THE

UNEXPECTED LEGACY.

VOL. I.

THE

UNEXPECTED LEGACY,

BY MRS. HUNTER,

OF NORWICH;

AUTHOR OF LETITIA; THE HISTORY OF THE GRUBTHORPE

FAMILY; AND MRS. PALMERSTONE’S LETTERS

TO HER DAUGHTER.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR T.N. LONGMAN AND O. REES,

PATERNOSTER-ROW;

AND W.T. ROBBERDS, NORWICH;

1804.

THE

UNEXPECTED LEGACY.

CHAPTER I.

IT is now about four years since that I was unexpectedly summoned into Derbyshire, in order to take possession of an estate bequeathed to me by a distant relation of the name of Underwood.

The young gentleman whom my deceased friend’s attorney sent to London to give me this intelligence, was a clerk in his office; and, delivering a letter from him inclosing one from my cousin, written to me in her last illness, he further informed me that it was necessary I should take the most speedy measures for my journey; his master meaning to wait for my instructions in regard to the funeral, believing also that Mrs. Underwood had in her last will left some particular directions relative to it.

Dismissing my courteous informer to the repose he needed, my first attention was given to my relation’s letter. In this, she mentions in general terms the reasons which had hitherto precluded her from having had a personal acquaintance with a relation so worthy to succeed her in her property, and in the duties annexed to a competency: this subject was hastily dismissed for one apparently more interesting to the feelings of the writer. She proceeds to inform me, that with an annual income of five hundred pounds, and some cash in hand, she has imposed no conditions save one, which she was convinced, from the character I bore, would be cheerfully acceded to, and faithfully observed, on my part. She had left to my care and kindness a young person, who had for some time found under her roof an asylum from the injuries of the world; and for which she had been amply recompensed by a gratitude and affection which had smoothed her passage to the grave. "I can give you," adds the writer, "no stronger evidence of my regard and good will, than by believing that with my little fortune you will adopt my sentiments in regard to an amiable woman, whom I shall quit with the fond hope of meeting her in a better world, and in the persuasion that I have provided for her security in this."

It is necessary for me to inform my readers, that, in my first emotions of surprise, on hearing of my "good fortune," as an accession of wealth is commonly called by those who think nothing beyond it, I was suddenly checked in my gratitude, by the doubt which arose in my mind of there being some mistake in the business, and I began to prepare for a disappointment of those prospects so suddenly presented to my imagination. At length I recollected having heard my mother speak of her cousin miss Gertrude Underwood, as of one whom she had much, though unintentionally, offended; and I remembered having seen this lady once or twice, when a little girl; but the reserve and ceremony of these visits had left no impression of affinity or family union on my memory. I recollected also my mother’s saying she was glad when she departed; for she knew that Gertrude Underwood hated her, and only came as a matter of form. I read my letter a second time: it was signed Gertrude Underwood, and she referred to the years which had elapsed since she had seen me at my mother’s house. The next difficulty was less easy to conquer. I thought this lady’s preference of me seemed to carry along with it an imputation on her justice, and for which I could not satisfactorily account consistently with my own notions of rectitude. Thus to have overlooked the claims of a deserving, and, as it appeared, a distressed young woman, who was the declared object of her love and esteem, in favour of ties of consanguinity so remote, and so feebly sustained by intercourse, as those which subsisted between Mrs. Underwood and myself, surprised me; and I could only perceive a narrow spirit, and a weak dependence on another for the discharge of a duty which it was incumbent on herself to have performed: and with this hasty judgment in disfavour of the donor, the honour and integrity of the receiver was some how or other involved. During my journey, my mind was engaged by reflections resulting from these considerations; and I questioned my companion with much curiosity relatively to the young lady, Mrs. Underwood’s companion. He said, "she was a widow, and had a fine little boy;"—my cheek flushed;—"that most people thought Mrs. Underwood had considered Mrs. Paulin as her daughter, she having been so kind to her, and so much attached to the child, who was indeed a most beautiful boy."—"How long has this lady lived with my cousin?" asked I, with an unpleasant sensation which was momentarily augmenting. "About two years," replied he; but she has known her longer; for Mrs. Paulin was at first a guest in Mr. Hampden’s family." This was the attorney’s name with whom the young gentleman resided. "She is," continued he, "in manners as well as in person, one of the most elegant women I ever beheld." I changed the subject, for it oppressed my spirits, and soon after gave myself up to my own thoughts. I arranged my plans of conduct in a way which soon tranquillized my mind; for, calculating with my new inheritance my own little annuity of two hundred pounds per annum, which I enjoyed for my life, I discovered that I stood indebted to Mrs. Underwood for the ability of exercising a benevolence to which my heart was not a stranger. Absorbed in my meditations, my companion made me even start, when he interrupted my reverie by telling me that he had orders to stop at Mr. Hampden’s house, if I had no objection, as both his lady and himself thought it would be better for me to sleep there, than at my own house, till after the funeral. "Shall I meet Mrs. Paulin at Mrs. Hampden’s?" asked I irresolutely.—"I believe not," answered he: "she was too much indisposed when I set out for town." It instantly occurred to me, that I should be an intruder on her sorrows; and I agreed upon turning towards those from whom I hoped for some intelligence respecting this lady, who was thus connected with my every thought.

CHAPTER II.

THE chaise soon after approached a handsome house: but a heavy rain which was falling prevented my curiosity from observing the direction of the road, till the young man told me "he had taken the lane, for the sooner we were housed the better." The master of the mansion had used the same precautions, for he was at the moment we drove into the stable-yard dismounting from his horse. With prompt courtesy he received the stranger, and, leading me through a corridor, said it was preferable to the lawn. We found in an elegant drawing-room his wife, who appeared surprised by our entrance. She rose however with alacrity to receive me, saying she was rejoiced to see me sheltered from the weather, but she had not heard the carriage.—"Her gentleman usher can account for that," replied her husband with a smile; "for we met in the back court, and I was too eager in my duty to make excuses for back stairs and passages, or even to think of my own boots."—He was rising—his wife prevented him. "Mrs. Sedley will soon be convinced," said she, "that we mean not to treat her as a stranger; and you know the etiquette of my drawing-room has established your privileges of resting when fatigued, in boots or without them. What a day you have both had!" continued she, ringing for coffee, and stirring up the cheerful fire: "I have had the ‘travellers by land and by water’ in my thoughts continually." The tone and manner with which this was said pleased me. During our comfortable repast, she asked her husband whether he had found time to see Mrs. Paulin?—"He had taken the farm in his way home, had found her composed, but anxious to hear of Mrs. Sedley’s arrival." I observed with seriousness, that I was not less anxious to meet a lady who had engaged my thoughts to a painful degree from the hour in which Mrs. Underwood’s letter had reached me. "It has been a matter not only of surprise but also of concern to me," added I, "that my cousin should have delegated the power of rendering justice into any hands but her own, and I cannot account for the omission of an obligation to friendship, by bringing forward my claims to her favour. Mrs. Paulin will, however, I trust, soon understand that Mrs. Underwood’s successor is not less anxious to secure independence to her, than to convince every one in the family that Mrs. Sedley is allied to her cousin in more respects than one."—"Mrs. Underwood was no stranger," observed Mrs. Hampden, taking my hand affectionately, "to the steward she has appointed to succeed her in her works of mercy and benevolence." I burst into tears. "I am utterly unable to account for her goodness to me," replied I. "All she could know of me amounts to no more than that I have been prepared by adversity to meet properly the duty she has assigned me." "I will have no business brought forward tonight," cried Mr. Hampden with assumed cheerfulness. "Let us, my dear Maria, persuade our guest to go to bed: it is the best place for her after a journey which has completely tired her; and in order that she may sleep undisturbedly, we will assure her that Mrs. Paulin is in no need of pecuniary assistance. Her excellent friend knew this, otherwise she would have provided for her. She has, however, not forgotten to secure to her the friend she wants; and I warn you, madam, to be on your guard, if you mean to secure your heart for a choice of your own. Mrs. Paulin will serve you as she has done us: common regard does not satisfy her, and she contrives to be loved in a way that does not suit every one." Relieved by this good-natured explanation, I became more collected; and was soon after conducted to my comfortable apartment by Mrs. Hampden, who, during the many little attentions and precautions of kindness, told me that it would be necessary for me to go to Rickland Farm the following morning, in order to give the requisite orders for the interment.

CHAPTER III.

Immediately after breakfast the next morning, I was conducted by my kind host in his carriage to Mrs. Underwood’s house. I was prepared for the shortness of the distance which separated the friends, by Mrs. Hampden’s saying that she should join us at the dining hour, and that, if it did not rain, she should prefer walking. On some remonstrances on my part, she good-humouredly told me that three or four Derbyshire stiles would never keep her from invading on my privacy; and unless I left her to her accustomed walk, it would be necessary to build a wall of defence around the dwelling to which I was going. On the road I was entertained with an account of the advantages of my newly acquired property. "It might be said to be the most compact thing in the county, for one and the same hedge nearly inclosed the estate;" and, "in this cottage-building age," added Mr. Hampden, "you will rarely see one so commodious or more tasty."

"It was the amusement of your cousin’s life to embellish her house and garden; and she happily succeeded in diverting her thoughts from a secret cause of trouble, which for some time depressed her spirits after she came to reside in this part of the world. Her love of retirement, however, was not banished by her renewed cheerfulness. Except ourselves, and one or two more, she admitted no visitors."

The chaise quitted the high road, and entered into a plantation of some extent. A good gravelled coach-way winding round it brought us to the house. It was the modest mansion of competence and taste, and from a gentle swell commanded a view more romantic than extensive. I was called from observing its beauties by the recollection that Death held there his prey; and that my gratitude, unless recorded in heaven, could only reach the mortal remains of my benefactress. Need I pursue this thought? I believe not:—for inconsiderate and unfeeling must that mind be, which in such circumstances would not have offered a tribute to heaven.

CHAPTER IV.

AN aged man-servant received us at the gate. "How are you, Jonathan, this morning?" asked Mr. Hampden in a tone of kindness. He bowed, passed his hand across his eyes, but made no answer. We were shown into a handsome parlour. "I will let Mrs. Paulin know the lady is come," said he, retiring. "Do so," replied Mr. Hampden, "and you may add that she is come to comfort." Notwithstanding this assurance I perceived in Jonathan’s face no abatement of his melancholy. He sighed deeply, and left the room; whilst, oppressed by sensations which some may think weak and romantic, and others ridiculous, I wished myself in my little apartment in Gower-street, with my fifty guineas a quarter for my wants and whims, and freed from the penalty of heirship charged with prejudices to surmount, and discontents to allay.

The appearance of Mrs. Paulin did not compose my spirits. She was in a deep mourning dress, and with suppressed emotions she welcomed me to Rickland Farm. Before she had finished her compliment her voice failed her, and she covered her face. I was silent, for I was troubled. "I have, my dear madam," said she with more composure, "ventured to hope that, by remaining here in this hour of common sorrow, I might be of some use to the sharers in my affliction, and of some service to you; but it may be that my heart too promptly suggested this excuse for apparent officiousness: the truth was, I could not leave the house whilst my dear friend…" She was unable to proceed.

"Come, my dear Mary," said Mr. Hampden, taking her hand and joining it with mine, "you must endeavour to console her successor, for she needs support. You are wrong to yield thus to a despondency of mind. An event which in the course of nature must happen to all, ought to find us prepared to meet its visitation; and in a life like that of our departed friend, in which an active course of virtue was closed by a resigned old age, we ought rather to contemplate its recompense than to yield to selfish regrets. You must set Mrs. Sedley a good example; for I suspect that she is not altogether a stoic. But where is my boy?" added he with assumed gaiety. "I must introduce him to my client before I proceed to business."—Mrs. Paulin’s expressive countenance lost its paleness. "I left him very busy above stairs," replied she, deeply blushing, "preparing Sappho’s breakfast. We cannot make the poor faithful animal take her food, nor keep from her mistress’s room."—"We will go to him," observed Mr. Hampden, leading the way, "and be at once at home." The apartment in question might have assumed without affectation the title of the library; for it was filled with books, and furnished with the varied resources of cultivated leisure. Its principal ornament however at that moment was, in my eyes, a lovely boy about four or five years old, who was stretched on the carpet, and, as it appeared, vainly endeavouring to allure a fine spaniel to a bason of bread and milk; and whilst holding the dog by the collar with all his strength with one hand, he caressed her with the other. "Taste it, my poor Sappho," cried he, unmindful of our entrance, "only taste it; it is sugared." The animal, impelled by an instinct more powerful than the soft pleadings of the child, still struggled to obtain its liberty, which the opening of the door gave her a chance of effecting. The child more eagerly held her, and Mr. Hampden assisting him he conquered. "Now coax her to eat her breakfast," said he; "otherwise she will die like mamma Underwood, and then I should grieve more."—"Do you not see this good lady whom I have brought to comfort your mamma, and to love poor Sappho?" asked Mr. Hampden: "have you nothing to say to her?"—"No; I have only a kiss for her." He without the smallest embarrassment presented a face of exquisite beauty, and, having kissed me, begged I would take care of Sappho, who would not leave mamma Underwood’s room. A maid servant entered, and he was invited into the garden to feed the birds.

