ANY THING BUT WHAT YOU EXPECT.

BY JANE HARVEY,

AUTHOR OF MONTEITH—ETHELIA—MEMOIRS OF AN

AUTHOR—RECORDS OF A NOBLE FAMILY, ETC. ETC. ETC.

In Three Volumes.

VOLUME I.

“Alle day

“It is both writ and sayde,

“That woman’s faith is, as who sayth;

“Alle utterly decayed.

“But nevertheless right good witness

“I’ this case might be layde,

“That they love trewe, and contynewe.—”

Nut Browne Mayde.

DERBY:

PRINTED BY AND FOR HENRY MOZLEY.

1819.

ANY THING

BUT WHAT YOU EXPECT.

CHAPTER I.

IT was one of those soft and shadowy evenings, in the early part of spring, which awaken in the soul those emotions of tenderness which have been chilled by the rigour of winter, and dispose it to receive new and similar impressions, when a hired chaise drove rapidly up to one of the principal inns at St. Albans. The party it brought consisted only of two ladies, attended by a female servant; the elder lady, who appeared to be about thirty-six, was eminently distinguished by that dignified yet easy behaviour, and that sweet expression of countenance approaching to seraphic, which are the striking and genuine characteristics of an English lady, whose mind is regulated by the gentle precepts of feminine duty, and whose manners have been formed in the circles of elegant and polished society: her companion was a lovely girl of seventeen, her form was light and graceful; her hair a fine auburn; the rose of health bloomed on her lovely cheek; and every emotion of her soul spoke in her sweet blue eyes; in one word, her beauty was of that exalted description, which the longer it is known and studied pleases the more. They were shown to an apartment, where the senior lady ordered tea, and having discharged the chaise which had brought them the last stage, requested that another might be prepared to take them to Holleyfield, the seat of Sir Charles Walpole, in the adjoining county of Bucks; to her great surprise she found that a delay of some hours would take place before this order could be executed, every post carriage being in actual service from various temporary causes, one of which was the approaching Lent circuit, and another a great anniversary dinner in town. Mrs. Emerson (so the lady was called) not having anticipated such a contingency, and being very anxious for the termination of her journey, was both surprised and disappointed, while the expressive face of her lovely young friend spake more than participation in those feelings; the most liberal offers could not induce the post-boy who had driven them to St. Albans to proceed to Holleyfield, as he alleged that it would be such a deviation from his road as he dared not to make: “Can no other mode of conveyance be obtained?” questioned the young lady with earnest anxiety, “could not a person be found to go on horseback to Holleyfield, and request them to send a carriage from thence? perhaps it would be more certain than waiting here the return of one of the chaises.” She subjoined an inquiry concerning the distance, which the landlord informed her was about eight miles; “My dear,” said Mrs. Emerson, “it is not to be thought of; the evening is now closing, and it would be quite dark before a horse could reach your father’s; I fear we must make up our minds to wait here till the morning.” “I am sorry for the necessity,” said Miss Walpole; “So am I,” rejoined her friend, and she added in a low voice, and with a repressed sigh, yet with emphasis of manner, “such a necessity ought not to have existed; your father’s carriage should have met you here, if not before.” What could be distinguished of these words, aided perhaps by some previous knowledge of the Walpole family memoirs, induced the innkeeper to regard both ladies very attentively as he was quitting the room; but in somewhat less than a quarter of an hour he returned to it, the bearer of a polite message to Miss Walpole and her friend, importing that Lord Lochcarron being in the house, and informed of the circumstance which detained the ladies on their journey, requested permission to solicit the honour of being their escort to Holleyfield, which (the landlord added as his own information) was quite in his lordship’s road, and within three miles of Ravenpark, whither he was going.

“Lochcarron!” repeated Mrs. Emerson, “that is one of the baronies of the earldom of Dunotter, is his lordship the son of the earl?” An expression of surprise passed over the features of the host; “I understood, madam,” he observed, “from what you said, that this young lady is the daughter of Sir Charles Walpole.” “And does that,” questioned Mrs. Emerson, with a smile, “include the necessity of my being acquainted with Lord Lochcarron?” “No, certainly not, ma’am, but as Holleyfield is so near Ravenpark”—“But it may happen,” the lady replied, “that I have never been at Holleyfield, consequently cannot boast any perfect knowledge of its environs.” “Oh, to be sure, ma’am, I beg pardon for not explaining at first—my Lord Lochcarron is the only son of the Earl of Dunotter.” Much he added in the personal praise of his lordship, more of that in the noble fortune he was heir to, though he admitted, in the same breath, that the expenses of the present earl had impaired it as much as could be without touching the entail; Mrs. Emerson seemed abstracted a few moments, then as if recollecting that a more prompt return was due to Lord Lochcarron’s politeness, she hastily said to Miss Walpole, “I perceive, my dear, you are too anxious to see your father to have any hesitation about accepting the escort his lordship so very kindly offers.” Cordelia expressed her ready acquiescence in whatever Mrs. Emerson thought right, and sincerely glad of such a termination to her present difficulties, made arrangements to pursue her journey; a suitable message was then sent, and in a few minutes the young nobleman entered to escort his fair charge to his carriage; he was above the middle height, and combined all the captivations of graceful form, elegant features, and refined manners; beyond which, he was introduced to the ladies under circumstances the most advantageous and propitious for conciliating regard, that of rendering them a service; as they proceeded on their journey Lord Lochcarron and Mrs. Emerson kept up that animated conversation which an established intercourse with society on the part of his lordship, dignified good sense and experience on that of the lady, and highly polished manners on both, at once dictated and rendered easy; but Miss Walpole felt the pensive influence of the hour, and spoke little, listening however with interest to the remarks which her companions made on the comparative advantages and disadvantages of travelling on the continent and in England. The shades of evening deepened, and the general aspect of the weather became more chilling and wintry; Mrs. Emerson mentally wished for the termination of their little journey, upwards of one half of which they had passed when a man on horseback, hitherto neither seen nor heard, rode up to that side of the carriage where Lord Lochcarron sat; Miss Walpole mechanically raised her eyes, but it was to behold a pistol levelled at the head of the young nobleman, while his money was imperiously demanded, with imprecations which, as they accord only with wicked actions, may be supposed their usual accompaniment, whether uttered aloud or not; his lordship, with at once prompt alacrity and collected fortitude, replied by drawing a pistol from the pocket of the carriage; but before he could use it, his groom, who attended on horseback, fired another at the robber; he made an attempt to ride off, but in the next moment groaned and fell to the ground; the danger of Lord Lochcarron, the blasphemies of the villain, the report and effect of the weapon of death, all seemed to pass with the rapidity of lightning: Miss Walpole felt a sensation of alarm and of horror beyond the power of description to paint; for, new to life and its varied circumstances, educated in retirement, and inured only to scenes and sounds of tranquillity and peace, her every faculty, attribute, and operation of nerve and of soul were vivid, elastic, and unblunted in the most extreme degree. Mrs. Emerson, on the other hand, viewed the passing transaction with calm unshrinking courage: this was a trait of character which Cordelia had ever admired in her friend, and believed that her own inability to copy it proceeded from greater imbecility of mind; but she had yet to learn that this apathetic rigidity of feeling has not always its source in reason, however exerted, or in philosophy, however cultivated and studied; alas! no, it is the sad growth of years and sorrows; and as the chill dews of autumn, and the keen blasts of winter, take from plants and flowers their exquisite odours, so do the storms of life, aided by the benumbing hand of time, correct and allay that exuberance of feeling which vibrates with such easy pliancy to hope and to fear—to pleasure and to pain. Lord Lochcarron ordered his servants to take care of the wounded ruffian; “If he recovers,” said his lordship, “he must answer for his violation of the law, but do not treat him with inhumanity;” he then directed his attention to his fair fellow-travellers, saying and doing all that a polished mind could suggest to cheer their spirits after the alarm they had sustained; Mrs. Emerson fervently congratulated him on his escape, and Miss Walpole, though too much agitated to express herself in words, felt a joy more ardent, and a degree of gratitude to Providence more strong and powerful, than she ever remembered to have experienced on any former occasion; the two ladies were certainly not insensible to the danger themselves had escaped; while the goodness Lord Lochcarron displayed towards the wretch who had the moment before threatened his life, combined the highest respect and admiration with the flattering advantages under which he had so recently been introduced to their acquaintance; the course of attention was, however, soon diverted from the late occurrence; for the carriage entering a gate, the noble mansion of Sir Charles Walpole broke at once upon the view, though now seen imperfectly through the deepening shades of evening, which the lights from the windows conspired to render more obscure. “I presume we are now at Holleyfield, my lord,” said Mrs. Emerson; to which Lord Lochcarron replied in the affirmative; Cordelia felt a chill tremor creep over her frame; her spirits were oppressed almost to fainting, and tears, which would not be checked, dimmed her beautiful eyes; she was now approaching the house of her father, beneath whose roof she had never yet been sheltered; summoned to attend that parent whom she had not seen half a dozen times in her whole life, under the certainty that he was dying; and about to meet a mother-in-law hitherto scarcely known, yet so much so as to have made an unfavourable impression;—she shuddered, and clung to the side of Mrs. Emerson, as to the only stay and support she had in life. The carriage drew up, and Lord Lochcarron, with sweet and graceful politeness, descended to assist the ladies in alighting. The hall-door was thronged with obsequious domestics, whose submissive attentions scarcely veiled the ardent curiosity with which they regarded Miss Walpole, who, unwelcomed by the glance of tenderness, or the voice of affection, felt her agitation redouble, and involuntarily she clasped the supporting arm of Lord Lochcarron as he led her up the steps; here he paused; Cordelia struggled to subdue emotion; there was no one else present to do the honours of her father’s house, and her high sense of propriety urging that the office rested with her, she sweetly invited his lordship to walk in; this he declined, with much politeness indeed, but upon a plea which, however ostensible, seemed trifling and inadequate—the lateness of the hour; for it could not be supposed that his detention would be long, and the remainder of the journey was less than three miles. Mrs. Emerson, a quick observer of all the rapid and varied turns of the human countenance, saw with deep surprise, that while Lochcarron made his apology he wore an expression of features which, though she could clearly perceive, she could not define; true, it might be that he made this apparent departure from the laws of good-breeding from disrespect, or at least inattention, to the ladies, who were total strangers to him; or from fear of remaining out later in consequence of the recent occurrence. But a rigid scrutiny of his expressive face conveyed a conviction that to neither motive could his refusal be with justness ascribed; in short, to sum up the matter at once, Mrs. Emerson could not help thinking that he looked as if slightly surprised that the invitation had been given, and steadfastly determined to decline it; he received the thanks of both ladies, and disclaimed all merit to them, in the style of genuine and unaffected politeness, and having, with every possible expression of respect, given and received the parting ceremonies, he returned to his carriage, which instantly drove off. To add to Mrs. Emerson’s astonishment, she saw that the surrounding domestics regarded Lord Lochcarron with what seemed to be the gaze of vacant wonder: Miss Walpole, it may be, felt more of pique than of any thing else when his lordship refused her first request; but she made none of those observations which presented themselves to the more experienced mind of her friend; and while she was occupied with them, Cordelia was anxiously inquiring concerning her father; Sir Charles, she was told, was rather worse, though not considered to be in immediate danger; she had no reason to expect more consolatory intelligence; but the light spirits of youth are seldom prepared to meet such with fortitude, and with augmented dejection she followed Lady Walpole’s maid into a highly-decorated drawing-room, where a cheerful fire, brilliant lights, and every inanimate organ of welcome awaited her; but of animated ones—the pressure, the kiss, and the voice of affection, alas! there were none to greet her arrival.

