LOVERS AND FRIENDS.

A NOVEL.

Printed by J. Darling, Leadenhall-Street, London.

LOVERS AND FRIENDS;

OR,

MODERN ATTACHMENTS.

A NOVEL.

IN FIVE VOLUMES.

BY

ANNE OF SWANSEA,

AUTHOR OF

CONVICTION, GONZALO DE BALDIVIA, CHRONICLES OF AN ILLUSTRIOUS HOUSE, SECRET AVENGERS, SECRETS IN EVERY MANSION, CAMBRIAN PICTURES, CESARIO ROSALBA,

&c. &c.

“I hold a mirror up for men to see

How bad they are, how good they ought to be.”

VOL. IV.

London:

Printed at the Minerva Press for

A.K. NEWMAN AND CO. LEADENHALL STREET.

1821.

LOVERS AND FRIENDS.

CHAPTER I.

“This man standing before me, whom I believed

The sea did separate, not more surprises

Than affrights me; to me his presence is

A fearful omen of approaching evil.”

“On eagles’ wings immortal scandals fly,

While virtuous actions are but born and die.”

“I will not doubt her innocence,

Though hydra-headed Scandal, with her countless

Tongues, do strive to blacken her fair fame:

I do believe her chaste¾and in that belief

Boldly stand forth her champion.”

I saw her breast with every passion heave¾

I left her torn from every earthly friend¾

Oh, my hard bosom! that could bear to leave!

SHENSTONE.

An unwelcome Intruder on an Assignation—The

Child of an unmarried Lady Introduced—He-

nerous Confidence—Calumny confuted.

THE dread of again encountering his injured friend Saville, hurried the earl of Torrington from Brighton, and left his imprudent lady at liberty to appoint a meeting with the fascinating major Norman, at a milliner’s, with whom she had laid out a good deal of money in unnecessary articles, merely to win her to permit her assignations with the major, as the distance to the farmhouse was inconvenient, and she had a suspicion that its mistress only waited an opportunity to betray their secret.

Mrs. Supple, the milliner, appeared to understand modern customs, as well as fashions; and as the countess promised to recommend her in her business, and had, besides, made her little girl a very handsome present on her birthday, she could not refuse her back drawing-room for an hour or two to so generous a lady, who had an affair of the utmost importance to settle with major Norman.

At the appointed hour lady Torrington repaired to Mrs. Supple’s, to meet major Norman, forgetful of the promise given to her son, and the prohibition of her husband, and deriding his menace of separation¾a measure she had nearly reconciled her mind to adopt; for such was the power the insidious major had obtained over her weak understanding, by the adoration he affected to pay her beauty, that his ascendancy had entirely overcome every lingering sentiment of shame, and apprehension of the disgrace which her licentious conduct would cast on her son, and the only repugnance that now remained on her mind, and prevented her yielding to the pressing solicitations of the artful major, who continually represented, with the misery he endured from his excessive love for her, the delights that awaited them in her favourite Italy, where, uncontrolled by a jealous husband, and the envious reports of the world, they should live for each other and for love.

That these arguments did not succeed with the countess of Torrington, was not owing to any virtuous sentiment that remained in her bosom, but from an unwillingness to resign, even for the life of delightful freedom the major so glowingly pictured, the rank, state, splendour, and precedence, she commanded, while continuing to reside under the roof of her husband.

In the course of their conversation at the milliner’s, the major asked when she expected lord Torrington from town?

“Not till I see him,” replied her ladyship; “and perhaps I should not express myself very wide of truth, if I were to add¾if that never happens, I think I could survive; but, my dear major, come when he will, you must not expect me to meet you any more at that odious farmhouse, for Smithson told me the woman behaved very odd, and asked a number of impertinent questions. I remember too she came into the room once or twice on very frivolous pretences.”

“Did she?” returned the major; ”devilish impudent behaviour! and I should have told her so, had I observed it; but I had no thoughts but of the happiness I was enjoying, in the proud certainty that you had left the adoration of the crowd to devote an hour to me, the tenderest, the most impassioned of your admirers: but here, my Emily¾can we not meet here? Mrs. Supple being your milliner, no suspicion can attach to your coming here: and she, I dare be sworn, will have no objection, if we make it worth her while.”

“I shall take care of that point,” said lady Torrington; “but I shall actually rejoice when we get to dear London, where observation and curiosity are baffled in the immensity of population¾where we can meet when we please, without the fear of detection.”

“You only say this,” replied the major, putting on the pathetic, “to prevent my falling into absolute desperation; for I shall never be free from the torments of jealousy—never be persuaded, my lovely Emily, that you are really attached to me, unless you consent to adopt my plan.”

“What plan, you insinuating wretch?” asked the countess; “have I not put my reputation to the utmost risk for you? Oh! what a glorious triumph it would afford that snuffy old cat, lady Bromford, and her inseparable friend, the immaculate Miss Jameson, if they could only peep into this room! What a tale they would make for the gossipping loungers at the library to-morrow! How my character would be cut up!”

“And all for having condescended to bless me with your company for an hour!” said the major; “what gratitude do I owe you!”

“And yet you are still encroaching on my favour,” resumed the countess.

“Yes,” replied the major; “and I shall never cease to entreat and persuade till I have convinced you that my plan¾”

“What new folly,” asked the countess, “do you wish to persuade me into?”

