THINGS

BY THEIR

RIGHT NAMES;

A NOVEL,

IN TWO VOLUMES.

BY A PERSON WITHOUT A NAME.

Let us “encompass virtue with associations more than mor-

al; associations whose steady light may survive the waving

and meterous gleams of sentimental illusion.”—ANONYMOUS.

—“Servant of God, well done! Well hast thou fought;

And for the test’mony of truth hast borne

Universal reproach, far worse to bear

Than violence; this was all thy care,

To stand approv’d in sight of God, though worlds

Judg’d thee perverse.”—— MILTON.

VOL. II.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR GEORGE ROBINSON, 25, PATERNOSTER-ROW.

by T. Davison, Whitefriars,

1812.

THINGS

BY THEIR

RIGHT NAMES.

WHILE such were the different feelings of the Envilles and Mr. Fitzosborn, Edward received the information of Caroline’s detention at Henhurst with great and genuine joy; a joy that sparkled in his eyes, and spread itself over his whole demeanour, but which he did not suffer to rise to his tongue. From whatever cause the pleasure sprung, it was such as he did not care to avow, while it was at the same time so powerful as wholly to outweigh any regrets which it may naturally be supposed he must have felt for the loss of her society; and while he was condoled with on every side on so decided an overthrow of all his hopes, he revelled in the most delightful anticipations of the future. Unrestrained by any of those feelings which had withheld the pen of Caroline, Edward joined to the large packet of letters which her servant conveyed to Henhurst the following epistle.

“I congratulate you, my dear cousin, from the bottom of my heart, on the change in your abode, but I congratulate my uncle still more; the exercise of your virtues will be the reward of his: the scenes in which you have lately been engaged are going to fade from your memory, but whatever else you forget, do not forget EDWARD.”

Caroline read this billet over and over: she was wishing to find in it something more than the effusion of cousinly affection, but she could make no such discovery. She read it till she began to think that it was scarcely so much. Not one expression of regret for her absence—not one lamentation that they were to meet no more—not the shadow of an attempt to engage her in any intercourse. “He is more interested for my uncle than for me,” thought Caroline: “he is willing that my virtues should make any body happy rather than himself; be it so: in the oblivion that he predicts I must endeavour to include the exception for which he stipulates, an exception that seems rather dictated by vanity than affection.”

Caroline was now established at Henhurst, and it appeared the delight of her uncle to honour her, and to make all those who approached her to do the same; but, except servants and dependants, the number of these were few. All female visitors had long disappeared from Henhurst; and although Mr. Fitzosborn seemed to lament the want of society in which Caroline was left, the dread of breaking in upon long-continued habits prevailed over his desire to procure her the gratification of company. He had besides a rooted belief, that in the conversation of more than half the human species there was contamination. Caroline was in his eye a gem of the purest lustre, and to guard her from every breath that could sully her brightness became his most assiduous care. “Shall I have snatched her from the contagion of London,” said he to himself, “and shall I expose her to the corruption of the country? Better that she should live alone than be the worse for the company she keeps; her pleasures will be few, but her virtues may be many. She shall be my almoner,—she shall be my umpire,—she shall learn to refer her actions to principles,—she will exercise her patience in being my companion, and her good humour in being so cheerfully. But Caroline must marry; and whom will she see in my house that she ought to marry? It is not, however, necessary that she should marry yet, and a few years may send me out of the world and her into it; yes, and better fitted to fulfil her part there than if her earlier years had been past in the frivolous amusements which make in general the business of her sex.

The conclusion was, that Caroline must live tête-à-tête with her uncle at Henhurst, and content herself with the duties of life rather than the enjoyment of its pleasures.

Happily for Caroline, these terms were not so much in opposition in her nomenclature as in that of most others. With her they generally meant one and the same thing; and when any distinction arose, she was mistress of a kind of moral alchymy which knew well how to transmute the lead to gold; nor was it long before she found that one of her first duties in her new situation was indeed her highest gratification. To amuse and gratify her uncle she had proposed as her first temporal aim, and in pursuing it she became herself so much amused and gratified, that time with her had never past more quickly than at Henhurst. Of the eccentricities, the humours, the misanthropy of her uncle she had heard; for by his eccentricities, his humours, and his misanthropy, he was known to the world. But his talents, his virtues, and his benevolence, had never reached her ears; for these were exerted alone for the amusement of himself, or the advantage of those who received his bounty and flourished under his protection, as too many receive the bounty and flourish under the protection of Providence without ever adverting to the cause of their well-doing, or even speaking of it with gratitude. Naturally gifted with a strong understanding, which had been sedulously cultivated in his youth, and duly exercised during the progress of his life, the conversation of Mr. Fitzosborn was a rich mine, from whence Caroline drew the most valuable ore. The seclusion from the world in which he had almost wholly lived, if it had contracted his knowledge in some respects, had given an originality of character to all that he did know, which more than compensated for his ignorance in those particulars that had not fallen under his observation. His agricultural and gardening pursuits had made him familiarly conversant with the wonders of creation, and as he conversed with Caroline on the physiology of a tulip root, or the provisions of Providence in the mechanism of a flower, there was opened to her a source of research at once new and enchanting. If Caroline were delighted with the information that her uncle could communicate, he was no less charmed with the docility and acuteness of Caroline: nor had she less reason to be pleased with the moral character of Mr. Fitzosborn than with his intellectual acquirements. Living in a constant exercise of benevolence, administering strict justice, and keeping a watchful eye over the motive for his actions, he approached perhaps as nearly to perfection as human nature admits of. That he had his prejudices, his prepossessions, and his frailties, who that ever attended to the operations of his own mind can doubt? Some of these prejudices, prepossessions, and frailties, had been heightened by the solitary life which he had led, and by the ill conduct and ingratitude of some of his nearest connections, and still more by the dormant state in which, with little exception, the affections of his heart had remained, even to the hour in which he first beheld Caroline. The sight of her had given the Promethean touch, which had kindled into life all the qualities of his soul. Her form and countenance had realized his idea of a celestial being; the humility of her mind, the sweetness of her temper, her moderation and disinterestedness, had presented an image of human excellence that he had never before believed possible. From her first visit at Henhurst it had only been by a strong effort of self-command that he had conquered the earnest desire that he had felt to appropriate her wholly to himself, and to declare her to the world the heiress of all his possessions; but if he had yielded the latter desire to what he believed he owed himself, he had equally sacrificed the former to a sense of the superior claims that others had upon her, and to the consideration how little attraction there could be to a young woman just entering into life in the society of an old man just going out of it. He had, however, to the best of his power kept a strict eye over her during her residence with Lord Enville and her father, and this power was much greater than it was supposed to be by those who knew nothing of Mr. Fitzosborn except his oddities. Although he apparently had lived so long apart from the world, he was not wholly without connections amongst those who still moved within its circles. Amongst these connections was an old and intimate acquaintance who continued to correspond regularly with him, and who furnished him with information on such subjects as interested his curiosity. He had selected him for this office partly on account of his good qualities, but not entirely without some reference to others of a more questionable tendency. It was the intention of Mr. Fitzosborn to bequeath his property to such of his relations as he believed would most worthily enjoy it: but as he was aware that his idea of worth did not exactly square with the one which in general was entertained, he felt a difficulty in attaining a true knowledge of the characters with which he wished to become acquainted. He thought he had to guard equally against that affected tolerance which offers an excuse for every fault and every folly, and that splenetic humour which can see nothing good. He was alike to beware of the good humour that would stoop to falsehood to secure an heirship to a favourite, and that vanity which aspires to the praise of singular sagacity by discerning faults invisible to every other eye. He also knew that half the splendid qualities which dazzle the world classed with him as vices, and that the virtues which he most prized were too often considered as shades in the character. He therefore wished his informant to be one who would rather represent things as they actually appeared to him, even if his opinion of their moral quality differed from his own, than one whose tenderer feelings might lead him, from a just sense of the turpitude of the action, to soften the features of it. It was for this reason that, with reference to the conduct of those to whom he was looking as his possible heirs, he had preferred the intelligence of Mr. Beauchamp to that of any other person. He knew that while no consideration would prevail with him to falsify his information, that his notions of right and wrong were in some cases so distinct from his own, that he would probably obtain knowledge of the very failing which he wished most to keep clear of at the very time that his friend intended to recommend the claimant to his favour, and that from his very censures he might discover the excellence he sought for.

