SIMPLE FACTS.

VOL. I.

SIMPLE FACTS;

OR, THE

HISTORY OF AN ORPHAN.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

BY MRS. MATHEWS.

VOL. I.

LONDON:

PRINTED BY S. LOW, GREAT PORTLAND STREET

FOR THE AUTHOR:

And Sold by Mr. RICHARDSON, Royal-Exchange; Messrs.

HOOKHAM & CARPENTER, Old and New Bond Street;

and Messrs. SCATCHERD & WHITAKER, Ave-Maria

Lane.

1793.

SIMPLE FACTS, &c.

CHAPTER I.

IN the county of Devon, about two miles from Torrington, lived Mr. Harcourt, a gentleman of respectable family. He had an estate of about two hundred a year, which he farmed himself. He married at the age of twenty-two, the daughter of a neighbouring Clergyman, a very amiable young lady, with no great fortune, but that Mr. Harcourt did not consider as an object to be put in competition with the many valuable qualities he discovered in his lovely Maria:—He had no reason to repent his disinterested choice. The prudence of Mrs. Harcourt, in the management of their domestic concerns, made ample amends for the smallness of her fortune. Their mutual attachment encreased with their years, and they may with propriety, be numbered amongst the favourite few,

“Who in each other clasp whatever fair

“High fancy forms, and lavish hearts can wish.”

In the first two years after their happy union, they were blessed with two sons; and twelve years after the birth of the youngest, Mrs. Harcourt, was, to the great surprise of every one, delivered of a daughter, who was named after her amiable mother. Though Maria came so unexpectedly, she was not the less welcome. Mrs. Harcourt had long wished for a girl, to complete her happiness, and now that she was blessed with one, she had not another wish. She considered her little Maria, as a blessing from heaven to comfort her declining years.—How little do mortals know the designs of heaven?—Could that tender parent, have foreseen the distresses her beloved child was born to undergo, how different would have been her feelings? But,

“Heaven from all creatures hides the book of fate.”

Mr. Harcourt, had prudently made it a rule from his oeconomy, to lay by a small sum yearly, for a provision for his second son; and the year before Maria was born, he purchased a small estate, which was immediately settled on him. He had now another to provide for; and he chearfully determined to pursue the same plan. Maria grew a beautiful child, and early discovered uncommon abilities; her tender mother undertook the delightful task

“To teach the young idea how to shoot.”

Mr. Harcourt, had finished the same charge with his two sons, much to his credit and satisfaction; they were very fine lads, and appeared to be well disposed. The youngest, who was now fifteen, he put apprentice to an attorney. His eldest being comfortably provided for, Maria, remained their only care.

They were under no great apprehension concerning her, as Mr. Harcourt enjoyed a good state of health, and was not much above forty. Hope is a powerful passion in the human breast; they fondly looked forward with pleasing expectation to the time when they should behold their beloved child, the admiration of all, and the delight and comfort of their old age.

It is sometimes a misfortune to be too secure. Had Mr. Harcourt experienced some of those ills, which are the lot of thousands of his fellow creatures—Had he been afflicted with any of those complaints, so incident to human nature—He would not have delayed making that provision for his child; the neglect of which, exposed her to so many dangers. Such was the happy state, Mr. and Mrs. Harcourt enjoyed; reflecting on the past, with a satisfaction which none can feel, but such as make virtue the guide of all their actions; and looking forward to the future, with the most flattering expectation.—When Mrs. Harcourt went one day with her eldest son and little Maria, to pay a visit to Lady Palmer, who had a seat about two miles from their house; Mr. Harcourt could not accompany them, having some business to transact, which detained him; but promised to join them in the evening, and they set out chearfully without him.

They were received at the Grove with their usual welcome. Lady Palmer had a great respect for Mrs. Harcourt, and her children were doatingly fond of Maria. They clung about her, and strove which should shew most attention. They were all happy; Maria with her play-fellows in the nursery, and Mrs. Harcourt in the conversation of Lady Palmer, until the hour arrived when Mr. Harcourt promised to join them. That past, and almost another; but no Mr. Harcourt! Mrs. Harcourt could no longer conceal her uneasiness. She began to be seriously alarmed, and expressed her fears to Lady Palmer, that something of a very serious nature must have happened, or Mr. Harcourt, who was always punctual on the most trivial occasions, would not, she was certain, have forfeited his word.

Lady Palmer endeavoured by every possible means to persuade Mrs. Harcourt her fears were groundless; but to no purpose. She grew more uneasy, until it was resolved to send her son with one of the servants, to know the cause.

Lady Palmer, was the widow of Sir Thomas Palmer, who had been dead about two years; her elder son, the present Sir Thomas, was at this time at Oxford. She had two other children who were then at home; a daughter, who was about eleven years of age, and little Charles, who was only nine.

Lady Palmer, was one of those few amiable women, who after the death of their husband’s, devote the whole of their time to the education of their children. She lived in a very retired way: Mrs. Harcourt and two or three of her old friends, were all the visitors she received. Young Harcourt entered the parlour pale and trembling; “my poor father” said he— “Heavenly God! preserve him,” cried Mrs. Harcourt! “What has happened? tell me all?” “Be not so frightened my dear mother” said he, “it may not be as we fear”—but on my enquiry at home, the servants assured me he set out to come to us at the time he appointed; and coming by the river we found this cane; which, I immediately knew to be my father’s. “Oh!” cried Mrs. Harcourt, he is then lost! he is gone for ever! and dropt on the floor. Every means were used to recover her, which for some time, proved ineffectual, but at last coming a little to herself she exclaimed, “is he then lost?” and again fainted. Lady Palmer advised young Harcourt to take some of the servants and search the river—and likewise to send people different ways about the neighbourhood to endeavour to get at the real state of what she began now to dread to know.

Poor Mrs. Harcourt still continued in a state of almost insensibility—Lady Palmer, at her intervals of reason, begged her to compose herself—pressed her to take an apartment in her house; adding, “if things should be as we fear, (which heaven forbid) your own, will by no means be a proper place for you, at least for some time.” “Oh! Lady Palmer,” cried she, wringing her hands, I am in a state of destraction! “if I have lost my beloved husband what place will be proper for me—none in this world—but let me entreat your ladyship to send me home—I must see him dead, or alive—dead! repeated she, with a wildness in her looks, can I then live, if all I have to live for is gone—what will become of me?”

Lady Palmer was extremely alarmed at seeing her friend in such distress; begged her to consider her health, “if only for the sake of your dear child” said she. “My poor Maria,” said Mrs. Harcourt (in a softened tone) “what will become of thee, if thou hast indeed lost thy father? but pray let me go home; even the certainty of what I dread, cannot be worse than what I now suffer.”

Lady Palmer then entreated her to leave Maria, which she at last consented to. The carriage was ordered to be got ready, and Lady Palmer’s woman to go home with her. Lady Palmer advised her not to take leave of Maria, as the child would be frightened to see her in such a distressed state; “indeed I am distressed,” said she, “I am distracted”— “Oh! cried she, as they were told the carriage was ready, “what will become of me.”

CHAPTER II.