“Not into folly, my charming Emily,” returned the major, fondly pressing her hand, “but into happiness.”

“What conceited creatures men are!” said the countess; “and do you believe major, do you seriously think that you have it in your power to make me happy?”

“It should be the study, the unceasing employment of my life,” replied the major. “The Persian does not adore the sun with half the devotion I should worship your eyes¾I would watch over you with more solicitude than a miser bestows on his gold.”

Lady Torrington thought the major talked like an angel¾the major never remembered being more eloquent; but similies and ideas began to fail, and he brought his speech to a conclusion, with adding an entreaty that she would accept his protection, and at once leave the earl of Torrington to his gloomy morality.

“Morality!” repeated the countess, laughing—“he has a great deal on his lips, I grant you, but very little in his heart. If time would allow, I could treat you with a few pleasant anecdotes of the earl’s morality, but I must reserve them for a future opportunity. Lord Torrington, you must know, my dear major, affects to say, that he thinks with horror of his former gallantries¾that he feels no pleasure in public amusements and scenes of gaiety¾in fact, he is verging into the opposite extreme, and it is my opinion, will shortly turn Methodist; for he already preaches sermons, long, dull, and wearying, against cards, masquerades, and all the festivities of life.”

“And surely, my Emily,” said the major, “you must be enamoured of his gloom and stupidity, or you would never endure its annoyance. You have given me reason to believe my person, my professions of love, are not disagreeable to you; why will you not fly with me from this hated, this insensible husband?”

“Well, well, pray don’t look so doleful,” returned the countess, “and I will give you my promise to think seriously of your plan; for, entre nous, I am really quite ennuyée with lord Torrington’s everlasting philippies, and disgusted with his sober manière, as cold, precise, and formal, as if he belonged to the society of Quakers. I positively declare I scarcely remember the day when he appeared pleased with any thing I could say or do.”

“What a savage, a barbarian, he must be,” exclaimed the major, “when your beauty, your charming vivacity, my beautiful Emily, fails to please him! You are in person, temper, and elegance, so superior to all other women¾”

“You are such an agreeable flatterer,” returned the countess, “that I shall grow vain, and believe you, if I listen much longer; besides, I have to dress for lady Colloney's rout—adieu, dear major—I must be gone.”

“Not yet, my lovely countess,” replied the major, kissing and detaining her hand.

Lady Torrington chose to be girlish, and affected a little struggle to release herself from the major, who was clasping her in his arms, when, in the height of their toying, the door opposite to where they were sitting opened, and a gentleman entered the room.

The countess started from the encircling arms of the major, uttering a loud scream. The major extended his arm to prevent her falling to the ground, for she appeared near fainting, while in an angry tone he inquired of the intruder—“What the devil, sir, do you want here?”

For a moment the stranger gazed on the varying countenance of lady Torrington, totally regardless of the major’s loud and peremptory command that he should instantly quit the room; he then, with a look of mingled pity and contempt, exclaimed¾“And you are the once-lovely Emily Herbert, the present degraded countess of Torrington, a wife and a mother! Poor lost creature! what a situation do I find you in¾forgetful of your rank in life, dead to all sense of virtue! You have a son, of whom the public voice speaks highly¾have you no compunction for the disgrace you are bringing on him?”

The countenance of the intrepid major was fixed in amazement¾the countess hid her face on the arm of the sofa, as the stranger continued to say¾“At your age better thoughts should have possession of your mind, for you are past the giddy years of youth. A matron’s passions should be under the control of reason, and where is your reason?¾lost, sunk in licentiousness. That I escaped making you my wife ought to give me joy; but, alas! to find you thus profligate, thus abandoned, thus debased, from the pure artless being I once knew, renders the pangs your perfidy inflicted more intolerable; and while I reflect on the shame, the misery, your conduct must occasion the man I once called my friend, I am compelled to pity and forgive him; for what greater curse can enmity wish, or he endure, than the certainty that the cause of injured friendship is revenged by the infidelity of her for whose sake he became a villain?”

Having thus spoken, the stranger, darting a look of contemptuous indignation on the major, precipitately left the room; while he, stamping about the floor, muttered something like¾“Revenge for this insolence¾call the fellow out if he is a gentleman.”

The countess slowly raised her head, and seeing the enemy gone, clasped her hands, exclaiming—“Grace à Dieu! he is departed. I protest, my dear major, I never was so terrified since I was born.”

“Who the devil is the fellow?” demanded the major.

“A gentleman, I assure you,” replied the countess.

“Favour me with his name,” said the major; “as he is a gentleman, I shall do him the honour to send him a challenge.”

“Not for the world!” replied the countess¾“not if you love me.”

“Not call him out,” said the major, “when he has uttered such impertinent things?”

“If you challenge him, my reputation will be ruined,” resumed the countess; “for then our meeting, dear major, will be made public. Who could have expected to see Saville at Brighton, whom I have so long considered dead, or, if living, safe in the East Indies?”

“But who is this Mr. Saville?” again inquired the major; “and by what right has he presumed to say such insolent things to you?”

“Why, you must know, my dear major,” replied the countess, “this Mr. Saville was once a lover of mine, before I married the earl of Torrington; and being rich, he was greatly favoured by my parents; though, for my own part, I was perfectly indifferent about him: but I was very young and very dutiful at that time, and to oblige my father and mother, who thought it an excellent match for me, I certainly did promise Mr. Saville to wait for him till his return from Calcutta. But he should have married me at once, you know, if he intended it; because no person can answer for the change a few days even may make in their sentiments.”

