sister, the mother of Mr. Balmayne ; Aunt 
 Annie's own arm-chair, which never seemed to have 
 moved one inch from its own corner ; her small table, 
 whereon lay her knitting-bag. Aunt Elizabeth's 
 work-box, a newspaper, and a volume of sermons ; 
 the hearth-rug, in the centre of which reposed an 
 enormous white cat, decorated with a red morocco 
 collar — the footstools, of once brilliant worsted
 
 156 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 work — monuments of the ingenuity of Aunt 
 Elizabeth and Mrs. Livingstone, in their school- 
 days ; the old-fashioned Dresden ornaments on the 
 mantel-piece : everything, down to Aunt Annie's 
 large chased gold watch, which regularly lay at the 
 same side of her table — and her rich, black, rust- 
 ling silk-gown, lavender shawl-handkerchief, and 
 high, elaborately- plaited lace-cap ; — everything 
 was eloquent in its mute records of the past — 
 awe-inspiring in its immutability. 
 
 The old lady herself was seated bolt upright in 
 her chair ; for she belonged to that nearly extinct 
 race of old ladies, whose backs were never known 
 to rest for support against the softest cushions of 
 the softest seat. Of a taller, statelier, and more 
 commanding presence than her niece, Elizabeth, 
 Aunt Annie's whole appearance betokened a 
 healthy and vigorous old age — an appearance not 
 belied by the fact. It is, indeed, indubitable, 
 from whatever cause it may arise, that one of the 
 characteristics of the age we live in is, the supe- 
 rior health and vigour, mental and bodily, of our 
 grandmothers and great-aunts, to ours, their de- 
 generate descendants. Such was peculiarly the 
 case with Miss Annie Falconar ; and, strong in 
 the^consciousness of her own physical forces, no 
 one held delicacy of constitution or habit in more 
 sovereign contempt than she. Of her mental 
 peculiarities enough has already been said to inti- 
 mate, that her ruling passions were pride, and 
 the. love of distinction ; which passions, when 
 existing in a heart little disposed by nature to 
 the softer and more affectionate feelirgs, as surely
 
 THE FALCONARS. Ib1 
 
 lead to the contemning the unfortunate or lowly, 
 as they do to tlie reverencing and worsliipping 
 those who are the reverse. Aunt Annie's feelings 
 of family pride, however, being stronger than 
 those of Aunt Elizabeth, in whose eyes wealth, 
 fashion, and worldly splendour, were everything, 
 this point of diiference caused some variety in 
 their modes of thinking, usually very much alike. 
 Thus, whereas Aunt Elizabeth firmly believed in 
 the infallibility of her rich brother-in-law, Mr. 
 Livingstone of Ferneylee, Aunt Annie's venera- 
 tion for, and glory in, his wealth and consequence, 
 were sometimes clouded by the recollection of his 
 deficiency in ancient birth ; and, heartily as her 
 niece and she concurred in the triumphant sen- 
 sations caused by the beauty and accomplishments 
 of the Misses Livingstone, she yet regarded with 
 a far deeper feeling of admiration the noble 
 young lady who had lately become their elder 
 brother's wife. It need scarcely be added, that 
 Aunt Annie, in common with most old ladies of 
 her class, considered the climax of her sex's 
 virtue to consist in a perfect familiarity with the 
 mysteries of needlework. Li fiict, it might be 
 doubted whether she conceived the daughters of 
 a good family to have been created for any other 
 purpose than to scay, whilst unmarried, and, 
 when they changed their maiden condition, to 
 increase the consequence, and extend the con- 
 nexions of their house. Such was the mucli- 
 dreaded relative who now received her great- 
 nieces with more of benignity than they had 
 expected.
 
 158 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 " Sit down, my dears," said she ; '^ Elizabeth 
 has gone out again. But I suppose she tohl you, 
 Eleanor, that I wanted a little conversation with 
 you?" 
 
 "Yes, Aunt Annie," replied Eleanor; ''and 
 we should have been with you sooner, but that 
 we were obliged to go first to Mrs. Balmayne's, 
 and there we met Matilda Well wood, which de- 
 tained us a little — it was so long since we had 
 seen her." 
 
 " You met Matilda Well wood there! It was 
 perfectly proper, then, to remain a little longer. 
 Oh, dear, ay ! it is most desirable for you all to 
 lose no opportunity of cultivating the regard of 
 the Wellwoods. And Mrs. Peter Balmayne is a 
 very charming person too, and has a sincere 
 regard for you all. She was here the other day, 
 and really said a great deal that I wish you had 
 both heard. Indeed, I urged her myself to speak 
 to you both on the same subject ; for, as I said 
 to her, young people cannot be too grateful, when 
 their friends take the trouble of advising them. 
 But she very justly observed, that advising was 
 often a thankless office ; the more's the pity, my 
 dears." 
 
 Eleanor stole a glance at Clara; and in the 
 mantling colour which deepened over her cheeks, 
 thought she could perceive indubitable symptoms 
 of the private passion lately deprecated. But 
 Clara wisely held her peace; and her sister merely 
 replied, in a gentle voice — " Indeed, Aunt Annie, 
 I am not aware of having ever had any advice 
 from Mrs. Peter; so I do not see how she can
 
 THE FALCONARS. 159 
 
 tell whether it would be thanklessly received or 
 not." 
 
 '' Maybe not, Eleanor. It is very possible that 
 people may refrain from offering advice, where 
 they see it would not be well taken. Clara, my 
 dear, I am very sorry to see a hole in your glove." 
 
 '' Oh, dear!" exclaimed Clara, in dismay; ^' so 
 there is, I declare ! It must have burst since I 
 came out. May I look for a black silk thread 
 in Aunt Elizabeth's work-box, Aunt Annie, and 
 mend it?" 
 
 " You may do so," replied Aunt Annie, so- 
 lemnly; "but it would have been more to your 
 credit to have mended it before you left the 
 house, Clara." 
 
 " Indeed, Aunt Annie, I assm^e you, there was 
 no hole when I put on my gloves." 
 
 " I wish you may ever have looked, Clara," 
 responded Aunt Annie, with a countenance of 
 portentous meaning. " I'm afraid, my dear, 
 you'll repent some day of your aversion to useful 
 employment. I assure you, there couldn't be a 
 greater loss to a young woman, than not being 
 clever at her seam. Indeed, I may say the same 
 thing to both of you. It's a great distress to me 
 to hear the remarks people make on your want 
 of neat-handedness. If you were to learn to make 
 and mend your own clothes, it would do you 
 more good than music and Italian." 
 
 " But, Aunt Annie," said Eleanor, half smiling, 
 '' I thought you had been very fond of music. 
 You admire the two Livingstones' music so much, 
 Aunt Elizabeth tells me."
 
 160 TflE FORTUNES OF 
 
 " The Livingstones have plenty of time for 
 music, Eleanor. Girls of their fortune may do 
 anything they like ; hut I must say, I've no notion 
 of girls putting off their time with music and 
 nonsense, that would be far better employed sew- 
 ing their seam. I Avish you two could bring your 
 minds a little better to conform to your circum- 
 stances ; and I'm sure, I wish you were half as 
 neat-handed as your cousins, the Livingstones. 
 It would set you better, Eleanor, to be sitting at 
 your work, when people call upon you in a fore- 
 noon, than fykin' with paint-brushes in a half- 
 dark room, which, I'm sorry to hear, is the way 
 your mornings are spent. You'll never call at 
 my niece, Mrs. Livingstone's, and find her girls 
 idling away their time in that way ; there's 
 always some nice lady-like work or other in fheiv 
 hands." 
 
 " I assure you, Aunt Annie, Clara and I do 
 a great deal of work. I dare say, if we had as 
 many morning visitors as the Livingstones, I 
 should not be able to sit at my painting in the 
 forenoon. But, you know, at this season, the 
 town is quite empty; and I don't know a more 
 delightful resource against weariness or melan- 
 choly, than a variety of occupations at home." 
 
 " Occupations, indeed!" retorted liunt Annie, 
 indignantly. ' ' Bonny occupations for poor people ! 
 The world's greatly changed since my young days. 
 In my time, we wouldn't have needed to speak 
 about being weary or melancholy, when we were 
 sitting at our seam, and employing ourselves in 
 a proper manner. But this just comes of all
 
 THE FALCONARS. 161 
 
 that folly and nonsense your poor father used 
 to put into your head, about talents, and clever- 
 ness, and all that. There's been far too much of 
 that ; and your brother Alfred, he tires up like a 
 turkey-cock, and speaks the same kind of stuff, 
 •whenever anybody attempts to give him a little 
 rational advice about either of you. Instead of 
 spending money in nonsensical painting and 
 music-books, you ought both to rellect how ne- 
 cessary it is to save money for your appearance 
 in society — to dress you, so as to do credit to 
 your family. All the music and painting in the 
 ■world will never get either of you a good esta- 
 blishment ; and I'm sure, that's of far more con- 
 sequence, in your situation, than it is in most 
 people's. It's wonderful how far a little money 
 will go in dressing people that are neat-handed 
 about doing things for themselves. In my opi- 
 nion, a woman has nothing to do with cleverness ; 
 it's of far more consequence to be i)erjite^ and 
 understand the managing of a house properly ; and 
 I wish either of you may ever make much figure 
 that w^ay, as long as you keep your present notions." 
 An awful pause followed, only broken by the 
 click of Aunt Annie's knitting-pins, and the loud 
 purring of the cat. Neither of the sisters ventured 
 on speech ; but whilst Eleanor, in her secret soul, 
 was wondering whether it were for the purpose 
 of hearing this admonition that she had been 
 summoned to the presence, or what darker depths 
 of enormity yet remained to be unveiled or de- 
 scanted on, Aunt Annie once more resumed the 
 thread of her discourse.
 
 162 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 " And this brings me, Eleanor, to what I 
 wished to say to you. You have availed yourself 
 of your aunt, Mrs. Livingstone's, most kind in- 
 vitation, for which I hope you thanked her in a 
 proper and grateful manner, and at the same 
 time endeavoured to explain away the strange- 
 ness of Alfred's declining to accompany you. 
 Now you are aware what a very splendid esta- 
 blishment your aunt keeps, and how necessary it 
 is (though I dare say there will not be much 
 gaiety going on during your stay) that her niece 
 shall make a suitable appearance in her house. 
 Especially as you are going with me, I am 
 anxious about this; so I want a little conversa- 
 tion with you about your dress." 
 
 " Thank you, Aunt Annie," said Eleanor, much 
 relieved. " I was just looking over my wardrobe, 
 this morning. You know I have not had occa- 
 sion for dress this long while, and mourning does 
 not allow of much variety, but " 
 
 " That's all very true," interrupted Aunt 
 Annie; "but people require to make a proper 
 appearance in mourning as well as in anything 
 else. Now I hope your mother does not mean to 
 insist upon your continuing to wear your bomba- 
 sine and crape at Ferneylee ! They vfont do 
 there, you know ; and you have a very handsome 
 black silk dress that would answer much better 
 for the morning." 
 
 '' I dare say mamma will make no difficulty 
 about that," replied Eleanor. " She merely de- 
 sired us to put on our bombasines for a few days, 
 on account of poor Major Moray's death."
 
 THE FALCONARS. 163 
 
 " Very proper. Well, then, you've got that 
 gown for the morning ; and you had better put 
 on your black and white muslin to travel in, for 
 silk gets so crushed in a carriage ; and it's won- 
 derful how much longer people's things look 
 decent when they're taken care of. But what 
 kind of a dinner-dress have you ?" 
 
 " Why, none but that black silk. I had it 
 made with two bodies — one for the morning, and 
 another for the evening. I wore it that day 
 Alfred and I dined with you, Aunt Annie, when 
 the Balmaynes were here. Don't you think it 
 will do, considering that I am in mourning?" 
 
 " It may do very well," pronounced Aunt 
 Annie, " if there's nobody there but ourselves. 
 It certainly wouldn't raise you in the opinion of 
 your aunt, or her excellent husband, to see you 
 too extravagantly dressed. But if it were to 
 happen that Mrs. Livingstone had a large party 
 at dinner, in the handsome manner they conduct 
 things, it wouldn't do for you not to appear 
 in fuller dress. It's not for the credit of the 
 family that you shouldn't be like other people. 
 On talking the matter over with my niece Eliza- 
 beth, therefore, I have determined to present you 
 with a black satin gown." Hereupon, Aunt 
 Annie slowly drew from her capacious pocket a 
 green morocco pocket-book of goodly dimen- 
 sions, from which she proceeded to count out ten 
 pounds, then handed them across the table to her 
 niece. 
 
 " There, my dear, now I hope you will make 
 yourself fit to appear at your aunt's house."
 
 164 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 " You are extremely kind, Aunt Annie," said 
 Eleanor, blushing from a variety of emotions not 
 altogether of pleasure, the style of the donation 
 being none of the most flattering. "I am very 
 much obliged to you, I am sure." 
 
 " Now, I hope you will set about it with judg- 
 ment, Eleanor. I'm afraid you're not much of a 
 judge of satins; but I wish you to go to Miss 
 
 T for your dress, she makes for my niece, 
 
 Mrs. Livingstone; and if you mention your aunt's 
 name, you will be sure to meet with attention ; 
 she provides her own materials, you know, and 
 makes so beautifully ! And get yourself anything 
 else you need in the way of dress ; it isn't a house 
 to go to unless you can make a proper figure." 
 
 Whilst Eleanor was endeavouring to assure 
 her aunt that she would not misapply her gift so 
 as to discredit the family, the party was aug- 
 mented by Aunt Elizabeth's entrance, somewhat 
 in a bustle. 
 
 '' I've executed all your commissions, aunt," 
 said she ; " and Blackwood's boy Avill be here 
 directly with a box of blonde tippets for your 
 choice. Well, Eleanor, I hope you are sensible 
 of your aunt's kindness, and that you will lay 
 out her handsome present to the best advantage." 
 
 " I shall do my best, Aunt Elizabeth," replied 
 Eleanor; " and I have just been thanking Aunt 
 Annie very heartily. Now, I think, Clara, it is 
 high time for you and me to say good-bye if we 
 
 mean to be at Miss T 's t]iis afternoon." 
 
 '■ " Stop a moment ! Did you tell Eleanor about 
 the carriage- boxes, Aunt Annie?"
 
 THE FALCONARS. 165 
 
 ^' That's true, my dear. No. Eleanor, there's 
 only two of the boxes in town along witli the 
 carriage, and Elizabeth and I will require them 
 both." 
 
 " Besides," interrupted Aunt Elizabeth, " where 
 would be the use of Eleanor's having one. She 
 wont have the carriage to come back in — she 
 wont remain so long as you and I, aunt. So, 
 Eleanor, you must contrive to get your things 
 into as small a trunk as possible, and remember 
 it must be sent here on Monday night. Be sure 
 you recollect that. AVe can't be kept waiting 
 for it on Tuesday." 
 
 '' I shall take care to have it sent over in 
 time. Aunt Elizabeth," said Eleanor. " A small 
 trunk and carpet-bag will hold all I shall re- 
 quire." 
 
 " Very well. Now, be sure that you don't 
 take a large trunk. Indeed, if you do, it must 
 go l)y the carrier. I give you fair warning of 
 that. The carriage must not be overloaded. And 
 now take care you don't keep us behind the time 
 on Tuesday morning." 
 
 " No, no, depend upon me. Aunt Elizabeth. 
 Good-bye." 
 
 "Oh, my dear!" sighed Aunt Annie, as her 
 niece approached to bid lier farewell; '' I'm sure 
 I wish to goodness you would go to Urquhart's, 
 and get all tliese long disjaskit ringlets cut off ! 
 Ileally, you look like nobody else!" 
 
 " Wliat, Aunt Annie !" exclaimed Clara, with 
 an irrrepressible burst of indignation ; " would 
 you cut off Ellen's beautiful ringlets !"
 
 166 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 " Indeed, would I, Clara, and all yours too, if 
 I had my will of it. I hate the sight of them, 
 they're so affected-like." 
 
 " Yes, indeed," added Aunt Elizabeth, ener- 
 getically, '' they are abominably affected. See 
 how different the Livingstones look with their 
 nice crepes curls !" 
 
 "Ay, very different, indeed!" said Aunt Annie, 
 in a mournful tone. 
 
 " I am sorry you don't like them. Aunt Annie," 
 said Eleanor. '^ But Alfred would never forgive 
 me if I were to creper my hair." 
 
 " Oh, ay ! that's always the way, Eleanor. 
 Alfred and you will take no advice from anybody, 
 so it's needless to offer it ; but you don't consult 
 your own advantage, that's all. Well, good- 
 bye," as Eleanor again tendered her adieux; " let 
 me see you buy yourself a proper dress, now." 
 
 " And take care to send your things here on 
 Monday night,'^ added Aunt Elizabeth. 
 
 "Well, Clara, what of the piivate passion?" 
 inquired Eleanor, as they left the house. 
 
 "Don't talk to me, Ellen! An angel must 
 have got into a passion, so I only give myself 
 credit for holding my tongue. I declare, if I 
 were you, I'd rather sit at table in my dressing- 
 gown than receive a robe of cloth of gold so 
 given." 
 
 " Ah ! well, Clara, we must not quarrel with 
 a gift. I am sure we ought rather to be thank- 
 ful that our visit has gone off so easily. And 
 
 now let us make haste to Miss T 's, and do 
 
 as we are desired."
 
 THE FALCONARS. 167 
 
 ^' According to my favourite quotation, Ellen," 
 
 ' Obedient Yemen 
 Answered amen, 
 And did 
 As he was bid.' " 
 
 The sisters pursued their way, forgetting the 
 temporary irritation of feeling wliich Aunt Annie's 
 lecture had occasioned, while laughing over Clara's 
 quotation, one of the many " cues and catch- 
 words," as they are denominated by a gifted writer, 
 in treating of a similar subject,* which are always 
 to be found circulating in a family of clever 
 young people, and whose frequent use in the do- 
 mestic circle gives them such a hold over the 
 memory and the heart, that, as all who have 
 lived in such a household can testify, long 
 after the waves of time and change may have 
 swept away every vestige of its habitation, the 
 accidental meeting with, or recalling, one of the 
 dear old home quotations, will bring it back, in 
 all its minutest particulars, ten thousand times 
 more vividly and faithfully than we could have 
 believed possible. They are but trifling things, 
 yet they exercise a strange power over the mind. 
 
 ♦ Lockhart. Life of Sir Walter Scott.
 
 168 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 " But mark the sequel, Master Brook : I suffered the pangs of 
 three several deaths. 
 
 To be compassed, like a good bilbo, in the circumference of a 
 peck, hilt to point, heel to head."— IVIerry Wives of Windsor. 
 
 The important Tuesday arrived, and, by a quarter 
 before ten o'clock in the morning, Eleanor, whose 
 luggage had been duly despatched to Maitland 
 Street over night, left home, accompanied by lier 
 brother, who took leave of her near the door of 
 her aunt's house. Reiterating her entreaties to 
 Alfred, that he would as soon as possible follow 
 her to Ferneylee, Eleanor received his aifectionate 
 farewell with a heart sinking in its own despite, 
 and ascended the steps of the door, where already 
 stood Mr. Livingstone's travelling carriage, which 
 the postboy, assisted by Aunt Annie's housemaid, 
 was busily engaged in packing with the carriage- 
 boxes, and various supernumerary trunks. As 
 Eleanor viewed the voluminous preparations made 
 by her aunts for their journey, she no longer 
 
 i
 
 THE FALCONARS. 169 
 
 wondered at their rigid prohibition of her taking 
 a large trunk, since the carriage could certainly 
 not have contained its living occupants, had its 
 burden of inanimate matter been much aug- 
 mented. The front door flew open as she was 
 about to ring the bell, and gave to view the 
 lobby, where, full in the midst, stood Aunt Annie, 
 attired in a black silk cloak of the widest dimen- 
 sions, still further amplified by a large shawl be- 
 neath, and a long chinchilla tippet outside it, 
 whilst a well-crammed muif of the same material 
 contained her hands. Aunt Elizabeth advanced 
 from the back scenes, her little trim person ren- 
 dered as large as possible by a thick wadded silk 
 pelisse, and prodigious shawl; she was followed 
 by a staid, old-fashioned-looking elderly person- 
 age, who acted as lady-in-waiting to her aunt 
 and herself. This attendant nymph carried two 
 large bandboxes, and Imving deposited her bur- 
 then on the floor of the lobby, near the front 
 door, retired, and presently returned, bearing two 
 others of a smaller size, two dressing-cases in 
 leather covers, and an enormous work-bag, choke 
 full. Then came a carpet-bag, and then a mul- 
 tiplicity of little parcels put up in paper, and, 
 last of all, a tent for carpet-work, carefully 
 covered over with canvas, which, after much 
 pushing and hoisting, was safely deposited behind 
 the carriage-seat, where it threatened no small 
 detriment to the backs and shoulders of the occu- 
 pants. The other articles enumerated were all 
 destined, by some means or other, to be accom- 
 modated witlnn the carriage, but, as a prelimi- 
 VOL. I. I
 
 170 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 nary measure, Aunt Annie wisely deposited herself 
 therein. The middle seat Avas then pulled out 
 for Eleanor, who squeezed herself into the nar- 
 rowest possible compass, in order to leave room 
 for the ingress of Aunt Elizabeth ; but even this 
 scarce served the purpose of admitting the latter. 
 When at last, however, she had happily effected 
 an entrance, then commenced all the moving, and 
 shaking, and settling themselves, with which 
 fidgety people begin the work of travelling in a 
 carriage ; then the nearly hopeless task of stow- 
 ing away the luggage — the pushing the carpet- 
 bag under the seat, which would not admit it — 
 the placiug it lengthways at the bottom of the 
 carriage, a motion decidedly negatived, nobody's 
 feet could get down for it — the finally settling it 
 on end between the two aunts — "if Eleanor 
 would just sit a little more forward ;" then the 
 stufiing of parcels into the carriage-pockets, the 
 supposed defalcation of one necessitating their 
 being all taken out again, when the missing one 
 was found safely lodged between Aunt Annie's 
 muff and the window, there being no room for it 
 to fall any lower; then the right adjustment of 
 the bandboxes, a labour Avhich threatened to be 
 utterly endless, but which was, at last, happily 
 concluded by the accommodation of two that 
 could in no other way be disposed of, beside 
 Mrs. Martha in the rumble, with many injunc- 
 tions to defend them from all chance of rain. 
 This over, all at length seemed ready, when, lo ! 
 " The umbrellas !" screamed Aunt Annie, as the 
 door was being closed.
 
 THE FALCONARS. 171 
 
 " The umbrellas and parasols !" eclioed Aunt 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 Back flew the housemaid into the lobby, and 
 returned with two green silk umbrellas and two 
 brown parasols, all tied together by a string. 
 
 " Where are we to put them, now?" quoth 
 Aunt Annie. 
 
 " Set them up in your corner, beside the win- 
 dow," suggestecl Aunt Elizabeth. 
 
 " Eeally, Aunt Elizabeth," said Eleanor, in 
 dismay, " there is not a particle of room here." 
 
 " Well, then, we'll wait till the door is shut, 
 and put them up in this window." 
 
 " And then they'll go through the bandbox 
 with my blonde caps in it," said Aunt Annie. 
 
 " Od, Miss Annie!" interposed the soubrette, 
 who still stood at the carriage-door; " can ye no 
 untie them, and pit the twa paddysols ahint yer 
 backs, and gie me up the twa umberellas aside 
 me ? Dearsake, sirs ! to see fock makin' siccan 
 a collyshangie aboot naething aval" 
 
 '' I dare say you are right, Martha," was her 
 mistress's reply ; and as the privileged domestic 
 aided in putting her o^vn good advice into prac- 
 tice, order seemed at length achieved, and once 
 more the postboy was about to close the door, 
 when Aunt Annie's lofty and capacious bonnet 
 was again thrust forward before her niece. 
 
 *' Tibby !" she exclaimed, stretching as far to- 
 wards the door as the scanty space admitted, and 
 addressing the housemaid, who hastily descended 
 from her station on the steps of the house ; " now, 
 Tibby, remember I expect that you and Grizzy 
 I 2
 
 172 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 are to attend to all the directions I have left 
 with yon, and be sure you are never both out of 
 the house at once ; and put up the front door- 
 chain always in the afternoons, in case of any 
 unchancy body coming about ; and be most par- 
 ticular in your care of the cat ; now, Tibby, let 
 me see that she has been well attended to." 
 
 Tibby liaving pledged her word to remember 
 all the injunctions left with her, the mandate 
 at last was given for starting. The door was 
 clapped to — Mrs. Martha " clomb" to the rumble 
 — the postboy mounted his horse, and our party 
 got under weigh for Ferneylee. 
 
 A wearisome progress brought the aimts and 
 niece, somewhere about five in the afternoon, to 
 the end of their journey, a consummation gladly 
 hailed by Eleanor, whose cramped position had 
 long since caused her neck and side to ache with 
 weariness, and whose natural nervousness, in the 
 prospect of this her first visit, was not at all 
 diminished by the perseverance with which her 
 aunts had continued throughout the day to insist 
 upon the perfections of the race of Livingstone, 
 and the gratitude due by herself for this kind 
 attention conferred upon her. The gate of an 
 elegant po^'ter's lodge admitted the carriage into 
 an avenue, which, shaded by fine old trees, wound 
 through a well-wooded park, of gracefully diver- 
 sified surface, situated in the midst of a rich and 
 somewhat champaign country. The approach, 
 gradually ascending, brought the travellers by a 
 wide sweep in front of a large and handsome 
 modern mansion, commanding from its situation
 
 THE FALCONARS. 173 
 
 a beautiful view of the wooded grounds and the 
 windings of a tine river. Ferneylee, whilome the 
 residence of an ancient and distinguished family, 
 had shared the common fate of landed property 
 in this commercial age, being purchased by the 
 father of Mr. Livingstone, a man of low extrac- 
 tion, who had been bred a merchant, and made 
 an enormous fortune by daring and successful 
 speculations in the funds ; and the present house 
 had been built by him on the site of the old, 
 tottering, castellated dwelling. 
 
 Tlie hall-door opened at the sound of the car- 
 riage-wheels, and several servants in rich liveries 
 came forward to assist in the release of the im- 
 prisx)ncd occupants. Their deliverance from the 
 labyrinth of bandboxes being happily accom- 
 plished, the party was marshalled through a hall 
 of elegant dimensions, and along a corridor 
 crossing it transversely at the upper end, and 
 gained by a flight of broad steps, and a pair of 
 folding oaken doors, which conducted them to a 
 splendid drawing-room. Here, in the recess of a 
 large bay-window, looking down upon a beautiful 
 green terrace, sat two ladies, busily engaged in 
 netting by the waning light, whilst a tall and 
 portly gentleman, in a large fauteuil, was reading 
 the newspapers by the radiance of a blazing lire. 
 