LADY Palmer was deeply affected at her friends distress.—She offered up a sincere prayer to the Almighty, to comfort her under her suffering—and went to the nursery to poor little Maria. She took the little innocent in her arms, kissed her, and could scarce conceal the tear which stood in her eye. “My dear sweet child” said she, “will you like to stay with your play-fellows, two or three days? your mama has given me leave to keep you.” Maria, answered “she should like it very much; but if her ladyship pleased, she would wish to bid her mama a good night.” Lady Palmer then told her, her mama was gone home—she stood a few moments in a very thoughtful attitude; at last recollecting herself, “I wonder” said she, “what my papa will say, to see my mama without me.” Lady Palmer turned her head to wipe her eyes. Miss Palmer and little Charles, were delighted to have their favourite some days. It was settled for Maria to sleep with Miss Palmer. Lady Palmer embraced them—wished them a good night—and returned to the parlour full of anxiety, for her woman’s return. She soon entered the room. “Oh! my Lady,” said Mrs. Harris, “such a scene of distress at poor Mrs. Harcourt’s.” “It is then as I feared” said Lady Palmer; “but let me know the particulars.” Mrs. Harris then told her, that Mrs. Harcourt supported herself pretty well, till the carriage came within sight of the house. Then on seeing such a number of people about the door, she screamed out, that all was lost. Her dear husband was brought home dead; “her fears were too true,” continued Mrs. Harris, “for on searching the river, Mr. Harcourt’s body was found, and on examining the bank, they discovered the place where his foot had slipt.” Poor Mrs. Harcourt was taken out of the carriage quite insensible, and carried to her apartment. Doctor Johnson, who happened to be amongst the number of spectators, had ordered her a composing draught but she very much feared it would answer no purpose, as she did not think Mrs. Harcourt could live.

“Her two sons are nearly in as bad a state” said Mrs. Harris, “Poor Henry the youngest, is laying over the body of his father, and raving like a distracted creature: his brother seems in a state of stupid dejection. I desired Dr. Johnson to call here in the morning, as I concluded your ladyship would wish to know how Mrs. Harcourt did.” “You did very right,” answered Lady Palmer, deeply affected with the distressing scene her woman had described. “Poor Mrs. Harcourt—how I pity her—who but a few hours ago, was one of the happiest of women; the Almighty will, I hope, give her fortitude to support this great trial. Poor little Maria, a beautiful girl only eight years old, to be left at the mercy of a brother—to lose her father, and perhaps her mother, who adored her! who watched every turn of her growing genius, to find out where to improve, or where to check.”

Mrs. Harris put her lady in mind of the hour, and advised her to go to rest; she retired—but not to sleep—her thoughts were too much taken up with the sorrows of her friend to admit of any. She rose earlier than usual the next morning and went to the nursery. She was surprised to find the young people up and dressed; the thoughts of their new companion had awakened them. She found them in high spirits. She embraced them all tenderly—but when she took Maria in her arms, she could not conceal the tear which started in her eyes; which Maria perceiving exclaimed “My dear Lady Palmer, you weep, and it seems about me—what have I done? I shall be very unhappy indeed, if I have been so unfortunate as to have offended you:” and burst into tears. Lady Palmer’s tears flowed now without restraint. She pressed Maria to her bosom; “You sweet innocent” said she, “you have never offended me, be not alarmed.” By this time her companions began to share in the distress of Maria and their mama. Little Charles took Maria by the hand, “Oh?” mama said he, “I cannot bear to see Miss Harcourt weep, indeed I cannot; it makes me weep too.” Lady Palmer felt extremely distressed how to act, she thought it would be proper, to prepare her for the sad news; yet feared to shock her sensibility, of which she appeared to have an uncommon share, for one of her years. “You must not be frightened at what I am going to say”— “but I am told your papa is very ill, and you know he may die: if he should, you must not make yourself more uneasy than you can possibly help; as God Almighty acts in those cases as he thinks best; and we must all submit to his will, or we cannot be considered as christians. You see, my dear, your companions have lost their papa, and they are not unhappy.” Maria now sobbed, as if her little heart would break— “but my papa” said she, when she was able to speak, “has always been so kind and good to me, I am sure I cannot live if he should die.”

Lady Palmer after endeavouring to convince her of the impropriety of such a thought, left her with her companions, who joined in her grief.

CHAPTER III.

DOCTOR Johnson was soon announced, he gave a most alarming account of Mrs. Harcourt’s state; declared it was his opinion, that if she survived, it would be with the loss of her reason—but added, a few days will determine her case. “Never,” said the Doctor, “did I behold such a distressing scene. Poor Mrs. Harcourt is really distracted, her second son almost in the same state, and the eldest melancholy; the poor labourers all lamenting the loss of a good master—indeed I have not seen one soul who is not affected at the news of poor Harcourt’s death.”

“His poor daughter,” said Lady Palmer, “will, I fear be the greatest sufferer; I very much fear she is totally unprovided for.” “Good God!” said Dr. Johnson, “Mr. Harcourt cannot surely have neglected so material a business as taking care of his child: but his death being premature, may in some measure excuse such a neglect. Joseph seems to be a good lad, but it is hard to be a dependant on a brother.” Lady Palmer entreated he would call every day to acquaint her with the state of Mrs. Harcourt’s health, which he promised to do, and took his leave.

She now acquainted Maria in the tenderest manner possible, with the death of her father. She was deeply affected with the loss, but after the first transports of her grief had a little subsided, she supported her sorrow with a fortitude, superior to her years; which gave Lady Palmer a high opinion of her understanding. She expressed a great desire to see her mama; but on Lady Palmer’s assuring her she should, as soon as her mama was in a state proper to receive her—she readily submitted.

Mrs. Harcourt remained four days totally insensible; her fever was so high, that Dr. Johnson declared there must be a change in a few hours. In the evening she fell into a deep sleep, and continued in it twelve hours. The Doctor waited with great impatience for her awaking, in hopes of a favourable turn; he was not disappointed. When Mrs. Harcourt awoke, she lay a few minutes as if just recovered from a trance: she looked round, and on seeing the Doctor, who stood by the bed-side, without attempting to speak, till he saw what state she was in—she exclaimed, with her hands and eyes lifted up, “God Almighty is just! I have deserved all that has befallen me. I have, Doctor Johnson,” said she, “for twenty years past been so happy, I had almost forgot I was mortal; I even dared to measure out the length of that happiness to a period, when I vainly imagined I should sink with my beloved husband gradually to the grave; after experiencing nothing but the blessings of this life. Wretch, that I was, what right had I to expect, to be exempt from the distresses my fellow creatures are subject to?” The Doctor begged she would not talk, or she would hurt her health; she answered she was perfectly composed, “Nothing can now change the state my mind is in, I am so thoroughly convinced of the justness of my suffering; I shall never utter another complaint, but be thankful to the Almighty for the many years of uninterrupted happiness, I have enjoyed.”

The Doctor was very much surprised to see her so calm; he offered her some refreshments, which she consented to take. She enquired after her children, but expressed no desire to see them. “This fatal blow, Dr. Johnson” said she, “has taught me a lesson I have never till now known; which is, not to be too much devoted to any thing in this world. I have had more than my share of the comforts, blessings I may say, of this world; it was time for me to experience the reverse, which I hope I shall support as becomes a christian.” The Doctor again repeated his request, that she would not fatigue her spirits by talking too much; she promised to obey him, and he took his leave.