Mrs. Dobinson having seen the travellers seated in this apartment, went to inform her lady that they were come; Lady Walpole, she added in answer to Cordelia’s inquiries, was much indisposed; she never quitted Sir Charles’s room, nor suffered his food or medicines to be administered by any other hands, of course she sustained incredible fatigue; had Cordelia been unaided by any experience greater than her own, this marked attention to her father, this exalted display of virtue and of duty, would easily have gained on her susceptible heart; but Mrs. Emerson, though she had never been much in the society of Lady Walpole, had easily penetrated her character, and knew that self-interest was at all times her only end—the suaviter in modo her favourite means; persons of this description need only to be thoroughly known to meet the contempt they merit; but it requires a vigilance unwearied, and a prudence rare in the extreme, to guard entirely against their arts.

The term of Mrs. Dobinson’s absence, was filled up by the entrance of the butler, who brought refreshments suited to the hour and recent fatigue of the ladies; in a quarter of an hour the waiting-woman returned, the bearer of a note to Miss Walpole, couched in the following terms:

“Too certainly, my sweet, my excellent Cordelia, I need not seek an apology for denying myself the happiness of embracing you and our respected Mrs. Emerson to-night—alas! an incumbent one too fatally presents itself in the increasing illness of your dear, inestimable, suffering father;—my beloved girl! I cannot conceal from you the distressing truth that he is materially worse; with a reluctance which needs no aid of description from me—your own sympathy will paint it—I have (pursuant to the advice of Dr Heslop, his attendant physician, grounded on apprehension that the surprise might prove of melancholy consequence) deferred informing him of your arrival until to-morrow morning, when I hope—oh! how fervently—to find him able to support a communication which will give him so much pleasure.—Of myself I say nothing—our sacrifices to duty, however severe, ought not to be reckoned in the class of sufferings. Adieu, my beloved Cordelia; for my sake take care of your precious health; say every thing for me to your highly-estimated friend, who I anxiously hope will consider herself as much at home in the house as she ever is in the heart of your most affectionate mother,

Harriet Walpole.”

Cordelia having read this epistle, silently presented it to her friend, and during the perusal contemplated her countenance, to glean from its well-known expression her sentiments upon it; Mrs. Emerson’s only comment was, “My love, I feel obliged to Lady Walpole for the consideration she expresses, but I cannot help being of opinion that her ladyship’s tenderness for your father, and her regard for yourself, would both have been better displayed by not suffering a moment to elapse before he was informed of your arrival; putting your feelings out of the question, your interest is most materially concerned;—it is too late this evening to take any further steps—we will retire to rest, and, if Providence permits, act more promptly in the morning.”

CHAPTER II.

SIR Charles Walpole, baronet, was the descendent and last male representative of an ancient and respectable family in the county of Kent; their landed inheritance, though extensive, had not been managed with any great degree of agricultural skill, and of course was found to belong to that description which is more capable of future improvement than productive of present profit; a considerable part of the estates were unentailed; and the grandfather of the present Sir Charles was exactly a character to alienate them from his rising family, and reduce it to that most comfortless of all situations, degraded gentility; yet was he a man “More sinned against than sinning;” censured, yet respected; beloved, though condemned; his failings approximated with his better qualities, as the colours of the rainbow blend with each other; and his virtues were all of that wavering class which are ever overflowing their hallowed bounds, and verging into vice; he was eminently gifted with good-nature; but, unsupported by any firmness of mind, it was only a pliant tool for designing persons to work with; he was called generous and hospitable; but when the unlimited expense with which he supported his claim to those attributes of goodness was taken into calculation, they might rather have been termed prodigality and profusion; he was charitable without discrimination, magnificent without taste, and, beyond all, he was the slave of a party, and carried on a contested election at what might, even in those days, be deemed an enormous expense; practised in such modes of lavishing money, it will not be thought surprising that by the time his eldest son was of an age to enter on a regular course of education, his affairs were so much embarrassed that it was found necessary to sell the chief part of the family estate; he did so, and by satisfying his creditors to the utmost of their demands, maintained the same character for probity he had hitherto enjoyed. He now found himself reduced to a situation replete with straits and difficulties, deprived not only of all the elegancies, but many of the absolute comforts of life; such a state of circumstances, with its attendant prospects, roused Mr. Walpole as if from a dream; but he glanced only on the wrong side of the picture, and, forgetful that the foundation of his ruin might be traced in his own improvident mismanagement, he attached the whole blame to what he termed the narrowness of his fortune; and never admitting, even to himself, that his expenditure ought to have been proportioned to his income, he only regretted that his resources had not been more adequate to the claims he made upon them; his mind, by dwelling constantly on this subject, became ardently desirous of wealth, but neither his time of life, his established habits, nor the still more formidable barrier of his having been educated to no profession, would now allow him to seek its acquirement; could he have reversed all these impediments, he would most sedulously have devoted himself to the pursuit of riches; but what he could not effect, his son might; he was now of age to begin the career of life in any line he might think eligible; but what should that be? the church, the bar, the navy, and the army were, no doubt, the direct roads to honour—that they were also those to fortune appeared to Mr. Walpole to depend on a thousand contingences; but in the mercantile walk he could trace more instances of rapid, uninterrupted, easy accumulation of wealth, than in all others combined; these considerations decided the fate of the young gentleman; he was placed with an eminent merchant in London, and, eventually, though his father did not live to see it, realized his most sanguine hopes; he united talent with industry, and integrity with application; these qualities may not, in all cases, insure success, but certain it is that being unfortunate in a man is frequently but another term for being indiscreet; to be brief, the age of fifty saw him a widower, with one only son, and possessed of eighty thousand pounds, as a stockholder and in mortgages, beyond a large capital embarked in lucrative and increasing commerce; there is frequently found in men a fatality—or perhaps that is not an appropriate term—which leads them to despise the means by which they have attained wealth, however highly they may value the attainment itself; thus it was with Mr. Walpole; he was in most respects a very sensible man, but his chief pride and boast was the antiquity of his family; he was the first merchant that had represented it, and resolved to be the last; he determined that his son should enter into life with all those requisites of a gentleman which are included in being of no profession, possessing a title and a very large fortune; he employed part of his wealth in the purchase of a baronetcy, and became the first Sir Charles Walpole.

Thus armed at every point with claims to consequence, his heir prepared to set out on the tour of Europe; but Sir Charles deeming it a glaring folly to send young men to learn the state of foreign countries in civil and political matters, while profoundly ignorant of the actual position of their own on these subjects, he arranged his plans so that his son should visit the principal places in Great-Britain before he passed over to the continent: whether the reverend gentleman who attended Mr. Walpole in the capacity of tutor, wanted energy to restrain all the exuberant and eccentric pursuits of youth; whether he deemed his own interest so far concerned in bowing to the rising sun, that he made no attempt at such restriction; or whether the pupil himself was too self-willed to obey control, or too artful for vigilance to restrain, does not appear upon record, neither is it material to inquire; but thus much is certain, that the gaieties of Bath and Bristol were more subjects of Mr. Walpole’s research, than the natural or civil histories of those places; and that he found the races of York more attractive than its antiquities. In the north he deviated from his road to Scotland to visit the beautiful lakes of Cumberland and Westomoreland; and in the last-named county found a gem buried, as many a treasure, both animate and inanimate, may be supposed to be, in mountain solitude; to drop metaphor, he fell deeply in love with the beautiful and amiable daughter of a worthy clergyman; at least he imbibed for her that romantic sentiment which, amongst young people, passes current by that name, though its transient existence too frequently proves that it never had a more solid base than the effervescence of imagination. The lady, though an only child, would only inherit a very small fortune, exclusive of considerable expectancy from a very rich maternal aunt; of course the consent of Sir Charles Walpole to their union was not to be hoped for, and without it, Miss Lancaster well knew that her father would never permit her to enter his family; but too much attached to her lover to support the idea of being separated from him for ever, she listened to his persuasions, placed duty and decorum in the back-ground, and was prevailed upon to pass the border, and exchange vows with him at Gretna Green. Mrs. Emerson, the cousin-german of Miss Lancaster, and at that period as young and romantic as the lovers themselves, was the companion of their flight. The first act of Mr. Walpole after his marriage, was to acquaint his father with the step he had taken; Sir Charles thus at once, and without preparation, disappointed in the hope he had cherished, that his heir would form a splendid alliance, was pained and irritated beyond the power of description to paint; yet were his paternal feelings too tender to throw his child entirely from his heart; for the present he refused to see him, settled on him a small annuity, cancelled the will which he had made almost solely in his favour, and stopping the measures which were taking for settling his recent purchase of Holleyfield and its domains on his direct posterity, he resolved to be guided by time and circumstances in his future conduct as it respected his son.