“Very true,” returned the major; “a few moments, my lovely Emily, have made a change in mine; my anger is converted into pity for this Mr. Saville. Poor devil!” continued he, conceitedly, “he is jealous, and the impertinence he uttered was the effect of envy at the happiness he supposed I enjoyed in your favour.”

“And now, I suppose,” resumed the countess, “out of downright revenge, he will inform lord Torrington of the discovery he has made.”

“If he presumes,” exclaimed the major, “to breathe a sentence of our¾”

“Mr. Saville is a very decided character,” interrupted the countess, “and will not be prevented, by any dread of incurring your revenge, from doing what he thinks is proper: but this unlucky discovery brings me to a determination; and if the earl of Torrington talks to me again of a separation, I shall know what course to pursue.”

“You will at once abandon the gloomy tyrant, my charming Emily, will you not?” asked the insinuating major, “and take shelter in the arms of him who lives only to adore you?”

The countess smiled, called the major a presuming wretch; and at last gave him a solemn promise, that if things were brought to extremity, she would accompany him to Italy.

Mrs. Supple, the milliner, made many apologies and excuses for the alarm the countess had been put into by the abrupt entrance of Mr. Saville, who, she supposed, had made a mistake, and opened the door of the room she was in, instead of his own, which was the next to it.¾“But I wonder,” said Mrs. Supple, “the major or your ladyship did not turn the key in the lock, which would have prevented any disagreeable intrusion.”

The countess protested that the innocency of her thoughts and actions rendered such a precaution equally unthought of as unnecessary; but as she had refused her hand to Mr. Saville before her marriage with the earl of Torrington, he might, out of mere spite and revenge, spread reports to injure her reputation.

“Then he must write his reports from France, my lady,” returned Mrs. Supple; “for he is now gone aboard a smack he has hired to take himself and a sick friend to the nearest port; and as the wind is fair, they will soon be far enough from Brighton.”

The countess, leaving the major to inform the accommodating Mrs. Supple that the business he had met the countess of Torrington upon being interrupted by the intrusion of Mr. Saville, they should again want the room; and that to prevent her being any way a loser by her very obliging behaviour, he would engage the whole of her lodgings during the time of his stay at Brighton, which would be the surest way to prevent future intrusion, though he should only occupy them a few hours now and then; but this engagement, Mrs. Supple's good sense would tell her, must be sub rosa.

Mrs. Supple's understanding had frequently been exercised in the same way; she looked archly, and told the major she knew her own interest too well to betray secrets.

The countess returned home, relieved from the fear of present detection; and being told by Smithson, after she was dressed, that she looked handsomer than ever, she went to lady Colloney’s rout in high spirits, where the evening passed very agreeably, till some person said in her hearing, that the very first time the duchess of Aberdeen went out, after spraining her ancle, she was seen to walk on the Steyne, leaning on the arm of the honourable Mr. Drawley; and that it was currently reported and believed, that her grace favoured his addresses to her daughter, lady Arabella Moncrief.

This conversation was quite sufficient to put the countess of Torrington out of temper with every thing and every body; she sat down to a table to play gold loo, where, though she cheated with admirable dexterity, she lost her money. Her evening’s entertainment was quite spoiled; Drawley and lady Arabella Moncrief were uppermost in her thoughts, and she ordered her carriage much sooner than her usual hour, to call upon the duchess of Aberdeen, whom she found alone. An explanation soon took place; they mutually upbraided each other with duplicity, and parted, with a resolve never to be in future more than visiting acquaintance.

The countess returned home, to confide her disappointments and mortifications to the sympathizing Mrs. Smithson, who had always a tear at command, and an assenting word for every thing her lady advanced, true or untrue. The faithful Mrs. Smithson assisted the countess to rail at the deceit of the duchess of Aberdeen, the ingratitude of the honourable Tangent Drawley, and the coquetry of lady Arabella Moncrief.

The next morning, in a tête-à-tête conversation with her son, the countess was informed, that she had nothing to accuse either the duchess, lady Arabella, or Drawley of—“For I,” said Oscar, “at my first introduction to lady Arabella, informed her that my affections were irrevocably engaged; and Drawley, whom you so bitterly accuse of deceit, was also in possession of my sentiments.”

“I dare say,” returned the countess, reddening with passion, “you think your conduct extremely candid and generous; but if the earl of Torrington would be guided by my opinion, and the duchess of Aberdeen was not the next thing to an idiot, you and lady Arabella might be taught obedience to your parents.”

“The earl of Torrington is the best of parents,” resumed lord Rushdale; “and the duchess of Aberdeen has too much feeling, as well as understanding, to wish to force her daughter’s affections, which are placed on a deserving man, to whose family and fortune no reasonable objection can be formed.”

“Pretty romantic nonsense!” exclaimed the countess. “Affection!—give me patience! What can such a mere chit as lady Arabella Moncrief know about affection, I wonder?”

“And yet, madam, chit as you are pleased to call lady Arabella Moncrief, you have peremptorily insisted that I should make love to her.”

“Certainly,” resumed lady Torrington; “most certainly I did; and for the best reason in the world, the Aberdeen alliance being, in all points, very desirable; and I have no doubt, if you had obeyed my command, you would have secured the prize.”

