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 II.

 

“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.

 

THE morning was ushered in without any of those appearances of nature, which are supposed to be peculiarly propitious to bridal rites; in the elegant language of Milton,

 

                                    “Not trick’d and frounc’d as she was wont

                                    With the Attie boy to hunt,

                                    But kerchief’d in a comely cloud,

                                    While rocking winds are piping loud.”

 

            Though every preparation had been previously made, yet to see them all properly carried into execution gave ample employment to Lady Walpole and her coadjutors, for the five hours which succeeded the breakfast one; much remained to be done, both to adorn and embellish the grand drawing-room, and dedicate it appropriately to its present solemn purpose; the dining-room required much tasteful decoration; and in the other apartments there were so many plants to arrange, so many pictures to compose and decompose; such a number and variety of flowers and vases to place in order, and so many other items to attend to, that only two hours remained for the labours of the toilet; and there Lady Walpole improved so well, that she came forth a superb and gay, though not juvenile bride; her dress was composed of white satin, silver net, and rich fringe of the same material; while the ornaments disposed about her person, which were as numerous as fashion would sanction, were all of diamonds; no assistance that art has contrived to aid nature was omitted; and the satisfaction of her heart spread such a radiance over her countenance, that she might literally be said to beam smiles, and breathe rapture. Cordelia wore a most elegant dress of her own work; her beautiful hair needed no adornment, and a pearl necklace was all of her costume that could be termed ornamental; yet altogether her face and form looked interestingly lovely.

 

            About five the Ravenpark party arrived; the two noblemen were dressed with characteristic grace and propriety, and the resemblance between them was so striking, that Lord Dunotter might truly have contemplated in his son a younger self. The earl was polite to all, and most attentive to Lady and Miss Walpole, but yet dignified, and rather grave.—Cordelia thought he looked as if the habitual superiority of his deportment was struggling to resume its wonted sway; Lord Lochcarron, whatever might be his inward feelings, was gentle, good-tempered, and very tender in his manner towards his bride elect. Mr. Malcolm had another reverend gentleman with him, and conducted the ceremonial of the marriages extremely well; the archbishop’s licenses were displayed with all due form; Mr. Addington had the honour to give Lady Walpole to that hand which put on her the golden fetter which constituted her a new-made countess; and then Lord Dunotter himself gave the fair hand of Cordelia to his son. Those circumstances which in perspective appear so formidable, that the mind thinks it will never have courage to go through them, are often, when brought to the test, supported with singular fortitude: thus it was with Miss Walpole, she had always felt appalled when reflecting on the ceremony which was to unite her to lord Lochcarron; but when the moment arrived, all those fears vanished, and she supported herself with great firmness; in moments like these, when the parties who are taking an important step in life are surrounded by their friends, the hearts of all, if not absolutely callous by nature, or seared by a commerce with the world, expand with something like a thrill of pleasure as they give and receive congratulations; it may be questioned whether Lord and Lady Dunotter were capable of such expansion, but they could well assume the appearance of it; and as every one else felt it in reality in a greater or less degree, they sat down to a most magnificent dinner, a very pleasant bridal party. Harmony and hilarity seemed to increase over the dessert, which was truly sumptuous; every delicacy that art can compel our climate to produce, was brought from the hothouses at Ravenpark; the bride had ordered every foreign importation that is esteemed delicious, and the wines of Lord Dunotter could not fail to be some of the best which England contained. The bridal toast to the health and happiness of the junior pair had just gone round, when one of the attendants whispered something in the ear of Lord Lochcarron; the eye of Cordelia, in stolen glances, anxiously watched the countenance of her new-made lord, but no very particular degree of emotion was discoverable in it; he rose, however, and quitted the room without any one seeming to notice the action; conversation was carried on with unabated spirit, but his bride secretly counted the minutes, and wondered at his stay; when he had been gone about a quarter of an hour, pauses were visible in the discourse, and Cordelia could observe that her father-in-law every now and then stole a look towards the door, while the glance of Lady Dunotter mechanically, as it were, followed his; the bride of Lochcarron wished to trace on her watch the progress of time, but was restrained by the consciousness that so many eyes were observing her.

 

            The glass to the usual toast was waiting; half an hour had now elapsed, and when all, as if by general consent, were sinking into silence, Lord Dunotter expressed some slight surprise at the absence of his son; his words seemed a directing impulse to Miss Addington, who never approved of long fits of silence, and now with her eyes turned to Lady Lochcarron, as if addressing her in particular, exclaimed, “Dear, how strange that his lordship should stay so long, where can he be?” questions are sometimes asked which the inquirer cannot expect to have answered, and this was certainly one of them; Mr. Kenyon, the clerical friend of Mr. Malcolm, promptly relieved the bride by saying, “that he could not avoid in part overhearing the message brought by the servant to Lord Lochcarron, which was respecting a letter.” Lord Dunotter’s look now betrayed visible inquietude, he paused a moment, and then said, “I fear it is from Shellmount, and that my sister is worse.” His bride begged him not to be alarmed—expressing her conviction that Lord Lochcarron would soon return—smiled on Cordelia, as if translating her apprehensive countenance, and wishing to do away the impression—and endeavoured to rally and re-animate conversation, but all would not do; the earl, evidently distressed, remained abstracted a few minutes, and then ringing the bell, a servant opened the door, and his lordship, going into the hall, desired Lord Lochcarron’s valet to be called; a shade of busy curiosity, mingled with some degree of inquietude, was visible on the countenances of all the domestics, and the earl had to repeat his orders twice before he received the laconic information that the valet was gone with his lord. It still appeared that either every one was unwilling to speak on the subject, or no one knew what to say, for Lord Dunotter was compelled to descend to the humiliation of inquiring minutely who had been with his son; when and whither he went; and by what mode of conveyance: in answer to these questions, he was told that a man on horseback, apparently in very great haste, had brought a letter addressed to Lord Lochcarron, which he said must be delivered immediately; the messenger rode off without staying for an answer, and his lordship was summoned from the dining-room in the way already described; he read the letter alone in a breakfast parlour, and then went into the shrubbery, where he walked, by the light of the moon, about a quarter of an hour. On his return to the house, he instantly summoned his valet, to whom he gave some orders in a low voice; the man departed to execute them, and the young nobleman, rushing hastily out of the house on foot, was seen to take the road towards Ravenpark.

 

            Such was the strange, alarming, mortifying intelligence with which Lord Dunotter was compelled to return to his own bride, the bride of Lochcarron, and their party; his own conjectures were best known to himself, but he softened down what he had to say as much as possible, by assuming a serene look and cheerful tone, and by totally suppressing the emphatic words used by the domestic, that Lord Lochcarron rushed hastily out of the house, and that he was known to have taken the road to Ravenpark; that he went on foot he was compelled to admit, and slightly saying he was surprised, though not very uneasy, expressed his intention of going to Ravenpark to see if his son was there. “Oh no, my lord,” said Lady Dunotter, “you had much better dispatch a messenger.” The earl, without giving either an accord or a negative to her ladyship’s proposition, again hinted his fears that the letter was from Shellmount, and that Lady Charlotte was worse.

 

            Apprehensions which have grounds are much more supportable than those which have none, a truth of which Cordelia felt the conviction; for the supposal of Lord Dunotter was so plausible a reason for her lord’s strange absence, that she became comparatively easy, strove to rally her spirits, and joined in conversation with Mrs. Addington, who was kindly endeavouring to amuse her. Lord Dunotter seemed to take a part with them, but his frequent pauses of silence, and slight absences of mind, betrayed the agitation which he was endeavouring to divert and conceal; another half hour thus wore over, Lord Lochcarron had now been gone an hour and a half; Cordelia’s terrors were visibly reviving, and Lord Dunotter’s starting eye seeking the door on every slight motion, when Lady Dunotter rose to adjourn to the drawing-room, again reiterating her persuasion that Lord Lochcarron would soon return; but when there no longer appears a foundation for hope, saying “I hope he will,” seems tantamount to “I fear he will not.”

 

            Lord Dunotter and his two clerical friends soon followed the ladies; tea was served, and for a short time uneasiness was veiled till it seemed banished, but like whatever is under forced restraint, it gathered strength, and soon broke out again with augmented violence; Lady Lochcarron’s pale countenance spoke the agony of her mind; Lady Dunotter grew seriously uneasy, and expressed herself so; the earl alternately soothed them both with the most tender attention, and then losing his own self-command, rose from his seat, traversed the apartment, and reiterated his apprehensions that his sister was dead, and that Lochcarron, reluctant to cloud the happiness of that day, was withholding intelligence so distressing, and writing from Ravenpark such instructions as were absolutely necessary: “Oh, but in that case he would surely have sent to say he was detained by business, and would return presently,” said Cordelia, in mournful accents: it seemed so rational to suppose that he would indeed have done so, that every one silently admitted the painful conviction. Miss Addington now observed that his lordship had been gone upwards of two hours; when the unhappy bride, unable longer to rein in her anguished feelings, broke into a passion of tears, and sobbed with the most moving grief; Lord Dunotter flew to her, folded her affectionately to his heart, begged her to be composed, and saying he would instantly go to Ravenpark to ascertain the truth, rang the bell, and ordered his carriage.

 

            The night was growing stormy, heavy clouds obscured the moon, and a rain was commencing which threatened to be of long continuance; Lady Dunotter looked rather averse to her lord’s intention; spoke of the weather, glanced her eye on Cordelia, who sat the genuine picture of woe, and as if half inclined to censure her for its indulgence, hinted at the duty of patience; Mr. Malcolm translated her countenance, and offered to relieve Lord Dunotter from the task of going to Ravenpark; but this his lordship declined with a mild determination, which precluded any further interference on the point; Mr. Malcolm then requested permission to accompany him, Mr. Kenyon made the same offer, but the earl waived both, and departed with only his own servant in the carriage.