Mr. Lancaster, less dazzled by his daughter’s elevation in society, than grieved by her departure from what he deemed the line of female rectitude, yet loved her too tenderly not to extend the olive branch; he cemented her union with the husband of her choice, and gave them a home in his house and in his heart. Wedded love, in a mere every-day character like that of Mr. Walpole, is soon shorn of its blossoms; its thorns often appear, but in his case they never did so, for twelve months, which was all of life that remained to Mrs. Walpole after her marriage. His behaviour to her, though never harsh or unpolite, was little marked by ardour of attachment or strength of esteem; the sports of the field engaged the husband, and the wife returned to those domestic and feminine occupations which had been the habits of her youth; but the close of the period just named, produced eventful changes; a rapid decline following the birth of Cordelia, opened an early grave for Mrs. Walpole; and the same month which terminated her existence, closed that of her father-in-law, who expired suddenly, without any previous indisposition; as he died intestate, his vast property descended unquestioned to his son, who thus found himself at once emancipated from his matrimonial ties, and in uncontrolled possession of a large fortune; it is not to be supposed that the claims of a yet unconscious infant could restrain Sir Charles from seeking the world and its allurements; he held himself as amply fulfilling every duty of a parent by settling on his daughter a sum, certainly not suitable to his rank in society, but adequate to her every want in that early stage of existence, and in that remote situation; and leaving her in the protection of Mr. Lancaster and Mrs. Emerson, then the wife of a very worthy physician at Penrith, he arranged his affairs in England, and took his departure for the continent, in visiting different parts of which he passed upwards of seven years, and had been returned about two, when, in a summer excursion to Wales, he met with his present lady, the younger daughter of a gentleman in the vicinity of Caermarthen, who, tracing his illustrious descent through a long line of ancestors, was richer in genealogy than in more substantial wealth.

The face and person of Miss Harriet Lewis formed a combination which, possessing neither the commanding force of one description of beauty, nor the attractive softness of another, was yet such as could not be ranged in the ordinary class; such persons have frequently been styled showy, and in her case the term was extremely appropriate; she was gifted with great powers of understanding, but it is often seen that enlargement of mind is joined to contraction of heart, and with Miss Lewis it was eminently so; her every wish, hope, aim, and purpose centred in self; and for her own aggrandisement, interest, and advantage, her every faculty was perpetually at work, and each action of her life had those for its objects; she was an everlasting schemer, and though, like most artists of that description, her schemes frequently failed, that did not deter her from framing new ones, which were usually laid with as much art, and through as many intricacies, as a train of gunpowder to blow up a citadel; a prodigal in promise, but a niggard in performance, she could flatter to deceive, and smile to betray; and holding in the deep recesses of her heart, though never admitting in her conversation, the jesuitical maxim that all means are lawful where the end is desirable, she had masks of all sorts, of deep austere piety, of high, polished courtly breeding, of universal benevolence and philanthropy, which were worn for a season, and then thrown aside as it suited her purpose. At the time her acquaintance with Sir Charles commenced, she was under an absolute promise of marriage to a young officer who was quartered in the neighbourhood; he possessed little besides his pay, but being respectably—rather highly—connected, he had a prospect of rising rapidly in his profession; of course Miss Lewis thought him a conquest worth securing; but when the baronet appeared, the son of Mars vanished as a star before the sun; many ladies would have felt troublesome scruples of honour, of conscience, of delicacy, about breaking an engagement so solemn, she had none of them; she soon managed so as to make her lover jealous of the preference she showed Sir Charles, and when he remonstrated with her on the subject, disowned the charge with asseverations so positive, and a countenance of such fascinating candour, that scepticism might have been won to belief; but when the young gentleman sought oblivion and reconciliation, she barred all approach to the latter by declaring, whilst reason appeared to be struggling with love, and fortitude with tenderness, that she could not now, in justice to herself, ratify her promise: with deep reluctance she must say, that Captain

—— by doubting her faith and affection, had himself weakened her esteem, consequently she could no longer think so highly of him as she had done, and to marry him, with such sentiments, would be doing an injury to both; he was at liberty to pay his addresses to any other lady, and she must teach her heart the severe but unavoidable task of forgetting how fondly it had cherished his image. Two months after this she gave her hand to Sir Charles Walpole, over whom she soon gained such absolute ascendency that his every act, nay, his every intention, was under her control; yet she did not appear to exercise any such dominion, but managed with such consummate art, that even those who were in daily habits of intercourse with the family did not easily perceive it, still less did Sir Charles himself feel such sway; for being a man of an indolent turn, he habituated himself more and more to rely on her in the management of all his affairs, until every step she took seemed his own. She made him the father of two sons, one of whom died in early infancy, and the other in his fourth year, to the great grief of Sir Charles, who had ever been ardently desirous of male offspring; neither had his lady any occasion to feign affliction for the loss of her children; yet let it not be supposed that her tears flowed from the tide of maternal anguish, mourning the death of its bosom treasures, far from it; her philosophic mind would no more have deplored the destruction of her whole kindred, than that of Priam’s race in the sacking of Troy; but her sons would have been the undisputed heirs to the greatest part of their father’s wealth, and of course by their deaths the prospect of much future greatness, and many embryo advantages which she had pencilled out in imagination, passed away from her for ever.

Since the return of Sir Charles to England, more especially since his second marriage, all the notice he had taken of Cordelia, was little more than sufficient to mark his remembrance that he had a daughter; her maternal grandfather died before she completed her third year; and when she was about twelve, Dr and Mrs. Emerson removed to Leeds in Yorkshire, where Dr Emerson soon after paid the debt of nature, leaving his widow without any family, in easy, though not very affluent, circumstances; Sir Charles Walpole so far augmented the allowance of his daughter, as to enable Mrs. Emerson to obtain for her the first masters in every branch of education; but during the long interval of full nine years, he had only visited them twice, once soon after his marriage with his present lady, who he carried on an excursion to the lakes, taking the residence of Mrs. Emerson in their way to present Cordelia to her new parent, and once since they were settled at Leeds. Sir Charles certainly never proposed to his lady the taking Cordelia home to live with them; he left that point to be decided by her ladyship, but she was the last woman in the world with whom such a proposal would have originated; yet she was much too politic to pass it over in silence, and leave it in the power of others to say she did not desire the society of her daughter-in-law—she steered another course, and to appearance, taking it for granted that Cordelia could not be removed from the protection of Mrs. Emerson, feelingly deplored the deprivation which Sir Charles and herself must suffer in such an estrangement from their beloved amiable child; if Sir Charles gave the matter a second thought, he was too studiedly acquiescent in all her decisions to breathe even a hostile hint; with regard to the world at large, some, it is probable, gave her ladyship credit for no great degree of sincerity on the subject; whilst others were imposed upon by specious cant; but Mrs. Emerson clearly saw through and despised such selfish policy.

Lady Walpole, both when personally conversing with Mrs. Emerson, and in her letters, used many a flourishing harangue to impress her with a belief that in suffering her daughter to remain under her protection, she was at once actuated by a benevolent apprehension of wounding her feelings, should she take from her a charge so dear, and an anxious solicitude for Miss Walpole’s real interest, who would find in her the best and brightest example of all female excellence; but the mind of Mrs. Emerson was not formed to be won upon by such compliments as these; alas, she knew human nature better, and was aware that instances of abstract virtue are phenomena to be ranked with black swans and white ravens: Miss Walpole might, indeed, continue to reside with her, but what should have hindered them both from passing a part of each year beneath the roof of Sir Charles; such a plan was never once proposed, or even hinted at; no, she saw that it was to estrange the parent from his child, to retain her uncontrolled sway over his property, and to secure to herself that probable reversion of the whole, or the greatest part of it, that Lady Walpole acted thus. The health of Sir Charles had always been delicate, and a few months prior to the events recorded at the commencement of these disorders, which baffled the powers of medicine, warned him that his life would not be of long duration. Lady Walpole perceived his decay before his own feelings had whispered the awful truth to himself; it was not in her nature to grieve for the event which she anticipated, but true to her leading principles she redoubled her every attention and assiduity; in the hours of pain and languor, the image of that lovely and amiable female who, in early life, had been the partner of his bosom, frequently revisited the memory of Sir Charles, and with it came the associated idea of her daughter, now entering upon the world, a stranger to the house, and too nearly so the heart of her father; he felt, or fancied, that the presence and endearments of Cordelia would sooth his sufferings, and hinted a wish to Lady Walpole that she should be sent for; it was not in her ladyship’s nature to comply, but it was to procrastinate; “No, my dear Sir Charles,” she replied, “we will not shade the first visit our charming Cordelia pays us by sending for her at so inauspicious a period as when you are ill; strive to get better, my love, and the moment you are able to travel, we will go down to Yorkshire and bring our sweet girl home with us.” This plan changed the course of Sir Charles’s intentions; or, to speak more properly, diverted him from the subject for some weeks; in the interim he was visited by a young gentleman, nearly related to him in the female line, a captain in the navy, who had been absent from England on a three years’ station in the Mediterranean. Captain Thornton, when a boy of fifteen, had once seen Miss Walpole, then a little girl of eight or nine years old, and still retaining a pleasing and partial remembrance of so lovely a relative, was much disappointed, on his arrival in Holleyfield, to find that she was not an inmate of that mansion; Lady Walpole he had known very imperfectly previous to his leaving England; but a few days’ residence beneath her roof enabled him to penetrate the atmosphere of flattery and compliments which enveloped her ladyship’s manner, and to discern her character in its true light; he perceived all her designs, and, with that open kindness of heart so characteristic of his profession, resolved to give his friend a hint which should, if acted upon, at once promote the father’s comfort and the daughter’s interest; “My dear Sir Charles,” he said, in his frank way, “why is it that my fair cousin is always secluded in Yorkshire; do, dear Sir, prevail on Lady Walpole to introduce her to life.” The baronet replied by stating the plan which had been resolved upon; Thornton had a belief, amounting to a conviction, that his friend would never recover; but his was not a heart which could embitter the waning hours of existence, by breathing such an opinion: “Oh, we will all take a journey together when your health permits it,” he responded, “but do not in the interim deprive yourself of Miss Walpole’s society, nor her of the advantage of your protection.” This advice was consonant to his own wishes, and the concluding hint spoke home to paternal feelings, awakened by illness, and its consequent reflections, to a sense of duty; he renewed the subject to his lady with more earnestness than before; and she, aware that the former mode of evasion would not do again, urged a new one with great plausibility: “My beloved Sir Charles,” she said, “you are well aware that your every wish is my law; I will, if you please, write the next post, but there is one circumstance which renders our Cordelia’a residence here exactly at this time ineligible; I will just hint it to you,” she added, smiling, and laying her hand on his, “Captain Thornton is an elegant, graceful, well-informed young man, but he is poor, and our child is too dear a treasure to be hazarded so rashly.”