“I think I can venture to assert I should not,” replied lord Rushdale; “for I have great reason to believe lady Arabella had bestowed her regard on Mr. Drawley before our arrival at Brighton.”

“I seldom suffer any of my plans to be defeated,” said the countess; “and it is a thousand to one but I find means to disappoint Mr. Drawley's ambition, by breaking off his match with lady Arabella Moncrief.”

“That avowal, madam,” said lord Rushdale, “I am persuaded, is the mere ebullition of resentment; but if you really intend what you say, I am convinced you may spare yourself any efforts to separate lady Arabella Moncrief and Mr. Drawley; their attachment is sincere, and entirely divested of ambitious or interested views; and if the duchess of Aberdeen should oppose lady Arabella's preference of Mr. Drawley, she will marry him as soon as she is of age; and for my own particular, I beg to assure your ladyship, that I will never be a bar in the way of their union.”

“What!” asked the countess, with a sneer, “is not the perfect Miss Delmore forgotten yet? I really supposed that romantic caprice had yielded to six weeks absence.”

“Then, madam, you did the stability of my principles injustice,” returned lord Rushale; “for while I have a heart to feel, and judgment to approve, never will Miss Delmore or her perfections be forgotten.”

“Very sublime and pathetic, upon my word,” said the countess; “spoken 'with good emphasis,' but not much discretion; a great sound, meaning nothing at all.”

“You will find, madam,” returned lord Rushdale, “that my words have a meaning; and that, satisfied that she alone, of all her sex, can make me happy, it is my unalterable determination to marry Miss Delmore the very day I am of age.”

“Mean-spirited wretch!” exclaimed the countess, furiously ringing the bell, and ordering her carriage, “is it possible that a son of mine can entertain such grovelling notions? marry Cecilia Delmore, a girl of low origin¾brought up on charity! Get rid of your vulgar passion¾give up the idea of this degrading marriage, or I disclaim you.”

With an air of offended dignity, the countess of Torrington stepped into her carriage, when, having composed her ruffled spirits, and arranged her looks, she made a few calls, and alighted at the library. Here she found her dear friends, lady Bromford and Miss Jameson, to whom she related the conversation she had overheard at lady Colloney's rout, respecting lady Arabella Moncrief's engagement to Mr. Drawley¾“And in this affair,” said lady Torrington, “the duchess of Aberdeen has behaved to me with monstrous duplicity; for it was herself that proposed a marriage between her daughter and lord Rushdale.”

“My dear lady Torrington,” replied Miss Jameson, affecting great sympathy, “I am not at all surprised that you feel hurt and offended at the conduct of the duchess of Aberdeen; for nothing can be more shocking, more distressing to a susceptible heart, than the deceit and ingratitude of those who profess themselves our friends; for, as the poet says, 'when the hand of friendship barbs the arrow, the wound is more painful.”

“But after all,” said lady Bromford, “every sorrow has its solace; and who knows but your ladyship may yet have more reason to thank than resent the duplicity of the duchess of Aberdeen?”

“No,” replied lady Torrington; “I have been shamefully deceived; the childish folly of lady Arabella ought not to have met encouragement from the duchess. Nothing can possibly reconcile my feelings to the disappointment, or enable me to suppress my resentment.”

“This all appears very just and proper,” rejoined Miss Jameson; “but it strikes me, that there is a trifling circumstance that will reconcile you, my dear countess, to the breaking off this match between lord Rushdale and lady Arabella Moncrief.”

“I cannot even guess at the circumstance you allude to,” said lady Torrington, “nor have I an idea that any thing can possibly reconcile me to the disappoint of a match I had set my heart upon.”

Lady Bromford stuffed an enormous pinch of snuff up her nose, and, with a shrug of her shoulders, observed¾“Heaven knows, we live in a strange world, where unthought-of circumstances bring about uncommon events, uniting foes and separating friends.”

“But it is the duty of a friend,” rejoined Miss Jameson, “to present things in their true colours; I am sure I am the last person in the world to say or do an ill-natured thing; but I think a certain person, lady Bromford, ought to be made acquainted¾you understand me.”

“Oh, perfectly, my dear friend, perfectly,” replied lady Bromford; “and as I always pay a deference to your opinion, I think this morning as proper a time as any.”

Lady Torrington saw that Miss Jameson and lady Bromford were brimful of some intelligence, which they longed to communicate to her; and being curious to get to the bottom of their mystery, she invited them to take an airing with her.

Lady Bromford proposed driving towards Bramble Cottage, about two miles from the town, where a gardener lived, of whom she wanted to bespeak fruit.

During their drive lady Bromford took occasion to blame the folly of some mothers, who introduced their daughters into public when they were mere babies, unable to conduct themselves, or repress, with proper decorum, the freedoms of the men.¾“For my part, I was so tenacious of lady Caroline Bromford’s reputation,” said she, “that I kept her in the nursery till she was turned of nineteen; and I had the happiness to see the good effects of my care, for lady Caroline married advantageously the following winter.”

“Yes, to a man old enough to be her grandfather,” thought Miss Jameson; “advantageously, but not happily; the poor girl escaped the tyranny of her mother, to suffer, in splendid misery, the peevish humours of a valetudinarian husband.”