We now proceeded to the business of the day. Mr. Hampden, raising the seals of a cabinet in the room, produced Mrs. Underwood’s last will and testament, in which he was named joint executor with myself. Legacies to her three servants of a hundred pounds each, with her donation to the poor of her parish, and instructions for her interment, constituted the principal objects in it. A codicil written by herself gave to Mary Pauline Murray, commonly called Mrs. Paulin, and then an inmate of her house, the sum of five hundred pounds, as a tribute to her merit, and a mark of the affection of the donor. For the payment of these several bequests I found three thousand pounds in the public funds. To these necessary preliminaries succeeded the last offices of humanity to the respectable Mrs. Underwood.

CHAPTER V.

Imagine me, gentle reader, quietly settled in my new abode, and on those terms of friendship and intimacy with the Hampdens, which convinced me that they were not dissatisfied with their new neighbour. Sappho, without any imputation on her constancy, found in my love and favour a remedy for her grief. My cousin’s prime minister, Mr. Jonathan, contentedly kept his post with even enlarged prerogatives; for Mr. Hampden finding that I was rich enough to keep a post-chaise, and I, that Jonathan had a nephew who could drive one, and assist him in the garden, increased my establishment by this luxury. Mrs. Becket at the head of the kitchen department found her lady as easy to please as the one whom she still regretted; and Mrs. Paulin, apparently contented with Sigismund’s new mamma, had settled into her usual occupations and amusements. It will easily be imagined how much I was surprised, at the end of a few weeks enjoyments, to be asked by Mr. Hampden whether I had concurred in the commission which Mrs. Paulin had given him, to inquire whether Mr. Thompson the farmer would let his rooms. "And for whom?" asked I with undissembled astonishment. "For herself," answered he. "But it is, I perceive, as my wife said, one of poor Mary’s flights, who, fearing you should be weary of her, has formed the design of breaking her own heart, and distressing yours." I confirmed Mr. Hampden’s supposition in regard to myself, and he quitted me, perfectly convinced that I meant not to resign my right to Mrs. Paulin without a struggle.

CHAPTER VI.

I had not been without the curiosity so naturally arising from the circumstances I have related concerning Mrs. Paulin. Her designation in the codicil to Mrs. Underwood’s will had not escaped my notice. Her youth and attractive beauty neither agreed with the title she bore, nor her love of retirement. That she was unhappy was too apparent, although her melancholy was blended with a composure which neither rendered it obtrusive, nor herself a dull companion. Of her virtue I could have no suspicions; for, had I met her unsupported by her friends, I should have pronounced her an innocent woman. On weighing these observations with others which hourly occurred, I thought she was a deserted wife, and, in consequence of an imprudent choice, was left by her own family to all the bitter fruits of disobedience and a too easy credulity. On entering her room, in order to expostulate with her on the subject of my discontent, I found her weeping. "To what cause am I to attribute these tears?" asked I, sitting down by her. "Are you tired of me? and does it distress you that my claims on you for comfort have too much the appearance of legality? Have not I told you in a thousand different ways, that I consider you as Mrs. Underwood’s most precious legacy? I now repeat it in a language you must comprehend: but if you wish to leave me, say so, and choose your abode; for there will you find that my happiness must spring from yours. It is true, I shall regret your absence, and, it may be," added I, smiling, "wish I had not been the heiress to Mrs. Underwood. How little do you know, my dear Mary," continued I, "the being whom you wish to abandon for rooms in a stranger’s house! Is it possible that you have not discovered that you are in a home for life, and sheltered in a bosom neither cold nor capricious?" She gave me her hand, and, sobbing in my bosom, thanked me for an explanation she had not dared to request. "And why not, my love," asked I, "if you perceived ambiguity in my proceedings with you?" "I can hardly tell you," replied she, blushing; "but I thought the little curiosity you discovered was an indication that you took no interest in the fate of a young woman who had more names and titles than one; and I have attributed your kindness to me to your regard for Mrs. Underwood’s memory. No tongue can describe what I felt on hearing my dear friend’s bequest to me read. Though defamed, and rejected by all my relations, I am not afraid of having my story known to you: but you have not asked even Mrs. Hampden a single question." "Say no more," replied I with eagerness: "I wanted no evidence of your innocence beyond my cousin’s report and the affection of these Hampdens. Whenever you please to favour me with your confidence I shall be gratified; and in the mean time banish from your mind every fear for the future; your child is mine, and as a daughter and mother we will share this asylum of peace and contentment." "It is as I thought," answered she, deeply blushing: "you think Sigismund is my son; but indeed he is not, though my life is only valuable to me as it is the means of his preservation. You must be informed of the circumstances of my life in order to account for my attachment to him, and my disgrace with my family: I cannot be easy till you acquit me." "Well," replied I, "this history of your life must be postponed for to-day; Mr. Hampden having promised to introduce a beau at my table. He tells me your favourite major Oldcastle is returned home; and I shall soon discover whether he has not had something to answer for in your choice of the lodgings in question." "I will not deny it," answered she, smiling through her tears, "nor will you be surprised when you see him, that I wished, when no longer the inmate of this blessed roof, to find a father under his. I could live with Mrs. Hampden: but her husband’s connexions are numerous, they receive a great deal of company; and your poor Pauline wishes only to live unnoticed and unknown." "It is time for my ‘poor Pauline’ to dress for our guests," replied I in a cheerful tone, "and to believe half her sorrows the effects of too timid a spirit; and also that Mrs. Sedley is not of the number of those whom she wishes to avoid." Her tears redoubled, but they were tears of gratitude; and I left her to compose her spirits.

CHAPTER VII.

I had every reason to imagine that the favour I found in major Oldcastle’s opinion, from the first hour he was a guest at my table, arose from Sigismund’s introduction of me; who had no sooner received his old friend’s caresses, and inquired after Leo, a large Newfoundland dog, the major’s friend and companion, than, turning with vivacity towards me, he eagerly recounted my goodness to poor Sappho, whom I had consoled, and who slept instead of moaning in my bedchamber. "Then she has forgotten Mrs. Underwood," observed the major with a suppressed sigh. "Oh, no!" replied the innocent child: "we all remember her, and love her for sending mamma Sedley to us." I soon perceived the effects of this observation. The major relaxed into pleasantness, and displayed the complacency of manners which results from an acquaintance with polished life and cultivated society. When our visitors departed, I observed to Mrs. Paulin, as a proof that I partook of the curiosity common to my sex, that I had found mine strongly excited by the major, and wished to know what had been his motives for living in retirement. "He has quitted the service many years," replied she, "and, I believe, for some time lived more like a recluse than he does at present. I have been told by Mrs. Underwood, that early disappointments in life, owing to the treachery of a friend, had disgusted him with the world; and that, from an excess of sensibility, he had acquired an asperity of manners which unfitted him for society. Time has confirmed him in those habits, and in a bluntness which few are disposed to tolerate; and overlooking in their turn a man who proudly asserts his independence, and his claims to respect, they settle the account of a merit they cannot set aside, by calling him a cynic, and affecting to believe that a heart of melting compassion for the woes of his fellow-creatures is obdurate to the feelings of nature. A similarity in the leading circumstances of their lives soon united Mrs. Underwood and this gentleman in an intercourse and friendship which nothing could have severed but the event that has lately taken place. Her sweet and gentle spirit greatly contributed to soften his severity of manners; for I have heard that he was, on fixing near her, absorbed in melancholy. You will find from time to time his contempt of wealth, fashion, and greatness, break forth: his maxims, as these relate to his judgment of the world, class all mankind in two divisions—the fool and the knave. I think, however, your vanity will not be humbled by the place you will occupy in his list; for he very benevolently admits all whom he favours with peculiar regard, to take their posts with the former of these epithets."—Mrs. Paulin paused.—"You have," said I, smiling, "awakened as you may conceive a froward child, whom it will weary you to quiet again. But I have never been perfectly at my ease since I first heard of my favour with Mrs. Underwood. Curiosity has not slept, in respect to those motives which influenced her in the preference of one who I may say was a stranger to her, whilst she had within her reach friends to whom she was closely united. I have been so much engaged in business, and Mr. Hampden has been so often on the wing, that I have not had an opportunity of making the inquiries I wished." "It is late," observed my companion, "and my little story may not contribute to your night’s repose. We will have it over the tea-board to-morrow morning." I submitted, and she retired for the night.

Certain indications, with which I was too well acquainted, gave me to understand that I might spare myself the trouble of seeking my pillow; for my mind was not sleepy. Time and management had however succeeded in giving me some power of control over those thoughts which had been the frequent companions of the widowed Mrs. Sedley; and I diverted their approach by thinking of the friend who seemed to be the destined inmate of my bosom. She had that day displayed new talents; for she had sung and played on the harp with powers of voice and with an execution which had surprised me. I recalled to my mind her person, as she gracefully touched the instrument, and a saint Cecilia rose to my imagination. I remembered the impressive tones of her voice, and the joy which animated her countenance on seeing the old major; and I said to myself, "Surely this creature must be an orphan: no parent could reject such a daughter!"—I now wondered that I had not better discriminated the character and lineaments of Sigismund, than to believe that Mrs. Paulin was his mother. She was fair; her eyes and hair were in perfect harmony with the delicate texture of her skin: but nature, in order to finish her work more completely, had deepened the colouring in the arched brow and eye-lids. Sigismund was of a clear brown complexion, with dark hazle eyes, and a cheek of the peach’s hue; active, and sometimes unruly: and with a fearlessness of danger, and a trust in every one around him, he exhibited hourly the captivating graces of a vigorous intellect and warm affections.—To these traits of his mind I opposed the meekness and softness of his supposed mother; and again I wondered that I had taken up the idea of their being related; for Mrs. Paulin did not appear to me more than twenty years of age, and Sigismund was in his fifth. The clock struck one, and reminded me that late hours were not in my physician’s prescription.

CHAPTER VIII.