The circumstance of Caroline having taken up her abode with the Envilles had drawn that family within the circle of his scrutiny; and he was very accurately acquainted by his faithful informer of the character of each individual that composed it. Mr. Pynsynt had been too justly delineated to allow for a moment of his thinking with patience of his becoming the husband of Caroline, but he was slow to believe that she could entertain such a design; and it was not until he learnt with certainty the refusal given by her father to Mr. Beaumont, and the reason assigned for this refusal, that he could be induced to credit a report so much to her disadvantage. Mr. Beaumont was the son of Mr. Fitzosborn’s earliest friend, the person whom, till he had known Caroline, he had best loved upon earth; and he had followed him with his eye from his well-reported school-days to his now full meridian of well-deserved reputation. Mr. Beaumont was in habits of intimacy with Mr. Fitzosborn’s friend, and had detailed to him his passion for Caroline, and its issue. No sooner was Mr. Fitzosborn informed of these particulars, which left him no option in his belief of what he regarded as the depravity of Caroline, than his first impulse was to send for the ring without any alternative. But against so rigorous a measure his heart rebelled: it suggested a thousand excuses for Caroline; and finally it decided, as an act of justice, to give her an opportunity of vindicating herself. The result has been seen; and from the moment that he knew her innocent, and believed her injured, he had given way without restraint to his predilection in her favour; nor had he hesitated a moment to withdraw her wholly from the influence of a parent whom he considered as one of the most degraded of the human kind.

The uncle and the niece, equally delighted with each other, often found the days too short for the variety of occupation which each hour brought with it. The domestic economy of Henhurst was conducted with the most exact regularity: the meals were served as the clock struck the hour at which they were appointed to appear: the table was spread with a profusion which, if, according to the modern idea, it excluded elegance, fully answered the ancient notion of magnificence. The cookery was equally apart from the refinement of luxury and the roughness of rusticity. All was excellent in its kind, but all was substantial; and having been but little diminished by the regulated and moderate appetites of Mr. Fitzosborn and Caroline, furnished many wholesome and strength-bestowing meals for the poor. Mr. Fitzosborn was an early riser, and he was delighted to find that Caroline was so too: he considered early hours as a guarantee for half a score of the moral virtues. As the clock struck eight the whole family assembled in the chapel to morning service. Breakfast was served at nine, dinner at four, coffee at seven, and a slight supper at nine; at ten the family again met at prayers, and at eleven all was silence and repose.

Amongst Mr. Fitzosborn’s peculiarities was the aversion which he entertained against a minister of the church residing in his house. A sincere lover of religion, he was an abhorrer of all that he esteemed priestcraft; of all profanation, he held it to be the worst. He knew the influence that religious persons have over the human mind, and was too tenacious of his own authority to trust such a power in the hands of any subordinate member of his family. “In a protestant country,” would he say, “with the Bible in their hand, and a weekly exposition of the duties that it inculcates, no one can wander from the right way through ignorance: there are few men (would he add) whose conduct will bear the scrutiny of an every day’s observation. The frailties, or even the awkwardnesses (supposing him free from vice) of a domestic chaplain, may do more injury to the cause of religion than can be counterbalanced by his precepts and reproof.—Besides, how difficult is it for such an one to maintain his dignity without pride, or his humility without meanness!—Nor dare I trust myself. I should choose to be treated with respect and deference: and can I tell that I should be apt to mark the line of separation between respect and servility? Should I not too easily forget the superiority that the ministration of the holy offices, and perhaps the virtues of the man should give, in the inferiority of the station of him who exercised them?—I will have no domestic chaplain; I will myself be the instructor of my family, and the judge of their moral conduct; there shall be no intermediate person between them and me.”

In consequence of such opinions and such conclusions, the service both of the morning and the evening had been read by Mr. Fitzosborn himself. But when he had become acquainted with the mellifluous tones of Caroline, and had heard the propriety and effect with which she read aloud, he delegated to her a great part of this duty, only reserving to himself such portions of it where exposition and reproof had a greater share than devotion and intreaty. Nor indeed could there be a more interesting or affecting sight than to behold the venerable old man, with Caroline, arrayed in all the charms of youth and beauty, by his side, by turns explaining the duties of the Christian religion, and persuading to the performance of them by “the terrors of the Lord,” or hymning the praises of their Creator, extolling his goodness to his creatures, and joining in devout supplication to that Being without whose permission not “a sparrow falls to the ground.” Caroline thought that she had never before felt the delights of religion; the hour that was spent in the chapel gave an elevation to her spirit, and her feeling that accompanied her through the day; and on retiring at night from the same sacred spot to her own apartment, she felt the world, its cares, its chagrins, its pleasures, and its temptations, to fade from her mind, and God and Heaven alone to possess her thoughts.

Although if Mr. Fitzosborn had alone consulted his own inclination he would scarcely have had Caroline a moment from his sight, yet he was so afraid of importuning her that he restricted his gratification to certain hours, making it a principle that she had a given portion of every day wholly at her own disposal; but as she was herself never so happy as when by the side of her uncle, she contended that she had a right to bestow upon him as much of this time as she pleased, in addition to that which he claimed as his due: a right which Mr. Fitzosborn was very ready to allow.

By the means of the old housekeeper, Caroline was soon introduced to all the poor in the neighbourhood; these became the objects of her daily care, as they were already of her uncle’s munificence. To him she would repeat all that occurred in these visits; and would often lead him from cottage to cottage, as they drove out together in the little park chair, now enlarged to admit of two persons. When the weather was fine, gardening and the farm fully occupied them; while the days that they were obliged to pass in the house flew swiftly away in various reading, in some music, and a few games of chess or backgammon. Sometimes, though very rarely, a neighbouring gentleman would make his appearance at dinner; but the visit was always short, and seemed in no way to contribute to the pleasures of Mr. Fitzosborn; nor had Caroline, at the end of three months residence at Henhurst become known beyond such accidental visits to any individual except the persons of whom the household was composed. At the parish church, where she regularly attended twice every Sunday with her uncle, she saw all the neighbouring families, with whom Mr. Fitzosborn exchanged all common civilities, but he did not introduce her to any one; and she saw that she was regarded both with wonder and pity. Perhaps envy also had its place in the breast of some, for no one now doubted but that the heir of Henhurst was declared, and that this heir was Caroline.