Lady Palmer was very happy when Dr. Johnson acquainted her Mrs. Harcourt had recovered her reason. The doctor being fearful she might fall into a state of stupid insensibility, advised Lady Palmer as soon as the funeral was over, to take Maria to her, in order to awaken her attention, which she agreed to do. Maria and little Charles then entered the room, she ran to Dr. Johnson, with a face expressive of the greatest anxiety, to enquire after her mama, and brothers, the tears ready to start from her eyes. He took her by the hand, and assured her, her mama was a great deal better, and that she should see her in a day or two, and her brothers were pretty well. She sighed— “God bless and protect you, sweet innocent” said he, “I wish you may not be the greatest sufferer.” “But Miss Harcourt shall not suffer,” cried little Charles; “you know Mama when I am seventeen, I shall go to India to my uncle, the Governor—where I shall make a great fortune, and I will give the half of it to her:”— “do not cry, Miss Harcourt,” said he, taking her hand, “I cannot bear to see you.” Lady Palmer looked at the doctor; her countenance expressed the satisfaction she felt at her son’s generous sentiments—she took him in her arms, and kissed him.—Her feeling can only be conceived by a tender parent.

The day came, on which Maria was to be taken to her mama; her companions shed tears at parting. When Lady Palmer entered the room where Mrs. Harcourt was sitting, she was, notwithstanding what Dr. Johnson had said, greatly surprised to see her so composed. They embraced each other in silence— “I have brought Maria to see you,” said Lady Palmer, “bless my child,” said she—and ordered the nurse to bring her up—on her entering the room she run and fell on her knees;— “Oh! my dear mama!”—was all she could utter.—Mrs. Harcourt now began to discover some signs of returning sensibility: the tears which had for some days forsaken her eyes, now began to flow.—She pressed her child to her bosom, when she was a little recovered— “Call my sons,” said she, to the nurse,—they entered the room with dejected looks.— “Joseph,” said she, taking him by the hand, and putting one of Maria’s into the other— “behold your child—you my dear children,” addressing her sons, “have had the blessing of both your parents to watch over, and instruct your youth: you are at present such as I wish you to be—continue the same, and you will be an ornament to society, and reflect honour to the memory of your dear deceased father. But this dear child, has too early lost one parent; and God only knows, how soon she may be deprived of both. I therefore commit her to your protection, and as you act by her, so may the Almighty deal with you.”

This solemn speech, struck them so powerfully, it was some time before there was any reply made to it—the brothers at the same instant fell on their knees; vowed solemnly, Maria should never have cause to complain of them. Joseph assured his mother he would pursue the plan his dear father had adopted of laying by a sum yearly for her, until she was of age. Mrs. Harcourt was very well satisfied with her son’s behaviour, embraced them, and they took their little sister in their arms and kissed her, with great affection. Lady Palmer, who was equally pleased and affected with this tender scene, now began to hope Maria’s case was not so bad as she had feared. She concluded, Mrs. Harcourt would be the better of a little rest, got up to take her leave; she asked if she should take Maria back to the Grove. “No, my Lady,” replied Mrs. Harcourt, “I will have her with me whilst I am in this world; it may not be long—and then my Maria will stand much in need of such a kind friend to guide her young mind.” “Let me entreat you to think otherwise,” said Lady Palmer, “you will I hope, live to see her happy beyond the reach of fortune.” Mrs. Harcourt sighed, and shook her head; but continued Lady Palmer, “should she, which Heaven forbid, ever stand in need of my assistance, I shall ever be ready and willing to give it;” and then took her leave.

CHAPTER IV.

MRS. Harcourt seemed every day to recover more tranquillity: she was soon able to take short airings in Lady Palmer’s carriage, which was every day sent to take her out. But her health had received such a visible shock from the late accident, that she grew extremely thin, and had entirely lost her appetite; and though she appeared calm, and sometimes rather chearful, it was very evident her mind was but ill at ease.

She paid more than common attention to the improvement of Maria’s mind—she set forth in the strongest colours, the advantages derived from an early attention to piety and morality. “Let nothing, my dear child,” said she, “tempt you to do a mean ungenerous action, or to deviate from the strict rule of propriety; remember this—that vice, however it may deceive you by appearance, is always attended with misery.

“To be good is to be happy.

“Angels are happier than us; because

“They are better.”

One thing, Mrs. Harcourt charged her particularly to observe; “when you grow up,” said she, “make this a rule; whatever you observe in the behaviour of your companions, that does not exactly agree with your own idea of right, impartially examine yourself—and you will perhaps find on a strict scrutiny, you have some time or other been guilty of the same fault; if you have the pleasure to find yourself free, this will imprint it so strongly in your mind, that you will be in no danger of falling into the same error.” Such were the instructions Mrs. Harcourt gave her beloved daughter, and Maria lost not a word—she treasured them in her heart¾and determined, whatever was her lot, never to deviate from them.

Mrs. Harcourt grew every day weaker, and on consulting Dr. Johnson, he discovered she was in a deep decline, and that it was not in the power of medicine to save her. She called her son Joseph to her, one day, and said, “my dear son, I find my dissolution fast approaching: indeed, there is nothing to induce me to wish to live, only if it had pleased the Almighty to have spared me till my poor Maria was provided for. But his will be done;¾“you will, I make no doubt, be a kind father to her”—Joseph was really affected at his mother’s words; assured her, Maria should be his sole care.

She then sent for her sister, Mrs. Young, and after acquainting her with the state of her health, and the natural consequences which must soon follow—she consulted with her concerning the disposal of Maria after her death. It was at last determined that she should board with her aunt, and go to school with her children. Mrs. Young was married to a linen draper, at Torrington, she had four children, two sons and two daughters; the youngest of whom was the same age of Maria, but very different both in person and disposition.

Mrs. Harcourt having settled this important business, now turned her thoughts wholly on her approaching fate, which she met with a calmness, that shewed she rather wished than feared to die. This second shock, which happened about twelve months after the death of Mr. Harcourt, was too much for Maria’s tender nature—she was in hysteric fits for some days, and her life was despaired of. After every means had been used to reconcile her, to no purpose, Lady Palmer entreated Mrs. Young to let her pass a few days at the Grove, adding, “the society of her old companions might divert her melancholy.” Mrs. Young agreed to the proposal, and Maria went home with Lady Palmer.

From the attention she received at the Grove, she by degrees recovered her health. Little Charles strove by every possible means to amuse her; and when he could not succeed, lessened her sorrows by sharing them—his sympathetic soul joined in her distress; which she perceiving, would often conceal, for fear of giving him pain; thus by assuming a chearfulness, she soon became really so—Mrs. Young came for her, this was another trial to Maria, but she knew, she must submit, and therefore determined to do it with a good grace. She summoned all her resolution, and thanked Lady Palmer with great composure for her kindness, but, when she took leave of her young friends, her fortitude forsook her, they were all in tears.—Lady Palmer entreated Mrs. Young to let her pass the holidays at the Grove, which she consented to, and they took their leave.