The serenity with which Pauline, for it is time to drop her assumed title, officiated at the breakfast-table the following morning, gave me no cause for apprehension; and no sooner was Sigismund dismissed for a walk than she placed before me a manuscript.—"This," said she, "was written for the information of Mrs. Underwood, who insisted that I should have it in my own possession, on an occasion which I shall have to mention in the particulars I am about to relate to you relative to your cousin. You will also, my dear Mrs. Sedley, learn better, from perusing my little history, to estimate the value of a gentleman of the name of Furnival, who was Mrs. Underwood’s counsellor in her last worldly concerns, than from the most elaborate praise my gratitude can dictate. This gentleman," continued Pauline, "to whom I am indebted for more than life, has been for years the intimate friend of Mr. and Mrs. Hampden. He is in the law, and, with acknowledged talents in his profession, he stands unrivalled in the world for his integrity and benevolence. On conducting me to Mrs. Hampden’s, he paid his friends a visit which they had long solicited; and in a very short space of time we were both domesticated, not only in their hospitable abode but here also. From that time Mr. Furnival’s visits have been annually made during the summer vacation. Last autumn, some time before he returned to town, he was with us at breakfast; and according to custom, on our producing our needle work he looked for a book. He was undecided in his choice of our amusement, but at length his eye was caught by one now in his possession: it was an elegant edition of Virgil. ‘How is this?’ cried he, opening it: ‘are you not contented with understanding the greater part of the living languages, that you invade on the dead ones?’ Mrs. Underwood laughed, and replied that he well named Latin authors to her, for it was indeed a dead language to her ear. ‘It is a book,’ added she, ‘which is useless to me; perhaps unfriendly:’—her gaiety sunk—‘but I bought it for the sake of its unfortunate and last proprietor.’ Mr. Furnival was during this time examining the arms, and the name on the title page. ‘I have heard much of this Philip Sedley,’ said he: ‘he was a man of singular merit, and unquestioned bravery: of what nature were those misfortunes to which you have alluded?’—‘Not of that sort,’ replied Mrs. Underwood with emotion, ‘that are likely to overwhelm in ruin a man of singular merit or of distinguished courage: but I think you must mean his son. I know he left one to struggle with the difficulties resulting from his father’s misconduct.’—‘Probably,’ answered Mr. Furnival; ‘for it is a recent event which led me to an acquaintance with major Sedley’s name. A friend of mine was employed to settle the terms of a life-annuity for his wife, some few months before he died. He was much pleased and sensibly interested by their manners, and tenderness for each other, and frequently mentioned the widow to me as a deserving woman labouring under a loss which could never be repaired in this world.’—‘Do you not know her maiden name?’ asked Mrs. Underwood with eagerness. ‘Yes; it was, by her register, Frances-Charlotte Walsingham,’ answered Mr. Furnival.—‘I am then right in my conjectures,’ observed Mrs. Underwood with visible agitation, and wiping away her tears. ’she is my only surviving relation, and the daughter of one I once loved. You will not wonder at my tears, Mr. Furnival, when I add, that my life has been coloured by events in which this lady’s mother had too active a part for my peace—and I fear I ought to say for my forgiveness. What she thought a duty of friendship, I received as the merciless machinations of a concealed rival to obtain the affections of a man on whom I depended for my hopes of happiness. But we will, if you please, drop the subject for the present.’—I have good reason," continued Pauline, "for saying that Mr. Furnival had instructions for making her will the next day; and that she finally settled her affairs at that time. Thus I have accounted to you for Mrs. Underwood’s conduct, and have only to add, that some little time before her death she employed me in searching in her cabinet for letters. She saw them consumed in the fire; and with a languid smile observed, that love letters of more than thirty-five years date would add little to the annals of Cupid, and much less show her wisdom in having preserved them. I saw that they were signed Philip Sedley. She read to me with attention one or two from your mother, remarking the style and sentiments as she proceeded; and with a deep sigh she added, ‘I was every way deceived, Pauline, and, it may be, have harboured resentment where gratitude was due.’ She desired me to burn these letters also. From this time she frequently mentioned you, regretting that it was too late for her to unravel an ænigma which had confounded her understanding, although it could not render her unjust to the innocent. Mr. Hampden was informed of her intentions in your favour, and ordered to give you immediate notice of her death. This, my dear madam, is only one trait among many of the heart of a woman, who could not have died in peace with a lurking enmity in her bosom. I have now only to entreat you to read my papers," continued she rising: "they have been hitherto propitious to my wishes; and I trust that truth will establish me in your regard. I am going to seek the truant, and we will bring the major home with us." So saying, she withdrew, and left me to my curiosity.

CHAPTER IX.

I opened the pages; and found the first addressed ‘To Mrs. Underwood; with the Life of Mary Pauline Murray.’

MY DEAR MADAM,

To have been sheltered from ignominy and protected by your generous cares, when abandoned by my natural connexions, is the grateful theme on which you have commanded me to be silent. I obey; for I know no language which can properly express the sensations of a mind conscious of its innocence, yet branded by suspicion, and which in the hour of its humiliation finds a refuge where its truth is admitted, and its hopes are renewed. But is it not permitted me to enumerate the blessings with which Providence has seasoned this trial of my faith and trust? Has not Heaven, in its mercy, raised up for my support friends who encompass me with their love and kindness? Can Pauline, the cherished Pauline, recollect that she has been insulted and degraded, without paying the due tribute of praise to Heaven for opening to her the paths of peace and safety? I cannot pursue these thoughts. I am overpowered by a gratitude so hourly excited. Your poor Pauline must be silent, and leave to Heaven the care of recompensing her benefactors.

But you wish to have before you the detail of events which you have only heard in part. You wish, ah my revered friend, such were your words! to know your Mary Pauline Murray, from her cradle, being certain that from that hour she was destined to be your child.

I have, my dear—shall I say—mother, often listened with not only attention but assent to your opinions on the influence of early impressions on children, as these regard the moral character and particular biasses of the adult. I think that in the history of my infancy the truth of your observations will be established: and in the errors of my youth you will trace the careless hand, to say no worse of it, which consigned me to the guidance of another, by whom I happened to be treated with fondness, though without judgment. Impressed with this idea you will, I fear, find me prolix if not tedious in my account of the first years of my life. But I feel the necessity of appealing to that candour which will consider the seed that has been sown before it pronounces the soil unprofitable; and to that charity, which will not condemn the too early shoots to perish, because they came not in season, nor are matured by wisdom. Knowing, as I do, that my mind possesses with its simplicity the rectitude which only requires to be regulated, I disdain a humility which belongs properly to depravity. Your Pauline acknowledges no errors but such as your wisdom will correct, nor any faults that virtue needs to blush at. To her tribunal she hastens, and to her representative she appeals with unlimited confidence.

My parents at the period of my birth had already four children, two boys and two girls: the youngest of my sisters is eight years my senior. An extensive and successful commerce enabled my father to live at his ease, and promised him a provision for his family’s future support, although it was not of such a sort as to class him in that line of consideration by which, in such a mercantile town as Liverpool, the more opulent trader is distinguished from his neighbour. He was however contented in his station, and constantly engaged in his business, and conceived that his respectability was as acknowledged as his credit was solid. He perceived no defects in an education which had gradually conducted him to affluence, nor could he discover the advantages of a more liberal one, having, as he said, frequently heard these learned gentlemen speechifying in the town-hall to show their wit, whilst they neglected their day-book and ledger; and instead of the gold chain they so eagerly sought, they were often entangled where their learning was of little use. According to my father’s creed, every man knew enough, who understood his calling; and every man was a good man, who honestly paid his debts, supported his family, and employed the poor. But my father’s opinions, though little in favour of a more enlarged plan of education, stood in no need of correction on the side of morality. A plain understanding and his Bible had taught him, that he who neglected his household was worse "than a heathen;" that honesty and industry were the only road to comfort; and that in serving God was comprised serving his neighbour. Thus guided my father was at least removed from the poor man’s reproach, although his bosom did not glow with universal philanthropy; and notwithstanding he was not the enlightened guide of his children, they were the objects of his love and indulgent protection. In his hours of relaxation he was easy to please, though despotic in his demands. A few plain friends, a plentiful table, with pipes and tobacco, constituted his social enjoyments; which he rather too often observed that he paid for by working hard; and he thanked God, that neither he nor his children were in danger of being "choked with a baker’s or butcher’s bill."

My mother was of a more ambitious spirit: she had been a beauty, and was still a very handsome woman. She had prudently given up a train of admirers in favour of a man who was willing to marry her although portionless: but she had discovered that my father’s generosity had certain limits; and after a few trials she submitted to live in Mr. Murray’s "hugger mugger" way.

Some years of prosperous returns from a purchase in the West Indies, in which my father had a considerable share, convinced my mother that her husband was not a mean man. No opposition was made to her improvements in the furniture of the house, provided the smoking-parlour was left undisturbed; nor was any article of dress noticed, "if it was good and durable." These indulgences gave place to more ostensible wishes. "Alderman Butterfont’s children were educated in boarding-schools; his lady had a country house, and his one horse chaise was laid aside for a handsome coach." For a time these observations were silenced, by my father’s saying, in a tone which my mother understood, "It is all true, Becky, but I am not alderman Butterfont; nor will alderman Butterfont ever be the man your husband hopes to be." My expected appearance produced however a compliance in one point, which my mother had given up as lost; her husband having warmly insisted that her girls might make good wives like herself, who had never been in a boarding-school; and as for his boys, he would take care to bring them forward in the learning they would need. But my mother had been unfortunate from the time of my sister Judith’s birth, and her health indicated no better success with me. She spoke of the fatigues to which the cares of her family exposed her, and with some tears of her apprehensions. My two sisters were immediately placed in the same school with the miss Butterfonts; and my youngest brother, a turbulent boy, was sent to the West Indies in order to cure him of his predilection for the sea, or to confirm him in his preference of a sailor’s life. This respite from labour, with the gratification of her wishes, was repaid by my being born a healthy child: but my mother was advised by her female friends not to think of nursing me, as it would infallibly destroy her. Instances innumerable were brought forward in support of the opinion that children might do well on panada, and my mother preferred the experiment to having "the plague of a wet nurse in the house." On the third day of my existence, having been starved out of my resistance to the pap-spoon, I was consigned to the care of nurse Nightly, who with a sick and helpless daughter lived in an obscure part of the town. My removal, as it happened, neither shortened my mother’s confinement nor corrected my father’s opinions in favour of mothers suckling their children; for his wife had a milk fever, and from other alarming symptoms even fears for her life were entertained. Happily country air, with the purchase of alderman Butterfont’s villa and coach, who had suddenly become insolvent, so entirely established her health, that before the winter my mother recovered her usual spirits, and was perfectly satisfied that, although she had paid somewhat dearly for the secret, yet it had produced an indemnification fully equivalent to her wishes; for she had learned the direct road to my honest father’s compliances, by being on the brink of the grave and remaining delicate.

CHAPTER X.

The tender cares of my nurse, aided by a natural goodness of constitution, reconciled me to my food. When I had nearly reached my third year, a circumstance occurred which made me of some importance to my mother, and afforded my father an opportunity of displaying his wealth. A lady of the name of Maisin lived in a handsome house in the country near our summer residence. She was the widow of a native of Switzerland, who had passed the greater part of his life in Paris. At his death she returned to England, leaving her only child, a daughter, with the mother of her late husband, for the purpose of finishing her education, and consoling the aged and fond parent for the loss of her son. Mrs. Maisin was remotely related to my father, and on her first return to her own country had applied to him in those difficulties incident to a new establishment. My father had been useful and friendly; but her remoteness from us, joined to a love of retirement and a depression of spirits, had prevented an intimacy. Mademoiselle Maisin was in the mean time engaged, with the approbation of both her parents, to marry monsieur du Rivage, the associate in the banking-house of her father, who, although nearly double her age, had gained her heart. The sudden death of her grandmother prevented the celebration of the marriage; and in order to restore the young and affianced bride to health and spirits, which had been materially injured by her grief, monsieur du Rivage and his sister accompanied her on a visit to her mother. The beauty and accomplishments of this young lady, the gay and amiable manners of her female companion, who, although approaching to fifty years of age, claimed the prerogatives of youth and the respect due to a cultivated understanding, soon rendered Mrs. Maisin’s abode the residence of cheerfulness, and the resort of her fashionable neighbours.

My mother, whose gradual progress to gentility, with her claims of relationship to Mrs. Maisin, found an easy access to the gay parties formed for the stranger’s amusement, became elated by her intercourse with a family to whom she was indebted for her self-consequence; and availing herself of the feeble interest of her deserted infant, she urged to my father the necessity of my baptism, and proposed to him her darling project of giving an entertainment to Mrs. Maisin’s family, which should include all those of their select friends who had noticed them. This permission was granted with his usual indulgence, and even with an injunction "to do the thing handsomely." On this occasion my sisters were sent for from their school in order to be prepared for exhibition, and my nurse received orders to bring me to Wellsdown, the name of my father’s country house, some days preceding the ceremony, that I might be equipped in a style which had not been deemed necessary in "Dock-lane."

The amiable mademoiselle Maisin, with that warmth of affection so congenial to the heart of a being destined by nature for a mother, found in me an attraction which prepossessed her in my favour, even before my christening robe and laced cap were finished. She requested the favour of answering for me at the baptismal font; and my mother, flattered by this condescension, was for a time proud of her little Mary. My nurse, elated by the notice I had gained, was eloquent in my praise, and, without intending it, excited in the bosom of my future godmother an interest in my fate, with a surprise that my mother could so unaccountably give up to another the pleasure of having such an infant in her house. At the font I was presented by mademoiselle Maisin with her name, and my baptismal register made out as Mary Pauline Murray; monsieur du Rivage answering as my godfather.

The ceremony being over, my nurse, regaled with a good dinner and gratified by my father’s kindness, returned with her precious charge to "Dock-lane," leaving my mother to the joys of her fête-champêtre.

CHAPTER XI.