 The elder of the two ladies, Mrs. Livingstone, 
 an elegant and well-mannered person, Avho still 
 retained many traces of the beauty for which in 
 youth she had been remarkable, advanced to- 
 wards her guests, and welcomed them in a style 
 wherein nothing was deficient but heart. No ob-
 
 174 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 jection could be made to the suavity and grace- 
 fulness of her demeanour, but something there 
 certainly was wanting. There was little reci- 
 procity between the enthusiastic greetings of the 
 aunts, and Mrs. Livingstone's calm and cool re- 
 ception of them, more as a tribute which was her 
 due than a manifestation of feelings shared by 
 herself. 
 
 Immediately behind his lady, came Mr. Living- 
 stone, to receive the visitors, and in his welcome, 
 pompous as it was, there was more appearance 
 of warmth, particularly towards Eleanor. The 
 younger lady had, by this time, arisen from her 
 seat, and moved a step forward. 
 
 " Aunt Annie," said Mrs. Livingstone, ''you 
 and Elizabeth are already acquainted with Lady 
 Susan. Lady Susan, my love, permit me to in- 
 troduce my niece. Miss Eleanor Falconar." 
 
 Lady Susan Livingstone, the recently married 
 wife of the heir of Ferneylee — a pale, elegant, and 
 fastidious-looking young woman — performed three 
 graceful bends in recognition of her mother-in- 
 law's relatives ; and then, as if satisfied with the 
 exertion, gently subsided into her chair. 
 
 '' I hope," said Mrs. Livingstone, as the tra- 
 vellers and she drew near the fire, "that you 
 have had a pleasant journey. You found the 
 chariot easy. Aunt Annie?" 
 
 ''Perfectly so, my dear," replied her aunt. 
 " It could not be otherwise, and we had plenty of 
 room. A delightful journey ?" 
 
 " I flatter myself,'' said Mr. Livingstone, " that 
 it is an uncommonly easy carriage. I had it built
 
 THE FALCONARS. 175 
 
 in London three years ago. Can't endure a 
 carriage built any where else." 
 
 " It does credit to your taste, Mr. Living- 
 stone," said Aunt Elizabeth. " I have seldom 
 seen a more elegant carriage." 
 
 " Why, to own the truth," replied that gentle- 
 man, " I G?(? pique myself a little on my taste in 
 these matters." 
 
 " So, Eleanor, my dear," said Mrs. Living- 
 stone, '' we are not to have the pleasure of your 
 brother's company at present?" 
 
 " He is very sorry indeed," replied Eleanor, 
 " that it is quite out of his power — he is so very 
 busy ; but I hope it will not be long till he can 
 get away." 
 
 " I hope not, indeed. It is long since I have 
 seen Alfred. Is he still as like youi' poor father 
 as he used to be?" 
 
 " He is, certainly, very like him," said Eleanor, 
 with a sigh, feeling hurt at the cool and in- 
 different tone of a question relating to a brother 
 so lately lost. 
 
 " He must be a good-looking young fellow, 
 then," observed Mr. Livingstone, poking the fire ; 
 " your father, poor man ! was uncommonly hand- 
 some for so dark a complexion." 
 
 " Our family," said Aunt Annie, "was always 
 remarkable for good looks. My father was the 
 handsomest man of his time. And I must say, 
 for my part, I prefer a dark complexion in a 
 gentleman." 
 
 " Well, Miss Annie, every one to his taste. 
 But indeed, for my share, I think it no great ad-
 
 176 THE i'ORTUNES OF 
 
 vantage to a young man to be cried up for liis 
 personal appearance. It usually makes him a 
 great puppy. That, at least, is not the system I 
 have pursued with my sons. I never allowed 
 nonsense of that sort to be talked to themJ' 
 
 '' And yet I am sure," exclaimed Aunt Eliza- 
 beth, " few young men have more good looks to 
 boast of. I perfectly agree with you, Mr. Living- 
 stone. Alfred's head will be turned with all the 
 stuff his sisters talk about his beauty." 
 
 " I hope there is no danger of that," said 
 Eleanor, unable to repress a smile. 
 
 *' I am sure it won't be your merit if there 
 isn't, my dear," returned Aunt Elizabeth, fiercely. 
 " When do you dine, Amabel? I think it is time 
 we went to our rooms." 
 
 " We dine at half-past six," replied Mrs. Li- 
 vingstone, pulling the bell. " I dare say you will 
 all be glad to take off your travelling dresses. 
 Patterson !" to the servant who answered the 
 summons, " desire Jollie to send ]\Iiss Falconar's 
 maid to her room. I shall conduct you to it, 
 aunt. Your room, Eleanor, my dear, is just op- 
 posite to your aunt's, so that her maid can come 
 to you when you require her." 
 
 "When do you expect the girls home!" in- 
 quired Aunt Elizabeth. 
 
 " I should hope in a few days. Lady Forbes 
 Graham is to bring them to Edinburgh from 
 Dinwood, and George has promised to meet them 
 there and escort them home. They will write to 
 fix the day. When they know that George and 
 Lady Susan are with us, I think it will hasten
 
 The faLconars. 177 
 
 their return. ^Xe had not expected them for 
 some weeks, and they took us quite by surprise 
 yesterday. Lady Susan, my dear, does George 
 
 ? Oh, I see Lady Susan has gone into the 
 
 other draAving-room," as lier ladyship's figure was 
 visible at the other end of a long apartment, 
 turning over some music near a window. " A 
 charming creature is Lady Susan !" added 
 Mrs. Livingstone — " every day we have more 
 reason to be delighted with George's choice." 
 
 '' She is a most hjvely creature !" exclaimed 
 Aunt Elizabeth, with enthusiasm. " Such a com- 
 fort to see dear George so happily settled ! — and 
 where is that delightful fellow, Robert?" 
 
 "Eobert? — oh, he has been wandering over 
 the face of the earth for the last month. He went 
 on a party of pleasure to the lakes of Cumber- 
 land with some of his companions. Lideed, we 
 are quite a diminished household; and we had 
 so many visitors, and so much racketing all 
 summer, that I enjoy the contrast. But here 
 comes Patterson with the candles ; so, if you 
 please Aunt, we will go up stairs." 
 
 The party was augmented at dinner by the 
 presence of Mr. George Livingstone, a tall, fair, 
 and gentlemanly young man of about six-and- 
 tweuty, whose cold reserve in no degree contri- 
 buted to the enlivenment of the scene, any more 
 than did the elegant languor and taciturnity of 
 his very lovely spouse ; and the ceremonial passed 
 in a sufficiently wearisome manner. The con- 
 versation at table chiefly consisted of short sen- 
 tences enunciated by Mr. Livingstone and his 
 I 3
 
 178 THE FOUTUNES OP 
 
 son, toucliiiig the all-important topics of wines 
 and cookery. The former gentleman, indeed, 
 professed to hold conversation, properly so called, 
 during the solemn hour of dinner, a most unpro- 
 fitable and unnecessary waste of time ; and, on 
 the present occasion, there seemed no inclination 
 to cross his wishes in that respect. Of the female 
 part of the company. Lady Susan, from time to 
 time, responded in a low voice, to questions or 
 remarks addressed to her by the heads of the 
 house, and looked as if the remainder of the 
 party were entirely beneath her notice ; the aunts 
 praised and were delighted with everything ; 
 Mrs. Livingstone was condescendingly agreeable, 
 and Eleanor sat nearly silent, experiencing, in full 
 perfection, the comfortable sensation of being 
 nobody. 
 
 Dinner ov'er, the same scene continued to be 
 enacted in the drawing-room, varied only by the 
 arrival of tea and coflfee, and of the gentlemen. 
 The ladies collected round a table, placed near 
 the fire, and each produced her work. Mrs. Li- 
 vingstone was renowned for her skill in those 
 elegant and useless efforts of female ingenuity, 
 which delude those who exercise their hands upon 
 them into a notion that they are spending their 
 time to advantage, and Lady Susan was an 
 adept in the like species of craft ; most part of 
 the conversation, therefore, turned upon this, to 
 the aunts, deeply interesting topic. Mr. Living- 
 stone, meanwhile, paced the spacious apartment 
 with long strides, and occasionally sat down for 
 a few minutes to a newspaper, and his son took
 
 THE FALCONARS. 179 
 
 up a new number of the " Sporting Magazine,' ' 
 and extended himself upon a sofa. 
 
 Thus intellectually passed some part of the 
 endless evening. Then there was a humble 
 request preferred to Lady Susan for some music. 
 This was negatived by her ladyship — " She really 
 could not possibly sing to-night." Then, perhaps, 
 she would favour them with an air on the liarp ? 
 " Xo ;" her ladyship " positively could not play 
 to-night ; she was fatigued, and her music had 
 not been brought down stairs. They must be so 
 good as to excuse her." 
 
 " Does Eleanor play?" asked Mrs. Livingstone, 
 of her sister. 
 
 " A little, I believe," was the reply. 
 
 *' Tm sure Eleanor is no musician," observed 
 Aunt Annie, looking up from her knitting. 
 
 " Will you give us a little music, my dear?" 
 at last inquii'ed Mrs. Livingstone of her niece 
 herself. 
 
 " I am no musician. Aunt Livingstone," said 
 Eleanor, smiling ; '' but I shall be very happy to 
 play a little, if you wish it." 
 
 " Do so, my dear ; music is a necessary of life 
 with us almost — we are so much accustomed 
 to it." 
 
 Eleanor willingly exchanged her position at the 
 work-table for the pianoforte, which was a very 
 line instrument. It had long been a received 
 opinion amongst her aunts, that she could hardly 
 play at all, founded upon their having heard from 
 her mother, during her childhood, that she shewed 
 no particular talent for music ; and this opinion.
 
 180 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 like most others once formed and matured in tlie 
 minds of the Misses Falconar, was thenceforward 
 ineradicable. Auricular demonstration of its fal- 
 lacy might for a time obscure it ; but the imme- 
 diate conviction removed, the original idea di- 
 rectly resumed its sway. Yet, notwithstanding 
 this, Eleanor's finger on the pianoforte, though 
 not brilliant, was very sweet and graceful, and 
 her taste faultless. Of her voice — a melodious, 
 though not powerful one — she was much too 
 timid to hazard any display at this time. Her 
 performance over, she was rewarded, as she re- 
 sumed her seat at the table, by a " Thank you, 
 my dear — very prettily played," — uttered in a 
 condescending tone, by her aunt, and a mur- 
 mur of approbation from Mr. Livingstone, who 
 never uttered a louder demonstration of pleasure 
 after the musical displays of any but his own 
 daughters. 
 
 "• How exquisitely Gertrude plays !" exclaimed 
 Aunt Elizabeth, addressing her sister ; " and 
 Amabel too 1 I don't know which of their instru- 
 mental music is the most delightful." 
 
 " I think," said Mrs. Livingstone, " that of 
 the two, Gertrude's is, perhaps, the most bril- 
 liant execution. Amabel certainly has the finest 
 voice." 
 
 " Yes, the^ are really to be called musicians," 
 pronounced Aunt Annie, with emphasis. 
 
 " So they have a good right to be. Miss Annie," 
 said Mr. Livingstone ; " they have had the first 
 masters. I was always resolved they should have 
 every advantage that money could procure ; and
 
 THE MLCONARS. 181 
 
 I own, I tliiiik they do no discredit to tlie sums 
 spent on their education." 
 
 "IS'o; that they do not, indeed," exclaimed 
 Aunt Elizabeth. " There are few girls so univer- 
 sally admired." 
 
 " It is a pity," said Mrs. Livingstone, " that 
 you have not heard Lady Susan's line voice to- 
 night ; but I hope you may, ere long, have that 
 enjoyment. Your duets with Amabel are charm- 
 ing, Lady Susan." 
 
 " Amabel's voice and mine suit remarkably 
 well," replied her ladyship, in a languid tone. 
 
 " I wish you would go and sing something, 
 Susan," said her lord and master, breaking silence 
 for the first time since tea. 
 
 " I can't sing to-night, George ; my voice is 
 quite gone." 
 
 " Come," interposed Mr. Livingstone, " I wont 
 have Lady Susan teazed any more about singing. 
 Surely, it is time the tray were brouglrt up." 
 
 As he spoke, the door opened to admit the 
 tray ; and, some little time after, the ladies of the 
 party retired for the night. 
 
 "If we go on as we have begun to-night, 
 Ferneylee will prove but a dull residence," thought 
 Eleanor, as she seated herself by the fire in the 
 small, but comfortable chamber, allotted to her. 
 " But, at all events, there will be the beautiful 
 grounds to walk in to-morrow. If xilfred w^ere 
 but here to enjoy them w^ith me!"
 
 182 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 " There pass'd a weary time — 
 
 A weary time, a weary time." 
 
 Coleridge : Tthyme of the Ancient Mariner. 
 
 " There is, sure, another flood toward ; and these couples are 
 coming to the ark." — As You Like It. 
 
 The morrow came, and passed, as did several 
 succeeding morrows, very much in the same 
 fashion, without bringing in their train any inci- 
 dent to rescue Eerneylee from the imputation of 
 most leaden dulness ; and Eleanor found, that 
 even in order to the enjoyment of the grounds, 
 it would have been necessary to possess greater 
 liberty of action than the only young person 
 amongst the elderly could venture to assume. 
 She found herself, from the absence of compa- 
 nions nearer her own age, sadly restricted even 
 in out-of-door amusements. Lady Susan ,was at 
 present no more than a nominal resident in the 
 house, as she remained in her own dressing-room 
 great part of the morning ; and in the afternoons, 
 she and George drove out to pay visits in the
 
 THE FALCONARS. 183 
 
 neiglibourliood, for the first three days after the 
 Misses Falconars' arrival ; whilst on the fourth, 
 they set off to spend a day and night at each of 
 several more distant houses. Eleanor was thus 
 inevitably attached to the party of her aunts ; 
 and, except for a few short rambles at hours 
 when they did not choose to go out, was doomed, 
 without intermission, to the wearisome routine of 
 working, and talking of work, within doors, and 
 the formal airing in the pony phaeton, or the 
 still more tiresome " walk," taken en masse with- 
 out. She thus, during the first ten days of her 
 stay, enjoyed ample opportunity of observing, for 
 tlie sake of future comparisons, the difference 
 made in a large country house, between Nobody 
 and Somebody, as visitors beneath its roof. 
 Not that Eleanor ever dreamt of repining at 
 being considered nobody ; and, could she but 
 have escaped the constant animadversions of 
 Aunt Annie and Aunt Elizabeth, which ren- 
 dered it impossible for her to conquer her timidity, 
 and but have been permitted to ramble as 
 long and as often as she wished, out of doors, 
 she would have required little farther to heigliten 
 her enjoyment in revisiting the country during 
 such fine autumn weather. Still, had her niece 
 been somebody, it is certain that IMrs. Livingstone 
 would have thought of various plans for amusing 
 her, and enabling her to see something of the 
 country ; and had her aunt and sister been some- 
 bodies, she would have made use of many devices 
 for passing time pleasantly, instead of consuming 
 it, as at present, in working, and prosing, and
 
 184 THE rOKTUJ^ES OF 
 
 being toadied by tliem, with wliom she felt it 
 quite needless to exert herself, since all she did 
 or said was faultless in their eyes. 
 
 The presence, in short, of somebody in the 
 house, would have made all the difference in the 
 world. In that case. Lady Susan and George 
 would have remained at home ; and the former 
 would have unclosed her pretty lips to talk and 
 sing, and would have been lively, and compa- 
 nionable, and charming, and all that Lady Susan 
 was felt to be, by the favoured few ; and the dig- 
 nified George would sometimes have condescended 
 to vary his conversation a little, instead of con- 
 fining his eloquence to the topics of wines, 
 and French cooks, and race-horses — and his bets 
 and his battues with his noble friends — and tlie 
 Caledonian Hunt — and the Duke of Buccleuch's 
 hounds. Moreover, had somebody been present, 
 Mr. Livingstone would not have descanted the 
 livelong day on himself, his money, his daughters, 
 his sons, his place, his opinions, and everything 
 that was his. Last, not least. Aunt Annie would 
 then have sometimes forgotten to be severe and 
 dictatorial ; and Aunt Elizabeth would sometimes 
 have spoken on other subjects than the perfections 
 of the Misses Livingstone ; and nor one nor other 
 would always have been at leisure to groan, 
 whenever they saw Eleanor's work-basket lying 
 unemployed, or to sneer at the sight of a book 
 or a pencil in her hands; or to deliver intermi- 
 nable harangues on the propriety of girls learning 
 to make their own clothes, and on their own 
 hatred of artists and learned ladies; qualified
 
 THE FALCOXAKS. 185 
 
 with remarks on the " neat -handedness" of 
 Gertrude and Amabel, and the beautiful dresses 
 wliich they had embroidered for themselves. 
 The magic presence of some distinguished visitor 
 would have eifected a wondrous revolution in all 
 these respects. 
 
 The company of nobody at Ferneylee had 
 another effect somewhat more amusing, in the 
 curious variety of guests invited to dinner at 
 this time. Mr. and Mrs. Livingstone courted 
 popularity, and, like most ostentatious people, 
 were rather disposed, than otherwise, to shcAv 
 attention and kindness to acquaintance, whom 
 original position, or even misfortune, had placed 
 beneath their own level in society ; always pro- 
 vided, however, that these acquaintance proved 
 themselves Avilling to make a fair return Ibr value 
 received, in the shape of respect and admiration 
 for their patrons. Thus, it happened, that there 
 were many hangers-on pertaining to the circle at 
 Ferneylee, some of whom were admissible at all 
 times and seasons ; whilst others, belonging to 
 a u'rade to which some little attention w^as neces- 
 sary, but who could not be invited along with a 
 higher set, were only asked to the house when 
 the family were quite by themselves, and on no 
 ceremony. 
 
 The former variety of the genus — a species of 
 satellites, who flattered the heads of the house 
 and the young people, and rendered themselves 
 useful in every possible way — consisted, first, of 
 a fjrmer governess in the family, Miss Gentle by 
 name, who had rendered herself so acceptable,
 
 186 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 by not pressing dry branches of study upon the 
 young ladies, by flattering their vanity, and ad- 
 miring their beauty, that she was ever to them 
 a welcome guest ; and not less so to their mamma, 
 whom she was always at hand to advise with and 
 assist, in the thousand little things in which a 
 useful friend, whom people have no scruple in 
 making useful, can lighten the cares devolving 
 on the mistress of a large country-house, when 
 full of company. Secondly came an elderly 
 maiden lady, a cousin of Mr. Livingstone's — 
 Miss Farquharson ; who, neither elegant, nor 
 witty, nor wise, was useful, and complaisant, and 
 admiring, beyond even Miss Gentle; and, conse- 
 quently, seldom failed to be in request, when a 
 large party was assembled at Ferneylee. Then 
 there was a little active Miss Ireland, the daugh- 
 ter of an old schoolfellow of Mrs. Livingstone's, 
 now the widow of an officer residing in Edin- 
 burgh, and somewhat reduced in circumstances. 
 This young lady was the most humble, and atten- 
 tive, and pliable of toad-eaters — the most easily 
 pleased — the readiest to do anything and every- 
 thing — the sweetest of all gentle echoes. Then 
 came " the Doctor," the medical practitioner of 
 the neighbourhood — a peripatetic hanger-on ; for 
 whom, in the course of his extensive practice 
 through a large range of district, a room was 
 always ready at Ferneylee, and who went and 
 came accordingly, alike in times of health and 
 sickness, and supplied the family with all the 
 gossip of the country for miles around. Then 
 there was old Captain Cousins, a former chum of
 
 THE FALCONARS. 187 
 
 Mr. Livingstone's, who resided at a little villa of 
 his own, some miles further down the river, 
 whence he occasionally came to pay a visit to his 
 old friend, admire his improvements, wonder at 
 his riches, echo all his opinions, and propagate 
 mysterious whispers of the weight and influence 
 which his name carried with it in the county. 
 Captain Cousins had a nephew, Dick, who was 
 apprenticed to a writer in Edinburgh ; and having 
 been an early playfellow of Kobert Livingstone, 
 and in the habit of spending most of his holidays 
 at Ferneylee, had grown up a male double of 
 Miss Ireland, performing much the same part 
 towards the brothers that she discharged towards 
 the sisters of the family ; and with equal success, 
 inasmuch as he had rendered himself nearly in- 
 dispensable to their self-complacency. 
 
 With the exception of " the Doctor," who ap- 
 peared at Mr. Livingstone's table at least two 
 days out of each seven, the guests invited at this 
 time did not belong to the above class, but were 
 chosen from the other to which we have alluded ; 
 the present convenient opportunity being taken 
 for discharging the debts of civility. Mrs. Living- 
 stone *' knew that her aunt and Elizabeth would 
 not mind her inviting these good, worthy people. 
 She really owed it to them, and a person so much 
 in company as she, could find so few quiet days 
 for doing so ; but she thought she might take 
 that liberty with themy And they were, of 
 course, admiringly acquiescent. The carriage 
 was, therefore, sent one day to a small town tlnree 
 miles off, to fetch the widow of a former clergy-
 
 188 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 man of tlie parish, with her three daughters, to 
 dinner. These ladies were all gentle, subdued- 
 looking beings, who wore an air of patient 
 struggling with the narrow circumstances to 
 which the families of our Scottish clergy are too 
 often reduced ; and yet an air which told of better 
 days, and of a degree of mental refinement which 
 aggravates the sting of poverty. Eleanor, who 
 did not fail to remark this, could not help feeling 
 that the somewhat patronising politeness with 
 which they were treated was not exactly the 
 style of entertainment which she would have 
 liked to offer them liad they been her guests ; and 
 her gentle and unaffected efforts throughout the 
 evening to amuse and make them feel comfort- 
 able, caused it to pass in a manner infinitely more 
 agreeable than any they had ever before spent 
 thereT 
 
 Another day the party was augmented by a 
 land-surveyor from the same town — a right hand 
 man of Mr. Livingstone's — and by that gentle- 
 man's factor, Mr. Gleggie. These worthies, as 
 might naturally be expected, vied with each other 
 in deference to their patron ; and the land- 
 surveyor, moreovsi', being, after his own fashion, 
 a wit, and one who had obtained a privilege as 
 such to talk at many houses where amusement 
 was more regarded than refinement of conversa- 
 tion, indulged in many jokes, especially after the 
 ladies departure, which being graciously received 
 by Mr. Livingstone, were chorused by a succes- 
 sion of loud gufaivs from tlie factor. 
 
 Sundry other visitors there were, but the last
 
 THE FALCOXArxS. 189 
 
 dinner-party of this description was infinitely tlie 
 most diverting. It consisted of the doctor, the 
 minister's son — a very bashful young student of 
 divinity — and two elderly maiden sisters, resi- 
 dents in the town so often mentioned, who had 
 requested leave to bring with them a young lady 
 from Glasgow, then on a visit at their house. 
 This fair damsel, Miss Euphemia MacAuslan, 
 was much more completely at her ease than is 
 usual with young people, and evidently resolved 
 to shew that the magnificence of all around her 
 in no way affected her nerves. Strong in the 
 consciousness of a rose-coloured silk gown, be- 
 llounced and betrimmed with tulle and satin, in a 
 style which would have annihilated Madame Devy ; 
 and of a head decorated with bows, and plaits, 
 and braids, and bunches of gauze, and long wavy 
 ringlets, after a sort Avhich would have thrown 
 Mr. Urquhart into fits ; she talked and laughed, 
 during dinner, in a key at least three times higher 
 than Mrs. Livingstone's ear had ever heard before 
 from the lips of a young lady, and flirted till 
 Aunt Annie could scarce restrain her indignation, 
 not only wdth the doctor, who sat opposite to her 
 at table, but even, so far as that can be called a 
 flirtation Avhich is entirely on one side, with tlie 
 unfortunate student, who was seated next her, 
 and whose college modesty was completely over- 
 whelmed by the dauntless attacks of the fair 
 Euphemia, directed against him in so loud a tone 
 and in such a presence. 
 
 When the ladies retired to the drawing-room, 
 the fair guest attached herself particularly to
 
 190 THE FORTUNES OP 
 
 Eleanor, whose friendship she testified a strong 
 desire to cultivate ; and in the course of turning 
 over, with the careless hand of one accustomed 
 to see much finer things, some splendid portfolios 
 of engravings, displayed much erudition on the 
 subject of poetry, albums, music, the author of 
 ^' Waverley," (then still the great unknown,) 
 officers, and Glasgow assemblies. On being re- 
 quested to favour the company with some music, 
 she did not await a second invitation, but at 
 once took her place at the pianoforte, and having 
 sung the " Dashing White Sergeant," in a voice 
 whose power, at least, did not belie the promise 
 it gave in conversation, and followed that up by 
 the exquisite little song, " Pescator dell' 
 onda," mispronounced in every word, and 
 chanted in reel-time, she proceeded to play 
 " a piece," long before the thundering conclusion 
 of which, most of the party were well-nigh 
 deafened by its noise, whilst Mrs. Livingstone 
 could hardly conceal her annoyance at the unmer- 
 ciful thumping, inflicted by two large strong 
 hands, on the keys of her finely-toned instru- 
 ment. 
 
 At last, the post-chaise which had brought the 
 Misses Thomson and Miss MacAuslan was an- 
 nounced to be at the door, in waiting to convey 
 them home, and the quiet old ladies rose to de- 
 part. Their young friend followed their ex- 
 ample, and turning to Eleanor, sentimentally 
 pressed her hand as she bade her farewell, with a 
 lamentation over the " cruelly quick" passage of 
 time, and an ardent expression of her hope
 
 THE FALCONARS. 191 
 
 that, at some future period, tliey might meet 
 again. 
 
 " You say you never were in Glasgow, Miss 
 Falconar? Oh, I hope you wont have that to say 
 long! It's a sad thing to form agreeable ac- 
 quaintance just to lose them ; but surely we shall 
 have the pleasure of renewing ours, some time or 
 other ? I wish you would visit our western 
 metropolis. I assure you we don't yield the 
 palm to yours, whatever you may think ; and 
 you would meet with some vastly agreeable 
 society there — we're very gay people. But I 
 see Miss Thomson's getting very impatient. 
 Ajeiv I Miss Falconar. Oh, sir !" to the doctor, 
 who advanced with rounded arm, to conduct her 
 forth, *' would you take the trouble just to bring 
 me my ridicule ? That's it, on the piano, with the 
 pink and white ribbons. Thank you, sir. Good- 
 night, ]\rrs. Livingstone ! Good night, Mr. Kobert- 
 son!" addressing the blushing student, who sat 
 on a sofa, in her way as she passed to the door. 
 *' Good night 1" And the door closed after the 
 doctor and his fair charge, though the sound of 
 her voice was still for some minutes audible, dying 
 along the corridor. 
 
 Eleanor Falconar possessed a strong and acute 
 sense of the ridiculous, such as generally accom- 
 panies the higher order of talent, and totally dis- 
 tinct from the sneering and sarcastic spirit, which 
 is much more frequently an attribute of inferior 
 minds ; and this enabled her to find a great deal 
 of diversion in the odd varieties of human nature 
 at present brought before her eyes. Still, to a
 
 192 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 young, loving, and confiding female heart, there 
 is little pleasure in such study when long con- 
 tinued; it must have had a further experience 
 than hers in this cold world ere it can even feel 
 itself justified in drawing amusement from such 
 sources. Hence, as the time dragged on, Eleanor 
 began daily to long more and more for the arrival 
 of her cousins, with whom she hoped to find more 
 of companionship, as well as of freedom, than she 
 at present enjoyed, and above all, for that of 
 Alfred, in whose presence she felt as if nothing 
 could annoy or intimidate her. 
 
