STELLA OF THE NORTH.

A NOVEL.

LANE, MINERVA-PRESS. LEADENHALL-STREET.

STELLA OF THE NORTH,

OR THE

FOUNDLING OF THE SHIP.

A NOVEL.

IN FOUR VOLUMES.

BY

THE AUTHOR OF ADELAIDE DE NARBONNE, &c.

“Virtue can itself advance

“To what the fav’rite fools of chance

“By fortune seem’d design’d;

“Virtue can gain the odds of fate,

“And from itself shake off the weight

“Upon th’ unworthy mind.”

PARNELL.

VOL. III.

LONDON:

PRINTED AT THE

Minerva-Press,

FOR LANE AND NEWMAN,

LEADENHALL-STREET.

1802.

S T E L L A

OF THE

N O R T H.

CHAP. I.

“Know the joy thy triumph brings is short;

My fate, (if the Gods govern) or, at least,

My mind’s beyond thy reach, and scorns thy malice!”

ROWE.

FOR a short time a temporary alteration now took place in the sentiments of Mrs. St. Vincent; who, after the discovery at the grotto, began to imagine she had been rather too hasty in the opinion previously formed of her husband’s conduct, and the imprudent share Stella was supposed to have in it.

That the real character of the latter was at length fully ascertained, appeared, however, no longer doubtful; and a conviction so consolatory to the feelings of Margaret, proved a source of no small exultation.

What, the favourite of her mother—she who was tacitly held up as a miracle of perfection, capable of affording an example, not merely to her equals, but even to her very superiors—in short, the immaculate protégée of the sententious prosing Mrs. Bertram, and the late tremendous object of her own jealous apprehensions—had this paragon, then, actually forfeited all claim to the ill-judged praise so erroneously, though so copiously bestowed upon her conduct for virtues to which she was a stranger, and prudence which it was now evident she never possessed? The incontrovertible disclosure of so fortunate a circumstance was almost beyond her hopes. Thank God, the Major had escaped the artful snares visibly spread to entrap him by this little presumptuous, unprincipled wanton:—but this was, no doubt, to be entirely ascribed to her own more conspicuous and irresistible attractions.—So thought Margaret; and the idea was too pleasing not to be indulged.

A slave perpetually to the existing impulse of the moment, she now became equally solicitous to evince her attachment to the Major (for whom all her former affection speedily returned with renovated force), as she had hitherto been occasionally studious to pique him, by the fictitious appearance of a preference for Mr. Jones; who soon found himself reduced to his natural state of insignificancy, and apparently considered as of no further use in the part which, she fondly flattered herself, was henceforth reserved for her to perform.

Characters of every description have their allotted scene of action in the world: many members of the Privy Council, whose abilities were much on a level with those possessed by the discarded Lieutenant, have been reinstated in favour even when their final dismissal from office seemed no longer equivocal:—the sequel will, perhaps, show that Mr. Jones proved equally fortunate.

Surprised at this change, so new and unexpected in the manners of his wife, St. Vincent at first could scarcely credit the reality of a metamorphose so totally incomprehensible: on his side, he was not sensible of affording the smallest cause for the line of conduct thus suddenly adopted, by any alteration in his own: common civility, and some degree of polite attention had ever been paid her;—those he considered her invariable due from a man whose pecuniary situation, if not his domestic one, was so greatly benefited by her alliance; and these she continued to receive as usual, though accompanied by apparent symptoms of increased coolness and simulated respect. St. Vincent, who conceived himself too well acquainted with her disposition to be mistaken, ascribed the new system of proceedings entirely to caprice, that inexhaustible source of her general manoeuvres; and under this idea treated it accordingly. She still persevered however; till at length, willing to believe she wished to remedy some of those errors he had particularly reprobated, and solicitous rather to encourage the work of reformation, than crush its first laudable efforts by an ill-judged adherence to his former frigid indifference, St. Vincent somewhat relaxed in that point; and a greater portion of tranquillity proved the immediate consequence in the family circle of Rossgrove.

This condescension on his part appeared another proof of the injury done him by the tenor of her recent suspicions; for it seemed to shew that the evils of which he had frequently complained, sprung not from any deficiency in the article of affection on his side, but rather originated in the capricious perverseness of her own behaviour, which repelled his supposed tenderness, and irritated his mind against her, by a mode of conduct totally inimical to the feelings of a fond husband, or the sentiments of a man of honour.

In the premature judgment of this superficial casuist, the above circumstances would never more be productive of similar effects; because, so Margaret said, and so she firmly believed at the time, they would never again be resumed, and consequently would no longer interfere to the prejudice of her future happiness.

Stella, the hitherto detested Stella, was henceforth out of the question, for had not she herself been a witness to the extent of her infamy in another quarter?—After a discovery so conclusive, a proof so undeniable of her criminal connexion with Montague, it would appear the climax of folly to injure her husband, her dear St. Vincent, by any further imputation of such an improbable nature—no, it was impossible to act in a manner so ridiculous and unjust. She had seen the child whose existence was formerly whispered to be enigmatical, and the same opinion continued to be still entertained—she had seen it now with her own eyes, and likewise observed the indecent familiarities that passed between its parents; for was not Montague admitted to the greatest freedoms, even in the very face of day, without the least apparent reluctance on the part of his abandoned paramour?

“Oh fool! fool!” continued the charitable Margaret, “fool that I was ever to suppose such a man as St. Vincent would degrade himself by harbouring any degree of partiality for a being so profligate, so lost to all sense of virtue and propriety!”

For some days the enthusiasm of reformation and reparation operated in an equally violent degree: but all extremes are liable to change, and enthusiasm either in love or religion, the most so of any;—Mrs. St. Vincent’s soon reached its climax.

The first fortnight this second edition of the honeymoon was nearly expired, and Margaret, to the wonder of her astonished husband, still continued to act the reasonable woman; when a sudden stop was put to the further performance of the comedy and the dramatis personoe resumed their natural characters.

“Lord bless me, Madam!” cried Jenny, bursting into her mistress’s dressing-room one evening, with a countenance brimful of intelligence, “was ever the like heard?—I declare I am quite dumfounderfied at the bare idea!”

“And pray what is this mighty wonder that has dumfounderfied so wise a woman?” asked Margaret, without taking her eyes from the Major’s picture, to which she was affixing a superb gold chain.

“Nay, Lord, Madam, only guess!—For my part I should never have thought of such a thing: but people now-a-days pay no manner of regard to right or wrong, except as it suits their own convenience.”

Margaret put the chain round her neck, admired it and the miniature as she alternately examined them before a large mirror, and humming a favourite air, seemed to view her own figure with no small degree of complacency, without appearing to recollect the presence of the consequential personage who impatiently waited to be delivered of her important intelligence, but waited in vain.

Now Jenny’s capability on the subject of retention was not of a first rate description, unless the communication happened to implicate any part of her own character, and in that case she could be secret as the grave; neither was Jenny a very noted proficient in the art of forbearance when report enabled her to extend the circle of human frailties through the augmented medium of repetition: perceiving, therefore, that her mistress was far more disposed to continue absorbed in self-contemplation, than solicitous to learn her intended information, Jenny ventures once more to renew the topic, by exclaiming in a drawling accent—

“La, Madam, how beautiful! how heligant! how every thing that is fine!—But I wonder your La’ship has not a little more curiosity.”