Maria was received by her uncle and cousins with great pleasure, they at first shewed her every kind of attention, and Mrs. Young took a pleasure in hearing her praised. But her youngest daughter soon discovered a jealousy at her superior abilities, which she considered as a reproach to herself, and therefore conceived a violent hatred against her. She practised all those mean insinuations which little minds are capable of, to prejudice her father and mother against her—and Maria saw with sorrow her arts succeed, but too well. She soon discovered the progress she made in learning, which instead of gaining her the approbation she hoped to receive, would gain nothing but some ill-natured sarcasm, such as, “Ay to be sure, you are cleverer than any body.” This affected her exceedingly, her situation became very uncomfortable, but she thought the most prudent method would be to bear it without complaint, as those little disagreeables would make her brothers unhappy without answering any other purpose. She mourned in secret the loss of her tender parents—the only comfort she ever enjoyed was in the holidays, which she always spent at the Grove—Maria had spent two years in this unhappy state, when Lady Palmer fancied she saw a settled dejection on her countenance, and kindly enquired if she was happy. She answered, “she was as happy as she could expect to be, without a parent.” This negative kind of reply, and the dejection which accompanied her words, Lady Palmer was by no means satisfied with; she concluded Maria was not so well treated as she could wish, and therefore determined to get at the truth, as she loved her, both for her own sake and her mother’s. She again repeated the question, respecting her happiness, and got nearly the same answer.—She took Maria’s hand, “my dear child” said she, “I think you have no reason to doubt but I have a sincere regard for you, to suppose I should ask questions merely out of idle curiosity; I very much fear you are not happy; tell me truly, are you kindly treated? and be assured of this, if I cannot serve you, I will do you no injury”—Maria bust into tears, Lady Palmer, pressed her to answer her— “I must not my dear Lady Palmer” said she, “expect to be so happy who have no parent as those who have—how can I suppose, but my aunt will be fonder of her own children than of me—I have nothing material to complain of, but I confess I every day feel more sensibly the loss of my dear mother—Oh! Lady Palmer! what a sad thing it is for a young girl to lose her mother.” Lady Palmer thought it unnecessary to enquire farther into the cause of Maria’s dejection, she could easily judge the rest. She began to consider how she could serve her. She consulted Miss Palmer, and they determined to take her wholly to live at the Grove. “She can attend,” said Lady Palmer, “whilst the Governess gives you lessons in French and Geography—and to music and dancing from the masters who come twice a week to instruct you. By that means she will save her brother Joseph, the expence of her board and schooling, which will be a sufficient inducement for him to consent to the change, and I shall have the satisfaction of seeing her happy.”

CHAPTER V.

LADY Palmer lost no time to put her scheme in execution. She sent for Mr. Harcourt, and acquainted him it was her wish to have Maria wholly at the Grove—but concealed from him the idea she had of her being uncomfortable; Joseph very readily consented to her proposals; indeed, he was rejoiced to have his sister taken, as he thought, off his hands. He had, after the death of his mother, taken a farmer’s daughter to superintend his house, a girl of no education, and very few natural abilities; however, she had a very pretty face, and a great deal of artful insinuation, which prevailed with Joseph—he in a short time after Maria was settled at the Grove, to the great surprise of every one, married her. This gave Maria great uneasiness; she had flattered herself her brother’s house would prove a comfortable asylum to her when she grew up; her hopes on that score were now entirely lost. Her brother Henry now remained her only hope; he had just finished the term of his apprentiship with great repute, and was advised to settle at Bath. Before he set out, he came to the Grove to take leave of his sister, of whom he was always very fond. He expressed in the strongest terms his disapprobation of his brother’s conduct; assured Maria, she should never want a protector whilst he lived; that when he was settled, if she liked it, she should come to him, and if he should marry, it should be such a woman as would love and be kind to his sister.

He then paid his respects to Lady Palmer; took an affectionate leave of Maria, and set out for Bath. Maria seriously lamented parting with her brother, he was the only relation she had, who for some time past had paid any attention to her; and now he had left the country, she very much feared he would soon forget her.

She applied herself with uncommon assiduity, to those improvements which she hoped might prove of advantage to her. She was soon able to speak French pretty well, and write it grammatically; her genius received no check; her companions were too liberal minded to entertain any of those little jealousies, which had caused her so much uneasiness at her aunt’s; they all took a pleasure in instructing her; Charles was her writing master, a task he undertook with great pleasure, and Maria felt no less in studying under so agreeable a master: her happiness received a check when he was sent to school at Exeter; however, as he always passed the holidays at home, she consoled herself in his absence, with the pleasing expectation of seeing him soon again; and in the mean time, strove to improve in her studies, in hopes of surprising him with the progress she had made during his absence. Charles had the same motive for emulation; he had always his Maria before him—and his constant thoughts were how he should merit her approbation. Thus they imperceptably formed each other’s mind; and their little hearts were united, before either of them were sensible they had one.

One thing surprised Maria exceedingly, which she endeavoured in vain to account for;—Charles and his sister met, and parted with such indifference—she observed his sister never shed tears at parting, or seemed to feel that tender emotion at his return, which she was so sensible of — “it is strange,” said she to herself, that his mother and sister should not love him better than I do!”—there was only one way she could reconcile this. “Miss Palmer never knew what it was to be unhappy; she has always had a tender mother to comfort and cherish her;—therefore, she is unacquainted with those emotions which arise from kindness, shewn on such occasions. I should be very ungrateful indeed, if I did not love Charles—how kind he was to me when I lost my dear mama!” This seemed clearly to account to her why she felt more for him than his sister, and so far from conceiving there could be an impropriety, she thought it would be next to impiety not to adore him.

“By what thin spun threads, our affections are

wove together.”

She often regretted he was not indeed her brother.

CHAPTER VI.

SIR Thomas Palmer having finished his studies, left Oxford, and set out on the tour of Europe; Charles who was now fifteen, was taken from his school at Exeter, and sent to that University—when he returned at the vacation, he had acquired such a manly appearance, as struck Maria with uncommon emotion; when he, all animation, seized her hand—she blushed and an unusual trembling seized her, she found it impossible to appear easy—an involuntary sigh escaped her. Charles, as if he had caught the infection, turned pale, he fancied she received him with too much indifference—and endeavoured in vain to account for this change: he grew thoughtful, he shuddered at the idea of having offended her.—He examined himself with the most scrutinising attention, to find out if he had imperceptibly imbibed any of those follies so frequently learnt at the University. “Perhaps,” said he, “I have been so unfortunate, instead of attaining accomplishments which I flattered myself would render me more agreeable to her—only to have acquired some disagreeable manner which is disgusting; if so, how shall I regret ever going to Oxford. But how is Maria changed! if that is the case, how freely did she use to tell me of any action she thought wrong, and how readily did I attend to her.”

Thus with doubts and perplexities did Charles rack his imagination, to account for this change, which gave him so much uneasiness. Maria was far from being easy; her rest was disturbed; Charles occupied her thoughts more than ever, yet she could less support his presence—whenever she caught his eye, she would blush and turn away, as if she had committed a fault. A sigh from him, upbraided her for her cruelty.

This was all strange to Maria, she could not find out the cause of her extraordinary conduct; and more extraordinary sensations—the real cause never once entered her head. She had, indeed, heard of love, but had formed no idea how it affects—she saw Charles uneasy, and fancied it was at her strange behaviour. “My God!” said she, “what shall I do?—how shall I act?—ought I to make him unhappy, who has almost from my infancy shared in my sorrows, and greatly alleviated them.—She determined to appear as chearful and easy as possible to him in company with his mother and sister; but she studiously avoided being alone with him.

Charles, who watched every look of Maria, felt greatly revived at this favourable change; he began to flatter himself, whatever was the cause of her reserve at their first meeting, he should soon recover her good opinion, and only wished for an opportunity of a conversation with her, to remove any little prejudice which he fancied she had formed to his disadvantage; but he found it no easy matter to get such an opportunity, as Maria, as carefully strove to avoid it. Fortunately, for him, the family received an invitation to dine where Maria was not asked; Charles pleaded indisposition for not accompanying them, and had the pleasure to find he should dine with Maria alone.

This was the very height of his wish, how did he long for the hour,—how tedious was the time until the bell summoned them to the dining parlour; Maria felt strange emotions at the thoughts of being alone with Charles, she trembled—she blushed—she could not tell why—she wished to look better than usual, and spent more time in dressing that morning than common.