 At length, liowever, George brought his lady 
 back to Ferneylee, and having left her there, set 
 forth to Edinburgh, accompanied by his groom, 
 and driving his own barouche, with the intention 
 of awaiting his sister's return ; and on the second 
 morning after his departure, the opening of the 
 post-bag disclosed amongst other missives, a letter 
 for Mrs. Livingstone from the beloved Gertrude, 
 and one for Eleanor from her brother. The 
 latter wrote to inform his sister that he proposed 
 making his appearance at Ferneylee on the follow- 
 ing Wednesday, and after remaining there a few 
 days, would escort her home ; he, therefore, 
 begged her to announce his intentions to their 
 aunt. Whilst Eleanor was intently perusing the 
 warm expressions of her brother's afiection, and 
 beginning mentally to calculate the number of 
 hours that must elapse ere they should meet 
 again, exclamations of joy, bursting from the 
 lips of her aunts, recalled her attention to the 
 remembrance that whilst her eyes and mind had
 
 THE FALCOXARS. 193 
 
 been dwelling on Alfred's letter, the voice -of 
 Mrs. Livingstone, reading Gertrude's aloud, had 
 been bearing a sort of running accompaniment to 
 her thoughts, without disturbing their current, 
 or leaving behind any distinct trace of its import. 
 Eao^er to leather some information without 
 betraying her want of attention, she looked up, 
 and soon became aware that the document in 
 question announced the intended arrival of her 
 cousins that very day, accompanied by their 
 friend Miss Forbes Graham. The brother of this 
 latter young lady, Captain Forbes Graham, of 
 the Dragoons, then at home on leave, pro- 
 posed accepting an invitation, which it appeared 
 had been sent him, to Ferneylee; and Miss 
 Livingstone informed her mother that, the day 
 after their intended arrival being Sunday, he 
 would drive thither on the Monday accompanied 
 by his friend Lord Aylesmore, who had been one 
 of the guests at Dinvrood House during their 
 stay. Mrs. Livingstone went on to read Ger- 
 trude's announcement of her intention of bringing 
 little Kitty L-eland out along with themselves, 
 as they had one vacant seat in the barouche. 
 
 '' Dear creature !" exclaimed Aunt Annie, " she 
 never forgets her old friends." 
 
 " My girls have both a great deal of heart," 
 observed Mrs. Livingstone. "Dear! how luckv 
 that Lord xVyles more should come AvliileLady Susan 
 is with us ! They are such old and intimate 
 friends. Do you knoAV, Livingstone, I think we 
 must send the carriage over to Woodsideshaw to- 
 day, for Margaret Farquhai'son ? She promised 
 
 VOL. I. Iv
 
 194 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 lis a visit after the Burnetts, and I engaged to 
 send for her at the most convenient time." 
 
 " Very well, my dear, you can do so if you 
 like. She will be delighted to see the girls, poor 
 body." 
 
 " Yes; and she is such a kind, useful, obliging, 
 soul — such an acquisition in a house!" Thus 
 spake the hospitable matron ; her admiring aunt 
 little dreaming that it was for the express pur- 
 pose of relieving her niece from the trouble of 
 entertaining her^ amongst the influx of other 
 guests, that the kind, useful, obliging, soul was 
 thus hastily to be summoned. 
 
 The party now quitted the breakfast-table, 
 Mrs. Livingstone in order to acquaint Lady Susan, 
 who had not yet left her dressing-room, with the 
 welcome intelligence, and thence to hold a private 
 conference with her housekeeper ; the aunts to 
 seat themselves in the drawing-room, the one at 
 her knitting, the other at her tent-stitch ; whilst 
 their niece, descending from a French window in 
 the library, whicli led by some steps down to the 
 green and flower-decked terrace, extending along 
 that side of the house, proceeded, in the course of 
 a solitary ramble through the grounds, to revolve 
 the anticipations to which that morning had 
 given birth; those of seeing her cousins being 
 qualified by a considerable degree of timidity, the 
 natural result of her long retirement and estrange- 
 ment from companions of her own age; whilst 
 tliose of her approaching meeting with her 
 brother, and finding herself once more under his 
 protection, were dwelt upon with unalloyed satis- 
 faction.
 
 THE FALCONAES. 195 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 " Sieh, man hat mir wohl erziihlet 
 Dass es leichte Menschen gebe, 
 
 die die Liebe lieben, 
 
 Aber nicht den Gegenstand. 
 Schmetterlinge, bunte Gaukler, 
 Die die keusche Rose kiissen, 
 Aber nicht, weil sie die Rose, 
 Weil sie eine Blume ist. 
 Bist du auch so ?" 
 
 Franz Grillparzer. 
 
 Within less than an honr before dinner-time, the 
 sound of carriage- wheels, and the peal of the hall- 
 bell, announced the arrival of the travellers. 
 From her own apartment, whither she had retired 
 to write to Clara, Eleanor listened to the bustle 
 which accompanied their entrance, and at length 
 heard them all come up stairs on their way to 
 their respective rooms. On descending to the 
 drawing-room when her own toilette was com- 
 pleted, and the beautifully-made and very-becom- 
 ing black satin dress put on for the first time by 
 Aunt Annie's express decree, she found no one 
 there but Mrs. Livingstone and that worthy lady. 
 k2
 
 196 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 Mrs. Livingstone, all radiant with maternal ex- 
 ultation, was descanting in a low voice to Aunt 
 Annie on some subject, of which a few audible 
 words reached Eleanor's ear. 
 
 ^' Forbes Graham — eldest — fine young man — 
 Amabel — so much attached — nine thousand a- 
 year!" 
 
 '' Ay ! and a very old family, my dear," was 
 Aunt Annie's reply — " distant connexions of our 
 own. Sir James' grandmother was first cousin, 
 once removed, to my father's second wife's 
 mother. 
 
 Aunt Annie's genealogical reminiscences were 
 interrupted by the opening of the door, at which 
 there entered a very little, light, and perking 
 figure of a young lady, seemingly about twenty- 
 two, Vvdiose person and countenance, otherwise 
 insignificant, were rendered worthy of remark by 
 the air of perpetual and pleased excitation which 
 overspread them. Her quick eyes were ever on 
 the move, as if to search out occasions for oblig- 
 ing or admiring, which functions her nimble 
 hands and smiling acquiescent lips seemed but 
 awaiting an opportunity to fulfil. The dress of 
 Miss Ireland, for such was she, was neat and 
 nice, and, to use a most expressive Scottish word, 
 prejinck beyond all description. Not a pin was 
 out of place — not a hair hung loose. The first 
 emotion on perceiving it, was admiration of its 
 extreme order and arrangement ; the next, a 
 most eager desire to pull some part of it to 
 pieces, just to relieve the eye, fatigued by too
 
 THE FALCONArvS. 197 
 
 iniicli perfection. Having performed a little 
 smiling bow in answer to Mrs. Livingstone's in- 
 troduction of lier to her niece, Miss Ireland 
 seated herself beside that lady, and commenced a 
 rapid and assenting course of replies to her 
 questions. 
 
 ^' Oh, yes ! a charming journey ! Mr. George 
 such a delightful driver ! Dear Miss Livingstone 
 so attentive — looking so well! Never saw her 
 in such looks! And Miss Amabel so kind in 
 writing to ask her out, and naming the day that 
 she might be ready ! And those beautiful pe- 
 lisses the young ladies had on! she had fallen 
 quite in love with them, and they had kindly 
 
 promised her the pattern. Miss T ? Oh, no ! 
 
 (with a little active laugh:) quite beyond her. 
 She did not deal much with dressmakers, she Avas 
 her own dressmaker ; and, indeed, the Miss Liv- 
 ingstones were so kind in giving her patterns. 
 And they should see Miss Livingstone in beauty ! 
 for Merton was to dress her hair by her (Miss 
 Ireland's) advice, or rather suggestion, with a 
 wreath of the broad-leaved ivy, mixed with some 
 white camelias, the beautiful camelias that " 
 
 Here the flourish of trumpets was stopped by 
 the tread of several light footsteps outside the 
 door. It flew open, and there entered IMiss Liv- 
 ingstone and Miss Forbes Graham, followed by 
 the fair Amabel, conducting an elderly lady, 
 whose admiring eyes were fixed on her young 
 friend's dress, on which she seemed in the act of 
 delivering a compliment. This elderly lady was
 
 198 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 the accommodating Miss Farquliarson, who had 
 that day obeyed with the utmost alacrity Mrs. 
 Livingstone's summons to Ferneylee. 
 
 Notwithstanding the trumpeting, no one could 
 help owning that the Livingstones were two 
 lovely girls, and so Eleanor felt as she received 
 their politely cool welcome, and gazed with ex- 
 treme admiration on their beautiful features and 
 graceful forms, set off by all the advantages which 
 costly and well-chosen dress, and the taste of a 
 first-rate Abigail, could impart. Gertrude, the 
 eldest, was a tall and exquisitely-formed blonde, 
 about twenty-three. A statuary could scarce 
 have added symmetry to her figure, or regularity 
 to her softly-chiselled features ; yet the physio- 
 gnomist, the lover of moral beauty, of the loveli- 
 ness imparted by mind and soul, however much 
 his eye might have been feasted at the first 
 glance, would have felt disappointment in the 
 second. There was no unpleasing expression in 
 the countenance ; on the contrary, the buoyancy 
 of gay and unbroken youth, the sweetness of a 
 temper which had never known cross or care, 
 gave added brilliancy to the beaming eye and 
 ready smile, whilst a degree of languor, not abso- 
 lutely amounting to indolence, imparted a pleas- 
 ing softness to lier deportment ; but for aught 
 beyond these — aught indicative of the loftier or 
 deeper feelings of the heart, he must have looked 
 elsewhere than in the countenanace of Gertrude 
 Livingstone. 
 
 Amabel was rather more than a year her sis- 
 ter's junior, scarcely so tall, and of a complexion
 
 THE FALCONABS. 199 
 
 some shades nearer to brunette. Equal I'egu- 
 larity of feature and of shape, fine dark eyes, a 
 profusion of rich brown hair, and a colour the 
 most brilliant, yet the softest imaginable, ren- 
 dered her style of beauty one which some con- 
 noisseurs even preferred to Gertrude's. In her 
 countenance there was an expression of much 
 more animation, though scarce of so pleasing a 
 character. These young ladies were gay, happy, 
 and good-humoured, shewily accomplished, and 
 known to be assured of twenty thousand pounds 
 a-piece ; it need not, therefore, be added, that 
 they were universally admired by gentlemen, and 
 that, had their hearts been more susceptible, or 
 their ambition less, they need not so long have 
 retained their maiden appellations. For the rest, 
 they were particular favourites with their own 
 particular set of fashionable friends ; and if the 
 uninitiated were sometimes impertinent enough 
 to say that their manners were not equally pleas- 
 ing or attentive to every one, such accusations 
 did not reach their knowledge at least. Without 
 any particular strength of character or tender- 
 ness of heart to begin with, they had been edu- 
 cated to be selfish ; and it was not wonderful 
 that the never-ceasing praises which they had 
 heard from all around them since their infancy, 
 the belief in the reverence due to their wealth 
 which their father loved to inculcate, and the 
 conviction impressed upon them that wherever 
 they went they must of necessity be the observed 
 of all observers, should have worked the usual 
 effects of such training. If the Misses Living-
 
 200 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 stone were not exacting of admiration, it was 
 purely because they never dreamt of any exaction 
 being requisite to enforce tlie payment of so ob- 
 vious a tribute. If they were not inclined to be 
 jealous of any one, it was because they did not 
 imagine it possible they could have rivals. They 
 never tried to bring their friends forward, simply 
 because they had been taught that to look at 
 .them must be much more agreeable to every one ; 
 and they felt entitled to neglect old friends, or 
 even relations, whom they deemed unfashionable, 
 because they had always been instructed that 
 they ought to be compelled to nothing that was 
 disagreeable. Yet they were favourites, for it is 
 not to persons in tlie situation of their chosen 
 associates that such defects of character are easily 
 made obvious. All that met the eye, or that a 
 life of sunshine and prosperity brought to the 
 surface, was amply sufficient to hide, save from 
 the eyes of very acute observers, their want of 
 depth and of feeling. 
 
 Such were the lovely cousins, who now, after 
 a few minutes' uninteresting conversation with 
 Eleanor, gladly turned to form a coterie at a 
 distant sofa, with Lady Susan, and their friend 
 Miss Forbes Graham, a lively, pleasing, and 
 fashionable-looking girl, in no particular respect 
 different from a thousand other fashionable girls, 
 with orthodox waists, hair, sleeves, short petti- 
 coats, (for such were then the fashion !) nice little 
 feet in pretty chaussures, and graceful little 
 hands in pretty French gloves. Tliis party re- 
 mained together, talking in somewhat of an under-
 
 THE iALCONARS. 201 
 
 tone, until the announcement of dinner broke up 
 their conference. 
 
 During the evening, the younger members of 
 the party grouped themselves near the harp and 
 pianoforte. These instruments were principally 
 monopolized by Lady Susan and her sisters-in-law, 
 although Miss Forbes Graham did once sit down 
 for a few minutes to the latter, during which 
 time Mr. Livingstone, who never dreamt of any 
 other person playing or singing when his daugh- 
 ters and Lady Susan were by, looked tired, and 
 suppressed a yawn. Lady Susan, meanwhile, 
 had recovered her voice and her speech, and 
 talked and sum^r in amiable emulation of her sis- 
 ters-in-law. Miss Kitty Ireland hovered about, 
 ran hither and thither, fetched and carried on the 
 slightest expression of a wish upon any one's 
 part, and looked supremely happy when either of 
 her patronesses appealed to her on any point 
 under discussion. The conversation, meanwhile, 
 in the intervals of the music, principally turned 
 upon the recent festivities in which the new 
 comers had been engaged, and on the gestes et 
 Jaits of those who formed their parties at Brack- 
 entower and Dinwood ; and in this the no longer 
 silent George mingled, and made himself very 
 agreeable to Miss Forbes Graham. 
 
 " About what time on Monday may we look 
 for your brother, Miss Graham?" inquired Mrs. 
 Livingstone. 
 
 " Really, Mrs. Livingstone," answered that 
 young lady, pausing in her employment of turn- 
 ing over the leaves of an album, "it does not 
 K 3
 
 202 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 altogether depend upon himself, or I have no 
 doubt" — with a smiling glance at Amabel — " that 
 it would be at a sufficiently early hour. But his 
 travelling companion is not much to be relied on. 
 Sometimes, when the freak seizes him, he is out- 
 rageously active, and ready before anybody else, 
 but at other times he is just as much in the other 
 extreme 5 and if he thinks that Charles is par- 
 ticularly anxious to get oif early, he will take a 
 pleasure in delaying his journey. 
 
 ** He is a strange mortal, is Aylesmore," re- 
 marked George. 
 
 " You all talk so much," said Gertrude, " of 
 Lord Aylesmore's strangeness ; but, for my part, 
 I see nothing so very strange about him, except 
 his passion for theatricals. He is a very agree- 
 able man, in my opinion.*' 
 
 " Cruelly ugly," observed Amabel, who was 
 turning over a song. 
 
 " Ugly, my dear !" exclaimed Lady Susan. 
 ** What ! with those fine hazel eyes?" 
 
 " My dear Susan, his eyes are grey, and, I 
 think, a very ugly grey." 
 
 *^ Amabel, my love, you amaze me ! George, 
 what is the colour of Lord Aylesmore's eyes ?" 
 
 " Eyes !" responded George, with a glance to- 
 wards a mirror. " Eyes ! why how should I 
 know? Do you think men have nothing else 
 to do than to look at each other's eyes? I sup- 
 pose they are like any other person's eyes." 
 
 " All other persons' eyes being alike !" said 
 Miss Forbes Graham. ^' Talk of women being 
 jealous of each other's beauty ! I maintain that
 
 THE FALCONAKS. 203 
 
 men have ten times more jealousy in their com- 
 position than we have." 
 
 "Eight, Harriette — perfectly right!" said 
 Amabel. 
 
 " Jealousy !" quoth George. " Better give 
 them something worth being jealous of first, Miss 
 Graham ; not a fellow like an Italian bandit, with 
 great black whiskers and moustaches, and " 
 
 " I wont hear another word!" exclaimed Miss 
 Forbes Graham. " I admire black whiskers, and 
 I doat upon moustaches ; and I affirm that Lord 
 Aylesmore's eyes, be they hazel or grey, are very 
 fine eyes, and that he is a very delightful man, 
 too. By the way. Amy, I dare say Matilda Well- 
 wood could tell the colour of his eyes." 
 
 " I dare say she coidd," replied Amabel. " At 
 least, they were often enough directed to her face 
 the other night, at your house." 
 
 " Matilda Wellwood!" exclaimed Aunt Eliza- 
 beth. "What! Eleanor's cousin?" 
 
 " Is Matilda Wellwood your cousin, Miss 
 Falconar?" inquired Miss Forbes Graham, tiu'n- 
 ing to Eleanor. 
 
 " I have that honour," replied Eleanor, smil- 
 ing; " but we have seen little of each other for 
 some time past." 
 
 " I suppose I ought to beg your pardon for 
 what I said just now, and for what I was going 
 to say ?" 
 
 " I don't know, indeed," replied Eleanor, " till 
 I have heard what that was. I think I might 
 venture to forgive what you said before." 
 
 " Well, since you are so generous, I may go
 
 204 THE rouTUNES or 
 
 on. I was merely going to observe that I should 
 not think Matilda had a very susceptible heart. 
 She is fonder of dogs and horses than of anything 
 else in the world." 
 
 *'/am not so sure about that," said George. 
 " Miss Wellwood has no objection to a titled ad- 
 mirer, or I am much mistaken ; and as to Ayles- 
 more, he has no objection to amusing himself 
 with a fine lively girl like her. But take my 
 word for it, she needn't look for anything further. 
 He isn't the fellow to be caught by any bait but 
 a golden one. She has not fortune enough for 
 him." 
 
 " Heally, Mr. Livingstone, you are intolerably 
 severe upon Lord Aylesmore." 
 
 " Why, Miss Graham, I know Aylesmore very 
 well. But, besides that, I am not accusing him 
 of anything so monstrous after all. A man can't 
 afford to marry without money on one side, at 
 least, and he is not wealthy for his rank by any 
 means. I see no sense, for my share, in plunging 
 headlong into embarrassment by a marriage with- 
 out fortune." 
 
 ^' No, indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Livingstone. 
 " I am sure that is perfectly true. I hate to hear 
 all that romantic nonsense about love and cot- 
 tages, and such folly. Such notions ought to be 
 completely discouraged in young persons." 
 
 ^' 'Deed, my dear," said Aunt Annie, " I should 
 just like to see people that speak such havers 
 fairly set down in a cottage, and hear what they 
 would say. What does any young lady know
 
 THE FALCOXARS. 205 
 
 about a cottage? Just let tlieni try one for a 
 week, and they'll sing to another tune." 
 
 " I am sure, Miss Falconar, that's a sensible 
 remark," responded Miss Farquharson ; " it's 
 untelling the mischief done to young folk by that 
 sort of foolish nonsense. I am sure Mrs. Living- 
 stone has shewn her sense and propriety of think- 
 ing by the way she has brought up these elegant 
 creatures in that respect. You never hear any- 
 thing of that kind from tliemy 
 
 *' The less the better !" pronounced Aunt Annie. 
 
 Whilst this by-talk proceeded. Lady Susan and 
 Amabel, dropping the dispute concerning Lord 
 Aylesmore's visual organs, had commenced a 
 duet, which concluded the musical entertain- 
 ments of the evening. 
 
 Monday came, and witli it, by dinner-time, 
 came Lord Aylesmore and Captain Forbes Gra- 
 ham, an opportune event, as a long rainy fore- 
 noon had considerably exhausted the powers of 
 pleasing in the female coterie; and Miss Forbes 
 Graham had privately told Eleanor, in the billiard- 
 room, that she really wished llobert Livingstone 
 were come home, for he was infinitely the most 
 agreeable of tlie two brothers ; and, indeed, since 
 George's marriage, he had altered very much for 
 the worse. 
 
 Eobert, however, came not at the fair one's 
 wish; yet the addition of two unmarried men to 
 the party had the best possible effect on the circle 
 of belles ennuijees^ who brightened up suddenly 
 and miraculously on their appearance. The
 
 206 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 young ladies of the house, particularly Amabel, 
 were radiant in smiles and beauty ; Lady Susan 
 very charming, and Miss Forbes Graham twice 
 as lively as in the morning. As to poor little 
 Miss Ireland, she was completely thrown into the 
 back-ground, but that she did not feel ; she 
 merely solaced herself by sitting down beside 
 Eleanor, and giving her, in an under-tone, a 
 variety of hints and surmises touching Captain 
 Forbes Graham's admiration of Amabel. 
 
 The gentleman in question was a slender and 
 elegant young man, with a due proportion of 
 gentleman-like affectation, who certainly gazed 
 on Amabel with very adoring eyes. In his noble 
 friend, Eleanor, whose curiosity had been con- 
 siderably excited by the discussion of the pre- 
 vious night, beheld a man seemingly about thirty, 
 whose countenance, in other respects decidedly 
 plain, was illumined by very fine and penetrating 
 dark eyes, and lighted up occasionally by a pecu- 
 liar but rather pleasing smile, displaying remark- 
 ably fine teeth. His deportment, distinguished 
 by the perfect ease and self-possession of a man 
 accustomed all his life to the most polished so- 
 ciety, was that of one who knew the world well, 
 and had long taken his part in it. Yet to 
 Eleanor, looking at him with the eye of an un- 
 prejudiced observer, there appeared a certain 
 something, a particular expression in his face and 
 shade in his manner which conveyed to her a 
 sensation almost amounting to dislike. They 
 seemed to belong to one who knew the world too 
 well, or knew the worst parts of it. A man of
 
 THE FALCONARS. 207 
 
 talent lie certainly was, but whether or not lie 
 were a man of principle admitted of rather more 
 doubt. 
 
 Eleanor had little further opportunity of pro- 
 secuting her observations that evening, as Lord 
 Aylesmore, during dinner, sat by Mrs. Livingstone, 
 and throughout the evening divided his attentions 
 between Lady Susan and Gertrude. Yet that 
 his lordship's eye had sometimes rested on other 
 objects, was evinced by his parting remark to 
 George Livingstone, after the ladies had retired 
 for the night. After assenting with enthusiasm 
 to some rapturous observation of Captain Forbes 
 Graham's, relative to the beauty of his friend's 
 sisters, he turned to George, and added an ani- 
 mated commendation of '' that pale, pensive- 
 looking cousin of his." 
 
 " Eeally, Livingstone, she is worth looking at; 
 her face improves so much on inspection, with 
 those sweet hazel eyes, and that little ruby 
 mouth, and the delicate colour that steals over 
 her cheek, when she speaks or moves. She looks 
 as if she had something in her too ; and retiring 
 as she is, there is an air of blood about her — the 
 stamp of race, that there is no mistaking." 
 
 History has not preserved the reponse of George ; 
 but whatever it might be, Lord Aylesmore, in the 
 course of a long ride undertaken the following day 
 by most of the party, contrived pretty frequently 
 to be by Eleanor's side, and used considerable 
 pains to elicit her sentiments on various subjects. 
 This he did not find it difficult to do ; and, a 
 practised observer of women, the purity, elegance,
 
 208 THE rORTUxN-ES OF 
 
 and originality of lier mind, did not fail to strike 
 him, and to afford him as much vividness of plea- 
 sure as can be excited in any one, whose percep- 
 tions have been blunted of the keen freshness 
 known in youth, by a long course of withering 
 self-indulgence. Eleanor, on her part, was agree- 
 ably surprised by her companion. His varied 
 knowledge of mankind — his natural ability, 
 heightened by cultivation — and his skill in 
 choosing and arranging topics, did certainly form 
 a delightful contrast to the mental starvation 
 under which she had for some time past been suf- 
 fering. Yet still she felt, in conversing with him, 
 the same disagreeable sensation which his physio- 
 gnomy had at first excited. She was instinc- 
 tively conscious that she was talking to one with 
 whom her own young and glowing mind had 
 nothing in common-^for whom, talented and cul- 
 tivated as he might be, there was " nothing new 
 under the sun" — who had eaten of the tree of 
 the knowledge of good and evil- — and in whose 
 eyes this world and mankind were very different 
 from what she deemed them ; and there are few 
 sensations more Avithering and painful than those 
 produced by the first contact of a young and 
 pure mind, with one over which the world's hot 
 simoom has thus passed and blighted it. 
 
 It was with these mingled sentiments of plea- 
 sure and of pain that Eleanor alighted from her 
 ride. But yet, on the whole, this day had been 
 the most agreeable she had passed since her 
 arrival. A large party of neighbouring friends 
 dined that evening at Ferneylee, and the night
 
 THE FALCONARS. 209 
 
 closed with music and dancing ; in the course of 
 which, Lord Aylesmore selected her for his part- 
 ner in a quadrille, to the no small amazement of 
 her aunts ; and throughout its evolutions, made 
 himself and his conversation particularly agreeable. 
 The fact was, as George had said, that although 
 his lordship was not a marrying man — that is, 
 without adequate remuneration for the sacrifice — 
 he was a man who loved to amuse himself. In 
 his own nature, he had exhausted the power of 
 strong and absorbing passion ; and frittered away 
 on many loves, and blunted by selfish indulgence 
 the feelings which, properly directed, might have 
 formed the happiness of his existence. But, tired 
 and worn out as he was, even at his age, by 
 fashionable folly, and sick of fashionable art and 
 insipidity, there was to liim something refreshing 
 in a mind so unsophisticated, yet so firm in 
 natural strength, as that of Eleanor. It almost 
 seemed like something new. He felt, that she 
 was not on the watch for " particular attentions," 
 nor thinking of making a conquest ; and he had 
 no scruples on the score of doing so himself, 
 should it serve to afibrd him pleasure at tlie time. 
 Lord Aylesmore's attentions, on the evening in 
 question, were, therefore, rather " particular."
 
 210 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 CHAPTER XVL 
 
 " First Lord. Did you hear of a stranger that's come to court 
 to-night ? 
 
 Cloten. A stranger! and I not know on't?" 
 
 Cymbeline. 
 
 On Wednesday afternoon, about half an liour 
 before the time when the gong usually sounded 
 for dressing, and when the darkness of the au- 
 tumnal evening had alike brought ladies and 
 sportsmen within doors, and the party were dis- 
 persed about the drawing-rooms and billiard- 
 room, a slight bustle was heard in the lobby. 
 Lord Aylesmore, who was lounging on a bergere 
 beside the fire, was attracted by the sudden rush 
 of colour which this circumstance brought over 
 the countenance of Eleanor, Avho sat reading by 
 the fire-light, on a low seat, nearly opposite to 
 him. The bright blaze shewed him the eager 
 agitation with which she started from her chair, 
 as steps approached the door. It was flung open^ 
 and " Mr. Falconar" announced. Eleanor sprang 
 forward.
 