“Curiosity! for what?” said her La’ship, carefully adjusting her handkerchief as she spoke— “why so, pray?”

“Lord, Madam, cannot you guess?”

“Me guess!—how should I guess?—Has my ci-devant friend, Jones, taken the lover’s leap?”

“Worse, Madam!”

“Has Major St. Vincent challenged him, and received a bullet in return?”

Jenny had nearly said, “Worse, Madam!” again: but though her lady spoke in a gay, jesting voice, she knew the length of her present tether too well to outrun the constable; and therefore gulping down the nearly-committed mistake, suddenly checked herself, and meekly replied, she hoped it was not come to that yet.

“What is it come to then?—Prithee have done with this nonsense, and tell me at once.”

“Nay, dear Madam, do but guess.”

“Has Captain Montague’s ghost appeared at the grotto, and the Lady of the Hermitage flown to the original’s arms for shelter from the apparition of her dearie?”

“Madam!” cried Jenny, looking round with an expressive glance of terror, as if she expected to see something supernatural approaching to seize her.

“Has Captain Harcourt persuaded you to run off with him? He was rather sweet upon you last night in the passage I thought.”

“Me, Madam!—Surely,” said Jenny, colouring violently, “your La’ship cannot think that I would go off with any man! No, it is worse, far worse than even that!”

“The deuce it is!” cried Mrs. St. Vincent, with a smile. “But come, I will guess again.—Has the virtuous Miss Stella Bertram produced another bantling, and fathered it upon the Parson of the parish?”

“Worse, worse still, Madam!”

“Indeed!—nay, then I am able to guess no farther: so the mighty secret must remain untold, unless you chuse to speak more intelligibly.”

“Well, Madam,” replied Jenny, who by this time was as impatient to explain as the other was to listen, “you shall now be obeyed:—but prepare to hear wonders. Mrs. Tomkins says—nay, you will scarcely believe me, Madam; but if I stand here, it is truth I speak;—Mrs. Tomkins informs me Miss Bertram is actually to attend your mother to Devonshire in the character of a companion!—Knowing what we know, Madam, can any thing equal this, pray?”

Mrs. St. Vincent turned hastily round, and stared at her for a moment in mute astonishment.

“Yes, indeed, Madam, you may well look surprised: it is truth, however, I assure you:— ‘For,’ says the housekeeper, ‘marry,’ says she—”

“What signifies what either you or the housekeeper says,” abruptly interrupted Mrs. St. Vincent: “I must see my mother instantly:—is she up?—is she awake?”

“I cannot tell,” muttered the waiting-maid in a sullen accent; who, in consequence of being pretty deep in several of her lady’s secrets, ventured now and then to take a little more freedom of tongue, than the other was always inclined to grant her; “for you know, Madam, it signifies not what some folks say.”

“Impertinence!” retorted Margaret, sharply;— “Begone!—I insist on immediate obedience: inform my mother I must speak with her instantly.—No, stay, stupid animal, and slow as a snail!—I will go myself.”

She brushed past the still sulky Jenny, and hurried to the chamber of Mrs. Ross.

CHAP. II.

“Speak of me as I am: nothing extenuate,

“Nor set down aught in malice.”

SHAKESPEARE.

THAT lady had just left her bed, after an hour’s repose, as was customary with her of late in the evenings: Mrs. St. Vincent, therefore, entered immediately on the subject of her present visit, by abruptly requesting to know, if it was really possible, as reported, that she meant to take Stella Bertram to Devonshire with her.

Mrs. Ross answered in the affirmative.

“Good God, Madam! you are not in earnest, I hope?”

“Why not, Margaret?—Can I have a more eligible companion, or one that performs all the incumbent duties of her station with more uniform propriety?”

Margaret smiled contemptuously, and repeated the last word with a significant emphasis.

“Yes, propriety, Mrs. St. Vincent!—Can the term be better applied than on the present occasion? In my own family it cannot you well know.”

Margaret reddened at this home touch: but where a fact is too obvious to be refuted, true wisdom consists in not making the attempt; she therefore merely answered—“This young woman must not, however, accompany you, Madam.”

“Must not!—Who shall prevent her?—Not my own children surely?”

“No, Madam, you will save them that trouble, I dare say, when you know her story; which, if you will give me leave, you shall do immediately.”

“Proceed then, and let us hear it.”

Margaret did not much admire the humour her mother happened to be in this evening. Of late she seldom possessed sufficient spirits to contest any matter long with the violent and overbearing temper of a daughter, whose total inattention to almost all the filial duties of a child had been notorious for a considerable length of time: to find this ill-treated parent now capable of so much exertion, at a period too, when it was so little expected, and still less desired, rather disconcerted the first attempts of this predetermined impartial historian. She commenced her narrative of positive facts, however, after a pause of very short duration; and gradually warming in the progress of the communication, failed not to heighten every apparently aggravating circumstance with all the additional colouring a censorious and malignant mind could bestow. She then concluded the whole farrago of intermingled truth and falsehood, by sarcastically enquiring if Mrs. Ross still retained her former opinion of the girl’s passion for propriety, and persevered in her design of taking her for a companion to Devonshire.

Though accustomed to her daughter’s violence of temper, and thoroughly acquainted with her natural bias to misrepresentation, Mrs. Ross could scarcely command her usual portion of patience to the end of this curious recital; and it was only with the utmost difficulty she restrained herself from giving vent to those sensations of indignant resentment which repeatedly rose to her lips at the idea of so vile an aspersion being thrown upon the hitherto unsullied character of her young, and as she yet believed her, innocent favourite. Experimentally convinced, however, of the inutility of reason, and the still vainer attempt to implant the divine principles of mercy and forbearance in a soil so inimical to their culture, she refrained from entering at length on the subject, or exerting herself to refute what she knew was previously determined to be maintained; and merely replied that her opinion and intentions remained in every respect the same.

“Then, Madam, you are stubbornly deaf to conviction, to truth, and the dictates of your late valued system of propriety,” said Margaret, with a strong expression of impatience on every agitated feature.

“Your share of the two latter, Mrs. St. Vincent, is, I much fear, infinitely too small to supply my supposed deficiency in any article of the kind:—as to the former, when error is adopted as the obvious rule of conduct, and depravity scorns disguise, conviction must follow of course.—You are welcome to apply this observation where your feelings tell you it is most suitable.”

Mrs. St. Vincent burst into tears, and by that means evinced her comprehension of the foregoing allusion.

Mrs. Ross knew they were not the tears of penitence or reformation, and permitted them to flow unnoticed. She took a volume of Blair’s Sermons from a table, on which leaning her elbow, she seemed to be entirely occupied by the contents of the book.

Margaret’s pride now came to her assistance on perceiving her mother’s total inattention to the late subject of discussion: she hastily wiped her eyes, and again inquired if no further regard was to be paid to the nature of so important a communication—a communication so critical in its consequences to the respectability of her mother’s appearance either at home or abroad.

Mrs. Ross raised her eyes from the page before her, and fixing them impressively on the face of her adviser, observed that the case, in her opinion, required no investigation.— “However,” added she, coldly, “I shall, nevertheless, mention it to Mrs. Bertram when we meet again.”