The signal Charles had so impatiently expected, at length arrived; they both blushed, and looked extremely confused. Whilst the servants continued in the room, they talked on indifferent things; but as soon as the cloth was taken away and the servants gone, they were both silent.

Maria, after setting a little time, made an effort to retire. Charles now started and caught her hand, “am I then become so very disagreeable,” said he, “that Maria cannot sit in the same room with me,—let me entreat you, at least to condescend so far as to acquaint me, wherein I have been so unfortunate as to offend you, unless you wish to see me unhappy.” He ceased to speak; he had still hold of her hand; she trembled—his looks were expressive of the tenderest anxiety; it is difficult to say, whether hope or fear was most predominant in his heart.

“Offend me, Mr. Palmer,” said Maria, “no, indeed, you have never offended me—I do not think it is in your nature to offend any one.” Charles felt a little revived at these words— “then let me conjure you to tell me why this change in your behaviour—why Mr. Palmer,—am I not the same Charles as ever?”—Maria sighed— “Oh, Maria,” continued he, if you knew what I have suffered from your cold reserve, you would not keep me in suspense; but freely tell me, what part of my conduct is disagreeable to you, that I might endeavour to become every thing you could wish.” “I think,” said Maria, “you are such as the most sanguine of your friends must approve. But— “but what, Maria—Oh, do not chill my very soul,—what is the approbation of my friends, no! it is your good opinion alone must make me happy: if I no longer have the pleasure to find my improvements, as I hoped they were, prove agreeable to Maria, I have no motive to continue them—to what purpose should I labour for accomplishments, if I have lost the end I flattered myself would recompense me”—Good God! what would you have me say?” said she, “if my poor approbation will afford you any pleasure, I will not withhold it—you are every thing I could wish to see in a beloved brother.” Charles kissed her hand and pressed it to his heart, with a rapture which surprized her. She was still more sensible of the impropriety of being familiar with him. “But,” continued she, a deep blush overspreading her face, “the same familiarities now, which in our childhood appeared innocent, would, in my opinion, be deemed improper; and you would not, I am sure, wish me to do any thing improper.” “Oh! my dear Maria,” exclaimed Charles, “If to love your Charles with the same warmth of affection he does you, is an impropriety, I am the most miserable of beings.”— “Love,” cried Maria, starting, and endeavouring to withdraw her hand;— “Yes, my sweet girl,” answered he, “I have long endeavoured to deceive myself, with an idea that it was only a strong friendship which had united, I hope our hearts, but I find friendship too cool a phrase to express what I feel; it must be, then love—the most pure—the most tender, and disinterested, that ever possessed the human breast, and only wants the assurance of a mutual return to make me the happiest of mortals— “What ails my Maria!” observing the colour forsake her cheek, and her hand turn cold, “I have said too much,”—Maria fainted—he caught her in his arms, and used every method to recover her, without calling the servant; in a little time she revived.

She begged he would permit her to retire to her room, as her spirits were very much flurried—he pressed her hand to his lips— “Will my dear Maria allow me to hope what I have ventured to disclose, is not disagreeable to her,”—she sighed,— “I wish,” said she, “we may not both be unhappy;” she promised to return to tea, and left the room. When Maria reached her room, a flood of tears came to her assistance, which greatly relieved her: “Then” said she, “this is love, which I have so long felt, and I am beloved by Charles, why then should I feel unhappy? he is amiable as lovely,” a thought of Lady Palmer came across her—she trembled— “Ah! what will be the consequence if Lady Palmer should discover our attachment, she had, no doubt, higher expectations for her son—I am a poor unprovided orphan—she is my only friend—no, I must not think of Charles, otherwise than a dear brother; it will surely be no crime to love him as such, he has always loved me better than either of my brothers; yes, I will always love him as such, and I will persuade him to think of me in the light of a sister.” These were Maria’s refections when she was called to tea, Charles took her hand and led her to her chair: after tea, he, respectfully taking her hand, said, “Will my sweet Maria forgive me if I repeat the question which she left unanswered?” she blushed, “There is” said she, “but one way that I can dare venture to say I can love you”—Oh! cried he, “name it: whatever it is, I shall be satisfied, if I am only assured I am so happy as to be beloved by my Maria.”— “I will,” said she, “promise to love you as long as I live”—Charles fell on his knees, “Thank you my sweet angel” said he— “But” continued she “it must be as a brother”— “A brother!” exclaimed he— “no, my Maria, I cannot think of you in that light; my love is of a very different nature from that of a brother.” “Why,” said Maria, “will you deprive me the only pleasure I could ever promise myself—I never dare think of you, but in that light—I am a poor orphan, who have nothing to entitle me to you: even though you are so disinterested, your friends will despise me; and I should be very unhappy indeed, if I were to offend Lady Palmer, she has been so kind to me.” “Do not cried he, interrupting her, let such thoughts give you a moment’s concern—you will be an ornament to any family; mine are, I am persuaded, too sensible of your worth, to object to you—you are—you must be adored by all who know you: but should they, from interested motives, endeavour to prevent our happiness, I shall no longer consider myself as bound to abandon mine to such mercenary views. I shall go to India, there to make my own fortune, which I shall have an undoubted right to dispose of as I shall think proper—to make my Maria happy! Oh, my love, with what pleasure shall I bear every fatigue, with a prospect of such a reward? how, with your dear image ever before me, shall I double my honest endeavours to shorten the tedious absence. But nothing shall ever induce me to leave England until I am well assured of your affections. If you refuse me that—what is the riches of the East to me? Let those seek them, whose selfish minds can find pleasure in wealth alone; any little corner of the earth will suffice me; there is an end of my ambitious views, all my romantic hopes of happiness must for ever banish, if you deny me a place in your heart.”

He took her hand, and was going to press her to make him happy, by confessing a partiality, when the carriage stopped at the door with her mother and sister— “how unfortunate,” said he, “but, Oh!—say, am I to expect happiness, or eternal misery.”— “God send,” said Maria, “you may be as happy as I wish you.” Lady and Miss Palmer now entered the room.

CHAPTER VII.

MARIA’S mind was now occupied by a variety of ideas all new to her, that Charles loved her with the purest, and sincerest affection, she made no doubt—that she was no less attached to him was equally clear; her heart, in spite of all the difficulties her reason suggested, exulted in the prospect of her future happiness—the fear of offending Lady Palmer gradually diminished, and all other difficulties with it. All were trifling, when placed in competition with her Charles.—She regretted the lowness of her situation; and for the first time in her life, wished for riches.

Novice, as Charles was, in affairs of love, he began to entertain favourable presages from Maria’s behaviour:—he now no longer supposed the reserve which had so much alarmed him, proceeded from dislike, but the effects of a growing passion, which she was herself insensible of. He determined not to shock her delicacy by pressing his passion too precipitately, but trust to some favourable juncture to discover what he so much wished to know;—he therefore treated Maria with the tenderest respect, but did not seek earnestly for an opportunity to renew the subject, which had been interrupted by the arrival of his mother.

Three days had elapsed since Charles had declared the state of his heart.—When Lady Palmer had some company, Maria was not disposed for any society—her heart was too full of what had lately passed between her and Charles. Seeing them all pretty much engaged, she slipped out and strolled into the garden, there to indulge her reflections.—She got to an arbour, and run over in her thoughts the hopes and fears which naturally arise in a susceptible mind, in such a perplexed situation.—She exclaimed aloud, “My God! why am I not more deserving, or he less amiable?”—Charles that instant entered the arbour, and throwing himself at her feet, “Who,” cried he, “that was less amiable, could dare ever to indulge a hope to possess so much perfection. Oh! my Maria, if I may presume to flatter myself, your last words alluded to me, I am the happiest of beings.”