 THE FALCONARS. 211 
 
 " Ah !" thought his lordship, " only a brother !" 
 But lie glanced with some curiosity towards the 
 tall and graceful-looking young man, who was 
 now shaking hands with Mrs. Livingstone and 
 the two aunts, the only other members of the 
 family then in the room. And as he turned to 
 his sister, and the glow of the fire fell upon his 
 extremely fine features, lighted up by the afiec- 
 tionate smile with which he fixed his eyes upon 
 her, Lord Aylesmore remarked the strong family 
 resemblance between them with all the interest 
 of a professed connoisseur in beauty. Mrs. 
 Livingstone now advanced to introduce the gen- 
 tlemen to each other ; and just as this ceremony 
 was performed, the rest of the party entered from 
 the billiard-room ; and Alfred turned to pay his 
 devoirs to his fair cousins, to shake hands with 
 George, and be presented to Lady Susan and 
 Miss Forbes Graham. 
 
 A few minutes after, the gong resounded 
 through the passages, and the party separated to 
 dress ; Eleanor and her brother lingering a few 
 minutes behind the rest, to exchange a word or 
 two, and long for an opportunity to say more. 
 
 " Heavens ! my dear girls," exclaimed Miss 
 Forbes Graham, as she and her friends were 
 ascending the stairs together, " what an xidonis 
 of a cousin ! I declare, Gertrude, I have fairly 
 lost my heart." 
 
 ^' Pooh, child! you will soon find it again," 
 replied Gertrude. *' He is very handsome, I 
 must own — much improved since I saw him last; 
 but he is intolerably proud, and so clever, they
 
 212 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 say, that one is afraid to open one's lips before 
 him." 
 
 " Well/' returned Miss Forbes Graham, *' I 
 shall certainly try, nevertheless. It will be worth 
 while to captivate such a difficult gentleman." 
 
 " Not in the least worth while," said Amabel, 
 laughing. " He is tres mauvais parti^ I assure 
 you, Harriette ; as much embarrassed as he is 
 handsome. He must do as George says Lord 
 Aylesmore wants to do, look out for an heiress 
 to help him to keep up the dignity of his family, 
 which Aunt Annie talks so much about." 
 
 " Say what you will, Amy, I intend to try 
 what I can do ; so I must go and make myself as 
 charming as possible." And the young ladies 
 sought their respective chamBers. 
 
 Miss Forbes Graham found no abatement of 
 her first favourable impressions of her friends' 
 '' Adonis of a cousin," on beholding him seated by 
 her side at dinner ; nor, in the course of that meal, 
 could she sufficiently Avonder at Gertrude's in- 
 justice towards a young man who could talk so 
 much agreeable and lively nonsense. Even if 
 Mr. Falconar ivere so terribly clever, it was cer- 
 tainly a cleverness which served to render all he 
 said a great deal more amusing and captivating 
 than the conversation of a more common-place 
 person. In short, so delighted was the fair 
 Harriette, that she ceased any longer to repine 
 at Lord Aylesmore being chained to the post of 
 honour at the head of the table, or to long for 
 the return of Eobert Livingstone ; whilst Alfred, 
 all unconscious of the bugbear character with
 
 THE FALCONARS. 21o 
 
 which Gertrude had invested a cousin younger 
 than herself, who did not belong to her set, and 
 had never rendered due homage to her beauty, 
 only thought of occupying the present moment 
 in lively talk with a lady-like girl, who, if not 
 so beautiful as his cousins, was infinitely more 
 pleasing. 
 
 It was not the custom at Ferneylee for the 
 male part of the company to sit late in the 
 dining-room, and on this evening they appeared 
 rather earlier than usual ; soon after which, Alfred 
 invited his sister to take a walk with him on the 
 terrace, to which Eleanor delightedly agreed. 
 Running to her own room, she returned with a 
 large shawl ; and, promising Mrs. Livingstone, 
 who talked of sore throats and night-air, that they 
 would not remain long out of doors, they passed 
 through the billiard-room, where the rest of the 
 young people were assembled, and descended to 
 the terrace through the French window of the 
 library, which opened from it. 
 
 It was a sweet and mild evening for the season. 
 The moon in her first quarter, was setting in the 
 faint and shadowy sky, whose far blue depths were 
 gemmed with innumerable stars. So still was 
 tlie air that the trees which grew in the shrubbery 
 beneath the terrace scarcely stirred their smallest 
 branches, whilst, at intervals, a falling leaf would 
 steal rustling from them down to the earth ; and 
 the rushing of the river, down to which the 
 pleasure-ground extended, came distinctly upon 
 the ear in the silence. The wliole place was per- 
 fumed by the strong scent of the late mignionette,
 
 214 THR FORTUNES OP 
 
 which still grew in profusion in the shrubbery ; 
 and as the brother and sister, leaving the terrace, 
 began with slow steps to pace the broad gravel- 
 walk below, they felt the sweetness and quiet of 
 the scene steal over their hearts like balm. To 
 Alfred, in particular, newly released from a town, 
 whose confinement was ever irksome, and where 
 constant and harassing cares kept wearing down 
 his mind and preying on his spirits, the contrast 
 was unutterably delicious. "It was worth while," 
 said he, " putting his arm round his sister, and 
 drawing her more closely towards him — " it was 
 worth while to have come to Ferneylee were it 
 only for the sake of enjoying this tranquil walk 
 with you, dearest !" 
 
 For a considerable time they continued to walk 
 beneath the terrace, fully occupied in mutual dis- 
 closures of all that had occurred to either in the 
 absence of the other. At length Eleanor suddenly 
 paused. 
 
 " Don't you hear carriage-wheels, Alfred ?" 
 asked she. 
 
 " Carriage- wheels, love, at this time of night? 
 Surely not ; it must have been the noise of the 
 river. I hear nothing." 
 
 " Perhaps, so," said Eleanor; "I don't hear 
 it now ; but it seemed exactly like a carriage 
 driving up to the front." No further sound, how- 
 ever, reached them, and they continued their 
 walk. 
 
 In the course of a quarter of an hour after this, 
 just as they drew near the slope of the terrace 
 leading down to the walk, their eyes were at-
 
 THE FALCONARS. 215 
 
 tractecl by a tall, dark figm-e, who, springing from 
 the library window, looked about for a moment, 
 then running down the slope, advanced towards 
 them. 
 
 " I dare say," exclaimed Eleanor, " they have 
 sent out to look for us, Alfred. We have stayed 
 too long." 
 
 The stranger came up to them as she spoke, 
 and held out his hand. " Falconar !" said he, in 
 a beautifully-modulated voice. 
 
 " Cliftonr exclaimed Alfred, springing for- 
 ward, and catching his friend by both hands. 
 '' Is it possible? — can this really be you?" 
 
 " It is, indeed, Falconar," replied the stranger, 
 warmly returning his grasp, " though I dare say 
 I am almost the last person you expected to see 
 here." 
 
 " Expected?" said Alfred. " My dear fellow, 
 I am utterly confounded ! I — why — how in the 
 world did you get here?" 
 
 " In a very simple manner," returned Clifton, 
 "as I shall presently unfold. But now, Fal- 
 conar, must I introduce myself? — or will you not 
 give me a right to apologize to your sister for this 
 intrusion on your walk ?" 
 
 " Eleanor, my love," said Alfred turning to- 
 wards her, " I beg your pardon. (Really, Clif- 
 ton, this apparition of yours has been too much 
 for my senses.) Allow me, Eleanor, to introduce 
 my friend Mr. Clifton. I liope you will not long 
 be strangers to each other." 
 
 "I don't think, Alfred," answered Eleanor, 
 holding out her hand, which was eagerly and re-
 
 216 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 spectfully clasped in that of Clifton, " I don't 
 think I can consider Mr. Clifton as a stranger." 
 
 " Many, many thanks. Miss Falconar," ex- 
 claimed their new companion. ^' Few things 
 could have mortified me more deeply than your 
 doing so. If you will permit me to say so, you 
 are no stranger to me. In a few minutes I hope 
 to be able to say we are 'personally acquainted." 
 
 " True," said Alfred, " that cannot exactly be 
 the case with people introduced in darkness 
 visible like this. But I shall not afford you the 
 opportunity of staring at each other till you have 
 explained to me, Clifton, whether you arrived on 
 a moon-beam, or sailed on a cloud, or to what 
 other aerial conveyance we owe your presence 
 here from the banks of Winandermere ?" 
 
 " I am sorry," said Clifton, passing his arm 
 through Alfred's, as they once more turned down 
 the walk, "to destroy these bright imaginations; 
 but regard foj' truth obliges me to confess that 
 you owe my presence in Scotland to an advice, 
 lately bestowed upon me by high legal authority, 
 to devote a few months this winter to the study 
 of Scotch law, and to my own desire to attend 
 Professor Wilson's class for a session. As to my 
 apparition on this particular spot, for that you 
 are indebted to no more aerial a conveyance than 
 Robert Livingstone's stanhope, which deposited 
 him and me at the door of this house some 
 twenty minutes ago. We found at the town of 
 
 , that we were quite too late for the dinner 
 
 hour here, so we stopped there to dine and dress, 
 which was the more necessary as we had both
 
 THE FALCOXARS. )d L ( 
 
 got into a quagmire whilst exploring some old 
 ruins, during the time the horse was resting at 
 our last stage, and then we drove on here." 
 
 " Eobert Livingstone? — so he is come? I had 
 forgotten that you knew him, Clifton." 
 
 "^ My dear fellow, don't you remember how con- 
 stantly I used to see him with you at Edinburgh? 
 Bob and I were always good friends, different as 
 our ways were. We happened upon each other 
 ten days ago at Bowness, where he and some 
 companions of his parted company ; and then 
 we set off together for KesAvick, and climbed 
 Helvellyn, and visited the valley of Saint John." 
 
 " Where you quoted the Bridal of Triermaine, 
 and Bob wondered if there were good sport 
 amongst the hills, and decided that it must be a 
 bad country for hunting." 
 
 " Something very like it. But you know I 
 am a disciple of old Izaak's, so that was one bond 
 of sympathy between us. And then I at length, 
 after vsome deliberation, made up my mind to 
 come to Edinburgh, so he insisted upon my ac- 
 companying him hither in the first place ; and 
 you may believe that when I learnt from him 
 that Miss Falconar and you were to be here 
 about this time, of which a letter from his sister 
 had informed him, I required no further induce- 
 ment. He did not write of his intended return, 
 I believe from laziness, nor I to you, because I 
 wanted to surprise you. My first, inquiry, after 
 our arrival, was of course for you, and hearing 
 where you were, I could no longer restrain my 
 impatience. Besides, I have no fancy for meet- 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 218 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 ing a friend, after a long separation, before in- 
 different spectators." 
 
 " Nor have I," said Alfred ; ^' such incidents 
 are too rare and precious to be wasted. But 
 now that you have given a distinct account of 
 yourself, I suppose we must return to the draw- 
 ing-room, or they will think that we have all 
 gone astray in the woods together." 
 
 " We must," said Clifton; " and yet one feels 
 loth to leave this calm and holy scene in its 
 sweetest hour." He paused and looked up to the 
 sky, and they all stood still a few seconds gazing 
 into the quiet night ere they turned to ascend 
 the terrace. 
 
 " Your friend is a fine-looking young man, 
 Bob," observed Mrs. Livingstone to her youngest 
 son, on his return from shewing Clifton the way 
 to join the two Falconars. 
 
 " Yes, he is quite a Clifton ; the Cliftons are 
 one of the handsomest families in England," said 
 Lady Susan ; " and all so remarkably like each 
 other. It is a most curious thing to trace the 
 same features in their portrait gallery through 
 many generations." 
 
 " He is a very good fellow, Guy Clifton," re- 
 turned Eobert Livingstone, a frank and open- 
 hearted youth, some months younger than Alfred, 
 whose manners, if more good-humoured than re- 
 fined, were agreeable through their total freedom 
 from the stiffness of his brother's. 
 
 " Clifton?" said Lord Aylesmore, entering from 
 the other drawing-room. " Ha, Bob, how are
 
 THE FALCONARS. 219 
 
 you ? When did you arrive ? Have you brought 
 Gus Clifton here with you?" 
 
 ^' I am only just come," said Bob. *' Xo, it 
 is not Gus Clifton, it is Guy, who is come with 
 me. I hardly know Gus; never saw him but 
 once." 
 
 " Guy f said Lord Aylesmore, in an inquiring 
 tone. *' Oh, the cousin ! I have met with him, 
 too, at Pevenley; rather a different sort of genius 
 from Gus, I take it." 
 
 *' Why, yes," replied Bob, laughing ; " they 
 were at Christ Church together ; and Ned Grant, 
 who has just come from it too, says he doesn't 
 believe there ever were two fellows such a con- 
 trast to each other; and the best of the joke is, 
 they are so like in face, that people were con- 
 stantly making the most absurd mistakes between 
 them. Guy had the worst of it, for he more than 
 once got the credit of some of Gus' madcap fro- 
 lics before they both became well known, and 
 narrowly escaped a wigging for things that were 
 done while he was hard at work reading in his 
 own rooms." 
 
 " Was he such a student?" asked Mrs. Living- 
 stone. 
 
 " Student, ma'am? Never was such a regular 
 bookworm, to be really a nice pleasant fellow 
 too. He read himself to death — was quite the 
 crack scholar of his year — took a double first — I 
 don't know all he didn't do. He has not quite 
 recovered yet from the hard work he went 
 through." 
 
 L 2
 
 220 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 " How very absurd !" exclaimed Lady Susan, 
 " for a man to injure liis health in that way. 
 Eeally it is paying a severe price for the 
 classics." 
 
 " So I told him," said Bob ; " and he asked 
 me if I thought Gus' plan of injuring his health 
 the preferable one of the two. However, he is a 
 capital fellow for all that. We had a glorious 
 day's fishing together last week in some of their 
 hecks^ as they call the trout-streams in Cumber- 
 land. And now I must go and look after them 
 in the shrubbery, or we shall have them all laid 
 up with the influenza." 
 
 He went accordingly, and at the library win- 
 dow met the party just entering. Greeting his 
 cousins, therefore, with much affectionate cordiality, 
 they all returned together to the drawing-room. 
 The first impulse of Eleanor, on reaching the 
 light, was to raise her eyes to the countenance of 
 her new friend with a strong emotion of curiosity. 
 She found herself forced, however, instantly to 
 withdraw them, on discovering that his were in- 
 tently bent upon her. But she had seen enough 
 to induce her to repeat the attempt whilst seated 
 with her work on a sofa, near which Mr. Clif- 
 ton stood, occupied in helping himself to coffee 
 and talking to Mrs. Livingstone. 
 
 It was, indeed, no common physiognomy on 
 which Eleanor looked. No one could have seen 
 Guy Clifton without being forced to remark him 
 as something widely different from the generality 
 of men. Partly this impression was conveyed 
 by his personal appearance, which was singularly
 
 ^IIE l-ALCONARS. 221 
 
 attractive, and of tli8 peculiar character still ob- 
 servable in that finest-looking race in the world — 
 the English aristocracy of pure Norman descent. 
 Of a tall and elegant figure, his every movement 
 was pervaded by that perfect ease and grace 
 which mark the gentleman, not in outward show 
 alone, but in refinement of soul ; and there were 
 that calm simplicity and quiet unaffected dignity 
 in his deportment which belong only to a high 
 order of intellect, too high for the debasing alloy 
 of vanity or self-importance. His countenance 
 bore the same intellectual stamp. Its clear, 
 ^' spiritual paleness," seemed to tell of the do- 
 minion over his mind of deep and philosophical 
 thought and intense study ; the features were cut 
 in a lofty and statue-like style of beauty, and the 
 short curls of burnished dark brown hair, which 
 shaded his noble forehead, contrasted finely with 
 its marble whiteness. But the strongest charm 
 of Clifton's appearance lay in his singularly beau- 
 tiful smile, and in the splendour of his eyes, of 
 that soft, clear, dark blue, " the deep blue of the 
 mountain lake," which is, perhaps, Avhen shaded 
 like his by long dark lashes, the finest of all 
 colours for the human eye. Their form and hue 
 alone would have rendered them beautiful, but 
 their expression of deep thought, sometimes al- 
 most of inspiration, did more. They were eyes 
 whose every glance was pervaded by the light- 
 ning of genius; and their flashing lustre, when 
 called up by the ardour of conversation, presented 
 a singular contrast to the calm, thoughtful, almost 
 dreamy repose, which formed the prevailing ex-
 
 222 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 pression of his face when silent. Looking at him 
 and at her brother as they now stood on opposite 
 sides of Mrs. Livingstone's work-table, Eleanor 
 thought she never before had beheld two coun- 
 tenances so different, yet both so fine. The one 
 so animated in its haughty beauty, yet its haugh- 
 tiness qualified by so arch and bright a smile; 
 the other so serenely calm and lofty, looking as 
 if it were the index of a mind abstracted from 
 the littlenesses of life, and dwelling in a purer 
 atmosphere of its own. How long, with the pas- 
 sion for studying physiognomy which usually 
 possesses a portrait painter, she might have medi- 
 tated on faces which had so strong a claim on 
 her feelings of interest, it might be difiSicult to 
 guess ; but her observations were interrupted by 
 the approach of Lord Aylesmore, who, leaving 
 Lady Susan's side as she rose from the harp to 
 accompany the others into the billiard-room, 
 gracefully lounged towards Eleanor, and seated 
 himself on the sofa by her.
 
 THE FALCONARS. 223 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 *' Er flir die Traume seiner Jugend, 
 Soil Achtung tragen, wenn er Mann seyn wird. 
 Nicht offnen soil dem todtenden Insekte 
 Geriihmter besserer Vemunft, das Herz 
 Der zarten Gotterblume. Dass er nicht 
 Soil irre werden, wenn des Staubes Weisheit, 
 Begeisterung, die Himmelstochter, lastert." 
 
 SCHILLEB. 
 
 " So, Miss Falconar," said Lord Aylesmore, ^' you 
 have recovered an old friend to-night amongst 
 the new arrivals?" 
 
 '' Not /, but my brother/' replied Eleanor. 
 ^^ Mr. Clifton is an old friend of his, but I never 
 saw him before." 
 
 "Ah!" returned his lordship; '' I fancied the 
 contrary, from the peculiarly happy expression 
 of your countenance when you returned to the 
 drawing-room." 
 
 "Did you?" said Eleanor, smiling. " I was 
 not aware that I looked so particularly happy, 
 except, indeed, that I always feel so when my 
 brother is with me. And I was very glad to see 
 a friend of his."
 
 224 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 " Yes ; and I ought to have remembered, at 
 any rate, that you are still of an age to feel hap- 
 piness by sympathy, and have not lost the de- 
 lightful faculty of enjoying novelty." 
 
 " I hope not, indeed," replied Eleanor. " Do 
 you mean to say that people must inevitably lose 
 both as they grov,^ older? I have no intention 
 of doing so whilst I can help it." 
 
 ^' Whilst you can. Miss Falconar. A very 
 wise qualification. By all means retain those 
 faculties whilst you can, for there is little satis- 
 faction in having got rid of them, as you will 
 find a few years hence." 
 
 " Do you speak from experience, then?" asked 
 Eleanor. 
 
 " Why," replied his lordship, '' with regard to 
 sympathizing in happiness, I have certainly had 
 my eyes so far opened by experience as to have 
 become a little sceptical with regard to the exist- 
 ence of such a thing ; and, indeed, I believe the 
 best proof of sympathy with one's friends would 
 be wishing that they might get through the 
 world with as few strong emotions as possible; 
 believe me, they are more plagne than pleasure 
 in the end. And as to enjoying novelty^ a few 
 years of life soon cure one of finding novelty in 
 anything." 
 
 " But what sort of life f " said Eleanor. '' Not 
 every sort, surely, for I have met with people 
 who have lived longer than you can have done, 
 and who can find novelty and enjoy it, too, in 
 many things. You must be speaking of some 
 particular kind of life."
 
 THE FALCONARS. 225 
 
 " Wliy, Miss Falconar, I am speaking of the 
 only kind that / call life, an existence full of 
 strong excitement, which all people are not equally 
 capable of feeling or enjoying." 
 
 " But I thought you said just now that strong 
 emotions were more plague than pleasure." 
 
 " Very true ; so I did, for those who are un- 
 willing to pay the price of them. Those who 
 wish for quiet, unvaried, vegetating happiness, 
 so called, are certainly better without excitement, 
 and, therefore, to wish them so is a proof of our 
 regard, don't you think? But certainly I do not 
 consider such an existence as life. I like to run 
 the gauntlet of all that is animating and delight- 
 ful, even though the penalty, it must be owned, 
 is weariness and satiety." 
 
 " Well," said Eleanor ; " but as I certainly do 
 not wish, even were it in my power, to run suf^ 
 a gauntlet, I hope I may enjoy the faculties with 
 whose loss you threatened me, rather longer than 
 you seem to have done." 
 
 "Shall you, Miss Falconar? Do you reaUy 
 think you shall pass through the world without 
 some strong emotions?" He fixed his eyes upon 
 her, as he spoke, with that expression which 
 Eleanor had before remarked in his countenance, 
 and which almost made her dislike him, even 
 when most amusing. 
 
 " Indeed," she replied, with simplicity, " I have 
 never thought about it. But I should like very 
 much to know, if you had your choice of living 
 your life over again, whether you would have it 
 quite so full of what you confess to be more 
 l3
 
 226 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 plague than pleasure, and wliich, at any rate, 
 seems to lead to such a melancholy termination ? 
 I cannot think you would." 
 
 ^' Such is human nature, Miss Falconar, I 
 rather fear I should. I will be honest enough 
 to own it." 
 
 " Pardon me," said Eleanor, with a smile, " if 
 /own, that I can't think it possible, when your 
 own confessions prove what a satiating thing you 
 have found it. What pleasure can there be in 
 looking back upon it?" 
 
 " There is, at least. Miss Falconar, the pleasure 
 of knowing, that I have enjoyed all that was most 
 delightful in existence." 
 
 "But coiM it have been so, when itfled so soon?" 
 
 " ' All that's bright must fade,' Miss Falconar. 
 And then, the pleasure of knowing mankind ! 
 What do you say to that ?" 
 
 " Why, that I would not possess such a know- 
 ledge for the world, if it must give me so poor 
 an opinion of them ; and so little faith in the 
 existence of better feelings amongst them as I 
 think you have.'' 
 
 "Ah! well — ^ Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis 
 folly to be wise.' That is all I can say." 
 
 " That I am sure it is," said Eleanor, '^jfthe 
 knowledge you mean be wisdom." 
 
 " Surely, Miss Falconar, you don't pretend 
 to say that you have a good opinion of human 
 nature?" 
 
 " Indeed," replied she, " I have had such a 
 limited experience of it, that I have no right to
 
 THE FALCONARS. 227 
 
 form an opinion at all ; but, speaking of it merely 
 as it is in our eyes, not in those of Heaven, I 
 cannot help feeling sure, that a great deal of 
 what I have heard you say on the subject, since 
 we met, is unjust and severe. Pardon me, but 
 I fear you must have studied its darkest side, 
 and refused to believe there was another, because 
 it did not suit your views to look at it." 
 
 " Rather," answered his lordship, " because — 
 yet why," he added, checking himself, as he looked 
 with a species of half-sorrowful, half-cynical ad- 
 miration at the young fair face of his companion, 
 — " why, after all, should I try to render you 
 prematurely wise ? These sentiments wont out- 
 live early youth." 
 
 " That is a sad prospect for middle age!" said 
 Eleanor, smiling. 
 
 "Aylesmore !" cried out Captain Forbes Graham, 
 from the door of the billiard-room, " pray, come 
 here directly. We can't do without you. There 
 is a disputed point between Miss Livingstone and 
 me, and we have chosen you as umpire." 
 
 " What a bore !" murmured his lordship, as 
 he rose from his seat. " Miss Falconar, we must 
 finish our argument another time." 
 
 " I don't think we ever shall. Lord Aylesmore,'^ 
 said Eleanor; " so I think we had better drop it. 
 I have no idea that I could convince yoii^ and I 
 hope and trust that you will never convince me ; 
 for it would make me very unhappy." 
 
 " I don't want to make you unhappy," returned 
 Lord Aylesmore \ " but truth is always to be
 
 228 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 maintained, Miss Falconar. However, we may 
 proclaim a truce for the present ;" and off went 
 liis lordsliip to the billiard -room. 
 
 Looking round, as he quitted the sofa, Eleanor 
 encountered the deep penetrating eyes of Guy 
 Clifton, who was leaning against the mantel-piece, 
 not far from her. Mrs. Livingstone had a little 
 while before left her seat, and he had remained 
 alone ; the only other occupants of the large 
 drawing-room, at that moment, being Aunt Annie 
 and Miss Farquharson, at work, in the usual place ; 
 and Eobert, who was talking very earnestly to 
 Alfred, in the recess of the bay-window. No 
 sooner did Clifton perceive that Lord Aylesmore 
 had left his seat, than he came round and took 
 possession of it. 
 
 " So Lord Aylesmore has been trying to convert 
 you to his opinions of mankind. Miss Falconar?" 
 said he, with a smile. 
 
 " He has," replied Eleanor ; " but I hope not 
 with much chance of success. I should hate my- 
 self, if I thouglit it possible I could ever think of 
 human nature as he does." 
 
 " I think," said Clifton, " there is not much 
 danger — Heaven forbid there should!" 
 
 '' I hope you don't understand human nature, 
 Mr. Clifton ?" resumed Eleanor, smiling. 
 
 " Not in that way, I trust," replied he ; '' and 
 you know I have not had a long experience of it 
 in any. But I think I may venture to say, that 
 I have not begun to study it under the same 
 auspices with Lord Aylesmore. It is sad, is it 
 not, to see originally fine talents thus perverted
 
 THE FALCONARS. 229 
 
 and rendered useless, by a false estimate of ex- 
 istence ?" 
 
 " Yes," replied Eleanor; " for I am sure, that 
 Lord Aylesmore was formed for better things ; 
 and yet, now, if I may judge from the little I 
 have seen of him, he has so long permitted his 
 mind to spend its powers on objects beneath them, 
 that he cannot appreciate those of a higher cha- 
 racter. Surely, surely, as we advance in life, we 
 shall not necessarily become the cold, vapid, 
 worldly-minded beings that his theory would 
 make us ?" 
 
 " Surely," answered Clifton, earnestly, "//'we 
 do — and who shall deny that many do ? — the 
 fault is our own. If we icill make the world our 
 only object, and ourselves our only gods — if we 
 will worship the things of time alone, and live 
 as thougli we were accountable for their use to 
 none but ourselves, can we wonder if this be the 
 state of mind to which such a life conducts us?" 
 
 " You have expressed exactly what I think, 
 Mr. Clifton," said Eleanor; '' but if Lord Ayles- 
 more heard us, he would say that both of us were 
 speaking from our inexperience and ignorance of 
 the world, and that a few years would alter our 
 tone as they have done his." 
 