A knowledge of her uncle’s real character had proved to her how ill-founded was the notion that he could be imposed upon by the artifices of any one, or that he could be the dupe of his servants. She saw with what more than common acuteness he looked through the action to the motive; and she beheld him so jealous of his domestic authority, that the slightest intimation of his will was not to be disregarded with impunity by any individual of which his numerous family was composed, from the maître d’hôtel to the meanest scullion. Partial as she could not but see that he was to all she said or did, she was aware that his favour hung entirely on his opinion of her merit; and that if she were to lose the hold which this opinion gave her over him, he could “whisk her off, and let her down the wind a prey to fortune.”—While she respected him the more, she did not love him the less for this firmness of character; but it must be acknowledged that it made her sometimes turn her eye towards her ring with a feeling of anxiety, and reiterate her vows that it should never depart from her finger.

While Caroline continued thus happy and thus watchful over herself at Henhurst, she had little communication with her connections in town. From her father she heard seldom: his letters contained nothing beyond the news of the day, or an exhortation that she would take care to secure the favours of her uncle. Lady Enville had written only once, and Edward never. Of this young man Mr. Fitzosborn seldom spoke. Sometimes, when Caroline tried to introduce his name with advantage, he would say, “I hear nothing amiss of him—he will probably make a good lawyer—he promises well—we shall see”—and such like phrases; but he never mentioned him of his own accord, or seemed to remember that there existed such persons as his mother and sisters. On their claims upon him he had made up his mind, and believed that there was nothing more to be done. As Caroline had the satisfaction of knowing that their wants had been supplied by another hand, she thought it wise not to recall them to her uncle’s notice; but she omitted no opportunity of placing the virtues of Edward before his eyes, till she was effectually silenced; when upon her having been unusually eloquent upon the subject, she saw her uncle fix his eye upon her with a penetrating look, and heard him say as he turned from her, “it is not the judgment of a young lady of nineteen that will decide with me the merit of a young man!”

The autumn was now far advanced, and the period for the half-yearly payment to Mr. Edward Fitzosborn being come, Caroline wrote to her banker for the necessary means with which to make the remittance. What was her surprise and horror on being told, in answer to her letter, that the whole of her property was sold out of the stocks more than two months before; and that fifty pounds were the whole of what remained due to her in her banker’s hands.

As Caroline believed that the paper which she had signed before she left town had not given her father a power over her property beyond the amount of two thousand pounds, she endeavoured, on a little recollection, to persuade herself that there was some mistake in the matter, which her father would clear up. To him she wrote for information on the subject, and strove to await it with composure, and without suspicion. It was couched in the following terms.

“DEAR CAROLINE,

“The multiplicity of my engagements has prevented my communicating to you a circumstance that I am ready to acknowledge you ought to have been acquainted with earlier, and which if you had known would have prevented your application to Hoare—an application which I am sorry has been made. On entering farther into the affair which I mentioned to you before you left town, I found that the advantage would be more than doubled in proportion to the money advanced: I therefore did not scruple to make use of the power that you had given me over the whole of your property in the stocks, and to act as I saw best for your interest and my own. I am hitherto well satisfied with what I have done, though at present no return can be expected. On your removal to Henhurst I was persuaded that you would have no use for any part of your income; and that if you had, the interest of the two thousand pounds which you had so prudently secured on mortgage, and the rent of your Somersetshire box, would supply all deficiencies in your uncle’s bounty. Being assured, as I say, that you could not yourself want money, and really wanting it myself extremely, I am to account to you for the whole sum of—we will say for the sake of round numbers twenty thousand pounds, which I do as under. Instead of the two thousand pounds which we talked of when together, you must place ten thousand pounds under the head of the speculation I spoke of. As the interest of this sum made no part of your income, the present alienation of it is merely an inconvenience to me; but as it was necessary that the defalcation which such an alienation made in my income should in some way be supplied, I have appropriated the other ten thousand pounds to setting free some parts of my property, of which the income was swallowed up by interest money, and I thus remain your debtor for the whole. I shall be extremely sorry if any miscalculation of mine, as to the generosity of my brother, occasions you any personal difficulty; but this I can hardly suppose: and as to the three hundred pounds per annum which you had in so extraordinary a manner appropriated to the supplying the wants of relations whom you have never seen, I am persuaded that both your good sense (nobody has more, Caroline) and your affections will shew you that it answers the purpose of your benevolence much better by being applied to the relief of a parent’s necessities. Indeed the claim that the one has upon you is so legitimate, and the other so fanciful, that they will not admit of a comparison. If the interest of the two thousand pounds, or the rent of your Somersetshire house, is not at present due, I shall be happy to furnish you with fifty pounds for your present occasions, and it may be carried to account.

“I hope this explanation will prove satisfactory; and I beg that you will not suffer any inconvenience that I can relieve,

“Being, dear Caroline, very sincerely,

“Your affectionate father,

“AUGUSTUS FITZOSBORN.

“P.S. On recollection, I believe there is still a small balance in your favour in Hoare’s hands, which I conclude will make every thing easy.”

Although Caroline had but too much reason to know that extravagance is the parent of avarice, she had no adequate idea till this moment of the magnitude that she could communicate to her offspring.

She remained silent and thunderstruck at this proof, that less than the whole of her property could not satisfy the rapacity of her father; and her own ruin affected her less than did his depravity. She could scarcely believe that he was himself aware of the extent of his cupidity and injustice. As she read his letter, it seemed more the simple, though not very intelligible, statement of an account than the notification of a robbery. She thought it impossible that he could have mistaken the limit of the power which she had given him over her property; yet how could she entertain the alternative? The conclusion which her uncle had so promptly drawn, on the proof of a much slighter guilt, revolted her whole soul. “It cannot be!” said she. “If my father, unhappily, have not that strictness of principle which religion alone can give, he is at least a gentleman and a man of honour!—Would he have allowed me to sign a paper, the conditions of which he knew were different from those to which I had given my consent? Would he do this for the express purpose of robbing me? and would he in consequence actually rob me? Oh, no!—there must be some error, some misconception.—No gentleman, no man of honour——” She stopt; for she felt that the words she was uttering had no meaning when unsupported by religion. “Yet,” thought she again, “how unconscious does he appear of an intention to injure me! Can the words which he uses be meant to designate the actions which he confesses? It is impossible!” Alas, Caroline knew not how completely it was possible to confound all notions of the nature of virtue and of vice by the ingenious science of calling things by wrong names.