“I could not,” said she, a little recovered from her confusion, “have supposed you capable of such an action, as to surprise me thus:”— “Do not,” said he, “my dearest life, regret having made me happy. It was chance alone which kindly directed my steps hither: I came merely to indulge my reflection, on the most perfect of the Creation.—I came, O! Heavens! just in time to hear, that already more that human voice declare a wish, she was still more deserving—could I then resist the sound; no, I must be indeed more or less than human, if I had:—never shall you have cause to accuse Providence for this happy removal of my fears—only assure me I was the subject of your thoughts, when I entered the arbour.” “To be sure,” said she, with great simplicity, “You could not surely believe I thought of any one else.”— “Bless you, my angel,” cried he, in extacy,— “Oh! I am the happiest of human beings; now fortune, I defy all thou canst do! My Maria has confessed herself mine, what more can I ask?”

“Ah,” said she, “Charles, if your happiness depended wholly on me, you would have nothing to fear—but I still tremble, when I think on Lady Palmer, and your other friends; you know I am no way intitled to such an alliance.” “Do not,” said he, “let me entreat you not to torment yourself with these unnecessary fears; you know my resolution; should they be so cruel as to wish to separate us, I shall no longer consider them as friends; let us, my love, endeavour to keep our attachment a secret, until I return from India, when I hope I shall be in a situation to declare my love, and boldly assert my independence.”

Maria saw the propriety of this request; all reserve would have been now affectation; they exchanged mutual vows of everlasting love, and looked forward to the time when Charles would return with riches and honor—with an unbounded confidence in each other.

Providence, fortunately for youth, so ordaineth, that they shall only view the best side of things—or where would be that commendable spirit for emulation—that noble thirst for glory, were their generous minds damped by the many and probable chances there are against their success. The misfortunes of others, which every day present themselves to their view, no way affect their aspiring genius;—hope, kindly takes them by the hand, and leads them on with fair promises, that they shall escape such dangers.

Charles set out for Oxford, happy in the certainty of his Maria’s affections; and she was no less so, with the idea of being beloved by the most amiable of youths—she trusted to that Power, who knew the purity of their hearts, to protect them for each other. Four years of Maria’s life had passed at the Grove, in peace and happiness; the only thing which gave her uneasiness, was the indifference her brother Joseph had lately treated her with: his wife had never been received at the Grove, which did not a little hurt her pride; and add to the dislike she evidently shewed, whenever Maria went to pay her respects to her brother. Mrs. Harcourt never failed to wound her sensibility, by some ill-natured sarcasm—as “such a fine lady as you” or “I hope Lady Palmer intends to provide for you, since she has brought you up such a fine lady.”

Maria, with sorrow, saw her brother but too much inclined to join with his wife; her visits therefore became seldom and short. Her brother Henry wrote to her frequently; his letters were dictated with all the affection of a tender brother, to a much loved sister. In his last, which she received soon after Charles set out for Oxford, he acquainted her with his marriage to a young lady of a respectable family at Bath—that he was comfortably settled—and if she should ever want a home, begged she would consider his house as such; as he should never forget the promise he had made to his dear deceased mother.

Maria at the same time received one from his wife, expressing pretty much the same sentiments; she shewed them both to Lady Palmer, who, to her great astonishment, expressed much joy at the prospect she had of a comfortable home, at her brother Henry’s. “You will, my dear,” said her ladyship, “find Bath a most agreeable place; and under the protection of your brother, and your own prudent conduct, you cannot fail of being soon well settled.”

This speech from Lady Palmer, struck Maria motionless; she had long considered herself one of the family; every part of which was dear to her. Lady Palmer, observing her confusion, said, “you must, my dear, suppose both myself and Mary, will greatly regret the loss of so amiable a companion; but your leaving us, will, I hope, be to your own advantage; your brother is in a respectable line—he will introduce you into genteel company, and let me assure you, there is nothing in this world would give me more pleasure than to hear you were well married.”

The tears which had stood sometime in Maria’s eyes, now made their way down her cheeks.—Lady Palmer continued, “I will write to your brother, to prepare him to receive you, and likewise send for Joseph, to know what you are to depend on—I am sorry to say your expectations must not be too sanguine from him—if I may judge from his late behaviour, but I will try what I can make of him.”

Maria was too deeply affected with this discourse, to make any reply to it. All her agreeable prospects in a moment vanished. She saw herself going to be thrown a dependant on her brother.—Lady Palmer’s eagerness too for her departure, gave her great concern.

CHAPTER VIII.

LADY Palmer lost no time to accomplish what she had proposed.—She sent for Mr. Harcourt, and acquainted him with her intentions respecting his sister—her brother Henry was ready to receive her; and as Maria was a beautiful accomplished girl, she thought it would be a pity not to introduce her into life; but it would be necessary for her to know, what she had to depend on.

Joseph, with great seeming humanity, lamented not having it in his power, without injuring his own family—which her Ladyship, or any other person could expect from him—to do much for his sister, circumstanced as he was. He was persuaded, had his mother lived, she would have been satisfied with his giving her a trade, whereby she would be enabled to maintain herself:—he was willing to advance fifty pounds, to apprentice her to a milliner or mantua-maker, or whatever she liked; and to allow her ten pounds a year for cloaths, during the term of her apprenticeship.

In vain did Lady Palmer argue the injustice of such a proposal, or represent how inadequate it was, to what Maria had a right to expect, either from the promise he had made his dying mother, or in proportion to his father’s estate.

Joseph answered coolly, “he did not think it more disproportioned than her Ladyship’s family were provided for; For instance,” said he, “Sir Thomas, enjoys an estate of two thousand a year; whilst the younger branches of the family have only one thousand pounds each to their portion.”

Lady Palmer was not prepared for this retort, she only answered, “That from the solemn promise he had made, in her presence, to his mother, she had conceived hopes he would have acted more generously: but if he could reconcile such actions with himself, it was more than she could have believed him capable of.”

“But suppose your brother Henry, or your sister should object to the scheme you propose,” said Lady Palmer, “what are you willing to advance to Henry, should he undertake to provide for Maria?” “He was willing,” he said, “to give her twenty pounds, by way of paying her expences to Bath, and at any time when she and Henry should think proper to draw on him, he would advance one hundred more, which was all he could do.”

Lady Palmer seeing it in vain to argue any farther with him, accepted this offer; he left the twenty pounds with her, and took his leave without expressing a wish to see his sister, either then, or before she left the country.

Maria heard the account of her brother’s unnatural behaviour with concern; she lamented the loss of his affections more than his want of generosity—but her thoughts were employed on an object nearer her heart—her beloved Charles—that she must leave the country without seeing him, was a severe trial to her fortitude.—She visited every walk about the house and gardens, and shed tears at the remembrance of the happy hours she and her dear Charles, had past in them.—On her entering the arbour where they had changed their innocent caresses, she fell on her knees—and vowed whatever should be her fate in the world, no power on earth should prevail with her to forget him—and then, after recommending herself to that Power, who was alone able to give her fortitude to support her afflictions, she became more composed.

She regretted leaving the rest of the family; she remembered, with gratitude, the tenderness, protection, and instruction, she had received; “Certainly” said she, “I had no right to expect Lady Palmer was always to maintain me: how thankful ought I to be, for the many advantages I have derived from this family. Wherever I am, I shall love Charles as much as here! and my heart tells me, no change of place or time will alter him.”