 '' I dare say he would," replied Clifton. " I 
 do believe lie began life with very different views; 
 and let those who have been enabled to see the 
 mischief of such as he now entertains, beware of 
 too rash confidence in their own strength ! Lord 
 xVylesmore does not seem a favourite with you. 
 Miss Falconar," he added, after a pause; "and
 
 230 THE FORTUNES OE 
 
 yet lie is generally much liked by those to whom 
 he chooses to make himself agreeable ? Have 
 you known him long?" 
 
 " Oh, no !" returned Eleanor; '^ only within the 
 last few days. He is very agreeable ; but I cannot 
 exactly explain why I don't like all I have seen 
 of him. I think it is because there is something 
 so chilling in the impression his conversation 
 leaves. He has no faith in — oh ! in a thousand 
 things which I would not lose my faith in for the 
 world. I dare say you know what I mean." 
 
 " Yes, I do," replied Clifton, ^' better than you 
 do yourself — 
 
 * Was keiriv Verstand der Verstandlgen sieht, 
 Das iibet in einfalt ein kindlisch Gemiith.' 
 
 Purity of heart, I have always thought, is the 
 true Ithuriel's spear. I see you are astonished 
 at what I say," added he, looking at her with a 
 smile. 
 
 " No, not exactly," said Eleanor. '* I did not 
 understand your German quotation. But I see 
 you have a very bad opinion of Lord Ayles- 
 more." 
 
 *' My quotation," answered he, " implies that 
 the simplicity of an innocent heart often leads to 
 just conclusions hidden from the wisdom of the 
 wise. As to Lord Aylesmore, I know him per- 
 sonally as a visitor at my uncle's house, but 
 much better by name and character. He is an 
 Oxford man, and was part of the time there 
 along with my eldest cousin, Dudley Clifton. 
 I — he is a man of talent, and has great powers 
 of pleasing, but — forgive me, Miss Falconar, and
 
 THE FALCONAHS. 231 
 
 do not think me impertinent — I am very glad 
 you do not like liim. Have I offended you?" he 
 anxiously inquired, perceiving her colour deeply. 
 " I forgot how brief our acquaintance really was, 
 and spoke as I felt, like a very old friend. For- 
 give me !" 
 
 " Indeed, Mr. Clifton, there is nothing to for- 
 give !" replied Eleanor. " How could I be of- 
 fended by your answering my question? I should 
 not have asked it if I had felt that our acquaint- 
 ance was really brief; but I don't think it can be 
 called so." 
 
 " I cannotyee/ it so," said he. ^' I have known 
 you by name so very long, that now we have at 
 last met, I cannot help fancying, perhaps assisted 
 by your strong resemblance to your brother, that 
 we have long been intimate." 
 
 " And yet," said Eleanor, ^' I never can per- 
 ceive much resemblance in my own face to 
 Alfred's." 
 
 " Perhaps not," he replied, " because it con- 
 sists fully as much in expression as anything 
 else. Your minds are cast in the- same mould; 
 your ideas and tastes are the same. So Lavater 
 would say. Is it so?" 
 
 " It may very well be so," answered Eleanor; 
 " for I have looked up to Alfred all my life; we 
 have been companions from infancy, he has 
 always been my model for everything that was 
 good; so that, in as far as any one can be like 
 him, I dare say I must be." 
 
 " He is very happy!" said Clifton, in a tone of 
 deep feeling.
 
 232 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 " What are you two about there ?" cried Ro- 
 bert, advancing from the window with Alfred. 
 " Clifton J have you begun bewildering my cousin 
 Ellen's brains with your poetry and metaphysics 
 already ? You both look as grave as if you were 
 discussing Locke and Bacon." 
 
 " We had not gone quite so deep," said Clif- 
 ton. " We were only discussing Lavater. 
 
 " Oh, hang Lavater, and hang all your philo- 
 sophy, man ! Do send all that musty nonsense 
 to Coventry for a little while. Ellen, don't en- 
 courage him. Do you know, Falconar," turning 
 to his cousin, " I'll be shot if he didn't go about 
 at the Lakes with half-a-dozen books in each 
 pocket 1" 
 
 " Come, come. Bob," said Clifton, laughing, 
 '' keep within the bounds of possibility. Eleven 
 buckram knaves grown out of two !" 
 
 " I don't know about your buckram knaves,'* 
 returned Bob, who was better read in the 
 *' Sporting Magazine" than in Shakspeare, " but 
 I'll swear there were more than two books." 
 
 ^' I verily believe it, Bob," said Alfred ; '' and 
 I dare say he read all day and half the night, and 
 then wondered why his head ached." 
 
 "Faith!" rejoined Bob, "his head always 
 ached at the most convenient times possible." 
 
 " Really, Bob," exclaimed Clifton, " you are 
 quite slanderous. What do you mean by that 
 insinuation ?" 
 
 " Mean? — ask your own conscience ! Do you 
 remember the day before Grant and Rutherford 
 left Bowness, wdien I v»^anted you to dine with us,
 
 THE FALCONARS. 233 
 
 and you refused, because you had a headache, 
 you said.'' 
 
 *' Well, so I had — a very bad headache." 
 
 " Yes, very bad, I daresay ; so bad that you 
 Lay on a sofa all the morning reading German, and 
 as soon as we were fairly disposed of, set oiF 
 and rowed three miles down the lake !" 
 
 " I plead guilty to both charges," said Clifton, _ 
 whilst Eleanor and Alfred laughed heartily ; /v/v 
 '' and I appeal to all present whether the open 
 air is not the best prescription for a headache, 
 and a bachelor party the very worst. I also re- 
 collect. Bob, that I had some cause to congratu- 
 late myself on my refusing to dine with you ; for 
 if I had a headache over niglit, ?/ou had a worse 
 one next morning !" 
 
 The laugh was now turned against Bob, who 
 took it witli the utmost good humour. " Come, 
 Ellen," said he, at last, " I wont let him prose 
 7/ou into a headache at any rate. Come along 
 with me, and let us see what they are doing in 
 the billiard-room." 
 
 " Oh, Falconar !" exclaimed Clifton, as Eleanor 
 left tlie room with her cousin, " how very little 
 idea you have ever given me of your sister, either 
 in mind or person !" 
 
 " I told you," said Alfred, '' that you must 
 judge for yourself. But how is it possible, Clif- 
 ton, that you who are such an admirer of beauty, 
 can look at any one else when the two Living- 
 stones are by ? They are so perfectly beautiful !" 
 
 " They are," replied Clifton, " ^ beautiful ex- 
 ceedingly ;' but yet I hardly think you mean what 
 you say."
 
 234 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 " Nay, but I am Eleanor's brother, and a very, 
 very partial judge." 
 
 *' Then I, who never saw her before, and may 
 fairly be pronounced zmpartial, assure you that 
 I would not exchange *the mind, the music, 
 breathing from her face,' for all that merely, 
 touches the eye, but not the heart, in your 
 cousins. There can be no real loveliness with- 
 ^ out expression." 
 
 ^ ^' I quite agree with you, there,'' replied Alfred. 
 I '^ Does it not feel like a dream even yet, Clifton, 
 J that we are actually talking to each other once 
 ^ bore ? For my part, I. am not yet fully per- 
 ^ suaded of the truth of your presence ; and there 
 is so much that I want to say and to ask you." 
 
 " I believe I have as much to say," answered 
 Clifton ; ^' but there is no time to enter on private 
 affairs at present," as some of the billiard players 
 appeared re-entering the drawing-room ; " and 
 happily we have leisure enough before us. For 
 my part, I can think of nothing to-night but the 
 feeling of present happiness at our having met 
 again."
 
 THE FALCONARS. 235 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 " There were 
 Who form'd high hopes and flattering ones of thee, 
 Young Robert ! for thine eye was quick to speak 
 Each opening feeling. 
 
 ****** 
 Therefore they deem'd, forsooth, 
 That thou shouldst tread preferatient's pleasant path, 
 111 judging ones I they let thy little feet 
 Stray in the pleasant paths ofpoesj/, 
 And when thou shouldst have press'd amid the crowd, 
 There didst thou love to linger out the day. 
 Loitering beneath the laurel's barren shade. 
 Spirit of Spenser ! was the wand'rer wTong ?" 
 
 SoUTHEY. 
 
 The family of Lord Clifton de Peveuley — a 
 haughty race of unblemished descent, and wealth 
 proportioned to its rank — had for two genera- 
 tions been rendered remarkable by the circum- 
 stance of one amongst its members running 
 counter to the wishes and opinions of the rest. 
 A strange and melancholy story, hereafter to be 
 related, was connected with the former of these, 
 Kowland, the youngest son of Guy Clifton's 
 great grandfather. The next offender was his 
 own parent, Mortimer Guy Clifton, who, like his
 
 236 THE FORTUNES OP 
 
 uncle, incurred the lasting displeasure of his 
 family, though from a very different cause. The 
 offence of Rowland had begun in his falling into 
 the wild and destructive errors of Jacobinism, 
 dazzled by the meteor-light of false reasoning, 
 acting upon a mind more habituated to feel 
 keenly than to argue correctly. Mortimer, on 
 the contrary, shared — in so far as a disposition 
 naturally tender, meditative, and tinctured with 
 a shade of romance, could be supposed to interest 
 itself in the subject — in tlie high Tory principles 
 of the family ; and his sin against them consisted 
 in a very early engagement and subsequent 
 marriage, sanctified neither by wealth nor rank. 
 Mary Elliott, the object of his attachment, was 
 the orphan daughter of an ancient, but ruined, 
 Scottish family, left dependent on a harsh and 
 unkind relation in London, along with one only 
 surviving brother, considerably her senior, who 
 then occupied a subordinate situation in the 
 counting-house of a wealthy merchant ; and after- 
 wards, in the turning of the '' ever whirling 
 wheele," was transformed by his own industry "and 
 a marriage witli the merchant's heiress, into the 
 rich uncle mentioned in Guy Clifton's letter to 
 Alfred. The secret engagement entered into 
 by his son at the age of twenty, having come 
 to the ears of Lord Clifton, excited his warmest 
 displeasure ; and after commanding him, on pain 
 of banishment from his presence for life, to think 
 of it no more, he contrived, by his interest at 
 head-quarters, to have him sent to join the depot 
 of his regiment at a distant station in Ireland,
 
 THE FALCONARS. 237 
 
 and effectually prevented from renewing a per- 
 sonal intercourse with Miss Elliott; with whom, 
 nevertheless, he managed to keep up a correspond- 
 ence by letter. Two years after this, Captain 
 Clifton's regiment accompanied the Duke of York's 
 expedition to Holland, in 1799 ; and in the first 
 engagement on landing, he himself was so despe- 
 rately wounded, that although after many months 
 of severe suffering he was at length partially re- 
 stored to health, it proved impossible for him 
 ever again to engage in active service. Thus 
 blighted in his projects of ambition, and cut off 
 at the age of twenty-three from the glorious pros- 
 pects then opening out upon the British army, 
 the reflective and passionate heart of the young 
 soldier turned with yet more intense longing on 
 his unforgotten love, and the consequences were 
 a repetition of a tale as old as the world. Mor- 
 timer Clifton disregarded — scarcely perceived — 
 the very manifest attachment of a cousin of his 
 own — a woman of high connexions and great 
 wealth, who loved him all the more for his mis- 
 fortunes — and overcoming the scruples raised 'by 
 the delicate mind of his beloved Mary, against 
 entering a family where she was unwelcome, 
 through tlie force of his devoted affection, aided 
 by her own heart, and her parentless, almost 
 friendless situation, he at length became her hus- 
 band, and retired with her to a small and pic- 
 turesque residence, near the entrance of the 
 Scottish Highlands. The result of this step was 
 his banishment from his father's family, with 
 which he was thenceforward debarred all com-
 
 238 THE FORTUNES OF '' 
 
 munication — an interdict never removed during 
 Lord Clifton's life. Yet Avliile tlie short period 
 of his wedded happiness lasted, in the society of 
 his beautiful, gentle, and adoring wife, he never 
 dreamt of having a reason for repining ; since he 
 had always been one of the world's fools, who 
 make higher account gf mutual love and domestic 
 peace, than of pomp and splendour. 
 
 Immediately after the treaty of Amiens, Cap- 
 tain Clifton removed to Germany, for the purpose 
 of making trial of some of the baths in that 
 country, accompanied by his wife and his son, 
 then an infant of a few months old, and thence 
 he never more returned to Britain. The renewal 
 of war, and the disturbed state of the Continent, 
 rendered him averse to exposing them to the 
 dangers attending any attempt at regaining their 
 native land ; and the death of Mrs. Clifton, which 
 occurred within six years after their marriage, 
 and from which blow her husband's heart never 
 recovered, made the very idea of returning to Eng- 
 land, even had it then been in his power, hateful 
 to him. He remained, therefore, on the Continent, 
 shifting his abode at times as the perils of the 
 war then raging compelled him to do ; and even 
 after the fall of Napoleon, and the return of 
 peace, resisted the many entreaties for his return 
 home contained in the letters of his brother, now 
 Lord Clifton, the only one of the family who had 
 disregarded, from the first, his father's prohibi- 
 tion of intercourse with the offender. He felt 
 the affection displayed in the tone of these letters, 
 mingled with worldliness as it was, but the state
 
 THE FALCONARS. 239 
 
 of his mind and health alike rendered the idea of 
 so total a change of life inadmissible by him. 
 
 The first dreamy recollections of Guy Clifton 
 were associated with the images of romantic 
 scenery, for, upon the renewal of the war between 
 France and Austria, his father had removed to Swit- 
 zerland, by that time in a state of comparative secu- 
 rity, and continued to reside in one part or another 
 of that country until tranquillity was restored to 
 Germany, when he fixed his abode at Weimar for the 
 benefit of his son's education. The image of his 
 mother floated through Guy's earliest memories — 
 cherished, fiiint, and shadowy as it was, with un- 
 forgetting tenderness ; but this lovely image soon 
 faded from his path, and he then looked back 
 upon himself, a solitary and romantic boy, wan- 
 dering alone, save for the society of a shaggy 
 mountain dog, his constant companion, making 
 the Avinds and clouds his friends, and learning, 
 ere he knew it, to talk with Nature, and pour 
 forth to her the feelings which had no other out- 
 let. Or he remembered sitting at the knee of 
 the faithful Scotch servant who had accompanied 
 his mother abroad, and who remained in the 
 house until her own death, which shortly preceded 
 that of his father, listening for hours to her tales 
 and legends, and fond reminiscences of Scotland, 
 and imbibing from her the first lofty, though 
 simple, elements of religious knowledge, the birth- 
 right of the Scottish peasant. His father he only 
 recollected, after the loss of his mother, as a 
 melancholy and abstracted man, who treated him 
 with extreme tenderness, but often withdrew him-
 
 240 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 self, even from his cliild's presence, into solitude. 
 But as his gradually-expanding mind, with its 
 uncommon development of early power, rendered 
 him more and more fit for a companion. Captain 
 Clifton, rousing from the silent indulgence of this 
 pensive and romantic disposition, resolved to 
 exert himself for his son's sake. Thenceforward, 
 Guy was always at his father's side, and had, in 
 fact, no other intimate associate. Captain Clif- 
 ton was a man whose great natural abilities had 
 been developed to the utmost, by sedulous cultiva- 
 tion, and his son could not have found a more 
 able instructor. The natural bent of his mind 
 to melancholy musing, which had been much in- 
 creased by the loss of his wife, and the harsh and 
 unfeeling conduct of his family, seemed but to 
 have increased its tenderness, and to have aug- 
 mented his affection for the only human being 
 left to share it. And, sufferer as he had been 
 from the false estimate of honour and happiness 
 formed by the world, it was not surprising that 
 his earliest lessons should have been directed to 
 teaching his son the paramount importance of 
 learning to form his judgment, not on the dicta 
 of others, or the fashions of an artificial society, 
 but on the unerring foundations of truth and re- 
 ligion ; or that the indifference to wealth, and 
 repugnance to the idea of devoting his time and 
 talents to its acquisition, which formed distin- 
 guishing features' in Gruy Clifton's character, 
 should have been derived from a father who had 
 felt the best affections of his nature placed in op- 
 position through the worldliness of others. It
 
 THE FALCONARS. 241 
 
 was in a solitude far removed from the contami- 
 nations of pernicious influence and example that 
 he imbibed those instructions, and caught those 
 sentiments which imparted additional force and 
 vigour to the noble simplicity and fineness of 
 discrimination, marking a disposition which, with 
 all his father's warmth and tenderness, combined 
 a higher tone of moral strength. 
 
 In regard to mental culture, meanwhile, the 
 deficiency in number of modern books, especially 
 English ones, under which his studies necessarily 
 laboured previous to his removal to Weimar, was 
 amply compensated by the standard character of 
 those to which alone he had access ; and his father, 
 a much more profound and devoted student of 
 the classics than is usual in his profession, pos- 
 sessed an admirable collection of them, whilst his 
 own ardent pursuit of knowledge, and singular 
 rapidity in its acquisition, kept pace with his 
 paternal instructor's anxiety to impart it. His 
 acquirements were thus of the first order, even at 
 a very early age ; and the few years he lived at 
 Weimar, by bringing him, in some measure, into 
 contact with other minds, served to elicit the 
 powers that might in complete retirement have 
 lain dormant within his own. Still the increas- 
 ing delicacy of his father's health, not less than 
 the state of his spirits, caused him to withdraw 
 much from anything like society, and Guy was 
 left to many hours of lonely rambling, when a 
 book and a dog were his only companions ; hence 
 the habit and the love of solitary musing, and the 
 indulgence of fanciful day-dreams, constitution- 
 
 vol.. I. M
 
 242 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 ally a part of his nature, continued to grow upon 
 him. But this life of peaceful retirement drew 
 to a termination. In his sixteenth year he lost 
 his father, who, on feeling his end approaching, 
 had written to commend his son to the affection 
 of his brother, Lord Clifton, and likewise ad- 
 dressed a letter to the same effect to Mr. Elliott, 
 the brother of his wife. The former gentleman, 
 a good-hearted though worldly-minded man, lost 
 no time in replying to the last request of his bro- 
 ther, by repairing in person to Weimar, where 
 he arrived, though too late to exchange a fare- 
 well with the companion of his boyhood, yet in 
 time to superintend the arrangement of his 
 Worldly affairs, and to escort his almost incen- 
 solable son to Pevenley Castle, thenceforward to 
 be considered his home. 
 
 The Clifton family, consisting of a number of 
 young people, welcomed their newly-found cousin 
 with much kindness, although, educated as they 
 had been by fashionable instructors, public and 
 private, under the auspices of fashionable parents, 
 there were very few points of similarity between 
 them; but there was a degree of amiability and 
 disinterestedness in his character which could 
 scarce fail of finding its way to the hearts, even 
 of tliose who could least appreciate his singular 
 talents, combined as they were with a portion of 
 the enthusiasm and abstraction usually found 
 united with what is called the poetical tempera- 
 ment. These latter qualities Lord Clifton philo- 
 sophically attributed to the influence of his father, 
 *' who, poor fellow, had the best heart in the
 
 THE FALCONARS. 243 
 
 world, and did not want for ability, only fliglity — 
 flighty beyond conception !" And trusting that 
 a few years of life and the society of other young 
 men would effect a reformation in his nephew's 
 " romantic sentiments," he delayed Guy's going 
 to Oxford until his third son, Augustus, who was 
 equal in age, but far inferior in acquirements to 
 his cousin, should be ready to accompany him, 
 sending him, meanwhile, at his own earnest re- 
 quest, to Edinburgh. It was during his resi- 
 dence there, in the house of an English gentleman, 
 a graduate of Oxford, and attendance, under his 
 auspices, upon some of the university classes, 
 that Guy had formed that friendship with Alfred 
 Falconar, which constituted, from that time for- 
 ward, the chief happiness of his life, and which, 
 at that period, was the first event that roused 
 him from the deep melancholy which had preyed 
 upon his mind ever since the loss of his beloved 
 and only parent. 
 
 His subsequent proceedings with regard to his 
 future destination in life have been given in his 
 own words, but it would be vain, in any words, 
 to attempt doing justice to the mixture of indig- 
 nation and contempt with which his refusal of 
 Mr. Elliott's offer was regarded by that wealthy 
 personage, whose nod had as much power over 
 'Change as Jove's on Olympus. Mr. Elliott, a 
 complete London man of business, was, conse- 
 quently, the last person in the world to compre- 
 hend a character like that of his nephew, but he 
 had felt kindly towards him, and made his house 
 a second home to him from the time of his return 
 m2
 
 244 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 to liis native country ; and remembering his own 
 early experiences, and triumphantly regarding 
 the fruits of his own industry in the pursuit of 
 wealth, it was natural that he should feel himself, 
 in making such an offer, to be acting a part of 
 unparelleled generosity towards a young man 
 whose patrimonial inheritance did not exceed 
 eight thousand pounds. Moreover, there was a 
 private and undisclosed reason which augmented 
 his displeasure. He had one only daughter, a 
 year younger than Gruy Clifton, the heiress of all 
 his wealth, and in his secret soul he had resolved, 
 should Guy accept his offers, that on the attain- 
 ment by both parties of wdiat he considered years 
 of discretion, his hard-earned gains should be 
 secured in his own family by the marriage of 
 these, his only living relatives. Although he 
 had kept this determination to himself, yet look- 
 ing upon the transaction with the eye of a mer- 
 chant, as an admirable commercial arrangement, 
 it never occurred to him that any opposition to 
 its fulfilment could arise on either side. He 
 neither perceived that the very idea of such a 
 scheme would have converted Guy's affectionate 
 feelings for his pretty cousin into distance and 
 reserve, nor that his own Mary, whilst regarding 
 Guy with the kindliness of a sister, had from 
 childhood given her heart to Henry Lavington, 
 the son of her father's partner. The latter dis- 
 covery burst upon Mr. Elliott at a subsequent 
 period ; but for the offence of thwarting his 
 generous views respecting him, he certainly, as 
 his nephew surmised, never had forgiven him,
 
 The falconars. 245 
 
 notwithstanding all Guy's efforts to testify his 
 gratitude for his kindness and respect for his 
 counsel in every other matter during the inter- 
 course they had since had together. Meanwhile, 
 the impenitent culprit, forgetting the very exist- 
 ence of wealth and ambition, contrived, whilst 
 distinguishing himself in a most remarkable man- 
 ner at Oxford, to live with ease, and keep out of 
 debt on the income derived from his patrimon}^, 
 at the very time tliat Augustus, alias Gus, who 
 had a sincere regard for his cousin, dissimilar as 
 they were, but could by no means follow his good 
 example, was spending double his allowance, get- 
 ting into scrapes every day, neglecting his studies, 
 and distracting his tutor. 
 
 Such was the history of Guy Clifton, whom, 
 at the termination of an early ramble in the 
 grounds, Eleanor and Alfred encountered upon 
 tlie lower walk of the terrace, attended by an 
 enormous white shaggy water-dog, who followed 
 him like his shadow, and paused with him as he 
 stopped to bid them good morning on their 
 approach. 
 
 " What a fine dog, Clifton !" said Alfred. 
 " Where did you pick him up?" 
 
 " I brought him from Weimar this summer," 
 replied Clifton, " when I went there, you know, 
 on leaving Oxford. Down, Faust — hinunter — 
 alter kerl !" as the animal leapt up to return the 
 caresses which Eleanor w^as bestowing upon him. 
 " I called him Faust out of respect to his illus- 
 trious countryman, the Baron von Goethe. Are 
 you fond of dogs, Miss Falconar?"
 
 246 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 ^' Beyond any other animal," said Eleanor. 
 '' I have the greatest affection for dogs." 
 
 " So Faust perceives," returned Clifton, smil- 
 ing. '^ They are admirable physiognomists. I 
 honour your taste. Where shall we find fidelity 
 like that of the dog? Man may betray man, but 
 the poor dog is always true to his master." 
 
 '' And unforgetting," said Alfred. 
 
 " And unforgetting even when long forgot. 
 Falconar, do you remember my poor Max, the 
 German dog I had with me at Edinburgh four 
 years ago, the last relic of Germany that I 
 possessed?" 
 
 " Perfectly," said Alfred. ^' How he used to 
 bound with delight when we set off on our long 
 Saturday walks with him ! And his ecstasy 
 when we took him to Caroline Park, and gave 
 him a swim in the sea ! Poor fellow ! You lost 
 him when at Oxford, didn't you, Clifton?" 
 
 " I did," said Clifton. " He met with an 
 accidental death, which was very painful to me. 
 I should not like to confess to everybody how 
 bitterly I felt it. He had been my father's 
 favourite, and there were thoughts connected 
 with his mute presence that there was little left 
 besides to recall. I loved him, too, because he 
 reminded me of Edinburgh. I never had the 
 heart to supply his place until I met with this 
 brute, who attached himself to me from our first 
 encounter ; and he, too, is a relic of ' das Eichen- 
 land.' " 
 
 "I see your heart still clings to Germany, 
 Clifton," said Alfred.
 
 THE FALCONARS. 247 
 
 " Ay, that it does," replied Clifton ; " and 
 little -ponder; part of it is buried there." 
 
 " And do you love Germany better than your 
 own country?" asked Eleanor, in a half-reproach- 
 ful tone. 
 
 " Do not think so ill of me," said Clifton. 
 " How could the son of British parents have 
 failed to imbibe a feeling towards the land of his 
 forefathers, which no other country could ever 
 call forth ? I am no citizen of the world — Heaven 
 forbid! But don't you think I should have a 
 very cold heart if it did not warm to Germany ?" 
 
 At this moment the pealing of the gong within 
 doors announced the breakfast-hour, and our 
 party, quickening their steps, ascended the ter- 
 race, and gained the glass-door, leaving Faust 
 plaintively whining outside. Whilst Eleanor 
 hastened up stairs to take off her walking-dress, 
 the two young men proceeded to the breakfast- 
 room, where, in a fcAV minutes, the whole party 
 was assembled.
 
 248 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 " Oui, I'argent est plus prccieux que toutes les choses du 
 monde." — Moliere. 
 
 "Oh, thoughtless lassie ! life's a faught ; 
 The canniest gate, the strife is sair ; 
 But aye fu' han't is fechtin' best, 
 A hungry care's an unco' care ; 
 But some will spend, and some will spare. 
 
 An' wilfu' fock maun hae their will ; 
 Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair, 
 Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill." 
 
 Burns. 
 