The baronet paused upon this intimation; the recollection of what Thornton had said to him seemed to establish her ladyship’s fear as a well-grounded one, and accustomed to bow down before all her suggestions, the sending for Miss Walpole was again delayed; the lady, it may be supposed, felicitated herself on having achieved her purpose, but she was not long left to such enjoyment. Thornton received a sudden order to leave England, and quitted Holleyfield, with little prospect of revisiting it, for some time; he departed in the full conviction that he should never again see Sir Charles; but before he went, he took an opportunity, when Lady Walpole was from the room, to express an energetic but respectfully conveyed wish, that his friend would consult his own happiness as a parent, and Miss Walpole’s interest as a daughter.

The very next day Sir Charles became materially worse; no subterfuge now remained, and Lady Walpole was compelled to write the invitation which brought Mrs. Emerson and Cordelia to Holleyfield, as has already been related; but by no means choosing to make her daughter-in-law an object of so much consequence as to send a carriage, either to Yorkshire or to meet the two ladies at any part of the road, she left them to travel in a hired one.

CHAPTER III

THE unhappy and afflicted are never so sensible of their own misery as when first awaking from sleep; the faculties are refreshed, and the spirits tranquilized by rest, and, for the few moments that intervene before fatal remembrance rushes in, the soul may be said to enjoy a portion of bliss; it may, perhaps, be inferred, that if the bitterness of grief be thus increased in the suffering mind, that which is placed in more fortunate circumstances will feel its joys redoubled; but the fact is not so: the one is only an augmentation of the same feeling—the other is an exchange for one which possesses all the power and force of contrast. Miss Walpole, who had hitherto known only the calm and uniform tenor of a life unmarked by incident, awoke in her wonted frame of mind; but short was the period which intervened until the situation of her father, the conduct of Lady Walpole the preceding evening, and all those transactions in which Lord Lochcarron claimed a share, presented themselves with a force proportioned to their novelty, and to the ardent and vivid feelings of the heart they had taken possession of. New scenes are yet more powerfully attractive to the youthful mind than new circumstances; Holleyfield, and indeed the whole of the south of England, was an unknown region to Cordelia; the fineness of the morning drew her to the garden, where the richness of prospect, the variety of cultivation, and the number and excellence of the trees, shrubs, plants, and flowers, both exotics and English, and the skill with which they were disposed and contrasted, as well in the greenhouse and conservatory as in the open air, proved so many exhaustless sources of wonder and delight.

Holleyfield was a most noble mansion, beautifully situate on a hill, surrounded by a park of vast extent, planted with valuable timber, and possessing many advantages of both nature and art. To this was added every charm of season and of weather, the time of the year and the hour of the morning; the fresh breeze of opening day waved the woods, stirred the waters of the spacious basin, on the margin of which Cordelia stood, and breathed around her an atmosphere fraught with ten thousand sweets; but herself was the loveliest of nature’s surrounding objects: when or where does she present one equal to female grace and beauty, combined with feminine gentleness and goodness?

At the hour of Mrs. Emerson’s rising, Cordelia attended her to breakfast, after which they were honoured with a visit from Lady Walpole; the wide-spread arms, and the fervent embrace, were so much in the routine of her ladyship’s habits, that they only who had gleaned experience in the heart-parching school of the world, could read in them the internal evidence of insincerity. The filial bosom of Miss Walpole grieved to be told that her father was materially worse; her ladyship added that she had prepared him to see their dear Cordelia, and would herself conduct her to his apartment, when the physicians, then in attendance there, should have withdrawn.

While waiting for their departure, conversation turned on various topics; Lady Walpole, conscious no doubt that her daughter-in-law ought to have travelled in a different style, and with a better escort than she had done, did not once inquire into the circumstances of their journey; but Mrs. Emerson, profiting by a pause, entered on them herself; detailing the events of the preceding evening—their meeting with Lord Lochcarron—the obligation his politeness had conferred on them—and the danger they had all been exposed to from the attack of the robber. Her ladyship listened with visible interest, blended with emotion; “My beloved Cordelia,” she exclaimed, “this is very unfortunate, as I am certain your father would rather you were obliged to any person breathing than Lord Dunotter or his son.” Miss Walpole, with surprise amounting to dismay, her heart beating with quick vibrations, and the eloquent blood mantling on her cheeks, looked the inquiry her lips could not utter; while Mrs. Emerson, more collected, but not wondering less, asked the question in words, “Why the Dunotter family were objects of such particular dislike to Sir Charles?” “My dear Mrs. Emerson,” returned her ladyship, “can you possibly have been so long connected with the Walpole family, and yet not know that a bitter hereditary enmity subsists between them and the Dunotters?”

The friend of Cordelia, with equal energy and truth, declared her ignorance of it; and Lady Walpole subjoined the information, that the breach originated in a political dispute between the respective grandsires of the present earl and baronet, and was widened in the succeeding generation by a lawsuit concerning some contiguous land. “Those,” replied Mrs. Emerson, “are very inadequate causes for dislike so deeply rooted, and of such long continuance; I am truly sorry to hear that at this advanced period of society, and in a country possessing such advantages, animosities are cherished at once so repugnant to the precepts of religion, and destructive of polished manners.” “Aye,” replied Lady Walpole, “people of sense make it a point to conceal those little piques and jealousies, for if discovered, they are sure to stand in the way of their interest—and indeed the one in question has been dormant several years; Lord Dunotter having, for the last six, been on the continent in an official capacity, as you perhaps know, he returned a few months since, and soon after came down to Ravenpark; as he did not notify his arrival in the neighbourhood to us, Sir Charles of course inferred that the old feud was remembered, and felt himself highly, I must say justly offended.” “Perhaps where no offence was meant,” said Mrs. Emerson, with a faint smile; “I think had I been in Sir Charles’s place, I should have had a pleasure in showing myself above resenting the affront, had it indeed been a studied one, and should have called on Lord Dunotter to welcome him to England and to Ravenpark.” Lady Walpole smiled, but did not express either assent or dissent in any other way.

Cordelia felt a shuddering sensation: her sense of rectitude could neither extenuate the unforgiving temper of her father in this instance, nor the courtly duplicity of Lady Walpole, which would teach to conceal that unforgiveness from motives of interest, not to correct and abjure it according to the dictates of duty, and she determined that on her side at least the quarrel should no longer be hereditary; but the expression of Lord Lochcarron’s looks the preceding evening was now accounted for, and the escort and protection he had afforded to herself and Mrs. Emerson seemed doubly kind. The last named lady, it appeared, thought so too, and she again mentioned the young nobleman to Lady Walpole in those terms of guarded panegyric which, with her, constituted high praise, adding, “I fear I must relinquish the pleasure I had promised myself of half an hour’s conversation with him this morning; for after what your ladyship has told me I can scarcely hope that he will think of calling to inquire after Cordelia and myself.” “I imagine not,” said Lady Walpole, adding, “he is, I understand, a highly-gifted, accomplished, well educated young man; but it requires all the vigilance and authority of my Lord Dunotter to curb those eccentricities and propensities which, sanctioned by fashion, are perhaps, too generally adopted.” What this implied could not easily be defined, but Mrs. Emerson answered with a sigh, “It is a pity; a youth of dissipation gives but a bad promise for the exercise, in after life, of those patriotic virtues which men of rank ought to consider as the first earthly duties they are called to fulfil; he whose examples has helped to destroy public morals is ill qualified to act as their guardian; and where the extravagance of a landholder has made money his most desirable good, his tenants will too probably be the sufferers.”

Lady Walpole was beginning to express acquiescence as a matter of course, when she was interrupted by a summons to Sir Charles’s apartment. When they entered the room he was sitting in an easy chair; his form was wasted, and his features so changed, that Cordelia could scarcely recognize the slightest trace connected with the remembrance of her father; the evidence of approaching dissolution was visibly written on his countenance; his eyes were closed, but at their approach he opened them, and they rested on the form of his daughter, who, with spontaneous emotion, threw herself into his arms, and burst into tears; thus anticipating the cold and studied introduction of Lady Walpole, who was beginning, “My dear Sir Charles, I present our beloved child to you!”