With these reflections Maria soon recovered her spirits: and she heard the day fixed for her departure, without any visible sign of uneasiness. Indeed she now appeared the most composed of the three; Miss Palmer was very much dejected, and Lady Palmer felt greatly at parting with the amiable Maria—but she had such reasons, as were, in her opinion, sufficiently urgent to make such a step necessary.

The parting between Maria and her friends was very affecting; they were all in tears. Lady Palmer gave her some very excellent advice, and some rules for her general conduct in the great world. She again hinted that the accounts of her being well settled for life, would afford her the highest satisfaction: this was the only part of her discourse, Maria paid no attention to.

Lady Palmer’s carriage and servants took her to Exeter, where she took the Bath Coach—Maria had just entered her seventeenth year, when she left the Grove—her stature was rather above the middle size, elegantly proportioned, with a regular set of fine features, beautiful auburn hair, and fine blue eyes, she had a peculiar sweetness in her countenance, a sort of tacit resignation, which at once interested and gained the respect of her beholders. She was, as Thompson describes, his Lavinia,

“Thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty’s self!”

Thus was Maria, when she entered that great stage—the world; one of nature’s master-pieces. She had heard of vice, but knew no more of it than the name.

The company in the coach consisted of an elderly respectable looking gentleman, who appeared about sixty years of age, a young officer, and a decent middle-aged woman. After the usual opening for a general conversation in a stage coach, such as a fine morning, the roads are pretty good, this is a good easy coach, and such like, which is a sort of introduction to each other: the old gentleman, addressing himself to Maria, “So Miss, you are going to Bath”—Yes, Sir, “it is a charming gay place, I can assure you—you will, I dare say, be quite delighted with it;” “of that,” said Maria, “I am not so certain—and I confess its being a gay place is in my opinion no recommendation. “It is very singular,” said the Captain, with a great oath, “for a young handsome girl, not to be fond of gaiety; but you will soon, I make no doubt, be of another opinion.”

Maria scarce heard this last speech, her attention being engrossed by a small hut at a little distance from the road, and the coach going slowly up a hill, she had time to examine it minutely.

It appeared so small as not to admit of more than one inhabitant; the door was almost concealed from view by the ivy which had made itself master of the outside, and seemed to be making its way to take possession of the inside also without opposition. She was still more surprised to see working in a little garden before the door, a tall figure of a man, who, notwithstanding the evident neglect of his person, did not appear to be above thirty.

“I do not wonder,” said the old gentleman, who observed Maria’s attention so engaged, “at your curiosity being raised by that strange character; you must know I have made some enquiries about him, but all that I can discover, is, that about twelve months ago he came to this country, a stranger to every one, and after searching about for some time, he at last found this hut, which he immediately purchased. He had, I was told, then very much the appearance of a gentleman, and a very elegant man they say he was, but he has never shaved himself, or dressed his hair, since he took possession of his hut. I was told he employs a boy belonging to one of his poor neighbours to get him provision once a week—and to carry his shirts, which are of the finest cloth, to be washed. One thing I must not forget to observe, it is thought he has changed his name, as his linen is marked W. S. and he calls himself John Moor.”

“He suffers no woman to come near him, and is very shy of any well-dressed man, but converses freely with the lower sort.—There are various conjectures concerning him; some think he is crossed in love.”—Maria sighed— “others are of opinion he is an American Spy”—and others— “that he has killed somebody in a duel, and has taken this method to evade justice.”

“I confess, I think it strange, for a fine young fellow to forsake the world and turn hermit, as one may say, just at a time he should be most attached to it;” “By G—,” said the Captain, “I will venture a good bet he is a highwayman, and belongs to some gang:” “No Sir,” said the Gentleman, “that cannot be, he would soon be found out, as the eyes, I may say, of the whole country are on him.” “I dare say,” said Maria, “he is crossed in love.”

“Perhaps,” said the Gentlewoman, “he is doing penance for some great sin; if so, he will, if he is a good Catholick, profit by the mortifications his director inflicts on him;” this caused a loud laugh from the Captain, and a smile from the rest. “He must be a poor stupid fellow,” said the Captain, “that wants a director at his time of life,” swearing a great oath, “I should like to see an old priest pretend to direct me, to mortify myself in that manner.” The Gentlewoman answered very gravely, “She thought he stood much in need of such a director,” he affected another loud laugh, although it was evident he did not much relish the reply.

Nothing worthy notice happened the remainder of their journey. Maria was met by her brother at the White Lion, who received her with great joy, and conducted her to his house.

CHAPTER IX.

MRS. HARCOURT appeared no less happy to receive Maria, than her husband; she rather exceeded him in expressions of joy, congratulated herself on the acquisition of such an agreeable companion, and assured her, with great appearance of sincerity, that nothing on her part, should be wanting to make her situation comfortable.

Maria, whose heart was ever sensible of the smallest kindness bestowed on her, felt most gratefully for those attentions, the more so perhaps, as she had been so differently treated at her brother Joseph’s. Indeed Mrs. Henry Harcourt, was a genteel, well-bred woman, and might be called rather handsome, though not a striking beauty.

Henry exclaimed with great indignation against his brother’s unnatural behaviour— “But my dear sister,” said he, “never you be uneasy, you will live to see him, or I am very much mistaken, in a state to deserve your pity. Such actions must sometime or other meet their punishment.” Maria answered, “she never wished to see it, she only regretted his behaviour had put it out of her power to respect him as she ought.”—They resolved to draw immediately for the hundred pounds which he had promised to Lady Palmer.

Maria then consulted her brother, what plan he would advise her to adopt for her support, adding, she had a great aversion to those her brother Joseph had proposed. Both Henry and his wife strongly objected to her forming any other, than that of continuing with them until she settled for life; as with such a person and accomplishments as she possessed, she could not fail of soon having advantageous proposals.

Maria entreated her brother not to form any such expectations, as she was much too young, and inexperienced to think of such a charge, as she considered the duty of a wife and mother required; that if ever she entered into that state, it would be many years hence. Her brother smiled and said, “she would soon be of a very different opinion.”

The next day Mr. Harcourt resumed the conversation with his sister, “I have been thinking,” said he, “when Joseph sends your hundred pounds, I will, if you please, take the charge of it for you; and whilst it remains in my hands, allow you twenty pounds a year, which will find you in clothes.”

Maria thanked him with unfeigned tears for his generous offer, but assured him at the same time, she should not feel happy until she was in some way to provide for herself, without being totally depending on him. “You will, my dear brother,” said she, “no doubt soon have a family of your own, who will have an undoubted right to all your earnings; let me not deprive them, and by that means render myself disagreeable, and with reason, to my sister. I have studied, I hope with some success, those accomplishments, which will, I flatter myself, prove useful, and enable me to support myself in a genteel line. I am pretty well acquainted with the principles of Music, French, and Geography; and, if I could get recommended to some genteel family, as Governess, I flatter myself, by assiduity and attention, I should establish myself—I should then have the happiness to find, I should be no incumbrance to my brother.”

Henry begged she would make herself easy, at least for the present, adding, if she continued in that mind, something might perhaps fall in his way, which would probably suit her. In the mean time he endeavoured to render every thing as agreeable to her as he possibly could.

Mr. Harcourt lived in rather a comfortable, than splendid style; his friends were mostly professional: He had often little musical parties, where Maria was the principal performer. Dr. Curtis, a brother of Mrs. Harcourt, who was just established in great repute at Bath, played the bass, and Mr. Harcourt the violin.