 The party having seated themselves at breakfast 
 in the promiscuous fashion which characterizes 
 that unceremonious meal, poor little Miss Ireland 
 found herself, by some strange error in juxta- 
 position, placed in a situation which threw her 
 into a transport of timidity and awkwardness. 
 This was nothing else than having taken a chair 
 between that occupied by the formidable Lord 
 Aylesmore, whose fashionable notoriety inspired 
 her with wonderful awe, and the seat of the little 
 less formidable Mr. Falconar, of whose " clever- 
 ness" she had heard sneering mention made by 
 her patronesses. She durst not speak across
 
 THE FALCONARS. 249 
 
 tlie table to Amabel who fronted her, lest Lord 
 Aylesmore should look as if he were listening to 
 what she said; and the same reason prevented 
 her addressing a syllable to Miss Elizabeth Fal- 
 conar, who flanked him on the other side. As to 
 that lady's nephew, she was afraid to look at 
 him ; and when he turned round and began to 
 talk to her, could scarce muster courage to reply. 
 Miss Ireland, like many of her species, had an 
 instinctive dread of " clever people," and felt 
 fairly out of her element, which was the more 
 provoking, as there was a newly-arrived visitor 
 near the bottom of the table with whom she was 
 on terms of peculiar intimacy and freedom. This 
 was Mr. Richard Cousins, already mentioned as 
 one of the many hangers-on at Ferneylee, who 
 had just alighted from horseback, having obtained 
 a few days respite from his legal labours, and 
 having ridden up to Ferneylee that morning from 
 his uncle's little villa. At the present juncture, 
 he was seated with his mouth full of kippered 
 salmon, and civil speeches, bowing acquiescence 
 to some observations of j\liss Farquharson's ; 
 whilst from an opposite corner, Eobert Living- 
 stone interrupted a violent flirtation with Miss 
 Forbes Graham, to tell him various anecdotes of 
 a horse which it appeared that the useful Dick 
 had assisted him in the summer to break, for 
 his stanhope. 
 
 At another part of the table, meanwhile, Lady 
 Susan and Gertrude, who were placed on either 
 side of Guy Clifton, were engaged in a conversa- 
 tion with him on the subject of acted charades, 
 M 3
 
 250 THE FORTUNES OP 
 
 which were at the period rather a more novel 
 mode of amusement than they now are. It had 
 been resolved to get up some on the following 
 evening, and various words were discussed, some 
 of which, mentioned "by Clifton, were new to the 
 others. 
 
 *' Are you as good an actor as your cousin 
 Augustus, Mr. Clifton ?" asked Lady Susan. 
 
 " Not quite," said Clifton, smiling. " I have 
 not practised the art so much as Gus has. Have 
 you seen him in many characters, Lady Susan?" 
 
 '' Several," replied her ladyship. " I was quite 
 enchanted with his acting. They got up the 
 ' Eivals' last autumn at Rossiewood — Lord Ros- 
 siewood's seat, you know, in Perthshire, when 
 your cousin was there, and his Captain Absolute 
 was really the most perfect thing I ever saw. I 
 have met him, too, at the Duchess of Laxing- 
 ton's, and seen him take various parts in her 
 private theatre." 
 
 "Ah, I hear he is there now! Yes, Gus is 
 really a first-rate amateur actor. I believe they 
 were performing various things , at Pevenley this 
 autumn, which I missed seeing, and assisting in, 
 by going to the Lakes." 
 
 " And why, pray, did you go to the Lakes, and 
 leave such a gay household ?" 
 
 " Why, for many exquisite reasons," said Clif- 
 ton, smiling. " I don't think my company was 
 at all missed. I have no genius for fashionable 
 life, I suspect." 
 
 " I am afraid you have brought some repub-
 
 THE FALCONAKS. 251 
 
 lican notions with you from Germany, Mr. Clif- 
 ton," said Lady Susan. 
 
 " Republican !" exclaimed Clifton, laughing. 
 *^ I can assure you, Lady Susan, that I am as 
 staunch a Tory, as little of a republican, as e'er a 
 Clifton of them all. And it is as well for me, 
 for, as I dare say you know, there never was u 
 family where liberal principles, as they are called, 
 would meet with less toleration." 
 
 " Yes, everybody knows that !" replied Lady 
 Susan. " I have often heard papa tell the story 
 of an uncle, or great uncle, was he, of yours, 
 who " 
 
 Lady Susan's attention was here called off by 
 a question from Mrs. Livingstone, and Lord 
 Aylesmore addressed Clifton. 
 
 " So your lovely cousin Frederica is reallij 
 married to Haslingden, Mr. Clifton ? I scarce 
 thought it would go on when it came to the last ; 
 but I read it in the newspapers some days ago." 
 
 The eyes of Eleanor, who sat nearly opposite 
 to Clifton,, were attracted towards him by this 
 speech ; and she Avas struck by the deep flush 
 which passed over his countenance, instantly suc- 
 ceeded by a deadly paleness. 
 
 " Yes," he replied, in a constrained voice, 
 " the marriage is over a week ago." 
 
 "It is a splendid establishment," observed 
 Lord Aylesmore, in a tone, as Eleanor fancied, of 
 peculiar significance. 
 
 " A dearly bought one," answered Clifton, in 
 the same low and constrained voice.
 
 252 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 " Nay, nay," returned his lordship, " that is 
 entirely matter of opinion." 
 
 " Certainly," said Clifton. And turning to 
 Gertrude, he once more entered into conversation 
 with her, as if desirous to ayoid further mention 
 of the subject. 
 
 " I say, Ellen," whispered Bob, who sat next 
 his cousin, as soon as the buzz of conversation 
 would admit of a whisper, " that was rather a 
 mistake of Aylesmore's, unless, which I strongly 
 suspect, it was said on purpose." 
 
 *' What was?" asked Eleanor. 
 
 " Wliy, didn't you notice how Clifton looked 
 when Aylesmore asked him about his cousin's 
 marriage?" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 *' Well, they say, so Grant told me, that she 
 jilted him for this rich old Marquis of Hasling- 
 den, and that was the reason he wouldn't stay at 
 Pevenley to be present at the marriage." 
 
 " Is it possible !" exclaimed Eleanor. 
 
 " Possible ! My dear child, how do you sup- 
 pose he could be present ? It was the best thing 
 he could do to go away. Poor fellow! I dare 
 say he took it to heart. They say she is as 
 beautilul as an angel." 
 
 Eleanor did not undeceive her cousin as to the 
 meaning of her involuntary ejaculation, perhaps 
 she was scarcely conscious of its meaning. Had 
 she examined into what was passing in her own 
 mind, she would have perceived that she was 
 wondering how it was possible that any woman 
 could act in such a manner towards a lover like
 
 THE FALCONARS. 253 
 
 Guy Clifton. A degree of sadness, for which she 
 could not account, fell over her ; and she sat al- 
 most silent, glancing now and then at him when 
 his eyes were turned another way, and thinking 
 how severely he must have suffered, until she 
 could almost have felt it in her heart to weep. 
 From this reverie she was roused in a few 
 minutes by a conversation wliich was going on 
 between George Livingstone and Dick Cousins, 
 relative to some mutual acquaintance, Mr. Gar- 
 dyne by name, whose family, as it appeared, had 
 broken off an engagement formed between him 
 and a young lady. 
 
 " Who is the girl, Dick?" George was inquir- 
 ing; " and why didn't the thing go on?" 
 
 "Money, sir — money!" responded Dick, bolt- 
 ing a mouthful of hot roll, '* the root of all evil, 
 sir. The young lady is Miss Hepburn, of Monks- 
 holm — very good family, but deucedly poor. 
 Her father ran through his property as fast as 
 look at ye — died nearly insolvent. So you see, 
 sir, old Mr. Gar dyne thinks his son might do 
 better, for he says, after his own death, when all 
 the burdens on the property are paid, his son 
 wont have a clear thousand a-year. Very 
 poor affair that, you know, Mr. George, to 
 make a love-marriage on. So the thing's off en- 
 tirely." 
 
 " Who told you about it, Dick?" 
 
 " Had it from the fountain head, sir. Ned 
 Mossman, Mrs. Gardyne's nephew, is in our office, 
 and he told me." 
 
 '' A very harsh thing, in my opinion !" ex*
 
 254 THE FORTUNES OP 
 
 claimed Eobert. " Hang the old curmudgeon ! 
 Is she a pretty girl, Dick?" 
 
 " Very pretty girl, Mr. Bob. Very fond of 
 each other. As you say, it's a harsh thing, cer- 
 tainly." 
 
 ^^ In my opinion, Dick," said Mr. Livingstone, 
 gravely, *' It is no such thing as harsh. That is 
 the foolish way in which young people talk when 
 those who are older and wiser than themselves 
 take upon them to judge for them in cases where 
 their own hot heads would lead them astray. 
 Good Heavens!" — and Mr. Livingstone waxed 
 solemn — " is a father to sit quietly by, and see 
 his son sacrificing his prospects, plunging himself 
 into difficulties, entailing upon himself the incal- 
 culable disadvantages of a narrow income, per- 
 haps with a large family, for the gratification of 
 a silly, romantic fit of passion, which, take my 
 word for it, would pass aAvay sooner than its con- 
 sequences ? No, no, Dick, you know little of the 
 world if you think in that manner." 
 
 " Very true, sir — very true — very true, in- 
 deed, sir !" the unlucky Dick had continued re- 
 peating at each pause in the harangue. " I'm 
 sure it's all very true, sir — very justly observed. 
 It would never do, indeed. A-hem — hem!" in 
 an agony of shame at having dared to difier in 
 opinion from the head of the house. 
 
 " Very true, Mr. Livingstone," quoth Aunt . 
 Annie. ^^ In my time, young folk were not so 
 wise as they are now ; they wouldn't have dared 
 to set up their foolish fancies against their pa- 
 rent's opinion, as they do now-a-daye."
 
 THE FALCONAKS. 255 
 
 ^^ Ay, indeed! Aunt Annie?'' exclaimed Eo- 
 bert. *^ Then what a scandalous story that must 
 be, one I have heard about my great-grandfather, 
 your honoured papa, helping my great-grand- 
 mother, of gracious memory, out of her window, 
 to run off with him one fine moonlight night ! 
 It is very odd how people can propagate such 
 reports, since you say everybody was so well- 
 behaved in those days." 
 
 ^' Robert, my dear," said Aunt Annie, " young 
 folk shouldn't just be so very ready with their 
 answers. Neither you nor I have much to do 
 with these auld- world tales.'' 
 
 '* 'Deed, Miss Falconar, you never said a truer 
 word," observed Miss Farquharson. " Eobert, 
 you're a daft laddie." 
 
 " I was only appealing to the wisdom of our 
 ancestors, ma'am! But I am really concerned, 
 Dick, to hear this about poor Gardyne. I won- 
 der the fellow hadn't a little more pluck in him 
 than to give up his engagement so simply. A^Tiy, 
 bless me ! with the prospect of a thousand a-year 
 in the end, they might have married in a few years 
 hence, and done with a small allowance for a time." 
 
 " The old gentleman swore he wouldn't give 
 him a penny if he married Miss Hepburn," said 
 Dick. ^' He was as firm as Arthiu^'s Seat. 
 Wouldn't be spoken to about it." 
 . " Indeed I think he was perfectly right," ob- 
 served Aunt Annie. 
 
 " I should like to see you, Bob," said Lord 
 Aylesmore, " contenting yourself for life on a 
 thousand a-year with a wife and children."
 
 256 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 *' Me, Aylesmore? — why not? I think it 
 would be very easy." 
 
 *' Ha, ha ! excuse my laughing at you, my dear 
 fellow ; but you really divert me." 
 
 " Why, Alfred," said Bob, turning to his 
 cousin, " couldn't one get on famously with such 
 an income?" 
 
 " Don't appeal to me. Bob," replied Alfred, 
 laughing; "you will gain nothing by my sup- 
 port." 
 
 " I shall have you on my side, man, I am sure, 
 and that is all I want." 
 
 " Well, but I mean that my agreeing with 
 you will not do your argument much good ; for 
 I suspect we estimate a thousand a-year at dif- 
 ferent rates. I have my own doubts, I confess, 
 how far you might find it answer your purposes, 
 though I think it would nearly satisfy my am- 
 bition." 
 
 " Heavens ! Mr. Falconar !" ejaculated Miss 
 Forbes Graham. 
 
 "Dear me, sir! you're surely joking?" ex- 
 claimed Miss Ireland. 
 
 " Alfred, my dear, it's distressing to hear you 
 speak such nonsense," groaned Aunt Annie. 
 
 " Silly romantic stuff !" muttered Aunt Eliza- 
 beth. 
 
 ^ " A moderate ambition, indeed !" said Mrs. 
 Livingstone, with a smile of compassion. 
 
 " The surest way you can take, let me tell you, 
 Alfred, of never being a rich man," pronounced 
 Mr. Livingstone. " People generally get on in 
 this world in proportion to their ambition."
 
 THE FALCONARS. 257 
 
 " Very true, sir." " Very justly observed, 
 Mr. Livingstone," proceeded simultaneously from, 
 the lips of Miss Farquliarson and Dick. 
 
 " Well, I must say I agree -with Alfred," said 
 Bob. 
 
 " Pray, Miss Falconar," inquired Lord Ayles- 
 more, leaning back in liis chair so as to speak to 
 Eleanor behind Aunt Elizabeth, "have you as 
 moderate a share of ambition as your brother ?'' 
 
 " Oh, Lord Aylesmore," interposed Aunt Eliza- 
 beth, " you needn't ask my niece any such 
 question. If her brother were to swear that 
 red was blue, or black white, or talk any other 
 nonsense that he knew nothing about, as in the 
 present instance, she would agree with him all 
 the same." 
 
 " But at present. Aunt Elizabeth, our tastes 
 really do happen to coincide," said Eleanor. 
 
 " I admire sisterly affection," resumed Lord 
 Aylesmore, in his usual tone of calm politeness, 
 mingled with a shade of jjersijlage; " but in this 
 case, I must take the liberty of doubting whether 
 your fancy for poverty would continue in force 
 were it put to the proof. It is easy to theorize 
 on such subjects." 
 
 " ' How little knoweth he!' " thought Eleanor, 
 while a smile crossed her face. " I can't say," 
 she replied, " that I consider the standard of in- 
 come in dispute as ■povertu ; but poverty and 
 riches, as my brother said, are so completely of a 
 relative value, that I have no doubt you do." 
 
 " Why, I fear you guess correctly. Miss Fal- 
 conar. But I didn't expect such philosophy from 
 you."
 
 258 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 ^' Young ladies, Lord Aylesmore," observed 
 Mrs. Livingstone, '' are sometimes fond of saying 
 tliese pretty things about poverty. I have not 
 quite so much faith in their sincerity as you seem 
 to have." 
 
 ^' What a strange thing it is in this world," 
 smilingly observed Guy Clifton, whose eyes for 
 the last few minutes had been fixed upon Eleanor, 
 ^' that nobody is ever accounted sincere unless he 
 makes an avowal of interested feelings ! Is it 
 not possible that there may be some human beings 
 who prefer competence to wealth?" 
 
 *' Why, as to that, Mr. Clifton, I really cannot 
 pretend to judge," said Lord Aylesmore with a 
 somewhat ennuyee smile. " But I can't help ap- 
 prehending that those who eulogize the delights 
 of poverty, are blest in a most Utopian ignorance 
 of the world we live in. Poverty wont exactly 
 do for the nineteenth century." 
 
 " There we are quite agreed," replied Clifton ; 
 " but beyond that I concur with Miss Falconar. 
 I think any man might be happy and indepen- 
 dent on a thousand a-year. 
 
 " And able to enter into all the enjoyments of 
 life, Mr. Clifton?" asked Lady Susan. 
 
 '' Surely, into its most lasting and satisfactory 
 enjoyments," returned he. " Don't you think it 
 is fortunate, since every one cannot be rich, that 
 there should be some who really prefer an unos- 
 tentatious independence?" 
 
 " Vegetation, / should call it," answered her 
 ladyship. 
 
 ''Nay, Lady Susan, I should say vegetation
 
 THE FALCONARS. 259 
 
 was a word more applicable to a man's mental 
 life than his bodily. If a man choose, he may 
 vegetate on twenty thousand a-year." 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Clifton !" said Mrs. Livingstone, with 
 an oracular air, " you are in a manner a foreigner, 
 and know little as yet about these things. Take 
 my word for it, to sit down with a small income 
 in this country is no joke." 
 
 "Joke!" exclaimed Aunt Elizabeth; "it is 
 absolute folly and infatuation, as people soon 
 begin to discover when their families grow up, 
 and they perceive how difficult it is to get their 
 sons settled in the world, and to procure proper 
 establishments for their daughters." 
 
 This exposition of domestic policy, so honour- 
 able to matronly feeling, and so advantageous to 
 maiden delicacy, was followed by a general move, 
 preparatory to the dispersion' of the party. 
 
 " Come, girls," said Gertrude; "Lady Susan 
 and I are going up stairs to consult about cos- 
 tumes for our charades. Amabel, Eleanor, come 
 along. Harriette, if you have done arguing with 
 my cousin, we want you. Kitty, we can't do 
 without you^ ^ 
 
 Up sprang Miss L'eland. Miss Forbes Graham 
 put her arm within Eleanor's, as they were 
 leaving the room. " Come, Miss Falconar," said 
 she, " I want you to tell me where your brother 
 picked up all these wild notions." And the 
 young ladies went out together. 
 
 " Dick," said Bob, " you shall see, to-day, what 
 a superior pointer Dido is to Duchess. I hope 
 you' ve brought your gun ?"
 
 260 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 " I left it here, you know, Mr. Bob," replied 
 Dick, " last time I was through. I'm sorry to 
 hear a bad report of Duchess, but I never had 
 much notion of her from a pup." 
 
 " Alfred," said Bob, '^ you'll go out with us, 
 of course ? There's a lot of guns in the house, if 
 you haven't one with you." 
 
 " I shall be delighted to go out with you. Bob,'' 
 said Alfred, "but I have no use for a gun; I 
 took no licence this year, being in Edinburgh, 
 and too hard at work to think of shooting. 
 Indeed, if Clifton is going to fish, I think I shall 
 accompany him. 
 
 " Pray do, Falconar; I reckoned on your com- 
 pany," said Clifton. " I long to explore that 
 beautiful river." 
 
 "Well, Clifton," returned Eobert, "I would 
 go too; but 'tis a good while now since I have 
 had a day's shooting ; and I want Dick to try the 
 two pointers I was speaking about ; and " 
 
 " Don't mention it, my dear fellow ; I shall be 
 glad to shoot with you another day ; but really 
 I can't be happy with your river in sight, till I 
 have cast a line in it. So come, Falconar, let us 
 get into angling trim." 
 
 "Well, Alfred, there are half-a-dozen rods in 
 my room," said Bob; " so you can choose^ a tool 
 to your mind, after you've got on your toggery. 
 Come, Dick — don't let us lose time here, man." 
 And he bustled oif, followed by his satellite. 
 
 " Dear me !" exclaimed Aunt Annie, as the 
 elder conclave entered the drawing-room, " it's 
 a great pity, Amabel, my dear, but your worthy
 
 THE FALCOXARS. 261 
 
 husband would speak seriously to Alfred about 
 that nonsensical way of talking ! It's a tliino- 
 that gives me great vexation." 
 
 " Indeed, Aunt Annie," returned Mrs. Living- 
 stone, ^' I am afraid it would not be of much use 
 to interfere either in Alfred's flights or Eleanor's. 
 I can't say I like to hear a young lady arguing 
 with gentlemen, and contradicting their opinions, 
 as she does with Lord Aylesmore. It is a thino- 
 neither of my girls would think of doing." 
 
 " I dare say not, indeed !" responded both aunts, 
 in a breath. 
 
 " Ah ! tliey are sweet, elegant creatures ! I 
 see nothing like them anywhere, Mrs. Living- 
 stone," said Miss Farquharson. *' Nobody else 
 looks anything beside them." 
 
 *' Oh, Margaret, you are very partial! But 
 I own I am a fortunate mother," replied that 
 lady, settling Jierself, as she spoke, at the writing- 
 table. '' Amabel, my love," to her youngest 
 daughter, who just then entered the room, " prav, 
 take away this music ; I have a dozen notes to 
 write, and it is sadly in my way." 
 
 " Oh, mamma, don't touch it !" exclaimed 
 Amabel. " Stay, I will lift it from the blottino-- 
 book. It belongs to Susan ; it is an air — a German 
 * Trink-lied,' as Mr. Clifton calls it; and he has 
 promised to write her some words for it. . It must 
 lie here, that he mayn't forget it. Oh! there 
 vou are, Mr. Clifton. But I fancy you are goino- 
 out?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Clifton; "but I came here to 
 fetch the song first. If you will allow me. Miss
 
 262 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 Livingstone, I shall take it away with me. Per- 
 haps, you would be so very kind as to play the 
 air once more?" 
 
 Amabel turned to the pianoforte, and ran over 
 the notes. ** Thank you — that will do," said 
 Clifton, taking it up. ^^ Now I can manage it." 
 
 " Bob has a good taste in friends, mamma," 
 said Amabel, as Guy left the room. " Mr. Grant 
 is very handsome ; and this youth is quite irre- 
 sistible. Did you ever see such eyes?" 
 
 *' Indeed, my dear," replied the prudent mother, 
 a little startled, " I have scarcely looked at them. 
 I have no fancy for handsome men. From all I 
 have heard Bob say of Mr. Clifton, I suspect he 
 is too much of a genius to possess common sense, 
 which, in my opinion, is of more consequence 
 than personal beauty." 
 
 " Men are always jealous of each other's attrac- 
 tions," said Amabel, laughing; and she left the 
 apartment, singing the air of the ' Tr ink-lied.'
 
 THE FALCONARS. 263 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 "Falsest of womankind ! canst thou declare 
 All thy fond plighted vows, fleeting as air ? 
 " To thy new lover hie, 
 Laugh o'er thy perjury, 
 Then in thy bosom try 
 What peace is there !" 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 " What a delicious spot !" exclaimed Alfred, lay- 
 ing himself down at full length upon a patch of 
 soft greensward, in a nook by the side of the 
 beautiful river, shaded by some graceful moun- 
 tain-ash and birch-trees, not yet stripped of their 
 autumnal-tinted foliage. " Clifton, are you not 
 weary of your rod ?" 
 
 " When I have tried this pool, I shall lay it 
 down," answered Clifton, stepping on a broad 
 gi^ey ledge of stone, extending a little way into 
 the water, and casting his line, with a skilful 
 hand, upon the deep still pool beneath. " Are 
 you tired, Falconar ? You did not use to flag so 
 soon." 
 
 " No," returned Alfred, with a sigh ; " I was
 
 264 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 an indefatigable anglfer once on a time. I sup- 
 pose it is as Autolycus says — 
 
 ' A merry heart goes all the day, 
 A sad one tires in a mile a.' " 
 
 He took up Clifton's fisliing-book as lie spoke, 
 which was lying on the turf beside him ; and 
 while turning over the leaves, a paper of verses 
 fell out. " May I read this, Clifton?" asked he, 
 holding it up. 
 
 " Need you ask, Falconar ?" said Clifton, 
 glancing round, with a smile. "Do we stand on 
 such ceremony?" 
 
 "We must be changed if we do, Guy; and 
 yet," he continued, on finishing the perusal of 
 the verses, " this would lead me to suppose 
 that there had been concealment on some sub- 
 jects between us." 
 
 The verses were as follow : — 
 
 Haunt me not ! — oh, haunt me not ! 
 
 What have I to do with thee ? 
 Time it is thou wert forgot — 
 
 If not hy others, yet by me. 
 Other smiles for thee may waken, 
 
 Other hearts be given thee yet : 
 Mine its lonely course hath taken — 
 
 Thou hast told it io forget. 
 
 Haunt me not ! were we two meeting, 
 
 Chance-directed — yet once more, 
 Ours would be a colder greeting. 
 
 And a briefer, than of yore. 
 Why those burning tears expended, 
 
 But an empty dream to dew ? 
 Since our living loves are ended. 
 
 Memory's love should perish too I
 
 THE FALCONARS. 265 
 
 Haunt me not ! — no power can bring them 
 
 Back to life, these loves of old ; 
 Thine own hand did calmly fling them 
 
 From thy bosom, false and cold ; 
 And cold words of pride were spoken. 
 
 And cold deeds in harshness done ; 
 Boots it how — ^the links are broken — 
 
 Thou and I can ne'er be one. 
 
 Haunt me not !— that pang sufficeth, 
 
 Worst of cold Desertion's woes, 
 When no thought within that riseth 
 
 E'er an answering echo knows ; 
 When the lonely spirit falling, 
 
 By the grave where Hope lies dead, 
 Hears pale Memory's voice recalling 
 
 Hours of blest communion fled. 
 
 Haunt me not ! Oh, then I view thee— 
 
 Then, in mockery of my pain ; 
 And niy soul springs forth unto thee. 
 
 As it ne'er shall spring again ; 
 As in days when, warm and glowing, 
 
 Every thought within its shrine. 
 At these lips found swift o'erflowing, 
 
 But to meet response from thine. 
 
 Haunt me not ! — this dream is stronger, 
 
 IMightier than the bitter truth ! 
 Well I know thou art no longer 
 
 What thou wert in early youth ; 
 Well I know that thou canst never, 
 
 What thou wert, return to be ; 
 Yet, oh ! yet I cannot sever 
 
 Thy past self from thoughts of thee. 
 
 Haunt me not ! How vain the sorrow 
 
 Wasted on the weary past ! 
 Life can never bring a morrow 
 
 That shall soothe these pangs at last. 
 Though in dreams, tliis heart forsaken, 
 
 View thee still its loved — its own — 
 Oh ! there comes a time to waken — 
 
 Waken, start, and weep alone. 
 VOL. I. N
 
 266 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 Haunt me not! — our paths are sever'd; 
 
 If from mine the mists have roll'd — 
 If from meteor-fires deliver' d — 
 
 Still 'tis lone, and dark, and cold. 
 Quit these eyes, that upward wending, 
 
 They may catch a soothing ray. 
 Through parting clouds from heaven descending, 
 
 To light me on my dreary way. 
 
 " Can yon imagine so, Falconar?" said Clifton, 
 in a rejoroacliful tone, replying to Alfred's last 
 observation. He laid down his fishing-rod, and 
 threw himself on the grass beside his friend. 
 " Those lines," continued he, " refer to a subject 
 on which I could not enter in writing, because it 
 involved the concerns of another, but from which 
 all that I have lately suffered would have been 
 soothed, indeed, by the comfort of confiding it 
 to you." 
 
 '' And this, then," exclaimed Alfred, " has 
 been the cause of your inexplicable distress ! My 
 dear fellow, I cannot express how deeply, how sin- 
 cerely, it grieves me. But yet, Clifton, though 
 it is perhaps ungenerous to do so at such a time, 
 I cannot help adhering to what I said. There 
 has^ for the first time, been concealment between 
 us ; for you have never given me the most distant 
 reason to suspect that your affections were en- 
 gaged to any one." 
 
 '' Engaged ! Mi/ affections !" exclaimed Clif- 
 ton, in a tone of astonishment. " You did not 
 imagine that these lines referred to myself?" 
 
 " Nay, Clifton, how could I possibly do other- 
 wise ? These lines do not seem to me as if they 
 had merely been suggested by imagination,"
 
 THE FALCONARS. 2G7 
 
 ^' By imagination they certainly were not sug- 
 gested ; but the idea that you could apply them 
 to me never crossed my brain. Why, Falconar, 
 I don't think I have concealed almost a thought 
 from you, since we became intimate!" 
 
 " My dear fellow, I know that ; and that was 
 the reason tliat I felt so amazed. But I defy 
 any one to have read this poem without making 
 the same mistake, since it is one, of which, be- 
 lieve me, I am most heartily glad.'' 
 