We were, however, both contented; for my happiness was in Dock-lane, and my nurse was loaded with my godmother’s gifts—a purse containing no less than ten guineas, a gold locket and beads for me, a new gown for Tabitha her lame daughter, with some muslin for herself, which, to use her own words, was "fitter for a duchess," and which I suspect was appropriated to a being she regarded with an idolatry beyond that which any rank would have produced! It would have been no matter of surprise to me, when qualified to appreciate justly the mind of that friend Heaven had given me, if, in her donations as my godmother, humanity had made them more liberal and extensive; but my nurse talked more of my perfections, than of her daughter’s sufferings and total incapacity to earn her bread. This unfortunate creature had been subject to convulsion-fits from her infancy: these, at the age of fourteen, yielded to a paralytic attack which deadened half her limbs, whilst the acute sense of suffering seemed to have acquired force from its concentrated power of acting, and from time to time she was liable to tortures from spasms in her stomach. Her patience and piety were established long before my birth; but young as I was when I last beheld her, I still retain a perfect recollection of her mild and placid countenance, and a grateful remembrance of her kindness to me. Methinks I now see her before me neatly dressed in her humble attire, and hear her voice, whilst with smiles she encouraged her pupil, and, with an animation which spoke the spirit that the ruined tenement confined, would talk to me of Heaven, and the happiness prepared for good people. Her Bible was her consolation, my improvement her amusement, and the labour of her poor feeble hands knitting sale-stockings, for which she gained fourpence the pair; which, as she observed, was a blessing, as this pittance supplied her with a costly remedy for the spasms in her stomach, and thus spared her good mother’s purse. My friend Tabitha freely communicated to me her knowledge, and, I scruple not to add, a portion of her own innate goodness of heart; for before I could speak the name of the insect I could have crushed, she had taught me to respect its life and ease.

Enabled by the bounty of my godmother and my father’s kindness, my nurse changed her abode for one she thought more airy for me and Tabitha. The allurement was powerful—a little garden in which flourished one large walnut-tree, and a neat cottage, which made one of several built on a piece of ground at the outskirts of the town, and to each of which was annexed an equal proportion of the ground which had been a garden; but, being too much exposed to the depredations of its neighbours, became a better speculation to the owner by building on it. Our walnut-tree was the gift of fortune, and the envy of our less lucky neighbours. My nurse’s taste for flowers soon added to this advantage, and the neatness of our garden attracted the notice of every passing eye. Here Tabitha had her seat, and here it was expected that I should regain that strength and activity which for some months had yielded to the maladies incident to my age, amongst which was the small-pox. Happily, although I had caught the infection in Dock-lane, I had the disease in its mildest form, and the vestiges of it disappeared before my strength was recruited.

CHAPTER XII.

In this situation I attained my fifth year. Tabitha’s knitting-needles were not unfrequently found rusty in her work, for I was become a prodigy of learning in "Cabbagefield-row," and could read as well as my instructress. One sorrow alone hung over this happy period of my life. This was my Sunday visit to my mother: the sight of my white frock and red shoes was the signal for my tears, and my perverseness became, at my father’s house, the indication of a stupidity which mortified my nurse and disgusted my mother. In vain was I entreated to repeat the psalm and the collect I could say so perfectly, in vain tempted by promised rewards to tell my father and mother the pretty story of the red-breast. I was stubbornly silent and inactive till the moment of departure, when, with a joy which I took no pains to conceal, I quitted the presence of the fine lady my mother, whose very looks intimidated me, and whose observations constantly discovered some blemish in me.

My nurse, no less weary of these visits than myself, complained, as the winter approached, of the fatigue of carrying me a long mile. Her plea was admitted. My mother’s visiting list was increased, my father was in the corporation, and my sister Becky had a lover, and would soon be married. Yielding to these several indispensable duties, my mother increased my pension, and all was complete happiness at "Cabbagefield-row."

The sedentary habits to which poor Tabitha was condemned, insensibly became mine as the winter drew us from the garden. The fascinating stories of Joseph and his brethren, of Naomi and her daughter, of Daniel with the lions, riveted me to her knee; and with a memory which astonished my partial friend, and which often tired her, I exacted in "the thrice and thrice told tale" a precision which admitted of no abridgement. These attainments, and my progress in reading, were the inexhaustible subjects of nurse’s conversation, when my wants or her demands led her to my father’s house: but as these reports went not beyond the kitchen, my stupidity and sullenness were not forgotten in the parlour.

I was interrupted one morning whilst feeding my robins, by being called into the house, to see a present my mamma had sent me; the footman having at the same time brought a formal invitation to dinner, for the anniversary of the new year, then within a few days: a smart bonnet and cloak with a fine muff were displayed before my eyes, by way of softening to me this bad news; but, turning from the gift with terror, I burst into tears. Nurse, moved to pity, pleaded the length of the road and the hazard of my taking cold; when to her amazement she was told that Mrs. Maisin would take us up in her carriage in her way to my father’s and that we were to be sent home in the evening. This silenced nurse, and the servant departed with no very favourable opinion of my docility.

CHAPTER XIII.

The day of tribulation arrived. I was dressed clinging to Tabitha’s knees, and my fine new muff was thrown indignantly on the floor, when Mrs. Maisin’s carriage stopped at the door. Nurse, her honest face flushed with the ineffectual labours of the morning, took her seat; and I, awed into silence, with suppressed sobs, blubbered cheeks, and inflamed eyes, was placed in my corner. "What has been the matter with this poor little girl?" asked Mrs. Maisin compassionately.—"Nothing, madam," answered nurse; "only she does not like to be with strangers: she is as cheerful as a bird with us; but she will, I hope, remember what she promised Tabitha, and behave prettily now."—"Yes," replied I, struggling with my rising tears, "I will not grieve her." No further notice was taken of my sorrow; but there were tones of kindness and sympathy in whatever Mrs. Maisin said to me, that beguiled me of it, and by the time I reached my mother’s drawing-room I was composed and sociable with my new friend. But the sight of a number of persons collected in the drawing-room entirely intimidated me, and with terror I clung to my nurse. My mother ordered me to make my curtsey to the company; and I burst into tears. "Poor thing!" said my mother to a lady next her, "I doubt very much whether we shall ever make any thing of her: this is always the case when she is noticed."—"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Maisin in a quick tone: "the child is only frightened. Come to me, my pretty Mary." "I would rather go home," answered I sorrowfully. "So you shall," answered she, "very soon, if you do not cry." She drew me gently towards her, and I did not resist. "Whom do you love?" asked my sister Becky. "Tabitha," answered I. "And whom besides?" "Mammy Nightly." "And do you love no one besides?" "No," replied I, alarmed by her tone of voice. She laughed, and said I was an "odd little body." During this time a gentleman was examining my wrists and ancles. The pressure of his touch, though gentle, alarmed me, and with an imploring look I asked Mrs. Maisin what he was going to do to me. He instantly desisted, and she again soothed me. I had now finished my visit of ceremony; for my mother rang the bell, and ordered the servant to carry me to my nurse: and, joyous as the vagrant bird which a happy chance has reconducted to its parental nest, I left the room. The kindness of the servants soon banished my timidity. I became sportive and talkative, and, treated with dainties, enjoyed the new year’s day. One of the maid servants gave me a little basket, in which was neatly wrapped up a Christmas pie, and some cake for Tabitha. This favour rendered me caressing and grateful, and I told my stories and played off my little talents. I was even sorry when nurse told me that the carriage was ready, and that I was to go home. A kiss offered and received had warmed my little heart, and with a face glowing with contentment I was equipped once more in my new bonnet and cloak: but my basket was my special care, and I took it on my arm. At this moment I was ordered into the drawing-room to take leave. Nurse insisted I should take my muff, and I entered with more courage, being under her protection. I received my mother’s kiss: then running to Mrs. Maisin, I told her with infant loquacity what I had gotten for Tabitha; and throwing down the muff on the carpet, I displayed my treasures. My father was pleased: he called me his good little girl, and gave me two half-crowns for my basket. Unmindful of the observation I attracted, I placed myself at Mrs. Maisin’s feet, and she gave me paper in which to wrap up the half-crowns in imitation of the pie. But the carriage was now announced, and with a tender embrace I was quitting her, when she said, "Do not forget your pretty muff, Mary."—"You may have it," answered I, "I do not want it; for it will be a long time before I shall come here again." Nurse, ashamed of my disregard of my mother’s gift, took up the muff, and retreated with her charge.

CHAPTER XIV.

From this time I was visited by doctor Hawksbury, a young physician, who was the gentleman that had examined my limbs so carefully. He had observed they were not strong; and I was placed under his care by my good father. I was now invited to exercise by every toy that could allure me, and a diet prescribed which was not less useful to Tabitha than to myself. My father also came frequently to see me, and I ranked him among my best friends; for he sent me a rocking-horse, and taught me himself to spin a humming-top. I was not mistaken, when in my contempt of the muff I predicted that I should not want it for some time: for the summer passed without any invitation to dine at Wellsdown. This neglect was however amply made up by my father’s frequent calls, and his even smoking his pipe under the walnut-tree; and with my Sunday visit to Mrs. Maisin, I had no cause for discontent. The ostensible reason held out by my mother for not recalling me home was my sister Becky’s approaching nuptials, and an excursion to Buxton. On the marriage taking place, which was in the autumn, I was remembered; and with the expectations resulting from Mrs. Maisin’s commendations of me, I entered the drawing-room under her protection with more timidity than terror. My sister’s lover was present, and she introduced the little rustic to Mr. Budgely, the affianced bridegroom. He was a fat, good-humoured-looking man; and attracted by his notice of me, and his dexterity in conveying an apple from my grasp into the sleeve of his coat, we grew familiar; and all was well for a time, except when I was called to order in my mirth by my mother, who did not like noise. Mr. Budgely taking the hint now told me fine stories of the waxwork in Fleet-street, and unluckily finished by showing me, as he called it, "the way to Lunnon:" which it may be necessary to explain to you, by telling you that this was lifting me from the ground by my ears. The pain occasioned by this trick was too great for my philosophy, and I screamed violently that he had "killed my throat." The poor man, who had not the least intention of hurting, goodnaturedly soothed me. But he was desired to desist; for that my temper was such that kindness would only make me worse. I was sent from the room, and my father followed me. My peace was however made before dinner; but I was on my good behaviour, and remained a fixture till the visit finished.

I need not enlarge, my dear madam, on the natural effects of an infancy thus regulated: nor will you fail to draw from it those inferences which have occurred to myself. My emancipation from my narrow bounds of knowledge was yet deferred. My mother accompanied Mrs. Budgely to town, and she thought I could not be better than where I was. I often think of the gleanings from which I acquired food for my restless curiosity and expanding faculties. Mrs. Maisin passed this winter in Paris, and I was left altogether to Tabitha. She was indefatigable in procuring books from her humble friends; and by her means I became acquainted with "The Mirror of Chastity," "Argulaus and Parthenia," "Valentine and Orson," and "The Life of Doctor Faustus," a famous conjurer. To these marvellous books succeeded a much better, but not less unsuitable one for a girl of my age, whose reasoning powers were yet in embryo, and who had not a single conception which did not spring from her heart and imagination. Mrs. Rowe’s Letters from the Dead to the Living fell into Tabitha’s hands; and, absorbed in the pleasure they afforded her, I read in this charming book so often that I imbibed a portion of its enthusiasm. The return of Mrs. Maisin in the spring, and my mother’s leisure, were followed by my leaving my paradise in Cabbagefield-row. I will pass over my grief on this occasion. The treatment which I received from my mother could not however be called severe; for she was seldom at leisure to correct or encourage me. My sister Judy was become her idol; and my mother saw no advantage in confining a beautiful girl in a school, who had a good chance of making her fortune before she was eighteen. Judith became in consequence her mother’s companion, and the sharer in her amusements, before she was sixteen. My enjoyments were so far from being restricted by my sister’s leaving her school, that they were augmented. Judith was as fond of reading as Tabitha, and a new field of literary improvement was opened to me from the circulating library. But there is no human pursuit unmixed with disappointment and vexation: my chance of partaking of Judy’s banquet depended upon accidents which I could not control. At one time the novel escaped me in the very climax of distress; at another, at the end of the first volume, &c. Teased by these frequent interruptions, my ingenuity found out an expedient, and from the resources of an imagination which from my birth had been exercised I finished the story in my own way; the heroine was raised to the pinnacle of earthly happiness, and her oppressors were covered with ignominy.