So wholly was the mind of Caroline occupied by what she felt to be the villany of her father, though her heart refused to acknowledge what her reason could not disavow, that she was some time before she adverted to the impossibility there now was of her keeping her engagements with Mrs. Edward Fitzosborn: when it forced itself upon her notice she felt a pang that was scarcely exceeded by what she suffered on her father’s account. She was aware that Mrs. Fitzosborn, depending upon the promised supply, would probably have contracted debts which she would now have no means to defray. She thought she saw her in a gaol, to which she had herself conducted her; and the agony of her feeling exceeded all expression. To whom could she apply for assistance or advice? To open her heart to her uncle was impossible—she could have died rather than so to have exposed a parent: nor was she sure that even at that expense she could have relieved the Fitzosborns. They had lost nothing of what her uncle had thought sufficient for their support; and her officious interference to add to their comforts was more likely to draw down his displeasure upon herself, than the disappointment of her benevolent purposes to induce him farther to assist them. Yet something must be done, and done immediately. The idea that Mrs. Fitzosborn was now looking to every post for means to purchase provisions for the day, and that no such means would ever arrive, was insupportable to her. What should she do?—Her thoughts turned towards Edward. He was already privy to her transactions with Mrs. Fitzosborn; and were she not now to communicate to him the change that had taken place, she was aware that he would ultimately become acquainted with it from his mother. She felt an invincible repugnance to addressing so mortifying a confession to a stranger as that which she had to make. She was sensible that she had a claim to the indulgence and favourable thoughts of Edward, even when appearances were so much against her. He too could best excuse her to Mrs. Fitzosborn; to him therefore she resolved to write, and she did so as follows.

“May I, without putting your friendship and your candour to too severe a test, request you to believe that it is not by my fault that I am no longer able to fulfil the promise that I made to your mother?—nor do I know that I shall ever again be able. It is useless to speak of sorrow or regret. All that I can do to obviate the inconvenience and disappointment so unexpectedly incurred I will do. I inclose a draft on my banker for fifty pounds, and a bank note for twenty; which sums I will be much obliged to you to transmit to Mrs. Fitzosborn, with an assurance, and I make it confidently, because the fulfilling of it depends upon myself alone, that she shall have fifty pounds more in two months time. I hope these sums will be sufficient to prevent Mrs. Fitzosborn from suffering any immediate inconvenience from my having falsified my word. I am sure she has too much

Christian charity to believe that I do so willingly. For the future I can only promise an annuity of fifty pounds; but I do promise this for as long as the time, whatever it may be, that I shall remain under the roof of my uncle; and in every circumstance, to the extent of my power, the supply of Mrs. Fitzosborn’s wants shall have the precedency of my own. I know you will think all this very strange; but do not too curiously inquire why such things are. If you can, let me still retain your good opinion, and, in all events,

Believe me very sincerely yours,

“CAROLINE FITZOSBORN.”

Caroline felt somewhat relieved when she had thus provided as far as she could against the evils which, in her apprehension, threatened Mrs. Fitzosborn. The task of writing to her father still remained. How was she to perform it? Accusation and reproach were alike unseemly and unavailing; but neither could she counterfeit a satisfaction which she was so far from feeling, or sanction even by her silence a statement which she knew to be false. After many attempts, she wrote as follows:

“You must pardon me, sir, if I allow myself to express some surprise at the contents of your letter. It is inexplicable to me how the mistake could have arisen which you inform me placed the whole of my property in the stocks at your disposal. That such could not be my intention must be evident from the circumstance, not unknown to you, sir, of my having already alienated a part of the income arising from thence. I apprehend, that whether or no I could have disposed of it better is not the question: my word had been given, and I am confident that I should not knowingly have recalled it. A misapprehension then there must have been somewhere, and I cannot wholly conceal my chagrin at the consequences that have ensued. The most grievous to me of these consequences is the incapacity to which I am now reduced of fulfilling an engagement into which I entered voluntarily, and the violation of which must involve in accumulated distress those whom I wished to assist. If it were possible for you, sir, to enter into my feelings on this point, perhaps you would find means to enable me to redeem my pledge. I should acknowledge your doing so as the greatest of obligations. For the supply of my own personal wants I have no request to make: I shall still be able to make my reduced income equal to every wish that centers in self. I owe every thing to my uncle for his kindness, but nothing for his bounty. He believes me rich, and he knows the proper use of money too well to lavish it on one whom he has reason to suppose has already a superfluity. I shall esteem it as a favour if you will give me an early answer to this letter; and I take the liberty earnestly to entreat that nothing short of an absolute impossibility may prevent you complying with my request in favour of Mrs. Edward Fitzosborn. Forgive me for observing that it is the only compensation that I ask for the all, of which I have been despoiled.

“I am, sir, your obedient daughter,

“CAROLINE FITZOSBORN.”

Caroline was by no means satisfied with her letter; she thought that it said at once too much and too little: but as she found that no alteration which she could make would remedy this fault, she suffered it to go as it was. As she had little hope either from her father’s justice or his feelings, her next care was to provide for the fifty pounds that she had promised Mrs. Fitzosborn, as in part fulfilling the original engagement, and as the reduced assistance that she could now furnish. The twenty pounds which she had inclosed in her letter to Edward had left her almost pennyless; and a half year’s interest upon the two thousand pounds was not due of two months to come. There were, however, sixty pounds arising from the rent of the house in the hands of her kind trustee, and which she had left there for the purposes of benevolence; nor could she withdraw it without acknowledging, by a change in its destination, a want of money, which she knew, in the eyes of this well-judging man, would be considered, in her supposed circumstances, as reprehensible. Here was another sacrifice of character which she had to make, but between the really doing well and the appearing to do so Caroline could not long hesitate. She had but too frequently and recently felt all the consequences of “calling things by wrong names” to fall into the same error herself. She therefore simply stated, that an unlooked-for circumstance having occasioned her to want more money than she could otherwise command, she requested that he would transmit her the sixty pounds then in his possession. This was the remainder of one hundred pounds, the annual rent of her house; fifty of this sum she henceforth destined yearly to the use of Mrs. Fitzosborn, and the remainder, with the interest of two thousand pounds, was the whole to which her income was now reduced. Caroline knew that she could draw her expenses into a very small compass if it were not for the wages of her servants. Since her residence at Henhurst her footman was in fact nowise necessary to her; but she durst not discharge him without explaining to her uncle her motive for doing so, both as she knew that he considered such an appendage in her situation as a proper decorum, and as it might appear, if she parted with the man, that she threw herself wholly on the services of her uncle’s domestics. She had, therefore, no option; all the inconvenience must be taken; and she could only hope to meet the consequent expense by a still farther abridgement of all personal indulgences. The ample largesses of Mr. Fitzosborn made it easy for her to appear to fulfil all the duties of liberality to the poor, with little cost to herself; and as she was saved the pain of seeing distress which she could not relieve, she flattered herself that she should, in time, subdue the lesser pain of not being herself the actual reliever.

Mr. Fitzosborn’s absence from home during the whole of one morning had allowed Caroline time to struggle with the first shock that her father’s letter had occasioned; to write all the letters necessary in consequence, to form her own arrangement; and, in some degree, to recover her usual evenness of mind and cheerfulness: yet the agitation of the preceding hours had left its traces on her countenance, and when she met her uncle at dinner he immediately inquired if she were ill.

“I am quite well,” returned Caroline, “and when I have said that, I know you will be kind enough, my dear sir, to ask me no more questions.”

“Are you sure, Caroline,” said Mr. Fitzosborn, “that it is wise to have any secrets from me?”