 " Perhaps not," returned Clifton. " Only, 
 Falconar, it did not occur to me that you would. 
 I thought you liad known too much, even of my 
 dreams. They are so much a part of myself, 
 those dreams," he added, with a smile, " that 
 perhaps they assisted in enabling me to conceive 
 the feelings I attempted to portray in these lines, 
 and whose agony I had lately witnessed, with a 
 degree of bitter self-reproach, mingled with my 
 intense sympathy, that really almost drove me 
 beside myself." 
 
 " Self-reproach, Clifton? And why?" 
 
 " Why? — Thus. I have been longing to tell 
 it you. You heard Lord Aylesmore ask me this 
 morning about the marriage of my cousin Frede- 
 rica? You have often heard me talk of her." 
 
 *' Often ; and I wondered exceedingly what he 
 meant at the time, and why you looked and an- 
 swered as you did." 
 
 " Oh ! Falconar, that marriage ! Frederica is 
 just my o^vn age, and her husband a man up- 
 wards of fifty — a man in every way unlikely to 
 attract a woman, such as I once thought her, 
 n2
 
 268 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 She has sold herself — sold herself for his im- 
 mense wealth and consequence. And that is not 
 all, though that would be bad enough; but she 
 has acted in the basest, the most heartless, man- 
 ner to a man who loved her as his own soul, and 
 who was worthy of a very different fate ; and I, 
 who was in the confidence of both parties, was 
 deceived by her into buoying him up with false 
 hopes, and have, as I cannot but feel, part of 
 his misery to answer for." 
 
 " And who is he, Clifton?" 
 
 "He is an Oxford friend, whom I have often 
 mentioned to you — a companion of her brother's 
 as much as of mine — William Montenaye. In- 
 deed, he is the son of a neighbour of theirs in tlie 
 country, so that they knew him long before I 
 did; and he has often told me that he did not 
 remember the time when he was not attached to 
 Frederica. Next to yourself, Falconar, I liked 
 and esteemed Montenaye ; and it is long since he 
 confided to me his passion for her. I have often 
 told you how much I liked her in former days. 
 There was much that, feeling towards her as a 
 brother, I tried to amend in her ; above all, her 
 love of admiration. But she was — is, very beau- 
 tiful, and had been brought up to set a high 
 value on beauty; and she has a great deal of 
 talent, and could talk — I once thought, could 
 feel^ — with so much justness. It would not have 
 been easy to doubt one so lovely." 
 
 '' And were they engaged, then!" 
 
 " Never in so many words; but there are en- 
 gagements as binding as words, I think. And
 
 THE FALCONAKS. 269 
 
 siicli was theirs. And lie received so much tacit 
 encouragement! There is a cruel, thoughtless 
 practice amongst fashionable mothers, of encou- 
 raging young men merely to enhance their 
 daughters' consequence as beauties. Had he not 
 been permitted to come as often, and as freely, 
 to the house as he chose, you may believe that 
 nothing would have induced me to take any part 
 in the affair. I could not, in honour towards my 
 uncle ; but I saw no reason to doubt that his pro- 
 posals would meet with a ready hearing. I 
 knew, from himself, that he was only waiting till 
 his attaining the age of twenty-three should put 
 him in possession of an independent, though not 
 very large, fortune, bequeathed to him by some 
 relation, to make them in form. And as to Fre- 
 derica's reception of them, no one who had car- 
 ried so many messages as I had done betwixt 
 them, and witnessed so much of mutual good un- 
 derstanding, could have doubted what it would 
 be. Indeed, I was so completely in their confi- 
 dence, that I believe some people thought that I, 
 not Montenaye, was the lover." 
 
 " It struck me," said Alfred, ^' from Lord 
 Aylesmore's manner this morning, that such was 
 his impression; and certainly, Clifton, yours was 
 not such as to remove the idea." 
 
 " Very likely not," replied Clifton ; " and if 
 he thought so, he is the very man to take ad- 
 vantage of such an opportunity for causing an- 
 noyance. Last night, in talking of him to Miss 
 Falconar, I expressed myself in a manner which, 
 I dare say, she thought severe; but "
 
 270 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 *' Ellen told me," said Alfred, smiling, " that 
 you did not seem to like him ; but I don't 
 believe she thought you severe, for she does not 
 fancy him much herself, I perceive.'' 
 
 ^' Ay, she has a touchstone that Frederica 
 wanted — singleness of heart !" exclaimed Clifton. 
 *' I was thinking of Frederica when I spoke as I 
 did. Independently of much that I know which 
 renders Lord Aylesmore an unsafe companion for 
 those he fascinates, I feel bitterly towards him 
 as the proximate cause, at least, of a great deal 
 of the alteration in her. I never thought her — 
 she never was, the same after a long visit of his ; 
 during which he paid her much attention, — in 
 the way he does such things, — devoting himself 
 for the time being to the object of it, and un- 
 settling her opinions and her faith in everything 
 that is good and true, as much as he inflames 
 her vanity. Your sister, Falconar, instinctively 
 feels his character, as the pure in heart are often 
 enabled to do in similar cases; but Frederica 
 had been educated in a diiferent school, and pos- 
 sessed a very different nature, and he completed 
 the work which the vain and heartless dissipa- 
 tion of gay life had begun." 
 
 " And do you mean to say that he was at- 
 tached to her?" 
 
 ^' Attached ! It is a profanation of the word. 
 No — but he admired her, and wanted to add to 
 his list of conquests. So manifest was the altera- 
 tion in her, and so much did Montenaye feel it, 
 that I remonstrated with her, and from her own 
 lips conveyed to him an assurance of her senti-
 
 THE FALCONARS. 271 
 
 ments being uiicliaDged, previous to my last de- 
 parture for Oxford. I went, as you know, from 
 Oxford straight to Germany ; and fancy my sen- 
 sations, while there, on receiving a letter from 
 Gus, announcing her marriage to the Marquis of 
 Haslingden !" 
 
 " Infamous!" exclaimed Alfred. 
 
 " I declare. Falcon ar, I almost lost my senses. 
 llemorse for my own involuntary share in Monte- 
 naye's betrayal — grief, anger, disappointment in 
 one I had loved so well, — that bitterest of pangs, 
 — all combined to torture me. No wonder, then, 
 you felt my letters strangely cold and infrequent. 
 I came home ; I saw him in London, on his way 
 to Greece, whither he was just going; I wit- 
 nessed the anguish, the wretchedness, the total 
 overthrowing of all his plans, and hopes, and 
 prospects in existence. I cannot bear to speak 
 of it ! 1 was forced to go to Pevenley ; and only 
 too glad, when there, of such an excuse as ill- 
 ness, which really existed, for the alteration that 
 every one must have remarked in my manner." 
 
 " And do you really think, Clifton, that no 
 force had been put upon your cousin's inclina- 
 tions?" 
 
 " I know to the contrary, Falconar. I was 
 assured by her brothers that she accepted him of 
 her own free will, and 1 perceived nothing that 
 could lead me to think otherwise. 1 saw her 
 once, for a few minutes, alone ; and I told her 
 then of the wreck she had occasioned. She wept 
 bitterly, and I could not bear to say more. I 
 left her, and at night she wiis, as usual, the life
 
 272 THE FORTUNES OP 
 
 of the company. In short, I could not stand it, 
 and I left Pevenley as soon as I could get away. 
 The first disappointment in those we have loved 
 and trusted is a dreadful pang. Now," conti- 
 nued he, placing the verses in his pocket-book, 
 ^' do you not perceive a sufficient foundation for 
 these lines, though not in my own personal ex- 
 perience?" 
 
 " I do," said Alfred; '^ and deeply as I sym- 
 pathize in what you have suffered, I rejoice to 
 think that it has not been so severe as I at first 
 feared. And now I suppose we must be on the 
 move." 
 
 As they approached nearer to the house, en- 
 tering the extensive pleasure-ground which sloped 
 down to the river, our anglers were met by a 
 female group, consisting of Amabel, Eleanor, 
 and Miss Ireland, who had just alighted from 
 Mrs. Livingstone's pony phaeton, and sauntered 
 for a few minutes into the shrubbery. Miss Ire- 
 land was deeply intent on looking for some 
 bunches of barberries, which she averred that 
 she had promised to take in to the housekeeper, 
 who had been lamenting in her hearing, that 
 morning, that she could not find any wherewith 
 to garnish her dishes; and in pursuit of this 
 object she now preceded, and now lingered be- 
 hind the party. Clifton looked strongly inclined 
 to attach himself to Eleanor's side, but was im- 
 mediately monopolized by Amabel, who had a 
 thousand questions to ask touching his success in 
 fishing, fii'st, and then his promised words for 
 Lady Susan's German air.
 
 THE FALCONARS. 273 
 
 '' You look tired, Ellen, love," said Alfred, 
 drawing his sister's arm within his. 
 
 " And so do yon, Alfred," replied Eleanor. 
 " Amabel was just remarking, as you came up, 
 that she never saw two more serious faces, and 
 that you must certainly be very much fatigued 
 to look as you did." 
 
 " Nay, I don't think either Clifton or I look 
 so very dismal, Ellen — do we ? As to fatigue, we 
 were sitting on the grass for a very long time, 
 long enough to rest ; but we were discussing a 
 very distressing story, which has perhaps left 
 traces of the eflect it produced." 
 
 " Ah !" said Eleanor, in a low voice, and 
 glancing towards Clifton, who was walking on 
 before with Amabel, " I suppose it is the same 
 that Bob was telling me this morning. I have 
 thought of it ever since, do you know, Alfred." 
 
 - " That Bob told you, Ellen? Oh, I fancy he 
 fell into the same mistake that I did ! Was it a 
 story about Lady Haslingden?" 
 
 " Yes — and I felt so sorry for Mr. Clifton! 
 What mistake do you mean ?" 
 
 Alfred speedily explained the mistake, on find- 
 ing that his sister already knew the wrong edition 
 of the story. And we leave it to those skilled in 
 the female heart to discover why it was that, at 
 the termination of their walk, Eleanor neither 
 looked nor felt so languid and weary as she had 
 done when it began. 
 
 n3
 
 274 - THE )?OKTUHES OF 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 " Belike tins show imports the argument of the play." 
 
 Hamlet. 
 
 '' Charles," said Miss Forbes Graham to her bro- 
 ther, as the gentlemen, on entering the drawing- 
 room in the evening, found the younger part of 
 the company assembled round a table where Lady 
 Susan and Amabel were making out a programme 
 of various charades — " Charles, you are to be 
 Waverley, and I Eose, so we have decided." 
 
 *' I am to be Waverley, am I?" replied the 
 young soldier, drawing a chair beside that of 
 Amabel, and glancing over the paper which she 
 was writing. " And you," he whispered, whilst 
 the others were talking — " and you, I see, Flora 
 Mac Ivor. Was that your own choice ?" A very 
 meaning glance, fixed on her countenance as he 
 spoke, was met by a blushing smile, which cer- 
 tainly did not bespeak the cruelty of Flora. 
 
 ^' Mr. Clifton, we have settled that you shall 
 be Prince Charles," said Lady Susan. " I wanted 
 George to take the part, as he lias the highland
 
 THE FALCONARS. 275 
 
 dress here which he wore Last year daring the 
 king's visit; but he wont hear of acting, so we 
 are forced to apply to you." 
 
 " I shall be too happy," returned Clifton ; 
 "and as to dress, no one expects charades to be 
 costumes like regular theatricals." 
 
 " 'No, but there is one piece of dress which we 
 have resolved that you shall Avear; a Charles the 
 Second periwig, that most fortunately happens to 
 be in the house. It belongs to my brother, Lord 
 Malcolm, wdio lent it to Eol)ert for a fancy ball, 
 which a lady in this neighbourhood meant to 
 have given lately, and was prevented by illness. 
 It is not unlike the colour of your own hair, and 
 will suit the character admirably." 
 
 " What, disposing of my periwug !" exclaimed 
 Ivobert, as Clifton laughingly promised to adopt 
 the proposed head-gear. '' That's too bad, Lady 
 Susan, I meant to have worn it myself." 
 
 " Pooh, pooh !" exclaimed Lady Susan, '* that 
 is entirely out of the question." 
 
 '' Well," said George, as he flung himself into 
 a Spanish chaii', " every man to his mind. Td 
 be very sorry to make such an object of myself 
 for any charade that ever was invented." 
 
 "What part do you take. Miss Falconar?" 
 asked Clifton, contriving at length to seat him- 
 self partly beside — partly behind Eleanor, on the 
 corner of an ottoman. 
 
 " I have been begging them to excuse me," 
 said Eleanor, " for I never even saw a charade 
 performed; and, to own the truth, I should be too 
 much frightened, I am sure, to b2 of any use."
 
 276 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 *' Oil, no; don't refuse to act/' exclaimed lie — 
 "pray don't! It is a very simple matter. They 
 must give you some part where you have little 
 to say, and you will find it much easier than you 
 could imagine." 
 
 '' Really I dare not venture," said Eleanor. 
 " You have no idea how foolishly shy I am." 
 
 "We can't manage without you, Ellen; don't 
 refuse us," said Amabel, who perceived that the 
 number of performers would not otherwise be 
 complete. 
 
 "Pray don't disappoint us, Miss Falconar," 
 added Miss Forbes Graham, unwilling to dispense 
 with the aid of Alfred's sister. 
 
 " I should be very sorry to put you about," 
 said Eleanor. " If you can't do without me, I 
 will join you, but otherwise I would so much 
 rather not. I am sure I shall not be of the 
 slightest use." 
 
 " You wrong yourself very much, /am sure," 
 said Clifton. " And this is not like actings you 
 know; not that sort of objectionable display at 
 all. You will find it very simple. Let me try 
 to explain it to you." 
 
 " Now Waverley is done," said Amabel, " and 
 Patrimony, and Dramatic and Critic. Susan, have 
 you decided about Courtship and Songster?" 
 
 " Songster? Oh, Mr. Clifton, my song!" ex- 
 claimed Lady Susan. " I intend to have it in- 
 troduced in the first syllable." 
 
 " I beg your pardon. Lady Susan," said Clif- 
 ton, " I forgot it. Here it is; I hope you will 
 find it suit the air."
 
 THE FALCONARS. 277 
 
 " Charming ! The very thing !" exclaimed her 
 ladyship, glancing over the words. " A thousand 
 thanks ! Captain Graham, this will do delight- 
 fully. It will be a new edition of Songster. You 
 shall sing it, and I shall pledge you. Harriette, 
 you are the least of the party ; you shall be an 
 attendant page, and hold a salver with glasses." 
 
 " A jolly party !" said Bob. " Is there no 
 room for me?" 
 
 " None; you can't sing," replied Lady Susan; 
 " and you are too tall for a page." 
 
 '' But how can I learn a new song on such 
 short notice !" exclaimed Captain Forbes Graham, 
 in a tone of dismay. 
 
 *' Oh, Charles, you know the air perfectly," 
 said his sister. " You have only to learn the 
 words. Let me see them." 
 
 *' Come, pledge me ! See the sparkling glass 
 With ruby foam-hells shine ! 
 They bid us snatch them ere they pass : 
 Come pledge me in the wine, 
 
 Ladye ! 
 Come pledge me in the wine ! 
 
 " When I behold thy smiling lips 
 To that bright draught incline, 
 Methinks young Love his pinions dips 
 With them to meet the wine, 
 
 Ladye ! 
 With them to meet the wine. 
 
 " The kihd good wish those lips express, 
 Warm from the heart benign ; 
 It hath a tenfold power to bless, 
 Breathed o'er the mantling wine, 
 
 Ladye ! 
 Breathed o'er the mantling wine.
 
 278 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 " And hark ! with sweet and silvery clink, 
 Thy glass rings clear on mine ; 
 Of hearts accordant thus we think, 
 While pledging in the wine, 
 
 Ladye ! 
 While pledging in the wine. 
 
 " To fish the streams, to flowers supply, 
 Their dewdrops clear and fine. 
 Give nectar to the gods on high, 
 My share be rosy wine, 
 
 Ladye ! 
 My share be rosy wine. 
 
 " Then quaff life's joys, while sparkling up, 
 They bid thee make them thine ; 
 And let thy red lip kiss the cup 
 To pledge thy love in wine, 
 
 Ladye ! 
 To pledge thy love in wine." 
 
 " A^eiy pretty, indeed !" exclaimed Miss Forbes 
 Graham, as she finished reading. 
 
 "Very pretty, indeed, for ^ a reading man!'" 
 echoed Bob. " Written con am ore, I think. Eh, 
 Clifton?" 
 
 " Jealousy, jealousy !" retorted Harriette, 
 laughing — " envy and jealousy. Come, Amy, let 
 us finish our charades, and then we can teach 
 Charles the song." 
 
 The charades were announced for performance 
 on the folloYv^ing evening, when the usual party 
 at dinner was augmented by several guests from 
 the neighbourhood. On this occasion, the large 
 folding-doors between the two drawing-rooms 
 were flung wide open, and a semicircle of sofas 
 for tlie spectators placed near them, leaving 
 space enough for the performers to advance within 
 the doors. The chandelier of the smaller draw-
 
 THE FALCONARS. 279 
 
 ing-rooni threw a full blaze of light upon this 
 stage, and two little rooms, opening to it on the 
 right and left side, were appropriated as green- 
 rooms for the rapid changes of costume necessary. 
 The masculine corps dramatique consisted of all 
 the young men but George, and Dick Cousins, 
 who was not invited to lend his assistance, hut 
 revolved between the drawing-room and the gen- 
 tlemen's green-room, making himself useful, whilst 
 a similar part was filled by Miss Ireland towards 
 .the young ladies. Aunt Elizabeth, an excellent 
 performer of dancing music, took her station at 
 the pianoforte, which had been drawn near to 
 that part of the room, and commenced the enter- 
 tainments en regie by playing " God save the 
 King." 
 
 Various words were acted, Avliich, more or less, 
 called forth the talents for repartee, and the 
 dramatic versatility of the performers ; and Lady 
 Susan's song scene, amongst others, went oft' with 
 great brilliancy. The best actors were beyond 
 compare, Lord Aylesmore, Clifton, and Alfred 
 Falconar — Captain Forbes Graliam being too lan- 
 guid, and Robert too heedless. Of the ladies, 
 the greatest proficients were Lady Susan, Amabel, 
 and Miss Forbes Graham. They had had the 
 . advantage of previous practice, and were gifted, 
 not only with considerable natural quickness, but 
 with that perfect ease, confidence, and absence of 
 everything like timidity, which were calculated 
 to give it its full scope. Gertrude's beauty and 
 elegance were more remarkable in the still-life 
 part of the performance than her histrionic
 
 280 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 powers. Eleanor did the little that she had to do 
 with much timid grace ; and could she have per- 
 mitted her talent to get the better of her shyness, 
 it was very evident that her acting would not 
 have fallen short of the highest efforts of her com- 
 panions. Guy Clifton, who had profited by the 
 pretext of instructing her, to be as frequently as 
 possible near her during the day, did not fail to 
 remark this; nor did Lord Aylesmore, who felt 
 what he considered a remarkable degree of un- 
 sophisticated modesty an inducement to prose- 
 cute so piquant a flirtation. 
 
 Great applause was elicited by each successive 
 essay, and some ingenuity exercised by the un- 
 initiated in guessing the words signified. The 
 last one, Waverley^ was by far the most brilliant. 
 This word was divided in two parts, Waver, and 
 by a slight change of orthography, Lie^ instead 
 of Ley, which was found unmanageable. The 
 first part represented a ball-room, where stood 
 Lady Susan as hostess. To her enter two guests, 
 Forbes Graham and Eobert, between whom a con- 
 versation ensues touching the rival claims of 
 two beauties, who are expected at the ball, to 
 the heart of their friend Mr. Weathercock, who 
 has been for some months in a state of uncer- 
 tainty, to which he shall offer his hand. At this 
 juncture, enter Harriette, Amabel, Gertrude, and 
 Eleanor ; the two former conducted by Falconar 
 and Clifton, whilst Forbes Graham and Eobert 
 hasten to secure the hands of the latter. Aunt 
 Elizabeth strikes up a Polonaise, and they all 
 promenade once round the stage, when Lord
 
 THE FALCONARS. 281 
 
 Aylesmore enters alone as Mr. Weatliercock. He 
 starts back in ecstasy, clasps his hands, and looks 
 alternately at Gertrude and at Eleanor; makes 
 a step forward towards one, then stops short and 
 turns to the other. The music of a quadrille 
 begins, low^ and softly played, so as not to drown 
 his soliloquy. He inquires of himself which he 
 shall ask to dance, " the blue-eyed Sacharissa or 
 the dark-haired Amoret ?" He now resolves upon 
 one, now on the other; at last he decides for 
 Sacharissa, when just as he is turning to her, he 
 sees her led off by Falconar. In a violent hurry, 
 he darts towards Amoret, whom, just as he 
 approaches, Clifton secures for the quadrille, 
 which is now danced in the back-ground ; whilst 
 Mr. Weathercock leads forward his hostess, and 
 implores her advice with regard to the destina- 
 tion of his heart and hand. She no sooner re- 
 commends one lady, than he brings forward reasons 
 in support of his preference for the other. At 
 length, declaring herself weary of his vacillation, 
 she leaves him. The quadrille here stops, and 
 the dancers come forward. Again Mr. Weather- 
 cock, asks himself, "Shall it be Sacharissa? — 
 shall it be Amoret?" He makes a motion to 
 fling himself at the feet of the former, then 
 abruptly pauses — draws back — flies to the latter 
 — seizes her hand — is about to raise it to his 
 lips, when on a sudden he lets it fall — strikes 
 his own upon his heart — turns a despairing 
 glance towards Sacharissa, exclaiming — 
 
 " How happy could I be with either, 
 Were t'other dear charmer away !" —
 
 282 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 and rushes in desperation from tlie room, when 
 the scene closes. 
 
 The next syllable, Lie, was represented by the 
 scene from Foote's farce of "the Liar;" in which 
 Young AVilding (Lord Aylesmore) attended by 
 his servant Papillon (Eobert) follows Miss 
 Grantam, who was personated by Amabel, in the 
 park, and gives her a false account of himself, his 
 life, and adventures ; but having begun by telling 
 her that he has watched \inder her window every 
 day for a year past, betrays himself at the end in 
 requesting permission to visit her, by asking 
 where her residence is. The scene, one ad- 
 mirably adapted for acting, received ample jus- 
 tice from its performers, and was closed amid 
 bursts of laughter and applause. 
 
 Lastly came the whole word, Waverley, to con- 
 vey whose meaning, the scene of the ball at 
 Ilolyrood, on the eve of the battle of Preston, 
 had been selected. Considering the metamor- 
 phoses which were to be effected on the outward 
 man of the actors, by means of all sorts and kinds 
 of tartan drapery and white cockades, the signal 
 for its commencement — -a whistle from the door 
 of the gentlemen's green-room, was given in a 
 wonderfully short time. On hearing this sound. 
 Aunt Elizabeth struck up " the White Cockade," 
 and the performers came forward with stately 
 steps. Clifton, as the unfortunate Charles Ed- 
 ward, in his fanciful Highland costume, and 
 flowing periwig of light brown hair, looked every 
 inch a prince ; he conducted Amabel, as Flora 
 Maclvor, and was followed by Eobert, as Lochiel,
 
 THE FALCONAES. 283 
 
 leading Harriette in the character of Eose Brad- 
 wardine. Immediately on their entrance appear 
 Lady Susan, Gertrude, and Eleanor, who are re- 
 spectively greeted by Prince Charles, as Lady 
 Kilmarnock, Lady Macintosh, and Mrs. Murray of 
 Broughton,the first and last distinguished beauties 
 of that short-lived court. This party are no sooner 
 assembled, and the Prince has just concluded his 
 speech of welcome, when again the door flies wide, 
 and enter Lord Aylesmore, in a strange, old- 
 fashioned volunteer uniform, representing the 
 Baron of Bradwardine, followed by Captain 
 Forbes Graham as Waverley, and Alfred as Fer- 
 gus Maclvor. They are welcomed by name by 
 the Prince, to whom Waverley kneels, whilst 
 Flora looks on with a calm and somewhat hauglity 
 air, and Rose with evident delight. Fergus then 
 presents AYaverley to the former, wdio declares 
 that she receives him as *' a second brother." The 
 Prince then leading Waverley forward, converses 
 with and introduces him to Lochiel ; holds some 
 talk with the Baron, and finally calls for the music 
 to strike up a reel. At the word, a lively reel 
 begins. The Prince leads forward Flora, and "Wa- 
 verley, Rose. The baron, declaring that he cannot 
 remain still under such inspiring strains, gal- 
 lantly conducts Lady Kilmarnock to the dance, 
 whilst Lochiel does the same by Mrs. Murray. 
 Fergus and Lady Macintosh advance, and at a 
 whisper from Mrs. Livingstone, their number is 
 completed by Dick Cousins and Miss L'eland, 
 when tliree beautiful reels are in an instant-
 
 284 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 formed, and twining with agile boundings tlirough 
 the line of beauty, or exchanging their light steps 
 for the staccato movement of the Strathspey — 
 just in time to prevent the dance from flagging 
 in spirit, each gentleman, at a signal from the 
 Prince, seized his partner by both hands in 
 settings and gracefully whirled her off the stage. 
 A thunder of applause followed their departing 
 steps.
 
 THE FALCONAES. 28i 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 " Cousins, God give you joy !" 
 
 ^lucH Ado auout Xothing. 
 
 The Highland dresses were considered too be- 
 coming to be thrown aside, and accordingly tlie 
 charade-players re-appeared as they had departed ; 
 and whilst the servants were engaged in restoring 
 order, and bringing in refreshments, dispersed 
 themselves amongst the company, enjoying tlieir 
 plandits, and the wonderment expressed by some 
 who had never seen charades before. 
 
 *' Look at Clifton in that periwig!" exclaimed 
 the representative of Lochiel, arresting the pro- 
 gress of his friend, as he was advancing to a sofa 
 where Eleanor sat alone. " Wouldn't one swear 
 he was a family picture walking out of its 
 frame?" 
 
 This was addressed to Alfred, but replied to 
 by Aunt Annie, whose heart had been deeply im- 
 pressed by Clifton's admirable reel-dancing, not 
 less than by his beauty and aristocratic bearing 
 in the character of Prince Charles, a name which,
 
 286 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 associated with her Jacobite predilections as it 
 was, awakened some of the higliest and best feel- 
 ings possessed by the old lady. 
 
 '' It would be a very fine picture, then, my 
 dear," said she. " Gentlemen don't look like 
 gentlemen now-a-days, with their pookit heads. 
 In my young days, Mr. Clifton, powder was the 
 mark of a gentleman, and my worthy father 
 always wore his hair long, and turned up in what 
 they called a club." 
 
 " This is an older fashion still, Miss Falconar," 
 said Clifton. "Do you admire it as much?" 
 
 "It looks very well on 2/ou^ Mr. Clifton," re- 
 plied Aunt Annie; "and really you're very like 
 a Highlander ; I have a warm side to. Prince 
 Charlie, you must know. j\Iy mother's brother 
 was out in the Forty-five ; and, indeed, though my 
 grandfather, the Laird of Cargarth, did not go 
 out himself, his youngest brother and son went, 
 my uncle that was. And I didn't expect to see 
 an Englishman dance reels so well as you do." 
 