CHAPTER XV.

I had reached my eleventh year in this state of mental neglect, but as it had occasionally been obviated by Mrs. Maisin: she had taught me a little French, and I had read with her Goldsmith’s Natural History abridged for the use of children. She had in vain urged my parents to send me to a good school. But I was become necessary to my father’s comforts, and my mother had entirely lost her predilection in favour of boarding-schools. A serious indisposition with which my father was at this time attacked, rendered me even useful to him; and I heard with exultation the praises of the little nurse from his physician doctor Hawksbury, who was the intimate of the family and my great favourite, he having much relieved Tabitha from the dreadful pains in her stomach. Whether it arose from a jealousy of my growing favour in the invalid’s room, or whether from my father’s frequently observing that I read the newspapers as well as the town clerk, and could better tell him the meaning of French words than Judy, I cannot say; but I was sent on a visit to Mrs. Maisin’s, and Judith took her station in the sick room. The experiment however did not answer, notwithstanding poor Judith had a nervous fever; the doctor could only cure my father; and some offence being taken from my mother’s being informed indirectly that the doctor was engaged to marry a lady to whom he had been long attached, he was dismissed, and another physician employed: from that time I saw my good friend the doctor very seldom at our house. The secret however at length reached me; "miss Judith pined for the doctor."

CHAPTER XVI.

The sudden illness of Mrs. Maisin, which plunged me into the deepest sorrow, became the æra of my rational existence. Although the intelligence of her danger met with no delay, her daughter did not arrive at the house till after she had breathed her last. Neither my father nor my mother had been deficient in acts of kindness to the deceased, and they were at hand to receive the afflicted madame du Rivage, in order to prevail on her to take up her abode with them till after the funeral. This offer of friendship was declined; but my godmother in her sorrow remembered me, and requested my company to share in it. It may be that I was useful to the mourner; for, unacquainted with grief, I had not learned to suppress mine, and I spoke of the loss of my tender friend with all the pathos of nature, and madame du Rivage became fond of a being who was never weary of talking of her mother. The succession to a large fortune, and the business incidental to it, detained my godmother some weeks in England; during which time I was constantly with her. Monsieur du Rivage at this period was approaching his sixtieth year; but he had not accelerated the effects of time by his follies. A remarkably fine person, equal spirits, and a cheerful compliance with the modes and usages of polite life, gave him an air of youth without lessening his dignity. He became fond of his wife’s Pauline; and she flattered by this partial favour, amused him by her jargon of French and English, and by a returning gaiety of spirits contributed to divert madame du Rivage’s mind from its sadness. "Ma chère mère, et mon père," were grown familiar epithets; and unmindful of the hour which was to separate her from those on whom she leaned for gratifications hitherto unknown to her, she enjoyed the present, and insensibly assimilated her manners to those of her elegant friends. But monsieur du Rivage, now pressed by his concerns in Paris, prepared to leave England, and my regrets commenced: these were so little spared, that I fretted myself ill, and even alarmed madame du Rivage. Her compassion effected my recovery; for I was informed that she had gained my parents’ consent to take me to Paris with her. All was enchantment from this hour; and with a tear paid to my good father for his sacrifice, and a farewell visit to Tabitha and her mother, which was softened by the munificence of my godmother, who left a commission with doctor Hawksbury to pay them for life ten pounds per annum, I quitted England with friends never to be forgotten.

CHAPTER XVII.

The succeeding six years of my life were marked by such favours by the great Disposer of events, that, whilst my bosom glows with humble gratitude for the blessings which then surrounded me, my spirits sink at the recollection of those changes which have clouded the bright prospect before me. My intercourse with my father had been punctually kept up; and apparently contented with my happiness, he employed no arguments for my return home. Monsieur and madame du Rivage had been explicit with him and my mother in their views relative to me; and I was considered by all their connexions in Paris as their adopted child. I have reason to believe that in this preference of me had been included their own plans of future comfort. Madame du Rivage had never had the hopes of being a mother; and her husband cheerfully acceded to a project from which with herself he expected comfort. His fortune was ample, and his few connexions in Switzerland too remote to interest him. A plan of retirement from the fatigues of a banking-house had for some time been the object of their wishes. Both loved the country; both were refined in their tastes, and looked forward to the period when these might be gratified without interruption from the bustle and claims of the world. Their hopes in me were not ill-founded; for, granting to me only a common capacity and a pure heart, they well understood that a pupil of theirs could not be altogether unworthy of them. Gratified by my undivided affection, and constantly occupied in their tender cares of me, I received, on entering into my seventeenth year, a proof of their generosity. I was told that madame du Rivage from that time had destined for my benefit a sum of money in the English funds, which had been left to her from an aunt, and which was secured to her particular but unconditional use, by being in trust and standing in her maiden name. Without therefore losing sight of those claims which they conceived I still had on my father’s justice, I was given to understand that my modes of life with them had in some measure removed me from the mediocrity in which my father would probably leave his family; and that, in order to provide me with a little independence of my own to manage, they meant to appropriate the interest of this sum to my particular use. My acknowledgments for this favour were followed by my being promised an excursion to England to see my friends, and I learned that during madame du Rivage’s absence her husband intended to put in execution his views of retiring from Paris.

Elated by the hope of seeing a parent endeared to my memory by a thousand acts of kindness, and to whom duty gave claims I had no inclination to reject, I lost no time in communicating this joyful intelligence to my father. His reply to this letter was as usual affectionate; but it wore an air of dejection which touched my heart. "He hoped he should live to embrace his child. But his comfort was, she stood secure in the love of those who would never abandon her. He had been poorly for some weeks; but my letter had cheered him, and the sight of me would renew his days." Alas! I had not the last embrace. A letter from my mother’s attorney announced his death to me within three weeks after the date of his letter. A copy of my father’s will soon followed, in which madame du Rivage’s adopted daughter had been entirely overlooked: a codicil added in my father’s hand-writing, and annexed to the will a few days before he took to his bed, is prefaced in words to this effect: "In order to provide for any exigency of fortune which may occur to set aside the hopes and prospects of a child I consider at this moment as being amply provided for by those who have cherished her as a child, I leave to my wife ten thousand pounds, in order that she may be enabled the more effectually to assist her children, or any individual child who may need her cares and support." My father had disposed of the remainder of his property by bequeathing legacies of five thousand pounds to each of my brothers and sisters. The house at Wellsdown, with the farm of about two hundred and fifty pounds per annum, had apparently been left as my mother’s future provision, till this codicil was made, and for the execution of which my father’s property in the West Indies stood charged. Monsieur and madame du Rivage were in the first instance surprised by the extent of my father’s fortune, and in the second much offended by his forgetfulness of me. My mother’s letter was not better calculated to please them. It contained a detail of the grievances to which she had been exposed by the favour and confidence of her deceased husband; her eldest son thinking he had been unworthily treated; and she herself thought that the will was in some respects defective for Judith, who her father must know would have an unlimited power to do what she pleased with her money. Rings were the compliment sent with this letter, with her "love to Mary." A postscript was however added, that "she should be glad to hear from me."

CHAPTER XVIII.

This event and its consequences set aside the intention of seeing England: but it hastened madame du Rivage’s measures in regard to her gift; and she gave instructions to her mother’s solicitor and her law agent for the transfer of the stock into my name, appointing him and doctor Hawksbury as my trustees. This detail, my dear madam, is necessary to my narrative. But I now hasten to events more important to me than the loss of a fortune I had never thought of, or the accession of an income for which I had no use, and which it was determined should be left to accumulate in Mr. Furnival’s hands.

The disastrous epoch of the French revolution was now commenced. History had prepared her crimson page; and want of bread had introduced tumult and discontent. This dawn of "Gallic freedom," as it was called by some, and of "Gallic atrocity" by others, could not be viewed with indifference under either of these aspects; for both the enthusiast and the enemy of innovation equally felt themselves impressed by a sense of danger which menaced them. Monsieur du Rivage had long foreseen the storm; but, engaged in very extensive connexions, he had been unable to secure his retreat from the commotion. He was the friend of liberty, but perceived not her approach in a reform which levelled with so much fury every established regulation of order and justice. He continued to act with his usual reserve, admitting to his table only those to whom he was attached; and amongst this number were few who were active in the reigning politics of the day.

In the number of our guests was admitted an English gentleman of the name of Middleton, who had not only claims on monsieur du Rivage’s attention as his banker, but also from the particular recommendation he brought with him. The first time I saw him was on our leaving our summer residence for Paris; and monsieur du Rivage, in his introduction of him, sufficiently indicated the manner in which his wife was to receive him. We had that day at our table some persons who made light of the popular phrensy, and gave the most brilliant colourings of hope to the termination of a contest in which millions would find freedom. Mr. Middleton with youthful ardour supported this opinion. Monsieur du Rivage checked the enthusiasm: "I wish," said he, "the event may be found answerable to the hazard, and that those who have contributed to unshackle the multitude may live to see order spring from disorder. But there rests the danger."—"And there also rests the triumph, my good friend," cried Mr. Middleton with energy: "death cannot defraud those of glory, who have commenced the work of liberty." Monsieur du Rivage smiled, and, as I remember, told him he was misnamed, for that instead of Augustus Middleton he ought to have been called Algernon Sidney. The conversation changed for one more pleasing to me, who well knew my mother’s dislike of politics.

It appeared from his conversation that Mr. Middleton had accompanied an English family to which he was nearly allied, and who were then near their departure, or set forwards towards Italy; and that, enamoured with the dawn of Gallic liberty, he chose to remain at Paris till a friend, whom he daily expected from England, should join him; when they meant to follow the party in their route, who having two ladies in it, found Paris in too great a ferment for their courage or amusement.

The domestic comforts which Mr. Middleton found under our roof soon rendered him a frequent visitor. My dear mother’s health was the too-well grounded pretext held out for the retirement in which we lived; a friendly and unceremonious circle amused her dejected spirits, and it was never complete without Mr. Middleton.

To the youthful heart of your poor Pauline he had been irresistible from the first hour she beheld him. The manly graces of his person, the energy of his mind, his various accomplishments, with the independence of an understanding which placed him above the vanity of displaying them, won on my fancy. I compared him without ceasing with the young men who courted my notice; and I pronounced without a blush, that I could only love an Englishman. It is true, this confession had no witness; nor did I acknowledge to any one that on one point Augustus Middleton gave me offence. The correct gaiety of his manners, his unrestrained good will and easy politeness, mortified me; for these plainly manifested that I had nothing to hope. I believe my mother suspected that I was in danger of imitating my sister Judith; for, unaccustomed to concealment with her, I permitted her to perceive that something disturbed me, whether Mr. Middleton was present or absent. One evening she with assumed cheerfulness observed she was afraid that nervous complaints were infectious, for I had many symptoms like hers. I blushed, and said it might be, for my health depended on hers. "Better so," replied she smiling, "than that it should like your poor sister Judith’s depend on a love-sick fancy, which will cheat her of every chance of a remedy. I often think of that poor girl," continued she, "who was, without dispute, a beautiful one, and was not unamiable in her temper: but, from her youth, Judith has preferred the complaints of unrequited love and despairing constancy to the title of a wife. Not that she has preserved her first love," continued she, laughing, "from the censure affixed to our sex; for I know she has transferred her wounded heart no less than three times since doctor Hawksbury’s cruelty. But she has so ingeniously contrived to fall in love without hope, that I think I may predict she will never marry. Her last three years’ flame was a married man, whose wife was supposed to be consumptive; but the lady got well, and, to her husband’s great contentment, presented him with a son and heir. Doctor Hawksbury," continued madame du Rivage, "in writing me this account, informed me that her health was injured by these extravagances of an idle imagination, and that she was in a constant nervous state. She forgets that her nightly vigils and daily dreams will not detain the charms of youth, or add usefulness or respectability to her character when these are fled. This is amongst many others," pursued she, "one of those errors to which young women are liable, and which, in the first instance, neither implicates the purity of their hearts, nor their principles; as it frequently arises from a sensibility of mind which needs only regulation and judgment. Remember, my Pauline, that human life is not a romance; nor is it the less happy, or the more barren, for not being strewed with the flowers which a youthful fancy thinks necessary for its decoration: keep therefore a strict watch over your imagination whilst you are young. It is, my child, a fair gift when under the control of reason and experience, and is the source of our most refined pleasure; but in our sex it wants no adventitious supports; it requires the curb rather than the spur. We cannot oppose to its encroachments that ambition nor those active pursuits which engage the other sex, and which are calculated to control, or at least to divert, its activity. Many of us, I doubt, are disqualified by education to balance its suggestions by the force of a vigorous and imperative reason; but we can all of us, Pauline, find a refuge in the simple line of duty, and in the restraints wisely imposed by our religion. Guarded by this armour, we shall be safe amidst danger, and neither lavish our affections nor give our confidence on the mere report of imaginary excellence or imaginary preference. Were I a man, I should carefully avoid a woman whose heart had been frittered away by disappointed passion, or chilled by unrequited love. Preserve yours, my dear girl, for the man on whom you will have a legal claim for protection and love; preserve it as the temple of those affections which as a wife and a mother will secure your tranquillity, and from which will spring unceasing motives for the performance of your duties. Be content," added she smiling, "with that repose which results from a quiet state of mind, and the innocent pursuits of an unruffled temper, although your life may not furnish the incidents proper for a novel, nor your love adventures excite that compassion which much oftener wounds than soothes the feelings of a woman of true delicacy." In recalling these admonitions to my mind, I am aware of the conclusion which they must make against a pupil thus instructed and guarded. Alas! madam, I had been the child of imagination from the hour I could speak: and I now became a dissembler; for I eluded my revered madame du Rivage’s observations by an assumed gaiety, and an indifference to Mr. Middleton which sometimes approached to neglect. I was unhappily soon furnished with an apology for my dejection and pale cheek. The continual alarms which followed the fall of the Bastile seemed to have altered the equal and hitherto firm mind of madame du Rivage. Her terrors were beyond all description; and the safety of her husband became a more serious evil to him, than the dangers she so prophetically dreaded.