“I am sure,” said Caroline, “it is very painful, but I believe it to be necessary.”

“Beware what you do,” said Mr. Fitzosborn; “where there is mystery there is seldom innocence.”

“Yet indeed! and indeed, I am not guilty,” said Caroline.

“So I believe,” returned her uncle; “but remember, that the first step costs all, and that first step is but too often concealment.”

Caroline returned no answer, but felt an added weight upon her spirits. The evening passed with less satisfaction both to the uncle and niece than any that they had yet spent together; and when Caroline came to perform her part in the devotions of the night, her voice was so tremulous as to render her accents scarcely articulate. Her tones grew stronger as she proceeded; and as she concluded the hour of prayer with a hymn of praise for past mercies, and expressive of confidence in future support, her voice became angelic, and her countenance glowed with the effulgence of religious hope and joy. Mr. Fitzosborn looked on her with surprise, and as he bad her good night pressed her tenderly to his heart, and cried, “Thou art a most extraordinary creature, child! Thou durst not surely appeal to thy Creator for the furtherance of designs that thou darest not confide to thy sinful fellow-mortal!”

“Alas, my uncle,” said Caroline, “I have no designs but humbly to do my duty, nor a wish but that I may not be misunderstood!”

Caroline had so far mastered her feelings and regulated her mind in the course of a sleepless night, as to be able to appear at breakfast with her usual alacrity and cheerfulness; but there still hung a shade upon Mr. Fitzosborn’s brow. Still the tenderness with which he addressed Caroline, the gentleness with which he delivered his opinions, seemed to speak rather compassion than disapprobation, or doubt. Caroline having taken her part was herself again, and in a day or two there were no traces of that disturbance which had a little ruffled the serenity of Henhurst.

As Caroline felt that she had nothing to hope for from her father, so she attended his answer to her letter without impatience, and experienced no disappointment when successive post days brought her nothing from him. A fortnight had elapsed before she received a line: at length she one morning found amongst her letters the following one from her father:—

“I have really been so hurried, my dear Caroline, for some time past, that I have not had a moment at command, otherwise I should have answered your letter sooner. You take the whole matter in a wrong light; and, I see, do not understand a tittle of business: but all goes on well, and a little time will convince you that I have acted wisely and kindly. I am very glad to find that you have no personal wants; I should even be glad to gratify you in all your benevolent whims could it be, but at present it is quite out of the question. I am sorry for Mrs. Edward Fitzosborn; but in such times as these every body must come in for their share of inconvenience. However, I have sent down some gowns for the girls, and some little adornments for herself. I hope these things will be liked; they were well chosen, and a les connoisseuse assure me, of the newest fashion. I know this will give you pleasure, which was my chief motive for this little attention, being very sincerely,

“My dear Caroline,

“Your affectionate father,

“AUGUSTUS FITZOSBORN.”

Caroline sighed as she read this letter, and endeavoured to escape from the conclusions that her understanding, in spite of her heart, drew from it. But if thus mortifying had been the result of her communication with her father, very different had been the issue of her application to Edward. She had scarcely calculated upon an answer from him when his letter arrived. These were the contents.

“I know not, my dear cousin, in what words to express the emotions which your letter has occasioned; or rather, I know not how to conceal what I must not speak. Believe you! believe that it is not your fault that you do not keep your promise to my mother! And is this so wonderful a test of my friendship and my candour? Oh! where is the power able to persuade me of the falsehood of that which you assert for truth?—of that which I must have believed against the testimony of the whole world, except yourself?—Do not, you say, inquire too anxiously why such things are. Impossible, Caroline, impossible; I must inquire, I must know. Forgive me, oh, my cousin!—I would not be presumptuous—I would not be oppressive; but can I suffer you to shut up in your own pure breast this disgraceful secret? for disgrace attaches somewhere, and leaves you to struggle alone with all the heart-rending reflections that it must give rise to. By our relationship—by the good opinion which I have sometimes flattered myself you entertain of me—by each, and all of them, I conjure you to honour me with your confidence. Let not an unavailing tenderness for another deprive me of a privilege of which I am not wholly unworthy, and which is dearer to my heart than all that all the congregated monarchs upon earth could bestow. My suspicions have already but one object, your silence will but the more confirm them; the mischief appears to be extensive. You, I see, believe it to be hopeless, but this may not be the case; remedies, or at least mitigations, may be found: you must not, indeed you must not, take this burthen upon yourself without one effort to lighten it. Do not be afraid, my dearest cousin, to open the whole bad story to me. I will not stir a finger without your consent; I will counsel no harsh measures; I will have every consideration that your delicacy, might I not in this instance say filial delicacy? can require. But I must not suffer you to be pillaged unresistingly; I must not suffer the best of human intellects to be the dupe of the best of human hearts. Write to me, my dearest cousin; remember that family honour is with you and me the same, and be not afraid to tell me all that has been done, and we will then see what can be done. I have obeyed your direction with respect to my mother, because I know that here can lie no appeal from your will; and because I know how much more keenly you feel the deprivations of others than you do your own. For the same reason I will mention that a little successful industry has been able to supply the efforts of baffled benevolence; so do not fear that my mother will any ways suffer from your disappointment. Perhaps I ought to entreat your forgiveness for the liberty I have taken, and the warmth with which I have written; and if either should offend you I shall be most sincerely grieved, yet should I scarcely even then know how to repent, having yielded to an impulse which I should have found it so difficult to have resisted. My dearest cousin, farewell! Angels, only more pure and more spiritualized than yourself, protect and bless you!”

The tumult of mind into which Caroline was thrown by the perusal of this letter at once astonished and alarmed her: she felt how little she was advanced in the task she had imposed upon herself of confining her regards for Edward within the bounds of friendship. As she read his animated praise, his ardent desire to serve her, it seemed that such delight was happily purchased by the loss of the whole of her fortune, and she forgot for a moment that her father’s integrity and her own property had been wrecked together. Returning from the delirium of bliss that the first perusal of Edward’s letter had occasioned, she again read it, and found ground for more sober feelings.

“Compassion,” said she; “his own high sense of rectitude; his impatience under the feeling of injuries done to others; may they not fully account for all that I have been so ready to impute to another cause! He speaks to me as a friend, as an adviser, as a relation. ‘We feel for the same family honour,’ says he; would he have ventured to have spoken so peremptorily had he been a lover?”

She blushed as the last thought passed through her mind. “Foolish Caroline!” said she, “wouldest thou separate the character of a lover from that of a friend?—and is it not the part of a friend to forget forms in substances?”

“What is it,” added she, “that I wish? Would I indeed desire that the happiness of Edward should depend upon an union which my poverty has now put out of all question?” The reflections that followed this thought soon stilled the effervescence of joy, and gave Caroline sufficient calmness to reply to Edward’s letter with all the decorum that she could desire. Her decorum, however, was untinctured by subterfuge, unchilled by affected indifference: it was the decorum of a delicate mind, not the disguise of spider-like coquetry. Thus she wrote.