The baronet, weakened by illness, and, it may be, having his feelings blunted by the soporific and narcotic remedies he had taken of late, did not reciprocate the sensibility of his daughter; he returned her embrace, indeed, but in a way which seemed rather a mechanical bodily impulse than any mental emanation; yet he drew a deep and heavy sigh as he gazed on her face, and said, feebly, “My sweet Cordelia, I rejoice to see thee:” he then held out his emaciated hand to Mrs. Emerson, and saluted her with a faint welcome; she gave a glance of retrospection to former years, and as she mentally compared the figure and the face of Sir Charles Walpole, as they then were, with the appearance he now exhibited, sighed involuntarily at the contrast.

The party was hardly seated, when Lady Walpole, addressing her husband, told him that his daughter had accepted the escort of Lord Lochcarron the preceding evening; narrating also their escape from the attack of the highwayman, and several particulars connected with the event. It is difficult to say, whether Cordelia felt most surprise, or Mrs. Emerson most indignation at this conduct; the former attributed it to an inexcusable thoughtlessness and want of caution in her mother-in-law, at once to acquaint Sir Charles, in his present state, with the danger she had been threatened with; and to mention a man who, as she herself had just said, was his decided aversion; but the latter, in proportion as she acquitted Lady Walpole of inconsideration, condemned her on a much worse score; that of deliberately and designedly bruising the broken reed, agonizing a dying heart with vain terrors, and calling up passions which ought to be banished for ever from a soul just entering the verge of eternity.

But still more was Cordelia surprised, yet more deeply was she affected, on witnessing the effect which these communications had on her almost-expiring parent; it was not her narrow escape from a peril which threatened death—that had not the power to rouse him from the apathy into which he was rapidly sinking; no, it was hatred—hatred of Lord Lochcarron—in its darkest, deadliest form; those lips which ought only to have been opened in prayers of meekness, and ejaculations of piety, breathed an imprecation on his name; those eyes so lately closed in the languor of departing life, seemed starting from their sockets with wild and blasting fury; and that cheek, so lately wearing the pale hue of the grave, was alternately inflamed, yellow, and livid; the rage which possessed him gave strength to his voice, while, turning to his daughter, he inquired in tones which indicated the deepest displeasure, why she had accepted the protection of the son of Dunotter? malignant triumph was visibly pourtrayed on Lady Walpole’s features; she made no effort to sooth an agitation so every way unfitting, but tried to veil her observance of it by busying herself in preparing a medicine which Sir Charles took every two hours.

Cordelia, who had never before beheld such fury in any one; who was sensible that it ought never to have been exhibited by such an object, at such a time, and on such an occasion, and who from the appearance of her father but a few minutes before could never have anticipated the scene which had taken place, was absolutely incapable of replying to his question. Mrs. Emerson, not less astonished, and scarcely less distressed, but more collected, urged their defence on the broad ground that both her young friend and herself had, till the preceding evening, been ignorant of all that related to Lords Dunotter and Lochcarron, beyond the bare existence of their titles, of course could not surmise that any cause existed for declining a civility so seasonably and so kindly offered.

Lady Walpole had by this time returned to her chair, but she did not speak—only listened with an aspect of calm curiosity as a mere spectator would have done. Sir Charles’s anger appeared to subside, not as if from conviction, but because his exhausted state could no longer furnish spirit enough to keep it alive; he was, however, beginning to charge Cordelia as she valued his affection, and her own duty, never to have any future intercourse with Lord Lochcarron, when a faintness, the effect no doubt of his own violence, came over him, and claiming the joint assistance of his lady, and the servants who attended him, Mrs. Emerson and Miss Walpole retired; the latter labouring under a perturbation of spirits, an oppression, a grief, an anguish such as, till then, she had not even formed an idea of. Much they said, and more they thought on the subject of what had just passed, and were still commenting on this painful interview, when a note was put into the hands of Mrs. Emerson signed Lochcarron, inquiring in terms of friendly and polite attention after her own health and that of Miss Walpole; but offering no apology for not making his bow in person, thus evidently leaving such to be traced in that family feud, to the history of which they had just been listening.

Cordelia, it may be, would have felt shocked at this conviction that all intercourse with Lord Lochcarron must be at an end, had not the idea of her father’s danger absorbed every other feeling; Sir Charles very probably had hurt himself by his violence on the subject of Lord Dunotter and their hereditary discord; at all events he altered materially for the worse, and continued so ill through the day as to preclude all possibility of Mrs. Emerson’s having any private conversation with him, to which she had been prompted by a desire of seeing Cordelia’s interests effectually secured before her father’s death, which every day seemed inevitable; but six wore away without producing any material change.

During this period Lady Walpole passed the chief part of her time in the apartment of her husband, rarely seeing either Mrs. Emerson or Cordelia, and even then but in a way of constrained ceremony; the domestics appointed to wait on the ladies were (with the exception of one) such as they could place no confidence in; Miss Walpole’s female attendant was the niece of Lady Walpole’s woman, and was, as Mrs. Emerson clearly perceived, commissioned to be a spy on their conduct, and a reporter of their conversation; their footman was a simple rustic; but old Sherwin, the butler, who usually waited at table, and who had been many years in the service of Sir Charles, was a truly worthy character; they had been about five days at Holleyfield when this man told them, in a modest and feeling tone, as if aware the communication would prove distressing, and yet afraid they should be told it with less caution by any one else, that the robber who had attacked them on the evening of their journey to Holleyfield, was dead of his wounds; and that the servant by whose pistol he had fallen was of course acquitted, on the joint testimony of Lord Lochcarron and the postillion. Mrs. Emerson was shocked, but accustomed to look forward to consequences, and to analyze her own feelings, she received the information with calmness and collection; but with Cordelia it was far otherwise; as usual, when any thing new and striking occurred, her whole soul rose in arms, like a tempest which scatters and dissipates lighter bodies at the mercy of the winds and waves, but throws the more massy parts of the wreck on shore; so when the tumult of her mind subsided, the ideas of the animated courage of Lord Lochcarron, of danger providentially warded off, and of the awful and unprepared termination of a life of guilt, remained fixed and indelible, the root and foundation on which to rear future principles, affections, and rules of conduct.

In consequence of some inquires from Mrs. Emerson, which Sherwin seemed well qualified to answer, the ladies gathered, that Lord Lochcarron really possessed all those talents and acquirements which Lady Walpole appeared willing to concede to him; but those eccentricities and propensities which her ladyship seemed disposed to charge upon the young nobleman, and which, according to the spirit of her speech, might be supposed censurable at least, if not positively criminal, were, according to the glossary of Sherwin, the propensities of benevolence, and the eccentricities of an independent mind; the last, he said, had kept him out of parliament, much against the will of his father; for as the earl was a decided partisan and supporter of ministers, he wished to make an implicit support of their measures, one condition of his son’s having a seat in the house of Commons; and as Lord Lochcarron would not pledge himself to any such constant and undeviating support, his country was deprived of the benefit of very promising talents.

Sherwin, having talked himself into a communicative mood, proceeded to say, with a smile, half-diffident and half-assured, “And it seems as if the young lord would be equally obstinate in having a wife of his own choosing; for, though it cannot be supposed his father likes it, they say he has taken a great fancy to ——” Here the narrator was suddenly called to assist in lifting Sir Charles into bed, while Cordelia, thus left without hearing the sequel of his information, experienced a sensation she could not define; the moment Sherwin began to hint that Lord Lochcarron had an attachment, she dreaded to hear further; but now that the door of intelligence was closed, she felt a restless wish to know the name of its object; this, however, she found she might wish in vain. Mrs. Emerson did not notice what Sherwin had been saying about Lord Lochcarron, any further than to express her satisfaction that he was not of the number of worthless young men who disgrace the present day; but as to the addition which the old man was making to his intelligence, she either had not noticed it, or passed it over in silence; and when Sherwin again attended, he had either forgotten that he left his discourse unfinished, or deemed it presumptuous to renew it.

Cordelia revolved what had been said over and over, dwelt upon it, and considered it in every possible point of view; it might be that in such an exercise of her mind she felt some relief from the anxiety she was in on her father’s account; but be that as it will, whoever feels inclined thus to ferment themselves into an artificial interest in what does not in reality concern them, will do well to check the rising propensity, more especially if it be connected with an object or a subject which may hereafter make war on their peace; if the adder which ought to have been strangled in infancy, be nourished in the bosom, its sting will be certain, and may be fatal.

CHAPTER IV.

SIR Charles Walpole expired, rather suddenly at last, about a week after the arrival of his daughter at Holleyfield, worn-out nature exhibited few struggles, and as he had never been distinguished by that piety which irradiates the bed of death, there was nothing in his departure either peculiarly shocking to sense, or edifying to mind. Cordelia could not be greatly grieved, having been little with her father, and never having experienced from him that affectionate tenderness which winds about the soul. Lady Walpole was represented as so much afflicted, that for the first few days she could not see either her daughter or Mrs. Emerson; but it being deemed requisite to open the will before measures were taken for the internment of the deceased, it was read in the presence of the three ladies: a more extraordinary testament could scarcely be devised; and if, as was generally supposed, the new-made widow was indeed governed by the triple passions of ambition, avarice, and love of sway, it seemed to promise them transcending gratification: the entire of Sir Charles’s landed property, as well the splendid domain of Holleyfield as several smaller estates, were bequeathed unconditionally to Lady Walpole during life; at her decease to go to Cordelia or her heirs; to her, he only left the inconsiderable sum of two hundred per ann. during her minority; ten thousand pounds on the day of her becoming of age, and ten thousand more if, before that period, she married with the consent of her mother-in-law.

Mrs. Emerson and Capt. Thornton were named in the will for one thousand pounds each, together with several legacies of five hundred and less; ten thousand for charitable purposes, and the sole residue of his monies, as also his personal property of every description, to be at the absolute and uncontrolled disposal of his widow, with proviso, that the plate was to remain in full value an heir-loom of the estate for Cordelia.