In this state of nervous irritability she remained for many weeks; and we saw scarcely any one except her most intimate friends. Mr. Middleton still kept his ground; for he was become necessary to her husband’s amusement as well as her own. But it soon appeared that the philosophical admirer of the new order of things had changed his opinions; and in his conversations with monsieur du Rivage he constantly urged him to remove his family from France, predicting at the same time the hazard of remaining in a country rapidly advancing to anarchy and ruin. About this time also we saw less of him, he being, as he said, much engaged with some English friends who were on the point of leaving France. His return to our domestic circle was unaccompanied by his usual cheerfulness or health. He was pale, complained constantly of fatigue, and with a dependence on our good nature frequently indulged in a pensive silence little calculated to amuse the invalid.

One evening, after more than a fortnight’s desertion of us, he dropped in on our solitude. Your poor Pauline received him coldly. My dear mother, observing his altered countenance, welcomed him with cordiality, and began to question him in regard to his health. He replied that he knew of no bodily malady. "I am not your confessor," answered she, smiling; "but, if I were, I should ask you whether the malady were not in your mind, and one you may not have had the wisdom to escape." He rose from his seat, and with visible agitation traversed the room. "There is not a calendared saint," said he, taking madame du Rivage’s hand, "to whom I would so soon unbosom my griefs as to you. Judge of my condition, when I tell you that I am upon the brink of destruction; that I believe you could save me; yet I dare not ask your friendly interposition. A false principle of honour, and a mistaken sense of duty, impose silence: and I must obey."—"I wish," answered my mother, "that you had left Paris with your friends."—"Wish!" repeated he in an agony: "it was my ultimate hope to have done so. But a fatal infatuation prevented my plans. It seems to me," continued he, "to prevail in proportion as the danger here magnifies. Why do you not persuade your husband to leave this devoted country?" My mother took the alarm instantly. "Good God!" cried she, "another tragedy has been perpetrated!"—"No," answered he, recollecting himself; "I have heard of nothing new; but I should be happy to know, before I left Paris, that you were determined on quitting a residence which will ruin your health by perpetual alarms. My good old uncle," continued he with more composure, "has been affected with a portion of your panic, and, having seen from afar more of the hazard of my remaining here than I do myself, has travelled to Nice in order to reclaim a nephew who has been seized with the mania of French liberty. That delusion has however passed away. But unfortunately my uncle, in his cares for me, forgot his age and infirmities. He is very ill; and to-morrow at an early hour I quit Paris. But I shall return hither the moment I am assured of his safety. With what joy should I find you ready for your flight from this miserable country when I return! I must now see monsieur," added he, rising; "and when I have finished my business in his office, I must return home to prepare for my journey." He took my hand. "Second me in my advice, my dear Pauline," said he: "prevail on your mother to seek peace and health in England, or in Switzerland." He immediately left the room, and I burst into tears. "Middleton has met with some recent disappointment," said she with calmness; "and because his mistress has probably more prudence than himself, he has taken offence at that deity, before whom he bowed a few months since with ecstatic adoration. These warm and ardent spirits never know a medium: it is all hope or all despair with them! But, my dear child, we are under the protection of an overruling Providence, and guarded by a man as much, nay more interested for our safety than his own. My husband cannot quit Paris with quite the same ease as a young man who has nothing to do but to order his chaise de poste, and to avail himself of an unlimited credit. I hope he will say nothing to monsieur du Rivage. He wants no advice to excite in his mind precautions for our safety. He has vexations enow, without being harassed with my apprehensions," continued she, weeping. "My husband’s purse has hitherto been judged an equivalent for his more active services. He would not remain a week in France, could he quit it with honour; but du Rivage will never make a shipwreck of a good conscience to save my life, or his own." I succeeded in composing her fluttered spirits, by agreeing with her, and making light of those evils she feared.

But it was not possible to be deceived. Those events, which in rapid succession banished the misguided inhabitants from Paris, and which so totally excluded security and the home-felt joys of domestic peace, appeared to rivet monsieur du Rivage to his desk and the capital. The fluctuation of specie, the dread of impending insolvency, and the hazard of being thought wealthy, by turns harassed his mind: to these troubles was added the decline of his wife’s health; and I perceived daily that his own was yielding, and that his cheerfulness was assumed.

CHAPTER XIX.

Madame du Rivage’s physicians advised her to return to La Fontaine, the name of our country retreat; urging to monsieur the necessity there was for her being beyond the reach of the tocsin, and the rumours and distractions of the city. The sinking and at intervals passive patient made no objection to this measure; and early in May we were settled in our retirement, with an old and faithful servant and the gardener and his wife. Monsieur du Rivage having given us two days of his time returned to Paris, reminding his wife that a few short leagues only would be between them. We had been accustomed to see him depart. But, good God! what a difference was there in our farewells! His solicitude for our comforts, his reiterated promises of seeing us again in a few days, appeared to us only to indicate the apprehensions which he concealed: and heavy at heart I followed his steps with my eyes, secretly foreboding that I should see him no more. Judge, madam, of the condition of a people, to whom such fears at length became so familiar as in many instances to deaden the sensibility of their minds!

Our habitation was more elegant than spacious; it was situated about half a league from the great road between Estampe and Paris. The domain annexed to it was small, but sufficient for all the purposes of modest luxury. It had been expressly chosen by monsieur du Rivage, as a retreat necessary for him, and which would call out neither malignity nor curiosity. Its principal beauty was derived from its vicinity to the duke de Fouclaut’s house and grounds. Immense sums had been lavished by him in rendering this chateau and its gardens an object worthy of his elaborate taste; and L’Eclair was justly admired as a terrestrial paradise, in all points save in the primitive innocence of its proprietor.

Our garden, and a wood of some extent belonging to the duke, separated us from his house: and our noble neighbour had with much courtesy sent monsieur du Rivage a key to a little wicket which separated us from the wood, with a compliment, that we might not only consider the wood as an appendage to our garden, but also every part of his grounds. Monsieur du Rivage, contenting himself with returning suitable thanks for this favour, had cautiously availed himself of the privilege it gave him, and we never opened the wicket except when L’Eclair had no guests. The motives for these precautions were no secret with me; for monseigneur’s character for gallantry and extravagance fully justified the reserve with which monsieur du Rivage shunned a neighbour whose cash account would have been as unprofitable as his intimacy might have been dangerous to his family.

From an old female domestic who had lived in the late duchess de Fouclaut’s service, and who was the intimate friend of our good Catharine, I learned many particulars relative to this family; for madame Claudine took delight in telling me stories of her dear children, as she called the duke’s son, and a daughter, at that time of my age and in a convent at Paris; Sigismund having been sent when a mere child to a great-uncle’s at Vienna.

In describing the infant traits of her idol, mademoiselle Marianne de Fouclaut, the good Claudine would measure me with her eye, examine my hands and hair, and then with fond delight describe the paragon of beauty her dear Marianne. "She ought to be taller than you," would she observe, "for her parents had noble persons; and although she has not your complexion, she is as beautiful. But, ma bonne enfant, never be vain of your beauty. Madame la duchesse was the most beautiful woman in France, and one of the most unfortunate wives!" Then gazing on my face she observed, "that her Marianne’s eyes were dark brown, like her sainted mother’s." The common tribute which these conversations exacted were tears, and a silent ejaculation to Heaven, whilst wiping her dimmed spectacles. Sometimes my curiosity was excited by Claudine’s news of the duke’s being at L’Eclair, and with bitterness she would describe his associates. These were generally such as placed me on my guard; and I never saw the duke but once, and that at a distance. He had two elegant females with him. I sheltered myself at Claudine’s house, a neat little farm, which was her property, and was managed by her son. She told me that I had done wisely; for the two opera girls had no chance for future favour, but that of the duke’s seeing no newer face. I took this caution, and heedfully guarded mine from his view during his short visits at L’Eclair.

CHAPTER XX.

On our reaching La Fontaine with my dear invalid, Claudine came to visit us. She was shocked on beholding the ravages of sickness in the emaciated form of madame du Rivage: but with an address which marked her judgment she applied comfort and cheerfulness to her despondency; and her assiduities were so affectionate and useful, that my mother was unhappy if Claudine was prevented from her daily visit. Some weeks passed under the anxiety of seeing my mother’s advances to her grave.

The malady under which madame du Rivage laboured was of that sort which no medicine could reach. Whether some unsuspected disorder lurked in her veins, and poisoned the springs of life, it is not for me to determine; but of this truth I am certain, that the train of ideas produced by the state of public affairs greatly contributed to destroy her. Her ordinary dejection and silence now and then yielded to transient intervals of cheerfulness: but she became a shadow; and sleep was a stranger to her eye-lids, except when procured by opium. One object of terror occupied her imagination, namely, fears for her husband’s life. One day, distressed by my inability to sooth her, I urged our returning to Paris, and thus preventing monsieur du Rivage’s frequent, and to her dreaded, journeys to us. She shook her head: "No, no," said she wildly; "he will escape without me." Then bursting into tears, she more composedly said, "I will have no more sleeping potions: they will distract me. Do not weep, my dear child; I cannot bear to see your tears. My malady increases my sensibility; and every proof I receive of your and my husband’s affection only makes me more impatient to die. I know what detains du Rivage in France. It is his wife: he thinks that she could not have sustained the loss of her usual indulgences. Alas! it is now too late to convince him how little poverty would have been regarded by me, when compared with what I have endured for some months! But let us not talk of the past. Swear to me, that when I am no more you will conjure your father, in my name, to fly from this wretched country. You will find, Pauline, in that cabinet a letter addressed to Mr. Furnival. He is a man whom you may trust; and I wish you to go to England. The little provision you will find there, will enable you to give bread to your father. Urge this to him; and let him not lose his life by his cares to save a shipwrecked property whilst there is one plank to support him. He is buoyed up, my child, by a sense of honour, and fallacious hopes. I am and have been long of this opinion; but he has one comfort: you will never abandon him; and God will reward you for your attentions to a man who has been a parent to you." I will omit the warm effusions of my heart, and quit a subject for which I am still unequal.

CHAPTER XXI.

During a fortnight which monsieur du Rivage gave to his own sorrows and mine, after the death of his beloved wife, he frequently adverted to the embarrassment of his affairs. "Could I," said he, "retire from this country without injury to others, I would, and should long before this have quitted it at the hazard of begging my bread. But, my dear Pauline, I am responsible for the widow’s mite and the orphan’s little portion. It has been my principal concern of late, to acquit myself faithfully of these obligations; and I have the consolation of knowing that I have saved many who would have been ruined by my more precipitate measures. I stand secure, however, no longer than whilst I am in a condition to be fleeced. They have, in consideration of my usefulness, permitted me to maintain my credit; but the exorbitancy of their demands on that credit must end in my ruin. I have regulated matters as well as I can for my emigration. You must be content to remain here till you leave France. I have reduced my establishment at Paris, and shall make this house appear as one to be let, or sold. Should I have the good fortune to dispose of it, you must shelter yourself with Claudine. For it is better that you should not appear again in Paris."—This conversation ended by supplying me with money, and informing me that he should send for all the most valuable articles of furniture. These arrangements took place. Catharine and myself took possession of the rooms which looked into the garden; and the house was shuttered up in front, and appeared on sale or in want of a tenant.