“I hope I am not so undistinguishing as to mistake the warmth of a generous friendship for the impertinence of curiosity. I sincerely believe that it is for my sake alone that you wish thus to pry into what I would willingly conceal. Concealment, however, as far as the purpose for which I can alone wish it, seems with you to be impossible: as much so as, I am persuaded, my confidence would be unavailing to the end which you so kindly seek. Your sagacity is not mistaken as to the source from whence my difficulties spring; and having said this, I am sure you will spare me the pain of saying more. Your advice, could I have had it, might have prevented the evil; it is beyond your power to remedy it.—I will have no umpire between a parent and myself. All that I can now wish is that the transaction may remain a secret from the whole world; and I will so far tax your friendship as to require from you the most sacred silence, not only as to any supposed fact, but as to every circumstance that can point suspicion to the truth. I am now sheltered from all observation; I shall soon be, if I am not already, forgotten by what we choose to call ‘the world:’ it will not, therefore, be difficult to draw an impenetrable veil over what has passed. In my situation you know that I can have no personal wants; and the change that has taken place in my circumstances would not cost me a sigh if I had not so intemperately, as I am now inclined to think, involved poor Mrs. Fitzosborn in my disappointment. Lest your conjectures should go beyond the truth, I will tell you that I still retain possession of two thousand pounds and my house in Somersetshire; so that I am, as to myself, still sufficiently affluent, still able, while I continue with my uncle, to do the little that I have promised for your mother. May the industry, which I pray to God to bless, supply my deficiencies! Earnestly as I wish to retain the good opinion of Mrs. Edward Fitzosborn, I must require that your eagerness to acquit me of blame does not lead you to exculpate me at the expense of another. I will trust my reputation to that Being who has enabled me, as I humbly hope, to do my duty; and do not you, by your zeal in my favour, betray that you think my confidence ill founded. For the rest, it is but as if it had never been: let us think of it no more; but let us think a great deal of that which will never pass away—of that which will even outlive the affectionate and grateful regard with which I am sincerely yours,

C.F.”

To this letter Caroline received the following answer.

“I acquiesce, my dear, my wonderful cousin. It is all that I can, all that I dare trust myself to say; were I to say more I might perhaps offend you, or wrong others.”

Caroline, with a new spring of joy in her heart, which she knew not how wholly to account for to herself, now fully resumed her former occupations; and pursued them with a spirit and satisfaction that delighted her uncle. The evenings now began to lengthen; and books and backgammon were resorted to, rather than drives in the park, or walks in the grounds. A regular course of reading was begun, and Caroline already anticipated the store of knowledge that the winter would enable her to accumulate: but other thoughts troubled the mind of Mr. Fitzosborn. The uneasiness that Caroline had avowed on occasion of her father’s conduct Mr. Fitzosborn had connected in his own mind with the cause of her refusal of Mr. Beaumont: this cause he entertained no doubt was her preference to some other person; a preference which, if not strictly unworthy, he concluded to be indiscreet. In the discomposure that he had witnessed in Caroline he thought he saw the crisis of this preference; while the cheerfulness and renewed enjoyment which she had lately manifested evinced that the struggle was past.

The favourite wish of Mr. Fitzosborn was to see Caroline the wife of Mr. Beaumont; but the strict watch which he kept over his thoughts taught him to distrust the motive for this wish. He apprehended that he might mistake an indulgence of self-will for an earnest desire to secure Caroline’s happiness. That a marriage with Mr. Beaumont would secure her happiness, and, what was of still high price in his estimation, her principles and integrity, he did not entertain a doubt. Marriage he looked upon as the touchstone of all female virtues; and that as an unworthy choice too surely proved in general the shipwreck of all that is excellent in woman, so he regarded a connection with a man of religious principle and sound understanding as a harbour of safety. But he would not conduct Caroline even into this harbour against her will; and while the suspicion remained of her preference to another, he had been able to suppress, though he could not wholly conquer, his desire to recommend Mr. Beaumont to her favour. The happy moment, however, he believed to be now arrived, in which, without wounding her feelings, he could gratify his own; and having observed for several weeks past an uninterrupted serenity of mind in Caroline, he resolved to bring the matter to an issue.

“Caroline,” said he to her one evening, as she closed the book for the night, “I am thinking of some means to enliven these winter hours to you. So unvaried a life, I fear, will weary you.”

“It is a vain fear, my dear sir,” replied Caroline, with a smile; “I never found time so short as since my residence at Henhurst.”

“But, child, if you live wholly with an old man you will soon be unfit company for any body else.”

“I flatter myself,” replied Caroline, “that you will let me always live with you.”

“Always, child!—do you consider what you say?”

“I certainly meant,” said Caroline, abashed, “to use the word only in the sense that a mortal can use it.”

“Yet even then,” said her uncle, “it was not the proper word: you meant to say that you wish to remain with me while I live.”

“Or while I live,” said Caroline, with emotion.

“We need not advert to so threadbare a topic as the uncertainty of human life,” said Mr. Fitzosborn. “We all know that there is no dependence upon survivorship; but in the common course of things that must be your lot between you and me, and to this we must look. And do you think it would be fair, Caroline, so to spoil you while I live that nobody will have any thing to do with you after I am dead?”

“Why, dear sir, why must we think of such a period?”

“Because we ought to think of every thing that may happen. No weakness, Caroline—but I had little intention of making either of us serious. I was merely going to ask you if you should object to an addition to our tête-à-tête?”

“Object! my dear uncle; how is it possible that I should object to any one whom you wish to see?”

“Because you have seen the person I mean before; and because you have once been so foolish as to think you could see too much of him.”

“I will not affect to misunderstand you, sir,” said Caroline. “If it is Mr. Beaumont that you mean, although I will not deny but that I had rather he did not come here, yet if he come wholly as your guest, I can certainly have no objection to doing my part towards entertaining him.”

“And pray,” said Mr. Fitzosborn, “does your exclusive wholly refer to what has past, or to any fear of what may be to come?”

“To both,” returned Caroline: “my mind remains unchanged.”

“In all, particulars?” said Mr. Fitzosborn.

“In all particulars,” returned Caroline, colouring.

“Caroline,” said Mr. Fitzosborn earnestly, “I can no longer bear this mystery. When first I received you into my house I was unknown to you; reserve on your part was then allowable; but except your knowledge of my character has led you to think me unworthy of your confidence, I have now a right to it, and as the guardian of your virtue I require it.”

Caroline trembled, and turned pale; her lips quivered, and her voice faultered.

“What am I to understand by such emotion?” said her uncle: “can the simple disapproval of Mr. Beaumont cause it? No, it springs from a different feeling; you love another.”

“Spare me, my dearest uncle; oh, spare me!” cried Caroline, in a voice of agony.

“I will spare you,” said Mr. Fitzosborn, “but you must also spare yourself; you must tear from your heart that worthless being who, having gained so rich a jewel, has not courage to come forward to claim it.”

“There is no such being,” cried Caroline with energy. “Oh, my uncle! you demand and deserve my confidence. Away with false shame! I confess my heart was given, not won.”

Mr. Fitzosborn, confounded with an avowal so little expected, was silent for a few moments; while Caroline, covered with intolerable confusion, durst not cast even a momentary glance towards him.

After a moment’s pause, “It can only be on kindred excellence,” said Mr. Fitzosborn affectionately, “that my Caroline has conferred so rich a gift. You love Edward.”