“You had better mention it to Captain Montague,” retorted Margaret, with quickness, and then flounced out of the room with the air and look of a fury.

Mrs. Ross followed her with her eyes, and a deep sigh burst from her bosom as the incorrigible Mrs. St. Vincent pulled the door to with violence after her. The latter threw herself on the sofa in her dressing-room, and again burst into an hysterical fit of tears.

At this instant Major St. Vincent entered the apartment, and, thunderstruck at the scene that presented itself, requested an explanation.

Roused by the sound of his voice, and flattering herself with conjugal support on the occasion, she suddenly raised her head from the arm of the sofa; and labouring under the dark influence of spite, disappointment, envy, and malice, instantly entered upon the subject of her mother’s reported cruelty, and the cause in which it originated.

Totally thrown off his guard by the virulence of her language, and the volubility with which it was uttered, indignation succeeded to astonishment; and recoiling a few paces as the first energetic epithets bestowed upon poor Stella vibrated on his feelings, St. Vincent emphatically exclaimed—

“Stella Bertram vile, profligate, abandoned!—By Heaven, you wrong her!—I could stake my salvation on the purity of Stella Bertram!”

The scene that followed beggared description. St. Vincent was of too firm and manly a character to retract from what he had once said, particularly when he believed himself in the right. The former suspicion entertained by Margaret, returned with additional force; and the frail bond of peace and confidence, thus once more snapped asunder, the matrimonial breach soon became wider and more disjointed than ever.

There was a time when the enraged Margaret would have flown to her father, and poured her complaints in the ears of parental affection: that period, however, no longer remained within her reach; for the Nabob had set out the preceding week to join his son at Montpelier, whose declining state of health required his presence, and seemed at this crisis to threaten the most serious consequences.

Indeed, her influence, even in that quarter, had rather declined of late. Since her marriage every evil propensity seemed to be freely indulged as it rose in her mind, and her passions permitted to reign with the most unbounded licence. Where obvious distinctions are made amongst the children of a family, it does not always happen that the particular favourite is uniformly the most grateful or deserving of the ill-judged partiality; on the contrary, the reverse is more commonly the case: and the weak injustice of the parent is but too often rewarded by the neglect and inattention of the very being for whom probably the other more worthy members of the domestic circle were constantly and totally overlooked.

Something too similar to this had occasionally occurred between Mrs. St. Vincent and her father prior to her union with the Major. After she became a wife, her overbearing and insolent spirit, as we have already observed, seemed more than ever to spurn at all restraint; and Mr. Ross frequently found, to his cost, that caprice and ill-humour, like death, levels all distinctions: his allotted share indeed of each was not small when the perverse fit happened to be upon her; and that, on a moderate average, could not be reckoned at less than two-thirds of every day in the week.

Conviction from self-experience is generally found pretty conclusive: and the Nabob’s portion of the latter proved tolerably sufficient to establish the former. He now began to perceive some few errors in the character of his once all-perfect favourite; which led him to suspect she was not quite superior to her fellow-mortals, as he had formerly been willing to imagine.

From the Monarch to the beggar human favour is unstable, and naturally apt to change its object when provocations arise, and those who ought to remain the governed, attempt to become governors. In consequence of the foregoing discovery, Mrs. St. Vincent’s power over her father’s affections declined; and in proportion to the magnitude of the aggravating circumstances which daily took place to estrange him from his usual bias to this misguiding daughter, the disposition and character of the Major rose in his estimation, till it nearly reached the climax of favour once so unworthily attained by his wife; who now found, to her no small surprise and displeasure, that, in matters of domestic disagreement, her complaints appeared gradually less and less attended to; while St. Vincent, on the contrary, seemed to be the idol set up by her father as her substitute in his good opinion.

The sudden departure of the Nabob was therefore viewed by Margaret with the most philosophical degree of indifference; and the cause of it, so far from being considered a misfortune, appeared as little interesting to her feelings as the separation from this long indulgent, but much-mistaken parent: for Margaret still retained her former prudent manner of judging on the occasion, and looked upon the certain advantages whish must necessarily accrue to herself by the death of an only brother, as fraught with a sufficient number of consolatory reasons to prove a full compensation for the event which produced them—an event alike common to all the human race, and therefore not to be deplored as an individual distress.—So thought Mrs. St. Vincent; and, under similar circumstances, Mrs. St. Vincent was by no means singular in her opinion.

CHAP. III.

“A grateful mind

“By owing owes not, but still pays, at once

“Indebted and discharg’d.”

MILTON.

A WEEK now only remained till the commencement of Mrs. Ross’s journey was to take place: during this period, as likewise that which succeeded her immediate altercation with Margaret, the latter gradually reinstated Lieutenant Jones in all his former rights and privileges, and, apparently indifferent to the future notions, sentiments, or conduct of her mother and husband, affected to carry matters with a higher hand than ever.

Perceiving, however, that no particular notice was taken of any part of her proceedings, and irritated to find herself of too little consequence to draw their attention, she once more determined to try her strength in another attempt to shake Mrs. Ross’s former resolution relative to our poor heroine.

In this undertaking she was equally unsuccessful as before. Mrs. Bertram, under the solemn seal of secrecy, had already entrusted that lady with the true state of the case; and the part it appeared Stella had acted in it, raised her character higher than ever in the eyes of her worthy patroness, who (now more at liberty to follow the bent of her own inclinations since the departure of the Nabob) no longer made any difficulty of avowing her steady adherence to every former arrangement, and her unalterable design of being accompanied by Stella—a design which at one time seemed rather to meet with the disapprobation of her husband, in consequence of his daughter’s distorted representations; but to which afterwards he tacitly ceased to give any very marked opposition, on observing the strong desire Mrs. Ross expressed for the society of her young friend during the period of her residence in England: preparations were accordingly made for their departure, in spite of this second effort of Mrs. St. Vincent to prevent our heroine from attending her mother.

Under the pretence of avoiding every probable cause of exasperating Mrs. St. Vincent, Stella had earnestly entreated to be spared going to the Grove, unless at those particular periods when her unrelenting enemy was engaged with the rest of the family on visiting parties in the neighbourhood: this request Mrs. Ross reluctantly acceded to on perceiving her solicitude on the subject; and Stella, of course, felt herself relieved from the many apprehensions which continually haunted her imagination relative to any further interviews with the Major.

A day or two previous to their intended departure, Mrs. Bertram took an opportunity of recapitulating all the circumstances particularly connected with her first introduction to her knowledge; and requested her above all things to be particularly attentive to the preservation of the miniature picture, which she now meant to confide to her care, as it was strongly impressed on her mind, though she knew not how to account for it, that this painting was some how or other connected with her birth, and might possibly in the end prove materially useful in the elucidation of that hitherto mysterious affair.

After a short pause, she proceeded next to hint at the uncertainty of life, and the increasing vicissitudes to which every human being is, in various respects, liable during their chequered progress through the chances and changes of the world.