CHAPTER XXII.

My dejected mind for a season brooded over this scene of desolation: gradually it reverted to past illusions. Augustus Middleton’s image became the solace of my thoughts, and my harp was tuned in order to practise the music he had given me. Claudine with unceasing goodness visited us; and my dear father’s letters and visits spoke only of comfort. The king’s arrest at Varennes and his confinement were now terminated by an atrocity never to be cancelled from the annals of France; and struck with horror at the deed, I began to pray fervently for my own escape from a country grown hateful to me. To add to my troubles, poor Catharine sprained her ancle, and was lame. Secure from danger by the duke’s absence, I took my usual walk to Claudine’s alone; for at her house I learned the rumours of the day. I was the more alert, from not having seen my good friend for near a week. At some little distance from her door, I saw her in earnest conversation with a very elegant young lady, whose appearance excited my curiosity; but a black lace veil so entirely excluded her face from my view, that I could not catch a glimpse of it. She held an infant in her arms, and caressed it fondly from time to time. At length, reluctantly giving the child to Claudine, they parted; Claudine taking the path to her house, and the lady that which I was in. I curtseyed in passing her. She returned the compliment with grace, but hurried on.

On entering the house, Claudine received me with cordiality, and immediately introduced to me her daughter, madame Meunier: "And is this angel boy," cried I, "your grandson?" "No," replied she: "it is a nurseling Jeanneton has the care of."—"Was that his mother," asked I, "whom I passed, and whom you were talking with?"—"That was mademoiselle de Fouclaut," answered Claudine: "she is at the chateau." My alarm prevented my perceiving Claudine’s embarrassment. "Good Heavens!" cried I, "I wish I were at home." "Be under no fears," replied Claudine: "there are no opera girls at the chateau: you are safe enough." Reassured on this point, I now gave my attention to Jeanneton: she was pleasing in her person, notwithstanding an air of melancholy, and the reserve of her manner. She was modestly dressed in the Parisian fashion, and in her replies to my civilities discovered neither rusticity nor an ignorance of politeness. "I dare say you thought I was dead, ma chere mademoiselle," said Claudine with cheerfulness; "but I have been much engaged in preparing for my guests; and I hope," added she, "to be repaid for my trouble, and to send home my daughter in better spirits than I find her. Poor Jeanneton never conditioned to be a soldier’s wife," added she, "and she pines at the absence of her husband, who must do as he is ordered, and rank with the rest of the free men of France, although he likes a uniform still less than his wife: but we must submit; and trust to a ruler who can say to our new masters, ‘Thus far shalt thou go, and no further.’" Madame Meunier checked not her tears. "Your mother’s consolation and this sweet boy will be useful to you," said I compassionately, "and the country air will restore your health, and confirm the hopes of the child’s parent."—"I hope so," answered she with emotion; "it will be my pride and glory to rear him for their comfort and joy; for they have been my benefactors." I discovered before I finished my visit that she had lost her own infant, and in nursing the little Sigismund had found a comfort beyond her hopes.

CHAPTER XXIII.

It soon appeared that mademoiselle de Fouclaut as well as myself found an attraction to Claudine’s in the little Sigismund, for I several times met her returning from the house: she was always alone, and shunned, as I thought, my observation. I mentioned my opinion to Claudine, adding a wish that she would relax from her dignity, and invite me to walk with her. "Poor lady!" answered Claudine, profoundly sighing, "she has no more pride than her mother. But she dares not make acquaintance with you, nor speak to any one. It is owing to the good nature of her duenna that she is permitted to leave the chateau."—"Surely," said I, "her convent was a more eligible prison than the one you describe?"—"Assurément," replied she; "for there she had Jeanneton and the whole community to love her. But she has been from thence some time, and has lived at her father’s hotel in Paris. I always suspected a snake in the grass when I heard of his kindness to her; for I say, Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots? When I see that, I will believe that the duke can act like a good parent. It is all now come out why he was so kind: he wants to marry her to a man as old as himself, and who he fancies will not disgrace him because he has money. Ma foi! He would judge right, were he to marry him himself; for vice cannot sink beneath its level. But for the daughter of the noble and virtuous house de l’Ormesson! My blood, mademoiselle, boils at the idea. I do not know which to reprobate most, the meanness and barbarity of the duke, or the insolence of the old baboon, who dares to sit in the presence of this angel! I knew him when her domestics would not have spoken to him. She may thank our new law-makers for this lover!" Well knowing Claudine’s political creed, I contented myself with pitying mademoiselle de Fouclaut, and again expressed my wish to be known to her. I will try what I can do," replied Claudine: "you would be a comfort to her: but we must manage with mademoiselle Babet, her keeper. The fool courts me, in order to find favour with Simon, my son, and I have given him his cue. I cannot help laughing, to see him act his part."

Day succeeded day, and I gained no ground: twice or thrice I met mademoiselle de Fouclaut; but she passed me always veiled, with hurried steps; and disappointed in my wishes of becoming her consoler, I became her censurer; attributing her reserve to pride, and to a contempt of my proferred kindness. Claudine seemed to have forgotten her commission; and I sometimes thought that Jeanneton received my visits as an intrusion; for she left the house with her little charge, not unfrequently in five minutes after I entered it, under the pretence of giving him air at his usual hour.

A short visit from my dear father for some days turned the channel of my thoughts. He looked thin and pale, and I found that he had been indisposed. I was now informed that I was to hold myself in readiness for the arrival of an English family from Bourdeaux, with whom I was to make my way to England. My reluctance to losing sight of him was overruled by the arguments he used; and convinced that he could with more safety execute his purpose of emigration without me, I consented to his plans. He asked me some questions relative to the letter his wife had written to Mr. Furnival, and gave me another for that gentleman from himself, cautioning me to be careful of them. His provision of assignats appeared to me super-abundant, and I told him I should not want any. "You can give them me at Paris," said he thoughtfully, "in case you do not; but it is not certain when I can visit you again: it is better for you to have too many than too few; and it is not decided what day my friend Wilmot will come for you." The caution which had induced him to destroy every letter and paper he could find in the house, and his being unattended, completed my consternation; and unable to conceal my alarm, I implored him not to leave me. "You distress me, my dear child," said he, moved by my tears, "by a request which it is impossible for me to comply with. Be assured, Pauline, that my thoughts have no object so near to them as your safety and preservation. Summon up your resolution to meet the difficulties of the hour, and confidently trust that I act with prudence. You will find your clothes at the hotel, whither the Wilmots will conduct you. It is not improbable that I shall be in England before you. Let this be your comfort, and look forwards to the hour of our reunion. I will in the mean time rest on the assurance of your safety, and the assistance of the Almighty." He tenderly blessed me, and hastily mounted his horse.

Exhausted by my tears, and oppressed by an intense head-ach, I yielded to poor Catharine’s advice of walking in the garden; and taking the path to a small elevated summer-house which commanded the road, I entered it, and seated myself at the window with that lassitude which seeks relief from every surrounding object: although hopeless of diverting my melancholy thoughts, I found a momentary solace in opening the sash, and contemplating the view it afforded. I had not enjoyed this respite many minutes before I heard the trampling of horses, and soon saw a party of the national guard advance, escorting a carriage. "We are lost!" cried I with frantic terror, and darting from the summer-house, "we are lost! and my father has been arrested!" Impelled by my terror, and the sense of self-preservation, I rushed forwards to the wicket-gate in my view, and with a force which danger lent me I broke the rusty and slight bolt. Hope now directed my fleet steps. "I might be sheltered in the chateau; I would implore a refuge there." Judge of my surprise, when I beheld mademoiselle de Fouclaut with no less terror of countenance hastily advancing to meet me. "Heaven has not deserted me," cried she with agony. "But to what cause am I to attribute seeing you here?"—"The soldiers, the guards seek my life!" answered I panting. "Oh save me! They are in the house! In pity save me!"—"You are deceived by your fears," answered she calmly. "The victim they seek is before you. As you wish for peace on earth, and for happiness in heaven, hear me! Take this casket, and return to your habitation. It is no time for me to say more," added she, placing it in my hands. "Farewell! We shall meet in a different hour." She turned from me with emotion, and waving her hand said, "Fly from this spot." I stood notwithstanding motionless for some minutes, gazing on the beauteous phantom as she swiftly made for the chateau. The deadly paleness of her countenance, the fixed despair of her tearless eyes, with the tones of her voice and the impassioned energy of her words, struck me with the awe impressed by some heavenly visitation; and I looked to the casket in my hand for a conviction that my senses had not deluded me. It restored me to recollection; and concealing it I retreated, securing the gate as well as I could, and took the path home with a perturbation of spirits which retarded my steps. I had never before this extraordinary interview seen mademoiselle de Fouclaut without a veil. Her graceful stature and elegance of form had not escaped my observation; but I now recalled to my mind a face of unequalled beauty. She wore a white robe, and had evidently quitted her room in haste; for her head was uncovered but by the dark and abundant tresses which nature had bestowed. No time can erase from my memory the eyes I then beheld! nor have I ever seen any to equal them; although Sigismund’s sometimes recall them to my remembrance.

My slow approach to the house was observed by Catharine, who although still lame, and obliged to walk with a crutch, met me near the hall-door. Her quiet aspect reassured me, and I quickened my pace. "Be under no alarm," said she, "on seeing two or three of the Paris guards within; they are on duty at the chateau, and have nothing to do here but to pay their compliments. One amongst them does me the honour of remembering me; and I must," added she, winking, "be civil to such friends." "I need not appear," observed I, trembling. "Indeed you must," answered she, "and fearlessly too; for my good friend has inquired for mademoiselle Pauline, and I came to look for you."

Timid, and still alarmed, I followed her slow steps, and found three men sitting in the hall with some wine and bread before them. I instantly knew one of them, from his having almost daily brought to our house in Paris pastry from a patissier’s shop near us. Concealing my surprise at the metamorphose which a blue coat and a national cockade had made in a lad whom I had a hundred times seen, in a white apron and tucked up sleeves, bringing almond pastry for our table, I civilly performed the honours of a house in which there was little for luxury or even hunger. I apologized for the scantiness of their entertainment; observing, that two solitary women needed not "une grande cuisine;" reminding Catharine at the same time of some potted meat, which she instantly produced. "Comment!" cried the young pastrycook, with a familiar and awkward attempt at gallantry, "N’ai-je pas le bonheur de faire mes devoirs à mademoiselle Pauline? et assurément cela suffit pour me rendre heureux." He now with all due observance of etiquette introduced to my favour his two companions, who with more modesty bowed in silence. "Que je suis heureux, mademoiselle, de pouvoir vous faire ma cour!" exclaimed the maker of tartlets, applying the meat to his bread: "I was told that you had quitted France."—"No, monsieur," answered I confusedly. "Since the death of madame du Rivage I have been unwell, and have been endeavouring to regain my lost health here." He acknowledged I was become thinner and paler than when he last had had the felicity of seeing me. "Mais mademoiselle étoit toujours charmante." I stopped his eloquence by inquiring what had occasioned his visit into our neighborhood. "Nothing that will call upon us for courage," replied he: "it is an easy duty—only to convey mademoiselle de Fouclaut to her father and her lover de Béne, who are now safely lodged in the prison of the Abbaye." I could not suppress my tears. "Why should you grieve, ma chere mademoiselle?" asked poor Catharine, alarmed for her own safety as well as mine. "Thank God, we have nothing to do with ‘la noblesse!’ and these our great neighbours," added she, turning with familiarity to her friend, "have taken good care to let us know it: for, although we are, as one may say, next door neighbours, they never deigned to notice us. I have heard that the duke’s daughter is a perfect beauty; but I never saw her: and my young lady and I have been curious to no purpose; for I fancy she has never been out of the chateau since she came."—"She is indeed beautiful," answered one of our visitors, who had hitherto been silent. "I saw her once at her father’s hotel in Paris, and in my life I never beheld so charming a creature! The domestics told me she was as good and amiable as she looked. I cannot help pitying her," added he: "she is the victim of a father who has ruined himself by his baseness, and her innocence will not save her." "What, you think her innocent?" observed the pastrycook with a consequential air. "But where is the plot without a woman? No one shall persuade me, that she would have consented to marry ce scélérat de Béne without good reasons. She could not be ignorant that the laws of tyranny were abolished, and that she was free, with all France." "Well, be this as it may," answered the man, "I know enough of you, Etienne, to maintain, that if you had ever beheld this angel, you would, like myself, rather face a troop of grenadiers than see her in the hands she will be in before sunset." This tribute to humanity, with the compliment annexed, called forth the sympathy of citoyen Etienne, and with more expletives and stronger asseverations than were needful, he declared that he would die in the cause of beauty and of his country: then heroically drinking off a glass of wine to my health, he rose, and retreated with his comrades to join in the tumultuous cry of "Vive la nation!"