Caroline was silent: the moment of enthusiasm was past, and she remained confounded and abashed.

“In a passion so founded,” said Mr. Fitzosborn, “virtue has nothing to reprove. I have long had my eye on Edward; I know how highly he ranks in the estimation of all whose judgment has any value. But what says prudence to the matter? Will she allow that you shall bestow your thousands on a man who has nothing but his industry to give in return?”

“I inteat you, sir,” said Caroline, in an agony of feeling that she had never known before; “I intreat you, sir, let us not discuss this matter any farther. It is no calculation of prudence—Edward—I—indeed, indeed this cannot be thought of.”

“You would say,” returned Mr. Fitzosborn, “that Edward never sought you, and you draw the conclusion that he did not wish to seek you; but so do not I. Had Edward endeavoured to win your heart, he had been unworthy of it. Would you have him such a coxcomb as to believe that his personal merit is a counterpoise to yours, and your money into the bargain?”

“Edward is free from all such coxcomby,” said Caroline: “be assured, my uncle, that Edward thinks not of me.”

“I will be assured of that from his own mouth,” said Mr. Fitzosborn, “before I will believe it. Caroline, I must have you married. Perhaps my wishes did not lead me to choose Edward for your husband, and for this I may have my reasons, perhaps whimsical ones, perhaps good ones; but all ought and shall give way to so decided a preference as that which you have avowed. Religiously and morally speaking, Edward is worthy of you—I take it upon myself to bestow you upon him: yet search well your heart, and be assured that no vanity, no ambition, no predilection for the good things of this world lurks there, which will burst forth when this passion of love has burnt itself out. Now you may lawfully choose between a greater and a less splendid establishment; but your choice once made, all hankering after the flesh pots of Egypt will be vice. Can you be contented with the modest appointment befitting the wife of a man who must labour for his daily bread, and who ought to be ashamed to spend money faster than her husband gets it?”

Mr. Fitzosborn might have spoken for ever. Caroline was unable to interrupt him. She could have endured the torture of the rack with less anguish than his words inflicted. He looked on her amazed. “Caroline, what now? Speak!—How?—what?—what is the nature of the mortal contest that so shakes your frame?”

Clasping her hands, and falling upon her knees—“No more, my uncle!—no more, I beseech you!” said she: “no more, if you would not kill me on the spot. I cannot marry Edward. I would not that you should offer my hand to him for a thousand worlds.”

“What am I to think of this unbecoming, this unusual violence?” said Mr. Fitzosborn. “What is it that you know of Edward or yourself that can justify it?”

“Oh, question me no farther, I conjure you,” said Caroline, with increasing agony: “I have told all I can tell; all I dare to tell—I cannot be Edward’s wife: yet he is all excellence; no fault attaches to him; but I cannot, I cannot be his wife!”

“Nor the wife of any other man then,” said Mr. Fitzosborn, solemnly: “you do not mean it?”

“No,” returned Caroline firmly, “my hopes, my wishes, are bounded in being allowed to pass my life with you, and the being able to retain your esteem.”

“I will tell you plainly,” said Mr. Fitzosborn, “that this conversation has shaken the foundation on which it rested. Withdraw to your own room—compose your spirits—let us both forget, if it be possible, what has past.”

Caroline withdrew from the presence of her uncle humiliated, and half heartbroken. “Oh, cruel father!” almost broke from her lips, before she had sufficient command over herself to check the exclamation, or to turn her thoughts from her earthly to her heavenly Parent. But the aberration was momentary. “I have retained my integrity—I have performed my duty—the secret, just bursting from my lips did not escape me,” said she. “I will not repine: no, bankrupt as I am in fortune, in love, in the good opinion of him whose praise was most pleasant to my soul, I will not repine. Time with me shall not outweigh eternity!”

Caroline, as she said these words, wiped with her trembling hand the tear from her eyes. She addressed herself, with all the fervency of undoubting confidence, to the Vindicator of innocence. Her mind became calm—she retired to bed, and sunk, ere long, into a sweet and refreshing sleep. She rose not, however, in the morning with that lightness of spirit which the certainty of meeting the countenance of a partial friend is so fitted to bestow. “I have lost his esteem for ever!” said she; “yet never did I deserve it more than at this moment—let me shew him by my cheerfulness that I am free from self-reproach. He will not suspect me of studied deceit; when he sees that I esteem myself, perhaps he may again esteem me.”

She spent some time alone, thus endeavouring to arouse that sense of self-approbation to which she had so just a right: yet when she appeared before her uncle her eye sunk under his, as if with a criminal consciousness; and to the coldness of his morning salutation she could only answer with her tears. As soon as breakfast was over Mr. Fitzosborn retired to his library, without, as it was customary with him to do, arranging with her the hours that they were to spend together, or the manner in which they were to be occupied. They met not again till the hour of dinner. The meal passed in unbroken silence; and when they adjourned to the drawing-room Mr. Fitzosborn took up a book, and read to himself. Caroline was in agonies; yet was she resolved, if possible, not to desert herself.

“Shall I not have the pleasure of reading to you to-night, sir?” said she, in a broken voice.

“You are not able to read aloud,” said Mr. Fitzosborn.

“Indeed I am,” said Caroline, speaking with more steadiness; “and if ever my services were acceptable to you, I am not unworthy that they should be so now.”

Mr. Fitzosborn looked at her.—“We will, however, have no reading to-night,” said he.

“Let me play to you, sir;” said Caroline.

“My mind is not in tune,” said her uncle.

“Shall we look over these drawings together?” said Caroline.

“I cannot see them by candle-light,” said Mr. Fitzosborn.

Caroline snuffed the candles, and placed two more upon the table, and opened the book of drawings.—“If it will not hurt your eyes, sir,” she said, “be so kind as to explain this gem to me.”

Mr. Fitzosborn felt obliged to comply; and Caroline had the art to engage his attention from drawing to drawing till he began to relax his brow, and to change his monosyllables into conversation. Yet it was evident that “the domestic deity” was not at home, nor the heart alive to kindness. Cold and absent, his words came slowly from his lips; moral maxims or sarcastic observations composed the whole of his discourse; and after an evening of painful effort on the part of Caroline, and repulsive austerity on the part of her uncle, they parted, with little inclination to rest in either: yet was the consciousness of having lost the favour of her best earthly friend less painful to Caroline than her supposed dereliction of virtue was to Mr. Fitzosborn. Supported by the sense of rectitude, her breast swelling with the consciousness of having sacrificed all considerations of self to a principle of duty, Caroline was not, amidst all the gloom of imputed turpitude, without her moments of illumination, while all was blank and dark in the mind of Mr. Fitzosborn.

Over Caroline’s supposed deviation from the path of rectitude he mourned as over a fallen angel. In vain he wearied his mind to discover some clue to her conduct that did not terminate in offence. The mystery that attended an acknowledged uneasiness; the avowal of love for a man whom she yet so strenuously refused to marry; her willing seclusion from the world; and the evident reluctance, almost to dread, that she evinced to the very thought of quitting Henhurst; all seemed to point to some particular in her self-government that would not bear the light. He reflected on the company she had kept, on the temptations to which she had been exposed, and he trembled.