 

            Seriously alarming as the affair now looked, it was yet some little relief to the anxious circle, most especially to the unhappy bride, that Lord Dunotter was himself gone to ascertain the truth; only Lady Dunotter seemed to disapprove of it, the efforts of every one else were chiefly directed to sooth Cordelia, and to support her spirits; in this Mr. Malcolm succeeded best, for he did it with a gentleness and feeling inspired by his affectionate regard for Lord Lochcarron, but he hid his fears in the recesses of his own breast; he was apprehensive that the letter Lord Lochcarron had received was in reality a trap to decoy him into some danger, of what nature he could not define, but to which he had fallen a victim.

 

            Lady Dunotter, though she had at first been, or affected to be, the most buoyant in hope, had now nearly sunk into the opposite passion of despair, and formed a very dreadful secret surmise, that Lord Lochcarron, the prey of a violent passion for Miss Borham, and detesting the union he had been as it were, forced into, had cut the thread of existence with his own hand; nor was her ladyship single in this horrid supposition, but it was of course the last in the world which any one would have avowed. Mr. Addington’s private opinion was, that the letter had contained a challenge; that the consequence had been an immediate meeting, perhaps at some inn in the neighbourhood, and the event too probably fatal. Mr. Kenyon thought, or chose to say he thought, that Lord Dunotter’s fears were verified, that Lady Charlotte Malcolm was dead, and that Lord Lochcarron had gone post to Shellmount; Cordelia shook her head in mournful sadness, and said (what every principle of reason and common sense seemed to justify her in saying) that her lord would never have gone to Shellmount without sending a line to notify his intention. “But,” observed Miss Addington, “perhaps Lady Charlotte is not dead, but so dangerously ill that his lordship could not lose a moment.” This supposition did not appear to illuminate the affair in the least, for if time had not allowed his lordship to write, he might at all events, and certainly would, have charged an intelligent servant with a verbal message, which should give a cautious explanation of what had occurred.

 

            Thus the party talked, and thus they looked till the clock told the awful hour of midnight; Lord Dunotter had now been gone above an hour, and though he could not be expected back until at least twice that time had elapsed, every moment which was now added to his stay took something from hope and gave more to fear, for every one had cherished a secret wish, almost amounting to an expectation, that his lordship would have been prevented from performing his journey to its full extent by meeting either his son or a messenger upon the road.

 

            Oh! how splendidly miserable was now the lovely bride of Lochcarron, arrayed in her nuptial dress, surrounded by all the pomp and magnificence that taste could invent, luxury suggest, or wealth command; unable to endure the anguish of her own thoughts and feelings, she moved from seat to seat, and wandered from apartment to apartment, while the glare of the lights, the bloom of the flowers, the finest odours of nature, and the most rare and expensive combinations of art, only served to write and impress wretchedness on every sense. She was returning to the drawing-room from her own boudoir, where she had gone to implore that protection and assistance which, perhaps too little thought of in health and joy, is our never-failing refuge in sickness or in sorrow, when she was met by Lucy, her loquacious attendant, who, with a face solemnized for the occasion, and with a particular expression of countenance beyond that, exclaimed, “Oh, my lady, I have just heard such a thing—” “For heaven’s sake,” said Cordelia, wrought up almost to frenzy with apprehension, “tell me at once what you have heard, let me know the worst, I cannot bear suspense.” Again she commenced with, “Oh, my lady,” when they were appalled by a violent scream from Miss Addington; Cordelia, who now expected that all her most dreadful surmises (and every dreadful surmise she had in turn harboured) were now about to be confirmed, flew to the spot, where the first object she beheld was Mr. Malcolm, pale as death, and stretched on a sofa; he was, what is rarely met with in this our day, a man of refined feelings, and possessed of an inquiring, though not always a penetrating mind; his attachment to Lord Lochcarron was very great, both personally, and as the rising sun to which his noble house looked up for the support of its family honours; and now persuaded that his strange disappearance on his bridal day was owing to none of the causes which the supposing party around him had conjured up, he was driven to the horrid alternative of adopting the belief, that either he had destroyed himself, or that the letter had been a decoy to lure him to a death only less shocking inasmuch as it was not self-inflicted.

 

            All now became a scene of confusion, Lady Lochcarron was nearly distracted by the dreadful apprehension that Mr. Malcolm was possessed of the fatal secret concerning her lord, whatever it might be, and that his struggles to conceal it had produced this singular effect upon his frame. Proper remedies were applied, he recovered from his swoon, but felt so much disordered that he was obliged to be carried to bed. A messenger was despatched for Mr. Herbert, to ascertain whether the patient required bleeding, or whether it would be requisite to have medical advice. Lady Dunotter, in addition to her terrors, was now ready to expire with vexation, and something like shame, for she well knew that the arrival of Herbert, and the intelligence he would gather from the domestics, would as effectually blazon the secrets of this eventful bridal day as if they had been published in the gazette.

 

            The distressed party was scarcely settled into some degree of mournful composure, after the removal of Mr. Malcolm, when a servant entered, and placing a letter by Lady Dunotter, said it had been brought by a person on horseback who rode off the moment he had delivered it. The superscription was simply, “The Earl of Dunotter,” sealed with a wafer, and without postmark or any other character by which its progress could be traced; and now as her ladyship turned it over and viewed it with eager anxiety, sometimes persuading herself that it contained the fatal secret they all so longed to know, yet dreaded to hear, and at others yielding to the belief that it was another letter sent by the same hand to lure the father to the fate which had already befallen the son, she felt almost tempted to break the seal. Cordelia, her frame sinking under the most violent apprehensions, watched her every motion, but yet in the midst of the most trying distress, her keen sense of propriety would not allow her to urge any one to open a letter addressed to another person. Miss Addington, less scrupulous, openly exclaimed, “Oh, dearest Lady Dunotter, end our terrors at once.” And it is more than probable her ladyship would have complied, but for the consideration that the earl her husband might not exactly approve of such an assumption of privilege in this early period of their union. Miss Addington, thus precluded from seeing the inside, next endeavoured to acertain whether the direction was really the writing of Lord Lochcarron, but no one present was sufficiently acquainted with his lordship’s hand to place the matter beyond a doubt, though all agreed in tracing, or fancying, a resemblance between it and the little they had seen of his writing. Mr. Malcolm, the only person who could have decided in the case, was too ill to be referred to; and thus the poor distressed bride was doomed to the punishment of Tantalus, having before her eyes what might probably either have confirmed or dispelled her fears, without being able to extract from it the slightest particle of information.

 

            Worn down by such a weight of wretchedness, that no pen can do justice to her feelings, she now begged Mr. Addington to go and examine the servants, and find out whether they had put any questions concerning Lord Lochcarron to the person who brought the letter. Mr. Addington obeyed, and the result of his inquiry was, that the bearer of the letter, who (as far as the darkness of the night would permit conjecture) appeared to be the waiter or assistant at an inn, had been asked by the servant who answered his knock, if he knew any thing of Lord Lochcarron, to which he only replied, “I cannot say any thing about him,” and rode off.

 

            The mode of expression cannot, is frequently used as equivalent to will not, and in the present instance the melancholy party feared that such was the case. The arrival of Mr. Herbert next summoned Mr. Kenyon and Mr. Addington to the apartment of the invalid to hear the medical report, and the ladies were left to the sad indulgence of silent anguish; to the repetition of conjectures a thousand times repeated before; to delusive expressions of hope which only betrayed the reality of fear; to faint attempts at consolation, while all were conscious that they had none either to give or expect; and to reiterated examinations of the outside of the letter. The writing was certainly not good, and Lady Dunotter, after a close inspection, said she thought it an imitation of Lord Lochcarron’s hand, intended, no doubt, for the worst purposes. Lady Lochcarron, perhaps reluctant to yield up the belief, and with it the faint ray of comfort it afforded that it was indeed written by her husband, expressed her opinion that it was agitation of nerve which had caused its crooked and inelegant appearance. Miss Addington observed that it looked like a hand disguised, as if the writer wished it not to be recognised; but Lady Dunotter repelled the supposition, and said somewhat indignantly, that if Lord Lochcarron were writing to his father, there would exist no possible reason why he should not wish it to be known.

 

            As the hour of one in the morning drew on, all sunk into boding silence, and “listening fear” pervaded every face. At length the fatal stroke was heard, and poor Cordelia, as if the final knell of hope was struck on her heart, uttered what might be termed a shriek of anguish, and throwing herself into the arms of Mr. Addington, wept tears of wounded love, and grief, and despair. The two gentlemen now returned from Mr. Malcolm’s apartment with intelligence that Mr. Herbert had bled his patient, ordered a composing draught, and pronounced that a night’s rest would effectually restore him; all expressed themselves glad to hear it, but as for the two brides, it must be owned that in their case grief,

 

                        “The master passion of the breast,

            “Like Aaron’s serpent, swallowed up the rest.”

 

            Lady Dunotter had too much pride to inquire, either directly or indirectly, whether Herbert had in any way mentioned the more than strange disappearance of Lord Lochcarron; but she felt the present humiliation of their circumstances at every pore, and rising from her seat, she traversed the length of the apartment, sometimes venting her anguish in a deep groan, mentally wishing that she had done all in her power to retard the marriage of Lord Lochcarron and Cordelia to a later period; expressing the strength of her fears about her lord, and appealing to Mr. Addington whether he had not now exceeded all bounds of time for going to Ravenpark and returning? Mr. Addington said “Not yet;” but he only spoke to lull apprehension, for his lordship had certainly stayed much beyond the period at which he might reasonably have been expected back.