“We may, and we may not meet again, my dear child,” continued this truly good woman, regarding her auditor with a look expressive of the utmost compassion and tenderness as she addressed her. “All events are in the hand of a wise and over-ruling Providence: of course, what he orders must be best; and it is our unquestionable duty to conform, without repining, to the high dispensations of his omnipotent will. Your prospects, my love, are but of a limited nature: from the station you are going to be placed in with Mrs. Ross, unforeseen advantages may possibly accrue, and subsequent benefits I hope be derived as it will render you more competent for the lot I have long mentally assigned you to fill; and to do which with propriety, some knowledge of the world, of genteel life, its habits and customs, is absolutely necessary. At any rate, however, should our prospects on this head prove fallacious, you have still a maternal friend, and a home ready to receive you, while God Almighty sees fit to permit my continuance on earth. If the allotted term of existence happens, nevertheless, to expire before your return (as I have already said, every thing of this nature is uncertain, and therefore ought to be guarded against,) I have done all in my power to secure my beloved child a small resource in the day of trouble, (and the most prosperous are not exempted from such) by bequeathing the Hermitage, and the few acres I can call my own, to her future possession. In this drawer the papers belonging to it are all deposited: here, my love, you will find the deed of settlement, which constitutes you mistress of the Hermitage and its little domain:—see, Stella, the parcel is sealed, and lies in that corner.—Nay, my child, weep not! Why should what I have said cause so much emotion? Does the drawing of a will sign our mortal sentence, or discoursing upon it accelerate its final execution? This is a weakness I hoped you were superior to, and am grieved to find myself mistaken. Dry up your tears, my love; we have yet, I trust, many happy days to spend with each other.”

Stella, who had hitherto wept in silence, now suddenly rose, and throwing her arms round Mrs. Bertram’s neck in an agony of grief, emphatically exclaimed, while her words were almost inarticulate from the violence of her emotion—

“Oh my dearest mother! blame not your Stella if she protests against quitting you! You are ill—I am sure you think yourself ill;— under an impression so dreadful, how can I possibly leave you?—Oh my more than parent! command me not from you, but permit me to remain at the Hermitage! What is Mrs. Ross, what the whole world to me, when put in competition with the obligations I owe my earliest, my best, my ever-generous benefactress?—No, indeed, indeed I must not quit you, my mother! Oh! allow your Stella, the object of your bounty—allow her to discharge part of her immense debt, by dedicating her sole attention to the protecting, maternal friend who sheltered the helpless foundling from the consequences of that fate to which the less humane authors of her existence seemed to have consigned her!—Say, my mother, only say— ‘Stella, I grant your request—you may remain with me!”

Mrs. Bertram attempted not to speak for several minutes, during which they continued locked in each others arms. At length she disengaged herself from the still weeping Stella, and, solicitous to dispel her apprehensions, strove by every possible argument reason could suggest, to calm her fears, and inspire better hopes respecting her future prospects in life. The fortitude of our heroine seemed, however, to have lost its firmness; and it was not without much difficulty that something like a faint degree of composure at last shed its placid influence over her soft features, and illumed them with an appearance of returning tranquillity. Stella never shone more interestingly beautiful than on similar occasions: duty, gratitude, friendship, and affection seemed to blend in forming the celestial expression of her mild and pensive countenance—a countenance at all times uncommonly lovely, but which constantly derived additional charms from any recent exertion of sensibility, of active benevolence, or the softer effusions of that passion which had lately taken possession of her breast.

Mrs. Bertram’s rhetoric, though seldom so long in producing the desired effect, was sure of carrying every thing before it in the end: Stella finally consented to relinquish her own wishes in compliance with those of others; and, silent and sorrowful, set about the disagreeable task of packing up the few articles of dress prepared for her journey: these, though plain, were neat and genteel, perfectly appropriate to the situation she was going to fill, without encroaching on the sphere of her superiors, and such as Mrs. Ross could not but approve.

At the earnest request of Maria Campbell, Stella prevailed on her maternal friend to indulge her with a sight of the child before she herself left the Hermitage. This petition would probably have remained unattended to at any other period than the present; but sensible of the magnitude of the sacrifice made by our heroine to please her, Mrs. Bertram thought it would be hard to refuse so trifling a favour—and a favour too, from whence her protégée could only at best derive a secondary degree of gratification, since it was merely in compliance with the unfortunate mother’s eager solicitations she had ventured upon asking it.

The gentle and feeling heart of Stella was extremely affected by this interview: she found herself, however, amply compensated by the temporary happiness it bestowed on poor Maria, and the repeated assurances received from her of her resolution to pay the most unceasing attention to the wants and wishes of their mutual benefactress during our heroine’s absence.

When she went to pay her last visit at Woodside, a similar act of friendship was requested, on Mrs. Bertram’s account, from that worthy family; every individual of which readily promised to call frequently at the Hermitage, and do every thing in their power to supply her place on all possible occasions.

As her young friends accompanied her part of the road back, they mentioned a circumstance which appeared incomprehensible to our heroine, who was yet ignorant of the imputation thrown upon her character by Mrs. St. Vincent, which Mrs. Ross and Mrs. Bertram had mutually agreed to conceal from her knowledge, as the inutility of such a vile communication was obvious, and could serve no earthly purpose, the inhuman one excepted, of tormenting its innocent victim.

Margaret, enraged and unusually irritated by the manner in which her intelligence had been received by her mother and husband, and particularly provoked at the incredulity which marked their opinion of her veracity relative to what she asserted having seen in the grotto, had flown in the first ebullition of passion to Mr. Adair’s; where, unwilling to prove too explicit in her enquiries, lest the friends of Stella should take the alarm, and be upon their guard, the wary Mrs. St. Vincent attempted, by every insidious artifice in her power, to ascertain the extent of what they knew respecting the conduct of our heroine with St. Vincent and Montague. Not conceiving it possible she could have any particular reason for such an investigation, and by no means comprehending the precise meaning of her dark and mysterious hints, they carefully avoided every thing that alluded in the most distant degree to the Major, as a subject on which they were not competent to speak; while the manner in which the other gentleman’s supposed partiality for their absent friend was tacitly acknowledged, confirmed Margaret in her suspicions of both. Though feelings of delicacy were imagined to prevent them from dwelling on the infelicity of a husband in the presence of his wife, she departed perfectly convinced that it was not for nothing he stood up in defence of Stella: and the success of her mission would speedily have been detailed alike to the Major and Mrs. Ross, had not the former left the room in evident displeasure on her attempting to recommence the hackneyed subject; and the latter positively prohibited her from presuming to mention it again in her presence.

CHAP. IV.

“Oh soft Remembrance! airy sprite!

“Thou second life of bliss and pain;

“Exquisite sense of keen delight,

“Who giv’st our feelings back again!”

FOX.

TO account for this part of Margaret’s conduct lay not within the compass of our heroine’s abilities: the curiosity expressed by her companions on the subject consequently remained ungratified; and after hazarding a few conjectures on the probable and improbable import of the whole, their thoughts gradually reverted to the approaching separation about to take place between them. This topic proved sufficiently interesting to absorb every other for the short period they were now together; and at length they parted after many reciprocal professions of friendship and remembrance.

The heart of our heroine felt uncommonly heavy when the much-loved associates of her youth retreated from view.