“Had the duchess of Aberdeen followed my prudent example,” resumed lady Bromford, tapping her snuff-box, with an air of self-gratulation, “lady Arabella Moncrief would, without doubt, have been a different person in morals and conduct; and now her grace must see the error of introducing a child of fifteen to fashionable parties¾But there are the gardens.”

Lady Torrington followed the direction of lady Bromford’s finger, and saw a very neat cottage, covered with roses and honeysuckles, and surrounded with smooth-trimmed hedges of white thorn.

“That is Bramble Cottage,” said lady Bromford, “where, if you please, we will alight and take a little fruit.”

There was no person in the cottage but a girl of about seven years old, who was rocking a cradle, which was lined and covered with fine corded dimity, as white as snow. Lady Bromford inquired for the gardener, and was told he was out in the ground.

Miss Jameson asked—“And whose child, my dear, are you rocking to sleep?”

“Not my little sister,” replied the girl; “she was put in the pit, in the church-yard, and then mother took the pretty lady’s baby to nurse.”

“And what is this pretty lady’s name?” asked lady Torrington, suspecting she had been brought to the cottage to learn a secret.

“Her name is¾is¾I have forgot her name; but she is a very pretty lady, and a very good lady too, mother says: and this,” said the little girl, catching up a cambric handkerchief that lay on the cradle, “and this is her handkitchur; lauks, how sweet it smells! and see here is letters along the connel of it¾great A; and mother says as how I shall larn to do fine work like that.”

The countess of Torrington saw a coronet marked on the corner, and beneath it Arabella Moncrief in full.¾“My stars, what a discovery!” exclaimed she, reading the name; “but it never can be possible¾this infant can never belong to lady Arabella Moncrief.”

“Yes, but it does though,” replied the girl; “it is lady Arabella’s child, and she loves it dearly, so she does; and she comes here every day, sometimes in her coach, so grand, with two men, all silver lace, ahind on it; and she kisses it, and nurses it, and calls it her own dear dear baby; and the baby’s name is Arabella too, the same as her own; and sometimes a fine gentleman comes, with powder in his hair, and he kisses it, and calls it poor little infortinit thing: but they shall never take it away in the grand coach, for I love the baby, and mother and father loves it, and the baby shall live with us always.”

Lady Torrington had heard sufficient, and she returned to her carriage, turning up her eyes, and exclaiming—“Well, certainly I never could have suspected this! Lady Arabella Moncrief’s child! Astonishing!”

Lady Bromford having applied her finger and thumb to her snuff, replied, there was nothing astonishing in the affair, when lady Arabella’s education was considered—”But I presume,” added she, “your ladyship is not now as much offended with the duchess of Aberdeen as you were before this discovery?”

“I am positively so surprised,” returned the countess, “that I am incapable of defining my own feelings, lady Arabella Moncrief is so young.”

“She is old enough, you see,” replied Miss Jameson, “to have made a faux pas, of which you have just seen the living witness.”

“I can scarcely believe I am awake,” said the countess; “lady Arabella Moncrief's child! It is a strange business.”

“But very true, for all that,” returned lady Bromford; “and, for my part, I see nothing so very wonderful in it; for when young girls are allowed a carriage, and are suffered to drive about here and there, and where they please, such consequences are generally the result of reprehensible indulgence, and a child might naturally enough be expected to¾”

“But when,” interrupted the countess, “or where could this affair have happened?”

“It is all clear as noonday,” rejoined Miss Jameson. “Every body supposes that a Frenchman is the father of the brat, a young man, a Parisian tailor or hair-dresser, who used to visit lady Arabella’s governess, madame de Piere; and she was dismissed in disgrace from the duchess of Aberdeen’s family, we all know.”

“Yes,” said lady Bromford; “and we all know, that as soon as she arrived here, lady Arabella was taken ill¾that medical assistance was sent for from town, and that she was full three weeks before she was seen abroad again.”

“Very odd though,” resumed the countess, “that lady Arabella takes no care to conceal her disgrace.”

“She rather seems proud of it,” replied Miss Jameson; “for you both heard, ladies, what the little girl at Bramble Cottage said, which proves that lady Arabella is at no pains to prevent her shame from becoming public. I should like to know if Mr. Drawley has had no hint given him of lady Arabella’s little indiscretion.”

“He has my perfect consent to make her his wife as soon as he pleases,” said lady Torrington; “for lord Rushdale is now entirely out of the question.”

“If Mr. Drawley has not been informed of the affair,” rejoined lady Bromford, “it is impossible it should remain a secret long, lady Arabella visits the child so openly.”

“I am surprised I never heard it before,” said the countess, “for it seems public enough; but doubtless my friends, knowing how extremely anxious I was for the alliance, were delicate in mentioning the affair before me.”

“Mr. Drawley,” rejoined Miss Jameson, “is passionately fond of lady Arabella; and when he comes to hear of her imprudence, the consequences are to be dreaded; I should not wonder if he was to shoot her, and himself afterwards.”

“I should not believe,” replied lady Bromford, “that his love is so violent; Mr. Drawley is a volatile unthinking young man; he has been in love many times, or report errs, and has got over all his tender passions without difficulty, or resorting to violent measures.”