 

            The night, or to speak more properly, the morning, was becoming more tempestuous, the gale blew in the direction towards the windows, and the heavy rain-drops, driven by its fury, pattered loudly against them. No language can do justice to the distress of Ladies Dunotter and Lochcarron; the former proposed and the latter eagerly seconded the sending off a messenger on horseback to Ravenpark, for both, now alike the victims of their well-grounded terrors, felt a conviction that the father and son were involved in the same fate. Miss Addington, not formed for the tameness of sitting down to wait the arrival of either joy or despair, went every two minutes to the staircase to listen for the sound of the carriage; sometimes Cordelia accompanied her, and felt her anguish renewed by every disappointment.

 

            Another half hour wore away; Lady Dunotter was in the extremity of distress, and her daughter exhibited such alarming symptoms of illness, that her friends united in endeavours to persuade her to retire, but in vain; she insisted on awaiting in the drawing-room the return of Lord Dunotter, and though scarcely able to support her drooping head, tried to wear some appearance of composure.

 

            “It is just two o’clock,” said Miss Addington, returning from one of her perambulations, “I thought I heard the carriage, but I was mistaken; hush—no—I am right,” and away she flew. It was indeed the earl, but his step, his voice, his every motion, too plainly told that he brought no joyful news; to Miss Addington’s exclamation of “Oh, my lord, are you come at last!” he replied, “Yes, my dear Miss Addington, I am here;” but there was no animation of tone, nothing of that cheerfulness inspired by satisfaction, and calculated to inspire it; his voice was little like the voice of the bridegroom, and his manner the most widely different from that joyful character that can be imagined; his face was pale, and his eyes, when he entered the apartment, first sought Cordelia, next glanced on his bride, and were then directed to the floor. Lady Dunotter snatching up the letter, placed it within the folds of her gown, and flew to her lord; while Cordelia, raising her drooping head from the arm of the sofa, looked with frenzied eagerness, but, as if afraid to ask the question which should terminate her dreadful suspense, spoke not a word. The rest of the group surrounded the earl, who said in a faint and dejected tone, “So the servants tell me Lochcarron has not returned.” “And has he not been at Ravenpark, my lord?” questioned Lady Dunotter: to which the earl faintly replied “No.” In this word every worst surmise which had been harboured seemed confirmed; Lady Dunotter thought she saw him weltering in his own blood, shed by his own hand; Mr. Addington beheld him in idea stretched lifeless by the pistol of the duellist; and as to his unhappy bride, she had been pondering on one dreadful idea, till its certainty seemed written on her very brain—it was that the associates of the robber who had fallen on the evening which first introduced her to the acquaintance of Lord Lochcarron, had formed this diabolical, and it appeared too successful, plan to lure him away and deprive him of life, on the sacred and cherished day from which the date of his future happiness was to be drawn. This supposition was similar to that harboured by Mr. Malcolm, and it was near producing the same effect on Lady Lochcarron as it had done on him, when the progress of anguish was checked, and for the time suspended, by seeing her mother draw the letter from its concealment; Lord Dunotter glanced at the superscription, and exclaiming, “Ha! when did this come?” snatched it from her hand, with an eagerness not entirely according with his habitual attention to the established forms of etiquette and politeness, but which this unparalleled moment not only excused but justified. “Oh, my lord, is it indeed the hand-writing of Lochcarron?” questioned Cordelia, in the most piercing accent which could be dictated by the struggle of hope and despair. He replied in the affirmative, for a moment, suspending his attention to the letter, which he was tearing open with an impetuosity that nearly defeated its own purpose, he turned away, as if to have the advantage of a light; the Addingtons and Mr. Kenyon respected his feelings, and retired to a distance; Cordelia’s eagerly-anxious eyes followed every turn of the earl’s face, but still her amiable retiring diffidence prevented her from drawing nearer, and only Lady Dunotter remained standing near her lord; yet he seemed jealous lest the contents of the letter should be seen even by her, and kept it as much as possible in a position to meet no eye but his own. Every look was fixed on his countenance, and all exerted their best skill in physiognomy to translate its expression; no trace of surprise or astonishment was visible, but evident inquietude, sorrow, and something nearly resembling vexation. Cordelia, while he read, appeared as if restraining by force the inquiry which was ready to burst from her lips; but when she saw his eye glance near the bottom of the page, she exclaimed, “Oh, my lord, is Lochcarron safe? in mercy tell me what has occurred?” “Nothing fatal, assure yourself, my dearest life,” said the earl, hastily folding the letter, and putting it into the pocket of his waistcoat, “nothing, I trust, which will be of long duration; my son is offended with me;—it sounds strangely to say so—but a villain has misrepresented circumstances.”

 

            There is a point of suffering which a well-regulated female mind cannot brook; needs it be said that the slightest shade thrown upon character, the veriest atom which can stain reputation, constitutes that point: the keenly-susceptible mind of Cordelia instantly construed the hint of Lord Dunotter to imply that her fame had been traduced to his son; the idea checked her feelings, suspended grief, and gave her reanimation and new energies: rising from the sofa, and approaching her father-in-law, she laid her hand upon his arm, and said in a tone of composure most deeply affecting, because it was evidently the composure of despair, “I now see the extent of my misery, do not in mistaken kindness endeavour to deceive me, it is I who have been traduced and misrepresented—Lord Lochcarron believes me unworthy to be the partner of his life:” but with the last sentence her voice fell, and the bitter heart-wrung tears were forcing their way when Lord Dunotter caught her to his bosom, exclaiming with fervency, “No, my beloved girl, if it will relieve your fears on that point, I will solemnly, sacredly assure you that Alexander is truly sensible of your merit, and does you every justice; no, the reason he has for the present withdrawn himself from his family must, I am convinced, be traced in the infamous misrepresentations which have been made to him of some transactions of mine; in short I have been compelled to cause Pringle, my steward, to be arrested; his dishonesty has injured me deeply, and would have done so to a much greater extent had I not discovered it when I did; he is now in Buckingham gaol; the villain, I know well, has laid the foundation of this affair, but he shall suffer both for that and his knavery to the utmost extent that the law can punish him.” As the earl spoke, a strong expression of anger kindled on his countenance, his eyes flashed, and every feature of his face seemed acted upon by the feelings of his mind; there was much ambiguity in all that he had said; he had very inadequately accounted for the absence of his son, and certainly no one present was at all satisfied with, or even any wiser for the sort of explanation he had given; but to poor Cordelia, who was most deeply interested, it seemed to convey a dreadful evidence that her cruel lord was still so passionately attached to Miss Borham, as to resent most deeply the measures which his father had taken against her uncle; and oh what a dreadful stab did she feel it to her heart, to think that he had deserted, forsaken, repudiated her; the conflict was too powerful for her worn-out feelings, and just as the earl was inquiring for Mr. Malcolm, and Mr. Addington was replying to his inquiries, she sunk down in a swoon.

 

CHAPTER II.

 

FORTUNATELY, if indeed a restoration to the most perfect misery can be termed in any degree fortunate, the remedies proper in Cordelia’s case were all at hand, having been so lately used for Mr. Malcolm; and though not so rapidly successful as they had been in his instance, they were ultimately so; the unhappy bride revived, and was led to her chamber, and an express was sent off once more to summon the attendance of Mr. Herbert. Both Mr. Kenyon and the Addingtons thought it strange, that though Lady Lochcarron might be considered as dangerously indisposed, inasmuch as fainting fits which proceed from grief are of more serious consequence than when owing to many other causes, yet neither Lord nor Lady Dunotter proposed sending for a physician; but a very probable cause for this seeming inattention might be traced in the repugnance they would naturally feel to making public the strange circumstance which had occurred, which it was certain would soon be but too well known.

 

            Lady Dunotter and Mrs. and Miss Addington attended the poor sufferer to her apartment, and had recourse to every common-place argument to sooth and console her; indeed what other could they use, or what could apply in such an unparalleled case? she made scarcely any answer, and appeared quite exhausted; Lady Dunotter said she thought her inclined to sleep, and Mrs. Addington observed that rest was more proper for her, and would be of more service than any thing they could do; the countess acquiesced, and the two ladies returned to the apartment where they had left their spouses. Miss Addington said she would not quit the invalid till she saw her asleep, and sat down by the side of the bed. The moment they were gone Lucy approached, and said in a whisper, but such a one as she took care should be loud enough to be overheard by Cordelia, “Oh, dear ma’am, what a thing this is to happen in a family, what a day has this been! what a cruel, cruel man Lord Lochcarron is to draw my dear lady in so—if he was for going off he might have done it yesterday, and who would have cared?”—“Hush, Lucy,” interrupted Miss Addington, “you will disturb your lady.” “No, ma’am, my lady is asleep; poor dear angel, how inhumanously my Lord Lochcarron has treated her!” then lowering her voice, and bending her mouth almost close to Miss Addington’s ear, she subjoined, “but to be sure he has been married all along; won’t he be hanged, ma’am, if he is taken? is it not death to have two husbands, or two wives, at once?” Here curiosity, of which Miss Addington possessed an ample share, got the better of discretion, with which she was not superabundantly gifted, and forgetting the caution she had just given Lucy not to talk so high, she exclaimed aloud, “Married! gracious me, who is he married to?” Poor Cordelia caught the word, and it seemed the last fatal death-blow her heart could receive; in all the conjectures, all the suppositions which had been formed concerning the strange disappearance of Lord Lochcarron, the idea of a prior marriage had never occurred to any one of the party at Holleyfield; and now that it was obtruded upon Cordelia, she stayed not to reason on the probability or improbability of the circumstance, but in a voice which seemed at once the dictate and effusion of the most bitter earthly misery, she exclaimed, grasping the arm of Lucy, “What were you going to tell me awhile ago? say it at once.” Whether the girl was awed by the wild energy of Cordelia’s manner, or prompted by ignorance or malice to inflict a yet deeper wound on her peace, it is not material to inquire; but she immediately replied, “My lady, I was only going to tell you that Miss Borham is gone with my lord, she was seen in a postchaise about——” They who have heard the shriek of mental agony, will now hear in idea that which Cordelia uttered, and to those who have not, description will never make it comprehensible; but it was only a shriek, no word accompanied it, and she fell back in a state which both Miss Addington and Lucy believed to be death. As Miss Addington’s feelings of every sort lay near the surface, they were quickly called into action, and quickly evaporated, and she now screamed exactly in the same way she did on Mr. Malcolm’s seizure; its echo penetrated to the ear of Lady Dunotter, who, starting up, exclaimed, “Sure Cordelia has relapsed,” and, accompanied by her lord and Mrs. Addington, hurried to her chamber, in which, by this time, half the female servants in the house were assembled; but on the approach of Lord Dunotter they all retreated to the anteroom. “Oh, Lady Dunotter, the dear suffering angel is dead, gone for ever!” cried Miss Addington; Lord Dunotter clasped his hands, pressed them to his forehead, and ejaculated, “Gracious heaven! what have I done!” and this exclamation, which was overheard only by his lady, sunk deep into her mind. When the whole tenor of her ladyship’s character is taken into consideration, with that principle of self-interest which had ever been her governing one, it will not, perhaps, be going too far to affirm that she was not grieved when told her daughter-in-law was no more, but she instantly assumed all the visible signs of maternal grief; and while she was beginning to inquire of Miss Addington in what way her dissolution took place, Lord Dunotter approached the supposed corpse, took one of the hands, and feeling with delight that no chill of death was there, applied his hand to the heart, where the vibrations of life’s warm current were too perceptible to be mistaken; “Thank heaven!” he exclaimed, in a voice of rapture, “she is not dead! run, fly instantly, send for every physician in the neighbourhood—send all my servants;” and pulling the bell with violence, he reiterated his commands to the domestics, who promptly answered its summons; while Lucy, whose want of caution, to give it no worse term, had caused all this distress and disturbance, sneaked off, under pretence of executing the earl’s orders, but in reality to escape the reprimand which was her due, for she found that Miss Addington was repeating to Lady Dunotter all she had said about Lord Lochcarron.