The guardianship of the young lady was vested in Lady Walpole; true, Mr. Crompton, Sir Charles’s man of law, was joined in the trust, but he was known to be at all times enough the slave of his own interest to become that of Lady Walpole, or of whoever else possessed power and money.

Mrs. Emerson made no attempt to either check or conceal her indignation at this strange testament; but inveighed, with a severity that added poignancy to truth, against the absurdity and injustice of Sir Charles’s will, so far as it respected his daughter; this, as may be supposed, was by no means agreeable to Lady Walpole, whose grief for the loss she had sustained was not quite heavy enough to prevent her from retorting with more than correspondent acrimony. Much was said on both sides; and every reply tended to widen the breach which all Miss Walpole’s efforts could not heal; not to enlarge needlessly, Mrs. Emerson made arrangements for quitting Holleyfield the day after the baronet’s interment; nor could the entreaties, the tears, the endearments of Cordelia, change her purpose; the poor heart-rent girl, new to the world, ignorant of life, surrounded by strangers, left solely in the power of a mother-in-law whom she certainly had little reason to love, and having never known a friend but Mrs. Emerson, could not support the idea of a separation, and wept in all the bitterness of anguish: she was, it is true, very much attached to Miss Walpole, and could not see her grief without correspondent emotion; but strong in intellect, firm in principle, undeviating in purpose, she could no longer, consistently with what she owed to herself, remain the guest of Lady Walpole; “Oh! then take me with you,” exclaimed her distressed young friend; “take me back to Leeds—let me live with you always.” “With pleasure would I do so, my beloved girl; but I am too well aware that your newly-constituted guardian would put a decided negative on such a step,” was the reply, “Oh! ask them,” exclaimed Cordelia, her fine countenance irradiating with joy, “I will implore Lady Walpole to let me go home with you.”

Mrs. Emerson shook her head; already she was enabled to penetrate in part her ladyship’s designs, and saw she was determined to retain her daughter-in-law with her; but unwilling to augment her distress, she permitted her to urge the petition as at once their mutual wish and request; as Mrs. Emerson had foreseen, it was decidedly rejected; “No, my love,” said Lady Walpole, embracing her with tears, at least her eyes were wiped more than once during the interview, “I cannot cede my right in you to any one; bereft of my own children; delegated by your dear father to the sacred trust of watching over your inexperienced youth; and acquainted with all the plans and wishes he formed as they respected you, can it be supposed I shall be at once so regardless of his memory and injunctions, and so negligent, so culpably negligent of my own duty, as voluntarily to resign such a charge to any one, or so blind to my own happiness and comfort as to deprive myself of your sweet society? beyond that, my best love,” continued her ladyship, in the most tenderly fascinating accents, “your education has been sadly neglected—neglected, no, that is not an appropriate term; I will do Mrs. Emerson every justice—she has made you beyond accomplished—good, amiable, kind, gentle, affectionate; but it is not to be expected that a remote provincial town could afford such professors in languages, arts, and sciences, as are requisite to polish the acquirements of a young person of fashion; and not only must what has been already taught you receive a much higher finish, but much is yet to be learned, without which, in the present age of elegance and refinement, you cannot be presented to the world.”

Had Miss Walpole been a year to two older, had she seen more of life, been better entrenched in self-opinion, and less the victim of grief than she was at present, it is probable that in all or any of these cases she might have resented the implied contempt and degrading strictures of her mother-in-law; but young, diffident, and dejected, she in part believed herself deficient in many of those graces with which a fashionable female ought to be endowed, and in part bowed to the more matured and experienced judgment of Lady Walpole; however she made one more effort to carry her petition, and that one also proving unsuccessful, she returned in tears to her friend; Mrs. Emerson, prepared for such a result, was more pained than surprised; but unwilling to say or do any thing which might tend to sadden her lot, and make it less supportable, she soothed her with attentive kindness, exhorted her to bow to circumstances, and since she was thus, by the will of her father, sanctioned by law, thrown upon the protection of Lady Walpole, counseled her to cultivate her regard by every mode of conciliation which did not interfere with higher duties, on the subject of which she continued to speak as follows: “You are now, my beloved Miss Walpole, about to enter on a scene of life totally different from the quiet domestic circle you moved in while with me; I think I can in part develop the designs of your mother-in-law; uncontrolled mistress of an immense fortune, and sole directress of yourself, she wishes at once to veil the odium of thus usurping your rights, by an ostentations display of engaging and captivating qualities in those points which concern you: by retaining you under her own roof she evinces her regard for the memory of your father, and her superiority to that narrow jealousy which might lead many ladies in her situation to dread, and remove to a distance, such a rival; oh! how I tremble for you, Delia, exposed, as you will be, to so many temptations, gifted with great attractions, led by fashion and example, spurred by ridicule, and perhaps by reproof, to a compliance with modes and follies which duty, reason, and even inclination, grounded on early habit, may unite to condemn; I see you are indignant, my love; I see you think yourself secure from ever falling into those fashionable levities which you and I have sat in retirement and censured; but bear with me, my sweet Cordelia, while I remind you that my acquaintance with the human heart, and my experience of its instability in youth, are of rather longer date than yours; on your own strength you cannot rely; it must be a power superior to that which will keep your heart and your mind; but you can only hope for that holy assistance by continuing, as you do now, earnestly to pray for it; if you once grow languid and remiss in the duties of public or private devotion, if you perform them either carelessly or not at all, from that moment you become the slave of the world; and however you may flatter yourself with a false security, because you are surrounded by thousands who do not act better—it may be in some respects worse—than yourself, be assured you are no longer in the path of duty. I know, my dear girl, that your partial affection pays such deference to my opinions that you will seriously consider yourself as bound to any obligation which I shall think it for your good to impose; resolve then, solemnly, to observe this three-fold injunction—never comply with any modes or fashions, however enforced by the command, the example, or the persuasions of other people, which either in their own nature, or in the excess with which they are pursued come under the denunciation of religion, reason, delicacy, or true taste;—never neglect, or suffer to languish that homage of the Deity, both outward and mental, which is the first and best criterion that distinguishes the human species from the brutes; and lastly, if you are indeed drawn into the vortex of unbounded dissipation—if you feel that dereliction of your sacred and social duties which will follow, and in some degree precede, such a warping of your ingenuous mind, write to me freely, candidly, and without reserve; place before me the state of your feelings, and the habits of life you are pursuing, and leave it to me to develop the motives by which you have been biassed, nothing fearing that my partiality will extenuate your errors, and my experience lead you gently back to the right path.”

Cordelia readily accorded the promise required; but she did it in a way which clearly indicated that she deemed such an aberration from the strict line of rectitude, such a departure from the principles in which she had been educated amongst the impossible things which could never take place; her friend was evidently more sceptical; however she professed herself satisfied with the solemn assurance she had received, and the conference ended; but when the hour of parting arrived, Cordelia’s tears were renewed in the extreme of bitterness.

The adieus of Lady Walpole and Mrs. Emerson had much of formal ceremony on both sides; but such was the dexterous management of the former, that any one ignorant of the reality of matters, would have concluded this abrupt departure from her hospitable roof to be the sole act of Mrs. Emerson, without cause or provocation on her part, and indeed against her wish; one circumstance might, however, be observed, though her ladyship evinced this reluctance to parting with Mrs. Emerson, she never once asked her to repeat her visit, but left her without the power of saying, with Shenstone,

“So sweetly she bade me adieu,

I thought that she bade me return.”