The countess of Torrington resolved, let the consequences be what they might, that Mr. Drawley should be acquainted with the affair, before another day passed over his head; Miss Jameson had said he was passionately fond of lady Arabella, and that was cause sufficient, in her envious mind, to endeavour at making him miserable. Pleading an engagement, she took leave of her dear friends, lady Bromford and Miss Jameson, and hastened home to employ the ready agent of her mischiefs, Mrs. Smithson, in copying an anonymous letter to Mr. Drawley.

The countess considered it necessary to use the utmost precaution, lest suspicion should fall on her, as the author of the intelligence to Mr. Drawley of lady Arabella’s indiscretion: Mrs. Smithson received a strict command to be entirely ignorant in the story, while she placed a seal on her own lips, and never dropped a hint, even to lord Rushdale, of the important discovery she had made, leaving the circulation of the scandalous tale to the indefatigable industry of her friends, lady Bromford and Miss Jameson, through whose representations it was soon currently believed that lady Arabella Moncrief was bona fide the mother of an illegitimate child; and that the duchess of Aberdeen was doing all in her power to cover her daughter’s disgrace, and draw in the honourable Tangent Drawley to marry her.

“A tale of scandal is believ’d,

And none suspect that they’re deceiv’d;

While if a noble act you do,

Folks wonder if the tale is true.”

Mr. Drawley had no sooner read the anonymous scandal transmitted to him by lady Torrington, than his generous mind at once pronounced it false; and glowing with honest indignation, he hastened to communicate it to lord Rushdale; for though he despised, and gave no sort of credence to the information, he was anxious to trace the inventor of such a vile fabrication, and to remove every shadow of suspicion from the character of his beloved Arabella.

Lord Rushdale confessed having already heard the story at lady Bloom’s; but being equally incredulous with Drawley, he advised that the anonymous letter should be immediately shewn to the duchess of Aberdeen and lady Arabella Moncrief, who, without doubt, would give such satisfactory explanation of the business, as would effectually justify lady Arabella’s conduct, and clear her reputation from suspicion.

This advice was too good to be neglected; the deeply-interested, but confiding Drawley shook his friend by the hand.¾“Farewell!” said he; “from my soul I believe Arabella innocent; I confess I am now agitated a little, but when we meet in the evening, you will find 'Richard is himself again.”

Drawley repaired, without further delay, to the duchess of Aberdeen’s, where he was welcomed with smiles by lady Arabella, who told him that she was very happy to see him, for the duchess and herself had determined on spending the morning at home; and while they worked, he should read to them.—”Here,” said she, handing a pamphlet to him, “here is a very curious, though very improbable tale.”

“Not half so improbable or curious,” replied Drawley, “as the tale this letter contains, which I must entreat the duchess to favour me by perusing.”

The duchess took the letter.

“Now, I dare say,” resumed lady Arabella, “you expect me to be extremely anxious concerning the contents of that letter; but,” taking up her work, “I am determined to convince you that I have no curiosity respecting it.”

“And yet,” said the duchess, “it concerns you most nearly.”

“Concerns me!” repeated lady Arabella; “that will not do, mamma; you are only trying my forbearance.”

“Listen, and be convinced,” said the duchess.

“SIR,

“Report says you are paying your addresses to lady Arabella Moncrief;

it would perhaps be well for your future peace, if you were to investigate the reasons that prompt the haughty duchess of Aberdeen to acquiesce in your wishes. At Bramble Cottage, two miles on the London road, is nursed a female child, which is every morning visited by lady Arabella Moncrief, who calls it hers, and bestows on it the most tender caresses; a cambric handkerchief, with a ducal coronet, and the name of Arabella Moncrief, was left at Bramble Cottage. Perhaps the wily duchess, or her sprightly daughter, may be able to clear up this affair to your satisfaction, and find another mother for the infant Arabella, whose actual existence reflects no lustre on the fame of lady Arabella Moncrief.”

A pause of a moment ensued; lady Arabella blushed as Drawley sought in her eyes the confirmation of her innocence.

“If you had attended to my advice, lady Arabella Moncrief,” said the duchess, “this indelicate affair had never been canvassed by the public.”

“No doubt, my dear mamma, you were right,” replied lady Arabella; “but I could not bear to part with the dear little innocent.”

“And you see the consequences,” resumed the duchess, colouring with indignation; “the hitherto unsullied name of Aberdeen is become the sport of licentious tongues. I pity the poor infant, but must for ever condemn the imprudence that has exposed you to this scandal.”

Drawley listened in astonishment; the speech and look of the duchess seemed to condemn and pronounce her daughter guilty, but the countenance of lady Arabella betrayed no consciousness of shame; her blush was the rosy emanation of purity; and, in spite of appearances, his impassioned heart generously whispered¾“She is innocent.”

The duchess turned to Mr. Drawley, and, with more hauteur than he had ever seen her assume, said—“And you, sir, who have placed this insolent, mortifying scrawl before me, you, no doubt, join the scandalous cabal, and condemn the indiscretion of lady Arabella Moncrief.”

“No, on my soul¾my sacred honour,” replied Drawley; “had I for a moment suspected the purity of lady Arabella, you had not seen me here. No, believe me, madam, I placed the letter in your hands, with the full assurance that you would enable me to vindicate the fame more precious to me than my own life.”

The haughty features of the duchess relaxed into complacency; she extended her hand to him, with a gracious smile, while, in a softened voice, she said—”You are a noble-hearted young man, and deserve our confidence.”