The Doctor was a very handsome, agreeable man, about thirty years of age, much esteemed by every one for his affable and engaging manners: he soon saw in Maria, all he had figured to himself, as requisite to make the marriage state happy.—He discovered that her beauty, which at first surprised him, was by no means her principal recommendation:—that sweetness in her countenance, which he could perceive, proceeded from the innocence of her heart, charmed him; his visits to his sister, which used to be seldom, now became frequent.

This was observed by all but Maria; she could admire the Doctor’s good qualities, and even allow him to have a fine person, beyond which, her heart was too sincerely devoted to her beloved Charles, to bestow a thought.

Mr. Harcourt saw the Doctor’s growing attachment for his sister, with infinite pleasure, and formed to himself the most agreeable presages. He considered that the Doctor’s person and character was such as no woman could object to, and in his profession, there were very few to equal him. How fortunate did he think his sister in making such a conquest.

The Doctor now became a daily visitor, and appeared particular in his attention to Maria; which she, from the innocence of her heart, attributed to the respect she conceived he had for her brother. She therefore received his attentions with an unaffected openness, which he mistook, and considered as assenting to his addresses. He had, as he thought, no obstacle to surmount, no rival to supplant; he should, he vainly imagined, be the first that ever caused her tender bosom to feel the sensation of love; no wonder then he suffered love to take full possession of his heart.

CHAPTER X.

DOCTOR CURTIS communicated to Mr. Harcourt the state of his heart, and begged him, as a friend, to be sincere with him respecting that of his sister. Mr. Harcourt assured him with truth, he had every reason to believe Maria’s affections were disengaged, as he was very certain she had no correspondence, or received any visitors but what he knew of. It was concerted between them, that Mr. Harcourt should endeavour to find out how he stood in her opinion, before he should openly declare himself to her.

When Mr. Harcourt saw Maria alone, he began a panegyric on the Doctor, which she artlessly joined in; she allowed him to be all her brother described, and ended with saying, she thought there were very few men so deserving.

“How happy,” my dear Maria, said Mr. Harcourt, “you make me, to hear you are so sensible of his merit. He is the only man in the world, I should wish to see you united to; and I have the pleasure to tell you, he adores you: yes, Maria, you will be one of the happiest of women.” She blushed, and appeared greatly confused.

“Do not be ashamed to acknowledge an affection for a worthy man. Come,” said he, taking her hand, “I hope my sister will prove superior to those little arts of the weaker part of her sex, who take a pleasure in tormenting a man, for no other reason, than because they know he loves them; let me intreat you generously to confess your partiality for the Doctor, and make him happy.”

“My dear brother,” said she, “let me intreat you, not to press me to what I must refuse. I acknowledge all you can say in behalf of Doctor Curtis, but at the same time, declare, it is not in my power, to make any other return to his passion, than my sincere esteem, and I am extremely sorry, he should ever have felt more for me.”

This answer, which was delivered with great earnestness, and appearance of sincerity, greatly surprised and confounded Mr. Harcourt. “Is it possible,” said he, “you can seriously determine to refuse Doctor Curtis? Let me beg of you, to consider what you do—allow me, let me intreat you, to give him hopes, that your esteem may in time ripen into love; he is a man who deserves your affections; he will, I know, make you happy; or I would not, believe me, my dear sister—I would not, for the world, wish you to encourage him, come,” continued he, “I know you will not refuse me.”

Maria burst into tears— “let me beseech you my dearest brother,” said she, “If you have any love for me—not to press me to what I cannot, grant. I never can love Doctor Curtis; therefore it would be treating him very ill to give him any such hopes. There is nothing in this world I could refuse you my only protector—my ever dear brother, but the disposal of my affections—that is not in my power to grant.”

“Not in your power,” said Mr. Harcourt, “are they then already disposed of!” Maria’s tears flowed a fresh— “I mean,” said she, endeavouring to evade the question, “it is not in our power to command our affections: they must, so far as I am able to judge, be voluntary: and I am sensible, I never can command mine for him. Indeed I have determined not to marry any one, for some years to come.”

“Suffer me, my dear Maria,” said Mr. Harcourt, “to represent to you, the impropriety of keeping such a resolution; you have, I may say, no protector in this world but myself, and whilst I live, you shall never want one; but the uncertainty of human events are such, as I think, ought not to be disregarded; you have but too much reason to fear them. The melancholy accident of our much loved father, has thrown you unprovided for in the world; and should any thing happen to me, you will then be exposed to such dangers, as I tremble to think of. You are such, as the designing part of mankind pursue as lawful prey. Oh!” continued he, “if you have any value for the peace of mind of a brother who adores you, give him the satisfaction of bestowing you on a worthy man, who will protect your innocence, and make you happy.”

“Oh! my brother,” cried Maria, throwing herself at his feet, and bathing his hand with her tears— “Spare me, let me entreat you, to spare me the painful task of refusing you any thing you can ask; if you knew how it wrings my heart, you would not, I am convinced, you would not, urge me, to what I must still deny you.”

Mr. Harcourt was deeply penetrated with the distress he saw his sister in—he caught her in his arms, and raised her to her feet;— “My dear Maria,” said he, with great tenderness, “I would not, for the world, be the cause of a moment’s uneasiness to you; but I thought it necessary to represent the dangerous situation you may be in; I will not distress you farther at present, you know my wish; think deliberately on it, and you will see I have nothing more at heart than your interest and happiness.” He then embraced her with great affection; “Go,” said he, “to your room, and compose yourself.”

CHAPTER XI.

WHEN Maria reached her room, she threw herself into a chair, and with her hands clasped, exclaimed, “Oh my Charles! could you but see my heart now, you would be convinced how sincerely it is devoted to you. This is indeed a severe trial of my affection; but no earthly power shall prevail, to eradicate thee from my heart. Even all the dangers my kind brother has described, I would brave with the prospect of being at last recompensed with one year—one month of happiness with thee. That would repay me for all my unhappiness.”

Her heart exulted in the thought, it revived her dejected spirits; she dreaded, indeed, a second meeting with her brother. His kind and tender concern for her happiness, had penetrated her heart: she feared he would consider her refusal of the Doctor, if she assigned no reason, to proceed from obstinacy; she could not support that idea— “No,” said she, “my brother deserves I should act openly with him, as he is gentle and kind hearted—he knows my Charles too, and therefore cannot be surprised at my partiality.”

Dr. Curtis met Mr. Harcourt with a countenance full of hope, which was in a moment succeeded by fear. On observing strong marks of disappointment on Mr. Harcourt, “Oh, Harcourt,” said he, “I see I have flattered myself too far—but tell me, has your sweet sister really rejected me? if she has, I am an unhappy man indeed!”

Mr. Harcourt then related as faithfully as his memory would permit, the whole of the conversation which had passed between him and Maria, and ended with saying, he still hoped, she would soon see the propriety of making them all happy, by consenting without reluctance to his generous proposals. “Reluctance,” repeated the Doctor, “my dear Harcourt, not for the world would I receive your sister’s hand, if I was not well assured she gave it willingly. My affections are of such a nature, as not to be satisfied with her barely consenting to be mine. I must be well convinced of her affections. If I have not the good fortune to be such, as she can love, I may be unhappy—I confess I shall be miserable, but I shall not make her so. No, Harcourt, so far from forcing your sister’s inclination, you must promise me not even to use your influence to bias them in my favour. Maria says true, affections must be voluntary.”

Mr. Harcourt answered, “he hoped there would be no occasion, as his sister was so sensible