 " But I am only half an Englishman," said 
 Clifton. " I was born in Scotland, half the 
 blood in my veins is Scotch, and, I can assure 
 you, half my heart." 
 
 " It just shews your sense, my dear," returned 
 Aunt Annie. " I am very glad to hear you say 
 so. Wasn't your mother a Scotchwoman? I 
 remember seeing you in Edinburgh with my 
 nephew^, I think, when you were a laddie." 
 
 " Yes, Miss Falconar, I have had the pleasure 
 of seeing you then, more than once. My mother 
 was a Scotchwoman. Her name was Elliott."
 
 THE FALCONARS. 287 
 
 " Elliott — Elliott!" repeated Aunt Annie, in a 
 musing tone. " Sit down on the sofa beside nie, 
 my dear." Then, as he obeyed — " Do you re- 
 member if your motlier's mother's name was 
 Craufnrd? Craufurd of Spittalmorton ?" 
 
 " Keally, madam," replied Clifton, " I cannot 
 be certain ; I lost my mother so very young ; but, 
 yes, I believe my grandmother's name ivas 
 Craufurd, as you say, and that she was the 
 daughter of the Laird of Spittalmorton, or some 
 name very like it." 
 
 " I thought so," quoth Aunt Annie. '' Well, 
 then, my dear, I may claim some distant rela- 
 tionship with you; for my mother had an aunt 
 whose first husband was a Walter Craufurd, of 
 the Spittalmorton family. She herself was a 
 Miss Edmonstone, of Burnlee. Indeed, I may 
 say that we are in some degree doubly, and even 
 triply connected ; for her mother again had a 
 brother married to Miss Marjory Belshes, of 
 Auchterhewan, who Avas a daughter of one of the 
 Spittalmorton Craufurds ; and then, moreover, 
 her own second husband was a cousin of the first, 
 still through the Spittalmorton line. Sir John 
 Stirling, of Easterhouses, was his name; and his 
 mother " 
 
 Here, just as Guy's brain was beginning to 
 turn in the labyrinthine maze of mothers, and 
 aunts, and cousins, through which Aunt Annie 
 was conducting him, Eobert came up to the 
 rescue. " Why, Clifton," he exclaimed, " your 
 metaphysics are a joke to this ! Aunt Annie,
 
 288 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 what mortal head do you think can follow such 
 a family tree in all its windings?" 
 
 '' Indeed, Robert, my dear," responded Aunt 
 Annie, somewhat gravely, '^ people who are not 
 able to go quite so far back oil both sides of the 
 house, would be wiser to hold their tongues about 
 family trees." 
 
 '' Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the contumacious Ro- 
 bert . " I am sure. Aunt Annie, that is my mis- 
 fortune. It is too bad to reproach me with it. 
 And now, Clifton, can you tell me how, or by 
 what means, we come to be cousins, as I fmd we 
 are to consider ourselves?" 
 
 '' Are we proved to be cousins of yours, Mr. 
 Clifton?" inquired Eleanor, who was near enough 
 to hear what Robert said. 
 
 " So I am extremely happy to find," replied 
 Clifton, rising from his seat, into whicli Robert 
 immediately dropped, for the dutiful purpose of 
 teasing his aunt. " I can't exactly explain how, 
 though," added he, as he placed himself beside 
 her. 
 
 " Nor can I assist you, I fear, Mr. Clif- 
 ton," said Eleanor, laughing, " if it was a 
 genealogical table of Aunt Annie's that proved 
 the fact." 
 
 " It was even so," replied he. " Yet, do you 
 know, I like, in this commercial age, to meet 
 with such a remnant of old fashioned Scottish 
 feeling as that implies. There is a memorial of 
 the kindliness and hospitality of other days in 
 that fondness for discovering cousinships. And
 
 THE FALCONARS. 289 
 
 I should like to be able to tliink that we were 
 cousins." 
 
 " So should I, I am sure," said Eleanor, with 
 great simplicity. 
 
 ^' Then we shall leave that fact undisturbed," 
 resumed Clifton, " in all the sublime obscurity 
 of an idea that we would fain believe to be true, 
 yet dare not too closely investigate, lest the 
 grounds of our belief slide from beneath us while 
 doing so. Yes, too many of the marked and 
 prominent features of Scottish character have 
 faded away under the influx of foreign wealth 
 and polish ; and I have so much of the spirit of 
 my mother-land, to coin a Germanism, as to love 
 dearly all that brings her former self before me 
 again." 
 
 " May it please your highness," said Mrs. 
 Livingstone, coming up at this instant, " to offer 
 your loyal partner some refreshment ? There is 
 a table in the small drawing-room, with ices, 
 and wine, and other things. I dare say you are 
 all tired." 
 
 " Indeed, I am sure you must be fatigued, 
 Miss Falconar," exclaimed Clifton; " I might 
 have thought of that before ! Will you take my 
 arm, and come to the other room!" 
 
 " I am not in the least tired, I assure you," 
 said Eleanor, as she accepted his offered arm, " I 
 enjoyed the charades so much." 
 
 " Did you really?" he eagerly replied. " I 
 am delighted to hear it. I could not help feeling 
 afraid that you might be annoyed by our all 
 urging you to join them against your will." 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 290 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 " I slioiild have been very ungrateful if I had," 
 returned Eleanor, ^' after the kind pains that 
 you, especially, took in instructing my igno- 
 rance." 
 
 " Kind !" exclaimed Clifton. *' If you could 
 imagine how much I enjoyed doing anything that 
 might cheat me into a belief that I was of some 
 service to you 1" 
 
 They were now amongst the group surrounding 
 the refreshment table, so that Eleanor was saved 
 replying to this speech, otherwise than by the 
 deep blush which it brought over her counte- 
 nance, unconsciously to herself. Some little time 
 after this the visitors began departing, and the 
 ladies of the family then retired for the night. 
 
 Eleanor's room being next to that of her aunts, 
 (for Aunt Elizabeth occupied a small apartment 
 entered through Aunt Annie's,) she requested 
 admittance there, for the purpose of receiving 
 Mrs. Martha's assistance in disrobing her of her 
 tartan scarf and white breast-knots, the pins and 
 fastenings of which defied her own efforts. This 
 being accorded, she entered and sat down by the 
 fire, awaiting the leisure of that important func- 
 tionary,' who was occupied in arranging her lady's 
 head -gear for the night. Aunt Elizabeth, mean- 
 while, actively flitted between the two rooms; 
 and finally, invested in a flannel dressing gown, 
 sat down to the glass, and began putting up her 
 own hair. 
 
 " Beautiful creatures, the Livingstones !" ex- 
 claimed she, as she commenced her operations.
 
 THE FALCONARS. 291 
 
 '' I never saw tliem look lovelier than they did 
 to-night. I couldn't keep my eyes from them." 
 
 " They are beautiful girls, certainly," said 
 Aunt Annie. " Amabel has great cause for 
 thankfulness to see her family grow up as they 
 have done. Still, Elizabeth, there's something 
 about Lady Susan, I don't know what it is; she 
 is not, perhaps, so regularly handsome ; but such 
 a look of high birth and " 
 
 " High birth, Aunt xVnnie ! Can you really 
 pretend to say that the Livingstones have not a 
 look of high birth ? I am sure I never saw it, 
 then, if not in them. I never heard of such an 
 idea!" 
 
 "My dear, you needn't be so very touchy; I 
 never said anything to the contrary ; but surely 
 I may be allowed to admire Lady Susan. Elea- 
 nor, my dear, her ringlets now are really beau- 
 tiful. I wish you could do yours the same way." 
 
 " My hair is not quite so long, Aunt Annie," 
 said Eleanor, who had observed that not another 
 word had been uttered in disparagement of her 
 ringlets by her aunts, since they had seen Lady 
 Susan wearing her light brown, silky tresses 
 almost down to her shoulders. " Besides, re- 
 member what a lovely face there is beneath 
 hers." 
 
 " That's very true," replied Aunt Annie. 
 " But, my dear, I wish yom^ gown were trimmed 
 higher up the skirt, like Gertrude's and Ama- 
 bel's. Yours looks like nothing beside them." 
 
 " AYell, — but. Aunt Annie," said Eleanor, 
 02
 
 292 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 with a smile, " remember how much taller they 
 are than I. It would look quite absurd for my 
 skirt to be trimmed as high as theirs." 
 
 " I don't know, I'm sure, my dear; but they 
 look far better." 
 
 " I dare say they do," replied Eleanor; " and 
 so should I, if I were as pretty." 
 
 " Humph !" ejaculated the younger aunt, not 
 in the most urbane tone. 
 
 " My certy, Miss Eellen !" interposed Martha, 
 whose presence never interrupted any discussion 
 between her ladies, of what nature soever, " ye 
 may just be unco' thankfu' ye are as ye are. 
 Troth, a'm no sure but I like your bonny face as 
 weel 's Miss Liviston's, for a' that." 
 
 " My gracious, Martha, what makes you 
 speak such nonsense, and fill a young person's 
 head with such ridiculous flattery?" exclaimed 
 Aunt Annie. 
 
 " Troth, Miss Annie," responded Martha, who 
 dearly loved to contradict her mistresses, with 
 whom she was all powerful, " I maun just hae 
 my say, as weel as my neebors. An' I canna' 
 thole ava' to see young fock snooled an' hadden 
 doon that gate, an tell't that they're no as bonny 
 as they are. Od! they find it oot^sune aneuch, 
 an' it just gars them hae mair roose o' theirsells 
 to keep it frae them. I'm thinkin. Miss Eellen, 
 the lads think you bonny aneuch. I seed a braw 
 callant i' the sherubbery, wi' you an' Maister 
 Fa'conar, yesterday mornin', when I was here 
 sortin' Miss Annie's kep at the window ; an', my
 
 THE TALCONARS. 293 
 
 troth, he lookit unco' gleg i' your face ! I just 
 said, says T, ' Miss Annie,' says I " 
 
 " Hold your tongue, Martha!" interposed 
 Aunt Elizabeth, with dignity. " Pray, Eleanor, 
 if I may ask, in whose company was it that 
 Alfred was pleased to expose you to such ob- 
 servations?" 
 
 " My dear Aunt Elizabeth," answered Eleanor, 
 unable to help laughing, " I had been walking 
 before breakfast with Alfred, and just as we were 
 returning to the house, we met Mr. Clifton ; so I 
 suppose he must have been Martha's * braw cal- 
 lant,' for we all went in together by the terrace 
 door as the gong rang." 
 
 " Mr. Clifton !" sneeringly replied the prudent 
 aunt; " oh, indeed, I needn't have asked when lie 
 was in the house. Only I must tell you, Eleanor, 
 that your Aunt, Mrs. Livingstone, considers him 
 a very flighty young man ; not by any means the 
 best companion for your brother, I can assure 
 you. I wish you would take example by the 
 perfectly, admirably proper deportment of your 
 cousins. I am sure you won't see anything out 
 of the way about their conduct or choice of friends ; 
 but I suppose such quiet prudence doesn't suit 
 your notioni'^; or Mr. Clifton's either?" 
 
 " Well, Elizabeth," said Aunt Annie, " all you 
 say may be very just; but Mr. Clifton is a very 
 good-looking young man, quite a gentleman, and 
 I really think uncommonly well-bred and sensible ; 
 so I dare say it must be Alfred that puts non- 
 sense into his head when they are together. 
 Keally it's astonishing how much harm laddies
 
 294 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 like tliem may do each other in that way ! And 
 now, Martha, you may go and help Miss Eleanor 
 to get off these daft-like things. Ay me ! young 
 folks have queer kinds of ploys now-a-days to 
 divert themselves ! Very different from my day I" 
 
 '' Unco' trankums here !" ejaculated Martha, 
 whilst hunting for the head of a refractory pin, 
 through several folds of Eleanor's plaid. ' ' Na, troth ! 
 this prin beats prent ! Here it's though. Od, 
 Miss Eellen, wha' was it ava' that prinned on that 
 plaid? Did ever ony mortal see siccan a legion 
 o' prins? It wad be ane o' their braw new- 
 fangled leddies'-maids, I'se warrant? They're a' 
 sae grand an' upsetting, wi' their tail ; they 
 canna' sae muckle as stick in a prin wise-like ! 
 An' did ye gang maj©rin' in afore a' the fock, 
 Miss Eellen, wi' a' thae tartan duds, an' white 
 ribbons, hingin' oure yer shouther ? Hech, sirs ! 
 queer ploys in troth, as Miss Annie says." 
 
 "I must say, indeed, Eleanor," interposed 
 Aunt Elizabeth, breaking the string of her night- 
 cap by a wrathful jerk, " all that acting, and that 
 sort of tiling, may do very well for girls of for- 
 tune like the Livingstones and Miss Forbes 
 Graham; but upon my word your aunt and I 
 wont be sorry to see you return home before 
 there is any more of it. We do not consider 
 it the best possible thing in your situation, 
 and " 
 
 ^'Oh, dear ay!" added Aunt Annie. "It's 
 no advantage to you, my dear, in the present 
 state of your brother's affairs, to be acting and 
 playing at nonsense with all these wild young
 
 THE FALCONARS. 295 
 
 men! As Mrs. Livingstone very justly re- 
 marked " 
 
 *' My dear aunts," interrupted Eleanor, gently, 
 but in a firm voice, struggling bravely with the 
 tears of wounded feeling, which she felt springing 
 to her eyes, " since you choose the present strange 
 time for discussing this subject, you must really 
 permit me to say that I cannot see any harm iu 
 my mingling in the amusements of my equals ; 
 but that my acting; as you choose to call it, was, 
 as you know, solely to make out the number of 
 performers, and that I only consented to join 
 them, after declining, at the urgent request of the 
 others. Moreover, if my Aunt Livingstone has 
 any observations to make on my conduct, I think 
 it would be kinder and more just if she made 
 them to myself, rather than to you. As to my 
 stay here, next week will end that, at any rate ; 
 so I hope," she added, with a smile, " that there 
 is no need to make yourselves uneasy about me. 
 And now good-night. Thank you, Martha, I 
 can do all the rest myself." 
 
 "Ay! that is one of her brother's lessons," 
 said Aunt Elizabeth, as the door closed upon her 
 niece. 
 
 "Hoot, fye, Miss Eleezabeth {"exclaimed Martha. 
 " Ye're vera far wrang to be sae hard on the bit 
 young lassie! Na, na! Fair play, sirs — fair 
 play ! I dinna like to see " 
 
 " Martha," quoth Aunt Annie, " I desire you 
 will hold your peace. There's no standing this 
 constant interference." 
 
 "Oh, ay! Miss Annie; 'tweel I'se baud my
 
 29G THE FORTUNES OE 
 
 peace ! My certy ! Fse warrant !" And the 
 incensed handmaiden flounced through the re- 
 mainder of her evening duties in sullen silence, 
 only broken by occasional interjections, sotto voce, 
 of a similar nature to the above. In fact, a com- 
 pletely spoilt but faithful servant, attached, top, 
 in her own way, to all the members of a family, 
 amongst whom upwards of thirty years of her 
 life had been spent, she had no idea of refraining 
 from taking her part in any conversation carried 
 on in her presence, or of withholding her opinion 
 on any subject. Such, indeed, was the fashion of 
 a once numerous, but now rapidly-diminishing 
 class — Scottish family servants. So completely 
 did Aunt Annie stand in awe of her domestic, 
 that she found it necessary, in the present in- 
 stance, to employ various arts of conciliation to- 
 wards her; at first, with but little success, but 
 which at length, in some measure, appeased the 
 troubled spirit of Mrs. Martha, ere she left her 
 ladies for the night. 
 
 Our heroine, meanwhile, prepared for rest by 
 her chamber fire. And if some tears escaped her 
 eyes, called forth by the harsh injustice of her 
 aunts, they were dried ere she knelt down to her 
 devotions ; and a glow of gratitude animated her 
 heart as she reflected how much more she pos- 
 sessed than many others, and how free was the 
 bounty that gave it all to her, undeserving as a 
 mortal must ever be in the eyes of his Creator ; 
 and when she laid her head upon her pillow, 
 there was a beam of radiance lingering there, not 
 all heavenly, yet with a touch of ethereal light.
 
 THE FALCONARS. 297 
 
 beautifying its earthliness ; the tlioiiglit of a kin- 
 dred spirit, to whom the bond of sympathy, felt 
 rather than acknowledged, was already beginning 
 to fetter her own as with a silver cord ; the 
 thrilling voice, and the " lightning" smile of 
 Guy Clifton were in her ear and before her eye 
 as she sank asleep, nor did they quit her dreams.
 
 298 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 " Those of either sex, but particularly the female, who are 
 lukewarm in that most important of all things, religion — ' oh, my 
 soul, come not thou into their secret !' " — Note Book of Burns. 
 
 ^' What upon earth is that you are poring over, 
 Clifton?" inquired Robert Livingstone, entering 
 the library on Sunday, some time after luncheon. 
 
 " A book of one of your famous Scotch divines," 
 replied Clifton. ^' ^ Chalmers' Astronomical Ser- 
 mons.' " 
 
 " Sermons !" exclaimed Robert, in amazement. 
 " Surely, you have had enough of sermons in 
 church to-day ! After an hour and a half of old 
 Robertson's prose, I really think your conscience 
 might be satisfied." 
 
 '' I am not reading by way of compounding 
 with my conscience," replied Clifton, smiling. 
 " I can assure you it is no penance to read Dr. 
 Chalmers, Bob, as you would find, if you were to 
 try." 
 
 '^ Me try ! Catch me reading a sermon-book ! 
 I think myself a very good boy when I attend
 
 THE FALCON ARS. 299 
 
 church, whicli, I am sure, I do most dutifully. 
 But here comes my little cousiu Ellen, with her 
 grave Sunday face, and Alfred too. Now what 
 have you two been about — idling away your pre- 
 cious time in unprofitable conversation ? Why 
 don't you take example by Clifton here, and ' tak' 
 the beuk.' " 
 
 " ' Tak' the beuk' yourself. Bob," said Eleanor, 
 ^' and don't interrupt our studies. We came 
 here for no other purpose." 
 
 " What !" inquired Eobert, with a very mean- 
 ing smile, " are you going to study Dr. Chalmers 
 along with Clifton?" 
 
 " No, Bob," said Alfred, " Clifton may safely 
 be left to his own devices ; it would be a greater 
 act of charity for Eleanor to invite i/ou to study 
 with her ; but I don't think she intends to sacri- 
 fice her own comfort so far. / brought her here, 
 that I might find Jeremy Taylor's ' Holy Living,' 
 which I want her to read. Can you tell me 
 where to search for it ?" 
 
 " Not I, 'faith, Alfred; haven't a notion." 
 
 " Indeed, I need not have asked you, I be- 
 lieve," said Alfred, with a smile. " I must look 
 for it myself." 
 
 "Jeremy Taylor! Have you never read any 
 of his works. Miss Falconar?" inquired Clifton. 
 
 '' Never, I am ashamed to say," replied Eleanor. 
 
 " I am sure," said he, " when you do, you will 
 be delighted with him. If you will do me the 
 honour to accept the loan of my copy of the * Holy 
 Living,' that will not hurry you so much as reading 
 one from this library. You can keep it as long as
 
 300 THE FORTUNES OF 
 
 you choose. I have it here ; I always carry 
 Jeremy about with me ; he is one of my favourite 
 authors." 
 
 " I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Clifton," 
 replied Eleanor ; " only, if you read it so con- 
 stantly, I should be sorry to deprive you of it." 
 
 " I shall be too happy to be so deprived of it," 
 said he. " You shall have it this instant." 
 
 " I wonder, now, how many scores of books 
 Clifton carries with him, wherever he goes," said 
 Bob, as Guy left the room. " The books he had 
 lying about his room at Bowness! No mortal 
 would believe it. I never could fathom where he 
 packed them all." 
 
 " Here, Miss Falconar," said Clifton, re-enter- 
 ing with two volumes in his hand — " here is the 
 ' Holy Living ;' and this is a volume of Taylor's 
 ' Sermons,' of which I should particularly recom- 
 mend the first one to your notice — ^ On the 
 Miracles of the Divine Mercy.' It is one of the 
 finest, the most poetical compositions in the 
 English language, and full of the most consolatory 
 truth." 
 
 *' Sermons again!" exclaimed Bob, as Eleanor 
 received and carried away the books to her own 
 apartment; " nothing but sermons! Why, in all 
 the world, Clifton, didn't you get japanned before 
 you left Oxford? I think you are just the very 
 stuff to make a parson of." 
 
 " There we differ, Bob," said Clifton, smiling. 
 " I happen to have a very exalted idea of the 
 stuff requisite to make a parson." 
 
 ^' Oh ! you're here^ Mr. Bob !" said Dick
 
 THE FALCONAES. 301 
 
 Cousins, half-opening the door, and inserting his 
 sandy head at the crevice; " I've been hunting 
 for you all over the house. Tom Leishman, Mr. 
 George's groom, wants a word with you." 
 
 " Yery well, Dick, I'm coming;" and off hiu'- 
 ried Bob. 
 
 '' How I hate to see Bob toadied by that for- 
 ward cub!" exclaimed Alfred — '' such a good- 
 hearted fellow as he is; it is quite grievous." 
 
 " It will be a fortunate thing for him," said 
 Clifton, " when the purchase of his cornetcy is 
 completed, and he is sent to join his regiment — 
 home, with a Dick Cousins for his chosen com- 
 panion, is a bad place for Bob." 
 
 The two young men remained in the library 
 till dressing-time; whilst Eleanor, in her own 
 apartment, was feasting on the eloquent pages of 
 Jeremy Taylor, which, imperceptibly to herself, 
 borrowed a deeper interest from the circumstance 
 of the volumes being inscribed with the name of 
 ^' Guy Dacre Clifton, Ch. Ch. Oxford, 1819 ;" and 
 marked, after the fashion of many enthusiastic 
 students, with lines indicating his favourite pas- 
 sages : a practice which invests a book belonging 
 to any one we love with a very peculiar charm, 
 as seeming to bring our minds into contact. 
 
 A less intellectual party, meanwhile, occupied 
 the drawing-room. Sunday at Ferneylee was a 
 different day from Sunday at Mosspatrick. There 
 were no vulgar citizen cousins driving out in 
 gigs — no " Sunday tasks," or Sunday hats and 
 bonnets — no Sunday walks, for the purpose of 
 discussing week-day business — no Sunday guests
 
 302 THE EOETUNES OF 
 
 and dinner-parties ; all was elegance, and refine- 
 ment, and attention to propriety. Yet, perhaps, 
 there was little beyond the mere outward show to 
 distinguish the two modes of Sabbath-keeping. 
 
 The morning having been fine, the whole party 
 attended church, Avith tlie exceptions of Lady 
 Susan (who had a headache, and did not appear at 
 breakfast) and Mrs. Livingstone, who had — some 
 letters to write. But after luncheon, a violent 
 rain came on, and laid a restraining hand on the 
 movements of tlie household. We have already 
 seen how some of the party occupied themselves 
 in this emergency ; of the rest, Gertrude and 
 Miss Forbes Graham having taken refuge in 
 Lady Susan's dressing-room, were seated round 
 the fire with her, engaged in very amusing con- 
 versation, by no means tinctured with any extra- 
 ordinary spirit of solemnity. In the drawing- 
 room, by the fire, sat Mr. Livingstone, deeply 
 intent on a newspaper. In the opposite j^«^^ew?7. 
 Aunt Annie, with a volume of sermons in her 
 hand, had just placed her spectacle-case between 
 its leaves, in the middle of a discourse on the 
 text — " Charity thinketh no evil," — and sat list- 
 ening with due attention to a scandalous story, 
 related in a low and mysterious tone by l^Iiss 
 Farquharson, who, with " Hervey's Meditations" 
 lying on her lap, held a letter that morning re- 
 ceived from Edinburgh, her authority for the 
 ^' wondrous tale." At the other end of the sofa 
 occupied by her, reclined George, with half-closed 
 eyes, and mouth ever and anon distending in 
 portentous yawns, perusing a volume of "Quentin 
 Durward," then the last new Waverley novel; to
 
 THE FALCONARS. 303 
 
 ■which most iimvouted employment he had been 
 driven, as a desperate refuge from ennui. Mrs. 
 Livingstone and Aunt Elizabeth, seated at a little 
 distance from this group, were quietly engaged in 
 a confidential chat; for Mrs. Livingstone " had 
 so much to think of just then, that she really 
 found it impossible to chain her attention to a 
 book;" and Aunt Elizabeth avowed her opinion 
 to be, that " one gets quite exhausted, and that the 
 mind becomes quite vv^orn out by spending a whole 
 )SuncIay in serious occupations." Miss L'eland, 
 placed alone in a window, was apparently of the 
 same way of thinking; for she was recruiting the 
 exhaustedpowers of her intellectby a snug peepinto 
 a novel, read in a furtive manner, with a glance 
 round now and then to see whether any one was 
 looking. Lord Aylesmore, in the recess of the 
 bay-window, was employed with his pencil on 
 what bore a strong resemblance to a very clever 
 caricature of Aunt Annie and Miss Farquharson. 
 In the back drawing-room was a whispering pair, 
 Amabel and Captain Forbes Graham — the lady 
 holding in her hand a copy of " Lallah Eookh," 
 which she had gone into that room ^' just to look 
 for," as she had " not the slightest idea of finding 
 Captain Graham moping there all alone." Thus 
 severally occupied, the party contrived, with 
 more or less difficulty, to drag through the time, 
 till the welcome summons of the gong dispersed 
 them for the purpose of dressing. 
 
 The evening passed very much as might have 
 been expected. Most of the company, even whilst 
 following their " own sweet will," seemed still to 
 retain an uneasy recollection of its being Sunday,
 
 304 THE FALCONARS. 
 
 — ^wliich recollection displayed itself in a more 
 than common degree of languor and ennui. They 
 could not easily get over the importunate even- 
 ing, even with the aid of novels and portfolios of 
 prints. Lord Aylesmore moralized with Lady 
 Susan on the wearisomeness of a Scottish Sun- 
 day, and eulogized the better sense displayed in 
 England, in neither forbidding music nor cards 
 on that day; "for," said his lordship, " there is 
 not one of us a bit better employed than if we 
 were pursuing these forbidden recreations ; and 
 surely, there can be no virtue in yawning and 
 wearying of ourselves, and each other." Miss 
 Forbes Graham engaged Alfred in a flirtation — 
 Kobert pursued Eleanor to the corner of the room, 
 whither she had retreated with Jeremy Taylor, 
 and rallied her on her piety and her " Sunday 
 studies" — and Aunt Annie seized upon Clifton, 
 and detained him by her side with interminable 
 genealogical questions and reminiscences, " an 
 hour by Shrewsbury clock." At last the servants 
 were assembled in the dining-room, and thither 
 the party proceeded to prayers ; which being over, 
 the wine and water made their appearance, and 
 the evening closed. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 .T. C. Savill, Printer, 107, St. Martin's Lane.