Drawley pressed his lips on her hand, and replied, he was happy to be thought worthy the distinction.

Lady Arabella having perused the letter, returned it to Drawley, saying—“You merit my warmest thanks for the open generous conduct you have pursued. I acknowledge that you, above all others, have a right to ask an explanation of this affair, and I will not withhold it; but first, Drawley, on the honour of a gentleman, answer me—do you believe me guilty?”

“No, so help me Heaven!” replied Drawley; “there is in your look, in your manner, an air of angel innocence, that speaks conviction to my heart¾that tells me you are wronged; and on my soul, I am ready to vindicate your honour against a host of calumniators, even before I am acquainted with the history of this child.”

Lady Arabella, with a delighted look, rang for her writing-desk.

“That declaration, Mr. Drawley,” said the duchess, “has won my heart; you think liberally, and have acted nobly. Arabella, from this moment I permit you to receive Mr. Drawley’s addresses.”

Drawley warmly thanked the duchess, and would have pressed lady Arabella’s hand to his lips, but, gently withdrawing it, she said—”Not yet; let me first prove that I am worthy the affection of a man of honour.” Then opening her desk, she took out three letters, bearing the Leicester post-mark, and signed Maria Weston. These she placed before Drawley, and insisted on his reading. They contained a most humble and pathetic acknowledgment of a deviation from virtue, and the most fervid and grateful thanks to the duchess and lady Arabella, for having preserved her from the horrid act of self- destruction, and for the care they were so humanely taking of her unfortunate child. The writer also expressed an abhorrence of her barbarous seducer, major Norman, and a hope that she might never again behold him.

Drawley now pressed lady Arabella to his heart.¾“I am not mistaken,” said he; “you are the angel I have ever believed you; you are indeed worthy of all my love and confidence.”

Lady Arabella’s shining eyes evinced the delighted feelings of her heart, while Drawley, addressing the duchess, said¾“How, my dear madam, shall I ever sufficiently evince my gratitude to you, for the hope you have generously given me, that I shall call this angel mine!”

The duchess smiled, and jocosely replied¾“You will best evince your gratitude to me, Mr. Drawley, by forbearing to engage in any whims that may endanger your life.”

“And have the grace and goodness,” said lady Arabella, “to release my hand, which you will please to recollect is, at present, my own property; and before I promise that you shall at a future period have a right to it, you must engage to love my child, and pledge your honour to bring it up; for it is such a darling¾such a little wax-doll, that I would not part with it for the universe.”

Drawley promised to love the little Arabella for her sake; to help to nurse it, and to be its father through life.

The duchess of Aberdeen now informed Mr. Drawley, that the unhappy Maria Weston was the daughter of a clergyman, whose widow, unable to support her rank in life, had been reduced to the necessity of keeping a lodging-house at Leicester, where major Norman, happening to see Miss Weston, engaged apartments in her mother’s house, for the sole purpose of seducing the inexperienced girl.—“Maria Weston was pretty, and very young; the artful major took the utmost pains to lull the watchfulness of the mother, and recommend himself to the favour of the daughter. Being certain that he had gained her affection, with a thousand promises of marrying her as soon as they arrived in London, he persuaded her to elope from her widowed mother, and throw herself on his protection and honour, to which proposal the miserable deluded girl consented, because she was afraid to meet the resentment of her mother, on the discovery of her disgrace, which she was conscious must soon happen, as she was in the way to become a mother. After remaining with her a few weeks in obscure lodgings in London, and putting off their marriage on various pretences, the major grew weary of her tears and reproaches, and cruelly abandoned her, when she stood most in need of support and consolation. Careless of the want and distress in which he left Maria Weston, the gay profligate major Norman set off for Brighton, and without a single pang of remorse for the sorrowing deprived widow, or her ruined daughter, he entered into expensive amusements, and mingled with the most fashionable parties, where, I am sorry to add,” said the duchess, “men of the major's licentious character are but too favourably received. A letter, unintentionally dropped by the major, informed the wretched Maria whither he was gone; instantly her resolution was taken to follow him¾to endeavour to soften his hard heart; but on her arrival here, major Norman inhumanly denied all knowledge of her; and boldly asserting she was a woman of the town, he had her thrust from his door. The evening was closing in; pennyless, and without a roof to shelter her, the unhappy creature, desperate with her injuries, attempted to plunge into the sea, but was happily prevented from accomplishing her dreadful purpose, by Mrs. Maynard, my woman, and Mr. Jennings, the butler, who happened to be near, and by force dragged her from the water. Mrs. Maynard is a sensible woman, with an excellent heart; she placed Maria Weston in decent lodgings, and immediately informed me of her situation and unhappy story. I need not tell you, we did all in our power to convince the wretched girl of the double sin she would commit, by rushing unbidden into the presence of her Maker; and while we administered to her wants, we had the satisfaction to see that she was truly penitent for her indiscretion, and anxious to be reconciled to her justly-offended mother. Lady Arabella immediately wrote to Mrs. Weston, who joyfully consented to receive her; the week after, Maria became the mother of a female infant; and as soon as she was able to travel, set out again for her deserted home, and the protection of her mother; but as taking the infant with her must at once have published her indiscretion, I complied with Arabella’s request, and permitted her to adopt it. Maria Weston,” continued the duchess, “is now addressed by a respectable tradesman, who has been made acquainted with her misfortune, and is willing to bring up the child, but Arabella will on no account part with it; and as she goes every morning to Bramble Cottage to see the urchin, and always calls it hers, I really wonder that the idlers and gossippers, who have no other employment than to invent and circulate scandal, have been so long silent. I have now,” said the duchess, “finished a long story.”