Let it suffice, my dear Mrs. Underwood, we saw from our half-closed windows the carriage pass, in which was the ill-fated Marianne, with Babet her governess and one of the national guards.

To what purpose should I endeavour to detail the horrors which assailed me, on this and other similar occasions, during a period unexampled in modern history? The revolution in France is not a subject for my pen. I am unable to lose sight of "partial evil in universal good," were it even proved to demonstration that such had been the balance in favour of that liberty which sprang from the blood of millions and the despair of the good and innocent. It has been fatal to my happiness, and I mean not to mention it but as it is connected with the story of my private sorrows.

On retiring to my room for the night, I yielded to the impulse of curiosity, and with a palpitating heart I opened the casket. Removing the manuscript, which first appeared, with some letters tied up and directed "For Sigismund," I proceeded to examine a shagreen case evidently made for a picture. It was indeed a portrait! and the faithful representation of the one indelibly fixed in my heart. It was Augustus Middleton whom my eyes beheld, the same noble, serious aspect, the same pensive and penetrating eyes! Yes, it was that idol which my imagination had erected as the supreme object of its hopes and fond faith! It was of larger dimensions than usual for miniatures, and encircled by costly diamonds: the reverse contained the initials of his name and a lock of his hair mixed with pearls. It was ticketed, and I read "Augustus Middleton, the father of Sigismund Middleton."

Your hapless Pauline stood this pang!!!

Three or four rouleaus of louis d’ors, with the articles I shall briefly mention, finished my examination of those proofs of the child’s birth and claims which are now in Mr. Furnival’s hands. A coral necklace with a ruby locket, marked "The gift of madame la comtesse de Verneuil to her goddaughter Marianne de Fouclaut." A miniature richly ornamented of Béatrice de l’Ormesson, mother of Marianne de Fouclaut, and duchess de Fouclaut. The portrait of a beautiful English female, marked Charlotte Aimsworth. A diamond hoop—and a wedding-ring. Several strings of large pearls, with a number of unset gems of considerable value, as I am now informed. Diamond rings, with a watch and trinkets; and finally a diamond cross inscribed with my name, and a gold snuff-box with madame Meunier’s, and intended as gifts for us. In this enumeration I may have been wanting in precision: but my pen had been sufficiently exact had it altogether omitted these evidences of Sigismund’s extraction; for the certificates of his mother’s marriage and his own baptism are what Mr. Furnival principally values. The marriage certificate is signed by a priest of the name of du Clos, who performed the ceremony. The witnesses, Nicolas and Jeanneton Meunier, and an English signature of Frederick Boothby, esq. The baptismal evidence is signed by du Clos and the Meuniers.

I shall now pause. You will have with this my translation of Mrs. Middleton’s appeal to me. Read it, my dear and sympathizing friend; and you will not blame me for the interest I feel in preserving a child thus bequeathed to my care; for whom I have encountered disgrace and reproach, and for whom I would meet death without shrinking.

THE

MEMOIRS OF MARIANNE DE FOUCLAUT.

I know, mademoiselle, from whence my hope must come; and with conscious truth and integrity do I look for help from on high, and a refuge in the grave. Yet nature has pangs that are beyond the power of human fortitude. Who can speak peace to the anguished mother’s spirit, which trembles with direful forebodings? Alas! with more! the dread of certain destruction to the helpless being to whom she gave life? Oh! let me reach the cordial Heaven presents in mitigation of the sufferings it has inflicted! Let me hasten to the hope it allows me, before reason is cast from its seat! The wretched wife of Augustus Middleton, your countryman; of that Middleton who enjoyed the friendship of madame du Rivage and her amiable Pauline, is the suppliant who now implores your pity for her child, for Augustus Middleton’s son! Succour him, Pauline! save him from impending destruction! For thou canst. Oh! let my pleadings reach thy gentle bosom! Be the guardian angel of my innocent helpless child! The sheltering hand which is at this moment his only prop and stay, may be, will be, involved in my ruin; and his life will not be spared by an enraged and disappointed father. The climax of my fate rapidly approaches. I am prepared to meet it, and to brave without a murmur the horrors which await me.

I have shunned you, mademoiselle. Yes, I have denied myself the comfort which my soul has languished to taste! Like the bird, who seeing the enemy near its nest, instinctively takes every direction from it, in order to divert the foe from its precious young; so have I avoided an intercourse which might have led my oppressors to my child’s asylum. Alas! to be known as Marianne’s friend would be a crime; to love her, destruction!

I have no doubt the faithful Claudine has frequently mentioned to you Marianne de Fouclaut; nor should I be surprised to know, that she has awakened in your bosom a portion of that sympathy which belongs to the character she so much delights to place before me as the object of her admiration and esteem. But it behoves me to leave in your hands a particular detail of my life, with the circumstances which have conducted me to the precipice on which I now stand. You will, yes, mademoiselle, you will be the guardian of my Sigismund; and it is necessary you should know his wretched parent. The time may not be remote when Middleton will bless you for his son; and should he still be obdurate, preserve my manuscript for my child, and teach him to respect his mother.

I shall commence my history by a brief account of my infant years, at which period I lost my mother; and was, with a brother older than myself, consigned over to neglect. Our father’s profuse dissipation had not only exhausted in a great measure the means by which he supplied the fatal indulgences of his unchecked passions, but had also so entangled the funds provided for us, that he thought of the only expedient which remained, to prevent, not our ruin, but the retrenchments which were become necessary to support his own style of magnificence and his pleasures. A second marriage was projected. But my father’s title was found no equivalent for the price which he exacted for it; and one or two disappointments of this kind convinced him that his quality could not allure such an alliance as his poverty needed, and as his pride could accept. He therefore gave himself up to a liberty which imposed no restraints, and continued to defraud his children of their rights. My brother and myself resided at this chateau with an establishment reduced to two or three necessary domestics; the good Claudine and her husband having the superintendence of the family, and authority in all that related to us. Left to the enjoyments of health and sportive gaiety, treated with the fond and faithful love of these excellent people, we had, it may be, advantages far beyond those attentions which a fastidious greatness could have bestowed; for with innocence we enjoyed the privileges of Nature, and knew no cares nor wants in the simplicity she prescribes. I soon lost my dear brother and playmate: at the repeated entreaties of our great uncle who resided at Vienna, he was sent thither; and I have never been able to learn more of his fate, than that on the death of this relation he entered into the Spanish service, and went to Mexico. My father never named him without indications of a resentment which I feared to provoke. I loved this brother tenderly, and I gave my infant his name of Sigismund, not daring to call him Augustus. Some time after my brother’s departure, I became subject to restraints unknown to me under the tender Claudine. A woman called mademoiselle de la Croix came to the chateau; and I was told that she was not only to govern me, but the family. Claudine, with cool contempt and an invincible perseverance, opposed her authority; and, being supported by the other servants, she disgusted de la Croix with her post. Her complaints to my father were, I presume, the cause of his visiting the chateau; and the contest for power was finished by his removing me and "ma gouvernante" to a convent in Paris; Claudine and her husband retiring to their farm, in which she now lives.

Young as I was, I soon perceived that I had gained little in having exchanged the simple lessons of Claudine, with her perpetual accounts of my mother’s virtues and conduct for the instructions now within my reach, and which I shared with the other pensioners without distinction but as to age. Here, whilst sickening over the flower I was embroidering, I traced in imagination my rambles with Claudine, and the happy hours in which she helped me to cultivate my parterre at L’Eclair.

The Lives of the Saints, with De la Croix’s Lectures on La Civilité, began to affect my health and spirits; and I lost my relish for the few amusements within my reach, when I was delivered from the control of a woman, who, although in a subordinate capacity, contrived to tease me into a dislike of her.

The husband of the hitherto supposed mademoiselle de la Croix suddenly appeared, as a fortunate adventurer, from the East Indies; and whether affection or conscience were the motive for his seeking a reunion with his wife, I cannot say; but she became reconciled to his opulence, and left me to the sole care of the abbess, who appointed a lay sister called Maria to attend to my personal wants. This woman was extremely good-natured, and I was now in danger from too much lenity; for it was impossible, according to la soeur Maria, "to refuse so amiable a child any thing." And having found favour with many of the girls, I partook largely of their clandestine course of reading, and found a full indemnification for the risk I ran with themselves of detection, in the undiscriminating delight with which I read every book of the prohibited kind that came into the hoarded treasures of my companions. I was nearly fourteen when the number of the pensioners was augmented by the arrival of miss Charlotte Aimsworth, who was at that time nearly sixteen. She was a Roman catholic; and the intention of her parents was confined to her acquiring more facility in the French tongue, as well as in the Italian. Her education, indeed, wanted no advantages, for it had been liberally attended to at home. But as some prejudices favourable to a Paris convent of the very first class had been entertained by her mother, she was sent thither for a year, in order to finish her course of studies with the polish of Parisian manners, Mrs. Aimsworth having formed the design of going into Italy, and taking her daughter in her route. From the first hour we met we might be said to be friends: and Charlotte, pleased with the fondness and docility of her pupil, took pleasure in instructing me. The idleness of the child soon gave place to an ambition of imitating miss Aimsworth, and learning English became the supreme object of my wishes. Eighteen months elapsed in this course of real improvement; for happily, as I then thought, Mrs. Aimsworth’s visit to the continent was deferred for a year longer than she had projected. During this period my confidence and trust in miss Aimsworth became boundless, and were repaid by a zeal for my improvement which did honour to her principles and understanding. My father’s neglect of me was a source of uneasiness which augmented as my reason enlarged; and I poured out my complaints of his unkindness into Charlotte’s ear with all the pathos of an injured child. His visits were seldom, and finished by settling with madame the abbess for my maintenance, which was strictly limited to the needful. About this time I was confined to my room for some days by a slight fever. My father was apprised of my indisposition. He sent me a physician; but he was on the eve of a journey, and had not time to see me. This intelligence was prudently softened to me, for I was not told that his absence would be for some months.

My recovery was followed by rapidly growing tall; and the abbess, fearing a consumption, relaxed in her discipline, encouraging me to use more exercise, and giving me ass’s milk. Thus I became the care of my friend Charlotte; and with a mother’s care did she watch over me! The spring was now advanced, and my indisposition forgotten, when one morning, whilst running a race in the garden with one of my companions, I was suddenly stopped by hearing la soeur Maria call me. This good creature was no less distinguished for her embonpoint than her good humour; and I, willing to spare her fatigue, with an Atalanta’s speed directed my steps towards her. "Monseigneur is in the parlour," said she, "and asks for you." I too well knew the shortness of his visits; and passing the tortoise pacing messenger, I gained the apartment in a minute. Panting for breath, my hair in disorder, and my cheek heightened by my exertions and joy to a colour remote from sickness, I appeared before him, and timidly welcomed his return to Paris. He gazed on my face with an air of surprise; then taking my hand with kindness, he asked me whether I was indeed the poor little sick girl of whom he had heard? I replied that I was "indeed his Marianne, and perfectly recovered." "You are grown," observed he, surveying me with earnestness; "you are much improved in your person, my dear girl." He kissed my hands, and examined them. "Mademoiselle est charmante," observed madame Miron the abbess, "elle croit tous les jours dans l’esprit et dans les graces." "I am delighted with her," answered my father, "but not surprised. A pupil of madame Miron must needs have wanted capacity had she not improved with such a model before her." Madame bowed with an air not remote from gr