No one was a truer nomenclature than Mr. Fitzosborn when he spoke of virtue and vice in which he had no share: he was unacquainted with, and would not have understood, the modern vocabulary. He knew not what was meant by “an amiable weakness.” He had no conception that “an unfortunate passion” explained the premeditated invasion of the peace and honour of a husband, or “indiscretion” the grossest act of unfaithfulness in a wife. He knew nothing of “vows which, registered in Heaven,” annulled those registered on earth; of “the union of hearts,” that superseded all other union: nor could he better understand that seduction was “gallantry,” or murder “a point of honour.” He did not know that “a little derangement” meant bankruptcy, or “the settling one’s affairs” was depriving one’s creditors of half their due. He was not aware that “candour” was the toleration of every vice; or “freedom from prejudice,” infidelity. Nor were his principles much more liberal than his knowledge in the English language was extended. He would not allow that a young woman who spent the most part of her time in frivolous amusements, or selfish gratifications, was a Christian: or that luxurious refinement in accommodation, in ornament, in dress, or in food, consisted with sober-mindedness. Nor could he readily admit that coquetry, dissimulation, or extravagance, were “youthful follies—only freaks of thoughtless youth.” With him they tainted, and they stampt the character.

With such limited comprehension, and such narrow opinions, it was not wonderful that Mr. Fitzosborn, adhering in his notions to the old boundaries of the path of uprightness, should entertain some fears that Caroline might have deviated from so narrow a line: what the nature of her wanderings might have been he was at a loss even to conjecture. When he called to mind the purity, the simplicity, the humility of her sentiments, he felt that it was impossible that the love of vice, the love of the world, or the love of self, should dwell in her heart. When he considered the ingenuity of her countenance, the frankness of her manners, the correctness of her speech, free at once from exaggeration and confusion, he found it absurd to suspect her of dissimulation. All that she chose to reveal she had revealed clearly—even virgin modesty had not misled her, when compelled to speak at all, to speak more or less than the truth, painful and humiliating as that truth must have been. She had asserted her innocence; she had even laid claim to merit. Was this consistent, in such a character as Caroline’s, with a sense of guilt? Yet guilty in some way she must be; there was no other explanation of the mystery that she maintained, of the agonies that she had suffered. Again and again did Mr. Fitzosborn repulse this conclusion; but again and again it returned, and fastened itself so immoveably on his understanding that no efforts of his heart could shake it off.

Farewell, then, for ever to the delight that the company and conversation of Caroline had imparted!—The illusion was destroyed; this angel of light was but like the rest of her fellow mortals; and virtue was but a name—for Caroline was not virtuous!

“She shall yet continue with me,” thought he, “the poor thing desires to do so—perhaps this the only place of safety for her: yet to see her, to hear her, and not dare to love her!—the task will be a hard one.” And to love what he believed to be contaminated by vice or folly was by Mr. Fitzosborn considered as no venial weakness; yet not to love Caroline he found to be impossible; and this opposition between his feelings and his principles produced for her a very grievous effect. When absent from her he thought of her only with the tenderest compassion; but the agitation that the sight of her occasioned, the perpetual contest between the pleasure that she gave him, and the opinion that he ought not to receive pleasure from her, irritated his temper; and he treated her by turns with the most chilling coldness and the most caustic austerity. Caroline’s spirits almost sunk under such undeserved harshness. That it was undeserved was her best consolation. She called in aid an increased activity in the pursuit of all that could inform her understanding, or gratify her benevolence. As she was now at full liberty to dispose of her time, she extended her rambles amongst the poor: she often spent whole mornings with them, either instructing the children, or allaying the pains of sickness or of age. Insensibly she formed a little circle of friends and panegyrists around her, who pressed upon her observation, and covered her with blessings whenever she appeared, more especially as she went and returned every Sunday to and from the place of public worship.

This increased interest that Caroline had excited could not escape the notice of Mr. Fitzosborn. He said one day, somewhat peevishly—“You are become very popular, I perceive.”—Caroline answered modestly. “The greater leisure which I now have gives me more time to look to these poor people.”—“But looking alone,” said Mr. Fitzosborn, “does not satisfy such admirers as these.”—“Your bounty, sir,” returned Caroline, “does all the rest.”—‘And, pray, why not your bounty?—have you nothing to give?”—“I endeavour,” said Caroline, in some confusion, “to proportion my expenditure to my means.” “It is prudently done,” said Mr. Fitzosborn, with a darkened brow.

These questions, and this observation, arose from a suspicion which, amidst the variety of conjectures that tormented Mr. Fitzosborn as to the nature of Caroline’s turpitude, had lately stolen into his mind: he began to believe that she was mercenary. To this he referred her refusal of a poor man, even though he was the man she loved: to this he imputed her former recommendation of Edward to his favour. The Henhurst estate would have made his hand well worthy her acceptance; and to this he imputed the warmth of her rejection when he was offered to her only as the fabricator of his own fortunes. Here too he thought he found the spring of her earnest wish to remain shut up from all the world with him. Every attraction exerted to please him rose up in judgment against her. As his growing favour, he was persuaded, had generated a hope that she would be his heir, so he thought he saw her cling to this hope under every present discouragement.

It is true there were facts which strongly militated against such a notion: her absolute refusal of Mr. Beaumont, though in opposition to his declared wish—her resolute concealment of the cause of her rejection of Edward, though such refusal, and such concealment, had manifestly lost her his esteem—her perfect freedom from all servility, from all flattery—he saw her drooping under his displeasure; yet she seemed rather to mourn the loss of a happiness to which she had a right, than to supplicate for a boon—all spoke the independence, the disinterestedness of the mind of Caroline; yet all was not sufficient to destroy the opinion founded on contrary, and, as he thought, better grounds.

The occurrence of daily little circumstances served to confirm him more and more in this opinion. He was as minute an observer as was her father; and though the objects of his observation were different, they did not less certainly serve with him to stamp the female character. As to the garments that Caroline wore Mr. Fitzosborn was wholly indifferent; while there was nothing that militated against modesty, neatness, and cleanliness, he could not have told one hour what she had worn the last; but there was scarcely a word, a look, from whence he did not draw some conclusion as to her moral character.

The opportunities for spending money, except in charity, did not often occur at Henhurst. Charity she had almost disclaimed, and it therefore appeared to him that she did not spend money at all. If a new work was advertised, or an itinerant merchant offered his goods to sale, Caroline shewed no inclination to gratify either her own literary taste, or to indulge the humbler fancies of any of the domestics:—she seemed neither to have wants nor wishes—there were no signs about her of that readiness of expenditure which flows from a benevolent heart and a full purse. Mr. Fitzosborn had no doubt but that she possessed the one—his conclusion, therefore, that she wanted the other, was not wholly illogical.—“Fifteen hundred pounds a year,” would he say to himself, “and never forget the value of a guinea!—at nineteen too!”

Short of the actual commission of crime, no supposed failure in the character of Caroline could have been more fatal to her favour with her uncle.—“Covetousness,” would he say, “if it want the activity of vice, is the smotherer of every virtue. No, no, I must not be seduced by the lustre of the jewel to forget that it is false!”

Caroline was not unaware of the interpretation that the economy to which she was compelled w