 

            The old housekeeper, whose lameness placed her in the rear of every one else, now entered the room, and finding that Cordelia had not in reality taken her departure from this world, applied strong aromatic vinegar to her nostrils, rubbed her hands and temples with vinegar, and used such other remedies as were at once simple and likely to prove efficacious; prudently observing that rest and quiet were most proper in her case, and that all sudden surprise and agitation were to be carefully avoided.

 

            Meanwhile Lady Dunotter, more intent on drawing from Miss Addington every syllable of what Lucy had said, than in assisting the means used to recover the invalid, succeeded much sooner in the former instance than her lord and the housekeeper did in the latter.

 

            However improbable the circumstances might be, they seemed corroborated by the exclamation she had just heard the earl utter; and though certainly in her situation she must have been most reluctant to credit such a supposition, it seemed a too probable one that Lord Lochcarron had contracted some sort of a marriage, and that his father knew it, yet hope whispered it might not be so; she wished the matter cleared up at once; but not choosing to mention it in direct terms to her lord, she took the indirect method of saying to Miss Addington, loud enough for him to overhear, “No, my dear madam, I cannot believe either story; I am persuaded Lord Lochcarron is incapable of the first, and the last, I hope, is not true.” “How, what is that?” questioned the earl, “what is my son accused of?” Lady Dunotter, though fearing that her son-in-law had indeed erred in the way reported, saw, or imagined she saw, the propriety of preventing the report from obtaining currency; and to do this it seemed requisite that the earl should be told what was said, as it might then receive a positive contradiction from his own lips; and supposing that her lord would of course comprehend all she thought and wished, and would act accordingly, she, in reply to his question, repeated what had been said by Lucy in the first instance, and detailed to her by Miss Addington, taking care to disclaim all belief in it herself.

 

            Lord Dunotter very likely did understand all that his lady wished, and in that case he either was the most finished dissembler ever known, or the potency of truth needed no disguise; for when told what the girl had said, the habitual polish of his manners seemed to yield to the influence of strong passion, and in a voice of deep anger he exclaimed, “It is altogether an infernal falsehood; where is the girl, that I may question her.” Lady Dunotter’s woman went to summon Lucy, but at that moment Lady Lochcarron exhibited symptoms of reviving animation, and all attention became fixed on her alone; she at first showed no signs of recollection; but when it seemed returning, Lord Dunotter ordered some warm lemonade to be brought, and while himself supported her with one arm, held the glass to her lips with the other hand, and in the soft soothing tone of paternal tenderness entreated her to exert herself and swallow the contents; this appearance of gentle kindness easily gained on the susceptible heart of Cordelia, but at the same time it brought back the keen and torturing remembrance of her misery; she meekly strove to obey the earl, though, choked by grief, she could scarcely take the liquid; and then said in accents of deep distress, “Oh, my lord, in what way did I ever injure or offend your son, that he has thus wrecked my peace for ever; held me up to the scorn of the world, by mocking the most sacred institution, and—” “No,” interrupted Lord Dunotter, with the deepest earnestness of look and voice, “no, my dear child, allow me to call you so—you have been imposed upon by a diabolical, infamous falsehood; I positively assure you, not only upon my honour, but in the most solemn and unequivocal manner, that my son was never married, either legally or illegally, until he was this day united to you.” The poor sufferer felt as if a small part of her anguish was removed, but it was indeed a small part, and what remained soon dilated itself and pressed with double force. She was just beginning, though in a very incoherent way, to mention what had been told her of Lord Lochcarron’s flight with Miss Borham, when she was interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Herbert, and in the same instant the entrance of the culprit Lucy, on whom the eye of Lord Dunotter became fixed with peculiar sternness: the doctor felt the pulse of his fair patient, and, in his pompous way, began to descant on her symptoms, when the earl cut him short by saying, “My good Sir, it would not be doing you justice to suffer you to prescribe for the dear sufferer without explaining in what her indisposition originated.—A very unexpected circumstance has occurred which compels Lord Lochcarron to take a journey, and, very probably, to pass over to the continent; this, for I will be very candid—is in consequence of some steps which I have taken, and which an artful villain has misrepresented to my son; indeed I find,” continued his lordship, glancing his eye satirically round, “that misrepresentation is quite enthroned at Holleyfield; for though they have seen Lord Lochcarron actually married to Miss Walpole, they have, within these few hours, bestowed upon him a former wife, and carried him off with her in a postchaise; certainly, if only my son and myself were concerned, I should have no objection to the amusement the good people may derive from the fabrication of such stories; but as Lady Lochcarron’s peace, and the character of a very excellent young woman are at stake, I feel it a duty I owe to both, to declare upon my honour that Miss Borham is gone down to Scotland on a visit to my sister’s seat; this, I am persuaded, Lord Lochcarron does not even know; and so far from travelling together, he has taken the route to Harwich; now,” he whispered to Cordelia, beside whom he had been leaning with her hand clasped in his while speaking, “now, my life, make yourself perfectly easy, for to you I solemnly swear that all they have been telling you about Lochcarron and Miss Borham is falsehood itself.”

 

            Oh, how soothing to the afflicted is any thing that comes in the shape of hope! that Lochcarron had not acted in a way which must place an everlasting barrier between them, that he was neither the husband of Miss Borham, nor the companion of her flight, she was solemnly assured by Lord Dunotter himself; and partly calmed by this assurance, partly worn out by the distress and indisposition she had suffered, she took the composing draught which Mr. Herbert prescribed; and promised Lord and Lady Dunotter, who both embraced her with every appearance of tenderness, that she would endeavour to make herself easy, and to exert fortitude and patience.

 

            It was now five in the morning, and the blackness of night was beginning to vanish before the rising dawn. Lord Dunotter, after conversing a few minutes with his lady, retired to the library to write, he said, to his son; which, his lordship observed, he ought to have done before, had not Cordelia’s illness claimed his whole attention; the rest of the party sought repose, of which, it may well be imagined, they stood in much need; only the housekeeper, and the prating Lucy (for nobody could awe the latter so well as Mrs. Greville) remained with Cordelia, whose senses soon yielded to the influence of the opiate; but her sleep could not be called repose, for she betrayed every symptom of restlessness.

 

            Lord Dunotter soon finished his packet of writings, whatever they might be, and consigned them to the care of his confidential servant, who was waiting with his horse ready equipped to take them to their destination.

 

            About six, two physicians arrived, and were introduced to the chamber of their patient; Mrs. Greville gave them every requisite information; that part of it which concerned the origin of her illness, she of course gave in very general terms; but on all that had been done for her in the way of prescription she was clear and explicit; the gentlemen seemed to concur in forming a very unfavourable opinion of her case, but could give no positive decision until she should awake. Lord Dunotter had a short conversation with both of them before he retired to his chamber, and, it may be supposed, made an explanation similar to that he had already given to Herbert.

 

            No one at Holleyfield rose until long after mid-day; Mr. Malcolm was quite recovered, and had some conversation in private with Lord Dunotter, its subject was best known to themselves; but a new idea had now taken possession of more than one of the party, which was, that embarrassment of circumstances on the part of the father had, in some way, involved the son, and that such was the fact seemed confirmed by the frank acknowledgment of the earl, that there existed a point of disagreement between them.