Lady Walpole and Cordelia, left to the seclusion of Holleyfield during the early period of her ladyship’s widowhood, and seeing no company, but two or three neighbouring families, of course passed much of their time together; and that with more harmony and cordiality than, all circumstances considered, might have been expected. Lady Walpole, in addition to all those motives which Mrs. Emerson had truly stated as influencing her, considered that when she should emerge from the first gloom of her sables, and consequent seclusion, the blooming Cordelia would prove a patent magnet of attraction, to draw the young and gay into her circles; while the heart of Cordelia, gentle, artless, and affectionate, sought her mother-in-law at once as an object to love, and a guide and monitor to lead and advise her; beyond which she was obeying the injunction of Mrs. Emerson to court assiduously the good graces of Lady Walpole. The last named lady, so well supported the character of dignified sorrow, excepting once at church, not even to air in a carriage; of course Miss Walpole, so young, and a total stranger in the neighbourhood, could make very short excursions alone; but accustomed to a great deal of exercise, and at once a graceful and excellent horsewoman, she sometimes took short rides in the park, but oftener long walks in different parts of the beautiful grounds; nor had she any one to make a companion of in those excursions, but the servant appointed by Lady Walpole to attend her, who did not rank very high in her estimation; for besides that Mrs. Emerson disliked her at first, Cordelia on a further knowledge found that she combined some of the worst attributes of low birth, pride, servility, cunning, loquacity, and adulation; and inexperienced as Cordelia was, she could easily perceive that she sought, by flattering her, to promote her own ends of self-interest, and that she often artfully tried to draw forth her sentiments and opinions of every one, even Lady Walpole herself, while she not unfrequently assumed the privilege of telling her, unasked, all, or at least a great deal, of what was going forward both in the mansion of Holleyfield and its vicinity. It was a lovely evening, the sun was setting in splendor, and air, earth, and water displayed all those captivations of beauty and of sweetness which, in the season of early summer, are so congenial to the mind, when Miss Walpole, attended by the young woman just described, set out on a long ramble by the banks of a rivulet, which traced a diversity of course through great part of the extensive domain of Holleyfield park; the last rays of day, beaming through broken clouds which presented every richness and variety of form and colouring, shone on the lofty woods, displaying their varied and elegant hues in beautiful contrast; the soft warbling of the brook responded to every rural sound in the animal and feathered tribes; and the scent-fraught zephyr, now dying away amongst the trees, and now rising as it were in playfulness, kissed the fair cheek of Miss Walpole, who thus surrounded by all that is lovely in creation, thrilled with every emotion that the season and the scene, so finely in unison with feeling and with taste, were calculated to inspire; her loquacious companion chatted with high volubility, bolting forth her common-place remarks in the weather and prospects, interspersed with adulatory compliments, to all of which Cordelia, entirely given up to her own contemplations, replied, and scarcely replied, in monosyllables, secretly wishing her endless clack a thousand miles off; and had it not been that she deemed it not quite safe to wander alone so remote from the house, at that time of the evening, she would indubitably have dismissed her; but Lucy, neither awed by silence, nor intimidated by reserve, chattered on, until their ramble was interrupted by reaching the utmost boundary of the park in the direction they had traced, it being the point where the high road alone separated the domain of Holleyfield from that of Ravenpark; to the right, lay that ground before-mentioned as having, by the litigation which took place concerning it, in part produced the animosity which subsisted between the families of Dunotter and Walpole; the law had adjudged it to the former, but part of it, a narrow winding vale, watered by a rivulet, with a foot-path leading along its banks, had been by prescription for time immemorial a common way to a neighbouring village; this was a pleasant rural walk, and Lucy undertook by it to conduct Miss Walpole a nearer way home; they crossed the bridge, and had proceeded about a hundred yards up the vale, when two figures were seen imperfectly through the combined gloom of evening and of foliage advancing on their path; while female habiliments soon became visible, and not all the surrounding and increasing shade could conceal from Miss Walpole that the light form which wore them was graceful and attractive beyond any she had hitherto seen; neither would the force and strength with which circumstances had impressed on her memory the stature and air of Lord Lochcarron, allow her to remain for a moment in doubt, that the arm which supported this lovely being belonged to him; a simple, trivial, casual occurrence is found often to be the pivot on which the axis of life turns for ever after; this was the case with Cordelia; it was the first time she had seen Lord Lochcarron since the affair of the robber; but she had never been able to hear his name mentioned without a vibrating emotion, which now betrayed itself to her companion, on whom she leaned as they traced the winding and uneven road: the young nobleman paid the passing compliments to Miss Walpole with a grace of manner peculiarly his own; neither the hurry of reply nor the dusk of evening would allow of Cordelia’s clearly distinguishing the features of the lady; but as far as she could form a judgment of her countenance, it was delicate, beautiful, and in unison with her form. Lucy, sly, and observing, marked well the emotions of her lady, and walked prepared to answer the inquiries she expected to be made; but finding Miss Walpole remained silent, she began with, “Good gracious, ma’am, what a beautiful spencer, I never saw such a rich, lustresome, charming satin in my life;” as the article had quite escaped Cordelia’s observation, she could neither assent nor dissent, confirm nor deny on the point; when the pause of a moment had elapsed, Lucy finding her say unnoticed, resumed, “but that hat is not fit to wear with it; a close cottage is not suitable for evening dress; a pink lining makes the complexion look fine, to be sure, and a handsome face seems any thing, to be sure; not that she is so extraordinary beautiful, to be sure—I have seen ladies far charminger than she, whatever she may think, or Lord Lochcarron may think, or any body else may think.”

Either Miss Walpole was abstracted, and did not much mind what reply she made, or it might be she chose to ask the question; whichever was the case, she said in a hurried tone, “Pray, who is that young lady?” Lucy, like many people when applied to for information, bridled up on the strength of her own consequence; “She is a young lady, to be sure, ma’am,” she returned, “but no such great personage of a lady, for all that, though to be sure my Lord Lochcarron does idle-ize her to such a degree, that most people think he will marry her if any thing should happen my Lord Dunotter soon, or else——” but what else was effectually suspended by the sudden appearance of Mr Crompton, who came to inform Miss Walpole that the dowager Lady Hootside, the earl, her son, and the two young ladies, her daughters, were arrived at Holleyfield; and that one of the gardeners having accidentally seen which road she took in her ramble, Lady Walpole had sent the carriage to the end of the bridge, and deputed him as an escort, being all anxiety to present her daughter to her noble guests; Cordelia was a good deal surprised by this intelligence; she knew Lady Hootside to be the intimate friend of her mother-in-law, and knew also that they were shortly expected to make a visit at Holleyfield, but not, she had supposed, so recently after Sir Charles’s death; however, she made no open comment, but accepted the offered arm of Mr. Crompton; and as to her valuable attendant, Lord Hootside’s valet, Lady Hootside’s woman, and the important question of whether peach-blossom or pomona would be the most becoming colour for the evening dance in the servant’s hall, took instant possession of her brains, and drove Lord Lochcarron and his fair companion at least a hundred toises from them. Arrived in the drawing-room at Holleyfield, Cordelia beheld such a group as no combination of ideas derived from her previous intercourse with society could have assisted her to frame an idea of: Lady Hootside, to whom, of course, she was first presented, was then about fifty, with a person which would have been called fine had not its effect, so far as pleasing was concerned, been totally destroyed by a self-importance, a self-opinion, a self-adulation, for they are all adequate terms, though none of them singly is sufficiently expressive; and when combined, their operation was such that a form and features which with graceful condescension, suavity of manners, and feminine gentleness, would have been termed elegant, and dignified, were never spoken of but as large and robust; her eyes were black, and still retained considerable fire, which was augmented by the rouge on her cheeks, the contrasting shade of her dark curled wig, and the mingled plumes and roses which crowned it; her teeth were regular and brilliantly white, and she smiled much to show them, but that smile had nothing in it of benevolence, of courtesy, or of good-nature. Lady Hootside had practised it so often, and studied it so long, that it was become the mere action of feature without one emanation of mind: as to her moral qualities, she was charitable sometimes, but ostentatiously so, for the fame of her good deeds of that sort generally spread abroad; and added to all this, she was much accused of being proud, vain, avaricious, and sarcastic, with some truth and some exaggeration.

The attention of Miss Walpole was next directed from the countess to Lady Melissa Mannark, her eldest daughter, who sat on the corner of a sofa, in such a costume that it was difficult to ascertain whether or no it concealed a human form; she had superadded to her Merino travelling habit and furred cap, a mantle calculated for the meridian of a Russian winter, open indeed before, but closely enveloping her shoulders; her right hand rested in her bosom, as if to seek warmth from her heart, and her left was immersed in a muff as large as a young bear of Nova Zembla; when Lady Walpole led her daughter to this seeming native of Tobolski, she half rose, half bowed, half yawned, but no beam of her eye rested on either the presenter or the presented; the gentle sympathies of Cordelia’s nature were awakened; she believed her very ill, and looked with all the commiseration which such a belief inspired; when in consequence of Mr. Crompton’s moving his massy frame, a stronger light fell on the young lady’s face, and disclosed a pretty blooming countenance; but the shut eyes barring all expression, the next conclusion was that either insanity or idiotism prompted an appearance so unsuited to the season and the weather; pity now became Cordelia’s predominant feeling, and she would perhaps have betrayed a degree of surprise and curiosity rather beyond what good-breeding allows, had she not been recalled by an introduction to Lady Caroline Mannark, the younger daughter of Lady Hootside; astonishment now changed its object, and all the power of contrast aided its force; she beheld a form so thin, so fragile, so attenuated, that it could hardly be supposed that of an inhabitant of earth; a complexion dazzlingly fair, yet so pale that scarcely any ray of life seemed to animate it; dark blue eyes of the most languishing softness; a small mouth, with lips of coral; teeth of the most brilliant whiteness; and a countenance modelled by affectation to the most studied, delicate, die-away sort of expression; over her luxuriant flaxen hair was thrown a veil of the finest lace, which, together with her thin white robe and azure scarf, waved with every breath of air, and gave her—at least it might be inferred, she hoped it gave her—the appearance of being beyond mortality; she had, by study and practice, modulated her voice to great softness of expression, which, combined with her youth, and with a certain elegance of address, rendered her, at first sight, very pleasing and attractive; Cordelia, however, thought her amiable; and, far from feeling that envy and rivalship which too frequently torture young ladies when first introduced to contemporary beauty, contemplated in idea a delightful companion, and looked forwards with pleasure to the time they should pass together. “Though last not least,” of this delectable assemblage, was the earl himself, a little smart looking youth in his twentieth year; at the moment of Miss Walpole’s entrance he was kneeling on one knee—not in homage to a lady, but before a large spaniel dog, who was reared on his hind legs, his fore-paws resting on the shoulders of his noble patron, their faces in close contact, and Leo bestowing on his master those rough but honest caresses which his nature prompted.

When Lady Walpole presented her daughter, Lord Hootside quitted the paw of his shaggy favourite with a cordial shake, and took the fair hand of Cordelia, without seeming at all sensible of any incongruity in the proceeding, or that the familiar pressure, and unceremonious “How d’ye do?” were freedoms not quite sanctioned by a first introduction.

CHAPTER V.

AS the travellers had taken an early dinner at the last stage, they declined having any other refreshment than tea, and while it was preparing, the ladies retired to adjust their dress; “My dear creature,” said Lady Melissa to Cordelia, as she rose from her snug corner, “they tell me you have been taking a long ramble, how could you possibly endure such a freezing thing as an evening walk at this time of year?” “What time of year is it, sister?” asked Lord Hootside, stifling a giggle. “February, is it not?” she gravely returned; the earl broke at once into a loud laugh, and Lady Hootside said, “My dear girl, you positively grow so very abstracted, why it is June;” “June!” re-iterated the young lady, viewing her own habiliments with well-counterfeited surprise; “and you have all been cruel enough to see me distil myself to a tincture with heat, and never told me it was summer;” as she spoke, she threw off her mantle, unbuttoned her habit, and snatching the cap from her head converted it into a fan, and used it with such vehemence, that her luxuriant hair waved about in all directions as she flew away to her dressing-room.

“Dear mamma,” exclaimed Cordelia, when the door closed upon their guests, “is that poor young lady deranged?” “My love, how can you ask such a question?” returned Lady Walpole.