“Which does infinite credit, my dear madam,” replied Drawley, “to your own and lady Arabella’s heart.”

“Very prettily observed,” said lady Arabella; “and as you have behaved remarkably well in this business, by way of reward, you shall go with me to-morrow morning to see my little marmoset. I generally take Jennings with me, and I am rather surprised that he has not been implicated in the scandal.”

Having first obtained lady Arabella’s permission, Drawley informed lord Rushdale of all the particulars relative to the child at Bramble Cottage; and while they commiserated the erring Maria Weston, they mutually execrated major Norman, who, having seduced the fair unfortunate, and decoyed her from her home, had the cruelty to abandon her to misery, want, and despair.

At the library, next morning, when lady Torrington and all the scandalous party were assembled, lady Arabella Moncrief, quitting the side of a venerable old lady, with whom she had been in conversation, invited Miss Sedgeley, lord Rushdale, and Drawley, to take a drive with her as far as Bramble Cottage, to see her little girl.

All eyes were turned, with a stare of astonishment, on lady Arabella, while with a smile, lord Rushdale, taking Miss Sedgeley’s hand, said¾“I am certain, Miss Sedgeley, you must be greatly pleased with this invitation; lady Arabella Moncrief’s child has been so much talked of, and has created such interest in Brighton, that no doubt you have a curiosity to see it.”

Miss Sedgeley wondered why she in particular had been invited to see the child; but being convinced that lady Arabella would not, in so very public in a way, have spoken of it, had she been its mother, she suffered lord Rushdale to lead her to lady Arabella’s elegant barouche, leaving lady Torrington and her party turning up their eyes in amazement at lady Arabella Moncrieft’s effrontery.

Lady Bromford, while she deliberately took an enormous pinch of snuff, began to see the possibility of the child not being lady Arabella’s; and as she did not wish to be expelled from the duchess of Aberdeen’s parties, was casting about in her mind how to exonerate herself from having had a share in propagating the scandal, when the venerable lady with whom lady Arabella had been conversing put down the newspaper she had been reading, and having consigned her silver-mounted spectacles to their green shagreen case, said¾“That young creature has the best heart in the world.”

“Lady Arabella Moncrief, I presume you mean, ma’am,” returned Miss Jameson.

“Yes, ma’am,” replied the stranger, “lady Arabella first preserved the life of the mother, and sent her home to her friends, and she now humanely provides for the child, which she has placed out to nurse at Bramble Cottage, and calls it her own.”

“Bless my soul!” exclaimed Miss Jameson, “this is placing the affair in a very favourable light indeed: but are you certain, ma’am, of what you assent? I assure you I have heard a very different story respecting this same child.”

“I have no doubt, ma’am,” replied the old lady, “but there are persons in the world sufficiently wicked to traduce the fame of an angel; but I can take upon me to vouch for the truth of what I advance. I am just arrived from the town of Leicester, where the mother and grandmother of the infant reside; I have had the whole story from their own lips; and so vile, so detestable a part has major Norman acted in this affair, that I have no scruple to say I think he deserves hanging more than a highway robber.”

Lady Torrington felt uneasy, and unable to resist an opportunity of vindicating his reputation, she replied¾“Major Norman, ma’am, is a man of fashion¾an officer who has distinguished himself on more than one occasion; his name¾”

“He has disgraced it,” interrupted the old lady, “by the most villanous conduct; and I shall take care, while I remain at Brighton, that major Norman is never admitted within my doors, or to any assembly where I may have a voice.”

Two beautiful young women now entered the library, and addressing the old lady, said¾“We hope we have not tired your grace’s patience.”

Lady Torrington stared¾a duchess was a person of too much consequence to be neglected; but before she could contrive to get introduced, an elegant barouche drove up, and the young ladies assisted their grandmother, the duchess of Singleton, into it.

“This is quite astonishing,” said lady Bromford; “who could have suspected that queer-looking woman of being the duchess of Singleton? I am sure I had not an idea of the little, shrivelled, old soul, in a close bonnet and a plain pelisse, being a person of rank. Those young ladies, I suppose, are lady Georgina and lady Ellinor Walworth. Well, I am quite happy to think I had prudence enough to give no opinion respecting lady Arabella Moncrief and the child, for it would be very disagreeable to make an enemy of a person of the duchess of Singleton’s consequence.”

Miss Jameson’s pallid face grew red with passion, as she exclaimed¾“Why, surely, lady Bromford, you will not pretend to deny that you were the person who first mentioned to me that lady Arabella Moncrief had a child.”

“I am sorry, ma’am, to be obliged to contradict you,” replied lady Bromford; “your memory must be very short indeed, if you forget whispering in my ear, at lady Seaton’s rout, that lady Arabella Moncrief looked very blooming, considering it was so short a time since her accouchement.”

“I solemnly protest,” returned Miss Jameson, “I have not the remotest recollection of making such an observation, though I certainly heard you say¾”

“Your memory, ma’am, is very convenient,” interrupted lady Bromford; “but I positively declare, whatever I may have said, has been merely repetitions of your reports.”