 

            When Lady Lochcarron awoke from her artificial slumbers, every bad symptom of the preceding evening was increased, and every additional one had appeared which could threaten danger; her pulse, though low, was quick in its vibrations; alternate fits of heat and chillness agitated her frame; the anxiety of her mind had settled the deepest dejection upon her spirits; her hands shook with a nervous trembling, and her appetite was so entirely gone, that she recoiled from the very idea of any kind of food; her medical attendants pronounced her case very bad, and enforced the absolute necessity of rest and quiet; but even when she lay perfectly still, and those about her hoped she was deriving benefit from that circumstance, she was only indulging grief, and mentally viewing in every possible light all the circumstances of the dreadful blow which had crushed her peace. Lord Dunotter might say, and had said every thing calculated to impress her with a conviction that his son regarded her with tenderness and affection; but had he done so in reality, would it have come within the verge of possibility for him to have withdrawn himself in the way he had done, almost in the very hour of his marriage, without sending one line or word of explanation to the woman he had just solemnly vowed to love, comfort, and honour? No; the very essence and nature of the circumstances seemed to vouch that no man could have acted so; and every time the idea occurred, she felt as if a dagger was plunged afresh into her lacerated heart. Young, naturally good, and educated in such a degree of retirement as had at least preserved her from all intercourse with the worst part of her species, she could not for a moment doubt the veracity of Lord Dunotter, who had averred that no prior marriage had existed, not only by that honour held sacred by a nobleman, but with that awful and emphatic solemnity which appeals to all the best feelings of man; indeed scarcely any one, though much older in years and experience, less disposed to look for truth in human nature, and better acquainted with its duplicity and depravity, would have disbelieved the earl’s asseveration; but still all this applied no balm to her sufferings, presented no point of rest, left no foundation for hope.

 

            Another circumstance was recalled to memory, and reflected upon till it seemed to augment the aching of her harassed brain; Miss Borham, at the time Cordelia and her party took refuge in Pringle’s house from an apprehended thunder-storm, had said that Lord Dunotter persisted in retaining a servant who was suspected of being an accomplice in the attempted robbery of his son—Miss Borham in saying this had added, “It is very strange, is it not?” and now Cordelia, ill as she was, pondered on this and similar matters connected with her sad situation, till her spirits were totally subdued, or rather as it were eradicated; she could obtain no sleep but what was the effect of soporific medicines, and successive fainting fits brought her so low that no rational hope of her recovery could be entertained: when out of the fits, her intellects were very unsettled; frequent alienations of mind, and delirious ravings, which but too plainly betrayed their source, distressed her anxious friends, more especially her father-in-law, whose every hope seemed to hang on the thread of her existence: not satisfied with the medical advice the country afforded, two physicians of the first eminence were summoned from town, but they could do little, except reiterate the orders of their predecessors. In all her intervals of reason she was ever asking if Lord Lochcarron had returned; but though the surrounding circle told her many well-intended falsities, one sad fact contradicted and annulled them all—Lochcarron neither appeared himself, nor sent a single line! Oh, how frequently did she recall to mind, and how ardently did she wish that no temptation had ever induced her to disobey the half-expressed command of her father, never to have any future intercourse with Lord Lochcarron; she remembered how much she had been agitated at the time, and in the present exhausted state of her spirits believed that feeling to have been prophetic. Thus worn down, and oppressed with continual grief, anxiety, and misery; wasted with a slow but perpetual fever; exquisitely sore from the succession of blisters which had been applied, and too ill to take any thing which might support exhausted nature, except a little wine, she was unable to bear the slightest motion, and by the twelfth day of her illness was pronounced by the faculty past recovery.

 

            Oh! what a contrast did the mansion at Holleyfield now present to what it had done a fortnight before! then, all was pleasure and gaiety; animation in every face, and all that decorates life, or gives it grace and elegance, shining in every object! now, all was dejection, gloom, and silence; almost every window-shutter closed, all the bells muffled, and scarcely a particle of the flooring and stairs was not covered with thick matting; none but the inmates of the family, and some of the medical people, were within the walls; the Addingtons had been suffered to depart without receiving any very pressing invitation to prolong their stay; for the earl, in the present state of his spirits, had no relish for society, but rather felt it a restraint; and the countess, charmed with the novelty of her lord’s fascinating manners, and anxious in this early period of their union to fix her empire over his will and actions, as she had done over those of Sir Charles Walpole, desired no company but his; her ladyship, however, soon discovered that she would never succeed in this way in her second marriage, so well as she had done in the first. Lord Dunotter, though uniformly elegant and polite in his manners, and by no means harsh in his general disposition, was tenacious of his own opinion; and, at this time, it might be inferred, harassed by a variety of mental feelings, working with more bitter effect because confined to his own bosom; the points which his lady first laboured to carry were to draw from him all he knew concerning the departure of his son; to learn the place of his present abode; and to obtain a sight of that letter which the earl had acknowledged came from Lord Lochcarron, and which she had often regretted not having opened when it was first put into her hands on the eventful wedding-night; but in none of these matters could she succeed. Her lord persisted in declaring that he did not know where his son then was, and that he had seen no reason to alter his early opinion, that it was some misrepresentation of Pringle’s which had caused a slight difference between them; and as to the letter, he said he had committed it to the fire, but his manner of saying it looked more like evasion than truth.

 

            A mournful gloom seemed to pervade every countenance as they contemplated the approaching hour of Lady Lochcarron’s dissolution; but with Lord Dunotter himself it seemed more than gloom, it was the comfortless expression of that despair from which hope is entirely excluded—that pale hue of a countenance to which a cheerless heart refuses to lend any colour. Lady Dunotter was scarcely visible; but when she did pass from one apartment to another, her handkerchief was held to her eyes, either to absorb her tears, or to hide the reality that none were there; she seldom went near the sick room of her daughter-in-law, observing, and certainly not without truth, that her presence there could be of no service. Lord Dunotter, on the contrary, paid frequent and anxious visits to the sufferer, conversed with the medical gentlemen, suggested many little plans of comfort for the lovely patient, and gave her with his own hand the little nourishment and medicine she could be prevailed upon to swallow; this, indeed, was in some sort a duty imposed on him; for Cordelia soon became so much attached to her father-in-law, that she would scarcely receive those articles from any one else; this attachment might, no doubt, in part be ascribed to the kind and unremitting attention Lord Dunotter showed her; but it had another and a tenderer source; he was the parent, and, in person, the prototype of Lord Lochcarron, to whom, in despite of all he had made her suffer, of the contempt, the ignominy, with which he had treated her, of every appearance which seemed to brand his name with the blackest villany, her heart turned with a feeling but too much like the fondest love. But all mortal feelings and sentiments seemed now for ever at an end with Cordelia; after continuing throughout the day in a state between life and death, she fell, between nine and ten in the evening, into a kind of stupor; this, her physicians pronounced, would terminate in either death or convalescence, but neither they nor any one present, Lord Dunotter excepted, had any hope that she would be restored; and the earl had no other ground for this confidence, than the circumstance of having once seen a young person in Germany recover under similar symptoms. His lordship watched by her till the hour of retiring, and then kissing her cheek, he feared for the last time, a tear, which he could not restrain, fell on it. He gave strict orders that if any change, either for better or worse, took place, he should immediately be called. About three in the morning her breathing, which had been scarcely perceptible, became more so, which all but Mrs. Greville believed an unfavourable symptom, and now looked forward to nothing but the immediate extinction of the vital spark. Two hours more wore over, and what little change could be perceived was rather for better than worse; she appeared to sleep, and a gentle moisture covered her hitherto parched hand; about five o’clock she suddenly started, opened her eyes, and faintly, but plainly, articulated, “Lord Dunotter, where are you, my lord?” The first care of the overjoyed Mrs. Greville was to give the poor sufferer a glass of wine, which she took more readily than she had done any thing since the commencement of her illness; she then went to an adjoining apartment, where the earl’s valet was in waiting, and instructed him how with due caution to impart the joyful tidings to his lord: then, and not till then, did she summon the physicians; for so little reliance had she on their skill in the case of her beloved patient, that she feared trusting to any thing they ordered or prescribed unless Lord Dunotter were present. Great was the delight his lordship expressed, and seemed to feel, when told that Cordelia had inquired for him; he hurried to her room, pressed her hand, implored her to be composed, and for his sake to strive to get better; and as the advice of the medical men was such as met his entire approbation, he gave strict and positive orders that it should be enforced, and that if possible more care than ever should be taken not to disturb her; the earl was rejoiced at the prospect of his daughter’s recovery; whether that circumstance gave equal pleasure to Lady Dunotter was best known to herself, but she did not fail to affirm it due.

 

CHAPTER III.

 

LADY Lochcarron’s convalescence went on very slowly, every symptom of immediate danger disappeared, but the remote ones which threatened both her intellects and life increased; the weakness in which she was left by her disorder, did not yield to the bark and other restorative medicines which were thought proper in her case; the dejection of her spirits was rather augmented than lessened; and aware that the singular circumstances in which she was placed must be the talk of the country, she felt so much oppressed with shame, though innocent, and with sorrow that seemed to have no remedy, that she could not be prevailed upon, even by Lord Dunotter himself, to take that degree of exercise in the open air which was absolutely requisite for the recovery of her health. She was now left much alone; Lord and Lady Dunotter were absent, first on a visit to Lady Charlotte Malcolm, and then in town, where business both public and private, the earl said, required his presence; the countess, when with her sister-in-law, tried by every possible means to draw out of her some intelligence of Lord Lochcarron, but in vain; Lady Charlotte expressed her deep regret and disapprobation of the way in which he had acted; but defended, with glowing affection, his heart, his principles, and general conduct.