Cordelia, under the impression that it was the obviousness of the young lady’s malady which induced her mother to wonder she should think such an inquiry necessary, proceeded to express the pity she really felt, but was interrupted with “Go, child, can you seriously suppose Lady Melissa mad?—why, you egregious goosecap, her ladyship is one of the most elegant, highly-accomplished young women in the whole circle of fashion—her absence of mind, I allow, sometimes leads her into little eccentricities, but they only render her the more charming.” “O dear, mamma, can it be a charm not to know June from February?” exclaimed Cordelia, laughing; Lady Walpole gravely said, “Yes,” and proceeded to explain the principles on which a defect becomes tantamount to a beauty, by saying, “We are all sensible of the value of admiration, and all wish to gain it, but that admiration which is the meed of manifest, decided superiority, not being voluntary homage, is paid unwillingly, and detracted from whenever that can be done; now inferiority of any kind (by which, however, you are not to understand common every-day deficiencies, but studied, acquired, becoming ones) if judiciously managed, always claims indulgence; if gracefully, it has, as I said before, the force of a charm; I have seen the occasional lameness of a beautiful woman exhibit a handsome foot to as much advantage as the most perfect dancing could have done, without exciting the envy which would have attended the display of that accomplishment; as to people pretending to be deaf and blind, who can recover their sight, if a beau appears at twenty yards’ distance, or their hearing, if a tale of scandal be told, their folly is an antidote to itself; but many deficiencies—ignorance for example—if becomingly expressed, and evidently the result of youth and inexperience, is very fascinating; for by appealing to others for information, we tacitly pay a homage to their vanity which finds its way to the heart.”

Lady Walpole was proceeding to panegyrize her other guests, when she was interrupted by their return to the drawing-room: Cordelia remained not quite convinced that there is either beauty or propriety in not knowing summer from winter; neither did she become a convert to Lady Walpole’s general reasoning; but her ingenuous mind felt an impression equally new and dangerous; she saw that the genuine unadulterated modes of simple nature in which she had been educated, and to which she had hitherto adhered, were not only little practised, but neither valued nor admired where they were.

Lady Melissa was now completely metamorphosed; her thick travelling vestments were exchanged for the most light and elegant drapery; her hair was arranged with care and taste, and her hands and arms, released from their furry incumbrances, displayed every suitable ornament of fashion, very well assorted, excepting that the fair wearer, not to be quite out of character, had placed a valuable ring on the thumb instead of a finger of her left hand.

Lady Caroline was even more bizarre than at first; her airy sylph-like garments were disposed in the first fantastic forms; her eyes, as if unable to support the glare of vulgar objects, were shaded by preservers; her ears, annoyed, no doubt, by the sounds of a strange habitation, were carefully stuffed with the softest wool; and her sense of smelling was guarded by a case of the most curious India fillagree workmanship which she carried in her hand, and which held sal volatile, otto of roses, and various other articles of olfactory celebrity, contained in bottles suited to the strength and organs of a fairy; Lady Hootside was habited like all juvenile ladies of half a century, and her son like a fashionable nondescript, half beau, half groom.

Though the whole party consisted only of seven persons, six of them created more bustle than is usually occasioned by twenty; Lady Walpole talked a great deal, and alternately dispensed her attentions to all, in her wonted style of flattering florid compliment: Lady Hootside chatted, laughed, exhibited her teeth, and encouraged her daughters in the display of their assumed characters: with the manners of her son she was evidently not so well satisfied, and however ignorant Cordelia had hitherto been of the artificial modes of life, she could easily perceive that her ladyship wished him to gloss over his roughness with a studied behaviour, like that of his sisters; but he was completely emancipated from her control; her commands he disregarded, and her remonstrances he laughed at, though conveyed in the gentle terms of, “Now, Hooty, my dear creature, don’t be absurd;” but all that the genius of mischief himself could have invented, seemed to have a home in the brain of his lordship; his sisters were the chief objects on which his wicked wit displayed itself; and now as they sat sipping their tea, Lady Melissa taking sugar when she meant cream, and committing a hundred other well contrived blunders; and Lady Caroline so celestialized that she could hardly eat as much bread as might have been contained in a nut shell, availing himself of the absence of mind of the one, and the refined sensations of the other, he handed to each a beautiful nosegay, composed of the choicest flowers, and arranged with great taste; he paid a similar mark of attention to Miss Walpole, who was smelling to and admiring the collection of sweets, when the two ladies Mannark were seized at the same moment with such fits of sneezing, that their features were convulsed, their dress disordered, and every thing about them thrown into the greatest confusion; the cause easily discovered itself by the loud laughter of the young nobleman, who had perfumed the two bouquets intended for his sisters so plentifully with snuff, that his mischievous purpose was fully answered; nor did the consequences end here; the agitation of the ladies roused a favourite dog of Lady Caroline’s, which couched in her ladyship’s lap, and the terrified animal in shaking his shaggy ears, contrived to plunge one of them into a cup of hot tea; dire now was the scene which ensued; Lady Hootside scolded; her fair daughters alternately screamed and sneezed; the lap-dog howled; the china rattled; the tea trickled in a stream on the beautiful carpet; Lady Walpole was red with apprehension that it would be spoiled; Cordelia strove to sooth and console all the sufferers in turn; the author of all the mischief measured his length on a sofa, and laughed himself into complete exhaustion; and Mr. Crompton quietly seconded the efforts of the servants who were endeavouring to cleanse the carpet; wisely considering it as the object which Lady Walpole was most interested about.

Lord Hootside’s frolic effectually destroyed the comfort and harmony of the evening, and the party separated at an early hour. It was long before Miss Walpole could abstract her mind, or even feel as if her senses were clear from the annoyance of the rattling party she had left; but though every incident of the past day wore the stamp of novelty, neither the incidents themselves, nor those who had been actors in them, possessed interest enough to arrest attention, except the meeting with Lord Lochcarron—on that she dwelt long and earnestly, and contemplated its positions in every possible point of view; she of course inferred that the young lady who accompanied him was the same whom, as Sherwin had hinted, he seemed resolved to unite himself to; and as it appeared from the hints of both Lucy and Sherwin, that Lord Dunotter disapproved of the connexion, it remained to draw the conclusion that she was deficient in the qualifications of rank, fortune, or character: so far as appearances might be admitted as a criterion to judge by, she fell short in none of them, for her dress was expensive, and her air noble and graceful, though modest; yet money might purchase the former, and education and art combined bestow the latter; and as Cordelia, restricted as her knowledge of life had hitherto been, had seen elegant and beautiful, yet unworthy women, she was compelled to admit the fear that she might be one of that class already living under the protection of Lord Lochcarron: such a thought was too painful to be contemplated, and turning away, she endeavoured to lose it in a thousand vague conjectures; it was, however, a subject on which she was not long fated to remain in uncertainty.

The next day passed with the Hootside party in a repetition of follies similar to those of the preceding one: after rambling over the beautiful grounds, Lord Hootside asked Cordelia to ride with him in the park; she cheerfully complied to the evident pleasure of both mammas; Lady Walpole was offering her horse to Lady Melissa, and her ladyship was graciously signifying her acceptance, when her unceremonious brother exclaimed, “No, indeed, you sha’n’t be of our party, you would be over all the hedges and into all the ditches in the place, and in your stupid fits would gallop over corn, meadow, and pasture, without being conscious that you were off the road.”

Lady Melissa pouted, and muttered much about her brother’s rudeness, but was forced to submit withal; and Lady Walpole, in her insinuating way, transferred the offer to her sister; but Lord Hootside barred her accompanying them by a negative, “No, no;” “Why,” he exclaimed, “you would faint if the mare happened to hit her foot against a pebble, and scream your senses away if a swallow flew across the path, or a deer bounded by; no, no, nobody shall ride with me but Miss Walpole.”

The decrees of Lord Hootside were as immutable as those of the Medes and Persians; none of the family dared to demur; but had Miss Walpole heard all this sooner, she certainly would not have rode, nor have outraged the feelings of the young ladies by seeming to be a party in their disappointment; as it were she felt herself compelled to keep her promise without interfering between them and their brother; for aware that his lordship was perfectly acquainted with the foibles of his sisters, she had no inclination to have her horse frightened, and perhaps her life endangered by their flights. Their excursion was very pleasant; Lord Hootside, freed from the self-imposed task of annoying his relatives, displayed himself to an advantage which Cordelia had not conceived possible: true, he was not gifted with any great portion of either parts or acquirements, but he had much good-nature and some wit, and though too proud to seem making an effort to please, he was in reality doing so unknown to himself.

The environs of Holleyfield presented nothing new to the young earl, for he had frequently visited them before; but Miss Walpole was totally unacquainted with the scenery of the neighbourhood; Lord Hootside pointed out every object and every view, and time flew delightfully, till in passing beneath some trees which grew by the side of the brook, Cordelia observed her companion looking steadfastly down on the grass; suddenly he dismounted, and telling Miss Walpole that his stirrup had got wrong, begged her to ride forwards and he would follow when his groom had replaced it; she complied, and had proceeded but a very little way when she caught a glimpse—unperceived, but a perfect one as to certainty—of Lord Lochcarron and the lady she had seen with him the preceding evening, walking in a wood on the left, which belonged to the domain of Ravenpark.

“Surely,” Cordelia thought, “the society of that young lady possesses a powerful charm;” but little time was allowed for either conjecture or reflection; Lord Hootside gallopped up, and they soon reached Holleyfield.

The ladies had not been unemployed in their absence; Lady Hootside’s good genius had suggested to her, that as every thing connected with the dominions of Spain in America was becoming popular, her daughters could not devote themselves to any study so likely to attract and bear away the palm of fashion as the languages of that immense continent; the dances of the Mexicans, as they have been transmitted to us in description, the manners, the customs, the dresses, and the arts of the once-extensive empires of Peru and Mexico; with the addition of whatever in more recent times has become known in Europe concerning that co