“One melancholy task is now over,” said she to herself as she entered the garden: “what would I not give to have those that remain equally so!—My mother, my dearest mother, why dwells this oppressive presentiment of evil in my bosom when I think of the approaching event?—Oh! could I only be permitted to continue at the Hermitage, how happy should I be! But, alas! your Stella is not privileged to follow the bent of her inclinations!—Poor, friendless, and unknown, she must yield to the hard law of necessity, and quit her first, generous benefactress, perhaps to meet no more!”

A deluge of tears interrupted all further utterance; and, unable to suppress her emotions, she hastened to the grotto, lest Mrs. Bertram should happen to discover her present distress, and decidedly censure what she would style another proof of mental imbecility.

To our poor heroine, who had never been ten miles from home in the whole course of her life, the journey before her seemed an undertaking of considerable magnitude, and the separation from those she loved scarcely less than eternal: the grotto—that spot in which so many hours of her existence had been spent, unmolested by the intrusion of the world, and where innocent pleasure proved her constant companion, till the arrival of the troops in Galloway mingled her cup with the tincture of human vicissitude and secret sorrow—that grotto was soon, likewise, to be far distant from her view!

The tears of Stella flowed afresh at the sad ideas which rose in melancholy rotation as she silently yielded to their force, and permitted the sensibility of her nature to a temporary dominion over the suggestions of reason and the cooler dictates of her better judgment. She regarded every object around her with a degree of interest never before experienced, and almost persuaded herself she should see them no more: every favourite shrub seemed to court her attention—every bird to sing in a more plaintive note; and, from the threshold, recollection assembled the festive group once more in the drawing-room of the Grove—once more they appeared in the windings of the mazy dance, passing the spacious windows in quick succession—and again the fascinating strains of the military band reverberated on her ear: the transition was easy to what followed—and the visionary forms of St. Vincent and his friend Montague instantly floated before her.

Stella sighed profoundly over the retrospective scenes that imagination portrayed in the most impressive colours; and in the fulness of her heart supposed herself the most wretched of human beings.

Thus, in the absence of real evils, are we ever prone to create fictitious ones; and sensibility, that criterion by which the young and untried mind is apt to determine the standard of earthly perfection, overwhelms its possessor with a thousand ideal distresses, unknown to those less fastidious, unrefined mortals who consider the unavoidable misfortunes of life sufficiently oppressive without the additional load of “airy nothings,” so industriously cherished for the laudable purpose of self-formed misery, by the ill-judging few who have never experienced the pang of actual anguish, or suffered affliction beyond the illusive boundary of mental vision.

The moon already shone with uncommon brightness before Stella could tear herself away from her favourite retreat: the night, however, was not yet too far advanced to prevent the execution of a little excursion she wished to accomplish before it entirely closed in. She felt a strong inclination to bid Sally Thompson and the child of Maria a last adieu. The shortest and most unfrequented path to the house of the former wound past the ruins of the old Abbey. It was gloomy and solitary: but the usual road lay considerably about, and convenience prompted her to adopt it without further delay: she therefore obeyed the impulse of the moment, and descending from the grotto, bent her steps towards the farmer’s habitation.

In the course of her progress, it was necessary to cross a quarter of the venerable fabric that led to a vaulted gate-way through which she must pass. As she walked hastily along, the reverberated sound of her footsteps seemed uncommonly loud; and her heart began to beat in proportion as an apprehension of something, she knew not what, took possession of her mind. Almost convinced she was not alone in this forlorn and dismal looking spot, she stopped once or twice, uncertain whether to return or proceed, and anxiously listened to discover if her fears were really well founded, or merely the effect of imagination. The owl, however, which now circled over her head, and then rested on the northern turret, appeared to be the only living thing near her. At length she reached a private passage, cut through a part of the rocky barrier that on this side inclosed the little possessions of Mrs. Bertram: at the end of it was a strong close-made door, which from time immemorial had belonged to the proprietors of the Hermitage, and gave them a right to a footpath leading to the parish church, across a field of the Nabob’s, on whose domains it opened: but that gentleman chose to dispute the legality of their claim to this privilege; and therefore, rather than contest the matter with so powerful an opponent, it was never publicly insisted upon, nor used, unless on some particular occasions similar to the present. The key of this door, however, remained with the inhabitants of the Hermitage, who kept it in a little adjoining recess, formed for that purpose in the rock; from whence Stella now removed it, in order to effect her intended design: but on applying it to the lock, her astonishment was extreme to find that already occupied by another, exactly the same in every respect with the original one in her hand.

A circumstance so perfectly unaccountable renewed the recent apprehensions of our heroine; and she now almost encouraged the idea that something like the whispering of human voices, which at one time seemed to proceed from a retired corner of the building, was not entirely the creation of mental alarm, or ideal supposition, as she had then endeavoured to persuade herself. Impressed with this notion, she hastened forward, eager to conclude a walk which, in her present opinion, had never appeared so long before.

She found Mrs. Wallace with her niece: the child, however, happened to be asleep on her arrival; but in a few minutes it awaked; and Sally, having wrapped it up so as to prevent any evil consequences from its exposure to the night air, accompanied her aunt and Stella to the vicinity of the private door. The latter had previously mentioned the strange incident of the key; and her companions, no less surprised than herself by an event so totally incomprehensible, determined to assist her in ascertaining the cause, if possible, of a circumstance so alarming and suspicious.

While they were conversing on the subject, and had nearly reached the spot where the intended investigation was to commence, the infant began to cry, and the party stopped to soothe it. Stella, who was naturally fond of children, and particularly attached to this one, was not the least active in her efforts on the occasion: indeed, more than one motive now urged her to make the attempt; for she feared they might be overheard by the unknown owners of the key, who, conceiving themselves discovered, might effect their escape before it proved practicable to ascertain who they were; an event, in every point of view, highly requisite to the safety of the Hermitage and its inmates, who undoubtedly could not be expected to enjoy their usual state of tranquillity while thus rendered liable to intrusions from such a mysterious neighbourhood.

In this part of North Britain it was customary for smugglers to conceal themselves and the produce of their contraband trade in situations similar to the present. No one spot on the habitable globe could be better calculated for that purpose than the ancient ruins of the old edifice:—it had more than once been occupied by such tenants; and the companions of Stella thought it likely to be in the same predicament at this juncture.

While they whispered their conjectures on the subject, and our heroine was at intervals fondly caressing her little favourite, the key was heard to turn in the lock. They started at the sound, and, without allowing themselves leisure to reflect on the road probable to be taken by those who were about to approach, suddenly retreated behind the nearest bushes, and awaited the result in silent apprehension.

Their suspense was not, however, of long duration. A man and woman passed cautiously through the door: their conversation was low, but apparently of an interesting description, and, as they advanced nearer, appeared of a nature not very favourable to the character of the female, whose delicacy seemed not of the most refined kind, and little apt to be hurt by the unequivocal style of her companion’s language, or the occasional freedom of his treatment during several temporary pauses in their progress.

CHAP. V.

“Here matter new to gaze the Devil met.”

MILTON.

THE strangers were now, by slow degrees, advancing to the very identical spot where the three females had attempted to conceal themselves, and from whence they ventured not to move a single step, lest a discovery of their retreat should prove the consequence; when the whole system of caution hitherto observed was speedily rendered abortive by the child, who once more began to cry, in spite of every effort used by Stella and her companions to keep it quiet.