 

            In this sad interval of sickness, grief, and solitude, it was natural that Cordelia should sigh for the presence and consolatory converse of her early respected friend and directress, Mrs. Emerson; she hinted her wishes on this point to Lord Dunotter, and though he felt rather reluctant to having the present circumstances and situation of his family displayed to the penetrating scrutiny of a lady, whose distinguished talents and cultivation of mind he had frequently heard highly extolled; he yet, in consideration of his daughter’s comfort, waved these objections, and requested Lady Dunotter to write an invitation to Mrs. Emerson: her ladyship, for reasons similar to those of her lord, and for several others superadded, not the least of which was the recollection of the shyness which had taken place between herself and Mrs. Emerson at that lady’s last visit, resolved that she should not become an inmate of Holleyfield if it was in her power to prevent it: she obeyed her lord’s request with great apparent readiness and pleasure; wrote the invitation, but took care to word it in such a way that its acceptance was the last thing to be thought of: the absence of Lord Lochcarron she spake of as a matter of necessity, or a point of business, and of course more regretted than wondered at by his father and herself; her daughter’s illness she mentioned in as slight terms as she could, and as if no longer a subject for apprehension; and concluded by hoping that if her beloved Mrs. Emerson could make it convenient to venture so far at that period of the year, she would favour them with her company at Holleyfield, but never said how earnestly Cordelia wished for it. Mrs. Emerson, thus kept ignorant how far her presence was either requisite or desired, wrote in reply to Lady Dunotter, politely declining the invitation; and the wily countess, while she hinted to her lord how unkind it seemed in Mrs. Emerson, secretly exulted in the success of her plans. All this took place in the interval between their return from Shellmount and departure for London; and as Cordelia positively refused to have any other person invited to stay with her during their absence, she was again left to solitude, grief, and tears.

 

            Her excellent constitution so far conquered her complaints, that appetite, and with it strength, in some degree returned; in proportion as her frame was invigorated, so were the faculties of her mind; she could now reflect with calmness, though certainly not with resignation, on late events; she again and again viewed them in every possible light, but to trace her through them would be to pass over beaten ground; the only certainty she could attain was, that Lord Lochcarron had acted towards her with the height of unfeelingness and cruelty; in a religious point of view, with daring impiety; in a moral one, with great turpitude; with disobedience and undutifulness to his father; and, to finish the black picture of his criminality, with gross violation and contempt of the laws of his country; and connected with this last point, the cup of her sufferings seemed now filled to the brim, for Mr. Crompton called one morning to see her, and, after much circumlocution, painful inasmuch as it gave her to apprehend every possible evil in turn, told her that however reluctant he felt to give her pain, it was yet a duty which he could not recede from, to inform her that Lord Lochcarron had sent instructions to his lawyer to assist any measures that might be taken to annul the ceremony of their marriage. Poor Cordelia listened to this heart-piercing communication with a strong exertion of fortitude, and with such command of countenance that very little emotion was perceptible in it. Mr. Crompton, who, as one of her nominated trustees, no doubt thought himself privileged, then proceeded to hint that Lady Dunotter, as her ladyship’s guardian, was determined to contend for the legality of the marriage, and never to permit its dissolution. Cordelia, nearly wrought up to frenzy by such a discussion, was at last compelled to say that neither her health nor spirits were in a state to enter on such a topic, and begged Mr. Crompton to make every communication on the subject to Lord Dunotter, and not to her; the faintness with which she was really seized, of which the paleness of her countenance was a sufficient indication, was a good pretext for her to retire, but the moment she was alone; every passion which wounded feeling can raise in the bosom, burst with a violence which her gentle nature had never known before; that anger which was the just emanation of injured and insulted innocence, treated with a contumely as unmerited as it was unprecedented, thrilled through her frame with poignant stings; to it succeeded shame,—shame, it is true, unmixed with guilt; but yet so deep, so overwhelming, that she would willingly, gladly have buried herself in the most remote solitude, in the recesses of a forest, or even in the caverns of the earth, to shun the smile of scornful pity, the glance which should point her out to notoriety, and the half-audible whisper which should say, “That is the repudiated bride of Lord Lochcarron.” Then this tumult subsiding, love resumed his empire; memory traced back the fond and flattering visions of connubial happiness which she had pencilled out in imagination on the eve of her marriage; and that tenderly remembered moment, when the deceitful Lochcarron had planned to pass in Italy this very winter which was thus consumed by his victim in the sighs and groans of an anguish as great as human nature could support: with love came jealousy, its never-failing concomitant, creating and fancying a thousand evils; painting Lochcarron as attached to Miss Borham, and alternately swaying the heart it reigned over to love, contempt, pity, revenge, and at last to despair.

 

            In this frame of mind she went to rest, at least she sought her couch, but slept little, and rose late the following morning, more unrefreshed, dejected, and unhappy than ever; it was Sunday, and at once too unwell and too much ashamed to go to church, she sought by devotional exercises at home, at once to tranquillise her thoughts and to discharge what she conceived to be her duty; but that happy peaceful frame of spirit in which, when resident with Mrs. Emerson, she used to perform her devotions, was her’s no longer; then, she offered thanks and adoration for every real blessing of life, and supplicated a continuance of them; but now, sad contrast! her prayers were for support and comfort in her afflictions; for divine counsel and aid to enable her to act for the best in the painful and singular circumstances she was placed in; and, if it were the will of Providence that they should not be removed, for patience and resignation under them. Alas! to exert the last sincerely, and from the bottom of her heart, seemed a task beyond mortality; for the idea of an endless separation from Lord Lochcarron was too distressing to be contemplated with any thing approaching to fortitude. In this sad way the hours wore over, rather dipping into, than reading several pious books, when a text of St. Paul in the Epistle to the Romans, “Some affirm that we say, Let us do evil that good may come,” caught her eye. When the mind is powerfully occupied and impressed with one subject, whatever is presented to it through the medium of seeing or hearing, is sure to be examined in every point of view, to see what relation it bears to the matter which engages the attention; in this chain of association perhaps may be traced the instant conviction which seemed to say to Cordelia, “You have done evil that good might come;” “you severed, at least assisted to sever, the tie which bound the heart of Lord Lochcarron to that of Miss Borham, and you are now reaping the reward due to such an act.” This thought was accompanied with feelings sadly and painfully humiliating: “Is this,” she asked herself, “the only instance in which I have erred? did I, in consenting to become the wife of Lord Lochcarron, intend to make the good my high rank and station would enable me to do, my first end and aim? did I seriously consider of what influence and consequence my example would be? and did I firmly resolve, in married life, to adopt that meekness, discretion, and benevolence of character which become a christian matron?” truth and ingenuousness, in which Cordelia had never been deficient, answered to each separate article, “No, no, no.” Again she urged the mental inquiries, “Or were a title and its attendant coronet; the homage paid to beauty and to rank; the pleasures which wealth can purchase, and all the pride and display of life, the objects to which I looked forward in a married state?” candour, sincerity, conscience, said, “They were.” From considerations like these, she reverted to the lecture which Mrs. Emerson had given her at the time of her departure from Holleyfield, and the treble injunction she had then laid upon her: she certainly had not exactly fallen into those fashionable levities and eccentricities which Mrs. Emerson had apprehended; but this, she could not disguise from herself, was to be imputed to her not having been introduced to the world; for her native humility owned, that had Lady Walpole, instead of forming a connexion with the Dunotters, fulfilled her engagement with the Hootsides, and gone to Brighton, she might, thoughtless and giddy as she had been of late, have become the slave and votary of folly, if not of vice, and would not even have had the only comfort she could now turn to—comparative innocence of intention. With regard to her devotional duties, she felt but too well aware that the steady glow of piety in which she was educated had, since her residence at Holleyfield, languished and burned dim; and now awakened to what she had of late scarcely given a thought to, self-examination, and a sense of her defalcation in principle, she clearly saw that what Mrs. Emerson had prognosticated had indeed come to pass, and that duty, sacred and social, had ceased to be the acting spring of her character.

 

            In a mind like that of Lady Lochcarron, firm and dignified, though meek and gentle, active, acute, and penetrating, such a state of awakened feeling was followed up by the natural inquiry of, “What shall I do to amend those faults?” she saw her error, and the source of it; repentance followed conviction, and a deep resolution of amendment was the fruit of both; yet though her mind was weakened by illness, she did not yield herself to the belief that this revolution in her mode of thinking, and consequent intended change of action, would require no exertion on her part; on the contrary, she strove with ceaseless and unremitting attention, by prayer, by watching the operations of her own mind, and by all the aids of reason, reading, and reflection, to acquire patience, fortitude, and resignation; she felt that her best resolves needed all these helps: often when one moment she had made a firm resolution to submit to the will of heaven, and await with calmness the issue of her fate; in the next, she caught her heart wandering in search of him, who had thrown the treasure from him, and half tempted to accuse an indefinite something called destiny: still she struggled, persevered, and though often defeated, returned to the charge, until her temper and habits were so far changed, or rather rectified, that she became resigned, though not apathetic under her afflictions, and regarded the pleasures of life only as secondary considerations; yet remembered that she still had duties on earth to perform. Her temper was sweet, and had always been distinguished for its meekness, but her manners now acquired a dignity and sedateness which they had hitherto wanted.

 

            One of the first acts of her renovated mind was to begin a long letter to Mrs. Emerson, in which she detailed every event that had taken place, every circumstance of her own conduct, “nothing extenuating,” and all her past and present feelings; but as the subject was too painful to be undeviatingly pursued, and the detail too long to be finished at once, she laid it by, and added to it from time to time as her strength and spirits would permit. The change in her appearance was not less real and more striking than that in her manners; she was taller and considerably thinner than before her illness; her fine auburn hair had come entirely out; the bloom of her complexion was gone; all the beauty of her features remained, but they were shaded with a pensiveness which quite changed their expression; and even the tone of her voice was so deepened and altered, that she could hardly be recognised for the same.

 

            Such was Cordelia when Lord and Lady Dunotter, whose absence had been prolonged by various assigned causes, returned from London a little before Christmas; the earl was astonished at the striking change; but he could trace all its causes, and it drew her still nearer to his affections. Lady Dunotter, elevated as she had been ever since her brow was graced with a coronet, doubly so by her noble house, splendid equipage, and every other appendage of her high rank which she had enjoyed while in town; and, beyond all, by the contemplated pleasure of her intended presentation in January, had little of either attention or sympathy to bestow on her daughter.