The man and woman at first instinctively recoiled at the sound; and while the latter uttered a faint scream, her comrade rushed suddenly forward in order to ascertain the real cause of their alarm.

Mrs. Wallace instantly perceived the inutility of any further attempt at concealment; and whispering her companions, endeavoured to assume an air of composure as she stepped from their hiding-place, and seemed to be merely intent on the road they were pursuing.

In consequence of this mode of proceeding, they were necessitated to pass close by the woman, who apparently eyed them with no small degree of interest almost from the first moment of their appearance, for the impulse of fear had quickly given way to what is commonly supposed more powerful in the breast of a female; and curiosity now usurped every faculty of her soul.

Stella happened at this instant to have the child in her arms: but they had scarcely passed the strangers, before she began to tremble violently; and finding herself unable to bear it any longer, after a silent pressure of her lips on its forehead, she turned round to replace it on the bosom of its faithful nurse.

The moon at this period emerged from behind a flying cloud which had partially obscured it, and darting its beams through the surrounding foliage, they rested directly on the lovely features of our heroine, who suddenly raised her eyes at an abrupt exclamation which burst from the unknown, and perceived, to her utter astonishment, that unknown now almost at her side, and no other than her inveterate enemy’s maid Jenny.

This girl was soon recognised by the rest of the party; but, with the person who accompanied her, Stella alone was acquainted: hitherto he had kept behind, evidently watching their motions, till the above-mentioned exclamation brought him from the rear, and Lieutenant Jones stood confessed to view.

It has been said that there are men who would rather face the mouth of a cannon than incur the merited contempt of a virtuous woman: minds of this description cannot be altogether void of some good qualities; for those who experience the sensation of shame, shew thereby that they are capable of reformation. The magnanimous Mr. Jones, however, was superior to such little weaknesses where the possibility of retaliating his accuser’s imputation with safety was supposed to be practicable. Under circumstances different from the present, he had perhaps stole away, and permitted his companion to manage for herself in the best manner she could: but Stella Bertram was conceived to be fair game;—her conduct by some had been represented as highly culpable—by others as rather somewhat suspicious: it is true, the very small number who chose to put this construction on her actions, were mostly confined to the precincts of Rossgrove; but it was exactly there where the military hero’s chief consequence was supposed to center: wherefore he flattered himself with possessing the certain means of invalidating any testimony she might feel disposed to prefer against him, either now or hereafter, by the easy and simple mode of recrimination, which her conduct had apparently enabled him to pursue, and which, he wisely judged, would be sufficient to render whatever she might report, to his prejudice of this night’s adventure, of little or no avail, from the evidence he could produce of her own profligate character; since the caresses she lavished on the child, the visible agitation she suffered on being discovered with it, as likewise the hour and solitary spot chosen for the parting interview, all spoke strongly against her, and fully corroborated the opinion previously entertained by his friend Mrs. Vincent of her criminal intercourse with one, or both of the admirers so repeatedly assigned her.

Conceiving himself, therefore, pretty well secured against the event of consequences, and feeling the malignant triumph incident to little minds, when an opportunity of mortifying those they are secretly forced to acknowledge their superiors, is unexpectedly obtained, Mr. Jones advanced to the charge with a tolerable portion of assurance, and a full determination to wound the two men whom he privately detested, but dared not openly attack, through the medium of an innocent, defenceless girl, erroneously marked down as the favourite of both.

This manly and meritorious design was further strengthened by a recollection of the various benefits usually derived from what is vulgarly called “taking the first word of fighting.” But though the foregoing resolution, in the existing state of affairs, was a wise one, and the ideas from whence it resulted passed rapidly through his mind, the scheme happened, nevertheless, to be rendered abortive by the more active oratorical abilities of his female coadjutor, whose genius for mischief was not inferior to his own, however strong might be the bias of his natural disposition for that sort of food which the mistress and maid seemed to swallow with an equal degree of avidity.

Mrs. Wallace and her little party, relieved from the apprehension of more dangerous neighbours, and feeling no inclination to interrupt a tête-à-tête so ill calculated for the eye of observation, were proceeding on their way, when it occurred to the former that some inquiry was requisite respecting the appearance of the additional key, the real owners of which it seemed a matter of importance to ascertain; she therefore turned round, and stopped nearly opposite the gentleman and lady to make the necessary investigation: but the latter, bursting with malice, ill-nature, and impertinence, which she was determined not to lose so favourable an opportunity of venting, instantly commenced the attack with a volubility so impetuous, and a torrent of abuse so incomprehensible, that Mrs. Wallace, perceiving the impossibility of making herself heard, at length ceased to attempt it; and remarking, with much astonishment, that the rhetoric of the speaker was chiefly addressed to Stella, she fixed a look of surprise alternately on each, in expectation of procuring some solution of a scene no less new than unintelligible.

Her curiosity, however, remained ungratified; for our heroine happened to be equally unenlightened with herself, and little could be gathered from the accuser, whose broad hints were alike thrown away on the listeners, as they merely ascribed the virulence of her language to her mal-à-propos appearance and the fear of exposure, to which a discovery so critical had subjected her. Nevertheless, still solicitous to comprehend some portion of an harangue so nervous, so voluble, and apparently so pointed, the silent group attempted not to move from their present position, actuated by a wish to solve the mystery, and an increasing desire to hear its conclusion.

Jenny, who, like most of the frail sister-hood, was extremely apt to forget her own errors in the laudable anxiety by which she was generally stimulated to propagate those, true or false, saddled on her neighbours, so far from harbouring any alarms originating in considerations of a personal nature, or supposing herself liable to censure from the recent discovery, actually behaved as if she imagined no blame could possibly be attached to her share in the adventure, and seemed to think the black spots in her own character whitened in proportion as she bespattered the moral principles of another; till at length, almost breathless, and nearly exhausted with rage, on observing the cool and rational conduct of those she wished to provoke, and the inutility of all her endeavours to irritate their passions, she paused perforce; and Mrs. Wallace immediately seized the opportunity of renewing her inquiry relative to the key.

“The key!” resumed Jenny, with an additional shade of colour, and a look that conveyed the idea of a momentary recollection of something she wished rather to remember in any other person’s conduct than her own:— “what have I to do with your paltry keys?—Do you take me for a jailer’s wife, or the ‘Squire’s housekeeper?—Marry, come up! people are wonderous ready to forget themselves now-a-days!”

“It is indeed a common case,” returned Mrs. Wallace, dryly, “and too frequently met with in all ranks and conditions of life.”

The manner in which this remark was delivered drew a sort of half-smile half-sneer from the Lieutenant, which seemed to grate upon the feelings of his companion, who turned short upon him, and abruptly requested to partake of the jest, if he knew where it was to be found.— “Though, perhaps,” she added, with a look, full of malice, directed to Stella, “Miss Bertram there may furnish you with one some nine months hence, if the leavings of your brother officers proves not too hard of digestion.”

The sneer of the Lieutenant became more obvious as he emphatically replied, that the experiment she alluded to had already been made in another quarter, and produced an effect exactly similar to that she hinted at.

“I would have you to know, Sir,” retorted the enraged Abigail, who only in part comprehended his meaning, “I would have you to know, Sir, that I am meat for your masters.”

“So Captain Harcourt informed me,” said Jones, significantly; “but if such is the case, I hope you have no objection my being of equal service to your mistress.—What say you, Miss Bertram? A fair exchange is no robbery, you know: and you likewise know, that when wives are agreeably occupied, husbands have more leisure on their hands to pursue the bent of their inclinations with impunity. But come, my girl,” continued the incorrigible coxcomb, turning to Sally Thompson, and making an attempt to uncover the child, “let me see the little bantling; I am famous for my skill in physiognomy, and will tell you at a single glance whether the Major’s star, or the Captain’s, acquired the ascendant at its formation.”

“You had better,” replied Sally Thompson, provoked at his undaunted impudence, and retreating as she spoke, “you had better have consulted the stars on Mrs. St. Vincent’s opinion of your visit to the old Abbey, and the danger of leaving a false key in the door on occasions where concealment appears so necessary.”

The Lieutenant gave a loud whistle, and stepped back with an air intended to shew not only indifference, but derision.

Meanwhile Jenny, who had now recovered from a flood of tears, produced by the taunts of her ungrateful paramour, whom she no longer seemed to regard with an eye of affection, once more prepared to rehearse a second part of the same story; but in the present tumult of her mind, not clearly understanding the conclusion of Sally’s speech, and supposing the truth remained no longer problematical, she fell into the snare her own precipitancy had woven; and Mrs. Wallace soon became convinced that the key had been obtained for purposes not very creditable to the character of Mrs. Jenny and her occasional associates, who, no doubt, found the unfrequented walk that led to this place, and the solitary seclusion of the place itself, alike favourable to the tête-à-têtes, which happened to prove of a description too critically dangerous to venture upon under the immediate roof of her mistress.

Such is usually the fatal effects of a wanton disregard of appearances in our superiors, that it not only renders them personally contemptible, but likewise extends the baneful influence of example to the lower classes of the community; who, glad to find an excuse for the secret depravity of their own hearts, endeavour to flatter themselves with the idea, that errors may be pardoned in the low, the ignorant, and the humble, when they are practised by, and too often shamefully tolerated in those who ought to know better and act differently.

Yet, so great is the force of prejudice, and so strange the inconsistent nature of our feelings, that Mrs. St. Vincent would certainly have dismissed Jenny from her service, had the enormity of her conduct been fully ascertained, or even suspected by her; though her own proud defiance of the world’s opinion, and her consequent mode of proceeding with Mr. Jones, had probably encouraged the girl to act in a manner very different from what she would otherwise have dared to venture upon, if situated under circumstances more inimical to the free indulgence of reprehensible inclinations, and better calculated to inspire the light and superficial mind with some degree of reverence for the precepts and practice of the truly good and virtuous members of society, in whatever station they happened to be placed.

Mrs. Wallace, who harboured not the smallest desire to become a reformer, and had now satisfied herself as to the owners of the key, felt no further inclination to prolong an interview from whence no gratification of a pleasurable description could possibly be derived; and therefore, after a short, but energetic admonition to the frail Jenny, she and her companions again advanced forward to the passage through the rocks; while the former, sullen and for a wonder, silent, took the road to Rossgrove; at a convenient distance from which the Lieutenant thought proper to effect a retreat, and the lady was consequently left to conclude her evening adventure alone.

CHAP. VI.

“Thus conscience does make cowards of us all!”

SHAKESPEARE.

TO account for the hatred and virulence displayed on every occasion against our heroine by the Abigail of Mrs. St. Vincent, might be judged superfluous when it is recollected that people of Jenny’s description generally adopt the principles and mode of conduct practised by their superiors, or at least such as they suppose most likely to find favour in their sight. In the present instance, this line of proceeding had certainly proved the chosen one, independent of any other stimulus whatever; but a circumstance yet more powerful, had operated at an early period of their acquaintance to fix the vain and vindictive Jenny an irreconcilable enemy to poor Stella: and though our heroine was herself ignorant of the nature of her offence, it happened, notwithstanding, to be of that kind which is most acutely felt, and most keenly resented, by the party doomed to smart under its influence. In short, Stella had been considered in the light of a successful rival by the disappointed maid of Mrs. St. Vincent, who, from the moment this idea took possession of her mind vowed eternal war and detestation against the unconscious object of her secret aversion.

The schoolmaster of the parish was a young, smart-looking man, and, being designed for the church, had received a better education, and mingled with a genteeler circle of associates than the generality of those in similar circumstances usually do in Scotland. From his first arrival in this part of the country, Jenny had marked him down as a certain victim to her charms; and no pains being spared to effect this purpose, she conceived herself rapidly approaching to the crisis of her wishes, and already in fancy saw the magic badge on her finger that was destined to place her in the honourable station of a clergyman’s lady, when the unfortunate face and figure of Stella Bertram destroyed all the illusive visions of matrimonial felicity, and totally eradicated the enraged Abigail from the thoughts of him whom she had hitherto erroneously accustomed herself to consider as her own. It is true, the young man ventured not to disclose his sentiments to her rival, from a supposition they would be rejected in his present dependant and humble station; but his astonishment proved too obvious for concealment when the object of it appeared in view; and, by those acquainted with his predilection in her favour, it was generally understood he meant to offer himself when his expectations for futurity were accomplished by the attainment of a good living.

Highly provoked to find her hopes disappointed, and herself thus unexpectedly deserted, Jenny, eager to recall the truant affections of her fickle admirer, formed the common, but frequently dangerous determination of either attempting to rouse his jealousy, or, if that were found impracticable, indemnifying herself for her recent loss elsewhere by commencing another serious flirtation, under similar views, with a serjeant in the light horse, who appeared to be infinitely less fastidious in his taste than his predecessor, and who had more than once evinced no reluctance to become the rival latter.

Every married soldier is generally supposed a single man if his wife do not fill a corner of the baggage cart: the serjeant was exactly in this predicament; for, though already a husband, the absence of his lady allowed him to claim the military privilege, from time immemorial, of bachelorship. Jenny, however, it must be confessed, was totally ignorant of this circumstance, and her former lover Mr. Johnstone, the schoolmaster, discovered no inclination to make her more clairvoyant on the subject; neither did he appear to feel much interested in the progress apparently made by the knight of the halberd in the fair nymph’s affections. This latter circumstance was observed by her with increased bitterness; and either the ardour of revenge, the instability of female sentiments, or the secret pleadings of a beginning inclination for her new admirer, operated so powerfully, as at length to render the office of the Priest no longer necessary to the attainment of his views, even if clerical assistance could have been obtained in a legal manner without let or molestation from the first proprietor of his hand and heart.

The serjeant, however, like many other gentlemen of the cloth, piqued himself on this honourable mode of proceeding in similar cases, and seldom mentioned the extent of his success to more than half a dozen confidential friends at most: and as those might naturally think themselves at liberty to speak of his adventures to others under the same restrictions, his good fortune was generally pretty well known in a very short period after its accomplishment.