 

            Lord Lochcarron seemed consigned to oblivion, except in the memory of his injured lady; the earl never mentioned him; and lady Dunotter, in answer to the inquiry which Cordelia compelled her fluttering heart to be still while she made, told her that all the intelligence his father had been able to obtain was, that some money had been drawn for by his order on the earl’s banker through an agent at Paris; that Lord Dunotter had taken every possible pains to trace his son by this medium but in vain; the person at Paris either could or would only say, that he received the order from the hand of a friend who had since taken his departure for Spain, for what part of it he declared himself ignorant. This was all the information Lady Dunotter had to give; but Cordelia felt it, at least thought it her duty (and from duty she resolved not to shrink) to mention to the earl what Mr. Crompton had said of Lord Lochcarron’s wish, to have their inauspicious union set aside by law. Lord Dunotter heard her with a sort of grieving impatience, “Never mention it again, my dearest girl,” he said emphatically, “if Lochcarron values my regard or my blessing, the tie between you shall never be dissolved; I live but in the hope of seeing him implore, at your feet, the forgiveness of that excellence he has so deeply injured.” He then hastily changed the conversation, and engaged Cordelia in a game at piquet; indeed he devoted every faculty and almost every hour to amuse her; he read to her; assisted her in the cultivation of her fine talents and taste; told her unnumbered continental anecdotes; and when the weather and the state of her spirits would give permission for a short winter’s ramble, assisted to wrap her up warm, and supported her into the grounds; twice he prevailed on her, accompanied by Lady Dunotter and himself, to take short airings in the park; and as she seemed to derive both health and pleasure from the exertion, it would have been repeated, had not the weather suddenly changed and become stormy, with occasional heavy showers of rain and sleet.

 

            It was now within a week of the time appointed for Lord and Lady Dunotter’s return to London; the earl was tenderly and earnestly importunate with Cordelia to accompany them; but every principle of reason and delicacy seemed to rise against such a procedure, and she mildly, but positively, refused: as to the countess, she was so entirely occupied with the brilliant figure she proposed making at court, that she seldom interfered in any discussion or arrangement which went forward between her husband and daughter.

 

            After the weather had continued as described above for some days, a sharp frost set in; the air was now too cold, and the roads too slippery, for an invalid to venture abroad; Lord Dunotter, who had many papers at Ravenpark which he had frequent occasion to consult, usually rode over thither in the mornings, and returned to dinner: on one of these excursions, his lordship had occasion to call at the house of a person about a mile from Holleyfield, which induced him to take a different road, and to cross a small brook now completely frozen over, and, as he supposed, quite hard enough to bear him; the event proved his mistake; the ice gave way, and though the shallowness of the water precluded all danger of one sort, another of a very dreadful nature awaited him; the horse he rode, a very spirited animal, when he found his fore-legs entangled in the ice, made an attempt to free himself by a retrograde movement, plunged violently, and threw the earl on the edge of the brook with such a force, that his only attendant, who was a very short distance behind him, concluded that if he was not absolutely killed by the fall, in the present state of the ground and weather several of his bones must be fractured; when he came up he found the earl already insensible; they were a quarter of a mile from any house, and no human being appeared; poor Paterson, in the dreadful agitation of the moment, called aloud for help, gallopped from the spot, then back again, tried to recall animation in his lord, and did every thing that a person in his situation could do, but in vain; no one was within hearing, and nothing could revive the earl, in whom, Paterson feared, life was extinct: time was not to be trifled with, and he at length felt himself compelled to do what he might as well have done at first—leave his lord in his present disastrous state, and ride full speed to Holleyfield for assistance. Oh! how humiliating to the pride of man are accidents like these! the earl of Dunotter, one of the first noblemen of the age in talent, accomplishments, and celebrity; high in rank, so lately married, and by that marriage enabled to redeem the splendour of his ancient possessions, graceful in person, and elegant in manners, had, in almost the evolution of a moment, become levelled with the dust, and to all appearance, if not in reality, had paid that debt to nature which every one must pay: all his advantages, those at least which were personal, were now of no more value than the ground he lay upon; the voice of fame which trumpeted forth his honours and distinctions, seemed now an empty breath, loudly proclaiming the vanity of man; and neither his exalted rank could command, or large fortune purchase, breath if it was flown, or health if it was injured by this accident of a moment.

 

            Paterson, aware of the danger of delay, stopped at Holleyfield only to announce the sad tidings to Mrs. Greville and old Sherwin the butler; and then rode back as fast as possible, the earl’s valet and some more attendants following with one of the carriages as quickly as the state of the roads would admit. The next point of consideration with Mrs. Greville was, how to break this sad intelligence to Lady Dunotter, but especially to Cordelia, whose sufferings, mental and corporeal, had already been so great; as to the countess, whether she had a higher opinion of her fortitude, or a lower one of her sensibility, cannot exactly be determined, but she felt less apprehension on her account; the two ladies were sitting together in Lady Dunotter’s apartment, and Mrs. Greville, after some deliberation, sent to request the favour of speaking to Lady Lochcarron; Cordelia cheerfully obeyed the summons, but when she beheld the countenance of the housekeeper, she felt a sad presentiment that some fresh anguish was in preparation for her, and thinking only of her wandering lord she believed it connected with him; with that composure which the state of her feelings inspired, yet in that tone of anguish which betrayed she had no hope, she said, “I see you have some distressing news, Mrs. Greville, tell me the worst, for, believe me, it will be mercy;—I have endured so much from suspense, that it seems to me preferable to know the reality of evil, however great.” Mrs. Greville thus sanctioned, told at once the distressing truth.

 

            Calamities in abeyance, if the mode of expression may be allowed, are sometimes more overwhelming than when actually brought to pass; for then an aid, a support which is not our own, nor inherent in ourselves, is accorded us; yet sad was the stroke to the poor suffering Cordelia, and deeply did she feel it; as Lord Dunotter, who she had but too much reason to fear (from the account brought by Paterson) was hurt past recovery, she should lose her only efficient friend, endeared to her by all the circumstances already detailed; but deeply and solemnly resolved in every instance to attend only to the call of duty, she put all selfish regrets aside, struggled with the overflowings of sensibility, and with a caution and tenderness which only her feeling heart could dictate, and her elevated mind execute, she gradually made Lady Dunotter acquainted with the sad situation of her lord, and prepared her to see him brought home; to say that her ladyship was shocked is no departure from veracity; for there is, perhaps, scarcely a person in existence who, under such circumstances, could have been otherwise; to say she was grieved is not less true, but it was almost as much the grief of disappointment, because she could not now appear at court, as of sympathy for the sufferings of her husband: she loved the earl as much as she could love any one but herself, for the last-named personage was always the one who claimed the first consideration with her ladyship; besides, she had for some time past ceased even to hope that she should ever be able to gain over Lord Dunotter that influence which Sir Charles Walpole had allowed her to acquire; and accustomed to take in at the first glance all the bearings and relations of a subject, she perhaps conceived the hope of obtaining from her lord, in the lassitude of illness, those concessions which full health would not yield.

 

            When Paterson reached the spot where he had left his lord, he found him supported by an old peasant, who in passing accidentally had seen him; he was so far revived as to be sensible both of the cause of his fall and its consequence, which was the fracture of his left arm; not to enter into long and unnecessary details, his lordship was brought home with all the care and tenderness possible; Lady Lochcarron herself, with a strong exertion of fortitude, seeing him carried to his chamber, kissing his hand, bathing it with her tears, and receiving from the pressure of his the assurance that he was sensible of, and grateful for her attentions.

 

            The whole phalanx of medical people, whose services had of late been so frequently required at Holleyfield, were once more summoned. Dr. Herbert, the nearest in vicinity, of course arrived first, and examined the limb, which he found in as shocking a state as it is possible to conceive; the arm was broken in two places, a simple fracture of the large bone, and a dreadful compound one of the elbow joint; the case could admit of no demur of opinion, amputation was absolutely necessary; the earl, with great fortitude, signified his readiness to undergo the operation, but Lady Dunotter positively insisted that it should not be performed until Mr. C—, one of the first surgeons in London, should arrive, and give his decision. By this time some other practitioners of the neighbourhood had arrived, who confirmed the necessity of having the limb taken off, and thought the sooner it was done the better; Mr. Herbert, ever politely acquiescent to Lady Dunotter, said that he thought the delay of a few hours could be of no consequence; but as the other gentlemen were evidently of a different way of thinking, Lady Lochcarron wished their advice, and not Herbert’s, to be followed; but her wishes were in vain, and her remonstrances disregarded. Oh! how poignantly did she now feel the absence of Lord Lochcarron, and as keenly deplore his dereliction from duty; he who ought to have watched by the couch of his parent; to have soothed his sufferings with filial attention, and to have been the consoler and protector of the countess and Cordelia, was wandering from his home and his country in a way degrading to his rank and character, no one knew whither.

 

            Dr. C— did not reach Holleyfield till the following morning; he censured visibly, though with tenderness and caution, the delay which had taken place. The season of the year was favourable, and the earl’s habit not bad, but the torture he had for so many hours endured, had produced an alarming degree of fever, yet he was composed, and sustained the operation with great firmness. Dr. C— pronounced all immediate danger over, and the best skill of the medical men was exerted to keep the fever down; but in despite of their utmost efforts it raged very high, the earl became delirious, and in that state frequently called on his son; raved about Miss Borham; and sometimes talked wildly and incoherently about political affairs. Cordelia, who passed the chief part of her time in his apartment, and whose every energy was devoted to repay to Lord Dunotter the attentions she had received from him during her own illness, heard all these wanderings, often with surprise, and sometimes with perplexity to discover their meaning; but they were so unconnected that the efforts of imagination could seldom give them plausibility, certainty was out of the question.