In regard to the present affair, a little more caution was deemed requisite; for it did not appear quite certain how far the Major might think the seduction of his wife’s maid a laughable incident; and, should he take it in a different light, as was invariably the case when such things came to his knowledge, he knew the man he had to deal with sufficiently to dread the consequences: Jenny’s secret was therefore supposed to be cautiously preserved; and from gratitude, as she protested, for his attention to her character, his prudence was repeatedly rewarded according to the petition he preferred for that purpose.

But the greatest warriors and the wisest politicians should never be too certain of the ground they stand upon: security often proves a broken reed to those who confide most in its dangerous protection, and, in conjunction with success, frequently produces the very evil it was supposed to prevent. Secrecy and opportunity had hitherto gone hand in hand with their wishes; and even the schoolmaster himself, though he still retained a distinguished place in her bosom, began to be occasionally excluded from remembrance. This temporary exclusion, however, seldom lasted much beyond the term of her existing interview with the serjeant; and her remaining inclination for the one commonly resumed its former station when the absence of the other left the infatuated girl more at leisure to reflect on what she had once hoped to have been, and what she now was. Nevertheless, those fits of galling retrospection were not of a description to reform or amend: of one consequence alone they were constantly productive, and that was an additional portion of hatred and resentment against poor Stella, whom she invariably considered as the original source of all her misfortunes and succeeding misconduct.

There is not, perhaps, in the whole self-consolatory system so liberally resorted to in all such situations, a more useful or convenient auxiliary than what is usually known by the name of a scapegoat: our heroine stood exactly in this rank of serviceable beings, and never failed to be most unmercifully burthened with the entire weight of Mrs. Jenny’s disappointments, and the long train of et ceteras that followed. But while the load happened to be unconsciously borne, the bearer suffered little; and therefore the other was left at full freedom to take advantage of her rival’s ignorance in order to lighten her own mind at the expence of one so detested.

Unluckily, it was yet found possible to augment that detestation, though even Jenny herself at one time imagined such a circumstance next to impossible. The case was this:—security and success gradually began to render the lovers more careless and inattentive to the chance of discovery; and in one of her solitary walks near the pavilion, Stella accidentally stumbled on the happy pair, who, as she passed the lower windows of the bathing-room, were observed to be seated amidst some of the green-house plants in the opposite corner.

So little, however, did our heroine suspect the truth, and so very distant was she from forming any uncharitable conclusion on the occasion, that she ventured not even to look a second time, in order to ascertain the identity of the parties; but, supposing it might be some of the guests or family at the Grove occupied in examining the plants, and fearful of catching their eye, she made the best of her way from the spot, lest the Major, or Mrs. St. Vincent herself, might be of the number; for of its extent she was likewise ignorant, as the intervening foliage prevented a full view of it, and might conceal persons from the observation of those standing without.

Stella, however, escaped not with equal impunity: she was perceived by Jenny, and her accidental appearance was immediately marked down to the score of premeditated design: the consequence was natural; and our heroine henceforth became the innocent object of her unceasing abhorrence, calumny, and abuse on every opening that occurred to vent her spleen and disappointment; for she doubted not but the knowledge she afterwards suspected Mr. Johnstone had acquired of her proceedings, was obtained through the medium of this hateful rival, to counteract whose fatal influence she had been driven to adopt those measures which had finally effected her complete destruction, together with the total overthrow of all her ambitious dreams of future pre-eminence, and the power of lording it over her present equals in the character of a Minister’s wife and the mistress of a parsonage house.

Nevertheless, after the rumoured attachment between Stella and Captain Montague began to gain ground, and the removal of that part of the regiment to which the serjeant belonged put a conclusion to her intercourse with him, she once more ventured to persuade herself that Johnstone was not, as she had suspected, quite so well informed of certain circumstances, as her former fears had represented; and even at times entertained the idea of making a second attack on his heart, under the impression that our heroine must now be for ever expelled from it; though in her conscience she could not help believing her free from the imputed guilt thrown upon her character, as she knew from good authority, however averse to acknowledge so much, that her late rival was not only in perfect health at the period of her supposed confinement, but even absent on a visit at Woodside, where, instead of being an invalid herself, she was occupied in attending on one who actually was so.

This piece of intelligence, so material for the re-establishment of our heroine’s character, was not, however, even permitted to reach the ears of her mistress; for the rancor she harboured against the former happened to be too greatly gratified by the effects of concealment, to allow of its promulgation.

As her attachment to the serjeant had concluded with his absence, she almost dreaded lest the same should prove the case with Stella and the Captain, and her now premeditated reconcilement with Johnstone be rendered abortive from the revival of his hopes in that quarter. No wonder then, if actuated by this irritating apprehension, and provoked, at the same time, to find she had once more committed herself to the person she considered as the chief bar to her schemes, by so critical and mal-à-propos an appearance with Jones, rage took entire possession of her breast, and threw her off her guard: Jenny considered not that she herself was the original cause of so many misfortunes, nor once reflected that her own misconduct, and not the officious interference of another, proved the principal cause of every succeeding mortification.

CHAP. VII.

“He knows too well

“Your beauty and your worth: your lover comes not

“To offer insults.”

PHILIPS.

ARRIVED at the door leading to the old ruins, Stella bade a last adieu to Sally Thompson and her little charge, and soon after reached the Hermitage with Mrs. Wallace.

Farmer Thompson happened to be from home when our heroine visited his wife; and as his road lay past Mrs. Bertram’s, he called on his return to enquire after the family.

Something, it appeared, had occurred to amuse him, for his features exhibited evident traces of risibility. Mrs. Wallace remarked this circumstance, and enquired the cause.

It seems he had encountered Mrs. Jenny at some little distance from the Grove; but though he accosted her with much civility, she appeared extremely sullen, and scarcely deigned to notice him. Thinking she might possibly be ill, he turned back, after having passed her, to inquire if that were the case; but before an answer could be obtained, which she was visibly in no great hurry to grant, one of the footmen hastily approached from the shrubbery, and, in a surly accent, said she was wanted by her lady, who had been at home for some time, and was exceedingly out of humour at her long absence.

The disconcerted Abigail heard this intelligence with visible emotion; and after muttering something about people never knowing their own mind, said she understood her lady purposed remaining to a much later hour at Mr. Stewart’s, where she had gone to spend the day.

“A later hour!” repeated the messenger; “Why, what the devil, do you take the present for an early one?”

“Oh gemini!” exclaimed the trembling Jenny, looking at her watch, “what shall I do? who could have imagined it was this time of night?—I shall be scolded and huffed, and huffed and scolded, till one of us is out of breath, and the other out of patience.—Let me run—let me fly!”

“I will bear your watch for you,” said the fellow, who had been eyeing it as she spoke; and snatching it suddenly out of her hand, added—”that you may run, that you may fly so much the lighter!—I wish I could support your character as easily; but it has already run and fled beyond my ability to follow.”

“Insolent puppy!” retorted Jenny, with an eye darting fire, and a heightened complexion, “how dare you thus presume to insult me?”

The footman, with an air of the utmost sang froid, continued to examine a trinket that hung on the chain of the watch, while rage at first prevented the lady from thinking of any thing but the provoking words he had uttered: almost immediately, however, she recollected herself, and attempted to regain it with a degree of eagerness that indicated