 

            Lady Dunotter seemed at first greatly shocked by the situation of her husband; then as the time drew on in which she had hoped to shine in the circle, and glitter in the hemisphere of fashion, and she contrasted the splendid equipages and gay dresses she had planned in idea, with Lord Dunotter’s sick event and mutilated form, she became peevish, fretful, and disposed to quarrel with fate; but new scenes and fresh schemes engaged her fertile brain, and opening plans of power and interest called forth the exuberant activity of her spirit; Lord Dunotter, stretched on a sick bed, and suspended between life and death, could neither inquire into, nor regulate any of his affairs: no one could tell where Lord Lochcarron was; and the meek and nearly exhausted Cordelia gave no attention to any thing but nursing and soothing her father-in-law: thus was her ladyship left sole paramount-directress over the stewards and servants, whose every act of consequence was submitted to her judgment and pleasure; and thus did that love of power and of money, which had always been ascribed to Lady Dunotter, receive complete gratification.

 

            Yet though it was said above, that no one could tell where Lord Lochcarron was, let it not be understood that no one inquired; Cordelia, in this season of affliction, compelled wounded pride and delicacy to step aside while she made it her care to see the person who, since the disgrace and removal of Pringle, had the chief management of Lord Dunotter’s affairs, and entreated him to use all possible means to discover the place of Lord Lochcarron’s present residence, that he might be immediately informed of his father’s situation: this Mr. Brewster professed his inability to do in any other way than by sending a letter to Lord Dunotter’s banker, to be by him transmitted to the person at Paris by whom the money before-mentioned had been drawn for; but this was at best a very precarious and uncertain mode, as the gentleman in question had already declared his perfect ignorance of Lord Lochcarron’s retreat. However as no other method could be found, this was adopted; and both Cordelia and Lord Dunotter, when his lordship was sufficiently composed to be made sensible of what had been done, flattered themselves that when such distressing intelligence of his only parent reached Lochcarron, filial duty would revive, and he would return to the bosom of his family. Lady Dunotter neither wished nor hoped any such thing; as a usurper dreads the restoration of a lawful sovereign, so did her ladyship dread the thought of Lord Lochcarron’s arrival; aware that she must resign into his hands great part of her present power and sway: besides she felt angry with and jealous of Cordelia’s interference in having presumed to dictate to Mr. Brewster in the matter; and Mr. Herbert had delicately and distantly hinted to the countess, through the medium of Mrs. Dobinson, her ladyship’s woman, his belief that the earl would not long survive his accident; and that Lord Lochcarron should return and be reconciled to his wife, and that they should on the demise of their parent blaze forth to the world as Earl and Countess of Dunotter, while herself should dwindle into a dowager, were matters which her ambitious spirit could not bear to think of: true, she would, even in case of those events coming to pass, retain for life the chief part of Sir Charles Walpole’s immense property; for it was not to be supposed that Lord Lochcarron would litigate the will of his wife’s parent with the widow of his own; but faulty natures are ever overlooking the blessings and advantages they possess, and grasping at those which Providence has in justice and mercy denied them: her brain was now occupied in forming a thousand schemes and plans, to counteract what she ought to have been the first to promote; but new and unexpected events soon occurred, which placed all parties in different positions.

 

CHAPTER IV.

 

LORD Dunotter continued very ill for about a fortnight, and though at the end of that period his fever abated, it left him in a state of extreme weakness. Cordelia was well nigh worn out, and reduced to the situation she had so lately recovered from, with watching by him; but now that his reason, and, in some degree, his spirits, had returned, she felt herself amply repaid by the gratitude his lordship expressed for her attentions, and by every little change and circumstance which gave promise of his recovery.

 

            No news was received of Lord Lochcarron; and his much-injured lady, on whose heart that sad subject ever pressed, had now no one to whom she could pour out her grief, except in letter to Mrs. Emerson; for as to Lady Dunotter, she seemed very willing to resign to her the task of nursing her lord.

 

            Matters were in this state, when one morning, as Cordelia, having seen Lord Dunotter fall into a fine sleep, was reading in an adjoining room, the following card was put into her hands: “Capt. Thornton begs permission to pay his respects to his beloved relation, Lady Lochcarron, if his presence will not be deemed intrusive.” Great was the perturbation of Cordelia when she read this note; on inquiry she found that the writer was at the gate, alone, in a carriage and four, having declined alighting until favoured with her answer: “How am I to act?” was the question she asked herself; “As duty dictates,” was her own reply. Capt. Thornton, though not a very near, was yet her nearest relative, and in her various and deep reflections on her own situation, it had often occurred to her, that on his return home he would very probably think it incumbent on him to compel Lord Lochcarron to do her justice, either by the decision of the law or the sword: the first, was humiliation, grief, and shame; but oh! the last was horror itself: true, she might, by declining to see Capt. Thornton, intimate to him that she did not desire his interference in her affairs; but regard for the memory of her father, and for her own respectability, already wounded in the eye of the world, were the points which seemed to predominate above all others; and not able, while Capt. Thornton was waiting in the way described, to give much time for reflection, she gave orders for his admission.

 

            Those romantic days, when feeling was so exuberant that love at first sight was thought neither weak nor indecorous, are so long since gone by, that it must not be inferred Capt. Thornton fell in love with his fair cousin in this their first interview; all circumstances taken into consideration, a more interesting object, or one more worthy to inspire tenderness, cannot be imagined than was Lady Lochcarron when she presented herself in the drawing-room; one half of her short life had elapsed since herself and Thornton last saw each other; then she had exhibited the sweet engaging picture of playful innocence; now she was a graceful, dignified, lovely woman; her recent afflictions had shed a pensiveness over her fine features, and softened the expression of her mild blue eyes; but a beam of pleasure enlightened them when she beheld the only surviving relation of her father, and that sadly-painful consciousness which, whenever the eye of a stranger met her’s, whispered, “You are the despised, deserted bride of an hour,” tinged her cheek with the mock of semblance of that bloom, the reality of which had vanished before the sad circumstances of the last few months.

 

            When she approached Capt. Thornton, she held out her hand with great sweetness; said she truly rejoiced to see him in England; and subjoined a very kind inquiry after his health: Thornton, who was frankness and cordiality itself, both by nature and profession, was charmed by a reception so much in unison with his own feelings: with that sunshine of affection which, whatever art may effect on the muscles of the other features, it can never throw into the eyes, and that elastic pressure of the hand which is the spontaneous dictate of real friendship, he expressed, as he led her to a seat, the very great pleasure which this interview gave him; but he neither inquired; for Lord nor Lady Dunotter, and Cordelia, who could not for a moment think the omission accidental, felt an impression that it was only a prelude to the censure he would pass on their conduct for having involved her in so disastrous a marriage: oh, how sadly did she feel the contrast between this silence and those congratulations which, had that marriage been auspicious, she should now have been receiving.

 

            Unable to endure these sad reflections, she said, “Capt. Thornton, it is now, I believe, ten years since we saw each other; but trust me, I have never forgot our relationship, or that I owe you a debt of gratitude for your kind attention to my dear father during his last illness.” Thornton replied, “It was then, and has been ever since, a subject of my keenest regret, that I was called away exactly at that time; your excellent father’s heart and mind, weakened by illness, were too easily warped by those who suited their arts to their own designs; had I been there, you should have been done justice to, and—” he added, the native energy of his character breaking forth, “you shall be done justice to still; Lady Dunotter shall not riot in your spoils; her lord repair his broken fortunes with your ancestor’s property, and his son insult you thus with impunity.—Pardon me, my dearest cousin,” he pursued, seeing the pale hue of death overspread the lovely face of his auditor, “I am too abrupt, but neither my friendship for you, my respect for the memory of your father, nor the sense of what I owe to our family will suffer me to be tame: but I will at least endeavour to be more calm; will my beloved cousin honour me with her confidence, and say what is the treatment she has received from Lady Dunotter, and how a union so unfortunate was ever brought about: she must be sensible,” he pursued in a kind and gentle tone, seeing a shade of deep emotion gathering on Cordelia’s brow, “she must be sensible that her reputation demands a scrutiny, which shall declare her innocence to the whole world, and that as her nearest, almost only relation, it is my positive duty to make it.”

 

            While Capt. Thornton was talking, Cordelia had time to recollect herself, and her native dignity of mind and character rising above every trivial embarrassment, she, with the most charming candour, detailed every material event which had taken place from the time of her father’s death, only she carefully suppressed all mention of Miss Borham; while of Lord Dunotter she spoke with filial tenderness, and of Lady Dunotter with all the respect due to her father’s widow.

 

            Thornton heard her with all the admiration which her candid mind and sweet disposition could inspire; when she paused, he said, “My dearest Lady Lochcarron, I have no hesitation in saying that you have been infamously ill-treated; I think only a madman could have acted as Lochcarron has done, when at the height of happiness; no one but the most unfeeling savage could have abandoned so much gentleness and lo—” he was evidently going to say loveliness, but suppressed the word, and proceeded, “and have left it in the power of a harshly-judging world to form such conjectures and suspicions as it may have done; and none but a ——in your presence I will not call him what he well deserves to be called, would have thus dared to defy every sacred and moral obligation.” Every word that Capt. Thornton uttered stabbed Cordelia to the heart; there was but too much truth in all he said; her reputation ought to be vindicated, it was the first point a female should think of; but ah! her every earthly hope died within her when she reflected, that before that could be done, the blood of Lochcarron and Thornton would too probably be shed by the hand of each other; she raised her sweet face to her defender with a meek, pity-imploring look—“Oh, Capt. Thornton,” she sighed, “I feel too sensibly the truth of what you say, but I cannot yet come to any resolution on the steps which ought to be pursued—I cannot sanction any proceedings without being allowed some little time to reflect.” “No consideration is due to them,” he exclaimed; “believe me, the son only merits your contempt, and the father does not deserve your confidence; pardon me, dearest Lady Lochcarron,” he proceeded, seeing Cordelia much distressed by the blunt energy of his manner; he was about to continue his discourse, when they were interrupted by the opening of the drawing-room door.